Marvel: The Super Player

Keep dreaming.

The System Points he had painstakingly hoarded were entirely earmarked for securing the God of the Sun divinity template. For the system to try and siphon them away under the guise of an integration fee was absolute wishful thinking.

Locke rolled his eyes internally.

Before the academic term had even commenced, he had already upgraded every single aspect of his foundational capabilities that required enhancement.

His Steel Body trait, which had successfully transitioned into a Supreme Talent, provided him with more than enough physical invulnerability to carry himself through almost any immediate conflict.

Coupled with the inexhaustible energy reserves provided by his Limitless talent, he could now effortlessly manifest three perfect independent clones using the Golden Apple without breaking a sweat.

Therefore...

It was time to stockpile every single point toward the God of the Sun template. That was the long-term ambition!

Furthermore, the resource cost required to elevate a Supreme Talent by a single tier was already astronomical. While Locke had initially considered upgrading his Limitless talent another level to establish an independent personal pocket dimension, the flat cost of two million points felt entirely inefficient.

Why waste two million points on a localized spatial pocket when he could simply save up, purchase the God of the Sun template, and achieve absolute cosmic ascension in a single bound?

Only a fool would compromise for a minor dimensional domain when a supreme stellar divinity was within reach.

Locke possessed a thoroughly structured, step-by-step roadmap for his evolution. He knew exactly which expenditures were strategic investments and which were absolute vanity metrics.

When a purchase was genuinely necessary, he wouldn't hesitate to spend. But when it wasn't, the system wouldn't extract a single copper from him.

When he had initially requested an advance line of credit back when he was broke, the system had completely ignored him.

Now that it noticed his balance growing, it suddenly wanted to introduce targeted premium features to tempt his capital? Too late. He had already established excellent financial discipline.

Locke felt the system operated on the exact same predatory framework as a standard banking institution.

When you have no capital and genuinely require a commercial loan, the underwriters kick you out the front door and tell you to stop wasting their operational hours.

But the moment you accumulate a substantial personal net worth, the branch managers show up at your doorstep with luxury gift baskets, aggressively pitching wealth management portfolios and trying to force lines of credit into your hands.

Shameless!

Locke silently criticized the system's corporate opportunism for a solid two seconds before focusing his attention back on the active vector mapping that had generated following the profile completion.

However...

"Wait, what?"

"What is it?" Gwen asked, turning her head.

"Nothing," Locke replied smoothly, offering a reassuring smile to mask his confusion. He focused his gaze entirely back on the localized tracking interface generated by the system: "Siberia?"

Good grief.

If the system claimed that a rogue operative had boarded a supersonic transport and flown to the Siberian tundra over the course of an afternoon, Locke might have considered it an edge-case possibility. But how much time had actually elapsed since the ambush?

It hadn't even been three hours, yet the tracking vector for Agent 47 pinned him squarely in the middle of Siberia—and that was supposed to be while managing an active civilian hostage?

He wasn't about to buy that.

Wait a moment.

Locke stroked his chin thoughtfully. Could it be that the system hadn't mapped the specific operative currently active on Long Island, but had instead pulled the coordinates for the baseline genetic source code or another identical clone batch?

...That made sense.

Locke blinked. The extensive roster of experimental assets carrying barcodes on the occipital region of their skulls looked completely identical, save for the numerical sequence printed beneath the scan lines.

"TSK." Locke muttered under his breath. "Then which specific number is the one running around New York?"

(T/N:- so confusing, useless misunderstanding. I'd love to remove this confusion but author seems to cooking something. No idea if would be good tho.)

...

Out on Long Island, in the Hampton sector.

Inside the vacant villa, Agent 46 stared at his darkened screen for the second time, his internal cognitive parameters temporarily stalling before he slipped the device back into his tailored jacket. He turned his expressionless gaze toward Kahn, who was currently drenched in cold sweat from the pain on the mattress.

"It appears your associate possesses zero concern for your structural survival."

"Ptooh!"

Kahn attempted to spit defiantly in his face, but because he was bound flat on his back, the trajectory went straight up into the air before dropping right back onto his own forehead.

