[Third Person POV]
The hum of electronics filled the dim interior of the surveillance van.
Seven agents, all S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives, were crammed into the mobile command unit parked three blocks from the Iron Serpents' second warehouse. Two large monitors bathed their faces in cold blue light, displaying infrared camera feeds and intercepted surveillance footage. .
The main screen was locked on the warehouse. It was an old brick structure with a rusted freight door and a row of shattered windows that made it look abandoned. It was not.
Felix Blake leaned over the shoulder of the technician at the terminal. "That is a lot more movement than we expected," he muttered, eyes narrowing.
"Perimeter patrol doubled in the last twenty minutes," Agent 33 A.K.A Kara Palamas added from her seat in the corner, one boot propped on a crate of gear. "And that is not counting the mercs. They are in different gear. Military surplus. Tactical comms. Professional."
Jasper Sitwell arms crossed over his vest. "Something spooked them."
The technician, a younger agent with short dark hair and too many screens in front of him, tapped rapidly. "Traffic intercepts confirm a chatter spike. Internal comms are scrambled. But get this. A citywide police alert just went out. Unconfirmed armed assault at another Iron Serpent facility. Warehouse in Hell's Kitchen. EMTs dispatched. Looks like a massacre."
"Coincidence?" Blake asked.
Kara stood, pulling on a tac vest. Her voice was measured but tense. "Could be an outsider. We've been tracking the Chitauri tech for weeks. Maybe someone else caught the scent."
Blake nodded grimly. "We need eyes inside. If that deal goes down before we can intervene, this tech ends up in black-market hands."
"Satellite's blind in this quadrant," the tech added. "We're on our own."
Blake turned to the rest of the team. Four more agents, each outfitted for field operations, each one checking their gear in silence. No one spoke, but the tension had become a shared language.
Sitwell moved closer to the door, tapping his earpiece. "ETA on the thermal drone?"
"Three minutes," the tech replied. "Assuming no signal interference."
"They have crates loaded onto flatbeds. The Chitauri tech," Kara said under her breath. "They are moving it now."
Outside, a trio of black SUVs rolled into view and pulled up near the warehouse's northern loading dock. Armed men stepped out.
"External security just tripled," the tech murmured, voice tight. "Mercs are positioning on the rooftops. Sniper nests. Scoped rifles."
"This is a war zone now," Sitwell muttered.
Kara's eyes didn't leave the screen. "Somebody hit them, and they think it's connected to the tech."
"Then we use it," Blake said.
The team grew quiet. The unspoken weight settled in the air—S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn't afford to let the Chitauri technology slip through their fingers. Not again. Not after New York.
"We go in?" one agent asked.
"Not yet," Blake said. "We wait for the drone to confirm the interior layout. Then we send in a ghost team."
"But what if the deal goes down before that?"
"Then we intercept on the move."
"Sir," the tech interrupted, "we've got an anomaly."
"Talk to me."
"Warehouse cameras show... bodies. Multiple. Sprawled in the hallway. Infrared says they are alive. Some are crawling. Others are out cold."
Blake's brow furrowed. "They have already been hit."
"Yeah... and the attacker's still inside. Look. Switching feeds now."
Onscreen, a blurry figure appeared, fully masked.
Kara leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "That's not gang. Not mercs. That's… military. Or something close."
Blake noted. "Movements are too efficient. This guy is trained."
"Sir," the tech said, pointing to the screen, "he is not killing. Look at the patterns. Limb shots. Tactical takedowns. Non-lethal strikes."
"Except that guy," Sitwell said, nodding as the figure delivered a precise strike to the neck of a gunman who'd raised his weapon. "Lethal. Only if necessary."
"Sir. He's heading for the same room where we tagged the tech."
That changed everything.
Sitwell spoke. "Alright. New plan. We let him do the hard part."
"Sir?"
"He's already destabilizing the enemy. If he retrieves the asset, we intercept him on exit. If he fails, we move in and clean up."
They all watched in silence as the lone operative disappeared into the inner corridor, his movements swallowed by shadow.
Inside the humming silence of the S.H.I.E.L.D. surveillance van, seven agents stared at their screens like hawks circling above prey.
Sitwell was the first to break the silence. "It's escalating."
His tone was mild, almost bored. But the screens told a different story. The masked intruder had just dropped another two gang members, moving with fluid precision through the shadows of the second warehouse.
There was no hesitation in his form, no uncertainty—only ruthless efficiency. Every takedown was non-lethal, but definitive. Shot through the elbow. Disarmed at the wrist. Bones cracked. Bodies dropped.
Blake grunted in approval. "He's good."
"Too good," Sitwell muttered under his breath. He glanced at Blake and gave a slight nod. "We can't sit on this. The deal's hot. The merchandise is hotter. We can't afford to let this wildcard blow the whole operation."
Kara turned toward them, arms folded tight across her chest.
"Doesn't matter," Blake replied. "If he causes a panic before the deal's done, the whole thing could implode."
