I pulled out the facility overview map, spreading it flat on the workbench next to the detailed building schematics. The layout stared back at me, and despite everything I'd been through over the past few weeks—the firefights, the dead bodies, the whole impossible reality of waking up in 1984 Marvel New York, this was what made my brain stutter.
It was almost identical to the map from the Official Handbook of the Marvel Universe.
The Main Factory Complex dominated the northwest next to the docks, with three satellite factories to the north, two warehouses to the southwest, and two smaller manufacturing buildings to the southeast. The parking lot sprawled directly south of the manufacturing area, with the monorail hub constructed overhead.
Southwest of the parking lot sat the general administration building, the main computer facility, and the special housing and recreational complex. Moving east along the main road: the Computer Sciences Development building, the biochemical medicine and inorganic chemistry building, the electronics design and fabrication building, then the high energy physics building with its associated particle collider ring. The airstrip occupied the northeast corner with its control tower and hangars.
Even architectural oddities from the Handbook were present—like having the Main Computer Facility and Computer Sciences Development Building separated by the main road that lead into the parking lot.
Where the Handbook had shown a simplified "Solar Converter Power Plant" as a single icon, the actual blueprints revealed a hybrid system. The experimental solar converter was integrated with conventional infrastructure—transformers, capacitor banks, and a bidirectional connection to the Long Island Power Authority grid. Technical notes indicated the converter could generate significant power when operational, enough that Stark Enterprises sold electricity back to LIPA during peak production.
From a security standpoint however, the differences that would affect my plan leapt out at me. There were security checkpoints at every major junction. The satellite facilities and the main computer facility required escorts even with valid clearance. The main computer facility not only had a mantrap entrance but the scribbled notes in the margin indicated that Stane was planning to add not only a defensive turret to the entrance, but also "less than lethal" options.
A handwritten note from Vito's source explained the paranoia: "Stark kept beefing up security after every break-in. Place has been hit by a lot of people over the years. Each incident meant new protocols, new checkpoints, new redundancies."
That tracked with what I remembered from the comics. Stark International had been a revolving door for industrial espionage and super-villain attacks. The Melter, the Unicorn, Spymaster, Count Nefaria—the list went on. Of course the security would be layered to hell and back after half the supervillain community broke in or attempted to break into the LI facility at some point.
Another note: "Stane's even more paranoid than Stark was, but he hasn't finished implementing everything he wants yet. Too busy with some major construction project on campus. Multiple employees mentioned it—sounds like Stane's personal priority. Security upgrades are planned but not complete."
I forced myself to keep reading. Guard schedules. Badge protocols. The few camera blind spots. Response procedures for different types of intrusions.
The more I absorbed, the clearer it became just how out of my depth I was.
I had technical skills. With the downloaded combat skills Catherine had given me, I even had a foundation to build on for handling myself in a fight.
With all of that however, I still didn't know the first thing about actually breaking into a secure facility.
I could already imagine it: walking up to the first checkpoint, falsified badge in hand, trying to act like I belonged. The guard would know immediately. Something in my body language, my hesitation, the way I held the badge. One wrong move and I'd be face-down on pavement with a knee in my back. If I was lucky. If unlucky, Stane's security would shoot first, and ask questions never.
An especially stupid way to die. Involuntarily, my mind snapped back to the redhead's corpse. I shook myself out of it.
What about remote access? If the main computer facility had an outside network connection, maybe I could work my way in digitally?
The remote option was a long shot. Network security in 1984 was still being figured out—but Stark wasn't stupid, and neither was Stane. They'd have protections. Still, worth investigating. Even if I couldn't break in remotely, understanding their network architecture would help with the physical approach.
The problem was I didn't know what the network environment actually looked like here. This was the Marvel universe. Things were probably completely different from what I remembered. The "world outside your window" effect limited some divergences, but the overall tech level was just... higher than my world's 1980s.
I rubbed my face. Speculation without data was pointless.
Time to focus on something concrete.
I walked through the bunker's harsh fluorescent glare to the armory, slapped the DRC prototype's carrying case on the armory desk and snapped it open. The railgun pistol inside was a chunky block of metal. Clearly ergonomics weren't a priority for prototypes.
Then it hit me.
I could double-deal the Deterrence Research Corporation.
The Blue AIM cell in Jersey was always hungry for new tech. Give them a few hours with the rail pistol, non-invasive examination only and they'd be thrilled. X-rays, measurements. Nothing that would leave traces that the Deterrence Research Corporation could detect.
And I could leverage that. Use their gratitude to get help with Stane's network. They had to have someone who understood contemporary network architecture, which was exactly the kind of knowledge I was missing.
I started pacing.
The play was simple: Let AIM examine the rail pistol first, get their expertise on networks in exchange. Then sell the gun back to the DRC through Reynolds. Clean, professional, nobody the wiser.
The risks were obvious. If the DRC finds out I let someone else examine their prototype? My corpse would be found floating in the East River.
