I limped toward the nearest subway entrance, each step sending fresh jolts of pain through my torso. The closest station to the Meatpacking District was 14th Street-8th Avenue on the A/C/E lines, a grimy tile-walled cavern that reeked of urine and brake dust. The token booth clerk barely glanced up as I fed quarters into the machine, wincing again as I bent to retrieve my subway token.
The platform was mercifully not too crowded for evening rush hour. I found a bench and pulled out Vito's scribbled note, squinting at his handwriting in the fluorescent light. The address was on the Upper West Side. 72nd and Amsterdam. Dr. Forrest, apartment 4B. "Discreet medical services, cash only" was written underneath in block letters.
The A train lurched into motion with that familiar subway rhythm, and I tried to find a position that didn't make my ribs scream. Twenty minutes later, I emerged at 72nd Street station into the warm afternoon air of the Upper West Side. This neighborhood was a world away from the industrial district I'd just left. Beautiful tree-lined streets, pre-war apartment buildings, the kind of place where people walked dogs and carried grocery bags instead of sluicing offal out of the meatpacking plants.
The building at 72nd and Amsterdam was a six-story brownstone with a buzzer system that had seen better decades. I pressed 4B and waited.
"Yes?" came a tired voice through the intercom.
"Vito Scaletta sent me. I need medical attention."
There was a pause. "Fourth floor. Take the elevator."
The lobby smelled like old cooking and floor wax. The elevator was one of those ancient cage affairs that groaned its way up through the building's floors. When the doors opened on four, a slight white man in his sixties was waiting in the hallway, wearing scrubs and wire-rimmed glasses.
"Dr. Forrest," he said, extending his hand. "Mr. Scaletta called ahead. You look like you've had an eventful evening."
I shook his hand gingerly. "That's one way to put it. I think I've got some broken ribs."
"Let's have a look."
His apartment had been converted into a small clinic. There was an examination table, medical equipment, and cabinets full of supplies. Everything looked clean and professional, despite the unconventional environment.
"Shirt off," Dr. Forrest said, pulling on latex gloves. "Tell me what happened."
"Got thrown into a concrete pillar."
Dr. Forrest nodded. His fingers probed my ribs with practiced gentleness, but I still hissed when he hit the tender spots.
"Three fractured ribs on the left side," he confirmed after a few minutes of examination. "Clean breaks, no displacement. You're lucky, no punctured lung." He moved to a cabinet, pulling out supplies. "I'll tape you up, give you something for the pain. Two weeks of rest, no heavy lifting."
The tape was tight, restrictive, but it did provide some relief. Dr. Forrest handed me a small bottle of pills.
"Codeine. Take one every six hours for pain. No alcohol." He paused. "Mr. Scaletta mentioned you might need ongoing medical consultation. I run a cash practice for people who value discretion."
"What's your rate?"
"Tonight's visit is two hundred. Future consultations depend on complexity." He gestured toward a business card on the counter. "That number reaches me twenty-four hours a day."
I counted out two hundred from my stack of bills, noting how the cash seemed to be disappearing faster than I'd expected. Still had over six grand left, but expenses were adding up quickly.
"One more thing," Dr. Forrest said as I prepared to leave. "Next time, invest in some body armor. You know what they say about an ounce of prevention."
I pocketed his card and headed for the door. "I'll keep that in mind, Doctor Forrest."
After an uneventful subway ride back home, I re-entered the bunker and flopped down on a bed, after shoving the cash in a locker. It was around 5 PM, but I was whipped. I didn't plan on taking any Codine, so I rinsed my mouth out at the sink, shuffled my way over to the bunk, and went to sleep.
Unfortunately, my sleep was interrupted again by another alarm. Sprinting my way over to the control room once again, and fighting a sense of deja-vu I saw the same monitor lit up again.
SEISMIC DETECTION SYSTEM -
ALERT 03:20:15 EST 05/11/84
ANOMALY DETECTED - SECTOR 7-NE
DISTANCE: 1.1KM FROM ORIGIN
MAGNITUDE: 0.8 LOCAL SCALE
DURATION: 00:00:47
STATUS: MONITORING
PRESS ANY KEY TO ACKNOWLEDGE
Fuck me, again? Fucking incredible. I pressed a key to acknowledge it, and shuffled my way back to my bed. Man, this sucks. I knew NYC was the city that never sleeps,but ConEd or whoever's doing maintenance work this time is REALLY starting to get on my nerves.
