Lance Prescott's return to Gotham was postponed once again.
The reason was simple. He had accepted S.H.I.E.L.D.'s case.
There was no helping it. It involved Captain America.
Aside from his own training, most of Lance's abilities came from that super serum. To be honest, he was genuinely curious about what kind of ability he might obtain from Captain America.
Of course, the generous payment from S.H.I.E.L.D. was also a factor in his decision.
Eighty million dollars might be nothing to Congress or the military, but for S.H.I.E.L.D., it was enough to make Nick Fury feel the pain for quite some time.
Making that paranoid control freak uncomfortable brought Lance considerable satisfaction.
Even if he never said it aloud, he was well aware that ever since he moved to Hell's Kitchen, the number of eyes on him had not decreased.
When they failed to gather anything useful from him, they had resorted to obsessively collecting his personal waste.
Lance had no desire to recall those days when agents would inspect the trash can every time he used the bathroom.
It was not fear, but the suffocating mix of embarrassment and irritation that made it unbearable.
At one point, Lance even found himself missing Gotham because of Nick Fury's excessive methods.
At the very least, Batman would never stoop so low as to rummage through a target's bathroom trash.
Nor would he attempt to extract DNA from discarded tissues.
Perhaps in response to Lance's growing nostalgia for Gotham, sunny New York began to drizzle, something rarely seen.
Lance did not mind.
For Hell's Kitchen, however, it was a disaster.
As Manhattan's slum, its welfare system was nowhere near as developed as Uptown's. The drainage was nearly nonexistent, and there were no diligent workers clearing debris from the streets.
After the rain, Hell's Kitchen only became muddier, and the streets grew even filthier.
To be honest, Lance found himself missing Waylana Jones back in Gotham once again.
If that little alligator were here, at the very least she would have kept the area around the law firm clean. The drunk currently vomiting outside would never have been allowed to exist within Lance's line of sight.
Lance closed the second-floor window, unable to tolerate it any longer.
Just then, a crisp ringing sound came from the door.
Someone had actually used it.
Since buying this law firm, it was the first time Lance had seen anyone acknowledge the existence of the doorbell and make proper use of it.
Certain vigilantes, masochists, and egomaniacs never bothered with doors at all. They preferred to climb in through the window.
Lance glanced at his watch. It was 6 AM.
At that hour, it was too early for anything, let alone a visit.
Even in New York, even on Wall Street where the workload was at its peak, no one in finance started their day at six in the morning.
Still, it did not matter. An eighty-million-dollar fee was enough to silence all complaints.
To Lance, that meant even if he were in the middle of bed with a beautiful woman, the moment a client called, he would grab his tools and head out without hesitation.
Six in the morning was nothing.
Lance went downstairs. As expected, a tall blonde with blue eyes was already waiting on the first floor.
When she saw Lance, she nodded politely.
"Good morning," Lance said. "It's rare to see such discipline in New York. Truly admirable."
The woman replied, "Then I'm glad to have found someone similar."
"No." Lance took his seat and gestured for her to sit as well. "I haven't slept."
"...."
Ignoring her momentary hesitation, Lance pulled out the documents Natasha Romanoff had sent him the day before and placed them on the table.
"Let's begin, Miss Captain."
"Please don't call me that." Stephanie Rogers gave a faint, bitter smile. "I'm just someone left behind by the times."
"Maybe before." Lance waved the documents concerning her. "Now that I've taken your case, you're about to become a legally recognized citizen again. Left behind by the times? Not happening."
"No, that's not what I meant..." Stephanie shook her head, clearly wanting to explain, but unable to find the words.
Lance was not the type to offer comfort. He ignored her conflicted expression and continued.
"I've reviewed your file. Since S.H.I.E.L.D. intends to keep you out of the public eye for now, matters like inheritance can be postponed. Our immediate concern is the military's stance."
Lance looked at her across the table.
"I assume you have a clear understanding of your current situation?"
"What do you mean?" Stephanie Rogers let out a quiet sigh.
"If you mean waking up to find the world completely changed, everything unfamiliar, everything waiting for me to adapt, then no. I don't understand that."
"But if you're asking about the military's attitude, then yes. They've always been like this. Even after all these years, seeing their methods takes me straight back to the past. In that sense, I understand it very well."
Lance twirled the pen between his fingers, silent for a moment. When Stephanie finished speaking, he summed it up neatly.
"Very entertaining. Next time I hear someone bragging in a bar about how well they understand Captain America, I'll make sure to punch them. No one ever mentioned she was a philosophical comedian."
Stephanie finally laughed.
Even as she smiled, two faint lines remained between her brows, giving her striking face a hint of lingering melancholy.
"So, what are your thoughts?" Lance asked.
Stephanie frowned slightly. "I assumed you would follow S.H.I.E.L.D.'s lead completely. After all, they're the ones paying you. From what I know, you're someone who values contracts. You prioritize the employer's stance over the client's."
Lance chuckled.
"You're the first person to describe my love of money in such a refined way."
"But you're wrong about one thing. Compared to the employer, I value the client more. Nick Fury hired me, yes, but he isn't my client. And once money is removed from the equation, he doesn't have enough personal charm to make me work for him."
Lance shrugged.
"In my office, anyone can speak. Anyone can offer an opinion. Who I listen to, and how I listen, is entirely my decision."
He leaned forward slightly.
"So now... I want to hear what you, the client, think."
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