The new year, 2009, began not with a hangover (I was still too young to drink, and frankly, too busy), but with a clear plan of action and nerves buzzing with anticipation. The fireworks over Manhattan had faded, leaving behind only the faint scent of gunpowder in the frosty air and a strange sense of the calm before the storm. The meeting in Geneva was set for January 4th. I had only three days to prepare.
January 1, 2009. Thursday.
The morning began with my now-customary training of Quicksilver in the backyard. The combined method—physical exertion paired with mental analysis using other abilities—continued to yield results.
Progress:
[Pietro Maximoff (Quicksilver) (Template)] — 19%
Nineteen percent. Another two percent added from the morning session. Progress was steady, though not as fast as I would have liked. I could now confidently maneuver at high speeds within the confined space of the yard; my perception had adapted to time dilation, and sensory overload was almost non-existent.
My body continued to change as well. I had become noticeably leaner—the teenage "softness" was gone, replaced by muscles that were more defined and sculpted. They weren't massive like a bodybuilder's, but rather long and elastic, like a sprinter's. I felt a new lightness, as if I had shed an invisible ballast. Meanwhile, my strength and endurance were growing exponentially.
It wasn't the raw strength of a gym rat, but functional power—ligaments and tendons had strengthened to withstand G-forces, and muscles had become denser, capable of generating explosive force. I could run for hours without feeling fatigue, and recovery after exertion was incredibly fast. But everything had a price. My metabolism, accelerated to unthinkable speeds, required constant fueling. It turned my stomach into a bottomless furnace where I had to toss massive amounts of calories just to remain functional.
Returning to the house, I showered and found 2B in the kitchen, intently studying… a cookbook? A real, paper one with pictures. Beside her, a cup of coffee steamed next to a plate of something suspiciously resembling a Full English Breakfast—eggs, bacon, sausages, beans, fried mushrooms.
"Decided to expand your culinary horizons?" I smiled, sitting at the table. "Is it 'Foggy Albion' cuisine today?"
"Data analysis indicates that your accelerated metabolism requires high-calorie food with a balanced composition," she replied without looking up from the book. "An English breakfast meets these parameters. Furthermore, studying various culinary traditions is part of… optimizing my support functions."
"Well, optimization is in full swing then," I said, attacking the food with gusto. "What's the book?"
"'Mastering the Art of French Cooking.' Julia Child," she turned a page. "The techniques and terminology present a certain complexity, but the logic of the processes… is interesting."
I nearly choked on my coffee. 2B studying Julia Child. The world was definitely going crazy.
After breakfast, the real work began—preparation for Geneva. The identity of Arthur Ashworth was ready; his appearance, voice, and mannerisms were honed to the smallest detail thanks to Metamorph. Now, I needed documents. Real ones, capable of withstanding a border check. And not just for Ashworth. Since I was at it, I had to take care of 2B as well. She needed documents, a legend, and the ability to travel the world if necessary without raising suspicion.
This is where my technological abilities came into play. Using Technopathy, I connected to the network, finding my way through encrypted channels to shadow forums where master forgers resided. Analyzing their "portfolios" and reviews allowed me to choose a craftsman in Eastern Europe, famous for quality and speed.
Next came the "order." I needed a British passport in the name of Arthur Ashworth, with my photo (in Ashworth's guise, of course), but with biometric data that wouldn't raise red flags. My Cybernetic Affinity helped here—I was able to understand the principles behind the chips in modern passports. Using Engineering Savvy and Miniaturization Expertise, I developed a specification for a chip that would contain "clean," generated data, indistinguishable from the real thing to standard scanners, yet linked to no real person.
I sent the order and specifications to the master via an anonymous channel, paying for the work with a portion of my cash. The master promised to finish in two days and deliver the passports via express courier to a drop address in New York.
In parallel, I booked tickets for a flight to Geneva on January 3rd and a suite at the five-star Beau-Rivage Genève, where the meeting was to take place. Everything was done in Ashworth's name through anonymous services and virtual cards. The legend was gaining flesh and bone.
In the evening—training again. Quicksilver — 21%. Progress was slowing down, but I felt my control over speed becoming more intuitive.
Before bed, 2B asked her question again about the "procedure for exchanging signs of attention." And again, she received a kiss. This time, she responded almost immediately, without a long "analysis," and her lips were a bit bolder. The blush on her cheeks was becoming a regular occurrence.
January 2, 2009. Friday.