I slumped back down in my bed, rolled over, and went back to sleep, vowing to look at this tomorrow.
Waking up at around 6 AM, I figured I had gotten enough sleep, cracking my neck. Since no stores were likely to be open at this point, I might as well do some maintenance tasks around the bunker before figuring out my next move.
I was tired of living like Mole-Man(I think he probably lived in low-light underground environments). I wanted proper lighting and I decided to spend some time figuring out the power situation.
Looking outside the comms/computer room, I found a dingy breaker panel. I had to squint to fully observe it in the low-light environment, but it was there.
Opening it up, I saw multiple breaker panels and an automatic transfer switch. Most breakers were labeled: "Emergency Lighting," "Communications," "Ventilation," "Armory," "R&D Lab." Several marked "General Lighting" were switched off. I gave them a cursory flip.
Nothing happened.
I decided to check the ventilation room before I started looking around the warehouse. There might be a second panel there. I had never heard of such a thing, but I wasn't a hidden bunker architect,so.. Fortunately, the designer of this bunker was as unhinged as I was, and after looking for 2 minutes, I found the secondary panel. This panel was labeled differently however, with "WAREHOUSE - OFFICE," "WAREHOUSE - LOADING," "WAREHOUSE - GENERAL." The other half were marked "BUNKER FEED - PRIMARY" and "BUNKER FEED - BACKUP."
Both bunker feeds were switched off. I flipped the primary breaker, and went back to the comms room's panel to check the general lighting toggles. No joy.
Back in the ventilation room, I studied the setup more carefully. The power feed from the warehouse split into two distinct paths after the main breakers. One path went directly to a smaller sub-panel labeled "LIFE SUPPORT SYSTEMS"—that explained why the emergency lighting, ventilation, and basic systems had been running all along. The other path led to a heavy-duty master disconnect switch that was currently locked in the "OFF" position.
Someone had deliberately isolated the bunker's main power systems when they evacuated. Smart procedure. Keep the alarms, the ventilation, the elevators and the basic security systems running to preserve the facility, but shut down everything else to avoid detection or unnecessary electrical draw.
Again, this raised questions about the scattershot way in which the facility had been abandoned. Upon further assessment, it seemed like some of the assigned staff ran away with everything not nailed down (cough , B. Hughes), while some engaged in asset denial, while others treated it like they were mothballing the bunker and the warehouse.
The master disconnect required a key, but the lock was old and corroded. A few minutes with my utility knife from the armory, and the mechanism clicked open. I threw the switch.
The transformation was immediate. Fluorescent fixtures hummed to life throughout the bunker, replacing the sickly green glow with clean white light. The difference was startling. What had looked like a cramped underground tomb suddenly seemed a bit more spacious under proper lighting conditions.
But I'd also created a potential problem. ConEd would have cut service years ago for non-payment. So where was this power actually coming from?
I followed the main power cables along the ceiling to a junction box I'd missed in the dim lighting. Dragging over a chair to examine it, I found what appeared to be a tap directly into the city's power grid. Heavy cables ran through the wall to what had to be the underground power mains.
The Corporation had been stealing electricity directly from ConEd.
I grabbed my notebook and scribbled: "Look into ConEd bribes." If they'd been this brazen, they probably had someone on the inside. That contact might still be useful.
Checking my watch, my adventure into maintenance had only taken 30 minutes, so I decided to take another look around the bunker, now that I had some proper lighting. Not much appeared different in any of the other rooms upon further inspection. I did find a small bookshelf in the R&D room though.
Looking at the shelf, I found an eclectic, but interesting collection of books.
"Field-Programmable Gate Arrays: Theory and Implementation." "PEW-Series Energy Weapons: Maintenance Manual" with a massive SHIELD logo. "Exotic Materials Handbook." "Practical Anti-Gravity Engineering," spine cracked from use. "Corporate Intelligence Gathering: A Practical Guide." "Introduction to Computational Fluid Dynamics" with handwritten margin notes. "AIM Technical Standards Manual, Revision 12." "Fieldcraft: A Practical Manual" in olive drab.
I grabbed the fieldcraft manual first. Given how things had been going sideways, I should probably work on developing some practical skills. The contents covered urban surveillance, counter-surveillance, marksmanship, dead drops, and emergency extraction.
