Chapter 275. What a Coincidence, I'm FBI Too
Noah had been ready to vanish into the night, but the sudden, sharp crack of alien weaponry echoing through the concrete canyons of Hell's Kitchen stayed his hand. The sound was followed by a muffled, heavy crump—the unmistakable signature of a Chitauri energy core detonating.
A cold curiosity flickered in his eyes. He turned his head toward the source, pinpointing the disturbance to a nondescript warehouse a few blocks away. Without a word, he stepped off the ground, his body enveloped in a shroud of distorting magic that rendered him a mere blur against the moonless sky. He glided over the rooftops, a silent predator drawn to the scent of familiar chaos.
Below him, the warehouse was a hive of frantic activity. It was the stronghold of a local syndicate, but their usual swagger had been replaced by desperate, high-pitched shouting and the frantic rattling of small arms fire.
Noah hovered above, his gaze piercing through the structure's roof. Interesting, he thought, his lips curling into a thin smile. With a slight shimmer of blue light, he tapped into the Space Stone, folding the air around him and stepping through the fabric of reality.
Crack! Boom!
He reappeared on a high catwalk, shrouded in shadows, just as a section of the interior wall collapsed in a shower of sparks and pulverized brick. The air was thick with the ozone tang of energy blasts and the acrid stench of cordite. Below him, the scene was a bloodbath. On one side, the local mobsters were huddled behind overturned reinforced tables and crates, firing wildly. On the other, a strike team moved with the lethal, synchronized precision of a clockwork machine.
These newcomers weren't street thugs. They wore matte-black tactical gear, their faces hidden behind advanced ballistic visors, and their movements suggested years of elite military training.
From the panicked screams of the dying mobsters, Noah pieced together the narrative. The syndicate had somehow scavenged a Chitauri rifle from the ruins of the New York invasion and had been foolish enough to brag about it. The strike team hadn't come to negotiate; they had come to reclaim the «property.» What was supposed to be a stealthy heist had spiraled into a tactical slaughter.
The mobsters had the numbers, but the strike team had the technology. They deployed flashbangs that didn't just blind—they shattered the senses. Under the cover of sensory deprivation, they moved in, their own weapons muffled and efficient. When one mobster finally managed to aim the heavy Chitauri rifle, a sniper from the strike team put a round through his throat before he could pull the trigger.
The tide turned instantly. The strike team seized the alien rifle, and then, with cold efficiency, they began to systematically eliminate every witness in the room. Their armor shrugged off the stray 9mm rounds fired in desperation, the impact barely causing them to flinch. Within minutes, the warehouse grew quiet, save for the low hum of the Chitauri weapon and the wet gurgles of the dying.
The team leader signaled a regroup. They weren't there to loot or occupy; they were ghosts, ready to vanish with their prize.
Clap... clap... clap...
The rhythmic sound of slow, mocking applause echoed through the rafters, cutting through the silence like a knife.
The strike team reacted with terrifying speed. In a heartbeat, half a dozen rifles were aimed upward, and a hail of lead tore through the shadows where the sound had originated.
But the bullets never reached their mark. They froze in mid-air, suspended in a shimmering wall of distorted space, before losing their momentum and clattering to the concrete floor like harmless pebbles.
«Impressive reflexes,» Noah remarked, stepping out from the gloom and descending slowly through the air as if walking down an invisible staircase. «Tell me, which branch of the circus do you boys belong to? The FBI?»
He said it with a smirk, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Their methods were far too brutal for the Bureau, and even S.H.I.E.L.D. usually preferred to leave someone alive for interrogation. This level of 'scorched earth' policy smelled of something much older and much more sinister.
The strike team froze, their tactical discipline warring with the sheer impossibility of what they were seeing. After a tense silence, the leader reached into a tactical pouch on his chest and produced a leather wallet, flicking it open to reveal a shining gold badge and an ID card.
«Federal Bureau of Investigation,» the man barked, his voice distorted by his helmet's comms. He kept his thumb strategically placed over a portion of the photo. «This is a closed operation. You are trespassing on federal authority. Depart immediately or be fired upon.»
«The FBI?» Noah let out a short, sharp laugh. He reached into his own coat, mimicking the motion of searching for an ID. He pulled out one of the many high-quality «spare» credentials Coulson had gifted him for 'emergencies.'
He flipped it open, the holographic seal of the Bureau glinting under the warehouse's flickering lights. «What a coincidence,» Noah purred, his eyes locking onto the leader's visor. «I'm FBI too. Special Oversight.»
He stepped closer, his presence expanding until it seemed to fill the entire room. «Now, tell me, 'Agent.' Which field office are you out of? And why is your team using unsanctioned lethal force to recover extraterrestrial contraband without a recovery manifest?»
The leader stood motionless, but Noah could see the subtle hand signals being exchanged behind his back. His teammates were drifting, taking up flanking positions, their hands hovering near their utility belts.
«We are... specialized,» the leader began, his tone shifting to something more predatory. He didn't finish the sentence.
Instead, three of his men launched a barrage of specialized flash-ovoids at Noah's feet. They dove for cover behind heavy steel pillars, pressing their hands against their high-end acoustic-dampening headsets and shutting their polarized visors.
These weren't standard police flashbangs. They were military-grade sensory disruptors, designed to emit a multi-spectrum light burst and a localized sonic pulse capable of rupturing eardrums and inducing immediate vertigo. Even a «super» would be left reeling, their brain unable to process the sensory overload.
That was the plan. It was a good plan. It just didn't account for the man it was aimed at.
Before the grenades could hit the floor, the space around Noah rippled. The canisters vanished, only to reappear a micro-second later—not at Noah's feet, but directly inside the tactical helmets of the men who threw them.
CRACK-BOOM!
The explosions were contained, but the effect was horrific. Noah didn't just move the grenades; he had used the Space Stone to create microscopic «tears» in their protective gear. The blinding light and the bone-shattering sound were funneled directly into their eyes and ears with focused intensity.
The strike team collapsed in a heap of agony. They screamed, but the sound was muffled by their own blood filling their masks. They thrashed on the floor, clawing at their helmets, slipping and sliding in the gore of the gangsters they had just slaughtered. It was a poetic, if gruesome, tableau.
Noah stood in the center of the carnage, his expression one of mild distaste as he watched them «swim» in the consequences of their own violence.
Almost certainly Hydra, he mused. Sent to scavenge Chitauri scraps for their little science projects. He needed to be sure, though. He needed to peel back the layers of their minds.
Wisps of sapphire energy began to coil around his right hand, the Space Stone humming in anticipation. In his left hand, a different light began to glow—a sickly, piercing yellow. The Mind Stone emerged from his palm, ready to break the silence of the fallen.
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