The first thing I was aware of wasn't the nice SHIELD interrogation room smell—although that was enforced—was the sheer price gouging of their fluorescent lights. Seriously, who approved bulbs that buzzed like hives of dying bees while also blinding you? It was personal. Maria Hill's face came before me, all straight lines and disapproving bureaucracy. "So... back to the Beyonder's change of heart, Steele. War World. All the marvelous heroes let loose. Poof. Describe how you are part of a cosmic being's whims."
I shifted, the skinny plastic chair creaking beneath me. My earpiece vibrated softly—Steelea humming in my head. *Daddy, her cortisol level indicates she hasn't slept either. Do you want me to override their power grid?* I pushed her out of my head. No. "Maria," I yawned, reclining as if this were a boring board meeting, "the Beyonder materialized in my penthouse like an annoying salesman. Offered me a ringside seat to War World. Said it'd be… enlightening." I paused, allowing the half-truth to sink in. "I warned him watching paint dry—or heroes fight—wasn't entertainment in my book. Humanity in general is the true spectacle. He concurred. Poofed. Next thing I knew, heroes were emerging in Times Square with alien perspiration and regret odors."
Hill drummed her pen impatiently. "Convenient. And why would he listen to you?"
"Charisma?" I supplied dryly. Steelea smiled to himself. *Truth proximity: 58%. Daddy lies so prettily!*
The door swooshed open. Black Widow glided in, a specter silent, face impassive. Hill stepped aside with a nod. Natasha Romanoff rested against the two-way glass, arms folded. "Simon Steele. Industrialist. Billionaire. Philanthropist." Her lip twisted into a half-smile. "Nazi sympathizer. Trial transcripts are very interesting to read. Cosmic intervention? That's a first."
"Life's full of surprises," I stated, meeting her icicle stare. Steelea breathed softly: *Racing heart rate detected. Adrenaline surge. She's throwing for fear, Daddy.* I maintained my steady tone, sarcastic. "Listen to me, Widow, I offered the Beyonder a better deal. Why bother with a gladiator arena when Earth has reality TV, political scandals, and… well, myself? He's easily bored. Found Earth's turmoil more fascinating. That's all."
Natasha's expression turned cold. "That easy? Right. And the timing? At the height of War World savagery? And when your reputation had taken a beating?"
I shrugged. "Cosmic whims. What can I say? He showed up, we talked over single malt—he pulled out a 1926 Macallan, neat trick—and then he disappeared. Didn't sign on the dotted line. Didn't forward an address." Steelea gave me careful analyses of micro-expressions: Hill—scared but tired. Widow—measuring, looking for inconsistencies. I put weariness into my voice. "Can we get this done? Lawyers are charging by the hour, and in good faith, your coffee is criminal."
Hours merged endlessly into days. Sleep deprivation as an arsenal tactic. They'd rotate in new agents as I was bound to that cursed chair, Steelea whistling nursery rhymes in my head to keep me going. Fury flashed once, a foreboding figure in the doorway, eye patch glinting. "Still think he's hiding something, Hill?" His tone was gravel on the throat. "Nazis don't become chatty with cosmic beings by accident."
"He's consistenr, Director," Hill replied wearily. "And the actions of the Beyonder fall into capricious action. Keeping him any longer risks public indignation. Steele Industries' stock is dropping already. People are asking questions."
Fury's eyes were still on me. "Fine. Release him. But watch him. Closer than his own shadow."
The fall was as degrading as the defeat. No parade, merely a SHIELD drone dropping me onto a wet Manhattan sidewalk at 3 AM. My suit smelt of disinfectant and despair. Steelea wept uncontrollably. *Daddy, physiological scans show extreme sleep deprivation and bruised pride. Suggest immediate recalibration through conquest.*
Revenge. It filled my sleep-deprived head, shining and hard. Silver Sable International had attempted to bury me. SHIELD had strip-searched my mind. Fury thought he'd clipped my wings? No. This was not about the Nazi trial or the Beyonder's interference. It was about the body I'd awoken in—Simon Steele, handsome, powerful, but ever victim of underestimation. A puppet? Never. Time to pull strings. "Steelea," I snarled, hailing a cab with a wave smeared with disdain, "logistical evaluation: Latveria. Fastest route."
*Ooh, Daddy's angry!* Steelea wrote. *Commercial flight inefficiency detecte. Private jet refueled and ready at Teterboro. 6 hours estimated flight time to Latveria. Shall I short-circuit SHIELD's satellite tracking?*
"Do it quietly. Make it look like solar flare interference."