Flipping through the surveillance section, I found detailed techniques for following targets without detection, using reflective surfaces for observation, and recognizing when you're being watched. The counter-surveillance chapter had checklists for detecting tails and varying routes. The marksmanship section focused on combat shooting. It dealt with multiple targets, shooting under stress, and firing from cover.
I added "Study fieldcraft manual" to my notebook. If I was going to survive in this world, comic book knowledge wouldn't be enough.
Shelving the book and that train of thought for now, I decided to get rolling. It was 8 AM and something should be open by now. I grabbed about $300 from my cash stash. I needed basic utilities like nail clippers, toothpaste, toothbrush, and some clean clothes. Living in a bunker was one thing, but I didn't have to live like a caveman.
First stop was the same deli where I'd found the payphone yesterday. The owner recognized me with a nod as I grabbed a coffee and a bagel with cream cheese. The normalcy of the transaction felt strange after everything that had happened within the past 24 hours.
"You're up early," the owner commented as I paid.
"Rough day at work yesterday, I wanted to start early today" I replied.
Back on the street with my coffee, I considered my options. For basic supplies and clothes, I'd need to find a proper shopping district. In 1984 Manhattan, that meant either heading uptown to department stores or finding a commercial strip with practical shops.
I decided on the 14th Street-Union Square area. It was close enough to walk from the deli, and I remembered from my brief research yesterday that it had a mix of practical stores alongside the more touristy stuff. Plus, it was a busy enough area that I'd blend in with the morning crowd.
Union Square was already bustling with commuters and early shoppers. The familiar sight of the park stretched before me, bounded by 14th and 17th Streets, with construction scaffolding and cranes visible on the eastern side where the Zeckendorf Towers were slowly rising from the former S. Klein department store site.
It was interesting that Zeckendorf Towers had still been developed in this timeline. I wondered what effect the presence of superheroes and supervillains plus all the fights had on urban development. Some urban planning type could probably get several very interesting papers out of that.
Two hours later, I was back at the warehouse entrance with several shopping bags in tow. Basic toiletries, a change of clothes, some canned food, and a few other necessities—nothing fancy, but enough to make underground living slightly more civilized. The whole experience of normal retail transactions felt surreal after the past few days of gunfights and energy weapons.
I took the elevator down to the bunker, grateful for the proper lighting as I unpacked my purchases in the kitchen area. Clean socks, deodorant, and a real toothbrush, small luxuries that felt enormous after sleeping on a thin mattress in a criminal hideout.
Now I could focus on more important things. Like figuring out what Vito's "trial run" job would entail, and whether I was ready for whatever came next.
First however, a shower.
The hot water felt like heaven against my skin, washing away days of accumulated grime, sweat, and the lingering smell of concrete dust from my encounter with Cyclone. I stood under the stream longer than necessary, letting the heat work on the tension in my shoulders while being sure to keep my ribs dry.
Toweling off afterward, I changed into fresh underwear and the new clothes I'd picked up, simple jeans, a plain blue button-down shirt, and white sneakers. Over the shirt, I pulled on a black leather jacket I'd found among my purchases. It had multiple pockets both inside and out, which would be useful for carrying gear without looking too obvious about it.
The sneakers caught my attention as I laced them up. They were Nikes, but the swoosh looked slightly different from what I was used to, more angular somehow. The sole construction was chunkier too, with a different tread pattern. Small differences, but enough to remind me that even mundane consumer goods had evolved along different paths in this timeline.
It is what it is, I thought, finishing the laces. At least they fit and looked reasonably normal for 1984. The last thing I needed was to stand out.
Clean, dressed, and feeling quite a bit more human (despite the persistent ache from my ribs), I was ready to tackle whatever Vito had in mind for his "trial run."
I found a payphone outside the warehouse and dialed the number Vito had given me. He picked up on the second ring.
"Scaletta."
"It's Quince. You said you might have work for me."
"Right. Some of my clients have a project they want someone to take a look at. Technical consultation." His voice was all business. "How familiar are you with electronics?"
I considered my answer carefully. "Enough to get by. Depends what they need."
"They're being deliberately vague about the specifics, but it sounds like evaluation work. Analysis of some equipment they've acquired." He paused. "You interested?"
"What's the pay?"
"1K for the consultation. More if they want you to stick around."
