An hour ago.
"We need a high-profile entry."
Charlie's fingers swiped across the glowing interface of his hero selection screen. His eyes scanned the list of heroes available to him, mentally weighing the options. When he said "we," he was, of course, referring to the hero character he would control from afar, not himself. Charlie had always made it a rule to keep his own hands clean. Remote control was his method; the heroes in his roster would do the work, while he stayed in the shadows, pulling the strings.
"Friday, help me pick out the first batch of technologies to release," he added, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. "But remember, don't start with anything too volatile. Let's stick to civilian technologies—energy generation, hardware optimization, advanced AI algorithms, biomedicine—stuff like that."
He leaned back in his chair, mulling over the finer details. "Focus on tech that can make a real difference to everyday people but doesn't put dangerous tools in anyone's hands. Last thing we want is someone reverse-engineering this into an Iron Man suit or a fleet of Batwings."
Charlie's aim was straightforward but ambitious: he needed vast resources, sprawling industrial facilities, and tons of raw materials to begin developing the more advanced tech from his hero pool. His vision extended far beyond simple upgrades—he imagined building an entire force of customized tech, an army that would be entirely his to command. But there was a guiding principle behind this ambition: the weapons and tools he unlocked had to remain firmly under his control.
After all, Charlie knew the importance of keeping power in check. He'd seen it with heroes like Tony Stark—creators who walked a fine line between innovation and control. Stark Industries had invented miraculous tech, but Tony had always kept the most dangerous creations to himself, redirecting the company's efforts to technology that benefited society as a whole. He understood that selling weapons, even for the right reasons, was a dangerous game. It was impossible to control who might get their hands on such power once it left your grasp.
That's why, despite pressure from governments and militaries, Tony Stark had refused to hand over his Iron Man designs. He understood that once dangerous technology was out in the world, there would always be someone foolish enough to misuse it.
"Understood, sir." Friday's voice chimed in through the speakers, her tone light and thoughtful. "But if I may ask, isn't our goal to improve the planet's overall defenses against external threats?"
"What? No, that's for their benefit," Charlie replied, pausing as he considered his words. "Well... in terms of the outcome, I guess yes. But people are... complicated. You can't trust them blindly. The only reason I'd trust them at all is because our weapons are bigger—much bigger. And they need to stay that way. If you hand a gun to an idiot, you can't expect him to negotiate calmly."
"Got it, sir," Friday replied with a small smile in her voice. "But I think you might be overestimating the risk."
Charlie arched an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
"Sir, I don't think you fully appreciate the challenges involved in technological development," Friday explained. She had a hint of amusement in her tone, like a teacher addressing an eager student.
She wasn't wrong. Charlie's understanding of science came mostly from sci-fi films, where alien technology crash-landed on Earth, and within weeks, humans had reverse-engineered it into cutting-edge weaponry. But Friday had a more realistic perspective.
"New technology doesn't translate into instant breakthroughs, sir," Friday continued. "A single advancement requires years—sometimes decades—of research. It involves countless scientists, engineers, and specialists building on existing knowledge, testing theories, and painstakingly refining their work."
She paused, "It's true for every field—whether software, hardware, or biotech. A breakthrough today might only become practical knowledge years later, after experts spend time dissecting it, publishing studies, and training a new generation of researchers."
Charlie considered this, leaning forward as he listened. "You're saying...?"
"Yes, sir," Friday replied, her tone confident. "Even if we provided all the data and blueprints, there's no way the world would experience a technological revolution overnight. The foundation isn't there yet. They wouldn't be able to replicate these advancements for a very long time."
In other words, any concern over technology falling into the wrong hands was premature. Humanity wasn't ready for these breakthroughs yet, and by the time they caught up, Charlie's own technology would be lightyears ahead.
"Okay, well, that's a relief," Charlie said with a chuckle. "But my rule still stands: we don't hand them anything too risky. Keep the real weapons locked up. Got it?"
"As you wish, sir."
---
An hour later.
Stealth technology, in the real world, still felt like science fiction—a fantasy of invisibility cloaks and undetectable vehicles. But in the game world that Charlie navigated, it was anything but. Here, advanced cloaking systems were commonplace among certain factions. Organizations like S.H.I.E.L.D. had mastered it, with invisible Helicarriers and stealthy Quin-jets. Even their agents carried personal cloaking devices, allowing them to vanish from sight.
For someone like Tony Stark, a technological trailblazer, stealth technology was a given. Among the many suits in his arsenal, the Mark XVI, code-named "Nightclub," was a standout for its focus on stealth.
Unlike the battle-ready models, the Nightclub armor had been stripped down to maximize its ability to disappear. It was lighter, with enhanced cloaking fields that bent light around it, making it nearly invisible to the naked eye and most sensors. But that focus on stealth came at a cost: the suit wasn't equipped with heavy weapons, just a basic pulse gun. In the movies, this meant it had struggled against foes like Aldrich Killian, who tore it apart with brute strength. But the Nightclub suit's purpose wasn't combat—it was to remain unseen.
And that purpose made it perfect for today's mission.
