The Kingpin was dead.
But it was not just a man who fell. An entire empire, built on fear and influence, crumbled with him. Ben had hoped Felicia would seamlessly ascend the throne, becoming the new queen who could leash the city's criminal element.
It was not so simple.
This wasn't Sakaar. On that distant world, he had been the living embodiment of a planet's hope. The gladiators and the oppressed masses had yearned for a champion to overthrow the Red King. Ben had become their Son of Sakaar, their prophesied savior. His ascension to the throne had been a natural, celebrated conclusion.
Here, in the five boroughs, there was no celebration. There was only the scent of blood in the water. With Fisk gone, the ambitions of the lesser crime lords he had once ruled began to swell like a festering plague. The Hand, sensing weakness, began to annex Fisk's territories with silent, ninja precision. And other criminal syndicates, circled like vultures, eager to tear a piece from the carcass of his empire.
Hell's Kitchen descended into a deeper, more chaotic level of hell. Fierce gun battles became a daily occurrence, the symphony of sirens a constant backdrop. The war began to spill out into the surrounding districts.
For Matt Murdock and Peter Parker, the workload multiplied tenfold. Peter was so exhausted he found himself nodding off in class, the thrill of being Spider-Man buried under a mountain of sheer fatigue. The criminals were like cockroaches in the sewers; for every one they caught, ten more scurried out of the woodwork.
Daredevil, pragmatic as ever, suggested escalating the issue to the Avengers. But for such a "small matter," the team was impossible to assemble. Tony Stark was focused on cosmic-level threats; were a few street-level gangsters truly more dangerous than another alien invasion? Hawkeye and Black Widow were off the grid, engaged in covert missions of their own.
When Matt approached Norman Osborn in his official capacity as Director of H.A.M.M.E.R., he was met with a mask of feigned distress and bureaucratic red tape.
"This matter doesn't fall under H.A.M.M.E.R.'s jurisdiction," Norman said, the picture of regret. "You need to address this with the relevant local departments." Nominally, H.A.M.M.E.R. dealt with superhuman and extraterrestrial threats. Gang warfare was a job for the police, or, in extreme cases, the National Guard. Of course, Norman knew precisely what Ben and Felicia had done and had no intention of letting official forces interfere with their gambit.
Defeated by procedure, Matt was forced to leave. He did, however, gain two new, tireless allies in his street-level war: Steve Rogers and a fully recovered Bucky Barnes, who joined the fight without a moment's hesitation.
Amidst the chaos, Felicia was trying to build her kingdom. Her name—the Black Cat—had spread like wildfire after she had so publicly disposed of Fisk's body. Many who had witnessed her power that night flocked to her banner, choosing to follow the woman who had slain the giant. But many more remained skeptical. Defeating one man, however powerful, was not the same as ruling. Fisk's true strength had been his web of connections, the blackmail and leverage he held over countless influential figures. To rule the underworld, one needed force, cunning, and a capacity for absolute ruthlessness.
For those who challenged her, Felicia showed no mercy. She was slowly consolidating power, though she much preferred acting directly alongside Prime to sending her new minions into action. She had, however, learned a crucial lesson: as the Black Cat, she couldn't get the better of the stoic and professional Prime. But as Felicia, she had learned she could deal with Ben quite effectively.
A new ritual was born. Before every major operation, she would find her way to Ben's room to "summon" his alter ego, always using the same irrefutable method. It took only a few such "summonings" for Ben to realize this woman wasn't just using him for backup; she was using him for a kiss.
Unfortunately, Ben didn't have time to play vigilante with her every single night. A more pressing matter had emerged: H.A.M.M.E.R. had finally located Ulysses Klaue.
When Ben saw him, the infamous arms dealer was splayed on the floor of an interrogation room, looking up at them with the fawning, desperate expression of a cornered pug.
"I know what you want," Klaue said hurriedly, his voice slick with fear. He knew he had to prove his worth, and quickly. "It's the vibranium, isn't it? You want vibranium!" He was terrified, but he tried to project an air of calm confidence. "I can get you as much as you want!"
