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ROBBIE REYES HATED HIS SCARS. They were right by his ear, edging into his hairline -- three ragged lines -- almost like claws made them.
He hated it because it was a reminder; you couldn't make a deal with the devil and go unscathed; even if the devil came in three shards of glass embedded in your skull due to a joy ride gone wrong.
The back of his hand brushed them for a moment as he wiped the sweat away from his face.
He stepped out of the car, closing the door behind him.
"Well?" The woman stared at him intently, her brown eyes bright. Her hair was swept up in a non-committal ponytail, tucked into a hat.
He looked up at the car's owner, a woeful smile on his features — painfully plastered on. "It's dead. But we can get it up and running with a new battery and a little tinkering."
"Which will cost me . . . ?"
"Significantly cheaper than the store next door."
"Get it done by 12 and I'll throw in another twenty bucks."
"Done," Robbie grinned. "Customers usually pay up front."
"Sure. Write me a receipt for insurance?"
"Happy to," Robbie headed into the back room to grab a receipt book and a pen, when he heard a clatter outside. Robbie rushed outside, to see the woman whispering harshly at the trunk of her car.
Something inside Robbie flared. He stalked over to the woman as she shuts the trunk, flashing him a smile.
"Everything alright?"
"Peachy," she said, "I just-"
"So, you won't mind opening the trunk then?" Robbie crossed his arms.
"Listen, I-"
"Whoever you are, if you think you can just dump your bodies or drugs or whatever, here, you're dead wrong. Open the trunk."
She gave him a look, before sighing in defeat. "Fine."
She pressed a button on her car key, and the trunk popped open. Robbie peered into the black of the trunk, squinting at the darkness. The woman was talking to an empty trunk. Perfect.
"I'm really sorry about this, Mr. Reyes."
"Sorry for wh-?" Robbie's voice caught as a cloth covered his mouth. The scent of chloroform burned through his senses, making him thrash against the woman, who casually pushed him into the boot, sending him stumbling into it.
His vision blurred, as the trunk closed over him. His consonants slurred. "Wait, s-stop-"
"Don't worry, Mr. Reyes," said her voice, echoing through the metal of the car boot, "It's just a short ride."
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ROBBIE INHALED, his head jerking away from the needle in his neck. The woman pulled the needle away, placing a plaster on the wound. She turned away from him, knocking on the window, before stepping out of the room.
Robbie tried to lift his hands, to find them strapped to the armrests of his chair.
The other guy didn't like this.
At all.
His knuckles turn white as he clenched the armrest. (Not now. Not here.)
"Roberto Reyes," Robbie's head jerks at his name, acquainting the voice to the man with sunglasses who had just entered the room. "You're a hard man to find."
"Did you not think that was intentional?" Robbie grimaced as heat flared in his chest.
"Your run-in with Agent Johnson did aid our case immensely though," the man took the seat across from him, a table separating them, "You can thank her for that."
"Daisy?" Robbie's nerves increased tenfold. A familiar name — a familiar friend, who was not here to save him — or the man across the table who shared her same alliance. "You're with SHIELD."
"SHIELD is dead," the man clasped his hands on the table, "And we're not going to lock you up, Reyes. Calm down, you look like you're going to burst a vein."
"The Accords still stand."
The man scoffed. "I hate paperwork. Yours will be tremendous. You're safe, Robbie. Tell your alter ego to cap it."
That's when Robbie froze, all heat leaving his body. "You know."
"I may have one eye," the man taps his sunglasses, "But I ain't blind to everything. You got something eating inside of you, Reyes, and it isn't anything good or righteous."
Robbie swallowed. "Who are you?"
"Who I am doesn't matter. What does matter? You have a threat — a big one — something impossible to defeat."
"Sounds like a challenge."
"Captain America couldn't stop that thing. What makes you think you can?"
"Well, I'm here to do something, aren't I? Or did SHIELD or whatever decided to make do with whatever they could find?"
The man twitched, as if something inside him snapped. "Clint Barton, Daisy Johnson and Bobbi Morse are MIA. Trust me, Reyes, you're way down my list."
"Wait," Robbie held his breath. "Daisy's missing?"
"Yes. Almost all of the supers are."
"Almost all?"
"We're left with a ragtag bunch. A Z-list, if you will. After the death of Captain America, they just started disappearing into thin air," the man's head hung, "None of the bodies have shown up yet. I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing."
"And how exactly am I supposed to find this person when even you have no idea who this is?"
"Simple. You got your team."
"Team?" Robbie chuckled. "No."
"I'm afraid you don't have a choice between in the matter. The detective and serial killer are yours to keep."
"If you're pairing me up with a serial killer, you clearly have not read up on what I do to criminals."
"I think you'll manage," the man smiled. "He's surprisingly good company."
"Sure," said Robbie, totally believing him.
"You'll meet him soon enough," he turned to the door. "Agent Hill?"
A woman appeared at the door way — the woman who drugged and stuffed him into the trunk of her car. Typical. "Yes?"
"Set course to Hell's Kitchen. Mr. Reyes has a meeting with Frank Castle that he just can't miss."
