[A/N]: Next target's 450 Power Stones for another bonus chapter. You guys know how it goes: vote, drop your thoughts, and let's get loud in the comments. I wanna see that fire again. Let's show everyone we're still here, still hyped, and still pushing this story forward together. 🌌
The meeting room sat deep in silence. Red emergency lighting cast long shadows across the circular table. Behind them, wall-mounted screens displayed maps, data streams, and surveillance footage.
Justin Hammer broke the silence first.
"Look, I'm just saying, if we're talking about the whole superhero problem, we gotta acknowledge the elephant in the room, right?" His hands moved as he spoke. "Tony Stark. The guy gets one tin suit and suddenly he's the golden boy of America. Meanwhile, I've been busting my ass for years, actual years, and what do I get? Second place. Always second place. But here's the thing, here's what kills me about it..."
He was rambling now, sweat beading on his forehead.
"The suit isn't even that impressive from an engineering standpoint. I mean, don't get me wrong, it's good, but it's not revolutionary. It's incremental improvement on existing technology, and if I had just gotten the DOD contract instead of..."
His voice rose.
"And another thing, the arc reactor? Please. The theoretical physics behind miniaturized fusion reactors has been around for decades. Decades! If the government had just funded my research proposals back in '03, I could have..."
John Sublime's fingers twitched toward his pistol.
"You know what really gets me?" Hammer continued. "The media coverage. It's like they're allergic to showing anyone else's innovations. We developed the Hammer Drone series, fully autonomous combat units that could revolutionize modern warfare, and what do they do? They compare them to Stark's suit. Everything is always compared to Stark's suit! Like he invented the concept of powered armor! I mean, technically speaking, if you look at the historical precedent..."
The gunshot cracked through the room.
Justin Hammer's head snapped sideways, a neat hole appearing in his temple. For a moment, he remained upright, mouth still open mid-sentence.
Then his body slumped forward, face hitting the metal table and slipping to the floor.
Blood pooled beneath his cheek.
John Sublime lowered his pistol. His expression never changed.
"This isn't a place for jokes," Sublime said. "You talk business, or you don't talk at all. Mr. Hammer clearly didn't understand the difference."
Across the table, Nathaniel Essex leaned back in his chair, a smile playing across his pale features.
"Aw man, I could have used his resources," Sinister said. "Hammer Industries has some fascinating weapons research divisions. Such delightful toys gathering dust in their laboratories."
He paused.
"Oh well. There are always other desperate men willing to fund science they don't understand."
Daniel Whitehall's German-accented voice cut through from the shadows. "Such irrational decision-making. If you could have been logical for once, Sublime, we might have..."
"Oh, a cult praying to a Kree experiment talks of logic?" Sinister interrupted. "That's rich, Daniel. Tell me, how many prayers did you offer to your hive god this morning?"
Whitehall's hand moved to his sidearm. His jaw clenched.
"You dare..."
"Don't forget who supported and funded your enhanced soldiers after Erskine left for America," Sinister continued. "Who do you think kept Hydra's super-soldier program alive? When the Reich fell and your precious masters scattered like roaches, who extended the hand of partnership?"
"You speak of matters beyond your understanding," Whitehall hissed. "The Red Skull's vision transcends mere mortality. While you play with genetics in your laboratory like a child with toys..."
"A child?" Sinister's laugh was sharp. "My dear Daniel, I was manipulating bloodlines when your grandparents were still swimming in their fathers' loins."
"Gentlemen."
Madame Gao's voice carried weight.
"To quarrel among ourselves while the enemy strengthens is to sharpen the sword for one's own execution."
"Equals?" Whitehall spat. "I don't take lectures on honor from someone who poisons children for profit..."
"LADY AND GENTLEMEN."
Sublime's voice didn't rise in volume, but something in the tone made everyone freeze. He placed his pistol on the table.
Justin Hammer's blood was still spreading.
"We are here to talk business," Sublime continued. "Or was the example not enough for you?"
Silence fell.
Only a few people in the world knew who truly controlled the global underworld, and every person at this table understood that John Sublime had earned their respect through rivers of blood and mountains of corpses.
Even Mister Sinister, who'd been alive since the Victorian era, knew the true depth of this Ancient monster.
Sinister's mind raced behind his calm facade.
No need to derail the plan, he thought. Not when we're so close to the real prize. Let Sublime play his power games. I have bigger fish to fry.
Sublime stood slowly, drawing every eye in the room. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of absolute conviction.
"Existence is ordered and ordained," he said, each word sharp and deliberate. "Water flows downhill. Those who have, have. Those who do not, have not."
He gestured at Hammer's corpse without a hint of emotion.
"The rich get richer. The poor get poorer. Some hold the winning cards, and some clutch a handful of jokers. This is not chance. This is not accident. This is design."
He began to walk around the table. Each step echoed, steady and measured. The red lights above painted his face in shadows.
"People love to pretend the universe is fair," he went on. "They tell themselves that hard work brings success. That goodness is rewarded. That effort and kindness and decency matter. But they never have. The truth is older than any of their pretty lies. The strong take. The weak serve. The world has never been fair. It has only ever been efficient."
Sublime stopped behind Madame Gao's chair, resting a hand lightly on the backrest. "Kings and priests dressed that truth in faith. Politicians wrapped it in democracy. Economists gave it a name and called it the free market. But it is all the same thing. Control. Hierarchy. Order. Those who understand it thrive. Those who resist it are erased."
He kept moving, his voice rising slightly, almost like a preacher's rhythm. "The human animal is flawed by design. Too compassionate to survive, too selfish to coexist. Give them gods and they will demand miracles. Give them heroes and they will demand sacrifices. Every civilization rises on bones and blood, then cries at the sight of the mess it made. They crave saviors, not to be saved, but so they can watch them fall."
His hand brushed the table as he passed Whitehall, streaking it faintly with Hammer's blood. "We've seen it for centuries. Pharaohs. Prophets. Super soldiers. The moment people glimpse hope, they become dangerous. Hope is a sickness. It spreads faster than fear."
He stopped at the head of the table and placed both hands flat on the cold metal surface. His eyes caught the light and seemed almost silver.
"Our purpose is not chaos. It is preservation. We are the balance. The ones who keep the world from tearing itself apart under the weight of its delusions. We remind them that they are small. That they need us to protect them, to guide them, to keep them afraid."
Sublime picked up his pistol and turned it slowly in his hand. When he spoke again, his voice was low, almost quiet.
"But now," he said, "something has gone wrong. Someone has broken the rhythm. The world is changing, and not by our design."
He looked up, eyes cold and calculating.
"We are failing. All because of him."
Every screen in the room changed at once.
Jay.
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