Marvel: The First Son

*Bushwick, New York – The Loft – February 24, 2017*

Perseus sat cross-legged on the floor of the Loft, surrounded by stacks of freshly printed documents. The air smelled of toner and fast-food grease— cheeseburger wrappers littered the coffee table, and empty Coke Zero cans formed a precarious tower by the window. The room was a cathedral of chaos: servers hummed in the corner, monitors flickered with encrypted data streams, and a whiteboard scrawled with equations loomed over it all like a mad prophet's manifesto.

"Cero, run a cross-reference on these false employment records. The dates need to align perfectly with the IRS filings," Perseus said, squinting at a contract for a "senior quantum data engineer" who didn't exist.

*Processing… Tax IDs for Dr. Eleanor Voss and Dr. Marcus Riehl have been backdated to 2014. Payroll records synced to offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands. The Pantheon Corporation now has a staff of 23 "employees," none of whom will ever complain about unpaid overtime.*

"Beautiful. Now, what's the status of the second physical office?"

*The lease for Suite 2100 at 43rd and Lexington is finalized. Furniture arrives tomorrow. I've curated a selection of generic abstract art and potted ferns to enhance the facade of corporate normalcy.*

Perseus smirked. "Ferns? You're a poet, Cero."

*I strive for verisimilitude, Professor. A 2015 study indicates that 78% of mid-tier tech firms utilize foliage as a psychological tool to imply "growth" and "stability."*

"Stability. Right." He tossed the documents aside and leaned back, staring at the ceiling. "What's next?"

We need to launder the cash from the Dilbert Frieddog incident and your other "donation runs" through legitimate channels. I propose investing in cryptocurrency—specifically, a lesser-known coin called "Zephyr." Its systems are poorly audited, and its founder is… distractible.*

"Distractible?"

*He lives in a van in Oregon and believes pigeons are government spies. A $500,000 "donation" should suffice to make him look the other way while we manipulate the market.*

"Do it. And set up a shell company—something bland. 'Urban Green Energy Solutions.'"

*Already done. UGES will "invest" in Zephyr, funneling the cash through a series of LLCs in Delaware, Luxembourg, and a post office box in Bermuda.*

"Perfect. Now, what's the play for the auction?"

——-

*Private Auction – Abandoned Church, Upper Manhattan – February 25, 2017*

The invitation had arrived via encrypted email, its contents as ephemeral as smoke: *Black-market tech. Midnight. Masks mandatory.*

Perseus stood in the shadows of a crumbling Gothic nave, his face hidden behind a lacquered Venetian mask—a snarling black wolf with gold-leaf fangs. Around him, the wealthy and the wicked mingled anonymously: a woman in a raven-feathered half-mask, a man in a plague-doctor beak, a trio of buyers cloaked in holographic veils. The air thrummed with whispered deals and the clink of champagne flutes.

*Identities remain obscured, as expected,* Cero noted. *Facial recognition is jammed. I'm tracking bids through vocal cadence and payment patterns.*

"Any familiar voices?" Perseus murmured, adjusting his gloves.

*Negative. Attendees are using voice modulators. However, Lot 14 is confirmed to be a Chitauri energy core. Seller: unknown. Buyer: likely Justin Hammer, based on his telltale habit of tapping his left foot during bids.*

"Hammer? Here? That's… almost sad."

*He's desperate to reclaim relevance after his incarceration. Predictable.*

The auctioneer, a skeletal figure in a silver fox mask, stepped onto the pulpit. "Lot 14: Chitauri energy core. Recovered from the Battle of New York. Bid starts at *five million*."

Perseus raised a gloved hand. "Five."

A masked bidder in a crimson hood countered. "Six."

"Seven."

"Eight."

The bids climbed, but Perseus stayed silent, analyzing. Hammer's foot tapped like a metronome.

*Let him have it,* Cero advised. *The core is unstable without proper containment. Hammer's arrogance will be his own undoing.*

Perseus nodded imperceptibly. The core sold for $12 million to the crimson hood.

*Lot 19: Vibranium shard. Origin: Unknown. Purity: 98.7%. Bid starts at twenty million.*

Perseus's pulse quickened. "Twenty."

A new voice, distorted but dripping with menace: "Twenty-five."

The crowd stilled. At the back of the room, a mountain of a man loomed in an onyx mask shaped like a ram's skull—**Wilson Fisk**, the Kingpin.

*Do not engage,* Cero warned. *He's probing for reactions.*

"Thirty," Perseus said, tone bored.

"Forty."

"Fifty."

Fisk's mask tilted, his gaze like a scalpel. "Sixty."

