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INTERLUDE
🕑 Added 2024-12-09 15:43:14 +0000 UTCMax Anders sat in his office, the soft glow of the desk lamp casting long shadows over the polished mahogany. The world outside was in chaos—Brockton Bay was still reeling from Leviathan’s attack, the Protectorate’s authority was stretched thin, and the remnants of the Endbringer battle left plenty of opportunities for those with ambition.
And now, there was him.
Superman.
The name alone was audacious, a challenge. Max had seen the footage, watched as the so-called “Man of Steel” descended from the sky like a god out of myth. Blue-eyed. Strong-jawed. Chiseled physique. Power that defied comprehension.
Max leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled under his chin.
He was perfect.
No, more than that—he was the ideal. The Aryan ideal. The embodiment of strength, dominance, and purity. A living, breathing monument to everything Max had preached as Kaiser, everything his father had drilled into him from childhood.
And yet, Superman was squandering it.
Max’s lip curled in distaste as he recalled the man’s words during the press conference. That soft, righteous tone. The incessant talk of helping all of humanity, regardless of who they were, where they came from. Weakness disguised as virtue.
Superman had the power to reshape the world, and he was wasting it on altruism.
Still, there was an opportunity here. Superman’s image—his very existence—was a gift, if Max played it right. The masses were drawn to strength, to perfection. It didn’t matter what the man himself stood for; what mattered was how people interpreted him.
Max rose from his chair and walked to the window, looking out over the city. His domain. His future empire.
Superman could be a rallying cry, a symbol to stoke the fires of his cause. The media couldn’t stop singing the man’s praises, and Max could use that to his advantage. Carefully planted messages. Subtle suggestions. The idea that Superman represented something more.
A man like that couldn’t possibly represent everyone. Not truly. Not those who lacked his strength, his discipline, his purity of form.
Max smirked to himself.
Superman’s ideals might be rooted in equality and justice, but ideals could be twisted. A hero’s image could be co-opted, reshaped into a narrative that served a different purpose.
And when the time came—when Superman’s power clashed with the realities of this fractured world—Max would be ready to exploit the cracks.
He turned away from the window, already envisioning the speeches, the propaganda, the carefully orchestrated campaign.
Superman might never fight for Max Anders’ cause. But the symbol? The idea of Superman? That could belong to anyone willing to claim it.
. . . .
Thomas Calvert—Coil—sat in his dimly lit office, the screens on the wall flickering with reports and surveillance feeds. Superman’s arrival in Brockton Bay was a disruption he hadn’t anticipated, but disruptions were opportunities in disguise.
He leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers on the desk as he considered the possibilities.
Superman was a wildcard, a being of unparalleled power and an inconveniently moral compass. That much was clear from the reports. Coil smirked to himself. He had built his empire by exploiting the predictable nature of heroes, their adherence to rules and principles.
The key would be to turn Superman’s presence into an asset.
Leverage his ideals. Bait him into public displays of heroics that would disrupt his enemies: the ABB, the Empire, and even the Protectorate itself. If Superman could be nudged toward certain areas, at certain times, Coil could direct the chaos that followed. And if the alien proved too troublesome? Well, every man, no matter how powerful, had weaknesses.
He would need to gather more information, of course. Superman’s powers were vast, but Coil doubted they were infinite. There had to be limits, exploitable cracks in his invincible facade. With enough time and the right resources, even a god could be brought down.
Coil smiled thinly. Superman might be the talk of the city now, but in time, he would be just another piece on the board.
A faint sound, almost imperceptible, caught his attention. But when he glanced around, the room appeared empty.
“Thomas.”
The voice came from behind him, though he hadn’t heard anyone enter. It was calm, almost conversational, and impossibly close. He turned sharply, his chair creaking as his eyes scanned the room.
She was there, a woman in a dark suit, her hair tied back, her expression unreadable. She stood impossibly still, as if she had always been part of the room’s shadowed corners. Coil’s stomach sank. He didn’t need an introduction to know who she was.
Contessa.
Her presence was an anomaly, a disruption Coil couldn’t control or predict. For the first time in years, he felt genuine unease.
“What do you want?” he asked, keeping his voice steady.
“Closure,” she managed, his voice steady despite the adrenaline surging through him.
Coil reached under the desk for the hidden button that would trigger a contingency, a desperate escape. But as his hand moved, Contessa moved—not quickly, not dramatically, but with an eerie inevitability that left him no time to react. A gun appeared in her hand, as if conjured from thin air, silencer already affixed.
The shot was quiet. Almost gentle.
Thomas Calvert’s body slumped forward onto the desk, his schemes unraveling in an instant.
Contessa stood there for a moment, her expression unchanged, as if Coil’s death were just another line in an infinite script she had memorized long ago. She didn’t linger. There was no monologue, no satisfaction, only a quiet, clinical efficiency as she turned away.
She stepped forward—and vanished into a Door, the room left as still and silent as it had been before her arrival.
Some disruptions, it seemed, could not be managed.
