The honeymoon phase with the Department of Defense lasted exactly as long as it took for the ink to dry on the initial test results.
Once the military saw what Super Soldier I could actually do—turning an average grunt into a tireless, self-healing tactical machine—they didn't just want a shipment. They wanted to own the whole damn pipeline.
"Fifty years," General Vance said, sliding a thick document across the mahogany table of Luther's conference room. "Exclusive rights. Every drop produced by Emperor Industries goes to the U.S. Military. We're buying out your production capacity for the next half-century."
Luther didn't even pick up the contract. He just leaned back in his chair, spinning a pen between his fingers.
"You guys really don't understand how supply and demand works, do you?" Luther said, a bored smile playing on his lips. "I quoted you ten million a pop. Per vial. That's not a bulk discount price."
Vance's face reddened slightly. "That price is extortion, Mr. Luther. This is a matter of national security."
"It's a premium product," Luther countered. "And you're forgetting the side effects. Positive ones, I mean. The compound drastically slows cellular decay. It doesn't just make your soldiers stronger; it keeps them in their prime for decades. No retirement homes for these guys. They stay combat-ready until they're sixty."
The room went dead silent. The Generals looked at each other. The greed in their eyes was palpable. They weren't just thinking about super soldiers anymore; they were thinking about themselves. Eternal youth? Or close enough to it?
"We need to increase production," Vance said, his voice tight. "Immediately. We'll pay the ten million. But the exclusivity clause stands. You sell to us, and only us."
Luther chuckled. "Yeah, see, that's the part I'm gonna pass on."
"Excuse me?"
"I'm a businessman, General. Why would I lock myself into one customer—even a big one like Uncle Sam—when I can sell to the whole world?" Luther stood up, walking over to the window. "The British need super soldiers. The French. The Russians. Hell, private security firms would kill for this. Compound One belongs to the market, not the Pentagon."
Vance slammed his hand on the table. "You listen to me, son. You operate on American soil. You abide by American interests. You think you can just sell military-grade biotech to our enemies? We can shut you down before you print your next shipping label. There are laws. There are consequences."
Luther turned around, his expression cold.
"Are you threatening me, General?"
"I'm educating you," Vance spat. "Look at Oscorp. They play ball. They get funding. You want to be the next Stark, or do you want to be an inmate?"
Luther laughed. It was a genuine, amused laugh.
"Osborn plays ball because he needs your money to fix his broken science. I don't." Luther walked back to the table, leaning over until he was face-to-face with the General. "And as for 'American soil'... well, planes exist. I hear Eastern Europe is lovely this time of year. Maybe I'll move headquarters to Moscow. Or Tokyo. I'm sure they'd love to have me."
Vance stood up, trembling with rage. "You'll regret this."
Three nights later, Luther got his "consequence."
He was alone in the penthouse of Emperor Tower. The building was empty, save for the cleaning crews on the lower levels.
Click.
The sound was faint—a magnetic lock being bypassed on the balcony door.
Luther didn't look up from his tablet. He sighed, shaking his head. "So predictable."
He knew why they did it. They thought he was just a scientist. A smart guy with a god complex. They figured they could snatch him, stick him in a black site, and force him to cook up the serum. Or maybe they just wanted to steal the data.
Jokes on them, Luther thought. There is no data.
He kept no files on the servers. No hard drives. No cloud backups. In the Marvel Universe, data security was a joke. If Tony Stark wasn't hacking you, a S.H.I.E.L.D. algorithm was. Or some kid in a van named Skye.
The only safe place was his brain. And good luck extracting data from a Kryptonian mind.
Four figures dressed in tactical stealth gear rappelled into the room. They moved like water—professional, efficient, silent.
"Target acquired," the leader whispered into a comms unit. "Secure and extract."
They raised their weapons—tranq darts, likely loaded with enough sedative to drop a rhino.
Luther finally looked up. "You guys really don't know who you're messing with, do you?"