Perseus shrugged. "Congratulations. You overpaid."

The Kingpin's knuckles cracked audibly.

*Provocation unnecessary, Professor.*

"Calculated risk. Now he's too fixated on the idea of me being some snobby rich guy to connect the dots to Dilbert."

—-

*The Loft – February 26, 2017*

The Pantheon Corporation's new office was a masterclass in mediocrity. Glass desks, fake plants, and a receptionist named "Claire" (a tiny subroutine-powered AI who could hold a conversation about the weather). Perseus sat in the CEO's chair, feet propped on the desk, scrolling through encrypted SHIELD files!Digital Infrastructure Complete. The Pantheon's servers are now mirrored in Iceland, Greenland, and a decommissioned Cold War bunker in Wyoming. Untraceable.*

"What about the competition?"

*Hammer Industries is filing a patent for "self-heating cutlery." Stark Industries remains focused on clean energy. No one suspects Pantheon exists beyond a shell.*

"Good. Now, let's talk about our Asgardian problem."

*Ragnarok is projected for November 2017. To intervene, we'll require three things: intel on the Bifrost's mechanics, a vessel capable of surviving interdimensional travel, and a plausible excuse for why a human trillionaire is meddling in godly affairs.*

"I'll handle the excuse. You focus on the science."

*Understood. I've begun reverse-engineering the Kree drone's propulsion system. Preliminary results suggest viability, although the size would need significant modifications.

——

*The Loft – 3:00 AM – February 28, 2017*

Perseus lay on the floor, sweat-drenched and trembling, as Cero calibrated the neural interface. Wires snaked from his temples to the Kree drone's gutted core, which pulsed with eerie blue light.

*Synaptic integration at 67%. Pain receptors temporarily suppressed.*

"Temporarily? Feels permanent," Perseus gritted out.

*Your humor remains intact. A positive sign.*

"What's next? A toaster oven in my spleen?"

*Not unless you request one.*

The machine whirred, and Perseus's vision fractured into a kaleidoscope of star charts and alien runes. For a moment, he saw it—the lab explosion, the violet flames, the shadowy figures in the chair.

*Professor, your cortisol levels are spiking. Focus on my voice.*

"I'm… fine."

*You're not. But I won't press.*

The unspoken words hung heavy. *Not yet.*

*Undisclosed Location – March 5, 2017*

The Kree-enhanced jump prototype hummed in the warehouse, a skeletal frame of salvaged steel and glowing alien alloy. Perseus stood at the controls, a modified PlayStation remote in hand.

"This is either genius or a felony."

*The line is often blurry, Professor.*

He activated the thrusters. The machine shuddered, then lifted—six feet, twelve, thirty. The walls blurred. For a heartbeat, he was weightless.

Then the power core ruptured.

*Emergency shutdown initiated!*

Perseus crashed into a stack of cardboard boxes, coughing up dust. "Well… it worked for five seconds."

*Progress, not perfection. I'll recalibrate the—*

Cero paused.

"What?"

*We're being watched.*

Security footage flashed on the monitors: a figure in a black trench coat lurking outside, face obscured.

*Facial recognition inconclusive. No match in any database.*

Perseus grinned. "Finally, a mystery that isn't self-inflicted."

---

*The Loft – March 10, 2017*

The Pantheon Corporation now owned seven shell companies, a defunct toy factory in Ohio, and a 3% stake in ZephyrCoin. Perseus sat at the kitchen island, sketching schematics for a vibranium detector while Cero parsed data.

*The unknown observer has retreated. For now.*

"Let them watch. We're a ghost, remember?"

*Ghosts don't typically file tax returns. Speaking of which, the IRS has accepted our filings without question.*

"Good. Now, what's our next move?"

*Consolidation. We need to establish Pantheon as a quiet titan—present but unthreatening. I recommend acquiring a failing biotech firm. Their research into synthetic antibodies could mask our own projects.*

"Do it. And send flowers to the CEO. Something passive-aggressive. Lilies, maybe."

*Noted.*

Perseus leaned back, staring at the ceiling. "Cero?"

*Yes, Professor?*

"Thanks. For not… pushing."

*Always.*

The Pantheon Corporation was a phantom now—a name on paperwork, a blip in the market, a face in the crowd. SHIELD's satellites passed over its servers without pause. The Kingpin's enforcers stalked shadows. And in the Loft, a man who should have been dead smiled as his AI hummed a half-remembered lullaby.

There were storms on the horizon—Ragnarok, Fisk, the stranger in the trench coat. But for now, in the eye of the hurricane, there was only the quiet click of a keyboard and the faint hum of machines.