Aspirations
It had been nearly a week since their arrival in New York (or at least, this version of it). Aisha sighed, she’d been doing her best to tend to her currently disabled friend; Taylor’s constant night terrors and not-quite-there-ness when she wasn’t asleep had made the last few days feel like a month had passed already. But then boredom always struck Aisha easily. If Taylor had been here she’d have told Aisha to be less antsy. That said, it was probably best that she wasn’t.
What Aisha needed to do was get Taylor back in action, back to being herself. There were glimmers of course, but whatever had happened to her, had destroyed her friend’s ability to remain coherent. Aisha was well aware of the part that Panacea had played in all this, but something more had happened since. Aisha Laborn was distractible, not stupid.
Then in the last couple of days Taylor had seemed to get worse. Aisha had thought her friend was pulling through, but then she seemed to fall into a comatose state which could be a good, healing thing, or more likely a very bad thing. And as the Undersiders were used to the way things went in Brockton Bay, Aisha would always bet on the worse.
Last night had the final straw, finding that Taylor had semi-cocooned herself into the room and Aisha had had to wrestle the door to their apartment open, just to check on her. If she played the waiting game, her friend could die. And I sure as shit ain’t gonna have that happen on my watch!
And she already had a plan, but unfortunately and with everything, even in another reality, it required money. They had no social security numbers, and no way to identify themselves, other than through the more shady side of society, and that required capital.
Although, out of idle curiosity, she’d looked up her social security number, and unless she was an obese white guy, living in some place called Atlantic City, she didn’t exist here- thankfully; she’d get distracted enough, without running into herself. Then again, it could get real fun… no, no. Laborn get your fucking mind out the gutter!
Aisha shook her head, pushing her mind back to the task at hand. She stood in a gray marbled hallway, with a white polished floor, and a variety of plants and ornaments placed pleasingly and mirrored precisely (she imagined) throughout. Though the place gave off a clinical feel, almost as if there was no real life within. Perhaps that was true, workers were (in most cases) simply cogs in a machine.
Aisha’s mind wandered through the wonder of her current surroundings and finally to the reception area and the door of her intended destination. The waiting area had plush white, almost untextured, leather seats, a reception desk made of an ash-coloured wood, and behind it, was a security guard.
Without even trying, or missing a beat, she waltzed straight past the security guard and into the manager’s office, which was almost in stark contrast to the waiting room outside. The office was a warm off-white with splashes of reddish brown furniture in the mix. Though there were about to be a few more splashes, of an off-white colour, that Aisha definitely didn’t want to think about.
The manager obviously has very different tastes to whomever designed the rest of this bank, and speaking of those tastes…, Aisha ignored the sights and sounds of said manager cheating on their husband (as they had done repeatedly over the last three days). She briefly wondered about how much cleaning the large mahogany desk would need later. She was also briefly glanced at, and then just as quickly forgotten, as the three occupants of the room continued unabated with their respective activities. Imp slid the manager’s keycard off the desk, and slipped out of the room.
This is going to be the easiest heist in the history of heists. She grinned at how much simpler her robbery would go compared to the Undersider’s own notorious heist back home: The one that gained Taylor her infamous villain name, Skitter. Thinking about it now, reminded Aisha that two, of that team of five, were now dead. Shit, why did I think about that, Aisha remembered that the two lost Undersiders had always protected her when it counted. Hell, Brian was her brother, and he had always been protective like that, and Taylor had been very close to Brian, Aisha didn’t know how, or even if she should tell Taylor… No, I can’t let Taylor know Brian died on that fucking oil rig. As for the other, Alec...
The one fucking time my idiot boyfriend did something selfless, and got himself killed. It’s funny actually, if he’d seen that on TV, he’d call for Master and Stranger protocols. Aisha’s eyes stung, from the thoughts, and the little sleep she’d been having recently.
She dismissed the line of thought slowly and went back to being Imp. And by Imp, that meant being overlooked by people, which was something that was becoming increasingly a part of her now. At least it meant that she never had to pay for food, entry fees, library fines or travel permits.
However, as her power had grown in potency, it had started to become harder to hold back, and sometimes she could feel it dragging her down like being caught in the wake of a ship. It was one of her greatest fears, that one day she’d never be remembered again. She shuddered; it already took enough effort to be remembered when she wanted to be.