Morning. Training (Quicksilver — 23%). Breakfast (today was syrniki; 2B was clearly experimenting with Russian cuisine after reading Tolstoy). The day was spent studying materials on Renaissance manuscript expertise and practicing Mr. Ashworth's British accent.
In the afternoon, a courier delivered a package to the drop address. Inside was the passport: British, in the name of Arthur Ashworth. I examined it thoroughly. The quality was flawless. Holograms, watermarks, microprinting… The chips… Technopathy confirmed the data inside was "clean," generated according to my specs. Perfect. Mr. Ashworth now had a legal (well, mostly) document to cross the border.
In the evening, I decided to give Ashworth a "test drive." Assuming his form, I went to an expensive restaurant in Manhattan. Just to have a cup of coffee and observe the reactions of those around me. Metamorph worked perfectly—no one paid me any special attention, taking me for just another wealthy gentleman. I used Radar Sense to analyze the people around me—their emotions, their hidden motives. It was excellent training for the ability and for the role of Ashworth, who needed to be a perceptive observer.
Returning home, I trained again.
Quicksilver — 25%. A quarter of the way there. The speed already felt much more natural. I could barely break the sound barrier during sprints, but higher speeds and sharp maneuvers still required immense concentration and effort to control.
The nightly kiss from 2B became even more confident. It seemed she was beginning to accept this new part of our… interaction.
January 3, 2009. Saturday.
Departure day. Morning—final training before the trip (Quicksilver — 27%). Breakfast. Final preparations. I packed a small travel bag—a change of clothes, toiletries, a laptop. The Da Vinci page, which I had previously materialized for photography, I mentally sent back into the System Inventory. It was much safer than carrying a physical artifact halfway across the world, even in a protected tube. I could materialize it right before the meeting.
I assumed the form of Arthur Ashworth and said goodbye to 2B.
"I'll be in touch through the Pod," I told her. "You stay here. Stealth protocol is absolute priority. No leaving the house, no contacts. If anything seems suspicious—report it immediately. And… be careful."
"Understood, Commander John," she nodded. Her face was, as always, impassive, but I caught a note of… concern in her voice? "Ensuring your safety during the mission… is a priority. Pod 042 will maintain constant monitoring of available communication channels and… the surrounding environment within range. Return… successfully."
She stepped toward me and, before I could say anything, kissed me quickly but firmly on the lips.
"Good luck, Arthur Ashworth," she whispered and pulled away, becoming the flawless android once more.
I chuckled, feeling the warmth on my lips. "Thanks, 2B. I'll be back."
I called a taxi and headed to JFK Airport.
Going through security as Ashworth was surprisingly smooth. The passport raised no questions; the scanners accepted the chip. My legend as a British consultant flying to Geneva for a business meeting held up. Radar Sense helped me navigate the crowd, avoid unnecessary attention, and "read" the mood of the security staff (boredom, fatigue, routine—nothing suspicious).
The business-class flight (Ashworth couldn't fly economy) passed quietly. I barely slept, running through the details of the upcoming meeting, the dealer's possible questions, my answers, and escape routes in case of an emergency. Coulson's knowledge of security protocols and negotiation was priceless.
Geneva, Switzerland. Evening, January 3rd.
The plane landed in Geneva late in the evening. There was no snow here, but the air was fresh and cool. I passed passport control without issue (thanks again to Metamorph and a high-quality forgery) and took a taxi to the Beau-Rivage Genève.
The hotel was the epitome of old European luxury. Marble floors, crystal chandeliers, polished staff… My room overlooking Lake Geneva and the Jet d'Eau fountain was magnificent. Mr. Ashworth would definitely approve.
I unpacked, checked that everything necessary (laptop, burner phones) was in place. The Da Vinci manuscript was still in the inventory, ready for materialization. Then I activated Radar Sense, scanning the room and adjacent corridors for bugs or hidden cameras. Clean. The London dealer seemingly valued confidentiality. Or he just hadn't had time to prepare.
I contacted 2B through a secure channel using one of the burner phones and an encrypted messenger I had installed on her laptop.
I typed.
The reply came almost instantly. Pod 042's voice, broadcast through the phone's speaker, was level and mechanical:
I put the phone away. Tomorrow, January 4th, the meeting with the London dealer's representative would take place here in the hotel. The first step of my grand plan to achieve financial independence. My heart gave a slight thump of anticipation and mild anxiety. Everything had to go smoothly. But in this world… you could never be one hundred percent sure.