But the potential gains were too good to ignore. I needed help with the Stane facility, AIM was my best shot at getting it, and the rail pistol should at least get me in the door.
I stopped pacing and checked my watch.
Time to call Jimmy and set up another meeting with the Jersey cell.
Putting on my jacket, I walked into the elevator again, and exited the warehouse into the morning sun. The early May air was warming up nicely, the city shaking off the last remnants of spring chill.
I fed coins into the payphone and dialed Vito first, getting his confirmation that he'd start setting up the Reynolds meeting, then asked for Jimmy's number. I then called the number Vito gave me for Jimmy's home line.
The phone rang four times before someone picked up.
"Hello?" The voice was female, thick with a New York Italian accent. "Torrio residence."
"Hi, is Jimmy available?"
"JIMMY!" she bellowed, not bothering to cover the mouthpiece. "One of your little friends is on the phone! Get your lazy ass outta bed!"
I heard muffled cursing in the background, then footsteps, then the sound of the receiver being fumbled.
"Yeah?" Jimmy's voice was thick with sleep. "Who's this?"
"It's Quince. From the Sentinel job."
"Oh. Hey." He yawned audibly. "Jesus, what time is it?"
Right. Early May, end of spring semester. Jimmy was probably enjoying his summer break. "Sorry to wake you. I've got something that might interest your friends in Jersey. Worth their time, worth yours too if you want to help make the connection."
Jimmy's voice sharpened slightly, sleep falling away. "What kind of something?"
"Not discussing it over the phone."
A pause. "Fair enough. You wanna meet up? There's this place near campus, the Coffee Bean. Corner of 8th and Astor Place. I can be there in like... an hour? Hour and a half?"
The Coffee Bean.
The Coffee Bean.
I tried to keep my voice steady. "Yeah, that works. See you there."
I hung up and just stood there for a moment, grinning like an idiot.
The Coffee Bean. The actual, honest-to-god Coffee Bean where Peter Parker had hung out during his college days, and that the X-Men had frequented back in the 60's.
I was going to have coffee at a location that was basically a Marvel landmark.
The rational part of my brain pointed out that it was just a coffee shop. I had bigger things to worry about than geeking out over places where superheroes used to socialize.
But the part of me that had spent years reading those comics, that had fallen into this world without warning or preparation couldn't help but feel a little thrill of excitement.
I checked my watch. An hour and a half gave me time to take the subway down to the East Village. I needed to scope out the area, and try not to completely nerd out when I walked through the door.
Thirty minutes later,the door bell jingled as I pushed open the front door of the Coffee Bean, carrying case for the pistol in hand. I had to pause for a moment to take it all in. The smell hit me first-that rich, slightly burnt aroma of coffee that had been brewing since early morning, mixed with something sweeter. Pastries, maybe. It was the kind of smell that soaked into everything: the mismatched chairs, the scuffed linoleum floor, the curtains that looked like they'd been hanging since Nixon. The place had clearly started life in the sixties and never quite bothered updating.
Wallpaper with a geometric pattern in muted oranges and browns covered the walls, faded in spots where sunlight had hit it for two decades. The lighting fixtures were basic-simple hanging lamps with yellowed shades that cast everything in a warm, slightly dingy glow.
A few framed posters decorated the walls, including one comparing Woody Allen to a hobbit, and another that looked like a vintage concert advertisement. A long bench seat ran along one wall, upholstered in cracked vinyl that had been repaired with duct tape in several spots. Behind the counter, an old espresso machine hissed and gurgled, chrome gone dull with age but still functional.
The menu board above it was handwritten in chalk. A cup of coffee would run you 1 dollar and a pastry would run you 2. A few students were scattered around. One undergrad was reading a textbook at a corner table, and a couple was deep in conversation by the window. The place had maybe a dozen people in it, giving it that comfortable mid-morning hum of activity without being swamped.
Jimmy wasn't in evidence, so I put in an order for a black coffee with the barista as well as a danish and decided to engage in some people-watching.
After a few minutes of watching the door, two teenagers caught my attention as they walked in.
The first was blond and lanky, all elbows and knees, wearing a freshly pressed light blue button-down tucked into jeans with a plain belt. His cleaned-up work boots and careful posture screamed farm kid trying to look presentable for the city.
The second was darker-skinned and moved with easy confidence. Ray-Ban aviators perched on his head, designer jeans, a burgundy polo, and an expensive looking leather jacket. Everything about him screamed casual wealth.
Is that who I think it is? Nah, unlikely.
The well-dressed one immediately made his way to the counter where the female barista was wiping down the espresso machine.
"Excuse me, senhorita," he said, leaning against the counter with practiced ease. His Portuguese-accented English was smooth and confident. "My friend and I would like two coffees, please. Black for him-" he gestured at his companion, "-and for me, something sweet. What do you recommend?"
The barista smiled, clearly charmed. "The cinnamon coffee's pretty good. We make it fresh."