Tightening her grip on the plastic swipe card she’d taken from the manager’s desk, she ground her teeth a little as she ignored what was happening that very moment, so that she could focus on the clock. “Ten,” she said aloud, “just a few more minutes.”
Aisha had spent the better half of the last few days in and around this place, learning its timings, its people, playing minesweeper on the manager’s computer (that got pretty boring, fast), the manager’s daily routine, guard paths, and security devices. The vault’s security seal would unlock at exactly ten a.m., ready for any physical transfers to take place.
The guard near the room grabbed a small sealed box (probably his lunch), exactly as he’d done at the same time every morning for the past two days at least. Aisha watched him leave his post from the doorway she’d opened a crack. The manager had seemed to outsource most of their job to others, giving the opportunity for what was happening now.
Aisha slid out of the office, and away from the noises of gratification. It took her less than a minute to make her way through the bank down towards the vault, past the ostentatious sign proclaiming Fisk Financial, and to use the swipe card to gain access to the sensitive vault lobby. She could already see the loaders ready to remove whatever they were tasked with, and guards taking positions. No one paid her any mind, as she stood among them.
This is gonna be the most undetected bank robbery ever committed. Be proud of me, Brian. And have a good laugh, Alec.
There it was, as the clock ticked onto ten (and the manager was shacked up in their office), the vault door clanged and whirred; and after several long seconds, opened. A wide cheshire cat like grin spread across her face as she saw the insides of the vault.
*
Turk could feel the shakes coming, and it wasn’t just from the biting cold. It isn’t fair. It’s supposed to be the Christmas season, a time of goodwill to all men, and all that jazz, he thought.
So far no one would spare him a ten-spot, which was all he would need for ‘coffee and doughnuts’. It was just so obvious that the man was keeping him down. Yeah, it’s all the fault of the rich and white folk, like Fisk, who never appreciate my efforts. I’ll show them all, he thought bitterly, And when I do, I’ll make Fisk, and his ilk real sorry! They’ll see...
Consoling himself with those thoughts, and looking along the crowded street he was on, Turk chose a better position to leech. Not on the main thoroughfare, there were too many people there, but a nice corner just off the main street near that fancy Fisk Financial (that investment bank, for those rich pricks). Yeah, that’ll do... his thoughts continued, all those rich fuckers, they’ll have something for me.
*
He had already been there for a few minutes, and he was getting cold; Turk’d never been a patient man, and the baltic-like weather today just made him all the more impatient. The instant he saw the woman in fancy business clothing, and carrying an even fancier handbag, he couldn’t wait any longer.
Stepping out of the slight alcove he’d been using to obscure himself, and leaning straight into her personal space, he began. “Hey lady, you- you got a few b- bucks to spare, help a guy out?”
The woman tried to swerve away from him, attempting to ignore this grotty little person that seemed all too comfortable, making others the opposite.
Turk saw her move and grabbed the lady’s arm in what was probably too firm a grip. She yelped, and her eyes widened as she desperately tried to get her arm free. “Get away from me you goddamn junky!”
Turk bristled at the reprimand. “Oh yeah? Leave a brother high and dry huh? You’re just another fucking coconut, sister!”
The insult had its desired effect, and she froze for an instant allowing him to act. He twisted her arm and shoved her, wrestling the handbag free from her shoulder as she fell.
Her shout as she fell had drawn some unwanted attention, and the subsequent actions by Turk led an onlooker or two to give chase. Turk didn’t stick around to count his pursuers, however, as he sprinted around the corner. He was used to running away having been chased several times over the years, his pursuers ranging from beat cops, to Daredevil, to Luke Cage, hell even on one occasion ninja.
Barging his way through the crowded and frosty streets, he must have been shouldering his way through a tighter crowd than he’d thought as he made for an alley across the way, in an attempt to lose his pursuit. He’d been sure there was no one there when he felt an impact that briefly knocked him off balance, causing him to stumble straight out into the street (and an oncoming Yellow Cab). Turk turned to look back from where he’d come, almost positive he’d heard a female voice curse loudly at him. Must’ve imagined it, he thought.
