Chapter 87: Echoes of Brooklyn
The silence in the shop lasted only a few seconds before Steve broke it.
He closed the heavy wooden door to shut out the bustling street. His azure eyes held zero hostility. He offered a polite nod to the group. "Sorry to disturb you."
His deep, gentle voice carried the crackling warmth of an antique radio broadcast. It matched his grounded, anachronistic presence.
Mira screamed inside her mind but kept her expression neutral. She flashed a measured, polite smile, acting as if she had just bumped into another regular customer. She showed zero recognition of the world-famous Captain America.
She nodded at Steve and pulled her hand away from the gun. Pushing her bank card across the counter, she gestured to the shopkeeper. "Boss, let's settle the bill first so we don't hold up your other customer."
The shopkeeper recognized Steve right away. He smiled and grabbed the card reader. "Mr. Rogers, back for another look today? The World War II gear and books are on the inner shelves, same as usual. We just got a new batch of 1940s military songbooks. That one you asked about last time might be in there."
"Thank you, Abe." Steve smiled. His gaze drifted over the three girls, eventually lingering on Mira's face.
This young girl with long, silver-white hair stirred a strange sense of familiarity.
Just half an hour ago, he had been standing on a Brooklyn street corner staring at his own bronze statue. It depicted him in his Stars and Stripes uniform, holding his shield and staring into the distance. The pedestal bore a famous inscription. I'm just a kid from Brooklyn.
Seventy years had passed. The alleys of his childhood had changed. The grocery store and movie theater he used to visit with Bucky were gone. Only that bronze statue remained to guard his hazy memories of his old life.
Nick Fury had advanced him six months of salary. Steve had wandered through New York with the cash until an old neighbor's address led him to this eighty-year-old antique shop. He hoped to find a few relics to anchor his memories.
He expected the shop to be empty. Instead, he found three teenage girls gathered around a vintage M1911 pistol.
The silver-haired girl leading them caught his attention. Despite her smile, her eyes held a calm clarity far beyond her apparent age. Her fluid movements while inspecting the weapon outclassed his old training camp ordnance instructors.
More importantly, he felt he had read about her recently. Was it in the classified S.H.I.E.L.D. files Fury gave him? Or perhaps the intelligence dossiers on Tony Stark?
The details were fuzzy. The files only contained vague codenames and sparse descriptions without photographs. They mentioned an unidentified young woman by Tony's side. She was supposedly a classmate of Peter Parker and had appeared during several S.H.I.E.L.D. incidents. The agency still had zero leads on her background.
The girl standing before him aligned closely with that vague profile.
"Are you here to look at World War II memorabilia too, sir?"
Mira's voice snapped Steve out of his thoughts. She gave a natural smile and gestured toward the firearms on the display shelf, adopting the casual tone of a fellow enthusiast.
"Looking at you, you must be a veteran, right? This is the first time I've met someone else interested in these old guns."
She softened the word 'veteran' on purpose. A flash of sly amusement danced in her eyes. She planned to play dumb and keep his identity under wraps.
Steve blinked in surprise before chuckling. He played along, walking over to the glass cases. His gaze fell on the rows of firearms, sparking a deep nostalgia in his eyes. "I suppose so. Back in the army, these things kept me company for years."
His fingertips brushed the glass above the M1 Garand. His touch was as gentle as greeting an old friend. That model of rifle had accompanied him from Western Europe into the heart of German territory. It had watched him transform from a scrawny Brooklyn kid into Captain America.
Seeing the familiar rifle seventy years later made those frozen memories surge back to life.
"I knew it! One look and I could tell you were an expert." Mira picked up the conversation and pointed to the M1911 on the counter. "I'm just a history buff. I loved this gun in video games. Finding an original piece that survived Normandy is rare, so I had to grab it for my collection. I just don't know how it handles."
"It's a solid piece. Original Colt military issue is much more reliable than the later civilian models." Steve shifted his focus to the M1911, his tone ringing with certainty.
