The collaboration between Vanderbuilt Technologies and the New York City Government might have seemed modest at first glance, but beneath the surface, it was revolutionary.
Alongside their purchase of Stark Industries' new exoskeleton systems, the city had also procured a limited series of bullet-resistant armor from Osborn Industries. The quantities were small—experimental, even—but the implications were immense. The civilian market had barely begun to grasp what was happening.
The real money, of course, lay in the military contracts waiting on the horizon.
And because the United States still needed to look like a democracy, transparency was required. Hence, a large-scale press conference was scheduled on the plaza outside New York City Hall.
Henry Vanderbuilt—founder and visionary behind Vanderbuilt Technologies—received a formal invitation.
---
The Press Conference
That morning, rows of uniformed officers lined one side of the open plaza, their freshly polished armor glinting under the sun. Journalists filled the opposite side, cameras flashing, microphones raised.
A massive holographic screen behind the podium replayed surveillance footage of Hell's Kitchen—streets once drowning in crime now peaceful and orderly, thanks to the Modia Units deployed there.
Chief George, standing at the podium, began the announcement. His voice echoed across the plaza.
> "I believe everyone here is aware of the dramatic transformation of Hell's Kitchen over the last few weeks," he declared proudly.
"These results were made possible through the assistance of Vanderbuilt Technologies' artificial-intelligence program.
To safeguard our citizens, we've established an Ames Guard Division—a special task force made entirely of Modia Units.
Today, I'm pleased to announce that the NYPD has officially reached a cooperation agreement with Vanderbuilt Technologies.
Within the coming months, one thousand Modia Units will be deployed across the city to aid in law enforcement."
The crowd erupted in applause.
To most people watching, the Modia Units looked like perfectly obedient synthetic officers—faster, stronger, tireless. No one questioned their origins or the strange brilliance of the man who built them.
Once the announcement concluded, Chief George opened the floor for questions. Reporters surged forward, cameras swiveling—
and almost every lens pointed not at him, but at Henry Vanderbuilt standing calmly beside the stage.
"President Vanderbuilt," one reporter shouted, "does this partnership mean Vanderbuilt Technologies plans to move officially into the military industry?"
George gave Henry a nod, stepping aside. It was clearly Henry's moment.
Henry smiled, stepping to the microphone. "Friends," he began smoothly, "for years Vanderbuilt Technologies has focused on the civilian sector. Our innovations—energy systems, prosthetics, smart infrastructure—have touched lives across the globe. But progress never sleeps. When we reach the peak of civilian achievement, the only natural step forward is to broaden our vision."
He gestured toward the holographic footage of Modia Units patrolling Hell's Kitchen.
"What you're seeing now is only the beginning. Yes, we're exploring applications in defense technology. Not for conquest or destruction—but for protection, stability, and evolution."
The reporters erupted with follow-up questions.
"Does this mean Vanderbuilt Technologies is abandoning its civilian market?"
Henry's smile didn't falter. "Not at all. The civilian sector remains our heart. But technology is a river—it can irrigate fields or power turbines. We're simply expanding where that river flows."
Another journalist raised a hand—her tone sharper. "President Vanderbuilt, by entering defense manufacturing, aren't you competing directly with Tony Stark?"
The question rippled through the crowd like static.
Henry tilted his head, amused. "Competition," he said softly, "is the spark of progress. Stark Industries and Vanderbuilt Technologies share a single goal: to advance human capability. But if you're asking whether Tony Stark could easily replicate our Modia intelligence cores…"
He paused, letting the silence stretch before answering with a confident smile.
"Even he would find that difficult."
Cameras clicked wildly. The quote would dominate tomorrow's headlines.
Chief George shot him a wary glance, but Henry remained unfazed.
The press conference continued another fifteen minutes—probing, twisting questions from rival-funded journalists, thinly veiled barbs from industry plants—but Henry handled each with disarming charm. When the final question faded, he simply nodded to George and walked off the stage.