I walked to the window. The lights of Geneva reflected in the dark surface of the lake. Somewhere out there, thousands of miles away, Peter Parker was working on his gadgets, Norman Osborn was preparing for a festival, and 2B was reading Tolstoy. And I… I stood here, in a foreign city, under a foreign identity, preparing to pull off a multi-million dollar deal to get the resources to fight threats this world didn't even know existed yet.
"Well, Mr. Ashworth," I smirked at my reflection in the dark glass. "The show begins."
January 4, 2009. Geneva, Beau-Rivage Hotel.
Morning in Geneva met me with gentle Alpine light filtering through the high windows of the suite and the quiet lapping of the waves of Lake Geneva. I woke up long before the scheduled meeting time, well-rested and surprisingly calm. Thank you, Coulson, for the ability to control nerves even in the most stressful situations.
First thing—a check-in with home.
<2B, status?>—a short message through the secure messenger.
Pod 042's reply was nearly instantaneous:
I chuckled. Even from a distance, she managed to be a bit… caring? And controlling.
Next—a quick check on the Quicksilver assimilation status. Another percent had been added overnight.
Progress:
[Pietro Maximoff (Quicksilver) (Template)] — 28%
Twenty-eight percent. Slow, but progress was happening. I felt my body continuing to adapt, the internal energy increasing. Controlling it was becoming slightly easier, but full mastery was still a long way off.
I showered, ordered a light breakfast (croissants, coffee, fruit—Mr. Ashworth must stay in shape), and mentally rehearsed the meeting plan one more time. The von Adlerberg legend. Ashworth's biography details. Key phrases. Possible questions from the dealer. Answers. Plan B for unforeseen complications (which mostly consisted of "activate Quicksilver and Metamorph and vanish"). While waiting for breakfast, I gave a mental command, and a hard tube made of dark composite materialized from the inventory. I quickly hid it in the inner pocket of the coat hanging in the closet. Everything had to look natural.
At exactly ten in the morning, there was a soft knock on the door. I took a deep breath, ensured Arthur Ashworth's appearance was flawless, and opened it.
A man in his fifties stood on the threshold, impeccably dressed in an expensive navy-blue suit. Lean, with neatly trimmed graying hair, piercing gray eyes behind thin-framed glasses, and an expression of polite but slightly skeptical professionalism. He held out his hand.
"Mr. Ashworth? Jean-Pierre Dubois. I represent the Tempus Artis gallery, London. Thank you for agreeing to meet."
His handshake was firm and confident. His voice was level, with a slight French accent peeking through perfect English. I returned the handshake, trying to convey Ashworth's slight aristocratic nonchalance.
"Monsieur Dubois. A pleasure to meet you. Please, come in. Coffee?"
"Thank you, I won't refuse." He walked into the room, his gaze quickly but keenly assessing the surroundings—the view from the window, the room's decor, and me. A professional.
As I poured coffee from the pot just brought by room service, he continued:
"I must admit, Mr. Ashworth, your letter intrigued us. A leaf from an unknown Renaissance codex, possibly Da Vinci… It sounds… exceptional. You understand that such claims require the most thorough verification?"
"Of course, Monsieur Dubois," I placed the cup before him and sat in the armchair opposite. "My clients, the von Adlerberg family, are well aware of the value and uniqueness of the items in their collection. That is precisely why they insist on maximum confidentiality and the highest level of professionalism during appraisal and potential sale. They are in no hurry to part with their heritage, but… circumstances require a certain financial flexibility."
I spoke calmly and measuredly, using Ashworth's light British accent. Radar Sense was active—I was scanning Dubois. His heartbeat was steady, his breathing calm—an experienced negotiator who knew how to control his emotions. But I caught a slight, barely perceptible increase in his pulse when I mentioned "collection" and "Da Vinci." His interest was genuine. And so was his skepticism—he was clearly looking for a catch.
"The von Adlerberg family…" Dubois repeated thoughtfully, taking a sip of coffee. "Forgive my ignorance, but the name is unfamiliar to me in the context of major Renaissance collectors."
"Unsurprising," I allowed myself a slightly condescending smile. "The von Adlerbergs are an old Swiss family from Graubünden. They never publicized their acquisitions. The collection was gathered over several generations, starting in the late nineteenth century. Many items were acquired… let's say, during the difficult times of the early twentieth century and kept in the family estate. Then, just before the war, the most valuable part was placed in a secure vault here in Switzerland. Only recently have the current heirs gained access to these treasures and decided to… thin out the collection, while maintaining total anonymity. I act as their trustee."