Sitwell pulled out his secure phone. "Requesting STRIKE team," he said calmly, tapping in a coded sequence. "S-46 to Black Omega. We have a moving target, high threat, potential extraterrestrial package in play. Requesting containment."
itwell pocketed the burner just as the man on screen moved past a storage room door. Inside, Kara spotted shadowed figures. Too many for ordinary gang foot soldiers. These were not just guards.
They were buyers. Mercenaries. The same ones flagged earlier during facial scans. One of them had a barcode tattoo beneath his eye. Former Sudanese death squad. Now freelance.
The masked man passed the craters.
Kara frowned. "He's skipping the core asset. Again."
Sitwell didn't even blink. "Which means he doesn't know. All the more reason to put him down before he figures it out."
Blake leaned forward and pointed. "Zoom in on the north wing cam."
The technician, a younger agent, typed in the command, and the feed switched.
Just then, the masked guy turned toward the camera. He made a shooting gesture.
The screen flickered.
To Mario.
Running.
From a giant tortoise.
"Uh..." Rogers blinked. "What?"
The screen changed again. Mario ran into a green pipe. Then the loop restarted. Same damn tortoise chasing him.
"What the hell is this?" Blake snapped.
Kara's mouth dropped open.
"Feed's hijacked," Sitwell said, his face darkening. "Encrypted video injection. We are being spoofed."
Blake slammed his fist on the console. "Scramble backup lines. Use satellite relays if you have to."
But it was too late.
Every screen in the van was now caught in the same loop: Mario, running from a Koopa Troopa, tripping into the pipe, and respawning again.
The tech team scrambled to reboot. Signals were traced, bounced, looped, scrambled. Whoever had done this knew what they were doing. It wasn't just spoofing—they'd severed uplink access and replaced it with hard-coded nonsense. That took skill. Timing. Planning.
Sitwell's eyes narrowed.
Kara muttered under her breath. "He knew we were watching."
"Impossible," Blake snapped.
"No," Sitwell said slowly. "It's not impossible. It's intentional."
In the corner, the comms officer looked up. "STRIKE team's seven minutes out."
Blake growled. "We'll have no eyes by the time they get there. We're flying blind."
"We're not blind," Sitwell said, pulling a small tablet from his jacket. "I've got alternate feed relays. But whoever did this just bought themselves a window. And they know exactly how long that window is."
Kara looked between them, still silent.
"We need eyes inside," Sitwell declared, his tone leaving no room for debate. The surveillance feed had been hijacked, replaced by a looping scene of Mario fleeing from a turtle. The team couldn't afford to remain blind.
"Everyone gear up," he ordered. The agents sprang into action, donning tactical gear and checking their weapons. The tech specialists remained at their stations, feverishly working to restore the compromised feed.
---
---
[Few Moments Before the Chaos]
[David's POV]
The cold crept in through the seams of my jacket as I lay prone on the rooftop of an old apartment, four stories above the warehouse's rear lot. Hell's Kitchen always had that gritty, wet-concrete scent after dark—like the streets had soaked in decades of oil and regret. Tonight, the wind pushed that scent up here with me, sharp and metallic.
Below, the second Iron Serpents warehouse was locked up tight. Guard rotation was sharper than before. Same layout, different posture. They were spooked. That was my doing.
I watched them through the scope, tracking movements. One of them had a radio clipped to his vest, barked orders every few minutes. They weren't just guarding drugs this time. This place mattered.
"Gideon," I muttered. "Delete all visual records of me from the previous warehouses. Every angle I might have shown up in. Start with rooftop cams and move inward."
"Understood. Beginning deletion protocols. Accessing traffic cams and off-site data logs," Gideon replied smoothly.
I shifted slightly, gravel crunching under my chest. One of the guards lit a cigarette, using his hand to block the flame from the wind.
Then I heard Gideon's voice again.
"David. I've intercepted a localized encrypted transmission. Originating from a van parked near the northwest alley entrance. Tight-beam signal, directed toward the warehouse."
My eyes narrowed.
"Audio relay. Let me hear it."
The feed kicked in.
"... have crates loaded onto flatbeds. The Chitauri tech. They are moving it now." he heard a female voice.
Chitauri Tech. I might have hit jackpot today. I thought to myself.
Then another voice followed.
"External security just tripled. Mercs are positioning on the rooftops."
And I could see the same happening through my scope. The challenge just increased.
Then it struck me, if alien techs are involved, it means...
I exhaled slowly. S.H.I.E.L.D.
Of course they were here. Not surprising, given what was likely stashed in there. They must have caught wind of the Chitauri piece. But the Iron Serpents or the Mercs had no clue they were being watched. Their guards were jumpy for a different reason.
Me.
"Gideon," I said quietly. "Keep logging that van's feed."
"Already compiling."
Good.
S.H.I.E.L.D. was patient. They would wait. But I wouldn't.
I stood slowly, the wind cutting across the rooftop again. My breath misted the air as I whispered to myself.
"Time to get to work."
I activated my comms. "Gideon, when I give the signal, loop their surveillance feeds."
"On it," she replied.