"I'm interested."
"Good. Go to this address." He rattled off a location in Queens. "Industrial district, near the docks. One hour."
The line went dead. I scribbled down the address and headed for the subway.
The trip to Queens took nearly forty-five minutes with transfers, giving me plenty of time to think. As the train clattered through the underground tunnels, I picked up a discarded LA Times someone had left on the seat beside me, more out of boredom than genuine interest.
That's when I saw the headline on the society page: "Elite Families Gather for Annual Charity Ball." The accompanying photo showed a collection of well-dressed couples at what looked like an upscale Beverly Hills venue. There was Geoffrey and Catherine Wilder, Gene and Alice Hayes, Robert and Tina Minoru, Victor and Janet Stein, Dale and Stacey Yorkes, and finally Frank and Leslie Dean.
The Pride.
My stomach dropped. These weren't just wealthy philanthropists hosting charity events.They were a cabal of supervillains who shouldn't be active right now!
I stared at the newspaper intently. Wait. I remembered now. The Pride had shown up in an Iron Man story that was set around 1988, which meant they'd been active throughout the '80s. The events of Runaways wouldn't happen for years yet, when their children were teenagers.
The article was dated three days ago. May 8th, 1984. They were operating right now.
How the hell did any of this work, timeline-wise? The retcons hadn't rewritten history, they'd always happened. Events I thought were decades in the future had been running parallel to everything else, hidden from the main Marvel timeline until someone decided to tell those stories.
How many other secret conspiracies were operating right now that I didn't know about?
I rubbed my temples, feeling a headache building. Thinking about this would drive me raving mad. The Marvel universe was clearly far more layered and complex when it was a real,breathing place, with events running in parallel that I'd never seen because they happened "off-panel." or had been retroactively included at a later date. I needed to try to remember what else had been retconned in, to avoid future nasty surprises.
The train lurched to a stop at my destination, jarring me back to reality. I folded the newspaper and shoved it into one of my jacket pockets, but my mind kept spinning. I needed to focus on immediate problems, not cosmic timeline headaches, but the implications kept creeping back in.
The Queens industrial district was exactly what I'd expected. Warehouses, loading docks, and the kind of businesses that preferred to operate away from Manhattan's prying eyes. I found the address Vito had given me: a nondescript brick building with loading bays and small windows set high in the walls.
A nondescript man in coveralls was smoking outside the main entrance. "You Quince?"
"That's me." My voice sounded distant to my own ears.
"They're waiting inside. Third bay door."
I walked through the warehouse in a bit of a daze, past stacks of legitimate-looking shipping containers and industrial equipment. The Pride revelation was still rattling around in my head, making it hard to focus. Two men in cheap suits were standing near an open bay door, looking like they'd stepped out of a B-movie about mob enforcers.
"You the technical guy?" one of them asked.
"Depends what you need assessed." I was operating on autopilot, still processing the newspaper.
The other suit gestured toward the bay. "Boss got his hands on some hardware. Need to know if it's worth keeping or if we should dump it."
I followed them to the loading bay and looked inside the warehouse space. The sight snapped me back to full alertness. Standing in the open area were five massive combat robots, all powered down but looking like they could spring to life at any moment.
The centerpiece was a twenty-foot-tall Sentinel Mark IV, its distinctive purple and blue armor gleaming under the warehouse lights. Even motionless, the thing was imposing.
Flanked around it were two Dreadnoughts, their eight-foot frames bristling with menace. I could see the flamethrower nozzles in their wrists, their plating pockmarked with old laser burns and scorch marks. What had to be the knuckle spike launchers in their gauntlets were scratched and dented, evidence of past brawls.
Off to one side stood a Mankiller robot, painted a distinctive HYDRA green. Its distinctive chest missile ports were smudged with soot, and a deep gouge ran across its torso. Next to it was a Walking Stiletto, AIM's blade-handed killer robot of choice. Its forehead energy projector was chipped, and one of its bladed hands was bent at an odd angle, the metal scored with what looked like claw marks.
"Jesus," I muttered, the sight cutting through my mental fog. "Where did you get all this?"
The first suit grinned. "Boss knows people. Question is, can you get them working again? He wants to build himself a robot army while a big chunk of the heroes are gone. Figures now's the time to make a move."
Evidently, the universe had seen fit to provide me with more immediate problems again