C30: Information
"James, help me see how much this thing is worth?"
Inside the antique shop tucked along 47th Street near Clinton, a tall, thin Black teenager furtively pulled a damaged pendant from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to Li Ran.
"Twenty dollars."
Li Ran glanced up briefly at the pendant's shape, a crude, skull-shaped trinket with faint bloodstains and spoke flatly.
"Twenty? James, come on, this is the treasure I risked life and limb to get!" The boy's voice rose in disbelief at the lowball estimate.
"Twenty-five. No more," Li Ran replied, eyes already back on the newspaper. He'd seen enough gang relics pass through the store to know this wasn't special.
"Fine, twenty-five's twenty-five," the boy grumbled, taking the cash but sliding it carefully into his wallet. "Just saying, James—if it wasn't for our brotherhood, I wouldn't let something like this go for pennies…"
"How's that college funding going, Wells?" Li Ran interrupted smoothly, shifting the topic before Wells could spiral into another lecture.
"It's getting there. Still a ways off. But if you upped your generosity, James, maybe I'd get there a little faster," Wells replied, eyes wide with mock innocence as he side-eyed Li Ran.
Wells was born and raised in the trenches of Hell's Kitchen, New York, a neighborhood sandwiched between legacy and bloodshed. Like too many kids in the Kitchen, he never knew his father and was raised by a single mother who worked two shifts and never took a sick day.
It wasn't easy, growing up surrounded by gang banners and daily gunfire. But Wells was lucky. His mom was built like a tank, both in spirit and, frankly, in body and had the voice of a drill sergeant. She ruled her home with iron rules and a flip-flop always in reach.
Because of her, Wells had never touched a gang patch, never sold dope on a corner, never got pulled into the cycle. In Hell's Kitchen, that counted as a miracle.
"It's not some Ivy League gig, but the college is solid," Wells continued. "Mom and I figure, once I graduate, I'll get a stable job, maybe something in Midtown. Enough to get her out of the Kitchen for good."
"I hope you get there soon," Li Ran said honestly.
He had a soft spot for the kid. Unlike most of the teens who passed through his shop with eyes glazed from cheap high or fear, Wells still had something human in him. Hope. Direction.
Of course, Li Ran knew better than most that hope didn't mean much when the Hand, HYDRA, or even a stray Chitauri weapon turned up in the wrong borough. In this city, even space didn't guarantee safety.
Still… who could say? Maybe Wells would beat the odds.
Pulling himself from his thoughts, Li Ran turned his attention back to the skull pendant lying on the counter.
"Where'd you get this thing?"
Even cracked, the pendant's harsh gang markings practically shouted its origin, iron spikes, rusted teeth, and paint faded into the colors of the Savage Gang.
"You hear about what's been going down in the Kitchen lately?" Wells whispered, eyes darting toward the door like he expected Matt Murdock or Luke Cage to come walking in.
"Big incident?" Li Ran raised an eyebrow.
He'd been so busy chasing down mystic oddities and hearing whispers about Doctor Strange's astral projections near Greenwich Village that he hadn't checked in on street-level happenings.
Then again, it was Hell's Kitchen. There were shootouts every Tuesday.
"Twenty bucks," Wells grinned, holding out his hand.
"Ten," Li Ran replied, already digging through his register.
"You're stingy, man," Wells muttered, pocketing the bill. "Anyway, word is, the Savage Gang stirred up something real bad. Like, someone who isn't just another vigilante, more like a living nightmare. Their ops are getting hit hard. Whole bars shredded. Bodies piling up. Even Tony Savage, the big man himself put a bounty out. Anyone who stops this guy gets the Sixth District and control over the local rackets."
Even someone like Wells, who'd sworn off the gang life, looked tempted. It wasn't every day a kingpin's throne sat empty.
That offer, Li Ran realized, said everything about how desperate the Savage Gang had become.
"A maniac?" he asked, narrowing his gaze.
"That's what they're calling him. But he ain't crazy. He's a walking death machine. Rumor is, he wiped out one of Tony's bars by himself. Like a one-man SHIELD drop squad. Nobody knows who he is, or what set him off."
Super-soldier. Lone operator. Tactical as hell.
Li Ran's mind quickly filled in the blanks.
---
Hell's Kitchen – one of the Savage Gang's safehouses, now riddled with bullet holes and broken glass.
The battle was over. Smoke still drifted from overturned tables. The corpses lay in heaps.
Out of the shadows, a muscular man stepped over broken wood and bodies. His buzz-cut head glinted under the flickering bar lights. He wore all black military gear patched together with street-worn armor. And on his chest, bold and unmistakable, a stark white skull now stained red.
"Wh—why?" a wounded gang member croaked from the ground, clutching his bleeding side. "Why us? Who the hell sent you?"
The man crouched beside him, voice low, raspy, metallic like gravel in a war drum.
"You know that old man, Hip? The one always preaching on 52nd Street? The one your guys beat for sport?"
The gang member flinched. "H-he was just some bum…"
The man's expression didn't change.
"That 'bum' died last week. Beaten to death."
"So what? You're avenging him?"
A pause. Then—
BANG. BANG.
Two clean shots. No hesitation.
The white skull on his chest soaked in fresh red.
The man stood, tossing a grenade onto the bar floor like it was just another cigarette butt. As flames exploded behind him, he turned his head slightly, just enough for the shattered glass to catch a glimpse of his haunted eyes.
"To me," he said quietly, "you're just as insignificant."
---