The morning light tried its best to pierce through the flimsy curtains, casting meager stripes of gold across the floorboards of my brownstone. I stirred from sleep with a groan—a sound more worn than the bedsprings beneath me—as I stretched slowly, the thin blanket, barely more than a sheet and doing little to hide the smooth curves of my now mature form, slipping down.
"For an old bed, this one's surprisingly decent," I muttered, easing myself up and making my way to the bathroom. Pausing at the mirror, I couldn't resist the chance to survey the reflection staring back at me. Standing at a solid 175 cm, my body was toned with defined abs, sleek lines, and filled out in all the right places. My arms, still slim and feminine, showed a touch of muscle, just enough to hint at my strength.
I swept my fingers through my long blond hair, letting it fall back to reveal my face and bare chest. If I'd ended up in the Marvel-verse at fifteen, this body would've been hard to explain—the extra height, the… enhancements in the chest and hips. Good thing I got stuck back in time.
With a slight smirk, I examined my breasts, lifting one side as I let out a low, amused sigh. "Not bad, not bad at all. And way less irritating than I thought they'd be." A self-satisfied grin crept onto my face. Ten centimeters taller than Supergirl—I'd always thought she was stuck at 165 cm because she couldn't quite outgrow the "girl" part of her name. Maybe that's the difference.
My brief inspection over, I turned to my wardrobe and groaned again, my plans immediately dashed by the contents inside. "Now, what am I supposed to wear? The stuff I picked up two days ago—well, in this timeline—doesn't fit now that I'm a head taller. And there's no way I'm walking around like I'm stuck in the fifties."
"Well, first things first a shower, dress-up comes later."
...
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, wrapped up in a towel, I blew my hair dry, mentally running through my plans. "First things first, I've got to do something about this hair. It's reaching my lower back now." I frowned at my reflection. "Didn't expect my Kryptonian physiology to affect my hair, too. Damn thing is super hard to cut." I wondered why this issue was never addressed in the movies or comics—or maybe I was just different. "On the plus side, at least I won't be leaving DNA behind."
Done griping about my admittedly beautiful hair, I focused on my plans. Last night, I had Navi run a search to find out what my clones had been up to, and I was surprised. The clones I'd left in the past did a thorough job—almost too good, in my honest opinion—of establishing a legal identity for me. Since my tech was far too futuristic, they went with Biopharm, and now I'm the future inheritor of the biggest biopharmaceutical company in the world. Not that I plan to get involved in that anytime soon; staying under the radar is still my priority.
Thinking back to last night, I mused, "Memory manipulation and illusion worked wonders, but how did they manage to make themselves look older, Henge no Jutsu, would that get pretty tired pretty soon? Guess they're more resourceful than I thought." I smirked, mockingly adding, "Then again, I'm obviously complimenting myself. They're my clones, after all."
...
After getting out of the bathroom, I found myself staring at an empty fridge. "Damnit, did I forget to buy food? There isn't even bread or coffee. Christ!" Rummaging through the kitchen, I managed to find a box of pizza from yesterday's binge session and threw it in the microwave. As for coffee… well, I had something even better. A bottle of wine I'd "liberated" from the Germans during World War II appeared in my hand, courtesy of my subspace unit. Along with a stash of that, I also had a collection of artwork and other treasures.
Eyeing the rest, I mused, "This wine and art stash would probably be worth millions nowadays. Not a bad start for my future plans." The microwave beeped, pulling me from my thoughts. I sat down with my leftover pizza, still wrapped in my towel, and poured myself a glass of fine wine. "Breakfast of champions!" I murmured. "Though, wasn't that supposed to be beer with cornflakes instead of milk?"
I decided to solve my wardrobe problem by conjuring my Astral Dress, opting for a pair of ripped jeans and a white T-shirt featuring a drenched girl and a cat, along with the text, 'Wet chick playing with her pussy.' Well, this seems comfy enough."
Today, I have a few important tasks to tackle in the basement. First up, I'll be diving into some extension charms. After that, I'll set up my lab—a personal workshop, studio, and tech forge all in one. It's where I can design and create my own technology and weapons.
Why am I doing this? My plan is to leverage this technology to build a financial empire. With my newfound wealth, I aim to enhance my abilities and solidify my standing in this world while establishing a robust network. The clones may have built their own empire, but I need to create something unique if I want to be taken seriously.
