Chapter 13: King of the Cosmic Scrap Pile
[SYSTEM MESSAGE: CURRENT FINANCIAL STATUS: $52,789,123. LIQUID ASSETS: HIGH. EXPANSION POTENTIAL: EXCELLENT. CONTINUE ACCUMULATING WEALTH FOR FUTURE UPGRADES.]
"Oh, don't worry, System, I'm practically Scrooge McDuck, but with more sarcasm and less of a swimming pool full of gold coins," I quipped, watching a particularly ugly, yet undeniably valuable, Chitauri energy core disappear into the back of a nondescript panel van. Another successful transaction. Another step towards ludicrous wealth.
With the invasion officially over and my system upgraded, my focus had shifted to cementing my financial empire. "Stiels' Salvage and Cosmic Curios" wasn't just a fancy name; it was rapidly becoming the name in alien tech on the black market. My "Basic Scavenging Instinct" was a goldmine, guiding me to caches of untouched Chitauri components that even SHIELD's meticulous cleanup crews somehow missed. My "Basic Illusion Casting" made me a ghost in the urban wreckage, able to make myself invisible to rival scavengers or shift the appearance of less savory items into mundane trash when unwanted eyes were near.
"Who knew getting repeatedly killed would lead to such a thriving business? It's like the universe's most extreme startup, except my venture capital is derived from my own temporary demise."*
My network of buyers had expanded beyond Silas, though he remained a reliable, if perpetually grumpy, contact. I was now dealing with various low-level criminal organizations, desperate for an edge. Some were mere street gangs looking for advanced weaponry, others were more sophisticated, fronting for larger, more insidious groups like nascent HYDRA cells, who were practically foaming at the mouth for alien tech to reverse-engineer. My "Basic Law Enforcement Protocol Knowledge" and "Basic Espionage Mastery (Limited)" were proving surprisingly useful, allowing me to spot potential informants or undercover agents, and to subtly gather intel on my clientele.
"Another five of these bad boys, and you're looking at enough power to light up a small city," I told a nervous-looking buyer with too many rings, gesturing to a stack of compact Chitauri power conduits. "Or, you know, power your really aggressive espresso machine. Your call. But I recommend the city. More bang for your buck."
He nervously chuckled, then hastily handed over a briefcase stuffed with crisp bills. My "Advanced Tactical Awareness" confirmed they were legitimate. I was becoming a master of this game. It wasn't just about selling; it was about understanding the market, knowing who wanted what, and playing them against each other.
"This is more fun than I ever thought capitalism could be. Probably because the 'capital' part is literally alien debris. And the 'ism' part involves me being a chaotic immortal. Take that, economics professors!"*
I even set up a makeshift, highly secure "base of operations." It wasn't exactly the Batcave, but it was a soundproofed, reinforced warehouse hidden deep within a forgotten industrial park. My "Wall-Crawling" allowed me to access it from unexpected angles, and my "Basic Escape Artistry" ensured I could get out of any sticky situation if it was compromised. It was filled with salvaged tech, makeshift workstations, and enough surveillance equipment to make Nick Fury jealous. (Though, I was pretty sure Fury was already on my 'things that give me migraines' list, so one more thing probably wouldn't hurt.)
I spent hours meticulously organizing my inventory, categorizing components, and even attempting (and mostly failing) to reverse-engineer some of the simpler alien devices. My "Basic Energy Weapon Proficiency" was surprisingly helpful in understanding the power flow of the alien blasters, though I still hadn't figured out how to use one without accidentally frying myself.
"This little beauty, for example," I said to myself, holding up a sleek, alien data chip, "could probably store enough cat videos to crash the entire internet. Or, you know, highly classified HYDRA schematics. Priorities."
I was becoming proficient in a strange blend of criminal enterprise, technological scavenging, and outright absurdity. The money piled up, dwarfing the initial $50 million. My goal for the next upgrade ($50 million and 20 more unique deaths) seemed less daunting now that I had a steady income stream.
"Alright, System, I'm playing your game. I'm getting rich. I'm collecting skills. Now, about that Yelena situation... it's time to shift gears from 'accidental death provider' to 'persistent, annoying romantic lead.' This is where things get interesting."*
I looked at the mission prompt for "Operation: Stingray." A hundred million dollars. That would be a game-changer. But before I tackled SHIELD, I needed to get my affairs in order. And that included focusing on my ultimate goal. The reason I was doing all this, beyond the sheer amusement of it all. Yelena.
The thought of her, sharp, deadly, and utterly bewildered by my existence, brought a genuine smile to my face. This was going to be a fun chase. A very, very deadly, yet incredibly romantic, chase. At least from my perspective. She'd probably just see it as a prolonged, irritating attempt on her life. Which, honestly, was half the fun.