"Are you from the salvage crew?" the officer asked.
"Yes, here to recover the wreckage. This is our ID," a worker replied, handing over a certificate.
The officer inspected it, nodded, and said, "This is serious. The wreckage is critical evidence. The government and military are watching closely. I'm sure you understand. I'll assign two officers to escort you for safety and to ensure nothing goes wrong."
"Of course, standard procedure," the worker agreed.
After the handover, two workers disembarked from a distinctively marked truck, loading pre-sorted wreckage into carts and crates. They boarded the enclosed truck with two assigned police officers. Two more workers secured the cargo, shut the rear door, and the truck drove off.
Three minutes later, an identical truck arrived.
Its rear door opened, and two workers plus an engineer hopped out, approaching the officer to handle the remaining wreckage, including the steel soldiers.
"You're from the salvage crew?" the officer asked, frowning. "Didn't your team just leave?"
"Already here? No, we're the only ones from our outfit," the engineer said. "Are you sure it was our truck? Maybe another crew?"
"This wreckage is evidence," the officer snapped. "The police were told the government and military work only with your crew. We wouldn't hire another. You—"
His face darkened. Grabbing his radio, he barked, "The truck that took the wreckage is suspect. Alert nearby units to locate it. Stop it now!"
Meanwhile, inside the first truck, the engineer-looking man checked the wreckage inventory while the two workers chatted with the police escorts about Iron Man, the terrorists, and the recent battle. The officers, initially wary, grew relaxed, joining the conversation.
The engineer shot the workers a subtle glance. They nodded faintly. In unison, they restrained the officers, preventing them from drawing their weapons. Each worker injected the officers with a sedative, knocking them out.
One worker, nursing an injured arm, turned to the engineer. "Why not just kill them? It'd be cleaner."
The engineer, still reviewing the list, replied, "The U.S. is Hydra's turf. No need to tip our hand over something this small."
"Killing two cops would blow our cover?" the worker pressed.
"Hydra's sneaky. They're not great in a straight fight, but their espionage is top-notch. AIM, the Hand, Hydra—they're players in the underworld. They're not pushovers. Caution's warranted."
The engineer, codenamed Doctor, led the operation. A master of medicine and assassination, his skills merged with bio-enhancements that kept him youthful despite nearing a century. Typically, he skipped minor jobs, but a New York vacation led him to oversee this mission.
After verifying the cargo, the truck veered into an alley, entering a hidden passage. Mechanical whirs and paint sprayers echoed as the truck emerged in another alley, now a nondescript black vehicle with a new license plate, driving off in a new direction.
The Doctor shed his engineer disguise, rolled up his sleeves, and sipped from a water bottle. A tattoo on his right arm—a circle with two crossed scimitars and ten outer rings—marked him as Ten Rings.
He packed his gear, tapped the cab's glass, and said, "Stop at the next street. No cameras there. I'll handle the cops."
"Got it," the driver replied.
The Doctor adjusted his clothes. A worker asked, "Heading back to base after your vacation?"
"Not yet," the Doctor said. "I've got another job post-vacation."
"See you at the base, then."
The Doctor nodded, disembarked with the sedated officers in black bags, and smiled at a roadside newsstand vendor. In an alley, he dumped the bags by a dumpster, peeled off a thin facial disguise, flipped his shirt inside out, donned a wig, and exited the other side.
Wearing headphones, he played a mission briefing on his phone. Settling at an outdoor café, he ordered food and listened. The message detailed his next task: uncover the identity of the wizard aiding Iron Man, suspected of Kamar-Taj ties. A challenging mission.
As he pondered, a woman with long red curls sat across from him.
The Doctor sipped his coffee, smiling. "Natasha, it's been what, five or six years?"
"Doctor," she said coolly, "I'd rather not see you. Don't try anything—Barton's nearby."
"Barton?" The Doctor chuckled. "He's in New Mexico. You can't bluff me, Natasha. I'm just vacationing in New York. Relax."
"Vacation?" Natasha raised an eyebrow. "Do people like us ever get a real break? If you're truly on vacation, where were you two hours ago? I'm curious."
The Doctor drained his coffee, meeting Natasha's gaze with a wry smile. "Natasha, for people like us, the less we know, the safer we stay. I'm not here to target S.H.I.E.L.D. or the U.S., so let's drop the questions. I'd hate to clash with an old friend after all these years."
Natasha sipped her coffee, delivered by the waiter, and leaned back. "One last question: who do you work for now? Or rather, who've you always served?"
The Doctor froze, setting his cup down slowly. He hadn't expected Natasha to sense his lifelong affiliation. "You're making this tough, Natasha."
She shrugged, smiling lightly. "Forget it, then. For old times' sake, forgive my prying."
He studied her, then chuckled. "I underestimated you, Natasha. This reunion's over."
"Fair enough," she said. "I won't spoil your vacation. Next time, maybe we'll grab a proper meal."
"Deal."
Natasha smiled, took a final sip, and tucked cash under her cup. She blended into the crowd, vanishing down the street.
Among pedestrians, she brushed her hair, activating her earpiece. "Director, we've made initial contact."
"And?" Nick Fury's voice crackled.
"The Doctor's on a mission—investigative, not destructive. No major threat for now."
"Who's he with? He's one of the few top agents whose organization we can't pin down. No one at his level operates without a backer."
"He wouldn't say," Natasha replied. "But I'd bet on the Hand, AIM, or the Ten Rings. Only they could field someone like him."
Fury paused, then said, "Alright. Suspend surveillance. Regular agents can't track him. Better to back off."
"What if he breaks the law?" Natasha asked.
"If he dares, he won't leave the U.S. alive."
"Understood."
S.H.I.E.L.D., a global powerhouse, was deeply tied to the U.S., its influence unmatched domestically. Years later, Hydra's infiltration would cripple it, but that was a future concern.
The Doctor finished his meal, paid, and melted into the crowd, gone.