The First Kryptonian in Marvel

The early morning sun cast long shadows across the cluttered balcony as I kept my gaze sharp on the movers, watching them navigate the metal box with all the precision I could demand. It was like a delicate dance, this operation. Just one wrong step, and my creation—sleek, impressive on the outside but held together by the sweat of my metaphorical brow and scavenged parts—could crumble.

Today was D-Day. Six angel investors, six potential lifelines to get my plans on track. Being stuck in this universe without my girlfriends was a nightmare, even if, technically, they might not even know each other yet.

A cough jolted me, and I turned, my fingers tangled in my blond hair. Standing there was a middle-aged man with blond hair, keeping a respectful distance. "Excuse me, Miss Vasílissa?"

I took a quick mental scan of him, recognizing him immediately. "Mr. Schmidt?" I said, my tone a blend of wary and cautiously optimistic.

He offered his hand, exuding Wall Street charm. "The pleasure's all mine, Miss Vasílissa."

"Oh, very gentlemanly, Mr. Schmidt," I replied, my handshake firm. But my gaze flicked back to the moving truck, a silent warning lingering between us.

Schmidt picked up on my disinterest, his brow creasing slightly. "Miss Vasílissa, I don't quite understand. What's with the… exodus?"

A slow smile spread across my face. "Just making sure I have the right investors, Mr. Schmidt. Everything's packed and ready to go. Once everyone arrives, we can talk business."

His frown deepened. "Other investors? Miss Vasílissa, you've… diversified your portfolio?"

I smirked. "Let's just say venture capitalists have a reputation for… shortsightedness. Your group, Mr. Schmidt, seems refreshingly… open-minded."

He cleared his throat, his gaze drifting to the hulking form of the metal box being loaded onto another truck. "The video was clear, Miss Vasílissa. Your project… it has potential. We could offer a respectable five million, but our combined resources are far greater. We could easily join forces for more."

I locked eyes with him, a flicker of amusement showing. "Indeed, Mr. Schmidt. But diversification is key, wouldn't you agree? Six investors, each with their own strengths. Four for the cash, reliable hands to keep the project afloat. The other two can help smooth out the inevitable issues." I continued, letting my tone stay nonchalant. "You know, a project like this, a cutting-edge piece of tech, has quite an underground market appeal."

Schmidt's face shifted as he caught my drift regarding the logistics of smuggling advanced equipment. "Miss Vasílissa, you're quite the pragmatist."

"Just keeping my options open, Mr. Schmidt," I countered with a smile, looking him straight in the eye. "Time is of the essence. Shall we?"

With quiet confidence, I strode over to the assembled group—a motley crew of five men and one sharp-looking woman. I gave them a curt nod. "Time to move out, everyone."

Schmidt spoke first, clearing his throat. "Miss Vasílissa," he began, with a glimmer of concern in his eyes, "did you ensure the others… grasped the legal ramifications?"

A sharp laugh broke through the tension. A woman with a steely gaze stepped forward. "Mr. Schmidt," she said, clearly unimpressed, "seems to have missed the earlier briefing. We, however, arrived promptly and discussed the potential legal entanglements. I'm Lan Zhang," she added, extending a hand, "legal counsel for this… endeavor."

A bald man with an overly eager grin piped up next. "And I'm Scott Martin, your man for ensuring smooth and discreet financial flow, no matter the… jurisdiction."

As murmurs rippled through the group, the weight of our conversation began to settle in. Sitting in the back of a car trailing the moving truck, I cast a sidelong glance at my companions. "Relax, everyone. We're all in this for the same reason, aren't we? A huge payday. Trust me, this deal will be a goldmine for all of us."

The tension eased, replaced by cautious optimism. Even Schmidt looked a bit more relaxed. "Miss Vasílissa, this is a promising project. Why take such risks?"

I didn't bother meeting his gaze. "The new company will retain 60% of the shares. We can discuss the remaining portion later."

