(T/N:- I didn't miss chapter 78, it's just a promotion of other fanfics and authors etc. no content is skipped)
"Locke Broughton. Before the age of three, he was raised by the community orphanage in Galveston."
"From age three to seven, a total of eight foster families attempted to adopt him."
"But every single one of them was rejected."
"The reason?"
"Agents from Texas sent word. One foster family stated that Locke Broughton was... peculiar."
"Peculiar?"
"Yes."
Inside the brightly lit S.H.I.E.L.D. Operations Center, feed windows from the Triskelion in D.C. and the S.H.I.E.L.D. Texas branch flickered on the massive screen. Information was being aggregated at a breakneck pace.
The director of the Texas branch nodded. "Yes, peculiar. According to that foster family, Locke Broughton was excessively precocious, exhibiting many behaviors that were simply incomprehensible."
Nick Fury's single eye glinted with calculation. "Be specific."
"In the dead of night, they found Locke Broughton weeding the garden."
"Weeding?"
"Yes. And much more—mopping floors, washing dishes..."
The Texas director rubbed his temples. "If such behaviors ca from a seven or eight-year-old, it would be nothing. But the point is, this was a four-year-old child who frequently skipped sleep at night to do chores. Consequently, they sent him back to the orphanage."
In truth, Locke couldn't be blad. At four or five years old, what kind of missions could he possibly grind? As for getting up in the middle of the night to do them—Locke didn't want to either, but who told that family to watch him like a hawk during the day and prevent him from working?
The stories from the other foster families were much the sa.
"After the age of eight, no one ever tried to adopt Locke again."
"How pitiful."
"Hmm?"
Hearing this, Nick Fury's gaze snapped toward a young female agent. He opened his mouth but thought better of it and remained silent. This was the New York Operations Center, not his headquarters at the Triskelion.
Commander Victoria Hand also glanced at the female agent she had personally recruited.
The agent blinked. Did she say sothing wrong? It was pitiful—rejected by eight families, and after eight years old, not a single ho would take him? Was that not the definition of a tragic childhood?
The agent looked at her colleague, who nodded in silent agreent.
Victoria Hand shook her head helplessly, signaling them to stay quiet. This "poor little thing" they were talking about was currently in a high-stakes standoff with S.H.I.E.L.D.
"As for Locke's social interactions and academic record in school..." the Texas director continued. "Excellent. No, 'excellent' isn't the right word. It was outstanding. In fact, at the age of twelve, Midtown High sent him an invitation, but he declined."
"Outstanding?"
"Yes." The Texas director nodded. "As for his social life—minimal. Whether in elentary or middle school, we've interviewed several people who described him as odd and detached."
The consensus was clear: he was eccentric and didn't fit in. But strangely, this isolation never led to him being bullied or marginalized.
"He has no friends?"
"Correct. Not a single close friend," the director reported. "However, his academic performance was so high that the school fought to keep him to secure Texas education funding. But..."
"But what?"
"While Locke was a loner at school, he was a famous young cowboy in the Galveston area."
"..."
"Wow."
"He's actually quite handso."
"A real Texas cowboy."
Reports of Locke's performance in rodeo competitions appeared on the screen, followed by a photo of him participating in a Hot Dog King contest. In the photos, Locke was smiling—despite his orphan background, he appeared to be a vibrant, sun-kissed "golden boy."
Anti-social personality? There wasn't a trace of it.
Nick Fury wasn't looking for evidence of a sunny disposition; he wanted proof of a sociopath. "Aside from this, is there anything else? For instance, a history of torturing small animals? Did any classmates or acquaintances ever witness anything like that?"
Sociopaths usually share a common trait: a lack of reverence for life, starting with animals and escalating from there.
Unfortunately, the Texas director shook his head. "Apologies, Director. We've audited this information three tis. We spoke to orphanage staff and school officials. Locke's 'oddness' was only perceived as such by his peers. At the orphanage, he was always the most hardworking and least troubleso child. At school, aside from being a loner, he followed every rule to the letter. As for the local cowboy circles... we couldn't get any information."
Fury's eyes lit up. "Why not?"
