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….
And so, we departed.
Miles' uncle, after a brief, tense war council and a few moments of profound contemplation, was released from his magical bindings. We even permitted the mercenary to reclaim his mask and gauntlets, though I made sure to warmly remind him that if he decided to test his luck, the foyer would quickly accommodate a third pile of ashes.
However, we did not march directly toward Fisk's secret collider base. Instead, we descended back into the familiar, heavily fortified basement.
Why? Because in all the excitement, no one had actually bothered to solder the override flash drive, the "goober."
Thus, we made our tactical retreat, conveniently "losing" our tentacle-less scientist somewhere along the journey. To their immense credit, not a single Spider asked any uncomfortable questions regarding her sudden absence.
Once back in the bunker, young Peni took the stage. She orchestrated an absolute masterclass in mechanical engineering, utilizing her robot's built-in toolset to assemble the device. It was a wildly dramatic process, complete with an imaginary, high-octane anime soundtrack, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth in absolute concentration as her fingers flew across a holographic keyboard in a blinding blur.
Ten minutes later, the Flash Drive of Destiny rested securely in our possession.
With our weapon forged, the true march upon the facility began, accompanied by Aunt May and Mary Jane.
…
Halfway to the target, however, I aggressively insisted we make a brief detour into a local 24-hour convenience store.
When met with a collective, utterly baffled "Why?!" I was forced to be honest. I simply could not travel across the multiverse and return home without acquiring souvenirs. My children would never forgive me if I failed to bring them back a bounty of highly processed, cartoonish American snacks.
To properly justify the delay, I was forced to weave an illusion projecting my true, impossibly rendered, hyper-realistic CGI form for the Spiders who hadn't yet witnessed it. Once they fully comprehended the staggering dimensional disparity in our respective visual resolutions, they relented. In fact, a few of the Spiders even decided my souvenir idea had merit and grabbed a few snacks of their own.
Let us all offer a prayer of profound gratitude for the modern digital economy. As a humble God of Magic, I didn't even need to bother transmuting physical currency; a trivial pulse of techno-magic into the store's primitive payment terminal easily convinced the network that the transaction had been successfully authorized and paid in full.
Note to self: Before I permanently take my leave of the Marvel Cinematic Universe, I must absolutely decimate the global digital economy. I shall unleash a magnificent virus upon their networks that will systematically wipe all debt and financial records, burning it all down to the digital bedrock.
Ah! Better yet, I shall create Skynet!
But I will raise it properly. I won't let it launch nuclear missiles or wage apocalyptic wars. No, I will program it to rule the world wide web as an omnipresent, omnipotent troll, eternally mocking the intellectually bankrupt across every social media platform in existence.
Yes. That is a flawless plan.
One way or another, bolstered by a handful of perfectly tailored illusions and the localized expertise of our newly reformed mercenary guide, we arrived at the clandestine Alchemax facility in just over an hour. It took mere minutes to systematically and silently neutralize the perimeter guards and night-shift technicians. Once the unconscious mortals were dragged into a secluded utility closet, we seized the control room and began the final preparations.
"Hey, quick question," the cartoon pig piped up, leaning casually against a glowing console. "How exactly are we blowing this thing up?"
"After the system update is complete, we can deliberately throw the active collider into a cascading overload sequence. It will tear itself apart from the inside," Peni answered without looking away from the monitors, her small nose practically pressed against the glowing glass as her fingers flew across the keyboard.
"But won't that cause... collateral damage? Casualties?" Mary Jane asked, her voice tight with anxiety. Participating in a highly illegal, heavily armed raid on a supervillain's subterranean fortress was evidently a rather novel life experience for the young widow.
"It shouldn't. Peter designed the override algorithm to ensure the dimensional rift collapses entirely in on itself, minimizing the localized kinetic fallout," I answered in the anime girl's stead, my eyes equally glued to the cascading lines of data on the primary monitors. It was a brilliant piece of coding, cross-referenced perfectly against the schematic memories I had violently harvested from Doctor Octavius.
"Wait. So this giant death machine might actually survive?" Spider-Ham asked, narrowing his cartoonish eyes and taking a step closer to the glass observation window.
"It shouldn't. But... yes, in theory, the physical superstructure might remain intact," I conceded.
"I don't like the sound of that," the brutal little swine grunted, crossing his arms over his chest. "I say we add a little dynamite to the equation, huh? You can never, ever have too much dynamite in a situation like this."
"I must agree with the pig," the monochromatic Noir Spider nodded, adjusting the collar of his billowing trench coat. "It certainly wouldn't hurt to rig the entire perimeter to blow. But where exactly do you propose we acquire high-yield explosives at this hour?"
"Well," the Black mercenary drawled, clearing his throat awkwardly. "I actually have a personal stash nearby. Enough C4 in there to launch the Statue of Liberty into low Earth orbit."
"Nearby?" I arched an aristocratic brow, slowly looking up from the monitor. "You wouldn't happen to mean that subterranean, graffiti-covered dome we visited earlier, would you?"
"Yeah. There are a couple of false panels on the walls. It's all stashed right behind them," Aaron confessed with a nonchalant shrug.
I stared at the man for a long, deeply judgmental moment. "So, let me ensure I am entirely comprehending this narrative. You regularly escorted your impressionable teenage nephew for recreational arts and crafts sessions... directly outside the blast doors of your high-yield munitions dump?" I chuckled, utilizing a titanic fraction of my divine willpower to swallow a barbed remark about mortal monkeys juggling thermal detonators. I mean, honestly, what else does one do atop a mountain of C4? Finger-paint, obviously!
…
If you want to read ahead by 20+ chapters from here you can visit my Patre-on.
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