"Back then, almost every brother by my side carried one. It's heavy and kicks hard, but it packs a punch and never quits. You could drag it through the mud, pull it out, and it would still fire. On the battlefield, reliability is everything."
The light in his eyes brightened as he spoke. That bone-deep familiarity with the weapon was impossible to fake.
Purifier listened with a confused scowl. She tugged on Compiler's sleeve and whispered.
"Builder, what are they talking about? It's just a broken iron pipe. Why are they acting like it's a treasure?"
"For human soldiers during the Second World War, this firearm was their greatest guarantee of survival. It holds immense emotional value." Compiler explained in a flat monotone.
Her pale golden eyes swept over Steve. She streamed the data directly into Mira's consciousness.
Target emotional fluctuation detected. Nostalgia level at 87 percent. Vigilance dropped to 12 percent. Zero hostile intent.
Mira received the silent report. The shopkeeper handed over the card reader for her PIN. After settling the bill, he packed the gun, magazine, and ammo into a black canvas bag.
"Alright, kid, you're all set," the owner smiled. "The range is open and loaded with fresh earmuffs and goggles."
He turned to Steve with a welcoming grin. "Mr. Rogers, care to join them? It's been a while since you handled these old friends. This young lady is firing a real gun for the first time, so an expert like you could offer some pointers."
Mira's eyes lit up. She raised an eyebrow at Steve and extended the invitation.
"Yeah, sir, why not come shoot with us? I'm curious to see a real veteran handle these things. It's no fun shooting by myself anyway."
Steve looked from Mira's bright smile to the familiar M1911. Nostalgia won out. He offered a warm nod. "Alright, I'll take you up on that. It's been a long time, and my trigger finger is getting itchy."
He didn't drop his guard entirely, but he sensed zero malice from the three girls. The silver-haired teenager seemed eccentric but genuine. Plus, he was curious to see what this mysterious girl could do with a vintage firearm.
The shopkeeper pushed open a side door, leading them toward the backyard.
They passed through a corridor lined with wooden crates before entering a simple indoor shooting range. The compact space featured four shooting lanes. Thick acoustic foam covered the walls and ceiling. Paper targets hung ten meters away.
Brand-new earmuffs and protective goggles rested on a nearby bench. Open boxes of .45 caliber ammunition sat on the table next to a pristine M1 Garand. The owner had prepared the rifle specifically for Steve.
"Have fun, folks. Call me if you need anything." The owner smiled and closed the door behind him.
The moment they entered, Purifier grabbed Compiler's arm and dragged her into the safety zone. She glared at the weapons on the table.
"That thing is going to be deafening when it goes off. Why does the Boss like this junk?"
"The acoustic discharge of this firearm is approximately 160 decibels. Earmuffs reduce it to 85 decibels, which poses no threat to Siren audio receptors," Compiler stated flatly.
Despite her words, Compiler's fingertips generated a thin, invisible sonic barrier around herself and Purifier. Her pale gold eyes remained locked on Mira, ready to intervene at a moment's notice.
At the bench, Mira opened the ammo box. She thumbed rounds into the magazine with crisp, flawless efficiency.
Steve stood nearby, his surprise deepening as he watched her hands. That wasn't the clumsy proficiency of a novice handling real steel for the first time.
"You don't look like a beginner to me," Steve noted with a smile. He picked up the M1 Garand, running his fingers over the smooth wood stock.
"I've played a lot of realistic simulators," Mira lied smoothly. She slapped the loaded magazine into the grip and racked the slide.
After slipping on her eye and ear protection, she gestured to the lanes. "After you, sir? Or should I go first?"
"You go first. I'll watch." Steve stepped back and leaned against the wall.
Mira didn't argue. She stepped up to the firing line. Taking a shoulder-width stance, she gripped the weapon with both hands and leaned slightly forward. Her posture was flawless.
She didn't even bother aiming down the sights. She just glanced at the target ten meters away.