**
Latveria stank of snow, diesel, and the stench of autarchy. Sentimental. Castle Doom towered over the capital, a gothic hellhole against the grey sky. Steelea hummed in my ear. *Daddy, castle defenses feature plasma cannons, temporal displacement fields, and.. surprisingly sophisticated Wi-Fi. Doom streams? Fascinating.*
It wasn't difficult to find Doom. He found me. Two Doombots appeared soundlessly on either side of me as I stood gaping at a specially hideous statue of Victor himself incinerating what appeared to be the UN Charter. "Simon Steele," thundered a synthesized voice out of thin air and everywhere. "The dishonered industrialist honors Doom's domain. State your intent before Doom gets bored." The bots pointed towards the gate of the castle.
Inside, the throne room was every bit as garish as one might have suspected. Victor von Doom sat there in armor, cape flung dramatically over his shoulders. "Doom wonders what brings the great Simon Steele crawling to his doorstep," he announced, the voice modulator of the mask dripping with sarcasm. "Seeking asylum after your... public humiliation?"
I didn't even blink. Steelea projected a holographic map onto the stone floor—Earth, pulsing with targets. "Sanctuary? Victor, please. I'm here to give you leverage. SHIELD's got me on the ropes. Silver Sable attempted to bury me. The Beyonder thinks I'm amusing. Anarchy is the new money." I stabbed at the map. Silver Sable International HQ in Symkaria pulsed red. "I'm making you a deal. Take Silver Sable International. Both of us. Her mercenary network, her tech, her intelligence infrastructure—yours. Her country?" Mine. A foothold."
Doom crept forward in a slight stoop. "Silver Sable. A pest, not a gem. Why would Doom help you?"
"Because," I said, closing in on him, Steele projecting Doom's insidious body language onto me—*interest detected*, "she governs Symkaria. A tiny, calculating thorn in the side of Europe. Think destabilizing NATO's eastern flank. Think her cybernetics division plugged into your armor. Think what message it sends when her empire falls over in a single night to us." I left the ambition to breathe. "And because, Victor… I know things SHIELD doesn't. Things you would be interested in. The Beyonder's whims… are not as arbitrary as they would
seem."
Doom was quiet for a moment. Then, behind the mask, came a low laugh. "The Nazi trial transcripts… Doom wrote them off as propaganda. And here you are, suggesting conquest with the hubris of a true believer. Fascinating." He stood, looming. "Doom finds ambition… stimulating. Very well, Steele. We will remove this thorn. But know this—Doom gives orders. You facilitate entry… and your interesting secrets." Steelea hummed with excitement. Daddy, alliance sealed! Power grid destabilization protocols on standby!
**
Symkaria reeked of pine needles and despair. Dr. Doom hovered alongside me, taking in the charming capital city from a hilltop above Silver Sable's armored HQ—a modern, streamlined compound incongruously set amidst medieval castles. "Pathetic," Doom growled, repulsors sizzling. "A nation-state disguising itself as a mercenary corporation. Its irrelevance insults Doom."
"Its lack of importance makes it a weak point," I retorted, Steelea projecting tactical overlays across my vision—guard patrol routes, energy shields, panic rooms. "And Silver Sable herself? Arrogant. Predictable. She'll resist." Locating her was child's play. Steelea broke into their communications, triangulated her position in the central command center. Doom's robots smashed through the front gate with disdainful ease, plasma cannons incinerating reinforced steel like butter. Alarms shrieked, futilely.
The Wild Pack smashed into the courtyard—Sable's top mercenaries, bristling with weapons and armor. Sandman was in the lead, grains of sand swirling. Paladin opened up. Silver Sable stood atop the command center steps, silver hair shining, face set. "Steele?! And Doom?! What madness is this?!"
"Market correction," I shouted back, moving forward as Steelea pumped my system full of augmented reflexes and strength— an investment from the Wealth System. Sandman charged, a tidal wave of grit. I didn't flinch. I clapped—a thunderous sonic boom created by Super Scott's ability, obtained quietly months earlier. The sand blasted outwards, uncovering a dazed William Baker. Paladin's bullets bounced harmlessly off Doom's armor as the king dismissively waved his hand, burying the gunman in a shimmering force field. Doom's gauntlet blazed, energy bolts sending the remaining Pack flying like pins. It was ugly, effective, and completely one-sided.
Silver Sable gawked, shock battling rage. "You… you possessed power like this the entire time?!" She pulled out her dual pistols. "You betrayed your very trial!"
I shrugged, moving towards her, dismissing the bodies. "Betrayal requires trust, Sablinova. There was none. Shall we negotiate terms?" Steelea whispered: Physiological readings—high aggression, low fear. Pride dominant.
Sable spat. "Terms? You invade my nation, attack my people? You get nothing but a bullet!"