Besides, arming myself is crucial if I want to pass as an ordinary human who just happens to be super due to her technology. My ultimate goal is to fill the vacuum Stark will leave once he pulls out of the arms business. I want to stay out of the chaotic drama of future events as much as possible; I'd rather let others handle that.
I don't need to be revered like Superman in DC; that kind of attention would only invite unnecessary trouble. Maybe I should form a team of superheroes... Yes, I should definitely give that some thought.
"Speaking of Stark," I muttered. "Navi, what's the Stark situation?" I asked my AI.
Seconds ticked by. "Miss, he has been rescued."
I felt a flicker of annoyance. Stark? Back already? That complicated my carefully laid plans. "Rescuing" him had been a backup plan in case things went wrong. Now, the whole "peace and disarmament" act would happen sooner than I thought. Time to speed up my stock manipulation; people would be dumping shares like yesterday's trash after Stark's big announcement.
With annoyance still marring my face, I wandered over to the living room, grabbed the remote off the little coffee table, and plopped onto the couch. At least the TV was the only thing here that wasn't straight out of the Stone Age. Soon I was flipping through channels on my 50-inch wall-mounted TV.
And there he was—Tony Stark himself, "back from his little vacation," I smirked, watching him take the spotlight at a press conference. In the middle of the room was a plain wooden podium on a raised platform, a sharp contrast to the lobby's modern, sleek design. Behind it, the Stark Industries logo glowed softly in the spotlight, setting the stage perfectly for Tony's big moment.
He stood there, fully illuminated, looking every bit the worn-out billionaire. His voice boomed from my overpowered sound system.
"I saw people being killed with my weapons—the ones I designed to protect them," Stark said, gripping the podium as if it could hold him up. There was no acting here; he looked completely exhausted. "Turns out, there's more to life than just making things that go boom."
Trying to sound confident, though it was barely convincing, he straightened up and announced, "Effective immediately, I'm shutting down Stark Industries' entire weapons division. Consider it my retirement gift to the world."
The room went silent. It was like he'd dropped a bomb—just not the exploding kind. A collective gasp ran through the crowd, and then the silence was so thick it could've been sliced with a plastic knife. Obadiah Stane sat up front, looking furious, his forehead veins practically bulging. After a few stunned seconds, the reporters erupted.
Microphones shot forward like missiles as journalists pushed toward the stage, desperate to catch Stark's words. Closing down a massive arms manufacturer wasn't exactly small talk. Security was struggling to keep things under control as the press conference turned into total chaos.
Obadiah, looking like a kid denied candy, shoved his way through the crowd, yelling like a broken bullhorn. The whole scene was a mess—reporters shouting, security scrambling, and Obadiah's attempts to shut Stark down growing more frantic.
From the comfort of my couch, I watched the whole circus with a smirk. Hmm, looks like it's time to start shopping…
...
The internet exploded like a digital wildfire. Headlines blared, "Stark's Sellout!" as financial analysts scrambled to explain the stock market's sudden freefall. Spooked investors were flooding Stark Industries' communication channels, dumping their shares like rats abandoning a sinking ship.
Lounging in my Brooklyn brownstone, I watched the chaos unfold with a sly grin. Unlike the clueless talking heads on TV, I held the ultimate insider knowledge, Stark Industries wouldn't stay down forever; this was just a rough patch. Soon enough, it would rise, a phoenix of innovation and profit.
Every news channel blared like a malfunctioning alarm clock, each update another shockwave rattling the financial world. Tony Stark's little bombshell—shutting down the "weapons of mass destruction" division—had flipped the economic landscape upside down.
For me, it was a pure opportunity. Amid the chaos, I saw a tiny seed of future dominance. Snagging a stake in Stark Industries was my ticket to a foothold here—a step toward true self-improvement. The only hiccup was funding my little shopping spree. "Borrowing" from criminals to gift myself a head start wasn't exactly going to line my pockets with enough money.
"Well, the path couldn't be clearer—pull in a quick windfall, secure the resources I need to get moving. This alternate reality seemed to follow a predictable pattern, one I could exploit. Obadiah Stane, the greasy corporate shark, was already stalking Tony Stark's arc reactor tech, scheming to sink his teeth into it. Their clash would be the perfect smokescreen for my plan to take shape. A little siphoning from Stane's coffers would suit me just fine." Kara's grin turned wicked. "No need to worry, Stark. Consider it an investment—I'll pay you back in vibranium one day."