The scent of aged parchment and rich mahogany filled the dimly lit study as I leaned back in my chair, swirling a glass of 30-year-old Scotch. Before me, holographic displays flickered with news feeds, financial reports, and geopolitical maps—all converging on one tiny island nation in the Indian Ocean.
Genosha.
My 'birthright'. My future kingdom. And currently, the world's most volatile powder keg.
Sebastian materialized at my side, his golden monocle catching the glow of the holograms as he presented a leather-bound dossier. "The Dutch have formally acknowledged your claim, Master. The French and British royalties followed suit this morning."
I smirked, taking the file. Inside, ornate letters bearing royal seals proclaimed Prince Sai Morvayne as Genosha's legitimate heir. All it had taken was...
"One billion euros each?" Magina's holographic avatar popped up beside me, her nose scrunched in distaste. "That's all it cost to rewrite history?"
"Peanuts," I chuckled, flipping through the documents. With Shadow Magina's resources, that sum was a rounding error. The real price had been in the 'artistry'—the meticulously forged birth records, the "rediscovered" colonial archives, the whispered assurances in the right ears.
Sebastian adjusted his cuffs. "The British were particularly... enthusiastic after you 'donated' their royal family that lost Fabergé egg collection."
"Funny how patriotism evaporates at the sight of shiny objects," I mused, draining my glass.
With international legitimacy secured, the real work began.
Magina projected a map of Genosha, dotted with crimson markers. "Twelve active insurgent groups receiving arms shipments. Mostly AKs and AR-15s routed through Somalia and Madagascar."
"Only two are worth backing long-term," I noted, zooming in on the eastern highlands. "The Mutant Rights Front and the Slave Rebellion Brigade."
Sebastian studied their profiles. "Ah. The idealists."
And they were. Unlike the other factions—opportunistic warlords and gangsters paying lip service to my cause—these two groups actually 'believed'. The MRF's ranks swelled with meta-humans fighting for equality, while the SRB liberated human and mutant slaves alike.
"Double their shipments," I ordered. "I want every farmer-turned-rebel in Genosha armed with NATO-grade hardware."
The results were... spectacular.
Hammer Bay's pristine boulevards now echoed with gunfire. Government convoys exploded in fiery ambushes. For the first time in Genosha's bloody history, the Press Gang—the regime's dreaded enforcers—found themselves outgunned and outmaneuvered.
"The Magistrates are panicking," Magina reported, pulling up security footage of officials burning documents. "They never expected pitchforks to be replaced with laser scopes."
While bullets flew in Genosha, I waged a different battle online.
Mwitter's global feed was flooded with #GenoshaRevolution hashtags. My verified account (@RealPrinceSai) had become the platform's most followed overnight—500 million and climbing.
"Algorithm manipulation complete," Magina announced, her fingers dancing across holographic keyboards. "Government accounts are being shadow-banned into oblivion."
I scrolled through my latest viral post:
"Day 47 of the Genoshan government murdering children. When will the world act? #GenoshaMassacre"
The attached video—doctored just enough to maximize outrage—showed Press Gang troops (actually my Shadow Soldiers in disguise) "executing" unarmed protesters. The comments section was a beautiful cesspool of fury.
"Trending in 193 countries,"* Sebastian observed approvingly. "The UN Security Council emergency session begins in two hours."
Meanwhile, Genosha's official accounts languished in digital purgatory. Their desperate rebuttals reached approximately twelve people—half of whom were my bots.
The world reacted as expected.
Outside Genoshan embassies from D.C. to Berlin, protesters waved #FreeGenosha signs. Celebrities posted black squares with captions like "Mutant Lives Matter." The irony was delicious—these lavish embassy compounds (how 'did' a dirt-poor nation afford Mayfair townhouses?) now besieged by the very Western elites who'd once turned blind eyes.
"Hypocrites," Magina sniffed, watching CNN's coverage of a Hollywood A-lister chain herself to the Los Angeles consulate gates. "She starred in three 'mutant menace' films last year."