He had guessed correctly. Aside from his knowledge of Wakanda's prize resource, a scumbag like him was utterly worthless.
"Our intelligence suggests you no longer possess any vibranium," Natasha stated coolly.
"I can steal more!" Klaue shouted, a little too quickly.
Ben tapped a finger on the table, the sharp sound drawing Klaue's immediate, fearful attention. Ben looked young, but Klaue knew better than to underestimate anyone in this room.
"Who do you take us for, Mr. Klaue?" Ben asked, his tone dripping with mock righteousness. "We are H.A.M.M.E.R., the protectors of global peace. Do you really think we would engage in such… clandestine activities?" He leaned forward. "Besides, how much could you possibly steal? A few kilograms? We think bigger than that."
Klaue's face fell. "Then… what are your plans?"
"Our plan," Ben said with a thin smile, "is to deliver you to Wakanda and open negotiations."
Ulysses Klaue felt his blood run cold. His crimes in Wakanda went far beyond simply stealing some of their precious metal. He had attempted to orchestrate a coup. He was, without question, Wakanda's most wanted criminal. To fall into their hands was a death sentence, and likely not a quick one. It was a nation of jarring contrasts—hyper-advanced technology existing alongside primitive, brutal traditions. Their punishments for traitors were notoriously severe.
He began to beg, pleading frantically with Norman, but no one paid him any mind. It was clear to everyone present who was truly in charge. While Norman was the capable and official Director of H.A.M.M.E.R., he almost always deferred to the opinions of the teenager beside him. It wasn't just a matter of affection; Norman, a genius himself, despised mediocrity and possessed a profound respect for true intellect. And in Ben—or rather, the ancient wisdom he channeled—Norman saw an intelligence that rivaled any on Earth. Listening to him wasn't just a good idea; it was the smartest move.
As Natasha dragged the wailing Ulysses Klaue from the room, Norman turned to Ben. "Are you certain this will work? If Wakanda is as isolated and advanced as you say, they're not likely to open their doors for trade just because we hand them one wanted criminal. Habits formed over thousands of years are not easily broken."
"I'm not trying to drain their resources," Ben replied confidently. "The coming cosmic crisis isn't a problem for one country; it's a threat to the entire planet. All nations now share a common destiny. Besides," he added, "the current Black Panther, King T'Chaka, is said to be an enlightened monarch."
In truth, Ben only knew of T'Chaka from future the Sokovia Accords incident. He knew the king's death had been the catalyst that drove his son, T'Challa, to succeed the throne and hunt Bucky for revenge. But he also knew that T'Challa, upon learning the truth, had immediately set aside his hatred for the sake of justice, even sheltering the fugitive Captain America. Ben figured the father couldn't be too different from the son.
He didn't have to wait long to find out. A few days later, he met King T'Chaka himself. He was a powerfully built man, his face not yet showing the age it would in the years to come. At his side was his son, T'Challa, still a young man studying at university in the United Kingdom.
T'Chaka was curious about this newly formed H.A.M.M.E.R., while T'Challa, having spent years abroad seeing the "backwardness" of the outside world, carried himself with an air of regal arrogance. He viewed the so-called world powers as a pale imitation of Wakanda's true strength.
He had assumed H.A.M.M.E.R. would be more of the same, but the moment he stepped aboard the Helicarrier, his opinion changed.
"Who was the chief designer of this ship?" he asked Natasha and Clint, who were leading their tour.
"What's wrong with it?" Clint asked.
"It's… a paradox," T'Challa replied, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. "Many of its core designs are incredibly primitive, yet they are integrated with pockets of technology so advanced they border on theoretical." He searched for a metaphor. "It's like finding the world's most advanced quantum processor mounted on a stone spear."
Ben, listening in from the command center, felt a flicker of annoyance, which was quickly replaced by a grudging respect. The kid's got a sharp eye.