Quake: Veil of Deception

Quake: Veil of Deception #6

Daisy's boots stick to the grime-slick streets of Lowtown, each step a squelch of determination through the underbelly of Madripoor. The neon haze bleeds across Bucky's face, casting shadows over the hard lines etched by his past. They weave through clusters of hawkers and thieves, their ears tuned to the pulse of the city—desperate for any rhythm that might lead them to Sharon Carter, the Power Broker.

"Keep your head down," Bucky murmurs, a ghost of a soldier in every glance he casts over his shoulder. His metal arm, hidden beneath a thick jacket, is a coiled spring of potential violence.

Daisy nods, her eyes scanning faces, searching for a hint, a whisper in the cacophony of chaos. She feels it then, the seismic thrum of anxiety beneath her feet, a silent siren call to her very bones. This is her element, her curse; the vibrations of the world speak to her, quake within her.

"Here." Her voice cuts through the din as she nods towards a dilapidated facade, the sign above the door hanging askew: The Serpent's Coil. A bar that festers with the worst Lowtown has to offer, where the scum rises to the surface like oil on water.

"Looks promising," Bucky says, the corner of his mouth twitching in what might be a smirk or maybe just a grimace. Daisy can't tell anymore.

They shoulder through the entrance, the door creaking a protest. Inside, the stench of sweat and spilled liquor wrestles with the tang of smoke. It's a pit, a haven for those who thrive in the dark. Eyes flicker their way, sizing up fresh prey or old enemies—it doesn't matter which.

"Split up?" Bucky suggests, already scanning the crowd for trouble or opportunity.

"Stay within earshot," Daisy replies, her hand instinctively hovering near the weapon concealed at her hip. The familiar weight of it is both comfort and curse.

She moves through the crowd like a shadow, her senses sharpening with every step. Conversations become clearer, snippets of underworld dealings and contraband trades. She locks away each morsel of information, hoarding them like ammunition for the confrontation they are inching toward.

Bucky fades into the background, his presence an unspoken threat as he stations himself where he can watch, wait, and guard. He's no stranger to the dance of espionage, the waltz of wariness that fills rooms like this.

Daisy weaves between tables, her gaze piercing through the smog of cigarette smoke. Each patron is a puzzle piece, and she's looking for the one that fits the gap in their intelligence—a lead on the Power Broker, a clue to unravel the web she's woven around this city.

The air is thick with the promise of violence, a tension that Daisy drinks in, lets settle in her gut. It fuels her, sharpens her focus. She's Quake, after all, an agent born from the rubble of a fallen S.H.I.E.L.D., here to shake the foundations of Madripoor's criminal empire.

A table in the corner catches her attention, regulars huddled over their drinks, their conversation a guarded murmur. Daisy makes a beeline for the bar, her posture relaxed but alert. Time to ply her trade, to extract the secrets that these walls have absorbed. With each step, she's ready to erupt, the very ground at her command. It's a dangerous game they play, but Daisy Johnson has never been one to shy away from danger.

Daisy's stride slows as the figure hunched over the bar comes into sharper focus—a face from a past life, etched with lines of hardship and survival. Frankie. He nurses a drink, lost in thought or drowned by it, the glass an anchor in the tumultuous seas of Lowtown.

"Frankie," Daisy says, her voice cutting through the ambient noise, a steel thread amidst the cacophony.

He stiffens, recognition flitting across his features before he schools them into practiced indifference. "Daisy." The word hangs between them, heavy with memories.