Mysteries On Marvel

Meanwhile, at Shield…

Nick stood grim-faced over the casualty reports from Harlem, which had only just been tallied. The appearance of the worm catastrophe, a demon, and even an angel in Harlem had stirred the World Security Council into demanding answers.

Had Alexander not fended off some of the heat, the Council members would likely have already called Nick directly to berate him.

After all, Shield itself was specifically established by the World Security Council to handle strange or extraordinary incidents. A fortune was spent on it every year, yet Shield hadn't provided so much as a warning this time.

Whom else would the Council blame?

Not that the military could shirk responsibility—given the general's role in creating the Abomination and Hulk, they certainly had to shoulder part of the blame—but Shield couldn't escape censure either.

They'd failed to detect warning signs and later gave only minimal support. Even the general had been on the front lines the entire time, while Shield, aside from Natasha, showed hardly any strong performance. Nick had no way to push accountability off himself.

Could he help it, though? He felt completely backed into a corner. Who would have guessed that the day Shield's New York branch lost most of its agents to a bloody slaughter, Harlem would be struck by this disaster the same night? There hadn't even been time to redeploy personnel from elsewhere.

The mere thought darkened Nick's mood further. Inwardly, he'd unleashed a string of curses on the now-deceased Clown; if not for that one wiping out a huge number of Shield agents, none of this would have happened…

Seeing Nick so tense, Natasha silently stepped a half-pace back. She had no wish to poke the hornet's nest right now.

It took Nick quite a while to calm his roiling frustration. After taking a deep breath, he asked Natasha, "Do we have that list of all the high-ranking Catholic and Christian clergy who've arrived in New York recently?"

Natasha nodded, handing over a folder. "It's all in here."

Flipping through a few pages, Nick asked, "You think the mysterious person who summoned the six-winged angel could be among these names?"

Natasha shook her head. "While coming over, I skimmed the background info on these church leaders. It doesn't look like any of them have special abilities… At least not according to what the files say."

Closing the folder, Nick said gravely, "Then expand the investigation. The six-winged angel in Harlem is far too powerful, and angels have always held a special place in history. We absolutely can't let someone exploit this force for ill…"

"Understood."

Nodding, Natasha hesitated a moment before asking, "Director, about that list…"

Nick cut her off, "I'll handle the matter of that list personally. Starting today, the list is classified at Level Ten. You're not allowed to mention it to anyone else, clear? Understood?"

"Understood, Director."

After Natasha exited, Nick—alone—fixed his single eye on the silver USB drive he'd tucked in the folder, his expression solemn.

"Hydra…"

…

That same night, at one of the oldest US ports—on the Delaware River—an eerie fog rolled in around the Philadelphia harbor. By the light of its tall beacon, one could barely glimpse a shadowy black vessel drifting in through the mist, edging closer to shore.

Latim, the night-shift dock watchman in the lighthouse, spotted the ship by the beacon's glare.

Muttering curses under his breath, he threw on a coat, grabbed his flashlight, and went to guide the vessel toward an empty berth.

As he trudged along, he grumbled irritably, "Why is a ship coming in so late, in this foul weather, without any notice from the tower? Are those night-shift slackers sleeping on the job again?"

Shining his flashlight toward the ship, Latim tried to signal where it should dock. But almost immediately, he sensed something amiss. The harbor was unusually quiet in the haze tonight—no sound but the waves lapping against the shore. Even the bright port lights were fading as though being swallowed by the thickening mist.

Latim had worked at that harbor for years, and a chill crept into his expression. He stopped in his tracks, nerves on edge.

Just then, the silhouette in the mist emerged into the beam of his flashlight. It was a massive cruise liner.

Ordinarily, huge liners docking in Philadelphia wasn't surprising. But this one was covered in barnacles and kelp, looking exactly like a wreck that had just been hauled from the ocean depths. Even worse was the deathly silence clinging to it like a shroud.

As it fully emerged before Latim's eyes, he glimpsed its colossal shadow expand, swallowing the harbor in a sense of dread.

Gulping, Latim felt a deep unease tighten his chest. He'd heard plenty of spine-chilling maritime tales about "ghost ships." Now, facing this enormous, silent liner, an ominous feeling surged within him.

"Gh… ghost… ship…"

Without thinking, he backed away a few steps, then turned and ran for the port's security station, flashlight in hand. At least a dozen security guards were stationed there at night. Even if they'd be useless against a genuine ghost ship, there was safety in numbers.