Yet that minor technical failure did absolutely nothing to dampen Kahn's sudden bravado, "Go ahead and kill me if you've got the spine for it! Don't think for a second Locke is going to walk straight into your trap. If you're counting on me to resent him, you've completely miscalculated."

After delivering his defiance, Kahn took a sharp breath of air and began to groan softly.

Being brave was a conscious choice. Experiencing physical pain was a neurological reflex. They were two entirely separate variables.

He wasn't an idiot; it was blindingly obvious this bald maniac was attempting to leverage him to neutralize Locke. As one of Locke's few genuine close friends, Kahn had zero intention of serving as bait for a double execution. If someone had to die here, why turn it into a buy-one-get-one-free special?

However...

'Cindy!'

*Waaaaah.*

Kahn groaned internally, balancing his agony with a wave of dramatic self-pity.

In the next instant, Kahn froze slightly, his ears catching a faint, rhythmic thumping echoing from the distance.

Across the room, Agent 46 was genuinely somewhat thrown off by Kahn's unexpected surge of psychological resilience. When he had initially extracted the gag, the teenager had done nothing but frantically beg for quarter. Yet now?

Before Agent 46 could run a diagnostic on the psychological shift, the unmistakable, heavy thrumming of incoming rotary aircraft blades began to reverberate through the structure.

Right then, his secondary burner device illuminated. He opened the interface to find a single encrypted text transmission:

[You have been compromised. Extract immediately.]

"..."

'Impossible. The communication duration had barely exceeded the two-minute threshold...'

Agent 46 thought, though the analytical anomaly did absolutely nothing to slow his physical execution. He methodically crushed the mobile device into unrecoverable fragments, tossed the debris into a nearby disposal bin, and glided back toward the bed with an expressionless face.

Kahn's eyes went wide, "You piece of—"

Before he could finish the sentence, Agent 46 delivered a precise strike to the lateral side of Kahn's neck. The teenager's head lolled instantly to the right as his consciousness cut out cleanly.

Agent 46 hoisted Kahn over his shoulder once more and proceeded toward the residential garage. He approached a dark sedan, threw open the rear door, and glanced briefly at his logistical equipment secured in the footwell, his eyes cold and calculating.

...

By this point, every single transit vector leading on or off Long Island via land, air, or sea had been thoroughly locked down by a massive law enforcement perimeter.

Along the shoreline, the Coast Guard assets had fanned out completely.

In the airspace overhead, the NYPD air support division maintained a continuous, roaring orbit.

On the ground...

By the time George arrived at the Long Island access corridor with the primary SWAT elements, the inbound lanes had been entirely cordoned off. The outbound lanes remained functional but were subjected to an incredibly aggressive, grid-by-grid security screening.

"Name!"

"Silva Hanks."

"British passport?"

George strode over, intercepting the travel documentation from a frontline officer. He flipped through the pages, his eyes narrowing as he evaluated the individual sitting behind the wheel of a local pickup truck—Agent Courva of MI6, who was currently maintaining a polite, casual smile.

The passport was structurally authentic.

The screening officer checked the truck bed and the rear passenger cabin before offering George a concise nod to indicate no anomalies were found.

George locked eyes with the driver.

Courva maintained his pleasant, cooperative expression.

"You're cleared to move."

"Thank you."

Courva accepted the passport back from George's hand, offering a brief word of appreciation.

However...

George suddenly clamped his hand down on Courva's right wrist, his thumb testing the surface texture. He raised an eyebrow.

Courva's smile faltered slightly.

With a sharp, fluid motion, George drew his sidearm with his left hand, pinning the barrel directly against Courva's temple.

"Step out of the vehicle. Now."

He had just received a comprehensive operational brief from Director Colin at the FBI, and Locke and Gwen had already laid out the entire geopolitical background to him without reservation.

A British tourist appearing in the Hamptons during off-season wasn't inherently an anomaly. But a British tourist possessing heavy, specialized weapon-handling calluses across his palms appearing right in the middle of an active black-ops grid? That was an absolute red flag.

The moment George drew his weapon, the surrounding officers reacted instantly, drawing their service weapons in unison and targeting Courva through the windows.

