The facility manager's name was Gerald, and he had absolutely no idea what Umbrella Corporation was supposed to do.
This bothered him more than he liked to admit. Gerald had spent thirty years in corporate America, climbing the ladder from entry-level accountant to senior operations manager. He'd worked for defense contractors, pharmaceutical companies, tech startups with more funding than sense. He knew how to read a business plan, how to identify revenue streams, how to spot a company that was actually going places versus one that was three months from bankruptcy.
Umbrella Corporation was a complete mystery.
Sixty billion dollars in startup capital—more money than most Fortune 500 companies saw in a decade. A state-of-the-art facility with ten floors of underground infrastructure. A staff of handpicked specialists recruited from some of the best firms in the country.
And no apparent business model whatsoever.
But America's industrial hollowing-out had made good jobs scarce, especially for men in their fifties with expensive tastes and ex-wives who'd gotten very favorable divorce settlements. Gerald had landed this position through luck, connections, and a willingness to not ask too many questions.
He wasn't about to jeopardize it by being curious.
"The renovation proposals are ready for your review, sir," he said, keeping his voice professionally neutral as he led the new boss through the underground corridors. "We can have the first three sublevels operational within six weeks, assuming you approve the contractor bids."
Luke Foster—if that was even his real name—nodded absently. He was young, impossibly young for someone controlling this much capital. Mid-twenties at most, with the kind of casual confidence that usually took decades to develop.
And he was always accompanied by those two women. The white-haired one who moved like a predator and the dark-haired one who made the reinforced floors creak slightly with every step.
Gerald had learned very quickly not to stare at either of them.
"The company will operate through several subsidiaries," Luke said suddenly, interrupting Gerald's mental cataloguing of renovation timelines. "The first will be Rhodes Island Pharmaceutical."
Gerald immediately pulled out his phone, fingers moving to the notes app. Finally, some actual direction.
"Rhodes Island Pharmaceutical," he repeated, typing. "Should I contact our legal team about incorporation filings?"
"Not yet. Just make a note for now."
Rhodes Island Pharmaceutical.
The name tickled something in Gerald's memory. Was that a reference to something? A real company he should know about? It sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place it.
Luke rattled off seven or eight more subsidiary names in quick succession. Gerald dutifully recorded each one, though his confusion only deepened. The names seemed almost random—some sounded like research organizations, others like private military contractors, still others like entertainment companies.
What kind of conglomerate was this supposed to be?
"There's no rush on staffing," Luke added, as if reading Gerald's mind. "Most of these are placeholder structures. We'll fill them in as needs arise."
Placeholder structures. Right. That explained everything.
"One more thing." Luke's tone shifted slightly, becoming more focused. "The other projects can wait, but Rhodes Island Pharmaceutical needs to be built to the highest biosafety standards. Whatever containment level is used for dangerous pathogen research—Level 4, I think?—that's what I want."
Gerald's typing slowed. "BSL-4 facilities are... extremely expensive to construct, sir. The containment protocols alone—"
"Money isn't an issue."
No, Gerald supposed it wasn't. Not with sixty billion in the bank.
"I'll reach out to specialized contractors," he said carefully. "There are only a handful of firms qualified for that level of biocontainment work. It may take some time to—"
"As fast as possible. This is the priority."
Gerald nodded, making another note. BSL-4. Highest biosafety level. The kind of facilities where researchers worked with Ebola and smallpox, sealed away from the outside world by multiple layers of airlocks and decontamination chambers.
What exactly was Umbrella Corporation planning to store in there?
Gerald decided, once again, that he didn't want to know.
What Luke hadn't explained—and what Gerald would never understand—was that Rhodes Island Pharmaceutical was named after the mobile pharmaceutical company from Arknights. The one that traveled the post-apocalyptic wastes of Terra, treating victims of Oripathy while also fielding an army of infected operators.
Those operators were the reason for the BSL-4 requirements.
Oripathy—the crystal disease that was slowly killing most of the Arknights roster—was contagious. Originium crystals grew in and on the infected, granting enhanced abilities but ultimately proving fatal. If Luke ever summoned Arknights characters beyond Skadi, he'd need proper containment facilities to prevent the disease from spreading.
More importantly, he planned to find a cure.
Marvel's universe was full of miracle technologies. Vibranium. Arc reactors. The biological sciences that had created super-soldiers and Hulks and whatever the hell Deadpool was. Surely somewhere in that pile of science fiction nonsense was something that could treat a fictional crystal disease.
Even if curing Oripathy meant the operators lost their Originium-enhanced abilities, Luke would consider it worthwhile. He'd rather have healthy companions than powerful dying ones.
The system had given him people he cared about. The least he could do was try to keep them alive.
Luke also used some of his newfound wealth to acquire additional Stark Industries stock.
The purebloods had held substantial positions in the company—part of their centuries-long strategy of infiltrating human institutions through financial leverage. When Luke expressed interest and pointed out that the share price was cratering due to Tony's disappearance, they'd simply... transferred their holdings.
Obadiah Stane was probably thrilled, Luke mused. The man had been quietly buying back shares for weeks, preparing for Tony's presumed death. He had no idea that someone else was accumulating an even larger position.
Wonder how he'll feel when Tony comes back and his hostile takeover falls apart.
Not that Luke planned to intervene in that particular drama. Tony Stark could handle his own corporate shenanigans. But it would be entertaining to watch from the sidelines.
Later that evening, Luke found himself sprawled across a leather couch in their new LA mansion—a sprawling Mediterranean-style estate that probably violated several zoning laws and definitely exceeded reasonable square footage by any sane metric.