I laid out the legend steadily, without unnecessary details but with sufficient confidence. Radar suggested that Dubois was listening intently, analyzing, looking for inconsistencies. His pulse remained steady.
"I see," he nodded slowly. "Confidentiality is paramount. We at Tempus Artis know how to keep our clients' secrets. But you must understand, Monsieur Ashworth, that without a confirmed provenance…"
"Provenance will be provided to the extent that it does not violate my clients' anonymity," I interrupted gently. "I have some documents—letters, inventories—confirming the history of the collection. But the main argument, as you understand, is the item itself. Are you ready to take a look?"
A flash of interest appeared in Dubois's eyes. "Of course. That is why I am here."
I stood up, walked to the closet where my coat hung, and with a casual but precise movement, extracted the hard composite tube from the inner pocket. Returning to the table, I placed it between us.
"Before we continue, Monsieur Dubois," I said seriously, "I must once again emphasize my clients' condition: absolute confidentiality. No information about the von Adlerberg family, no publicity until the deal is concluded. If these conditions are unacceptable to you…"
"The conditions are accepted, Mr. Ashworth," Dubois replied firmly, his eyes fixed on the tube. "You can be assured of our discretion."
I nodded. I activated Technopathy, mentally "opening" the invisible lock on the tube. With a faint click, the lid gave way. I carefully extracted a yellowed but well-preserved sheet of parchment or thick paper, covered in familiar mirror-image handwriting and decorated with brilliant anatomical sketches. I unrolled it on the table before Dubois.
Even the experienced dealer could not hide his excitement. His breath hitched; his pulse spiked. He leaned over the sheet, his eyes widening behind his glasses in amazement and awe. He pulled a small magnifying glass from his pocket and began to carefully study every detail—the texture of the paper, the color of the ink, the character of the strokes, the watermarks…
"Incredible…" he whispered after a minute, looking up at me with a gaze that mixed delight and professional fervor. "The handwriting… the style… the anatomical precision… It is… it is strikingly similar to Leonardo! The paper, the ink… they match the period… My God… if this is an original…"
"I rely on your expertise, Monsieur Dubois," I replied calmly, though inside, I was jubilant.
"Naturally, a more thorough examination will be required," Dubois said, quickly regaining his composure. "We have the opportunity to conduct it here in Geneva, in our partner's laboratory. Completely confidential, of course. It will take several hours. Do you object?"
"I do not," I nodded. "Provided that I am present during the examination. Or my representative."
"Naturally," Dubois agreed. "I can arrange it right now."
He made several calls on his phone, speaking quickly in French. Then he turned to me. "Everything is ready. The expert, Madame Duval—one of the best Renaissance manuscript specialists in Europe—will be waiting for us at the lab in an hour. The car is downstairs."
We carefully packed the sheet back into the tube (I mentally closed the lock again). We went downstairs. A black sedan with a driver was waiting at the entrance. The ride to the laboratory, located in a quiet district on the outskirts of the city, passed in silence. Dubois was clearly processing what he had seen; I maintained Ashworth's composure while simultaneously scanning the surroundings with Radar for any possible tail. Everything was clear.
The laboratory was small but perfectly equipped. We were met by Madame Duval—an elderly, stern lady with a sharp gaze and an aura of indisputable authority. Without a word, she took the tube, donned white gloves, and set to work using microscopes, spectrometers, and other equipment that even I, with my new abilities, only superficially understood. Dubois and I watched in silence.
About two hours of tense waiting passed. Finally, Madame Duval took off her glasses and looked at us.
"Monsieur Dubois, Mr. Ashworth," her voice was dry, but excitement was audible in it. "The preliminary results… are staggering. The paper, the ink composition, the writing style, the anatomical details… everything points to a high, a very high probability that we have before us an original, previously unknown leaf from Leonardo da Vinci's works. Possibly part of the Codex Atlanticus or a preparatory sketch. A final conclusion will require more tests and comparison with known samples, but… I am almost certain. This is a sensation."
Dubois nodded satisfactorily, casting a quick glance at me. I maintained a poker face.
"Thank you, Madame Duval," Dubois said. "Your opinion is very valuable to us. May we discuss terms?"
We returned to the hotel. The tension eased; now a different game began—the haggling. We sat in the armchairs in my room again.
"So, Mr. Ashworth," Dubois began more confidently. "The examination confirms the uniqueness and highest value of your artifact. Tempus Artis is ready to make you an offer. Considering the need for further research and… the somewhat hazy provenance, we are prepared to offer… three million US dollars."