Sebastian served me another Scotch. "Shall I prepare the next phase, Master? The Magistrates' defenses are crumbling."
I swirled the amber liquid, watching the ice cubes clink.
"Soon," I murmured. "Let them sweat a little longer."
The scent of fresh ink and coffee permeated the Daily Bugle News Room as Candace adjusted her earpiece for the fifth time in as many minutes. The studio lights burned hotter than usual, or perhaps it was just her nerves. Across from her, Roberts fidgeted with his tie, his usually unflappable demeanor cracked by excitement.
"When do you think he'll arrive?" Candace whispered, smoothing her blazer for the umpteenth time.
Roberts chuckled, though his knee bounced under the desk. "Calm down, Candace. You're acting like we're interviewing the President."
"Oh please," she shot back, arching a perfectly sculpted brow. "Like you're not shaking in your Oxfords. This isn't just any royal—this is the most talked-about man on the planet right now."
The crew around them buzzed with the same electric tension. Camera operators double-checked their equipment. Sound technicians adjusted levels with unusual precision. Even the interns stood straighter, their usual slouches replaced by military-posture attentiveness.
Roberts exhaled, rubbing his palms on his slacks. "Gotta give it to Jack though—landing an exclusive with Prince Sai? That's the scoop of the decade."
Candace nodded, recalling their temporary CEO's effortless charm and sharp instincts. "Shadow Magina's deep pockets don't hurt either. Did you see our new AR broadcasting rig?"
Before Roberts could reply, a junior producer burst in, her face flushed. "Ma'am! Sir! Prince Sai has arrived!"
The studio doors swung open, and a squad of black-suited security personnel swept in with silent efficiency. Their movements were precise—checking camera angles, sweeping for devices, scanning the crew with discreet retinal scanners. One operative paused to inspect the water glasses on the interview desk, running a slender device over the rims.
"Paranoid much?" Roberts muttered under his breath.
Candace elbowed him sharply. "He's a prince whose entire family was slaughtered. I'd be paranoid too."
After what felt like an eternity, the lead security agent—a broad-shouldered woman with a coiled earpiece—nodded to someone off-set. "Madam Candace, Mr. Roberts, His Highness will join you now."
The studio fell into a silence so absolute; Candace could hear the hum of the teleprompter. Then—
Footsteps.
Slow. Measured.
Every head turned as Prince Sai Morvayne stepped into the light.
Gone was the grainy protest footage or the pixelated Mwitter livestreams. In person, the Last Prince of Genosha carried an aura that cameras couldn't capture. Dressed in a tailored navy suit with subtle gold embroidery at the cuffs, he moved with the easy grace of someone born to power. But it was his eyes that struck Candace—sharp, intelligent, and carrying a weight far beyond his apparent years.
"Mr. Roberts. Ms. Candace." His voice was smoother than expected, tinged with an accent she couldn't quite place. "A pleasure."
Roberts recovered first, standing to shake his hand. "Your Highness, thank you for choosing The Daily Bugle for your first interview."
The prince's lips quirked. "I admire your recent work. Uncovering the Roxxon scandal was... bold."
Candace found her voice. "We strive for truth. Which, given Genosha's current situation, seems in short supply."
A shadow crossed the prince's face as he took his seat. "Indeed. Though I suspect today's conversation will change that."
The director's voice crackled in their earpieces. "We're live in five... four..."
Candace took a steadying breath as the red camera lights blinked on. Across America—across the world—millions leaned toward their screens as she spoke the words that would headline every news outlet within the hour:
"Your Highness, welcome. Tell us about the real Genosha."
Outside the studio, Manhattan pulsed with its usual chaos—unaware that history had just tilted on its axis.
In a sewer three blocks away, a butler in a pristine suit helped a malnourished mutant child into a waiting van.
And on an island halfway across the world, dictators clutched their weapons a little tighter, sensing the storm approaching.