The chaotic scene at the Goren Dojo was quickly brought under control. Sheriff Yves's officers, still pale and shaken by the sheer destruction they found in the 'conference room,' efficiently bagged the mangled remains of the Goren Gang leaders.
The lower-ranking clerks and peripheral employees were left milling about, their fear quickly replaced by the mundane anxiety of unemployment and missed paychecks. They were just office drones for a criminal enterprise, now thoroughly rudderless.
Any opportunity for the remaining gang members to loot the immense wealth was immediately curtailed. The gunfight had subsided, and then the police arrived. Now, the entire complex was being sealed off.
Sheriff Yves, while orchestrating the grim cleanup, suddenly became incredibly deferential. He was practically bending over backward for a middle-aged man who had just arrived.
This man was Chief Dickinson, the Precinct Sergeant—two ranks above Yves, easily a Chief Superintendent in the city's hierarchy. Dickinson was a major player in the NYPD, and his presence here was unexpected. He had, as it turned out, been trying to enjoy a quiet, off-the-books evening at the Goren establishment when the chaos erupted.
Yves, despite the severe situation, felt a surge of relief. "At least the blame won't fall entirely on my shoulders," he muttered, hoping his superior would absorb most of the headache.
Chief Dickinson's face was a mask of irritation and professional duty. He listened to Yves's hurried, whispered description of the scene.
"So, a Mutant was involved?" Dickinson's tone softened slightly, pivoting from local corruption to the specialized threat. "Any other residual traces left by... other superhumans?"
"Only the signs of the struggle, Chief," Yves stammered. "No other known Mutant residue. Just the carnage caused by Fist Stone and... whatever killed him."
"The killer is even more powerful, then," Dickinson nodded, his mind already calculating the political fallout. "Right. I understand. Seal off the entire complex. Confiscate all assets related to the Goren Gang. Get that Mutant's body back to the precinct immediately. I'll personally contact the necessary specialists to handle this."
"Boss," Yves leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially, his eyes darting to the remaining cash and gambling chips. "What about the assets? The gang's wealth..."
Dickinson gave him a dismissive wave. "Must I spell it out for you? Funnel it through offshore accounts. Ensure the Tax Bureau has no idea this level of liquidity ever existed." He turned and headed for the exit, leaving Yves to manage the operation.
Yves sighed in relief. The corrupt structure was safe; now he just needed to clean up the mutant mess. He signaled his officers to load the massive, stone-clad corpse of Fist Stone into a vehicle. It took six officers straining against the immense, petrified weight to manage the task.
Yves was still back at the precinct, trying to file the paperwork for the most insane night of his career, when the situation went from messy to absolutely surreal.
A convoy of black, unmarked, fully armed military vehicles screeched to a halt outside the station. Dozens of soldiers, clad in high-grade tactical gear, poured out and immediately surrounded the area, training their dark gun barrels on the station.
"Who in the hell are you people?" Yves demanded, feeling utterly out of his depth.
The commanding officer, a stern Lieutenant named Damon, stepped forward. "We are a Special Operations team under General William Stryker," he declared, his voice cold and devoid of official pleasantries. He pointed a rigid finger at the vehicle containing the mutant corpse. "We are here to assume custody of the Mutant body."
Yves, sensing the intense, dangerous aura of the soldiers, automatically nodded and stepped aside. He watched as the soldiers approached the vehicle. He couldn't help a small, petty smirk when he saw the soldiers struggle. It had taken six of his officers to load the body. The soldiers, though clearly fit, strained just as hard. They eventually had to use eight men and specialized equipment to secure the massive, silver-gray corpse.
Just as the Lieutenant was giving the order to depart, another vehicle, a sleek black sedan, pulled up silently.
A man in a crisp black suit, friendly smile firmly in place, stepped out. This was Agent Phil Coulson—the very model of bureaucratic efficiency and the head recruiter for SHIELD's early stages.
"Hold it right there!" Coulson called out, unfazed by the dozens of assault rifles pointed in his direction.
He calmly pulled out his wallet, flashing a fake FBI badge. "FBI. This Mutant case is now under federal jurisdiction. Please load the remains into my vehicle."
Lieutenant Damon sneered, recognizing Coulson instantly. "Hmph! FBI? Coulson, we've dealt with you before. You actually think I don't recognize you?"
Coulson didn't miss a beat. He smoothly tucked the FBI badge away and produced a second identification card. "Ah, my apologies. Wrong pocket." He presented the second card with perfect composure. "Homeland Strategic Defense, Attack and Logistics Agency."
Damon's eyes narrowed further. "S.H.I.E.L.D., then. Still not good enough. I advise you to back off, Agent. This Mutant belongs to General William Stryker. Any incident involving Mutants is classified under his authority." Damon gestured to his men, who aggressively cocked their weapons. "Your 'worthless credentials' don't grant you custody here."
"Killing someone impersonating an FBI agent isn't a serious crime," Damon reminded Coulson with a chilling smile.
Coulson sighed heavily, placing his hand over the small, hidden comm-link in his ear. "Chief," he spoke in a low, controlled voice, "I'm afraid it's a failure. General William Stryker's people got here first, and they are not backing down."
"Hmph! He's not even a General yet; he's a Colonel," a familiar, gruff voice—Nick Fury—snapped back into Coulson's earpiece. "Since they've managed to muscle in, let them take the damn rock. But I want to know how a stone Mutant was killed. Being able to neutralize a genetically armored subject like that suggests the presence of an undisclosed Class-A Mutant or a highly skilled Superhuman."
"Go investigate the cause of this mutant's death. I want an identity on the attacker."
"Yes, sir," Coulson replied. He waved politely to Damon and Yves. "My mistake, gentlemen. Carry on. Good day."
Coulson slid back into his sedan and drove off, SHIELD yielding the corpse to Stryker's burgeoning anti-mutant operation.
Lieutenant Damon watched him leave, scoffing. "Fall back! Let's get this thing back to the facility!"
The military vehicles roared away, the stone corpse secured.
Sheriff Yves and his officers stood in the sudden silence, utterly bewildered by the bizarre confrontation.
"Ahem, alright, men! Everything is settled," Yves declared, greatly relieved that the dangerous "thing" was gone. "We don't have to deal with Mutants anymore! Let's all go home!"
"Yeah," one of the officers muttered, trying to lighten the mood. "It's better not to get involved with those things. Those Mutants are nothing but trouble."
Yves felt a creeping, profound sense of unease. He had dealt with the local crime bosses for years, but this sudden introduction to Mutants, military intervention, and federal agents flashing contradictory badges meant the simple corruption he specialized in was now obsolete. The forces at play were far beyond a police sergeant's pay grade—or his ability to survive.