The celebration was short-lived. The name 'Domino' hung in the air of the forge like a death sentence. To any normal security analysis, she was a highly competent mercenary. To me, with my meta-knowledge, she was a walking, talking reality warp.
"Raphael," I said, my voice tight. "Threat assessment. What are our chances against a probability-altering mutant?"
"So we can't fight her," I concluded, pacing the concrete floor. "Which means we have to prepare for everything else."
Emma, to her credit, took the news of her father's impending attack with a chilling, focused rage. The hurt was there, a flicker of pain in her eyes, but it was quickly subsumed by the cold fury of a queen whose domain was being threatened.
"He was always a monster," she said, her voice a low, dangerous whisper. "I just never thought he'd be this... unsubtle."
We spent the next three days turning the forge into a fortress. It was no longer just a workshop; it was a killbox. We reinforced the door, installed sonic emitters, and automated foam sprayers.
The attack came on a Thursday night. As predicted, they cut the power and tried to breach the door. The reinforced alloy held. Then came Plan B: the roof.
"They're on the roof," I said, my eyes darting upwards. "Raphael, activate rooftop defenses."
"Domino," I swore. "She doesn't even have to be here to screw with us."
An explosion ripped through the ceiling, and three figures rappelled down into the center of the room. They were armed with advanced, non-lethal pulse rifles.
The moment they landed, I knew we were in trouble. A pipe overhead burst, spraying slippery fluid across the floor exactly where I planned to move. A stack of crates I was using for cover spontaneously collapsed. My every planned move, every trap, was being negated by a subtle, suffocating field of misfortune.
I was pinned down behind the Synapse rack, Emma beside me, and the mercs were advancing. This wasn't a fight I could win with strength or technology. Brute force was useless against an enemy who could make your own gun jam or your next step land on a conveniently placed oil slick.
But I wasn't just a brawler anymore.
"I've been thinking like a thug, Raphael," I thought, my mind racing. "Why am I trying to out-luck the goddess of luck?"
"Exactly. It's time for a different approach." I glanced at Emma, who was watching the advancing mercs with a defiant glare. My own telepathy was a flickering candle next to the bonfire of her potential, but it had one crucial advantage. Control. "Raphael, can you help me target their surface thoughts? Specifically, their loyalty to this mission?"
"Let's do it," I said. To Emma, I whispered, "Stay down. I have an idea."
I closed my eyes, tuning out the physical chaos of the workshop. I extended my new, fragile telepathic sense. It was clumsy, but with Raphael guiding it, it became a surgical tool. I didn't try to read their minds; I tried to edit them.
It felt like performing digital surgery on a live server. Raphael highlighted the target memories in my mind's eye—a mental image of Winston Frost's face, the memory of a wire transfer, the verbal command to capture his daughter.
Then, with a focused burst of mental energy, I selected those files and hit 'delete'.
[MP: 900 -> 750]
The two advancing mercs stopped dead in their tracks. They looked at their pulse rifles, then at each other, then at us, their faces a mask of pure, unadulterated confusion. Their reason for being here had just been scooped out of their heads.
A calm, feminine voice echoed down from the hole in the roof, where Domino was now perched, observing the scene. "What are you two idiots doing? Take them!"
She was the real target.
I focused my full attention on her. Her mind was different. It wasn't a messy, chaotic storm like most people. It was a calm, flowing river of probabilities and confidence. And it was shielded. My initial probe bounced off a wall of sheer, indomitable willpower.
Then we don't wipe, I thought, a ruthless idea taking shape. We edit. It's what Charles should have done ages ago.
I pushed harder, pouring my mana into the effort. Raphael worked with impossible speed, analyzing the structure of Domino's motivation. She found the core concept, the central file that governed her actions: "The Contract." It was a sacred, inviolable principle in her mind.
I didn't try to delete it. I just changed the name on the signature line.
[MP: 750 -> 450]
The mental pushback was immense. For a moment, my vision swam with black spots from the sheer strain.
On her perch, Domino stiffened. She brought a hand to her temple, a flicker of confusion crossing her features. The snarky, confident smirk wavered. She looked down at me, her eyes losing their hostile glint, replaced by a look of professional reassessment. The memory of Winston Frost hiring her was still there, but now it felt... wrong. A corrupted file. The real memory, the one that now felt unshakably true, was of me, Alexander Sterling, hiring her to "test the security" of my new facility and "secure the asset," Emma Frost.
She gracefully dropped the last few feet to the floor, her movements fluid and silent. The two confused mercs instinctively raised their rifles at her.
"Stand down," she said, her voice calm and authoritative. She didn't even look at them. Her eyes were locked on me. "The client is secure. The simulation is over." She gave me a wry, professional smirk. "You passed, boss. Barely. Your physical defenses are a joke."
Emma stared, utterly speechless, as Domino walked over to the two mercs and efficiently disarmed them. The hostile takeover had ended not with a bang, but with a silent, surgical edit.
I leaned back against the server, the mental exhaustion hitting me like a physical blow. I had just faced down perfect luck and won, not by being stronger or luckier, but by changing the rules of the game itself. And in doing so, I hadn't just defeated an enemy. I had just acquired the most valuable head of security on the planet.