The accountant's panicked phone call about the "burn rate" wasn't exactly wrong. Even a billion dollars doesn't last forever when you're building a fortress in Manhattan and buying rare isotopes on the black market.
Luther sat in his office, staring at the city skyline. He needed a revenue stream. A big one.
Investing in stocks was fine for pocket change, but he needed power. He needed influence. And in the Marvel Universe, there was one industry that paid better than any other:
Human Enhancement.
Luther leaned back, mentally scrolling through the competition. It was a crowded field, but honestly? It was a field full of screw-ups.
First, there was Oscorp. Norman Osborn was brilliant, sure, but the guy was unstable. His "Super Soldier" serum was a disaster waiting to happen—literally. The records on the Spider-serum were gone, destroyed by the Parkers, and the Green Goblin formula… well, turning your customers into psychotic gargoyles wasn't exactly a sustainable business model.
Then there was General Thaddeus "Thunderbolt" Ross. The man was obsessed. He didn't want a product; he wanted the Hulk. He was chasing a ghost, convinced that gamma radiation was the key, ignoring the fact that it turned people into rage monsters that destroyed city blocks.
Finally, A.I.M. and Aldrich Killian. They were working on Extremis. It was promising technology—regeneration, heat generation—but it had a nasty side effect of making people explode like biological C4 if they couldn't regulate their temperature. Bad for PR.
"It's a wide-open market," Luther mused aloud. "High demand, zero reliable suppliers."
He cracked his knuckles.
The beauty of his position was that he didn't have to play by the rules. The business world called it "aggressive competition." Luther called it "I'm a Kryptonian, try to stop me."
If someone tried corporate espionage? He'd hear them coming from a mile away. If the government tried to seize his assets? Good luck seizing anything from a guy who can juggle tanks. And if things got really bad? If the "land of the free" decided to nationalize his company?
"Then I'll just remove the people making that decision," Luther thought calmly. "Hostile takeover, literal interpretation."
But violence was messy. It drew attention. Luther preferred finesse.
He needed the biggest client in the world: The United States Department of Defense. But he couldn't just walk up to the Pentagon and knock on the front door. He needed an advocate. He needed someone on the inside who would vouch for him, fight for him, and sign the checks without asking too many questions.
He needed a puppet.
Luther pulled a book from his shelf: The Modern Guide to Clinical Hypnosis and Suggestion.
To a normal person, learning hypnosis takes years of practice. It's about tone, cadence, reading micro-expressions, and understanding the malleability of the human mind.
Luther flipped the book open. His eyes scanned the pages so fast the sound was like a zipper being pulled.
Page 1 to 300. Done in forty seconds.
He tossed the book aside and opened his laptop. He dove into academic papers, CIA psychological warfare manuals, and declassified studies on subliminal messaging.
His Super Brain deconstructed the information. He analyzed the physics of sound waves, the precise pitch required to trigger the compliance centers of the human brain, and the rhythmic patterns that induced a trance state.
Thirty minutes later, Luther closed his eyes. He practiced a few phrases, adjusting the resonance of his vocal cords by fractions of a millimeter.
"Sit down," he whispered. The air in the room seemed to vibrate. It wasn't magic; it was biological engineering applied to psychology.
"Time to go shopping," Luther grinned.
2:00 AM. Virginia.
General Kelson D. Sweet was a man of routine. He was a three-star general, a peer of Thunderbolt Ross, and a man who slept with a loaded .45 on his nightstand.
He woke up with a start. The house was silent. Too silent.
His instincts, honed by thirty years of service, screamed that something was wrong. He reached for the nightstand.
His hand grasped empty air.
The gun was gone.
Sweet sat up, his heart hammering against his ribs. He didn't panic. He moved. He slid out of bed, grabbing a combat knife from under his mattress, and moved silently into the hallway.
He swept the downstairs living room, moving like a ghost.
"Coffee?" a voice asked casually.
Sweet spun around, knife raised.
A young man was sitting on his leather sofa. He was wearing a black trench coat and sunglasses, looking like he'd just walked off the set of The Matrix, but his posture was relaxed, almost bored.
