94: Chapter 94 The Undercurrents of New York

"The next time I run into a gun that can dissolve stone armor, I'd like to see if it can melt through the Ice-Thunder Chain."

Fourteen days after those words were spoken, Yan Zheng did not wait for the gun.

What he waited for was Old Jack.

September 6th, 8:20 PM, a corner bar on Ninth Avenue in Hells Kitchen.

Old Jack sat at the far end of the bar, a half-glass of stout in front of him. The foam had already collapsed, and the liquid streaks on the side of the glass indicated he hadn't touched it for at least twenty minutes.

When Yan Zheng pushed the door open and entered, there were seven people in the bar.

Two were playing billiards; the sound of the balls colliding was dull and short, the sound of them dropping into the pockets crisp.

Three were watching a ball game in the corner, the television volume turned down low, the commentator's voice compressed into a vague buzz.

Besides Old Jack, there was a red-nosed drunkard snoring at the other end of the bar.

Yan Zheng sat down next to Old Jack and raised a finger at the bartender.

"A cup of hot black tea, please."

The bartender raised an eyebrow; there weren't many customers who ordered black tea in a bar, but he still rummaged out a dusty tea bag from under the bar counter.

Old Jack looked down at his stout, his fingers rubbing back and forth against the glass, beer foam sticking to the gaps under his fingernails.

"Boss Yan, I've spent three days confirming this news; you need to hear it."

Yan Zheng: ( ꐦ ˘ ͈ ꒳ ˘ ͈ )

"Mr. Jack, I pay your hourly wage by the day; there's no rush."

Old Jack pulled a folded piece of paper from his inner jacket pocket, the corners stained with sweat.

He unfolded it and pressed it onto the bar counter, covering most of it with his palm, revealing only a few lines of handwriting.

"Starting at the end of August, in the southern district of Manhattan, near the Brooklyn Red Hook, and also in the Flushing area of Queens."

"Plainclothes armed personnel appeared in all three places simultaneously, in groups of three to five. They drive black SUVs, wear civilian jackets, but their boots are Military-issued, and their communication headsets are on encrypted channels."

Yan Zheng's black tea was served; the tea bag was still steeping, the water temperature quite high, white steam rising from the rim of the cup.

He picked up the tea bag string and lifted it, letting the tea color darken a bit.

"What are they doing?"

"Screening for Mutants." Old Jack's voice dropped even lower, his mouth leaning closer to the bar counter.

"My informant in Flushing said they are carrying a type of handheld instrument, scanning people as if measuring some kind of frequency band. Two children in the community were stopped on the street and scanned; when their parents tried to intervene, they were shoved aside."

Yan Zheng fished the tea bag out and placed it on the saucer; the color of the tea had deepened, a dark red visible within the amber.

"What happens if they scan a Mutant?"

"They take them away." Old Jack answered bluntly.

"I followed a group for two days and saw them shove a young man into a trunk. The young man's fingers were blue, and his fingertips were emitting cold air."

Yan Zheng picked up his teacup and took a sip; it tasted bitter, having steeped too long.

Yan Zheng: ( ꐦ ≖ ‸ ≖ )

"Mr. Jack, what do you think is the background of these people?"

Old Jack shook his head, his finger tapping on the paper.

"I'm not sure. But their tactical movements are too clean—their firearm stance, vehicle formation spacing, communication discipline. This isn't a gang, nor are they ordinary PMCs."

"Military or quasi-Military organization."

"Correct." Old Jack looked up at him, "And they only appeared after the explosion in the Red Hook District."

Yan Zheng did not respond to the implication in that statement, merely swirling his teacup, the bottom of the cup drawing a small circle on the bar counter.

"Increasing the intensity of the search for Mutants—there are only two reasons for this."

"First, tracking down the attackers and expanding the scope of the search."

"Second, asset transfer, reclaiming experimental materials scattered outside ahead of schedule."

Old Jack nodded. "It could be both. But regardless of which one it is, the Mutant community is already in an uproar. There were two mass brawls in Flushing last week, both triggered when Mutants resisted during the screening. A Mutant who ran a grocery store in Queens fled overnight, not even wanting the shop anymore."

Yan Zheng: ( ˵ ꐦ ≖ ω ≖ ˵ )

"Panic."

"Yes, panic." Old Jack pushed the paper over, "And it's not just that."

There was another line of text on the back of the paper; Yan Zheng flipped it over to look.

Underground flyer, self-printed by the Mutant community, circulating starting this week.

"A flyer?"

Old Jack pulled a tightly folded, rough piece of paper from another pocket. The print quality was poor, the ink uneven, and the edges had burrs.

Yan Zheng took it and unfolded it.

The headline on the paper was printed in bold: The Federal Government is pushing the "Mutant Registration Act"; all Mutants will be forced to register their genetic information.

The main text listed several key points: mandatory registration, mandatory disclosure of ability types, and those who violate this will be prosecuted for federal felonies.

At the end, there were two signatures.

The first section: "Peaceful coexistence is the only way out. Violence will only accelerate our extinction." — Charles Xavier.

The second section: "Enslavement or resistance, there is no third path." — Magneto.

Yan Zheng placed the flyer next to the teacup, his fingertips pausing on the words Magneto for two seconds.

"Mr. Jack."

"Hmm?"

"Do you know who printed this flyer?"

Old Jack shook his head. "The source can't be traced; overnight, it flooded the Mutant settlements in all three districts. Whoever can achieve this level of coverage is either the people from Xavier's side or Magneto's The Brotherhood. It's also possible that both sides each printed half."

Yan Zheng refolded the flyer and tucked it into his inner jacket pocket.

"Mr. Jack, is there a fixed time and route for the movement patterns of those screening personnel near the Red Hook District?"

"The frequency of their appearance is highest on Tuesday and Friday nights from 9:00 PM to 1:00 AM."

"SUV license plates?"

"They've changed them three times; they're all fake."

Yan Zheng drank the rest of the black tea in one gulp, the bitterness sliding from the root of his tongue deep into his throat.

He took three one-hundred-dollar bills from his pocket and pressed them under the cup.

"Mr. Jack, thank you for your hard work."

"Next, help me keep an eye on one thing."

"Speak."

"If you can get close-up photos of those screening personnel's instruments, that would be even better."

"I know what principle they are using."

"But I want to know to what degree of precision."

Yan Zheng stood up and pulled his jacket zipper up to his collar.

Old Jack watched his back, hesitated for a moment, and then spoke.

"Boss Yan, if the Mutant Registration Act really passes, New York will descend into chaos."

Yan Zheng paused for half a step at the door, turning his head to look at the exposed corner of the flyer on the bar counter.

Yan Zheng: ( ˵ ꐦ ✧ ‸ ✧ ˵ )

"Mr. Jack."

"Only when things are chaotic will the things on the surface fall underground."

"Good night."

The bar door closed behind him; Old Jack looked down at the remaining stout in his glass, the foam having completely disappeared.