A brown-haired man spoke up, his voice a low rumble. "Miss Vasílissa, forgive me, but isn't it a bit premature to discuss this? Let's see the product first."

A slow smile spread across my face. "Patience, Mr. Browne. The prototype awaits. By the way, Ms. Zhang and Mr. Martin, I have a couple of tasks for you two." My voice took on a playful edge. "I've secured reservations at a Michelin three-star restaurant tonight."

The car fell silent.

As I gripped the steering wheel, my eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, catching the sly smile on the bald man's face, mirrored by the steely glint in Lan's gaze. Naive fools. They actually thought their "problem-solving" skills were irreplaceable, that they were the crown jewels of this operation. No, they were just here to handle certain transactions. In the grand machine I'd built, their true worth was negligible, replaceable cogs.

The city faded behind us, giving way to stretches of barren highway. Soon, an abandoned warehouse rose up ahead, its skeletal frame silhouetted against the fading light. I pulled into a dusty clearing, the gravel crunching beneath the tires. "This, ladies and gentlemen," I announced, stepping out with my laptop and a black box held tight, "is our proving ground."

The investors filed out, a mismatched group shuffling behind me like a flock of curious pigeons. I barked an order at the moving crew, my tone cold as steel. "Unload everything. Then scram."

As the truck rumbled off, I grabbed a crowbar from the trunk and pried open a wooden crate, revealing a sleek drone that buzzed to life, hovering in the dusty air around me.

A collective gasp rippled through the group. Their eyes widened, surprise morphing into something like reverence as they stared at the drone like it was a goldmine.

"Is this… part of the merchandise, Miss Vasílissa?" Schmidt stammered, his awe obvious.

Without bothering to look at him, I continued dismantling the crate, moving with ease. "Merely a camera drone—a fly on the wall, if you will, Mr. Schmidt. Here to capture today's grand unveiling." A hint of amusement crept into my voice. "Surely you're all familiar with last month's military procurement bid?"

Lan and Scott exchanged uneasy glances, the ones who handled legal and logistical labyrinths for the group.

"Relax, Ms. Zhang, Mr. Martin. I have a separate little… discussion planned for you two." I let a hint of honeyed menace lace my words.

Lan's expression hardened. "Miss Vasílissa," she said, her voice firm, "winning that bid means the military will dissect us. They'll leave no stone unturned."

Scott remained silent, a statue of coiled tension, waiting for me to clarify. I kept my back to them as I continued, "Naturally, these contingencies have been factored in. This little gathering is a showcase, gentlemen—a chance for you to witness my capabilities firsthand. Success, and we're all winners in this game. Failure, at worst, a slap on the wrist for smuggling valuable metals."

A sardonic smile tugged at my lips. "Think about it. I've laid it all bare. You've got some dirt on me now. That should make you feel secure about our partnership." I let my gaze sweep across the group, noting each face, a mixture of apprehension and greed reflecting back at me.

They huddled together, murmuring among themselves like conspirators. Watching them, a flicker of amusement danced in my eyes. I'd dangled the carrot just enough, giving them a taste of fortune but balancing it with the threat of exposure. Betrayal, of course, was always an option—for them, a costly one.

A single thought crossed my mind: if they tried to backstab me, I'd simply let them drive off. A tired trucker on a deserted highway, another unfortunate accident. Ava, my AI, held the city's traffic flow in her iron grip; any trace of their betrayal would be erased without a hitch.

Schmidt, leading the discussion, cleared his throat. "The potential rewards are undeniable, Miss Vasílissa. We commend your candor. Now, let's see this… product in action."

Taking my time, I retrieved the laptop and black box. "These," I announced, holding up a handful of metallic discs no bigger than bottle caps, "are security tags. A safeguard against rogue hackers. Attach them to the machines before activation. Without them, any halfway decent code jockey could seize control."