"Luke."
Riven's voice pulled him from his thoughts. She was perched on the arm of a chair across the room, studying him with an expression he couldn't quite read.
"Are we still going to hunt vampires?"
The question caught him off guard. "Of course. Why wouldn't we?"
"We have resources now. Money. This house." Riven's gaze swept across the opulent living room. "In Noxus, warriors who accumulated enough wealth usually retired from the front lines. They became commanders. Administrators."
Ah. She was worried he'd go soft.
"I'm not retiring," Luke said firmly. "The vampires are still out there. The drops are still out there. And..." He paused, searching for the right words. "I'm not the kind of person who can sit behind a desk while other people do the fighting."
Riven's expression softened almost imperceptibly. "Good."
There was something else in her voice, though. Something that sounded almost like relief. Luke filed that away for later analysis.
"Besides," he added, "Gitano's people are planning to purge the turned vampires who sided with Deacon. Someone should be there to help clean up the mess."
"Help," Riven repeated, a hint of amusement coloring the word.
"Assist. Facilitate. Provide tactical support." Luke grinned. "And collect whatever drops happen to fall our way."
Meanwhile, in a secure facility on the other side of the country, Nick Fury was having a very bad day.
"What do you mean, gone?"
The agent delivering the report—a junior analyst who'd clearly drawn the short straw—flinched at his director's tone. "They've vanished, sir. Completely. Our surveillance teams reported in as scheduled, and then the next morning, the subjects simply... weren't there anymore."
Fury's single eye narrowed dangerously. "Three people don't just vanish. Not from a location we had under twenty-four hour observation."
"No sir. They don't." The analyst swallowed hard. "We've reviewed all the footage. Checked satellite imagery. Cross-referenced with traffic cameras, public transit records, airline manifests. There's no sign of them leaving. It's as if they just... ceased to exist."
The implications of that were troubling. Very troubling.
Fury had dispatched agents to monitor Luke Foster and his companions after Coulson's disturbing report. The plan had been simple: observe from a distance, gather intelligence, then approach for a formal conversation once they had a better understanding of what they were dealing with.
Instead, his targets had disappeared the moment surveillance began.
Coincidence? Fury didn't believe in coincidences. Not when classified information was involved.
If Luke had told the truth about his organization existing for decades—about them watching SHIELD since before SHIELD existed—then they might have operatives inside Fury's own agency. Sleeper agents. Moles. People who'd reported the surveillance operation before it even began.
The thought made his blood run cold.
"Get me Romanoff," he said quietly. "Tell her I have an assignment. Priority Alpha."
If anyone could find ghosts, it was the Black Widow.
Across the Potomac, in a tastefully appointed office that had witnessed more conspiracy than most spy novels, Alexander Pierce was receiving similar news.
"The subjects have disappeared, sir."
The messenger was Jasper Sitwell—bald, bespectacled, and sweating despite the building's aggressive air conditioning. He was one of Pierce's most trusted operatives within SHIELD, a loyal HYDRA agent who'd spent years climbing the ranks without arousing suspicion.
Right now, he looked like a man delivering news to a king who was known for executing messengers.
"Disappeared." Pierce's voice was flat, emotionless. "Explain."
"Our observation team lost them sometime overnight, sir. No indication of how they left or where they went. We've checked every database we have access to—SHIELD's, the NSA's, even some of our more... unofficial sources. Nothing."
Pierce leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
He'd been reviewing the security footage from his own home. The night the "Assassin" had visited. He'd watched it dozens of times now, analyzing every frame, every movement.
The recording showed everything. Luke's people had known about the cameras. They'd deliberately positioned themselves in view, as if they wanted Pierce to see what they were capable of.
And then they'd dismantled HYDRA's greatest weapon in seconds.
The white-haired woman—Riven, if Pierce's intelligence was correct—had been holding back. He'd watched Luke physically restrain her from using lethal force. If she'd gone all-out, the Winter Soldier might have died in a single blow.
The other one, the dark-haired woman with the massive sword, hadn't even participated. She'd just stood there, watching with serene disinterest, as if the Winter Soldier wasn't worth her attention.
How many fighters at that level did the Assassin organization possess?
Pierce had initially assumed the two women were elite bodyguards. The best of the best, assigned to protect their leader. That would make sense.
But what if they were just... average? What if the organization had dozens of people like them? Hundreds?
The Winter Soldier was a super-soldier. Comparable to Captain America himself. And these people had beaten him like he was nothing.
"I'm disappointed, Sitwell."
The words were quiet, almost gentle. Which made them infinitely more terrifying.
"Sir, I—"
"HYDRA prides itself on competence. We're not like those SHIELD agents who spend their shifts playing Angry Birds and gossiping about their coworkers. We're supposed to be elite." Pierce's eyes were cold. "And you're telling me we can't maintain surveillance on three people?"
"I'll find them, sir." Sitwell's voice was desperate. "I'll personally—"
"I don't need promises. I need results." Pierce stood, moving to the window that overlooked the city. "Find out where they went. Find out how they knew we were watching. And Sitwell?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Don't disappoint me again."
The dismissal was clear. Sitwell practically fled the office.
Alone, Pierce stared out at the Washington skyline. Somewhere out there, the Assassin was operating with impunity. Building his power base. Accumulating resources.
And Pierce had no idea what he was planning.
Assassins indeed, he thought grimly. Living up to the name.
PLZ THROW POWERSTONES.
300 , 500 , 1000 for each milestone 1 Bonus Chapter.