I mentally chuckled. He started well.
"Monsieur Dubois," I shook my head with slight regret. "I appreciate your offer, but I'm afraid it does not reflect the true value of work of this level. My clients were aiming for a sum… let's say, in the neighborhood of six million. Considering the uniqueness of the find and the potential frenzy among collectors…"
"Six million?" Dubois raised his eyebrows in surprise, but his pulse remained steady. He expected haggling. "Mr. Ashworth, that is a very bold valuation. Without one-hundred-percent provenance…"
"The provenance, as I already said, will be provided within reasonable limits. But the main thing is the artifact itself. Its authenticity is almost beyond doubt for your own expert. A work by Leonardo. Unknown. You understand what this means for the market?"
We haggled for another twenty minutes. I used all my skills—Coulson's calmness, the ability to "read" an opponent with Radar, a bit of bluffing based on knowledge of the psychology of wealthy collectors. Dubois was an experienced player, but I felt he very much wanted to secure this lot.
Finally, we settled on four and a half million dollars. Additionally, Tempus Artis took on all costs for further expertise and legalization of the provenance (using the "von Adlerberg documents" I provided).
"Excellent, Mr. Ashworth," Dubois held out his hand. "I will prepare the contract. As for payment… we can transfer the funds to your specified Swiss bank account within 24 hours of signing and handing over the artifact. Naturally, everything will be handled with maximum confidentiality."
"That suits me," I nodded, shaking his hand. "I will provide you with the account details. The handover will take place here in the hotel once the transfer of funds is confirmed."
"Agreed. It was a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Ashworth. I hope this is only the beginning of our cooperation? If there are other… interesting items in the von Adlerberg collection…"
"Perhaps, Monsieur Dubois. Perhaps. Time will tell," I smiled enigmatically.
He left, clearly satisfied with the deal. I was left alone in the room. Four and a half million dollars for one yellowed piece of paper! The plan worked. Perfectly.
I walked to the window, looking at the sparkling lake. A feeling of triumph mixed with slight lightheadedness. This was only the beginning. In my inventory, a Faberge egg, a tiara, a painting… all were waiting for their turn. And that's not counting the vibranium, the repulsor, and other artifacts. My financial problems seemed solved. At least for the near future.
I remained in Arthur Ashworth's guise. Deactivating Metamorph now, in a foreign country in an expensive hotel, would be foolish. Ashworth's identity was my armor, my cover until I returned to New York. Maintaining the form itself took no effort, but the situation itself—the need to constantly play the role, conduct high-stakes negotiations, scan the surroundings with Radar—all of it was mentally exhausting. Fatigue washed over me, but it was the fatigue of an operative after a successful, albeit difficult, mission.
I needed to inform 2B. I pulled out the burner phone.
The reply came a second later:
Geneva – New York. January 4–5, 2009.
The return flight was marked by restrained triumph and paranoid vigilance. I, still in the impeccable guise of Arthur Ashworth, sat in a comfortable business-class seat, sipping mineral water (no alcohol for Mr. Ashworth during business trips; a clear head was required) and replaying the details of the deal.
Four and a half million dollars. For one sheet of paper. It was… staggering. The plan worked even better than I expected. The London dealer, Monsieur Dubois, was a professional to the core—polite, correct, but with a predatory gleam in his eyes when it came to price. Our negotiations were a high-stakes poker game where I, thanks to Radar Sense, could "read" his slightest fluctuations in pulse and breathing, while Ashworth's mask and Coulson's cold-bloodedness allowed me to remain impenetrable.
The contract was signed; the details for the Swiss account (opened in the name of a shell fund, "Alpenhorn Investments," registered through a chain of offshores—thanks to Technopathy and basic programming knowledge for the ability to navigate the Darknet and find the necessary "services") were handed over. The transfer of the artifact itself—the Da Vinci page—took place right in my hotel room, under the watchful (though invisible) eye of the Pod, which 2B kept on standby for emergency monitoring. Dubois came with his assistant and a portable scanner for a final on-site authenticity check. Everything went smoothly. The money was to arrive in the account within 24 hours.
I didn't relax for a second. At Geneva airport, during the flight, upon arrival at JFK—I remained Arthur Ashworth. Metamorph worked flawlessly, requiring no effort to maintain the look, but the need to be constantly on guard, scanning the surroundings with Radar, analyzing people, and calculating potential threats—all of it was mentally draining. It was work, real operational work, and it required full concentration.