The Texas director gave a bitter laugh. "Director, there aren't many real cowboys left in Texas these days, and they are incredibly tight-knit. One of our agents tried to ask around undercover and nearly got shot by a group of hot-tempered ranch hands."
Nick Fury: "..."
Not everyone who wears a hat is a cowboy. Real Texas cowboys are intensely xenophobic. The "professional clubs" and "platforms" are just cowboys certified by capital. In Galveston, everyone knows everyone. A stranger dressing up as a cowboy and trying to dig up dirt on one of their own? It was an impossible task.
Fury shook his head. "What about the Peerless Assassin? Have his movents in Texas over the last two years been mapped? Is there any overlap with Locke?"
"None!"
"What?" Fury raised an eyebrow. "How can there be none? The Assassin first appeared in Galveston!"
The Texas director nodded. "In that sense, there is overlap. But as for proof that they know each other? We have absolutely nothing."
Fury said somberly, "Locke has his own room in Galveston?"
"Yes."
"Did you search it?"
"We can't get in."
"..."
The Texas director sighed. "Without a court warrant, the ranch owners refuse us entry. And in Galveston, not a single judge is willing to sign a search warrant."
"...Why?"
"At twelve years old, Locke Broughton won the title of Texas's number one young cowboy for Galveston. No judge wants to risk the wrath of the entire community by signing a warrant without a shred of evidence."
Nick Fury fell silent.
Equally silent was Gwen's family, who had rushed to New Amsterdam Hospital.
"Oh, God!" Gwen stood by the window, watching Locke inside as he removed his jacket, revealing a torso covered in dark purple bruises. She covered her mouth in disbelief. "How could they..."
George Stacy stood beside her, silent. No wonder Locke insisted on going with them. If George had forcibly stopped the FBI then, they could have pushed the responsibility away later, claiming the injuries didn't happen on their watch.
"My goodness," Helen whispered, her hand pressed to her lips. "That poor boy."
Inside the examination room, the doctor performing the forensic analysis looked at Locke's battered body with pity. "Does it hurt?"
Locke managed a weak smile. "It will only hurt if I can't make them pay the price they deserve!"
Nonsense. Of course it hurt. Locke had temporarily deactivated his Resilience talent. These were real, agonizing injuries; he even had a couple of broken ribs.
But there was no other way. If he wanted a "Big Scene," he had to pay the price. While he could have caused chaos without injuring himself, there was a one-percent chance the federal governnt would protect S.H.I.E.L.D. at all costs.
It didn't matter. The more he invested, the greater the harvest. All for the bonus rewards!
Locke felt he could hold out. Besides, once the forensic results were filed, he could reactivate his *Superhuman Tenacity*. It wouldn't even take a night; he'd be fully recovered in a few hours.
Unscientific? Perhaps. But in this world, so people recover faster than others. Besides, by then, the topic wouldn't be his recovery speed—it would be the FBI's brutal use of extrajudicial torture on a cooperative citizen.
Soon, Locke was helped out of the room by a nurse.
"Locke!" Gwen ran to him, her eyes brimming with tears. She imdiately took over for the nurse, supporting him. "Are you okay?"
Locke shook his head. "I'm fine. Just like last ti, it looks worse than it is. I'm a cowboy, Gwen. Cowboys don't fear pain."
Gwen wanted to smile at his stubbornness, but she held it back. In this situation, smiling felt wrong.
"Mr. Broughton," Buson Laun, the high-powered attorney, approached them. "There is sothing I must tell you. Based on client privilege, the New York FBI has expressed a desire to resolve this matter privately. They are desperate to avoid a courtroom."
Gwen's brow furrowed. "No! The FBI was clearly abusing their power!"
Locke spoke up, his voice steady. "Mr. Laun, you know . I'm not short on money. Back at the orphanage, soone told : if you make a mistake, own it; if you get hit, stand up straight."
Buson Laun nodded firmly. "I understand."
Then it was ti to get to work. Laun didn't want a private settlent either. This was going to be a case that rocked the nation. And based on the evidence they had, victory was virtually guaranteed.
...
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