Then he spied it, a black duffel bag, dollar bills scattered on the ground from where the loose zipper had spilled some of its contents. “Holy Christmas, this must be my lucky day.”
*
The world spun around Aisha, the impact sending her tumbling to the ground, as she lost her grip on the duffel bag which landed haphazardly beside her.
She let out a string of obscenities as she did so, “That fucking hurt, what absent minded fuck head…” Rubbing the back of her head, it took her a moment to refocus. When she did, the sight she beheld made her curse even more, as she spied the jerkwad that knocked her flying, and had taken the liberty of alleviating her of her stolen goods, having left in its place, A fucking… handbag. Huh, she thought.
Snarling, Aisha started scrambling forward, a little way ahead of a cop answering the first woman’s cry of, “Stop, thief!”
In a brief moment of altruism, Aisha tossed the handbag at the cop, who, in shocked realisation at the fact that the handbag was suddenly in their possession, came to a complete stop, watching the guy with the duffel bag dash into the alley, and probably wondering where the hell he stole that from within the last minute.
Aisha then hared after her thieved thefts. She had to hand it to the guy she was chasing, he could run, and he cornered well too; if she hadn’t been tortured by all the years of training (specifically jogging) as an Undersider, she might even have lost him, but she was only forty seconds or so behind him, and it wouldn’t take her long to close that gap. When Aisha turned the corner, she skidded herself to a halt, noting with some surprise the empty alleyway ahead.
“Where did the fucker go?” She asked herself, as she watched the cop who had half heartedly given chase, run past her. The cop carried on down the alley, handbag still in their possession.
Aisha stopped watching the cop and started taking in her environment. If the guy isn’t in the alley he must be… She spotted some new looking dollar bills laying on the damp concrete, Gotcha! This caused her to look up just in time to see a few more notes fluttering down.
*
Turk hopped over the lip of the roof from the fire escape, and carefully strode over the icy undisturbed surface, cautious not to slip as he made his way over to the roof access hut. They won’t think to look for me here, he thought.
He placed the bag down by the entrance, and crouched down to rifle through its contents. “Man this is sweet. Maybe I can even pay Cottonmouth back. Shit. Who the fuck leaves a bag of cash just laying in the street. It’s gonna be a sweet Christmas...”
Satisfied, he pulled out a pack of smokes, lighting one up as he leaned against the wall of the roof access, sheltering there with a smug expression as he pulled a drag on his cig. The roof door was locked, but he’d Jimmy the lock easily enough when he wanted to leave; or just climb back down the fire escape. For now, he was more concerned about admiring the thousands of several dead presidents in front of him.
Turk heard a clang from the fire escape, and quickly stuffed the wad of cash he was admiring into his pants, and immediately wondered why he’d done so.
*
Mister Lee’s keychain jangled and he gave officer Colchaki a warm smile. Opening the security door that led onto the roof, and allowed access to the fire escape, he pointed at the huddled wreck of the now mostly immobile small time crook that was Turk Barrett.
“There you go David, he’s been sat out there like that for the last hour or so. He seems to be in a bit of a daze. I thought it best to call you rather than dial nine-one-one.”
“Thanks, Stan.”
“You won’t thank me as much when you see him up close, kid.”
“How so?”
“I’ve not seen shit like this since I was a janitor for New York State.”
Officer David Colchaki gave the old janitor a sceptical look. “Could be a gang thing, Or just kids mucking about. Alright Stan, I’ll deal with it.”
Heading out onto the roof and back into the crisp December air, he noticed Turk. The small-time career criminal (that somehow managed to make small-time look like an art form) was laying unclothed, down to his underwear, shivering in a puddle of semi-frozen water. The man’s trousers were pulled down to his ankles, and tied to his hands at the small of his back. The rest of his clothing was nowhere to be seen. Colchaki crouched down next to Turk, who looked back up at him, pleading evident in his eyes, and the Officer had to stifle a smirk when he saw a frenchman’s mustache and other features and words drawn all over his face in permanent marker, and as for the cherry on the cake, Turk had the misfortune (or fortune depending on how you looked at it) of a wad of hundred dollar bills jammed into his mouth.
Stan wasn’t kidding, Colchaki thought.