Passing customs and passport control in New York was just as smooth as in Geneva. Ashworth's British passport raised no questions. I caught a taxi and gave my address in Hell's Kitchen. Only when the car pulled away, carrying me from the bustle of the airport, did I allow myself to relax a little.
"Phase one complete," I noted to myself. "Four and a half million almost in the pocket. Not a bad start."
I contacted 2B:
Pod's reply:
I smiled. She was waiting. And cooking.
New York, Hell's Kitchen. John Smith's House.
The taxi pulled up to my old but cozy little house. I paid, stepped out, and only after ensuring the street was empty and I wasn't being followed (Radar confirmed—clear), I walked quickly up the porch. Before inserting the key into the lock, I deactivated Metamorph. The sensation of returning to my own body was almost physically pleasant after several days in someone else's skin.
The door opened before I could even turn the key. 2B stood on the threshold. She was in that same gray dress, her hair neatly tied back, but on her face… or rather, under the blindfold… I read something like impatience?
"Return confirmed, Commander John," she said in her melodic voice, but there were new, warm notes in it. "The mission… was successful?"
"More than successful, 2B," I stepped inside, and she immediately… hugged me. Firmly, almost humanly awkwardly, but with such sincerity that it took my breath away. I hugged her back, breathing in the familiar scent of vanilla.
"Recorded… decrease in user stress level after successful completion of the assignment and… tactile contact," she murmured into my shoulder, clearly trying to find a protocol-based excuse for her impulse.
"I'm glad to see you too," I smiled, pulling back to look "into her eyes." "I'm starving. What's for dinner?"
"Optimized protein stew with root vegetables and spices, according to your metabolic requirements," she reported, regaining her composure and heading to the kitchen.
While I changed and washed my hands, she set the table. The atmosphere of home, her quiet presence, the smell of delicious food—it was all incredibly pleasant after the cold luxury of the Geneva hotel and the tension of the last few days.
Dinner was spent talking. I told her (omitting the riskiest details and not mentioning the System) about Operation Ashworth, the meeting with Dubois, the appraisal, and the haggling. She listened intently, occasionally asking clarifying questions about the hotel's security protocols or manuscript verification methods. Her analytical mind soaked up the information, but I saw that she was more interested not in the deal itself, but in how I handled the task.
"You acted… efficiently and calculatingly, Commander John," she said when I finished the story. "The risks were high, but your plan… it accounted for most variables. It is… impressive."
"Thanks, 2B. In many ways, thanks to your… remote support, I felt more confident," I winked at her.
She blushed slightly again.
After dinner, I sat at the laptop. I needed to check the arrival of funds and begin the next stage of the plan—the secure distribution of the money. I logged into the shell Swiss bank system, using all precautions—VPN, proxies, anonymous browser. Technopathy helped me "feel" the network, bypassing detection systems. The account of the Alpenhorn Investments fund. Balance…
$4,500,000.00
They arrived. Four and a half million dollars. I leaned back in the chair, feeling lightheaded. It was real.
Now for the hardest part. Moving this money out of the Swiss offshore and turning it into accessible resources without attracting attention. A direct transfer to my (non-existent) American bank account was out of the question. I needed to create a chain.
Using Technopathy and Cybernetic Affinity for (careful, traceless) interaction with banking systems and creating secure accounts in various, less transparent jurisdictions (small European banks, banks in island nations with high confidentiality), I began to break the main sum into many small parts. Each part, not exceeding the threshold that triggers financial regulators' attention, was transferred to a separate account opened in one of my temporary identities created by Metamorph. This took several hours of painstaking work—I had to act slowly, mimicking normal operations to avoid suspicion from bank monitoring systems.
For greater security, I moved some funds from these accounts through several layers of transactions between different banks, using shell companies created on the fly with my abilities to maximally confuse the trail and complicate tracking the original source.
Now I needed a legend for the money's appearance in the US. I decided to use several channels:
Gambling/Lottery: A small portion (say, 50-100k) could be "legalized" as a win in an online lottery or casino (again, using Technopathy to "adjust" results in some obscure online casino in Curacao). This would require paying taxes but would create the first legal capital.
Inheritance: Another portion (200-300k) could be framed as an inheritance from a "distant relative" in Europe (the very same fictitious von Adlerberg family Ashworth represented). This would use the documents I forged earlier and perhaps the services of a lawyer specializing in international inheritance (whom I would find and "vet" using my abilities).
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