A stream of invisible data cascaded across her fingertips. She calculated trajectory, wind resistance, and recoil in a fraction of a millisecond. For the controller of the Siren Mainframe, calculating a pistol's ballistics was easier than basic addition.
Bang.
A muffled crack echoed through the range. The heavy recoil transferred into Mira's hands, but her grip remained as rigid as welded steel. She didn't flinch a millimeter.
The second and third shots followed immediately.
She didn't rush. She fired with the steady, relentless rhythm of a metronome. Her iron grip neutralized the muzzle flip after every single discharge.
Ten seconds later, the slide locked back on an empty magazine.
Mira set the gun down, removed her goggles, and tapped the lane console. The paper target slid forward on its motorized track.
Steve's smile vanished. His blue eyes widened in shock as he stepped closer to inspect the paper.
Dead center in the bullseye sat a single jagged hole. All seven rounds had punched through the exact same spot. She hadn't even grazed the nine-ring.
"Holy crap! Boss, you're amazing!" Purifier cheered from the sidelines. The gun might be weak, but she knew that level of human accuracy was statistically absurd.
"Shooting variance is less than one millimeter," Compiler reported without emotion. "This matches the maximum physical limits of the firearm's rifling. Zero room for optimization."
Mira smirked and spread her hands. "Just beginner's luck. The first shot felt good, so I just rode the momentum."
Steve snapped out of his daze and barked a laugh. He gave her a thumbs up.
"That wasn't luck, kid. Current special forces operators would kill for that kind of grouping. I think I just witnessed raw talent."
He was now certain this girl was incredibly dangerous. S.H.I.E.L.D. was right. Tony Stark's mysterious companion was hiding massive secrets.
Steve picked up the M1 Garand and loaded the eight-round en-bloc clip. He donned his ear protection, stepped up to the line, and took a deep breath.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
His shots rang out in rapid succession, far faster than Mira's steady pace. Eight rounds tore through the air, followed by the iconic ping of the ejected empty clip.
Steve lowered the rifle and pressed the console button. The paper target rolled forward. Eight bullet holes were clustered in the dead center of the bullseye, directly mirroring Mira's perfect score.
"Impressive, sir!" Mira clapped her hands. "I guess combat veterans never really lose their touch."
Steve removed his earmuffs, preparing to reply. The cell phone in his pocket vibrated.
He pulled it out. Nick Fury's name flashed across the screen. A slight frown touched his lips. He looked at Mira with an apologetic grimace. "Sorry, something urgent just came up. I have to go."
"No worries, handle your business," Mira waved him off casually.
Steve nodded. He paused at the door, glancing back at her. "You're a hell of a shot. Maybe we can hit the range again sometime. By the way, I'm Steve. Steve Rogers."
He dropped his name on purpose, waiting to gauge her reaction.
Mira's casual smile didn't waver. She gave him a firm handshake. "I'm Mira. Nice to meet you, Mr. Steve."
She showed zero shock or awe. It was as if he had just introduced himself as John Smith.
Steve raised an eyebrow. He gave the group a final nod and marched out of the shooting range.
The moment the heavy wooden door clicked shut, Purifier lunged forward and grabbed Mira's arm.
"Boss, who the heck was that guy? His energy signature was weird. He felt way stronger than a normal human."
Mira stared at the closed door and burst out laughing. She reached over and ruffled Purifier's hair. "Him? That was Captain America. The legendary super soldier who fought the Nazis back in World War II."
Purifier's jaw dropped. "Wait, what?! That was the Captain America you told us about? And you knew the whole time?!"
"Obviously." Mira popped the magazine out of the M1911 and checked the chamber. A sly grin spread across her face. "I was just messing with him. Watching the legendary hero pretend to be a normal veteran is hilarious."
Compiler chimed in with flawless timing. "Monitoring data indicates Steve Rogers' expectation value sat at 76 percent when announcing his name. After your neutral response, his expectation value plummeted to 12 percent. His curiosity metric surged to 91 percent."
Compiler paused. "You have secured Captain America's attention."
Mira stared at her. "..."
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