Chapter 8: The Aftermath: Scavenging for Riches
[SYSTEM MESSAGE: INVASION CESSATION IMMINENT. RECOMMENDED: SECURE VALUABLE ASSETS. POTENTIAL CONFLICTS WITH LOCAL AUTHORITIES AND LOOTERS.]
"Tell me about it, System. Pretty sure 'local authorities' are less concerned with 'my unique death quota' and more concerned with 'why this random civilian keeps showing up unharmed after getting vaporized,'" I mumbled, observing a SHIELD clean-up crew cordoning off a particularly rich section of downtown. The battle had finally ended. The sky was back to its boring blue. The only lingering reminders were the smoke, the rubble, and the occasional alien corpse.
Thirteen unique deaths. And a growing pile of salvaged Chitauri tech. My "Basic Scavenging Instinct" was working overtime, like a finely tuned radar for valuable junk. I'd spent the last few hours expertly navigating the post-invasion chaos, avoiding official channels, and focusing on high-value items the authorities might overlook.
"Alright, Adam, this is where the real money is made. Black market, baby. And I'm about to become the king of the alien salvage industry. Suck it, Bezos. This is pure, unadulterated, interstellar capitalism."*
My goal was to get rich. Seriously rich. The $50 million target loomed large, but with the sheer amount of Chitauri tech scattered across the city, it felt achievable. My "Wall-Crawling" was proving invaluable, allowing me to access high-up areas and avoid heavily patrolled streets. My "Basic Illusion Casting" was perfect for creating quick distractions or making myself temporarily "unseen" when a SHIELD agent got too close. And my "Advanced Tactical Awareness" helped me identify the safest and most lucrative routes.
I focused on areas where Leviathans had crashed, or where larger Chitauri vessels had been taken down. These were the goldmines. I found intact energy conduits, crystalline data drives, even a few highly advanced, if slightly charred, alien weapons. These weren't toys; these were high-demand items for any government, corporation, or nefarious organization looking to get a leg up on alien technology.
As I worked, I had a few close calls. Once, I almost blundered into a group of looters trying to pry open a crashed Chitauri speeder. My "Tactical Awareness" gave me a split-second warning, and I ducked behind an overturned bus, using a quick illusion to make a pile of rubble momentarily look like a heavily armed SHIELD team. The looters scattered like roaches, much to my amusement.
"See? Illusions. Not just for making rubber chickens. Also for preventing unwanted social interactions with desperate criminals. Multipurpose. I like it."*
Another time, a SHIELD patrol almost spotted me rappelling down a building with a backpack full of alien goodies. I froze, clinging to the wall, hoping my "Wall-Crawling" adhesion wouldn't give out. My "Basic Illusion Casting" subtly distorted my silhouette against the crumbling building, making me look like just another shadow in the twilight. They passed by, none the wiser.
"Phew," I whispered, once they were gone. "That was close. Note to self: maybe wear darker colors for urban scavenging. Bright yellow Hawaiian shirt probably not ideal for stealth operations. Though, it would be a power move."
I continued my meticulous work, my "Basic Scavenging Instinct" almost physically pulling me towards hidden caches of alien wealth. I felt like a super-powered treasure hunter, except the treasure was alien junk and the hazards were collapsing buildings and angry government agents.
By the end of the day, my backpack was stuffed, and I had located several larger, heavier items that I'd need to come back for with proper equipment. I even found a relatively intact Chitauri arm blaster.
"This is it. Phase one complete: acquiring skills. Phase two: acquiring ridiculous amounts of money. Phase three: annoying Yelena Belova until she can't resist my charm. Priorities, people. Priorities."*
I found a relatively safe, out-of-the-way alleyway, a quiet haven amidst the urban devastation. I pulled out my phone — miraculously still working, though the screen was cracked — and used my "Tactical Awareness" to find the least monitored routes out of the restricted zone. I needed to get my haul to a safe place. And then, find a buyer.
The sheer scale of the Chitauri tech was overwhelming. There was enough here to set up an entire black market operation. Which was exactly what I intended to do. I wasn't just going to sell a few pieces; I was going to become the go-to guy for alien tech. The middleman. The silent, sarcastic, immortal kingpin of cosmic scrap.
"This is going to be a lucrative business," I mused, gazing out at the ravaged cityscape, a strange sense of entrepreneurial excitement bubbling up within me. "Who needs a steady job when you have an unlimited supply of alien garbage and a penchant for defying death? This is the American dream, but with more lasers and less health insurance."
I still had seven unique deaths to go. But now, I had a solid plan for getting the money. The invasion had been a catastrophe for New York, but for Adam Stiels, it was a golden opportunity. A very, very weird, very, very dangerous, golden opportunity.