He fumbled for his radio, jamming the call button repeatedly to signal the others for help. But the radio—once perfectly reliable—offered only static in return, no human voice responding.

That dead silence over the line made his heart pound even harder, pushing him to run faster.

But…

Ten minutes later, Latim realized with horror that he still hadn't reached the security station. Somehow, he hadn't moved at all. That enormous, silent cruise liner remained right behind him, its presence unchanged.

Latim's forehead was damp with sweat. He'd come to understand that merely running wouldn't break him free of the strange pull of that ominous liner.

Forcing himself to stay calm, he tried giving himself a pep talk: "Don't scare yourself, Latim. Maybe everyone on board is just asleep. Don't panic…"

Muttering encouragement, he steadied his shaking nerves, climbed the rope ladder hanging at the ship's side, and hoisted himself aboard the deck, which was covered in barnacles and seaweed.

The moment he set foot on the dark deck, he felt a chill stab up his spine all the way to his skull.

In the blackness of the deck and cabins… there was…

…

Early next morning, just as dawn's light crept across the sky, Tony and Pepper—both having pulled an all-nighter—arrived at Eren's building.

"Ere—"

Before Pepper could even push the intercom, Oddball had already recognized her and unlocked the first-floor door. Pepper, raising her finger to open it herself, paused in slight surprise.

"Did Eren upgrade the entry system again?"

Tony, who looked just as tired, shrugged casually. "Who knows—maybe that kid added some new facial recognition software to it. Let's just head in, Pep, we're drawing stares out here."

They both noticed a few curious gazes from passersby. Running on no sleep, Tony couldn't hide his fatigue. "Let's go," he mumbled.

But the instant Tony stepped through the doorway, an SMG popped out from the wall, leveling its barrel at his head. The glint of cold steel—the real deal—made Tony's stomach drop. His right foot, half-lifted as he stepped forward, froze in midair.

"Oh no…" Pepper gasped behind him. She was about to react when she heard a familiar voice from inside:

"Alright, Oddball. Stop messing around—let Pepper and the other one come in." (TL: I decided to go back to Oddball)

With that, the SMG vanished. Tony swung around furiously, ready to confront whoever had dared point a gun at his head, but all he saw was an empty wall. There was no hint of the person holding the weapon, nor even the weapon itself.

"What the—? Where'd that jerk with the gun go? And that SMG? Where are they?" Tony snapped. "Kid, where're you hiding them?"

Ignoring Tony's agitation, Eren glanced instead at Pepper, who seemed equally puzzled. "Pepper, what brings you two here at this hour? Shouldn't you be holding some sort of press conference? The disaster last night—and your famous metal hero persona—was in the thick of it from start to finish, right?"

Pepper, also looking weary, cleared her throat. "Actually, the conference just ended. The military and the government already organized one last night, and it wasn't until recently that we finally shook off those frenzied reporters."

Tony, meanwhile, gave up on finding the "culprit with the gun." Turning to Eren, he said with no small amount of exasperation, "That's right. We've been dealing with the fallout all night, and the moment I walk in, I'm staring down a loaded gun. Some welcome from a 'friend.'"

Eren gave a mild shrug. "Not my fault. You spoke ill of Oddball last time, remember?"

Wait—Oddball?

And speaking ill?

That must be the name of Eren's house AI?

So petty—could it be that the kid's AI has an attitude?

While Tony puzzled over that, Pepper stayed focused on more pressing concerns. She continued where Tony had interrupted.

"We're here to talk about the Clown's funeral arrangements. Tony already bought the best cemetery in New York, hired the top funeral company, and even found a priest from Saint John's Cathedral to conduct the service for him…"

Tony put in, "Little correction: Pepper paid for that land—she said it was to repay the favor that the Clown once did for her. And the priest reached out when he heard we were arranging the funeral of a hero like that. He insisted it was his honor to hold a service for such a man. I just helped coordinate everything."

He paused, then added quietly, "One thing, though—I still don't know that Clown's name. It feels wrong to label a hero who died saving civilians as just 'Clown' on his tombstone."

Tony, usually glib, was serious for once. He genuinely wanted to show respect for someone who'd laid down his life saving others.

His name?

Eren blinked. He had never given it much thought, certain the "Clown" was merely a temporarily lost avatar. And even if it truly had died, he couldn't very well label the tombstone with "Eren," right? That'd ruin his anonymity—and that alone would be a whole new level of social suicide.

After a few seconds' hesitation, Eren murmured, "I don't actually know his name. All I know is that he called himself the 'Jester Who Gambles With Life.'"

(End of Chapter)

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