It's been one of those mornings where the quiet of my penthouse has the weight of a hundred thousand decisions bearing down on me. I'd hardly slept—too occupied with going over all the ways that I could mold Susan Storm's mind to do my bidding. She'd be my next pawn in this game. I can feel it in my gut. Eventually, I suppose… She'll come around. But the waiting… Jesus. The waiting always crawls.
Elena, however, sits like a damn stalker in the corner of my office, her eyes fixed on me like I'm some kind of exotic creature in a cage. She's as gorgeous as she is deadly—although I find myself powerless to look away from the manner in which her fragile features tense when she looks at me, like she's examining me with macabre fascination. And I have no doubt that she is. I provided her with power. I gave her the world, and she's loyal—damn sure—since loyalty, just like respect, can be purchased. Yet when you've known someone for a long time, you start to notice the cracks. Those small moments when loyalty & love might just as easily be something else, like fear, or… dependency.
I don't look directly at her as I talk and work, but I can feel her burning a hole in the back of my neck. "Have you heard from Susan yet?" I say, talking even, like I am not pacing up and down with the sort of agitation that would make a man go out of his mind.
"No, Uncle," she replies in that soft, submissive voice she's learned. My stepdaughter. My. property. It still twinges when she addresses me as that. "I'll resend the message."
"Don't worry," I tell her. "She'll be there when she arrives. Or I'll get her there. Either way, it's just a question of time. There's a protocol to all of this. Always."
But as I speak, something's changing. The air in the room becomes heavy. The colors of my office seem… off, wrong. As if the walls themselves are trying to curl inwards, as if they're losing their hold on reality.
There's a surge of energy that detonates in my chest, and I'm paralyzed. A force—something—is tugging at me, destroying the grip I have on my own mind. I don't even have time to blink before I'm somewhere else altogether.
It's like everything in the world around me is collapsing and the room that I occupy is distorted—torqued—into a different form. I blink again, attempting to see some semblance of my world, and there is nothing.
There's just… him.
The Beyonder.
He's in front of me, with nothing around him but an endless void. His form shifts like molten light—fluid, ethereal. And there's no question of it. This man—this being—was power in its purest form. The fact that I'm here in front of him isn't lost on me. Not for a moment.
"Fascinating," he says in that voice that doesn't seem to originate from anywhere, yet still manages to fill every corner of my mind. "I've been watching you, Simon Steele. You are interesting to me."
I don't say anything in the first place. I'm just sitting there thinking, going through a million different scenarios in my mind, trying to piece together this moment.
I'm being addressed by the Beyonder.
"Why?" I manage to croak at last, my throat parched, choking on the ridiculousness of it all. "What do you want from me?
"Nothing," the Beyonder responds in an almost whimsical tone, though I realize it's anything but. He moves closer, his body uncoiling in an almost snake-like movement, as if he's gliding through the dimensions themselves. "You see, I've come and taken this world's heroes and villains. All of them. Put them on Battleworld. A big experiment. But I've exempted you. You're unique."
I feel the weight of his gaze. It doesn't just glance at me—it burns, as though he's staring into my very soul, searching it like a man probing a piece of meat.
"I don't need to be a part of your experiment," I say to him slowly, taking a step back, attempting to rid myself of the feeling of discomfort that's crawling beneath my skin. "Fuck, you could've spared yourself the effort of the entire Battleworld ordeal. I could've explained to you what humans desire. What humans require. All you would've needed to do is sit down and have a conversation with someone intelligent, someone truthful."
The Beyonder tilts his head. There is no humor in his face—only an intense severity that does not quite… seem right.
"I had to figure it out myself," he says, his words both reply and reproach. "You, Simon Steele, are the most intriguing of them all. A man who doesn't use his powers anywhere near as extensively as he uses his intellect. A man who controls the world in ways even I am… surprised."
I laugh, attempting to maintain my dignity. "You don't understand, do you? I don't require your celestial tests to understand people. I've experienced it. I've observed them, analyzed them. I already know how to break them, how to manipulate them to do my bidding. You could've spared yourself the effort. You could've discovered that by simply asking me or anyone else remotely like me."
There is a long silence, and the Beyonder simply… looks at me. The air gets tense again, but this time everything is different. I have the feeling that I've just stepped over some unseen boundary with him.
"I've learned something today," says the Beyonder, his voice even but… shifting. I don't know what's in it, but I can feel it deep down inside me. "Perhaps I have been too far away. Too remote. I will have to take this into consideration."