"Perfect. I trust your judgment completely."
The blond kid looked around the Coffee Bean with wide eyes, taking in the vintage posters and the sprinkling of customers like he'd never been in a place quite like this before. When the barista turned to him, he straightened up, all nervous energy and careful politeness.
"Just, uh, regular coffee's fine, ma'am. Black. Thank you kindly."
I kept my head down, focusing on my coffee like it was the most interesting thing in the world while listening intently.
"You guys students?" the barista asked as she poured.
"Yes" the Brazilian said with an easy grin. "We're at a... boarding school. Up in Westchester. Thought we'd explore the city on our day off."
What the fuck? Roberto da Costa. Sunspot. Right there, maybe fifteen feet away, ordering coffee like a normal teenager.
The gawky kid had to be Sam Guthrie. Cannonball.
"First time down here?" she asked Sam.
"Yes ma'am. It's, uh... it's real different from back home." He accepted his coffee with both hands.
"Where's home?"
"Kentucky, ma'am."
They were so young. Mid-teens, maybe sixteen at most. Roberto still had that cocky rich-kid swagger, and Sam looked like he'd barely left the farm.
Roberto paid with a five and waved off the change with a smile. "Keep it. For the excellent service and conversation."
They took their drinks to a small table by the window. I risked a glance. Roberto was talking animatedly about something, gesturing with his free hand. Sam nodded along, still taking in his surroundings like he was cataloging everything to tell someone back home.
I'd shot a man a week ago. I was planning to rob Stane's long island plant. I'd been living in a world with superheroes and mutants and Galactus for months now.
But this really brought it home. These weren't characters in a story. They were people.
They finished their coffee quickly. Sam still looked a little overwhelmed. Roberto said something that made him laugh and they headed for the door.
As they passed my table, Roberto caught my eye for just a second. He gave me a quick, friendly nod, the kind of casual acknowledgment one stranger gives another in a coffee shop.
I nodded back.
The door bell jingled behind them, and they were gone.
I sat there for a long moment, staring at my half-eaten Danish.
Strange old world.
Finally, after I had waited for about ten minutes, Jimmy made an appearance. He rushed through the door, looking mildly disheveled. His hair sticking up on one side, jacket thrown on hastily over a wrinkled t-shirt. He placed an order at the front and briskly walked over to my table.
"Came over here as fast as I could," he said, plopping into the chair across from me. He was slightly out of breath, like he'd jogged part of the way. "Ma was giving me hell about sleeping until noon."
"No problem. Thanks for meeting me on short notice."
Jimmy waved me off. "So what's this about? You said you had something interesting?"
I glanced around the coffee shop. A couple of students were absorbed in textbooks at a corner table. An older man was reading the Times by the window. Nobody was paying attention to us.
I slid the case onto the table between us and cracked it open just enough for Jimmy to see inside.
He leaned forward, squinting at the contents. "Is that...?" His eyes widened. "Shit, is that a pistol?"
"Keep your voice down," I said, snapping the case shut.
"Where the hell did you-" Jimmy stopped himself, glancing around to make sure nobody had heard him. When he continued, his voice was quieter. "How'd you get that?"
I shrugged.
"Ways and means."
Jimmy's eyes narrowed. "That's not an answer."
I suppressed a smirk. "It's the only answer you're getting."
He studied me for a moment, then leaned back with a low whistle. "Man, you're either really connected or really stupid. That's Deterrence Research Corporation hardware. Those guys don't mess around."
"I'm aware."
"So what do you want from me?" Jimmy asked, though I could see the wheels already turning behind his eyes. "You want to sell it? I'm flattered, but I don't have those types of connections."
"I want your friends in Jersey to take a look at it. Non-invasive examination only. Nothing that leaves traces."
Understanding dawned on Jimmy's face. "You're going to sell it back to them."
I nodded."Eventually. But first, I need some expertise on a different project. Computer systems, network security, that kind of thing. Figure your AIM friends might be willing to trade some consulting work for a few hours with a DRC prototype."
Jimmy sat back, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Interesting."
I shrugged"What can I say? I like making use of all available resources."
"Uh-huh. And if DRC finds out you let someone else poke at their toy?"
"They won't. That's why I'm asking for a non-invasive examination."
Jimmy drummed his fingers on the table, thinking. The waitress brought his coffee, and he took a sip before responding. "Yeah, okay. Dr. Sato's crew would definitely be interested. They love getting their hands on tech." He paused. "But you better be damn sure they can't tell it's been examined. Because if you're wrong..."
He pulled his thumb across his throat and made a choking noise, rolling his eyes back in his head.
I rolled my eyes.
"I know the risks."
"Your funeral." Jimmy drained half his coffee in one long gulp, then stood up. "Come on, let's go. We can take my truck."
I grabbed the carrying case and followed him out of the Coffee Bean, the door's bell jingling behind us as we stepped back onto the street.