I distributed the tags with deliberate slowness, my movements measured and purposeful. As each investor reached for their disc, I noticed the flickers of unease passing between them and me. It was a silent pact, maybe, born of ambition and veiled threats.

"For a… fruitful collaboration," I finished, a hint of a challenge in my tone as I powered up the laptop.

...

I pressed a button, and the metal crate lurched, unfolding with the elegance of a blossoming flower. In its place hovered a sleek, menacing machine, a steel predator poised for the kill.

I strode towards the metallic beast and began explaining. "This prototype, named Storm," I said, "can slice through the air at Mach 2—a phantom on the battlefield. Its right arm houses an anti-tank gun, capable of reducing any armored behemoth to molten slag."

A collective gasp rippled through the group. Even Schmidt couldn't suppress the flicker of awe that flashed in his eyes.

"The left arm," I continued, "wields a standard machine gun, backed by a lethal arsenal of six grenades nestled in the shoulder armor. And for those pesky ground troops," I added, a hint of cruel amusement dancing in my eyes, "the rear thrusters, when fully powered, can double as flamethrowers."

My gloved hand swept across the machine. "Here, the ammunition stores, meticulously organized and protected. And this," I tapped the metallic casing, "a shell designed to withstand the harshest environments, ensuring flawless flight even in the heart of a raging inferno."

Schmidt finally found his voice. "Impressive, Miss Vasílissa. But how does this mechanical marvel perform in the real world?"

A slow smile spread across my face. "Patience, Mr. Schmidt. The time for theatrics is over. This," I gestured to the prototype, "is a mere glimpse into the future. A demo, if you will, limited by the constraints of… conventional materials. Just be aware, this prototype's top speed is only 230 km/h. A full-fledged version, constructed with advanced alloys, would reach a staggering Mach 2—a true ghost in the sky. The cost, however," I added, my voice turning cold, "would be a hefty nine million."

"Think of it as a proof of concept," I countered, unfazed. "A taste of what's possible. A fully realized version, bristling with weaponry, starts at ten million. A worthy investment, wouldn't you agree? If you have the stomach for such ambition."

Schmidt shook his head, the realization hitting him hard. He was here to play the venture capitalist, not a sugar daddy for killer robots. Millions for a single machine? He could fund an army of promising projects for that price.

With the financial discussion seemingly over, I wrapped up my presentation on the prototype's basic controls. As the investors digested the information, I moved back to the trunk, retrieving another black box. "Ms. Zhang, Mr. Martin," I called out, "a word with you two. Away from… prying ears."

Scott couldn't help but ask, "Miss Vasílissa, is this about the metals? Or is there something else on your shopping list?"

"Don't be foolish," I replied. "The metals were just to show my goodwill. This new deal… well, that's a separate conversation entirely." Clutching the black box tightly, I led Lan and Scott deeper into the shadowy embrace of the forest that bordered the abandoned warehouse. Turning to face them, I said, "This should be far enough. We'll inspect the goods here."

The warehouse remained stubbornly visible through the sparse trees. I set the black suitcase down with a metallic thud, the silence of the woods broken only by the distant chirping of crickets. Snapping open the latches, I revealed a weapon of sleek menace—a black grenade launcher, its metallic sheen catching the sunlight.

"Behold," I announced, "the F-31. A seventeen-kilo monster with a reach of thirteen hundred meters at its peak. Mechanical sights, effective up to nine hundred. Minimum engagement distance: a hair-raising two hundred and thirty."

My movements were deliberate as I extracted the launcher and grenades from their protective foam bed, each action calculated and precise.

"The grenades themselves," I continued, my voice laced with excitement, "pack a hefty punch. Thirty-two per box, each a four-kilo testament to destructive power. Upon detonation, the main warhead fragments into six submunitions, a miniature reign of terror blanketing a ten-meter radius with oblivion. Anything within twenty meters," I added, a hint of cruel amusement creeping into my voice, "gets a taste of the inferno."

