The rain had passed. The early morning sun filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the master bedroom, transforming the opulent dust motes dancing in the air into a swirling galaxy of glittering stars. Aryan Spencer woke to a body that was a marvel of borrowed science.
A soft knock on the door. The impeccable British voice of Alfred announcing that the morning car was ready, his tone unchanged from the days he had served the grandfather. The long walk down the grand marble staircase was a daily reminder of the sheer scale of his inheritance.
He ate breakfast alone in a cavernous morning room that could have seated thirty. A single place sitting at the head of a long mahogany table felt like a solitary island in a vast sea. He ate with a new appetite, the fuel requirement of his enhanced body a startlingly practical reality. A mountain of eggs, a side of bacon, toast, fruit converted with brutal efficiency into cellular energy. He glanced at the data slate beside his plate. The headline shimmered in digital text: 'Stark Industries Stock Soars on New Weapon Initiative'.
His arrival at Umbrella Tower was an exercise in professional reverence. The low hum of conversation in the gleaming lobby fell away as he passed, a wave of deference parting before him. The identity of Aryan Spencer was a powerful shield, a cloak of invisibility woven from money.
The moment the elevator doors whispered open to his penthouse office, she was there.
Sharon Carter stood by the window, her back to him, looking out at the same city. She was dressed in another of her impeccably tailored business suits, this one a shade of severe charcoal grey. Her posture was a study in controlled energy. She turned as he entered, her face a mask of professional neutrality, but her eyes… her eyes registered his presence, cataloged his suit, and noted the way he moved all in the space of a single second.
"Good morning, sir," she said, her voice an cool note in the quiet air. "Your schedule for the day is on your desk. You have a meeting with the board at ten, and a lunch with the investors from the Yoshimoto Corporation at one."
"Thank you, Sharon," he replied, his own voice just as calm, as he walked to his desk and placed his briefcase beside it. It was a game. A quiet war being fought in a silent office a hundred stories above the world. He knew she was an agent. He was almost certain that she suspected he was more than he seemed. Their every interaction was a carefully measured exchange of meaningless pleasantries, and each one a subtle probe for a weakness.
"Anything else, sir?" she asked, her gaze unwavering.
"No, that will be all," he said, not looking up from the data slate, feigning an interest in the morning's market reports.
He heard the soft click of the door closing. He was alone, but he knew he wasn't. She was out there. An agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. And they were watching him. Why? The question was a frustrating hum in the back of his mind. He had spent days pouring over Umbrella's digital and physical archives. It was a completely legitimate software company. There were no hidden weapons projects, no dark dealings with secret organizations. So why the spy? What were they looking for?
He spent the day in a state of divided consciousness. On the surface, he was the perfect CEO. He guided the board meeting with an insightful intelligence, anticipating their questions and dismantling their arguments with a surgical precision that left the experienced board members both impressed and slightly unnerved. He charmed the Japanese investors over lunch, his polite demeanor and flawless Japanese a stark contrast to the usual American corporate targets they were used to.
But beneath the surface, his mind was in the endless grey mists of his own private reality. The Fog Dimension.
He stood amidst the endless fog, a disembodied point of will in a universe that was entirely his own.
From the mists, he sculpted a new being. A figure draped in layers of the same impenetrable fog that defined this reality, it began to take a shape that defied the eyes. He programmed it with a single directive: to sit upon the throne and radiate an aura of absolute power.
This was The Fool. The Fool's entire figure was swallowed by the gray fog, ensuring that no soul could glimpse its true body. Observers could only see a terrifying outline of darkness carved out of the white haze. It was a phantom of a god-like presence that felt as though it had existed since the dawn of time, waiting in the silence to judge those who dared enter the fog.
Finally, the most crucial part of the illusion. He imagined a translucent screen floating in the air before each of the twenty-two high-backed chairs. The System Store of Sefirah Castle. It was a replica of his own System, but a limited imitation. He could not offer them Omega level powers, not yet. But he could offer them the basics. Super Soldier Serums. Minor psionic enhancements. A tantalizing glimpse of real power. And the currency would be one they all understood. US Dollars. The prices were ten times what he himself would pay. For men like Tony Stark, the price was an afterthought. For others, it would be a measure of their desperation.
He spent the rest of his night crafting the honorific that would allow their consciousness to find its way to his domain. This prayer would act as a direct link to hold conversations via fog dimension with him or any other members he chose to gather.
"The Fool that doesn't belong to this era."
It was the simple truth, and a private joke. The Fool 'a concept he had plagiarized' did not belong to this age. And he was a being outside of this world's timeline.
"The Mysterious Ruler above the gray fog."
The Fog Dimension was his domain. But they would look at the figure on the throne and believe it was him. They would worship the prop, and never see the puppeteer.
"The King of Yellow and Black who wields good luck."
Yellow, the color of wealth. Black, the color of the unknown possibility. He would present himself as a being who could control fortune. A promise of power to those who felt powerless.
"The True Creator who embodies luck, deception, and fate."
He would bring them Luck, the powers they purchased from him. He would wrap it all in Deception, the grand lie of Sefirah Castle and his own "normal" identity. And ultimately, he would control their Fate. They were merely borrowing his strength, and he would always, always be able to call in the debt.
He stood in the center of his newly-built cathedral of lies and spoke the words aloud, a formal declaration to the universe. When he finished, the very fabric of the Fog Dimension seemed to thrum in acknowledgment.
"Right," Aryan whispered, the sound rolling through the great hall like distant thunder. "Now for the guests."
He returned to the physical world, the plan now fully formed in his mind. This was a high stakes hedge fund where the currency was destiny and the assets were souls. He needed individuals whose lives were the fulcrums upon which the world turned.
Tony Stark was the most obvious choice. A man of shimmering brilliance and catastrophic ego, Stark was currently a comet heading for a collision. Within a few short months, he would be in a cave in Afghanistan, his heart held together by a car battery and his world reduced to the smell of damp sand and burnt iron.
Wanda Maximoff. In his previous life, he had been captivated by her purity that seemed impossible in any world. She was a woman who loved with singular dedication and a soul so loyal she would sacrifice everything for those she cared for.
Looking at her now, he felt a deep longing. In both of his lives, he had never known anyone who truly cared for him as a person rather than a tool or a title. He saw her as the one person capable of the genuine devotion he had always been denied. She was a girl who deserved a better fate.
Finally, T'Challa, the Prince of Wakanda. He represented the "Old Money" of the world, but more importantly, he represented a nation sitting on a mountain of hidden resources.
He consciously skipped the spies and the soldiers. S.H.I.E.L.D. was a creature of bureaucracy and secrets. He wanted no part of their paper trails or their institutionalized paranoia.
Over the next few months, he managed his company with ruthless efficiency, growing its profits to obscene new heights. He played the part of the lonely heir for Sharon Carter, a performance of quiet grief and focused ambition.
Finally, the day arrived. The first Monday of a new month.
He sat in his office, his work for the day complete. The clock on his screen ticked over. 14:00.
"Tea time," Aryan whispered with a predatory smile.
He closed his eyes, retreated into his dimension, and ascended his seat, the seat of the puppet master.