aFireFist
A Life in Marvel
Chapter 15 - Part 1
They had been on the roofs for twenty minutes before the lot even filled.
Morgan had felt the first mind arrive alone — the younger one, already nervous, walking the perimeter of the concrete pad like he was checking for cameras that weren't there. He kept touching the phone in his pocket and thinking about the cut. If she shows. If we bag her. If the buyer actually pays. Gwen had dropped onto the adjacent roof five minutes after that, white hoodie already up, and settled low against the parapet without a word. They didn't need one. The pattern of the last two weeks had been the same: small lots, cracked cells, two or three men who weren't expecting anyone who could feel them coming.
This one was different before the rest of them even showed.
The talker arrived next. Loud even in his own head. He set the phone face-up on the dumpster lid like he'd practiced the angle, checked the red light twice, and started running the same three sentences on a loop. She's gonna show. White hoodie. Blonde. They said she hits the loud ones. Keep her talking long enough for the camera. Don't look at the garage. Don't look at the garage. He stood in the open with his hands in his pockets and his weight on one leg, performing for a lens that wasn't recording anything yet. Every few seconds his eyes flicked to the dumpster, then away, like he was waiting for a cue he had already given himself.
Morgan felt the other two come in from the alley. One had a shock gauntlet on his right wrist and kept flexing so the cracked cell clicked against the housing — cheap, leaking, the kind of leftover Toomes junk that still sparked if you were stupid with it. His thoughts were smaller. If something moves, light it up. Don't let her get close. The last one kept checking the mouth of the alley like he expected a patrol car that wasn't coming. None of them looked up. None of them were watching the roofs.
Gwen stayed flat. Morgan could feel the question sitting in her even without turning his head. The phone. The red light. The way the talker kept glancing at it. She shifted her weight once, barely a sound against the tar, and he knew she had already clocked the same thing he had.
He flicked two fingers against the metal edge of the parapet. Soft. Her head turned a fraction. Blonde hair tucked tight under the hood. Eyes on him, then back to the lot.
He pointed past the concrete pad, west, toward the closed garage three blocks over. The bay door was down. A van sat half in the side alley under a dead streetlight, only the rear bumper and one open door showing. He had felt the minds there ten minutes ago — three of them, quieter, waiting. One in the driver's seat already thinking about whether the buyer would pay cash. Two inside with the actual cell. They weren't performing. They were the handoff.
Gwen's mouth moved. No voice. Both?
He shook his head once. Clear.
Skip the lot.
She looked at the phone again. The red light steady on the dumpster lid. The talker's open stance and the way his thoughts kept circling the same loop like he believed saying it enough times would make her appear. Her jaw tightened. She had seen the same setup he had — an obvious lens, a man who wanted an audience, a second location that was supposed to stay hidden while she performed for the first one. Lincoln's people had let them build it. Morgan could feel the absence of any of Lincoln's own minds in either place. This wasn't a measurement drop. This was someone else trying to sell the name that had gone public two nights ago.
She nodded.
They left the roofs without dropping.
No lines fired. No sound louder than the shift of fabric and the soft scuff of boots on tar. Gwen stayed low and moved south along the connected buildings, white hoodie blending into the dark above the avenue. Morgan took the parallel cut one roof over, reading the street below as they went. Surface thoughts from the sidewalks. A woman arguing with someone on the phone about a double shift. A man walking fast, only thinking about getting home before the rain that wasn't coming. Nobody looking up. The decoy lot stayed lit behind them, four minds still waiting for a white hoodie that was already three buildings away and moving toward the garage they had been told not to watch.
The phone on the dumpster kept recording an empty pad.
The cut between the first two buildings was narrow enough that Morgan's shoulders brushed brick on both sides. It smelled like wet concrete and the old smoke that had soaked into the walls from years of people using the gap to hide cigarettes. He went first, one hand on the wall, the other ready. Surface thoughts drifted up from the sidewalks below. A woman two blocks down was arguing with someone on the phone about a late shift and whether she was going to make rent if they cut her hours again. A man walking a dog was only thinking about getting the animal home before it started pulling. Nobody looking up. Nobody thinking about white hoodies or open lots.
Gwen stayed on the connected roofs for the first block. He could feel her moving parallel, light, the white hoodie pulled tight so it didn't catch. When the gap between buildings widened she dropped to a fire escape. The metal took her weight with a soft flex. She landed in a crouch, one hand on the rail, and waited until he was under her before she moved again. The avenue light hit the edge of the escape and slid off the hoodie without sticking.
