The whole person went slack. As his arm sagged, the gun slipped, nearly falling to the floor—until the light suddenly returned to the soldier's eyes and he snapped forward to catch it. That jerking, puppet-like motion was Blaine's control taking hold. Now, whatever the soldier saw, Blaine saw.
The moment Blaine seized control of that HYDRA soldier, he entered the room in full.
The room wasn't large—just a typical scientific research office, much cleaner than Tony's.
More than a dozen HYDRA soldiers stood by the door, clearly acting as guards. The bodyguards who had rushed in earlier were there as well, arranged in formation. Cross stood at the center of the room, surrounded.
Several technicians in white coats were constantly adjusting the instruments in the middle of the space. The explosion from earlier must have been caused by one of their mistakes; the scorch marks still streaked the floor. Cross was yelling at them.
Around the perimeter stood several HYDRA leaders. Before them was a massive ring-shaped screen stretching nearly to the ceiling, playing footage of the first-generation Ant-Man armor in action during World War II.
But someone else in the room drew Blaine's attention—Dr. Pym. He hadn't expected to see him here. Perhaps Cross wanted his former teacher to witness this moment: to see Cross claim that he had created a wasp battle suit with free-to-shrink technology without Pym's help; to witness today's grand unveiling; to watch Cross count the money he imagined making.
Along one wall, a row of wasp suits sat inside transparent glass cases—failures, arranged like decoration.
But in the center, surrounded by multiple reinforced cases, was one more. Blaine guessed this one held a successful prototype—a fully functional wasp battle suit.
Cross, a large bald man in a suit, was currently showing off the first weapon.
It was a small pistol—almost like a metal water gun. The muzzle wasn't a normal barrel but a device designed to fire a shockwave-like projectile.
Cross pulled the trigger at a HYDRA soldier beside him. A tiny, barely noticeable object shot forward and struck the man. If not for Blaine's powerful mental senses, he might not have noticed it at all.
The struck soldier instantly collapsed into a lump of flesh—yes, flesh—shrunk down to a piece less than half the size of a palm, like a rolled slice of boiled beef.
Blaine judged the weapon to contain a failed version of Pym Particles—particles capable only of shrinking. A failure, yes, but a terrifyingly effective weapon.
Because Blaine could feel it: if those unstable particles hit him, even he couldn't guarantee he could withstand them. The only safe option would be escaping into the Hunter Space.
Terrifying. Truly terrifying. Even against Dormammu, Blaine had confidence he wouldn't need to rely entirely on the Hunter Space. But this small piece of technology could force him to retreat.
"This Cross is something else…"
Under everyone's gaze, Cross casually pulled out a handkerchief and squatted down to wipe up the lump of meat, erasing all traces of the soldier. HYDRA didn't even blink; it was as if the dead man had never existed. Some even looked excited.
Only the white-coat technicians seemed frightened. Even Dr. Pym remained grim but composed.
Then came the main presentation. The screen shifted to a location in the United States.
At the same time, Blaine—still monitoring from the corridor—froze. Wasn't that near his home in Queens?
The video zoomed in. A tiny mechanical bee flew rapidly toward Blaine's house. Neither pedestrians nor security cameras would have noticed anything.
The bee slipped through a gap in the door and entered the house. A second later, it expanded into a full-sized figure: a man wearing a wasp battle suit—one of Cross' operatives.
The intruder checked the house. Finding no one home, he touched his earpiece, likely receiving instructions from Cross.
Then Blaine's anger ignited.
The man planted a time bomb on Blaine's bed. Then one in the kitchen. Then the bathroom. Then the living room. Every room.
What kind of vendetta—what kind of resentment—was this supposed to be?
After setting the timers, the man pressed something and shrank back into bee-size before flying out. Moments after he left, the house exploded, reduced to rubble.
The video froze. Cross began bragging—about how amazing the Hornet suit was, how easy it was to use, how cheap and affordable, so good you'd be a fool not to buy it. He sounded like a sleazy salesman.
"…You've got to be kidding me."
"If I don't teach you a lesson, you'll think you can open a whole factory on my head."
Blaine, standing in the corridor, was already scowling fiercely. This time there was no doubt. Earlier he'd worried he might repeat the same mistake as when he'd stormed the Hand's base and misjudged the situation—but this time he had caught Cross red-handed. No excuses. No misunderstandings. Just pure retaliation.
Cross wasn't just shameless—he was stupid. Blowing up someone's house and acting proud of it? Using Blaine's suffering to hype up his own product?
He really had no idea who he'd provoked.
Rage surged through Blaine. He was about to break in.
Then Cross turned toward the central glass chamber containing the wasp suit.
Curious, Blaine extended his psychic senses.
Inside the chamber was Scott, wearing the original Ant-Man suit. The guy had tried to steal the Hornet suit—and ended up locked inside. Typical of someone who managed to get arrested every time he stole anything.
Cross held a small vial in his hand, containing the real wasp suit in its miniaturized state. He shook it in Scott's direction, as if mocking him—everything was under his control.
Even Dr. Pym's face darkened. What kind of monster had he helped create?
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