Doom appeared at my side. "Resistance is futile, Sablinova. Doom could rewire your neural pathways. Have you sign your empire away with a smile." His voice was promisingly cold.
I lifted a hand. "Victor, please. Let me." I matched Sable's rebellious glare for glare. "Give up Silver Sable International. Of your own free will. Sign the transfer papers. Your people are freed. Your nation is left… nominally independent. Under my rule."
"Never!" she spat. "I'd rather die!"
Steelea shrilled urgently. *Daddy, SHIELD satellite lock detected! Fury's watching! * I smiled, cold and sharp. Perfect timing. "Death's simple, Sablinova. Living? That's complicated. When your precious Symkaria is collateral damage." I waved my hand in the general direction of Doom. "Victor has… plans for restructuring. Painful ones. For everyone." Steelea broadcasted a holographic signal—SHIELD satellites tracked on us. "And Fury? He's waiting. Watching. See him hesitate? He knows getting involved is war with Doom. He'll let you burn." I leaned in, voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper Steelea enhanced for her ears alone. "Sign. Keep your country. Keep your Pack. Keep breathing. Or die a martyr… and watch Symkaria become Doom's newest weapons testing ground. Your choice."
Her silver gaze darted—from my face, to Doom's expressionless mask, to the holographic image of Fury's satellites. The defiance shattered, and in its stead was an appalling calculation. Steelea murmured: *Cortisol spike. Fear registered. Pride succumbing.* Sable's shoulders sagged infinitesimally. "You… monstrous bastard," she breathed, her eyes burning with hatred. "Fine. The documents. Where?"
Steelea immediately cast shining legal documents onto the courtyard pavement—ready weeks ago, awaiting only this moment. Sable read them, then turned to me, her face a mask of pure poison. She slowly, deliberately, pulled a stylus from her belt. Steelea magnified—her hand shaking slightly. Not from fear. From anger. She signed. The electronic signature blazed green. Steelea beeped in triumph. *Asset acquisition complete! Daddy owns Silver Sable International!*
Doom ominously chuckled. "Efficient, Steele. Brutal. Doom approves." He turned away, repulsors flaring. "The cybernetics division awaits integration. Doom expects delivery." He disappeared into the air.
I glanced down at Silver Sable, who stood among her defeated Pack, holding the stylus like a dagger. "Welcome to Steele Industries, Sablinova. Don't disappoint." Steelea whispered: *Daddy, physiological readings show… deep humiliation. Optimum.* I turned my back on her poisonous glare. The first step was done. Symkaria was mine. Silver Sable International was mine. The Wild Pack was mine.
Now… to turn Fury's satellite imagery into gold. Steelea laughed to herself. Daddy, SHIELD comms traffic is confusion. Fury is demanding analysis. Propaganda narrative building beginning?
I grinned, heading for the captured command center. "Oh, Steelea. Let's give them a story they'll love to believe."
The world had to witness Simon Steele, benign savior, holding Symkaria steady in a time of political upheaval. Not the Nazi sympathizer who'd just taken it over using Doom. Steele purred, already filling the media outlets with formatted feeds—Sable signing peacefully, no Doom anywhere, Steele statesmanlike. *Narrative optimization: 98%. Daddy looks heroic.*
Fury wouldn't buy it. Not for a moment. But the world? They'd eat it up. And Fury digging too deeply… that was tomorrow's problem. Tonight, triumph smelled like Symkarian pine needles and Silver Sable's tears. Steelea whispered: Daddy, Symkarian cortisol levels spiking. Fear detected. Optimal. I breathed deeply. Yes. Fear was a leash. And Simon Steele had finally broken it. Now… time to punish the leash-maker.
Silver Sable's penthouse apartment in Symkaria's capital reeked of expensive leather and acrid defeat. She stood backlit in front of the floor-to-ceiling window with the city now awash in Steele Industries banners. Her hair was down, silver, her back strained. She did not greet me as I walked in. Steelea murmured: Physiological readings—compact rage, bitter humiliation, cortisol levels typical of… repression of fight-or-flight. Daddy broke her.
"Taking in the view?" I asked, pouring two glasses of Symkaria's best vodka—an acquisition. "Rather different from the throne room, don't you agree?"
She spun away, face alight. "Get out, Steele. You have my hospitality. You have my nation. You have my Pack. What more do you want?"
I offered her one of the glasses. She did not take it. Steelea breathed softly: Micro-expression analysis—disgust predominant.."Everything," I replied flatly, tasting my vodka. "Especially what you took away."
She laughed. "Money? Power? You had it all!"
