"Ah," a smooth, cultured voice cut through the background hum of panic in the Vought executive suite. "It seems my reputation precedes me."
Stan Edgar, his face a mask of controlled fury as he watched the chaos unfolding on the monitors below, spun around. Standing not ten feet away was a figure that defied logic. He wore a sharp, tailored suit and a gentleman's top hat, but his form was encased in what looked like sleek, white-and-black armor. The strangest part, however, was his head. Beneath the brim of the hat, it wasn't a human face but a swirling vortex of ethereal energy, a miniature nebula contained within a humanoid shell.
Marcus, embodying the persona of his Limbo Warframe, gracefully tipped his hat, the gesture a perfect blend of courtesy and mockery. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Edgar."
The sight of the energy-radiating head sent a jolt of pure dread through Edgar's carefully constructed composure. This wasn't one of their manufactured supes. This was something… other. His heart, which had been pounding with anger at the betrayal of his own assets, now hammered with a primal fear he hadn't felt in decades. Still, he was Stan Edgar. Fear was a tool, not a state of being.
Marcus, completely unperturbed by the silent terror he was invoking, continued with a theatrical flourish. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Limbo. I consider myself a traveler, a connoisseur of the unique, and, above all, an elegant gentleman. I believe some of my… associates from the council have already had the pleasure of your company. I'm simply here for a follow-up."
The mention of the council was all Edgar needed to hear. All pretense of negotiation vanished. He was the head of Vought Corporation, a man who commanded gods, not merely because of Compound V, but because he himself was a product of its earliest, purest form. In a blur of motion that would have been invisible to a normal human, Edgar lunged, his fist aimed like a piston at Marcus's chest—a blow powerful enough to turn steel to scrap.
Slap.
The sound was shockingly mundane. Marcus hadn't even seemed to move. He simply shifted his weight, his open palm meeting Edgar's fist with an almost casual grace, deflecting the world-shattering punch as if swatting away a fly.
"My, my. Such impatience," Marcus chided softly, his voice echoing with an unnatural resonance. "Mag was right about one thing. You truly are just toys."
Before Edgar could react or process the stunning ease with which his attack was nullified, his world dissolved. The colors of his luxurious office bled away into a monochrome gray. The frantic sounds of the city outside muffled into an oppressive silence. The very air around him grew thick and heavy, as if reality itself had been submerged in murky water.
"Welcome," Marcus's voice whispered from everywhere and nowhere at once, "to the Rift. A private little space between spaces. You won't be meeting anyone else here… besides me."
A cold grip, both physical and metaphysical, enveloped the back of Edgar's head. He found himself paralyzed, his body locked in place as Marcus's hand settled upon him.
"Now then," the voice continued, a chilling curiosity lacing its tone. "Let me see what interesting little secrets you're hiding in that clever mind of yours."
The two figures froze, becoming a silent, shimmering tableau in the middle of the executive office.
The sudden stillness was what finally broke the spell for the Vought security and staff huddled by the doorway. They had seen the stranger appear, seen their formidable boss attack, and then… this. The two men stood like statues, but they seemed to flicker at the edge of vision, like a heat haze on a summer road.
"What's going on? Mr. Edgar!" one of the guards shouted, cautiously moving forward. He reached out to grab the armored man's shoulder, to pull him off his boss.
His hand passed straight through.
There was no substance, no resistance. It was like trying to grab a hologram. He stumbled, catching himself before he fell, his face pale with shock. "I… I can't touch them! They're like ghosts!"
Panic erupted. The rebellion of the Seven was one thing—a problem of power and control. This was something else entirely. This was supernatural, a violation of the laws of physics that even their supes were bound by. They were helpless, forced to watch as their unmovable president was held captive by an intangible phantom. All they could do was wait, their dread mounting with every passing second.
Inside the Rift, Marcus sifted through Edgar's memories like a librarian Browse a forbidden collection. He saw the complex, decentralized process for creating Compound V—a clever but ultimately futile security measure. He saw the data on a derivative substance, a "superhuman serum." It was a more stable, predictable version of Compound V, designed to grant useful, combat-oriented powers without the wild, unpredictable, and often grotesque side effects. It was Vought's method for creating an army of reliable super-soldiers, not another egomaniacal god like Homelander.