Thwip-thwip.
Two darts hit Luther in the neck. They bounced off his skin like they'd hit a steel wall, clattering uselessly to the floor.
The strike team froze.
"Run," the leader shouted.
Too late.
Luther moved. To the human eye, he simply vanished from the chair and reappeared in front of the leader. He grabbed two of the operatives by their tactical vests and slammed them together.
Crunch.
They dropped like sacks of potatoes.
The remaining two tried to switch to lethal rounds, but Luther was already there. A flick of his finger shattered their weapons. A light tap to their temples sent them crumbling to the floor, unconscious.
"Well," Luther said, looking at the pile of groaning elite operatives. "Waste not, want not."
He dragged them into a line. He didn't kill them. Why throw away perfectly good tools? He needed a security detail, and these guys were clearly the best the shadow government had to offer.
He waited for them to wake up, tied to chairs. Then, he began to speak.
The low, vibrating hum of his voice filled the room. He stripped away their loyalty to the flag, to their commanders, to their families. He replaced it with loyalty to him.
By morning, he had four new dedicated employees.
But Luther wasn't satisfied with just the grunts.
The attack was a probe. They were testing the waters. If he didn't cut the head off the snake, they'd keep coming. And honestly? He was tired of playing defense.
He interrogated the team leader—now a very helpful gentleman named Steve. Steve gave up the chain of command. It wasn't General Vance; he was just a loudmouth. The order came from higher up. A shadow council of defense contractors and old-money power brokers who didn't like being told "no."
Luther tracked the signal.
The Hamptons. A private estate.
Mr. Sterling, a man who technically didn't exist on any government payroll but controlled half the defense budget, was enjoying a late dinner. He was a "Great Figure." The kind of guy who moved chess pieces from the shadows.
He was currently enjoying a T-bone steak, rare.
"The team hasn't checked in," his assistant whispered, looking pale.
"They will," Sterling said, slicing a piece of meat. "He's just a scientist. Don't worry about—"
The heavy oak doors of the dining room exploded inward.
Splinters rained down like confetti. Luther walked through the debris, brushing dust off his jacket.
"You know," Luther said, stepping over the unconscious bodies of the external guards. "I really just wanted to do business with you people. Why did you have to make it weird?"
Sterling dropped his fork. "How… how did you get in here?"
"I walked," Luther said, closing the distance. "And I flew a little bit. But mostly walked."
Sterling reached for the panic button under the table. Luther was there in a blur, gripping Sterling's wrist. He didn't break it. He just held it.
"Sit," Luther commanded.
The voice hit Sterling like a physical weight. His knees buckled. He fell out of his chair and onto the Persian rug.
Luther looked down at the terrified power broker. This man thought he owned the world. He thought he could bully a Kryptonian.
"You guys are used to being the masters," Luther said softly, his voice vibrating with that hypnotic frequency. "You sit in the dark and tell everyone else what to do. But you're not the master anymore. You're not even a player."
Luther grabbed the T-bone steak from the table. It was a massive cut, the bone thick and jagged.
"You're a pet," Luther whispered. "My pet."
He pushed the mental suggestion deep, breaking through Sterling's ego, shattering his self-image, and rebuilding it into something pathetic and subservient. He didn't want a partner. He wanted a dog.
"Good dog," Luther smiled, his eyes glowing faintly red. "Come here."
Sterling, the man who could topple governments with a phone call, let out a whimper. His eyes lost their focus, glossing over with a terrifying, mindless devotion. He crawled on his hands and knees, scrambling over the broken wood to get to Luther's feet.
"Hungry?" Luther asked.
He tossed the steak bone onto the floor.
"Eat."
At Luther's call, the other party howled and crawled up, scrambling to Luther's front. Sterling pounced on the bone. He didn't use his hands. He brought his face down to the floor, snapping at it.
Then he really gnawed on the bone like a dog, even though it made him bloody and broke his teeth, he ate it with relish.
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