Colchaki reached for his radio, “Central, this is Officer Colchaki, requesting a vehicle for a 10-16, on the corner of Hancock and West 124th Street, one Perp in Custody on the roof.”
* * *
Wilson Fisk leaned his rather large frame forwards as he studied the figure on the screen in front of him, resting his chin on his fingers. The time index on the footage told him that it was forty-five minutes old. He’d have been there sooner, but the mayoral donors banquet he was hosting for the potential candidates had been difficult to get away from quickly.
Just under half an hour ago the silent alarm tripped in the Fisk Financial branch in Harlem, a sensor that detected a certain amount of bodies in the vault showed one foreign body that should not have been there.
Fisk ran the footage forwards, swapping from camera to camera and watching as a woman, no, a young girl, moved past his security completely unnoticed, even stood watching the manager do their usual dirty deeds, and waltz straight into the vault.
Fisk had originally been furious, and those men and women had almost found themselves terminated. But his real focus was on this girl that could somehow walk in straight past his personnel. He smiled; there were plenty of mutants and X-Men that could do much the same as this girl was doing, but perhaps this was the newcomer finally showing her face: The girl the Daily Bugle named Locust; seemingly recovered and using some kind of mind power just like she had on Spider-Man.
However there wasn’t an insect in sight, Although maybe that was part of some disguise she’d- then it clicked for Fisk. He’d seen her before, she was in the footage of the event in Times Square five days ago. It was an almost ridiculous thought, how could he have forgotten her, she’d been in nearly all the shots, helping her friend, and she was forgotten.
Fisk paused the footage as the girl left the bank, freezing her mid-frame, and looked at the time stamp. It told him that this footage was exactly three hours and sixteen minutes old, how could it be? How long had he been here, doing this exact thing in the last few minutes, how many times? It puzzled his mind, as he studied the girl on the screen closely. Hers was a very interesting power indeed.
* * *
The interview room was every bit as spartan as Turk Barrett remembered it to be, from the reinforced door, to the one way mirror that allowed for external observation. He’d been given fresh clothing, but he could now see the (for lack of better words) scribbles all over his face, and the worst thing is, he had no idea how they’d gotten there, or how he’d ended up with a wad of cash in his mouth… or for that matter, how he’d come to be on a roof half naked. A few of the cops had recognised him as he’d been brought in, and he had heard the mirthfully disparaging comments.
It was about five minutes after he had been cuffed to the desk that the ranking detectives came in. Turk gave them his most charming smile, which had been known to be rather devastating in his younger days.
The balding white detective in front of him rolled his eyes and shook his head. Turk shifted his attention to the other detective, a slender woman with hard eyes, that looked to be of some sort of Latin descent.
She shuffled the stack of notes laid in front of her, clicked on the recorder placed on the table and then stared at her notes before she started speaking. Her voice droned out in an almost monotone, introducing themselves for the recorder before continuing: “Turk Barrett, seemingly career criminal, rap sheet as long as my arm. Might be your lucky day, the alleged victim declined to press charges. But there are a few… shall we say, unusual details, that seem to be out of place. And the arresting officer claims you have,” she ruffled through her notes for a moment, before continuing, “no memory of the entire incident.”
She looked at Turk for the first actual time and sighed. “Mister Barrett, please tell us in your own words, what happened earlier today.”
*
When they took a recess, Detective Luciana Coulson gave her colleague a tired look, before leaning her head back and rubbing her temples. “Well, what do you think?” ?
Her fellow Detective didn’t really care about much anymore, and just shrugged, saying: “Do what I’d do and make this shit someone else’s problem. This crap has ‘meta’ written all over it.”
Lucy nodded wearily, and wondered who to send it on to, S.H.I.E.L.D. or as ‘meta’ implied, the Metahuman Affairs Division?
They used to have that Code Blue team that dealt with similar things, but since they lost city funding for them a few years back (nearly thirty million dollars), and the unit went private, they were a little harder to get hold of. But the city still needed something in its place, the NYPD settled for an X-Files-esque division. Not that they did much with their miniscule budget.
Luciana narrowed her eyes, as she singled out a contact number on her receiver, thinking, Yeah, they can deal with this.