His words linger for a moment, as though they're attempting to rearrange reality itself. But before I can even respond, the area around me starts to change once more—distorting, stretching, and ripping at the very fabric of reality. It's like I'm being tugged in two completely opposite directions simultaneously, as though reality is ripping itself in two.
And then, as suddenly as it began, it's over.
I'm standing in my penthouse. The air is fine. Elena is still huddled in the corner, eyes on me, although I notice a flicker of confusion in her expression. The room, however, appears.... altered. Wrong. As if the parameters within which I've been working have shifted. I look around the penthouse. Nothing has changed. Still real. Yet something within me changes. It isn't what the Beyonder said. It's because I have witnessed power. Power in its purest form. And it's left me questioning… everything.
I hardly have time to catch my breath at the sudden return to my penthouse when the Beyonder's voice booms in my head once more. It's not ringing through the air—it's inside me, as if he's tunneled under my skin, wrapped around my bones. His voice cuts through the fog of my mind, like a cursed foghorn through a storm.
"Simon Steele," his voice booms, commanding, final. "You would do well to abandon your pursuit of Susan Storm."
My muscles tense at the sound of her name. Susan. Christ, she's a gem. Not only her abilities, but her role in the Marvel Cast. Her character. I've been plotting for so long how to get near her, get inside her head, make her look at me as more than the manipulative son of a bitch that I am. The possibility of dominating her, taking her from Reed. It's exhilarating.
But the Beyonder is not done. No, he goes on, and the force of his words comes crashing down on me like a brick.
"You can win. You can seduce her, get her into bed, get her loyalty. But Reed Richards will discover," he goes on. "And when he does, his son—Franklin Richards—will be the one to unmask you. You will die or rot in some jail." I grit my teeth, the seriousness of his warning settling in deep within my stomach. Reed Richards. The Fantastic Four. Hell, the sole reason I'd even entertain Susan was because of Reed. There isn't a universe in which Reed doesn't catch wind of it. And once he does? I can almost hear the sound of my life slowly ticking away like a time bomb with no deactivation on the horizon.
I can't afford to have Reed Richards on my ass. Not when I'm building something much larger than just me.
I pass a hand over my face, wrath welling up in my chest. I'd like to rant at him, tell the Beyonder to screw off, but that's not going to accomplish anything. The guy just pulled me out of the fundamental fabric of existence, for Pete's sake. What's a little anger going to do to him?
"Alright," I mutter under my breath, trying to absorb it. "I get it. She's too much of a risk. But damn, man. You could've warned me about this earlier."
"Timing is everything," the Beyonder remarks, voice like glass. "But it is a lesson you have learned well. You can still have what you desire. It just does not have to be her.".
I left that hanging. Doesn't necessarily have to be her. Yeah. There's always a way. If I cannot have Susan, perhaps there's another string to pull. Hell, there's always a way to turn things to my advantage.
But before I can ever get that idea into my head, the Beyonder's words pivot, cutting like a knife into my gut.
"I believe I've made up my mind to destroy Battleworld," he states. "The experiment has reached its conclusion. Now, my interest turns. You are what fascinates me, Simon Steele. You've revealed to me the possibilities of a human being capable of forging his own fate, a human being unencumbered by the limitations I've grown accustomed to. You have no predestined fate. You will forge your own."
I remain motionless, allowing the words to settle. I can forge my own destiny? Hell, I've never thought otherwise considering the nature of Marvel. But coming from him, from someone who can redefine reality, warp the very fabric of existence with a snap of a finger. It makes the air dense.
"Continue," I say at last, eager to know what more he has to tell.
"I cannot see what the future will bring for you. I cannot predict your actions or your choices. Your destiny is yours and yours alone to create," he tells me, and for the first time, I hear a thread of something akin to respect in his voice. "That is why I will teach you, guide you. You are a force unto yourself, Simon Steele. No fate will claim you."
I'm nearly... flattered. Which is insane, considering who I'm talking to. But it resonates. It's as if all that I have ever worked towards—the control, the manipulation, the sheer power—has been building towards this. The Beyonder has something to say about me. Something worth instructing.
"Okay, then," I say, nearly smiling. "You have my attention. Show me what you have. Teach me. I'm in."
He doesn't respond at first, but I sense the weight of his stare on me, though I still can't see him. And then, quicker than the flick of a finger, everything shifts once more.
