Early morning in New York. A new chapter unfolded for the city after a night of wild revelry.
While the drunks were still drifting through dreamland, overworked public servants were already clocking into their shifts.
Ring! Ring!
Since the early hours, the NYPD's dispatch lines hadn't stopped ringing. Robbery, sexual assault, fights, theft, missing persons... It was the First Law of New York: the morning after a celebration always brings a mountain of misery.
Officers with more than two years on the force were desensitized to it.
"Hello, NYPD," A dispatcher said, picking up a line and repeating the familiar script for the hundredth time.
"Sir, I want to report a crime!" The caller said, her voice frantic.
"Go ahead."
"My husband went out for drinks with friends yesterday and never came home. I went to their usual bar this morning, and the owner said they left early last night."
"Mhm, keep going," The dispatcher said, holding up three fingers to a colleague.
The colleague chuckled and used a dry-erase marker to add a tally under Missing Persons on a whiteboard. Boring shifts required a little fun, so the officers gambled on which type of call would lead the pack within a 24-hour period. Currently, "Fights" is winning by a landslide. "Missing Persons" had some catching up to do.
"My husband loves to drink, but he never stays out all night. I'm worried something happened."
"Do you know something?"
The caller was silent for a moment before sobbing. "In the alley next to the bar, I found the clothes he was wearing yesterday. There are holes in them... and a pool of blood on the ground."
Holes in the clothes. Blood on the ground.
The dispatcher's sleepy expression vanished instantly. "Ma'am, where is this bar? I need your husband's name and yours... stay calm, we're sending officers right now."
"What's up?" The colleague asked as the phone slammed down.
"The serial freak is back. Notify the Captain."
"Shit. I'm on it."
*
Seven or eight police cars lined the curb, and the alley next to the bar was cordoned off with yellow tape. Burly officers stood guard on either side of the entrance.
"These are his clothes. I tied that necktie for him myself before he left..." A woman in her thirties sobbed to the Captain, pointing at the heap on the ground.
"Don't bother searching further. It's him," The Captain declared grimly after surveying the scene.
"Nine victims in three days. I've never seen a killer this reckless," An officer muttered angrily.
"He's reckless because he can afford to be."
"Captain, what do you mean?"
"Don't you get it yet? This is clearly a case of superhuman crime."
"Superhumans..." The officer paused, then nodded slowly. "Makes sense. No normal person could do this. No body, no security footage, no witnesses—nothing but a pile of rags and a bit of blood."
The Captain sighed, frustrated by his own helplessness. "File the report and merge the cases. As much as I want to lock this guy up, 'Supers' are out of our league."
"Fine," The officer sighed, discouraged after days of fruitless work. "Who do we send the file to?"
"SHIELD."
*
SHIELD had long reach. They took over any case local police couldn't handle, and if a case interested them, the local authorities had to step aside unconditionally. Conversely, SHIELD was the final shield of American law enforcement. If they chose to archive a case, it essentially became a "cold case" that nobody would ever touch again.
By afternoon, the NYPD had organized the serial killing files and sent them to SHIELD. The bizarre case was assigned to SHIELD's ultimate workaholic—Agent Phil Coulson.
Poor Coulson. He gave his life to the agency until he was balding at the crown, yet SHIELD couldn't even manage to find him a girlfriend. He was still a bachelor.
"Superhuman homicide..."
Scanning the file, Coulson frowned. His mind immediately went to the Joker Organization. It was hard not to, given that they had the highest concentration of "Supers" in the world.
"No, this doesn't feel right."
"What do you mean, sir?" His subordinate asked.
"This doesn't fit the Joker Organization's style. If they were behind this, they wouldn't be this... quiet."
Nine people in three days is quiet? The subordinate bit back the urge to comment.
Coulson, a veteran investigator, found a lead even where there seemed to be none. "Use the Manhattan Metric. Let's pin down the suspect's living area."
