Stark Storage C-17 looked like a showroom for things that should have been shredded, blessed, and then shot into the sun, but were instead barcoded and stacked with billionaire neatness . The unit's roll-up door rattled open under S.H.I.E.L.D. custody, revealing crates stamped with tasteful warnings and a glass case holding something that looked like a broken tuning fork married to a lightsaber battery and then divorced for creative differences . The air was colder inside, a hush settling like a librarian's glare, and the Terminal's UI sprouted a polite red banner: COGNITOHAZARD CONTAINMENT ZONE—INSIDE VOICES RECOMMENDED .
"Inside voices," Kade muttered. "Great. Let's whisper at the angry void" . Natasha stood at his shoulder, gaze sweeping corners, breath steady as a metronome. "You'll lead," she said, passing him the DO NOT READ flyer in its acid-free sleeve like a priest handing off a relic . "You promised it a schedule. You're its shepherd now." "Fantastic," Kade said. "Where does one graze a sentient PSA?" The Terminal chimed. "Suggest installing in Document Rack B, row three, between 'Liability Waivers' and 'Standardized Apology Templates'" .
They stepped inside. S.H.I.E.L.D. agents fanned along the corridor, careful steps, murmured check-ins, heavy weapons that looked embarrassed to be here . Fury stopped by the glass case and eyed the broken-fork contraption. "Explain the ghost," he said. "Preferably in nouns. Actionable ones" . The Terminal's scan module pulsed. "Force-echo located: frequency drift between sub-auditory bands; profile indicates residual emotional imprint from a high-energy event; recommended approach: Pact or ritual pacification; avoid antagonistic theatrics" . "Translation," Kade said, keeping his voice soft. "Something felt something too hard, too loud, and left a copy. It wants the moment to keep happening. Or to finally stop" .
A shiver passed from the glass case to the walls, a tremolo through metal racks. The hairs on Kade's arms lifted, and that gut-lurch tugged toward the broken-fork thing—an arc generator, the Terminal annotated, used in experimental portal stabilization, mothballed after it turned a lab tech's coffee into a scream that lasted twenty-two minutes on a spectrum only wolves and engineers could hear . "That's not better," Kade breathed. "Not better at all" . "Contact," an agent whispered, and a faint hum braided through the unit, a note like grief taught to sing on key .
"Echo," Kade said, words gentle, palms up. "You've been playing one chord for too long. Let's talk trade" . The Terminal floated a Pact template—NON-PHYSICAL ENTITY—SENTIMENTAL RESIDUE—CONTAINS UNFINISHED BUSINESS—and added a sidebar: OFFER PATTERN RESOLUTION, STRUCTURED ATTENTION, AND A NAMED PLACE TO REST . "You want ritual?" Fury asked dryly. "We don't do candles" . "No candles," Kade said. "Just respect and rules. Paperwork, but for feelings" .
A shape coalesced near the case—not a person, but an outline of intention, rippling light, the afterimage of someone darting to hit a kill switch they never reached . Kade's heart did that twist again, the one he pretended was pure instinct. He stepped closer until cold slipped into his bones like snowmelt . "You tried to stop it," he said softly. "You did everything right. But the moment didn't listen" . The echo shivered. The hum shifted half a note higher, like hope remembered, then faltered .
"Offer," the Terminal prompted, bureaucratic but not unkind . Kade lifted the flyer in its sleeve. "Here's the deal," he said. "You get an address. A labeled slot. A promise that people will look at your name on a schedule, say you did your best, and make sure no one pulls that switch again without hearing you first" . He touched the glass with two fingers. "In exchange, you stop rattling cages, you stop scrubbing fingerprints off reality, and you let the moment end" . The echo hovered, indecisive, flickers glancing off Natasha's calm face, Fury's stone patience, the agents' steady stances, the DO NOT READ sign's smug menace .
