As the broadcast continued and the strange conversation between the grotesque entity known as Joker Barber and the shelter staff unfolded on screen, the audience in the live broadcast room fell into a stunned silence. Confusion rippled through the viewers like a wave.
Inside the surveillance hub of S.H.I.E.L.D., a handful of agents crowded around the screen, all trying to process what they were witnessing.
"What the hell are they even talking about?" one of the agents asked, his voice edged with unease.
"I don't know…" Natasha Romanoff replied, furrowing her brows. "But that Joker Barber… he seems to know way more than he should. It's like he understands the whole picture."
Nick Fury's one eye narrowed in focus. "Exactly," he said, his voice carrying a rare weight. "Especially his final words. There's something buried in there—something important."
He paused for a beat, processing.
"It sounds like Site-13 is one of the Foundation's containment facilities… but not just any site. If what Joker Barber said is true, then this particular place wasn't just containing anomalies. They were experimenting on them—abusing them."
Fury's tone grew darker.
"And then… something went wrong."
Natasha followed his train of thought. "A containment failure?"
Fury nodded grimly. "Most likely. And from the way he phrased it, it wasn't just a small breach. It sounds like the whole site went under."
He leaned closer to the monitor, muttering a name over and over under his breath.
"Emerson…"
Something about that name clung to his thoughts like a splinter. His instincts told him this Emerson was key—possibly the instigator behind the site's collapse.
Back on the screen, within the grainy footage of Site-13, Captain Ross straightened up as if he had pieced together a vital clue. He leaned forward and asked Joker Barber, "What's worse?"
The bizarre figure shuffled forward into the camera's view. The flickering red emergency lights bathed him in a sickly glow. This was the first time the audience got a clear—if distorted—look at his full appearance.
His form writhed unnaturally, as if caught between shifting dimensions. His limbs twisted, warped by glitches in the video's static interference. The jagged distortion made it seem as though his own body was cutting into itself. Yellowish liquid oozed from the torn gashes that spontaneously opened on his skin. His presence was nauseating, a living nightmare rendered real.
As he neared the camera, only one of his eyes remained stable—frozen and unblinking. The other seemed to blur and duplicate with every frame. The grotesque face lingered in the lens.
The moment that distorted image appeared, the live broadcast room erupted with horrified reactions.
"Jesus Christ—what is that?!"
"Turn it off, turn it off, TURN IT OFF!"
"That's nightmare fuel right there!"
Even James and his team, hardened by countless high-stress missions, flinched at the horrific sight. The expressions on their faces showed clear discomfort and dread.
And then, that horrible voice—shrill, high-pitched, and unnaturally sharp—screeched out:
"Everything."
Ross moved to ask more questions, but he was interrupted by Houston, his tone sharp and urgent: "Captain! We just received new information. Looks like it's coming from survivors. We need to move—now!"
"Survivors?" Ross paused, stunned. "All right. Let's go."
Back in the containment room, Joker Barber twisted his face into a disturbing smile, his warped lips pulling apart with disturbing elasticity. He said with a chuckle that echoed with something sinister:
"Have fun, kid. Don't get bit by the dead bugs… Oh, and if you see Emerson's father…"
His smile widened unnaturally.
"…please help me kill him."
Then he broke into wild, bone-chilling laughter—something like the sound of nails dragging across glass. It echoed through the corridor long after James and the others had moved on.
James and his team made their way down a dim, flickering corridor, eventually passing the communications room and entering a larger, reinforced hallway. Houston's device buzzed with incoming signals.
They followed the new path until they reached a sealed chamber, but before they could process the scene, the video transmission cut to black.
For over ten seconds, nothing could be heard—no visuals, no audio.
Then, slowly, garbled static resolved into a faint voice:
"Command? Command, are you there? Do you hear me?"
The site command finally responded: "Houston? We hear you. Are you okay? Is everyone okay?"
Houston's voice cracked slightly—relief flooding through it. "Oh, thank God. We've been trying to reach you for what felt like forever."
His words quickened with urgency. "We found them—survivors. About twenty or thirty people. They're all trapped in some kind of sublevel or side structure. Not meant for long-term stay. It's… not safe here."
"There are some of our agents," Houston continued. "Some folks from The Mole division, and even one guy from Gulliver's Traveler. They're all here."
The command room on the other side fell into stunned silence. This was far better than anyone could have hoped for—actual survivors, still breathing.
"Are you ready for evacuation?" the command officer asked.
"Well, yes—technically, but… no. Not yet." Houston's voice dropped in tone, filled with grim frustration.
"We can't leave," he said flatly. "Not right now."
He inhaled sharply, then added with a kind of fury: "The situation down here is way worse than what we planned for. I don't know what they were thinking keeping things like these locked up. But whatever containment systems they had—it's all offline. Every single one."
He cursed under his breath, trying to stay calm.
"I'm serious, Commander. It's a f***ing nightmare. The halls… they're filled with sounds—creatures moving. Hunting. You can hear the dragging and clicking of bones, the whispering. I think they're looking for us. And we've got barely enough ammo to protect ourselves, let alone escort these people out of here."
There was a pause on the command end. It was clear they were trying to process this new turn of events. After a long moment, they finally replied:
"How long were you there?"
Houston hesitated. "Three days? Maybe more?"
"…Received. Nine-Tailed Fox Unit 'Samsara' will deploy immediately."
"It damn well better be right now!" Jack's voice came through harshly. "Tell them to run, not walk."
The chat in the live broadcast room exploded in relief and anxious excitement.
"Finally! They found them!"
"Three days trapped in that hellhole? That's insane!"
"Mobile Task Force MVPs right there."
But not everyone was celebrating.
Back in S.H.I.E.L.D., Nick Fury's brow furrowed again. Something didn't sit right with him. He turned to glance at Natasha Romanoff, who had just checked the time on her tactical wristwatch.
That's when it clicked.
His brain sparked to life, connecting the dots with a jolt.
Time.
That was what had been bothering him.
Before James and his team entered Site-1730, the site command had told them that the Samsara unit would be deployed within four hours. That was the window—clear and precise.
But now, according to Houston, they had been trapped down there for at least three days.
So why hadn't Samsara arrived yet?
Either James and his team experienced a time dilation effect inside Site-13… or something far worse was happening on the outside.
Fury's mind raced. If the problem was internal, it would mean that time within the site was not synced with the outside world. And if that were the case…
Then what else had happened in those three days?
What had James and his team truly experienced down there?
Were the survivors even the same people they once were?
A shadow of dread crept into Fury's mind, wrapping around his thoughts like a vice.
He had a bad feeling about this entire mission—one that was getting worse with every passing second.
Suppressing the growing anxiety that churned in his gut, he turned his gaze back to the screen, watching intently.
There were still too many unanswered questions.
And the most pressing of all…
Was time itself breaking down?
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