The subordinate's eyes lit up. Why didn't I think of that?
The Manhattan Metric was a mathematical modeling technique. By inputting the various crime scenes and points of interest into a formula, they could calculate the most probable area of the suspect's residence.
Fifteen minutes later, the agent ran back with a printed map of New York. "Got it."
The map featured several black circles with a specific area circled in red. Coulson looked at it and scowled. "There are a dozen neighborhoods here. You expect me to knock on every door?"
The agent scratched his head, stumped.
"Contact the local precinct," Coulson said patiently. "Use a process of elimination. Check for suspicious targets. Narrow the search radius."
"Understood."
"Wait. Have the New York field agents set up surveillance at every intersection in those neighborhoods. Everyone coming or going needs to be scanned with facial recognition and run against the SHIELD database."
*
SHIELD moved significantly faster than the police. Within thirty minutes of Coulson's order, dozens of secret monitoring posts were established. These were just nondescript civilian cars, but inside sat high-definition monitors capable of capturing every facial detail of passersby.
One second in front of the camera, and SHIELD knew everything: your school grades, your awards, whether you ever harassed a classmate, your credit card debt, and your recent calls or purchases.
Field agents also interviewed local police and building security. They asked about newcomers, residents acting strangely, and cross-referenced those who were entering or leaving during the windows of the nine murders.
The high-intensity sweep paid off. They found a suspect.
The target was an otaku who usually didn't leave his apartment for weeks at a time. Lately, however, he had been going out frequently—specifically at night—and his departures coincided perfectly with the times of the murders.
This was the key. Agents put the apartment under constant watch while reporting back to headquarters. In Washington, Coulson decided to lead the arrest personally. This was why he was Fury's right hand; despite knowing New York was the Joker's home turf, he didn't hesitate to take the assignment.
Before leaving, Coulson asked Fury if they should involve Captain America. Since Cap lived in Brooklyn, having a heavy hitter nearby provided a sense of security.
Fury shook his head. "Just take your high-tech gear. Don't call the big guy yet. He's not ready for SHIELD's... way of doing things."
SHIELD's way of doing things was simple and brutal: Better to kill the wrong person than to let a threat go. They neutralized anything that threatened national security in the cradle. Steve Rogers—the saint of justice—would never accept that. This was why Fury was still vague about officially bringing Cap into the fold.
In Fury's mind, Cap could stay home, hit punching bags, and learn how to use a computer. When the Joker Organization finally showed their hand, they'd just drop Cap on them like a nuclear weapon. Efficient, easy, and stress-free.
Lacking the extra muscle, Coulson went to the armory and cleaned out the high-tech section. His life was the priority. He hand-picked a team of trusted agents and boarded a Quinjet for New York.
*
In his upscale apartment, Alex was still studying his body. It was a treasure trove of secrets; the more he researched, the more he discovered. He lived by the rule of sleeping by day and prowling by night. He waited until 9:00 PM, when the world outside was pitch black, to put on his jacket and head out to eat.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Someone was at the door. Who the hell is coming here this late? The landlord? No, the previous owner of this body inherited the place.
Alex moved silently to the door and looked through the peephole. It was pitch black. He couldn't see anything.
"Sir, stop looking. Please open the door."
Alex's heart skipped a beat. Can they see me?
He steadied himself and pulled the door open. A group of burly men in black suits and sunglasses stood there. A small, high-tech black device was attached to his peephole. It was a reverse-optic tool that allowed agents to see inside while the resident saw nothing but black.
"FBI!" One of the men barked, flashing a badge.
"What... What does the FBI want with me?" Alex asked in a timid, shaky voice, playing the role of the nervous shut-in.
"Take it easy. There was a homicide near the building. We're just doing a routine check."
Seeing the layers of pale fat and the cowardly demeanor, the agent felt almost bad for speaking so loudly.
"Okay... please, come in," Alex said, pulling the door wide to let them in.
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