The heroes—the Avengers, the X-Men, the entire damn team—are suddenly back. They come back from whatever strange little world they'd been tossed into, and with them, the villains. Hell, even then they are included in the return.
I stand at the window, observing as the world goes mad. The news channels are losing their minds, reporting the historic return of the superheroes. And at the heart of it all, my name is plastered everywhere. Simon Steele—the guy who brought an end to Battleworld. The guy who somehow, in some sick way, made it all possible.
There's no avoiding it now. I'm in the public eye. The murmurs of hero are being spoken. Heroes and villains are once again walking the Earth, and it's all my doing.
I couldn't help but grin. Attention is addictive, and if it's the good kind.
Elena comes near, her eyes combing the live feed with the same icy interest she's always displayed. She doesn't say anything immediately, but the silence between us is palpable. Then she does. "So now what?" she breathes, half-humorous, voice low. "You're a hero now, Uncle."
"Does it matter?" I ask, facing her again. "I'll make them all believe."
"You always do, Father," she replies with a trace of something more sinister underlying the tone of how she speak. "You always manage."
Her words were what grounded me as I sat down on the sofa. The plush cushions envelop me as I lean back, and the news continues about the heroes' return and the breakup of Battleworld. The ruckus outside is a distant thunderstorm—I'm secure in here, behind my steel walls and secrets. But I won't be able to keep the world at bay for much longer. Time to spin a tale, one that'll keep the wolves at bay and my new power under control.
I flip through the channels, observing the world's response to the heroes sudden return and the defeat of the villains. They're referring to it as a miracle, a human triumph, and all due to me—Simon Steele, the man who put an end to the war. It's not a weight that rests comfortably on my shoulders, but one that I will wear with pride. After all, it's not every day that you get to be a hero without actually being one. Not sure why The Beyonder made me into a hero, but I was going to milk this for all it was worth.
How do I spin this story without telling the truth about the Beyonder deeming me more worthy than the Marvel crew?
The Beyonder's silence rings in my mind. He's had his say—he's finished. I'm alone now. I settle back into the couch, rubbing my chin, attempting to untangle the story that I'll need to peddle to the people. I'll need to tread carefully.
Too much and they'll attempt to imprison me. Too little and they'll think I'm a charlatan. I require precisely the right balance of mystery and derring-do, sufficient so that they'll doubt but not disbelieve. Steelea, my goddess of code, drifts beside me, silent sentinel in digital form. She's detected my tension, and I can almost hear her circuits humming as she processes. "Daddy," she suggests, voice silky smooth, "What do we say to them?"
I glance at her, a fleeting moment of gratitude for her solid loyalty. "We'll keep it simple," I murmur, trying to keeping steady. "I stumbled into some... advanced technology that I figured out. That's all. No Beyonder, no cosmic stuff. Just me and some tech that's way above their pay grade."
Steelea nods, her holographic image flickering momentarily. "I'll devise a credible story, Daddy," she states, her eyes narrowing. "But watch out for S.H.I.E.L.D. They're intelligent. They'll investigate."
I nod, my mind racing. "I'll be cryptic," I say to him. "Just enough to appease them."
Yet the moment I utter the words, the hairs on the nape of my neck stand on end.
There's a sudden change in the air—a vibration that's like the world's tuning fork has been struck. I haven't even got time to consider what it implies before the door to the penthouse bursts open and in strides a trio that would make the knees of the most courageous man turn to jelly—Maria Hill, Black Widow, and Nick Fury. Steelea just made her escape in time. "Mr. Steele," Hill states, her voice as pointed as a tack. "We have to speak."
Shit. This is not the kind of conversation you turn down. I stand up, trying to play it cool. "Of course, Agent Hill. What can I do for you?"
She searches the room with her eyes, searching for... what? Evidence? An alien portal hiding? Perhaps she's attempting to make me anxious. She doesn't notice anything—because there is nothing to notice. I have Steelea's digital rear end tucked away safely, and she is watching my back. Elena is concealed where she is supposed to be as well.
"Let's go," Fury snarls, his voice gritty and implacable. The man has more secrets than a politician on election day, but he also has the kind of stare that makes you spill your guts.
I gulp, nod, and follow. They've got a helicopter ready for us on the roof, black and sleek, like a giant bat waiting to carry me off in the dead of night. My hair blows back and forth in the wind as we climb aboard, and I couldn't feel more like a kid being hauled off to the principal's office if I tried.