They covered the three blocks without touching a main street. No cameras angled low enough to catch more than a shadow between the buildings. Morgan felt the garage before the bay door was even in sight. Three minds. The driver in the van was bored and waiting, one arm on the open window, thinking about the buyer and whether the man would actually hand over cash or try to short them once he had the blonde. Inside the bay the other two were quieter. One paced near a workbench, the live cell in a duffel at his feet, listening for the talker's voice from the lot that was supposed to keep her busy. The other stood by the side door with a shock gauntlet on his right wrist, finger already resting near the trigger, thoughts simple and tight: if something moves, light it up.
Neither of them expected the white one to skip the camera.
Morgan stopped in the shadow beside the van's rear door. The engine was off. The driver had the window cracked and was picking at a loose thread on the seat. Gwen landed on the low roof of the garage above him and went flat against the tar, hood up, invisible from the bay. He felt the question from her clear as if she'd said it. Now?
He nodded once.
She dropped through the narrow gap between the bay door and the wall.
The man by the side door heard the soft impact of her boots and started to turn. He got halfway around. Gwen's first strand hit the gauntlet housing and locked his wrist to it, yanking hard enough that the cheap plastic cracked against the concrete. The second strand took his ankles before he could plant. He went down on his side, mouth open, the shout dying in his throat as the air left him. The gauntlet clicked once — leftover charge — and went dead.
The one with the duffel spun toward the sound. He had time to reach for the bag. Gwen's third strand sealed his mouth mid-word and pinned his arms to his sides. He stumbled backward into the workbench, eyes wide over the webbing, and stayed there, breathing hard through his nose.
The driver heard the body hit the floor through the open van door. He started to swing his legs out. Morgan was already beside the door. Palm flat between the man's shoulders. Energy dumped through the nervous system in one controlled pulse — motor control first, the attempt at a warning second. The driver's legs folded under him. He sat down hard against the open door, mouth working, no volume coming out. His eyes stayed open and glassy.
Gwen checked the bay in one clean pass. No cameras on the walls. No second phone on the workbench or in either man's pocket. The cell in the duffel was live and cracked, leaking just enough charge that Morgan could feel the cheap click against the lining when she lifted it. She slung the bag across her body and moved for the side door without stopping.
The man on the floor with the broken gauntlet made a wet sound that wanted to be a shout. Morgan stepped over him and set a hand on the back of his neck. Heavier pulse. Not enough to put him out. Just a full-system stutter that locked his legs, his jaw, the hot run of words he had been about to force out. His eyes went glassy. His mouth stayed open and quiet.
The one webbed to the bench got the same. Morgan's palm between his shoulders. Legs, jaw, the warning he never finished. He folded to his knees against the bench and stayed there, breathing hard through his nose, the duffel already gone.
They were clear in under two minutes.
No faces on any lens. No second recording. The decoy lot three blocks east was still waiting for a white hoodie that had never been coming. The cell was in Gwen's hands. The three men were down, webbed or pulsed, and none of them had gotten a warning out.
They took the connected roofs south without speaking. Four blocks. Gwen moved first, the duffel slung tight against her back so it wouldn't swing. The white hoodie caught a scuff along the left sleeve where she'd clipped the edge of the bay door on the way in; the fabric dragged once against a vent pipe and she adjusted without stopping. Morgan stayed one roof over and half a length behind, reading the street below and the roofs behind them. Surface thoughts from the sidewalks. A couple arguing about whose turn it was to walk the dog. A man on a stoop only thinking about the game on his phone. No one looking up. No new minds following.
They stopped on the parapet of a closed walk-up that faced a dead-end and a thin slice of avenue. Gwen set the duffel down and braced both hands on the low wall, breathing through her teeth. The hoodie had ridden up on one side. When she straightened, Morgan saw the new mark — a dark bloom starting along her left ribs, just under the fabric, where the bay door edge had caught her on the drop. Not the old water-tower bruise. Fresh. Smaller. Already deepening.
He stepped in and put his palm over it through the hoodie. Warm energy moved into the muscle. Not enough to wipe the color. Enough to take the sharp catch out of her next breath so she could stand up straight without hissing.
"Decoy never saw us," she said.
"I know."
"The one in the van's going to talk once the stutter wears off. He was the only one who got a clear look at both of us. The other two only got webs and a pulse. They'll talk too, but he's the one who'll have the details." She looked at the duffel, then at the avenue below. The streetlight on the corner was out. The bodega two blocks down was still open. "Lincoln's people are going to hear it from someone who isn't on his payroll. Partner's real. Girl doesn't freeze when it's loud. Still left clean."
For the Full 7780 word Version Please check my p.a.t.r.e.o.n: pat.....reon.c.o.m/cw/aFireFist just remove the multiple periods in this link. Thank you for the Support!