[Third Person POV]
The cold air of Hell's Kitchen bit through the warehouse's corrugated walls. Late March brought bone-deep damp with it. Inside, the lights buzzed, flickering weakly above crates stacked high with weapons, cash, and Chitauri scrap tech.
A masked figure slipped through a gap in the fencing along the rear wall, boots barely making a sound on the concrete. His black gear blended into the shadows, eyes behind the visor scanning every corner. No wasted movements. Just patience and precision.
A pair of guards leaned outside the loading bay, smoking and talking.
He never saw the figure drop silently from the stacked containers above.
The masked man landed behind them, knees bending softly. The first guard turned—eyes wide, mouth parting to yell—but the figure slammed a palm into his throat, silencing him instantly. The second dropped his cigarette and reached for his pistol.
Too slow.
A knife flicked out and the figure hurled it across the gap, burying the blade into the man's thigh. He tried to howl but caught a roundhouse to the side of his skull.
The masked man pulled the knife free, wiped it, and moved deeper.
A narrow hallway led into the interior. The lights here were dimmer. Ahead, muffled voices echoed from an open room. He moved to the doorway and peeked in.
Four mercenaries, all armed, sat around a metal table. One cleaned a sidearm. Another ate from a takeaway box, talking with his mouth full.
The first merc barely stood before a boot slammed into his chest, sending him crashing back through the table. The second tried to draw his weapon, but the masked man closed the distance, twisted his wrist with a wet crack, and drove an elbow across his jaw. He dropped like a sack of bricks.
"Shit! Behind you!"
The third merc turned—too late. A strike to the solar plexus knocked the wind out of him. The figure grabbed his vest, yanked him forward, and headbutted him. His body folded on the spot.
The fourth stumbled through the smoke, gun shaking in his hands.
"Freeze! Stay where you—"
A senbon needle flew. It pierced the soft flesh between his fingers. The pistol clattered to the floor. He screamed, falling to his knees.
The masked man stood over him. Silent. Breathing steady.
"Don't… don't kill me," the merc sobbed, clutching his hand.
"Where's the tech?" the voice behind the mask was low, cold.
"In the basement. Back corridor. Straight through."
The figure nodded once. Then slammed the butt of his weapon against the man's temple. The body dropped, unmoving.
Footsteps echoed down the hall. Reinforcements.
The masked man ducked into the shadows just as two gang members entered the room, rifles raised.
They did not finish the question.
The first was pulled into the darkness. A sickening crunch of bone and he was dragged silently into unconsciousness. The second spun around, only to be disarmed by a sharp kick and struck across the collarbone. He collapsed with a grunt, twitching on the ground.
The interior was a maze of crates and machinery. Fluorescent lights cast a pale hue, creating pockets of darkness.
Two gang members stood near a stack of crates, engaged in hushed conversation.
"Ortega's spooked," one murmured. "Says someone's targeting our operations."
"Probably just turf wars," the other replied dismissively.
The masked man struck swiftly. A suppressed shot to the leg incapacitated the first, while a swift blow to the head rendered the second unconscious. He dragged their bodies into the shadows, ensuring they wouldn't be discovered prematurely.
Navigating through the labyrinthine corridors, he encountered a group of mercenaries—hardened men brought in for extra security. Unlike the gang members, these were professionals, and he treated them accordingly.
He took cover behind a stack of barrels, observing their patrol patterns. Timing his move, he emerged, firing precise shots. The suppressed rounds found their marks: head, chest, throat. The mercenaries fell without a sound, their bodies crumpling to the floor.
One mercenary, separated from the group, noticed the disturbance and raised his weapon. The masked man reacted instantly, firing a round that struck the man's wrist, causing him to drop his weapon. Closing the distance, he delivered a lethal blow to the neck.
---
---
[David's POV]
Inside, the warehouse was a hive of activity. Crates were being moved, and armed guards patrolled the area. I navigated through the shadows, taking down guards silently where necessary.
"David, there is a micro camera feeding into the van. It is to your six," Gideon said.
I turned, spotted the camera, and made a shooting gesture in its direction. "Loop their surveillance. Do it now."
My primary objective had been reconnaissance. That changed. Now I needed to locate and secure the Chitauri tech.
I reached a stack of crates marked with alien symbols. Prying one open, I found metallic components and glowing purple stones—definitely Chitauri technology.
I quickly dropped the smoke bombs from my inventory and started my work.
A system notification pinged, but I ignored it and focused on transferring the contents into my inventory.
With the main floor cleared, I moved into the basement. The air felt heavier down here, dense with tension.
Smoke bombs gave me cover as I engaged the remaining hostiles, neutralizing them with speed and precision. The basement held more than weapons. It was a vault of illicit goods and advanced tech.
I worked methodically, securing every piece I could. Nothing would be left behind.
As the smoke started to thin, I spotted a rear exit. I headed for it, ready to disappear into the night.
Then I heard the low thrum of rotor blades overhead.
I froze for a moment, assessing. The situation had become more complicated than expected.
The mission was far from over.
To Be Continued...