I extended the launcher toward Lan and Scott, a metallic serpent poised to strike. "Care to christen this beauty?"

Lan, her face a mask of unease, hesitated. "Miss Vasílissa," she finally managed, "perhaps some clarification on the… expansive blast radius?"

Ignoring Lan's question, I thrust the launcher into Scott's grasp. The man grunted, the weapon's weight a clear surprise. I effortlessly retrieved it from the fumbling Scott, afraid he would drop it.

"Simple," I said. "The warheads are loaded with a mix of explosives and napalm. The submunitions are also napalm-based, enhanced with additional explosives. Does that quench your thirst for knowledge?"

A chilling silence descended upon the trio. I smiled and aimed the F-31 at the skeletal remains of the warehouse. In the blink of an eye, the world was consumed by a deafening roar. Flames erupted from the barrel, a monstrous serpent of fire devouring the ruins. The warehouse, already a monument to decay, became a pyre, consumed by a viscous inferno that clung to the wreckage with an unnatural tenacity.

I watched the blaze with morbid fascination. "Cost and technical limitations," I explained, "restrict the burning temperature to a measly six or seven hundred degrees Celsius. The right chemical agents, of course," I added, my eyes lighting up, "could push that number significantly higher."

Scott and Lan stood frozen, their gazes fixed on the smoldering remains. The flames, a testament to the weapon's destructive power, continued to lick at the charred wood and twisted metal even ten seconds later.

Lan finally spoke up, breaking the silence, her voice tinged with panic. "Miss Vasílissa," she began, "this… this goes beyond a simple transaction. You're teetering on the precipice of international law with these weapons. Napalm? If we're caught with this…"

A cold smirk played on my lips. Lan's fear was music to my ears. Of course, I was aware of the restrictions on napalm, its use a political minefield. But I also knew they were starting to panic.

"Don't be naive, Ms. Zhang," my voice dripped with disdain. "You're not here for your charming personality. You and Mr. Martin," I continued, the tip of the launcher tracing a slow circle between them, signaling them to listen closely, "are here because you have the best connections on this continent. Your gangs and their smuggling networks are invaluable."

The weight of my words settled on them like a suffocating fog. It wasn't just about them—it was about the criminal organizations backing them, linked to the "Black Triangle." A cold sweat beaded on Scott's forehead.

Panic flickered in their eyes as I leveled the launcher at them. "We can contact them. Right now, Miss Vasílissa!" Scott blurted, "Please, lower your weapon."

I lowered the launcher slowly, musing internally, Ideals and morals were quaint relics in the face of unbridled capitalism, mere tools for the weak and naive. "Excellent," I purred. "Get in touch with your contacts. Time is a luxury we don't have."

Lan's voice trembled as she spoke. "Miss Vasílissa, please. Give us a moment. We'll make the call immediately." Every muscle in her body screamed at her to run, but the glint in my eyes, the way my hand hovered near my back, the unspoken threats—it held them captive.

I reached out and patted Scott and Lan on the shoulders. "See, this is much more productive. Now, go ahead and make that call."

Shaken, the two scrambled for their phones. As they dialed, I pretended to run some checks on the launcher while listening in on them.

When the calls ended, Scott spoke first, his voice barely a whisper. "Our boss wants a meeting, Miss Vasílissa."

I flicked my gaze to Lan. "And yours?"

Lan nodded, her face pale. "They're willing to meet. Just… give us the weapons. We'll arrange the meeting tonight."

"Well, here are the car keys."

I tossed the keys to Lan, my voice laced with cruel amusement. "There's a little surprise waiting for you in the car. A parting gift, you might say. And remember," I hardened my voice, "when you start the engine, keep your speed below thirty kilometers per hour for at least ten minutes. You don't want to know what happens if you don't."

Watching me walk away, Scott and Lan exchanged a look. Lunatic? Genius? It was hard to tell with this woman. One thing was certain – she was dangerous.