The armor's outline shimmered as it rematerialized in the center of a high-security conference room. Its sleek red-and-silver plating caught the cold, blue light of the holographic displays around it, reflecting like polished glass. As the figure appeared, the reactions were immediate and chaotic.
Guards stationed around the room snapped into action. A dozen rifles were raised in unison, safeties clicking off as rounds were chambered. Red laser sights crisscrossed the dim space, all aimed directly at the armored figure's chest. The guards' faces were tense, their hands steady on their weapons, but their eyes betrayed a mixture of fear and confusion.
Around the conference table, a group of high-ranking officials froze in shock. This was one of the most secure rooms on Earth—a place fortified with the best technology, guarded by the most elite personnel. And yet, this unknown figure had bypassed every security measure, materializing right in front of them.
Zidane, seated at the head of the table, could feel his pulse quicken. He had spent decades in positions of power, dealing with threats both known and hidden. But this—this was something new. Something that no amount of political maneuvering could control.
His mind raced, trying to grasp the implications. If this vigilante had wanted to, he could have taken out every single person in the room before they even knew he was there. And if he had the ability to appear here undetected, who was to say he couldn't do the same anywhere else on the planet?
The terrifying thought made the hairs on the back of Zidane's neck stand on end. He wasn't the only one. The other officials glanced nervously between each other and the armored figure, struggling to maintain their composure.
But the vigilante seemed entirely unfazed by the scene around him. The figure in red and silver armor looked over the gathered officials with a cool, almost casual air. He didn't seem to pay any mind to the guns pointed at him.
"Alright, gentlemen," the mechanized voice crackled from the helmet's speakers, distorted slightly by the audio processors. "We're all civilized here. No need to get jumpy with the weapons. Let's put them down before someone gets hurt."
The guards hesitated, fingers twitching near their triggers, waiting for a command.
"Stand down," Captain Hercules ordered with a grim expression, waving his hand. "If he wanted us dead, we'd already be corpses."
There was a bitter truth in those words. The vigilante's calm demeanor and advanced tech hinted at capabilities far beyond their own. Everyone in the room knew the stories—rumors of a red-and-silver armored figure appearing in hotspots around the globe, saving lives one moment, defying conventional physics the next. They knew enough to realize that their weapons wouldn't do much against someone like this.
The armored vigilante's helmet turned slightly, his glowing visor fixing on Zidane.
"It seems you think we have something to discuss?" he asked, his tone neutral but carrying a weight of unspoken threat.
Zidane forced himself to remain calm, even as his mind reeled with the implications. This intruder had likely overheard their earlier conversation. It was unsettling, knowing that their private words might have been recorded, analyzed, dissected.
But Zidane was no ordinary man—he was accustomed to high-stakes diplomacy, to negotiating with the unknown. He steadied himself, taking a deep breath before responding.
"Yes," Zidane began, choosing his words with care. "We are grateful for the aid you and your allies have provided to Earth. Without your intervention, many crises would have ended far worse than they did."
He glanced around the room, gauging the reactions of the others before continuing. "But as you must understand, we know very little about your organization. With the threats we face growing more severe, it's vital that we establish better communication. We need to understand each other—to work together more effectively against these emerging dangers."
It was a stark contrast to the dismissive attitude Zidane had displayed earlier. But Charlie, controlling the stark, smiled to himself. It was a reminder of the old saying: "Power makes even the strongest adversaries speak with respect."
"Glad we're on the same page. That's exactly why I'm here today," the vigilante replied, his voice echoing through the room. "We have plenty of information worth sharing, and this will likely take some time. So, it's been decided—we're open to a discussion."
The officials exchanged puzzled looks, trying to grasp the deeper meaning behind his words.
"You mean... a formal meeting?" Chai asked cautiously, his brow furrowing.
"Exactly. Same time tomorrow. The location has already been sent to you," the vigilante said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Don't worry, it's just a friendly exchange. Exactly what you wanted, right?"
His visor turned slightly toward Zidane, who kept his face composed but shifted slightly in his seat.
"Alright then. I trust you've received our invitation. It's settled. Don't be late."
Without waiting for a response, the vigilante's armored form shimmered, the edges blurring and fading into nothingness. One moment, he stood before them, solid and imposing; the next, he was gone—vanished into the ether as if he had never been there.
Stealth mode reactivated.
It wasn't a trick. It wasn't a magic show. The vigilante had simply ceased to exist in their reality, leaving no trace behind. Even as the officials squinted at the spot where he had been, they couldn't discern a single clue.
Naturally, all eyes turned to Richard, the equipment specialist—the only "expert" in the room.
Richard, still wide-eyed and stunned, stared at the empty space where the vigilante had stood, his mind racing. But when he noticed the expectant looks from his colleagues, he quickly forced a nonchalant expression, coughed, and waved his hands as if to say, "Nothing to worry about, all normal here."
Everyone: "..."
Chai stood up slowly, his expression tense. He straightened his tie, trying to maintain a sense of control over the situation.
"That concludes today's meeting... We have another important meeting to prepare for."
---
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