The crowd parted around him like water.
---
The Banquet
That evening, a banquet was held at the Metropolitan Hall to celebrate the city's partnership. Chandeliers glowed like captured starlight, and guests from every major corporation mingled with senators, generals, and government liaisons.
Naturally, Henry was the center of attention—the star surrounded by orbiting planets. He greeted investors, shared polite laughs, and clinked glasses with people who only half-understood the power of the technology they'd just endorsed.
He had never looked more like Tony Stark—effortless confidence wrapped in an expensive suit.
Then, amidst the buzz of conversation and music, a soft voice drifted over his shoulder.
> "Excuse me, sir. Is this seat taken?"
He turned.
A tall woman stood before him, graceful yet strangely hesitant. She wore a sleek black dress with a deep-cut neckline, her auburn hair cascading in loose waves, her eyes a sharp hazel that caught the light like glass.
Her perfume was subtle—something European, clean and precise.
Henry's gaze flicked over her, quick but observant. "A beautiful lady never needs permission. Sit wherever you like."
She smiled faintly and sat beside him, crossing her legs with elegant composure. The motion was deliberate; she was used to attention.
Henry snapped his fingers. A nearby waiter hurried over instantly.
"Pour the lady a glass of wine," Henry said.
"Yes, sir."
When the waiter retreated, the woman lifted the glass delicately, taking a slow sip. A faint crimson stain marked her lips, deepening their color.
"What's your name?" Henry asked casually.
"Jess," she answered, eyes bright but a little tense. "You can call me Jess."
He chuckled softly. "Relax, Jess. I don't bite."
She laughed, though it sounded rehearsed.
To anyone else, she looked completely genuine—graceful posture, controlled breathing, perfect conversational rhythm. But Henry noticed the microscopic details others would miss: the fractional delay in her eye movements, the measured breathing pattern of someone trained to mirror calm.
A professional.
"Are you a reporter?" he asked suddenly.
Jess froze for half a second before answering, "How did you know?"
He smiled. "Instinct. Comes with being a businessman. You learn to read motives the way others read faces."
She exhaled softly. "Alright, you got me. Jess Hanna, Federal Daily. I'm covering the government's new tech-industry partnerships."
Henry swirled his wine. "Interesting. I don't recall reporters being invited tonight. How did you get past security?"
Jess blinked, her lashes fluttering innocently. "Maybe they liked my smile."
Henry's lips curved slightly, though his eyes stayed cold. He knew that name wasn't on any journalist registry.
Jess Hanna—an alias used by agents connected to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s intelligence division.
So, they were already sniffing around.
He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Well, Jess, if you're here for a story, make sure you spell my name right. 'Vanderbuilt,' not 'Vanderbilt.' I hate typos."
She smiled nervously. "Of course, Mr. President."
They clinked glasses. The clatter of crystal rang like the beginning of a chess match.
Henry's mind raced quietly. So, Fury finally sent one of his spies to observe me. The realization didn't anger him—it intrigued him.
He'd expected this, just not so soon.
If S.H.I.E.L.D. wanted to play games, he'd gladly join the board.
---
As the night wore on, the music softened, and the lights dimmed to a golden hue. Henry conversed politely, his expression pleasant, but behind that charm his mind worked ceaselessly—analyzing every tone, every micro-gesture from the supposed reporter beside him.
She was skilled, yes. But not infallible.
Before the night ended, Henry intended to know exactly who she worked for, what she knew, and what her orders were.
For now, he simply smiled, raising his glass once more.
"To new partnerships," he said.
Jess returned the toast, the faintest flicker of unease behind her professional smile.
"To progress," she replied.
And somewhere in the reflection of the wine's surface, Henry saw his own faint grin—cold, confident, calculating.
The stage lights shifted across the room, illuminating New York's newest hero of innovation, while in the shadows, S.H.I.E.L.D. quietly made its first move.
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