The trade-off, Marcus noted with interest, was the potential. Serum-users had a hard ceiling on their power. They could be enhanced, as the supes currently fighting Homelander had been, but they would never reach the highest echelons of power on their own. Stability in exchange for ultimate greatness. A very Vought solution.
But then, he found something truly fascinating. A hidden memory, buried deep beneath layers of corporate paranoia. A secret research project on a secluded, uncharted island. The researchers themselves were supes, handpicked for their brilliant scientific minds. Their goal was audacious: to reverse-engineer their own powers and the powers of other supes to create a new, evolved generation of Compound V. A substance that could not only create stronger supes from the outset but also dramatically amplify the abilities of existing ones.
An evolved compound? Now that… that is interesting, Marcus thought, a glimmer of genuine excitement cutting through his cool demeanor.
He had what he came for.
Back in the Vought office, Marcus slowly withdrew his hand. With a final, courteous nod to the frozen form of Edgar, he released his grip on the executive's mind. But he did not release him from his prison. With a thought, a swirling cloud of rift energy enveloped his Limbo form, and he dissolved into nothingness, leaving Edgar standing alone in the center of the room.
The Vought employees gasped as the armored man vanished. For a moment, there was a surge of relief, but it died just as quickly.
"He's gone!"
"But Mr. Edgar is still… shimmering."
"Try and touch him now!"
A brave soul reached out again. Their hand passed through him just as before. Stan Edgar was still there, yet not there at all. A ghost haunting his own office.
A moment later, Edgar's senses came crashing back. The world was still gray and silent. He felt the phantom pressure of the hand leave his head, and the ability to move returned. He stumbled, catching himself on his desk—or rather, where his desk should have been. His hand passed through it. He looked up, seeing his staff staring at him with wide, fearful eyes.
"Don't just stand there gawking!" he roared, his voice raw with fury and violation. "Help me! Are you all blind?"
But to the people in the room, his mouth moved without a sound. They saw the rage contorting his features, the silent scream, but heard nothing.
"What's he saying?" one assistant whispered to another.
"I don't know. It's like watching a movie on mute. It's creepy as hell."
From Edgar's perspective, their inaction was a deliberate, unforgivable act of insubordination. In his rage, he lunged at the nearest employee, his hand raised to strike the man across the face.
His hand swept through the man's head without effect.
The cold, horrifying realization finally dawned on him. He was still in that place. The Rift. He remembered Limbo's parting words: Here, you won't be meeting anyone else besides me.
He looked at the silent, concerned faces of his employees, their mouths moving as they discussed his strange condition. He was surrounded by people, yet utterly alone. They couldn't help him. They couldn't even hear him. A prisoner in plain sight, trapped between one moment and the next. For Stan Edgar, a man defined by his control, it was a fate worse than death. How long would he be here? Hours? Days? Forever?
Meanwhile, Marcus materialized thousands of miles away. The sterile, air-conditioned chill of Vought Tower was replaced by warm, humid air thick with the scent of salt and tropical blossoms. He stood on a pristine white-sand beach, the turquoise water lapping gently at the shore. In the center of the lush, green island, he could see the cold, metallic glint of his true target: the research base from Edgar's memories.
"What a lovely little island," Marcus mused aloud, admiring the view. "If one were to ignore the amoral genetic experimentation, this would make for a first-class resort."
He moved from the beach into the dense jungle, his armored form gliding silently through the undergrowth. He soon reached the perimeter of the compound. It was a sterile, windowless block of concrete and steel, a scar on the face of the natural paradise.
Phasing through the outer wall, he found himself in a brightly lit, state-of-the-art laboratory. Several researchers in white lab coats were gathered around a large, cylindrical containment unit, inside which a viscous, glowing blue liquid swirled slowly. They were nodding and pointing, their voices low and excited as they looked at the data scrolling across a nearby monitor.
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