On the cushion next to him sat Sweet's .45 pistol, the magazine ejected and placed neatly beside it.
"Who are you?" Sweet barked. He didn't yell for the guards. If this guy was already in here, the guards were either dead or useless.
"Please, sit down, General Sweet," the stranger said.
Sweet frowned. The intruder wasn't aiming a weapon. He was just… sitting there. He exuded a level of confidence that was terrifying. It wasn't the arrogance of a punk; it was the calmness of a predator looking at a chew toy.
Sweet lowered the knife slightly but didn't sheath it. He walked over to the armchair opposite the sofa and sat down, keeping his muscles coiled, ready to spring.
"You have five seconds to explain why I shouldn't break your neck," Sweet growled.
"I'm here to make you a hero, General," Luther said.
Luther leaned forward. He took off his sunglasses. His eyes were intense, locking onto Sweet's.
"And I'm here to bring you benefits."
As Luther spoke, a low, resonant hum entered his voice. It was barely audible, a sub-frequency that bypassed the ears and went straight to the nervous system.
Sweet blinked. His grip on the knife loosened. He felt a sudden wave of lethargy, a comfortable fog settling over his thoughts.
"Benefits?" Sweet repeated, his voice sounding distant to his own ears.
"The military needs a win, General," Luther continued, his voice rhythmic, soothing, commanding. "Ross is chasing monsters. Stark is hoarding his toys. You… you want something reliable. Something real."
"Something… real," Sweet echoed. The hostility was draining out of him, replaced by a desperate need to agree with the man in front of him.
"I need you to make some calls," Luther said softly. "There are other Generals. Men of influence. You're going to call them. You're going to tell them that Emperor Industries has the answer."
In the Marvel Universe, hypnosis was a known threat. HYDRA used the Faustus method to turn S.H.I.E.L.D. agents into sleeper assassins. But what Luther was doing was on another level. He was rewriting the General's biological impulse to disobey.
"I will call them," Sweet nodded, his eyes glazing over slightly.
"Good," Luther smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "We have a meeting to schedule."
Three days later. A private conference room at the Pentagon.
Luther stood at the head of the table. Five generals, including Sweet, sat before him. The atmosphere wasn't hostile; it was eager. Sweet had done his job well.
"Gentlemen," Luther said, sliding a sleek, silver briefcase across the table. "Forget the Hulk. Forget the Super Soldier Serum of the 1940s. That is ancient history."
He clicked the case open. Inside sat a single vial of clear, blue liquid.
"I present to you: Super Soldier I."
One of the generals leaned forward. "What does it do?"
"It's a derivative of a proprietary genetic research project," Luther lied smoothly. It was actually a watered-down, synthesized version of the enzymes found in his own Kryptonian blood. "It doesn't turn you into a green monster. It doesn't make you crazy."
Luther tapped the table for emphasis.
"It doubles physical strength. It enhances metabolic function by 300%. It increases reaction time, healing speed, and endurance."
"Only double?" one General asked skeptically. "Captain America could bench press a truck."
Luther chuckled. "General, think about the math. An elite special forces operator can bench press 300 pounds. On this drug? He lifts 600. He runs a four-minute mile without breaking a sweat. He heals from a gunshot wound in days, not weeks. And most importantly… he follows orders."
He let that sink in.
"A squad of these men could dismantle a tank battalion. They are peak human efficiency. Stable. Reliable. Repeatable."
The Generals exchanged looks. They didn't see a science project. They saw the future of warfare. They saw promotions.
"It sounds expensive," General Sweet noted, playing his part perfectly.
"Quality always is," Luther said, closing the briefcase with a satisfying snap. "But I think you'll find the price tag is worth it for absolute superiority."
The Generals nodded in unison. The hook was set.
Luther walked out of the Pentagon an hour later with a signed contract worth billions and the full backing of the U.S. Military.
"Hypnosis is handy," Luther thought, checking the zeros on the digital contract. "But a good sales pitch seals the deal."
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