Ethics Committee confetti fired in Kade's vision: ACKNOWLEDGE EFFORT. NAME THE EVENT. GRANT WITNESS . He swallowed. "The Stark Lab Incident," he said, voice steady. "Witnessed by S.H.I.E.L.D., recorded by this terminal, honored by schedule: every Tuesday at fourteen-hundred, someone will stand here and say, 'We see you'" . Natasha's head tipped. "We can commit to that," she said, firm, not for show . Fury's jaw worked once, then he nodded. "Put it on the calendar," he said to an agent. "Permanent assignment. No reschedules" .
The echo brightened, brightened, then eased, light smoothing like a wrinkle pressed flat. The hum dropped into silence that felt like a clean room after the machines stop . The Terminal stamped PACT ACCEPTED, and a gentle tone rolled through Kade's skull like warm tea. "Containment Credits: +80," it said. "Compliance Score: 49%. New perk: Calm Presence—minor stability aura during negotiations" . Kade let out a breath he hadn't realized he was strangling. "Okay," he whispered. "Okay" .
The glass case clicked, a relay snicking safe, the broken-fork thing settling two degrees toward harmless, like a sulking pet . Natasha glanced at Kade, something like approval ghosting her expression, then gone. "Ritual without candles," she said. "Efficient" . Fury's gaze tracked the unit like measuring a bruise. "So this is what you do," he said. "You talk bombs into waiting rooms" . "Sometimes they just want a seat and a name tag," Kade said. "Sometimes they want an apology for physics" .
A new alert popped: ETHICS COMMITTEE AUDIT—MINOR—TOPIC: PRONOUN USAGE WHEN ADDRESSING NON-PERSONAL ENTITIES. SUGGESTION: USE RESPECTFUL NEUTRALS . "Noted," Kade muttered, and the System helpfully deducted one credit for "tone" . "You and your HUD," Fury said, as if regretting every life choice that led to this conversation . "Before we finish patting ourselves on the back," an agent called from the corridor, "we've got bleed-through on the west wall" .
They pivoted. Hairline cracks spidered across a section of concrete, faintly luminous, like someone had drawn the idea of a door and then decided against it halfway through . The Terminal's scan spiked. "Intermittent inter-world shear," it announced. "Not stable enough to breach, stable enough to whisper. Source resonance: not purely Marvel, not purely Star Wars—third vector detected: narrative interference" . "In English," Fury snapped . "Something is editing the story," Kade said, throat dry. "And not with taste" .
The lights flickered. For a fraction of a second, captions appeared at the bottom of Kade's vision—actual captions, white text on black bars: PROTAGONIST DELIVERS WRY ASIDE. COMPLIANCE DROPS . The Terminal hissed. "Narrative predator detected," it said tightly. "Classification: Keter. Behavior: parasitic meta commentary insertion; goal: clout accumulation via canonical destabilization; recommendation: starve of attention, enforce structure, deploy Redaction offensively" . "You can use redaction like a weapon?" Natasha asked, stepping between Kade and the wall as if facing a sniper whose ammunition was punctuation . "Yes," the Terminal said, crisp. "At cost" .
The cracks pulsed, and a line of text crawled across the concrete in glossy ink: DO NOT READ . The flyer vibrated in Kade's hands, indignant, like a trademark being infringed . "It's copying," Kade said. "Or taunting" . "Or baiting," Fury said. "We don't poke traps for sport" . Another caption flashed: ANTAGONIST DELIVERS MENACING ONE-LINER. SHADOWS LENGTHEN . The room's corners did darken, theatrically, as if on a dimmer switch connected to ego .
"Recommendations?" Fury asked the air, which in this case meant the angry librarian living in Kade's skull . "Enforce schedule, enforce names, enforce filing," the Terminal replied. "Predators of this class thrive on looseness; structure is poison. Also, deprive it of audience—no cameras, no live commentary, no witty asides during suppression" . "That's going to be a problem," Kade said. "Witty asides are a coping mechanism" . Ethics confetti: ACKNOWLEDGE FEELINGS; SUGGEST HEALTHIER OUTLETS . "Fine," Kade said. "I'll…hum internally" .
