Wilson Fisk held a solid gold fountain pen, the nib hovering over the final signature line of a commercial real estate contract. He stopped. He slowly looked up at Aaron Davis.
"Are you serious?" Fisk asked.
"That's what the boys said," Aaron replied, his voice a low, steady rumble. "Quentin finished his fishbowl project. Then he put a glass dome on his head, started acting like a Shakespearean actor, and announced he's going to kill Spider-Man himself."
Aaron paused. "He said he's doing it to avenge the Chameleon."
Fisk's heavy brow furrowed. "Were they even friends?"
"Not really," Aaron said. "But Quentin is a nervous wreck. Dmitri gave him a few compliments last week, and I guess that was enough to forge a blood bond. Do we need to pull him in?"
Fisk set the pen down. "Send him to Dr. Octavius's lab. A fishbowl isn't going to swat a spider."
Minutes later, Fisk and Aaron stepped out of the freight elevator into the underground laboratory.
Otto Octavius was elevated on his mechanical tentacles, examining Quentin Beck. Beck was entirely enclosed in a green survival suit draped with a purple cape. An opaque glass dome concealed his head.
"Ah, Mr. Fisk," Otto said, his voice carrying a synthesized metallic edge. "Mr. Beck and I were just having a fascinating discussion. He lacks a formal doctorate in optics, but his practical application of the relevant knowledge is... inspired."
The glass dome turned toward Fisk.
"I have completed the full-spectrum projection upgrade," Beck's voice boomed, artificially amplified from within the helmet. "I manipulate visible, infrared, and thermal light. I interface with the system via neural electrodes at my temples. My operational radius is now five hundred meters per unit."
Beck took a dramatic step forward. "Therefore, Mr. Fisk, I am staging a coup. I demand a raise. I want my weekly wage increased from three hundred dollars to five hundred dollars."
Fisk stared at the dome. He didn't blink. He didn't move. He simply let the absolute silence stretch.
He turned his massive head slightly toward Aaron.
Fisk sighed, a sound like grinding stone. He looked at the financial assistant standing by the elevator. "Raise Mr. Beck's weekly wage to five thousand dollars."
Otto's mechanical arms twitched. "You were only paying him three hundred dollars?"
"We offered him a thousand to start," Aaron muttered, not looking at Otto. "He got anxious and negotiated himself down to three hundred."
Fisk pressed two thick fingers against the bridge of his nose. "Do you require anything else, Mr. Beck?"
"I need armored drones," Beck demanded. "A network synced to my brainwaves. Without them, I cannot crush Spider-Man and avenge Dmitri."
"Fine," Fisk said, his voice dripping with exhausted patience. We can use them as punching bags. "Show me what you can do."
Beck snapped his fingers.
The concrete basement vanished.
Instantly, Fisk stood on the ledge of a sixty-story skyscraper. The wind whipped past him. Mysterio hovered in mid-air just off the ledge. Below, the Manhattan grid crawled with yellow cabs. But it was entirely silent.
"With the correct atmospheric drone support, I can simulate auditory, olfactory, and tactile feedback," Beck's voice echoed from the empty sky.
The perspective warped. Fisk's body stretched, expanding outward and upward until his polished oxfords were the size of city blocks. The cars below were dust mites.
"Just a little push," Beck whispered, looking up at the towering crime lord. "And you are exactly what you are meant to be."
Fisk let out a low, rumbling chuckle. He liked the view.
"I will give you your drones, Mr. Beck," Fisk said, his voice echoing across the silent, artificial city. "Bring me the Spider."
High above the Atlantic Ocean, the Quinjet tore through the clouds, banking northwest toward New York.
The Avengers had spent the last three days tearing through the jungles of Wakanda. They had successfully captured Ulysses Klaue. But the extraction had devolved into a political nightmare.
Klaue hadn't been acting alone. He was funding the White Ape tribe to assassinate the former king, T'Chaka, and trigger a civil war in exchange for exclusive vibranium mining rights. The real problem, however, was Klaue's bankroll.
The Avengers had discovered that Klaue's operation was entirely funded by the CIA. Most of the vibranium he smuggled had been funneled directly into United States military facilities.
Steve Rogers sat in the dim cargo hold, staring at a half-empty bottle of Russian vodka.
During the extraction, Steve had personally detained four CIA field agents operating off-book and handed them directly to T'Challa. In return, T'Challa took Klaue into Wakandan custody—severing the smuggler's arm under Wakandan law—and publicly announced the Avengers as allies.
Steve unscrewed the cap and took a long pull.
"I woke up in the ice, and they told me Jim Hammond was dead," Steve said, his voice rough. "They told me James lost his mind. I had to fight men I used to call brothers. I used to wonder if winning the war cost us our souls."
Tony Stark leaned against the bulkhead, his arms crossed over his chest reactor.
"And now," Steve continued, his grip tightening on the glass bottle. "I find out we're funding terrorists to strip-mine sovereign nations. I fought fascism my whole life, Tony. And now I'm saying I'm a fascist myself."
"You have a very romanticized view of American history, Cap," Tony said quietly. "We've always played dirty. You just happened to be awake for the one war where the bad guys wore actual skull pins. Welcome to the real world."
Bruce Banner shuffled into the hold. He was in his human form, wearing a rumpled purple button-down. He didn't say a word. He just crouched next to Steve's bench and lightly tapped his knuckles against Steve's shoulder.
Steve stared at the floor. "I'm fine, Bruce."
Janet van Dyne unbuckled her harness and walked back from the cockpit. "Look at the bright side," she said, resting a hand on Steve's other shoulder. "T'Challa is officially joining the roster. That's a win."
Tony pushed off the wall. "JARVIS," he called out to the ship's overhead audio. "Give me a sit-rep on New York. Did our friendly neighborhood house-sitter burn down the Tower?"
"Manhattan remains structurally intact, sir," JARVIS's crisp British voice replied. "Spider-Man has maintained a highly effective patrol schedule. However, you should review the Tower access logs. Director Fury paid a visit to the common room."
Tony froze. "Nick Fury was in my living room?"
"Yes, sir," JARVIS confirmed. "He attempted to recruit Mr. Parker to S.H.I.E.L.D."