The next morning, Smith Doyle was still tangled in his high-thread-count sheets when the bedroom's ambient light slowly brightened. The artificial intelligence spoke, its voice perfectly flat and mechanical, cutting through the silence.
"Master, incoming call from General Ross."
Smith grunted, considering ignoring it. He ran a hand through his messy hair, then remembered Ross was one of his better-paying clients. "Accept," he mumbled.
A column of blue light shot up from the projector on his nightstand, coalescing into the holographic upper body of General Ross. His face was stern, his uniform crisp, every line on his face rigid and businesslike.
"Smith, this is Ross."
Smith sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "General. What brings you calling so early? It's barely dawn."
Ross's projection chomped on an unlit cigar while seeming to review documents just out of frame. "I'm moving to apprehend a fugitive. His capabilities are far beyond ordinary. I need your assistance."
A fugitive with extraordinary power. Smith's mind immediately went to one person. The big green guy. Getting paid to help Ross catch the Hulk? That sounded like a terrible investment. Smith shook his head, the last of his sleepiness vanishing. "General, you should contact S.H.I.E.L.D for this. They handle extraordinary cases."
Ross's holographic expression soured visibly. The mention of S.H.I.E.L.D made his jaw tighten. Over the past year, every promising talent he'd identified had been poached by S.H.I.E.L.D under the guise of managing superhuman threats. This time, he wasn't letting them anywhere near the Hulk. Not when he was so close to reclaiming his greatest failure.
"I don't have a good relationship with those people," Ross said flatly. "This is military business."
Part of Smith, the part that loved a challenge, wanted to test himself against the Hulk. He suppressed the urge with practiced ease. "General, I'm a businessman, not a soldier. You need combat troops, not me."
Ross didn't seem surprised or offended by the refusal. He just nodded, his face still a mask of command. "I see. Then we'll handle it ourselves."
The projection flickered and vanished, plunging the room back into its soft morning light.
Smith stood, stretched his arms overhead with a satisfying pop, and grinned at the empty space. "This is going to be interesting. Won't be long before Hulk makes his way here."
There was no need to follow Ross to Brazil. Bruce Banner would return to New York on his own eventually. If Smith really wanted a rematch, there'd be plenty of opportunities later.
Ross hung up and immediately headed to a military base tarmac. The air thrummed with the whump-whump-whump of helicopter blades. He'd assembled an elite strike team, already geared up and standing in formation. Every soldier had reached the human limit of eight combat power points. One of them, a man with cold, intense eyes named Blonsky, had exceeded eight points. The only member of the team to surpass the baseline.
General Ross surveyed his team, their professional stillness a mirror of his own. His gaze lingered on Blonsky for a moment. He gave a sharp, satisfied nod. "Good. Very good, boys."
On the helicopter, the vibration rattling his teeth, Ross distributed mission briefings on tablets. The cabin was loud and smelled of oil and sweat. "This is a capture operation. Here's your target and location. The requirement is to take him alive. Use tranquilizer rounds. Lethal force only as a last resort."
He pointed to a line on the screen. "Local police will provide support, but we cannot alert the suspect before we move."
Blonsky studied the file, his expression unreadable. He looked up, his voice cutting through the rotor noise. "Will the target resist?"
Ross met his eyes, his gaze like iron. "The target is a fugitive from the United States government who stole military secrets. He's suspected of killing two scientists, one army officer, one Idaho state trooper, and two Canadian hunters."
He leaned forward slightly. "Don't wait for him to resist. Tranquilize him and bring him in."
Victor's castle was sealed completely during daylight hours. Heavy stone and metal shutters blocked every window, not a single ray of sunlight penetrating the ancient structure. But inside, bright, cold electric lighting illuminated every corridor, a stark contrast to the medieval stone. The air was cool and still.
Selene's boots made almost no sound on the stone floor as she entered Victor's study. She carried a single, thick envelope. "Father. This was delivered by a Fraternity courier."
Victor looked up from a heavy, leather-bound book. He paused at the familiar name. "I didn't expect that organization to still exist after all this time."
Victor had lived for fifteen hundred years. The Fraternity was nearly as old. He'd dealt with them before, back when their headquarters occupied the British Isles. Long before the United States even existed as a nation. After some interaction, Victor had concluded their philosophies were incompatible. They'd shown no interest in becoming vampires, so he'd ended contact.
Victor took the letter. His long fingers broke the wax seal with a neat crack. "It's been over a century. Tell me what's changed."
He began to read the formal, typed letter while Selene provided the background, her voice a professional monotone. "The Fraternity is headquartered in New York now. Their leader is Smith Doyle, codename God. He's a household name in America and possesses extremely powerful combat capabilities."
"His subsidiaries include the global Assassin Brotherhood network, the Universal Capsule Company which manufactures the scouter, and various supporting enterprises including textile factories."
Selene produced a tablet and pulled up several clips of combat footage available on the public web. She held it for him to see.
Victor watched, his ancient eyes focused. The videos showed Smith flying, firing devastating energy blasts from his hands, moving at superhuman speeds, and shrugging off attacks that would have pulverized entire buildings. He was impressed, despite himself. "They've changed dramatically in just over a century. No wonder he calls himself God. That strength... it's genuinely terrifying."
Victor knew with absolute certainty that he, even with the night's blessing enhancing his powers, was no match for this 'God'.
"What does the letter say?" Selene asked, lowering the tablet.
"The Fraternity received intelligence about vampires." Victor's voice was calm, analytical. "They're sending an elder and a judge to investigate. Two representatives will visit to inquire about vampires injuring and killing humans, and about imprisonment and blood slavery."
Selene's face flushed with a rare, hot anger. "It's slander. Blatant slander."
"We vampires barely interact with humans anymore." Her voice was tight, her hands clenched. "The blood we use now is synthetic plasma blood. We've built an entire profitable industry around it. Why would we risk that with 'blood slavery'?"
"And killing humans? Ridiculous. Members of London's upper class have offered fortunes to be turned into vampires. We've refused every single approach."
Victor smiled, a cold, thin expression. "Which is why whoever sold that information will be punished appropriately."
He set the letter down on the dark wood of his desk. "The Fraternity isn't easy to deal with, but it seems they've evolved. They're no longer killing first and investigating later."
Selene looked confused, not quite following her father's meaning.
"Prepare yourself," Victor said, his tone final. "Our guests will arrive soon."
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