The MI6 operative raised his hands in mock surprise, "Hold on, hold on! Officers, I'm simply a tourist visiting the area."

"A tourist?" George let out a cold chuckle, glancing over the vehicle before returning his gaze to Courva, "Want to wager whether this vehicle's registration matches your documentation?"

Courva: "..."

Right then, a radio transmission cut through the tension. A rotary unit conducting an aerial grid search had spotted the primary target. Beckett, operating from the Information Center, patched directly through to George's earpiece,

"Inspector, air support has acquired the target vehicle. Black sedan, currently traveling westbound on Hampton Route 1."

George narrowed his eyes, barking orders to the officers beside him, "Detain this individual and transport him back to the precinct immediately. Lock him down in a high-security holding cell. Nobody authorizes his release until I personally return to conduct the interrogation. Understood?"

"Understood, sir!"

Courva's jaw tightened. 'Damn it. I delayed my extraction by a single hour, how did the response matrix mobilize this rapidly?'

When he had initially received M's directive to abandon the theater, he had intended to comply immediately. However, curiosity had gotten the better of him; he wanted to see exactly how Agent 46 intended to extricate himself from the operational area. That brief hesitation had cost him his window.

"Wait!"

"Step out of the vehicle."

"I'm counting to three."

"Two—"

"I'm exiting! I'm exiting!" Courva shouted, hoisting his hands high as he unlatched the door.

'Son of a bitch. I should have accepted the primary assignment in Moscow.'

Fuck!

In hindsight, however, Courva's decision to route through New York had inadvertently preserved his life. Had he been apprehended under similar operational parameters within the Russian interior, MI6 would have disavowed his existence without a second thought.

Of course, MI6 was absolutely going to disavow him here as well, but at the very least, the NYPD didn't employ brutal torture methods that would leave him permanently disfigured.

The absolute worst threat within the lower levels of the New York precinct was the legendary sewer rats inhabiting the basement infrastructure. As long as Courva didn't display any anomalous biological traits, the department had no reason to alter their standard detention protocols.

...

Back at the NYPD headquarters.

Cindy had just been escorted into the facility under protective custody.

The moment she stepped out of the transport vehicle and caught sight of Gwen, she rushed forward, throwing her arms around her friend and bursting into tears, "Gwen! Kahn's been taken! They grabbed him right in front of me!"

Gwen held her tight, rubbing her back to soothe her panic, "It's going to be fine, Cindy. My dad has already mobilized the entire division to the sector. They're going to bring Kahn back safely."

As she uttered the reassurance, Gwen felt a distinct lack of conviction in her own voice.

After all...

Whether it was Locke's psychological gamble or her father's aggressive tactical mobilization, the entire operational response felt as though they were forcing the hitman into a corner where executing the hostage was the logical conclusion.

Naturally, Locke had already explained the psychological parameters to her. This was about forcing the operative to evaluate a structural choice: eliminate the hostage or abandon him to secure an extraction route.

But the price of executing Kahn would mean the operative would be completely pinned down within the dragnet. Unless the individual possessed active invisibility capabilities, escaping an absolute law enforcement lockdown on Long Island was a mathematical impossibility.

The only logical survival vector for the operative was to keep Kahn alive as leverage.

Standing nearby, Locke kept his eyes fixed on the primary operations display, which was broadcasting a live infrared feed from an NYPD helicopter.

On the asphalt arteries of Long Island, a dark sedan was maintaining a high-speed vector, while tactical cruisers were systematically bottlenecking the surrounding intersections to funnel his route.

However, none of the units had initiated live-fire engagement.

They had no choice; a confirmed civilian hostage was inside the vehicle.

The thermal imaging clearly displayed Kahn's silhouette in the passenger seat, his head tilted at an unnatural angle, rendering his vital status ambiguous. Sitting behind the steering wheel was the unmistakable profile of the bald operative.

"Locke."

Beckett walked over, standing beside him as she watched the screen, her tone casual, "Do you think the field teams can bring him down cleanly?"

Locke kept his gaze fixed on the display, "If the cost of failing to apprehend him means Kahn walks away alive, then I sincerely hope he manages to slip the net."

Beckett: "...

***

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