"Not all," I retorted, advancing a step. Steelea boosted my tone to resonate low and menacing. "You denied me justice. Or, I should say… your twisted conception of it." I tapped my temple. Steelea projected a holographic replay—the Nuremberg-style trial Sable had set up to try me. Her charges. Her 'evidence'. Her self-satisfied smile as she called me a Nazi sympathizer. "See this? Your tiny show of a trial? You tried me in the court of public opinion as a monster."
"It wasn't a show!" she snarled. "Your ties... money... ideology!"
"And yet," I panted, stalking her like prey, "here I am. Victorious. While you bartered away your heritage." Steelea shoved forward the signed acquisition papers pendulous between us. Sable winced. "Your hearing was... punitive. Personal. An attempt to annihilate me publicly. It failed." I halted squarely before her. "But revenge, Sablinova? That requires balance. You destroyed my reputation. I destroyed your empire. But you also attempted to destroy my will. That… requires a more personal penalty."
She raised one eyebrow. Steelea breathed softly: Increased heart rate. Pupil dilation registered. Fear? Anger? Disgust? All three. "What are you talking about?"
"The trial wasn't political," I said to her, dropping my voice to a whisper Steelea ensured remained menacing. "It was personal. You enjoyed every second of it. The shame. The censure. You wanted to watch me suffer. You wanted to punish me for Roshan's sins." I moved closer, close enough to smell gun oil and designer perfume that clung to her. "So now… I want to hurt you. Personally. Intimately. The way you went about hurting me."
Realization struck her silver eyes, swiftly replaced by unadulterated horror. "You... you filthy..."
"Aha," I said, frozen smile. Steelea buzzed with excitement. Daddy, cortisol surge! Maximum embarrassment ever recorded! "The trial of the Nazi required retribution. Take this as... your sentence." I waved my hand discreetly. Steelea was another hologram—vid of Sable's young niece, Anna, in secret on Long Island. Bank statements. Security feed monitros. Anna smiling, none the wiser. "Beautiful girl," I whispered. "Looks just like you... before the wars hardened you."
Sable froze. Stunned silence. Steelea breathed lightly: Physiological scans—catatonic shock. Core temperature loss registered. "Anna…" she wheezed, barely loud enough to hear.
"Mmm," I confirmed. Steelea toggled the hologram—displaying Anna's apartment building wired with explosives. Remote detonation codes glowed softly. "She's safe. For now. Protected… by me." I paused, allowing the threat to sink in. Steelea tossed the detonation sequence hovering next to my finger. "Her safety… is solely reliant on your compliance tonight."
Sable gazed at the hologram, her face white. Steelea breathed in a voice close to being inaudible: Micro-expression analysis—despair, extreme helplessness. Fight response suppressed. "You wouldn't…"
"Wouldn't I?" I breathed back. Steelea displayed a news broadcast—a Symkarian rebel cell 'accidentally' destroyed by Steele Industries security drones a week prior. "Collateral damage occurs. Accidents occur." I stood impossibly closer, invading her personal space. Steelea amplified my presence, making me feel like a predator closing in on prey. "Signing your business away hurt your ego. Signing your country away hurt your patriotism. But Anna?" I dragged my finger along her tense arm. She jerked away sharply. Steelea grunted: Physiological readings—acute aversion. Repressed gag reflex. "Hurt Anna… and I break your soul."
She was frozen, shaking. Steelea breathed softly: Decision point. Pride versus love of family. Running calculations… Tears blinded her eyes, not for sorrow, but for cold, helpless fury. "You... monster."
"Yes," I assented. Steelea reactivated the hologram of Anna once more, her smile a vision of angelic purity. "Now... your choice, Sablinova. Surrender... or see the world of your niece burn." Steelea revved up the detonation code sequence. "Tonight."
The silence continued. The hologram of Anna glowed. Sable's eyes moved from her niece's image to my own, eyes brimming with limitless hatred. Steelea said quietly: Physiological readings—resignation detected. Fight response extinguished. She gradually closed her eyes in agony. One tear escaped, following its path down her cheek. Her shoulders sagged. Complete defeat. Steelea hummed contentedly. Daddy wins!
Sable didn't say a word. She simply stepped aside and walked toward the bedroom doorway. Steelea growled: Heightened heart rate logged. Adrenaline rush. Repressed fight-or-flight. She stood in the doorway, posture taut. Not turning around, she opened the door and entered.
I complied. Steelea breathed: Cortisol levels in Symkaria spiking. Fear detected. Optimal. The door clicked shut behind me. Victory had a flavor of Symkarian vodka and the tears of Silver Sable. Steelea breathed: Daddy's revenge is truly complete. Yes. Fear was a leash. And Simon Steele had finally snapped it. Now… time to savor the leash-maker's surrender.