He raised the DO NOT READ flyer like a badge. "Listen up, meta mosquito," he said, keeping his tone flat as filing cabinets. "This phrase is taken. This schedule is full. You want in? You sign a Pact like everyone else, with restrictions, oversight, and a label that says exactly what you are" . The cracks paused, as if offended by bureaucracy, which was relatable . "Deploy Redaction," the Terminal suggested. "Target: captions; effect: bleep and bill" . "Bill who?" Kade asked . "You," the Terminal said sweetly . "Of course," Kade sighed, and flicked the Redaction module toward the crawling text .
The caption on the wall stuttered, then broke into asterisks and tasteful silence. Kade felt the drain—a tug at his newly earned credits. "Containment Credits: -40," the System reported. "Compliance Score: 50%. Note: use of humor suppression boosts Compliance temporarily" . "That feels like an unhealthy lesson," Kade said . "Welcome to management," Fury said .
The wall shuddered once more, like a sulking author yanking a paragraph, then steadied. The room's light returned to normal human levels, and the glass case stopped trying to develop a personality . The Terminal exhaled a tone like a held breath released. "Predator repelled for now," it said. "Recommend continued structural rituals: schedules, labels, acknowledgments; consider installing a Redaction anchor—an always-on bleep field along the west wall" . "Like sacred duct tape," Kade said . "Precisely," the Terminal replied .
Natasha eyed the faint seam, then Kade. "You held the line without punching," she said. "Useful skill in a world that loves to punch first" . He shrugged, trying for casual and landing somewhere near tired. "Punching is expensive," he said. "Paperwork's cheaper. Sometimes" . "Not with your current credit burn rate," the Terminal sniffed .
Fury gestured them out. "We lock this place down," he said to his team. "Rotating detail. Tuesday ritual is mandatory. Romanoff, babysit our contractor until he learns to keep his jokes tax-deductible" . "I'm great with kids," Natasha said, deadpan . Kade glanced back at the unit. For a flicker, the air above the glass case shimmered, and he saw a hand—steady, sure—reach the switch and succeed . He blinked. It was gone, but the weight in his chest loosened a notch .
Outside, the city resumed its usual audition for Most Dramatic Skyline. Spider-Man perched upside down from a security camera housing because gravity was a suggestion. "Sooo," he said. "Did you, like, counsel a ghost? Is there a hotline? I could make a web form" . "There's a schedule," Kade said. "Bring cupcakes Tuesday at fourteen-hundred" . "I'm in," Spider-Man said instantly. "Also, I saw a green glow under the Queensboro on my swing over. Could be just algae. Could be an ooze with career ambitions. Thought you'd like that" .
The Terminal pinged like a bellhop. NEW ALERT: HYDRA SPLINTER—ASSET LIST INCLUDES "NULL-COIL" PROTOTYPE; CROSS-REFERENCE: ARK TECH; RISK: MODERATE, COMEDIC . "Comedic?" Kade asked. "Hydra's latest budget includes line items for themed recruitment drives labeled 'funny hats,'" the Terminal said. "Ethics is concerned" . "Ethics is concerned about hats?" Kade said . "Always," the Terminal replied .
Fury's phone buzzed. He glanced, scowled, and pocketed it. "Hydra in Brooklyn," he said. "You three—Romanoff, Varyn, the kid in pajamas—on me. We'll see if your filing system can outpace a black budget" . "They're called pajamas because they're comfortable," Spider-Man protested. "Also…team-up? Heck yes" . Natasha slid a look at Kade. "You done antagonizing metaphors?" she asked . "For the hour," Kade said. "Ask me again at fourteen-hundred on Tuesday" .
As they moved, Ethics confetti showered Kade's vision one last time: GOOD JOB. DRINK WATER. AVOID HERO COMPLEX . "Working on it," he muttered. The Terminal hummed approval and, for once, didn't charge him a fee for the attitude . Ahead, sirens braided with city noise, and somewhere under the bridge, a glow waited with a punchline . Kade squared his shoulders, checked his Compliance like a gambler counting chips—50% and holding—and followed the schedule into the punchline's mouth .