For the next several weeks, Luthar did not create anything new.
Instead, he refined.
The forge-lab echoed with the measured hum of precision fabricators and the methodical click of Mechanicus cogitators. Scarab units—once crude prototypes—underwent successive iterations under his tireless supervision. Each frame was hollowed and fitted with subdermal reservoirs for Pym Particle compression and micro-mining rigs that spun faster than conventional drills could hope to match. Their metallic limbs were compact and flexible, their neural cores optimised for independent operation.
Unlike the data-harvesting scouts—coin-sized, equipped with cloaking fields, and optimised for digital infiltration—the Scarabs had a different mandate.
They were extraction units.
And their destination was Wakanda.
Across the hidden borders of that ancient land, in the deep loam beneath vibranium-rich forests, energy signatures began to flicker—strange and unstable. The council of Wakanda noticed. So did their satellites, their vibranium mesh sensors, and the ancestral protocols embedded in the oldest corners of their systems.
Still, nothing is clear. Nothing traceable.
Until one Scarab, accidentally detected by a sensor during a sample acquisition, was caught mid-operation. The Wakanda perimeter defences were activated.
The Scarab, sensing entrapment, triggered its failsafe—a directional nano-boom designed to destroy itself and scatter all residual traces of its mechanical code. The explosion was minimal, almost surgical—leaving no trace.
Within minutes, the Dora Milaje stood over the scorched crater, sensors sweeping the site. A captured image from the moment before detonation gave them the first visual—blurry, mouse-sized, and encased in unnatural metal.
Worse than the image was the absence it revealed.
Dozens of meters of vibranium—vanished. Extracted with surgical precision from beneath bedrock and transport shielding. No seismic activity. No tunnel collapses. Just a clean absence.
Investigation teams scrambled to assess what was missing. Panic did not set in—but silence did.
Theories flowed like water.
Nano-theft. Particle tunnelling. Extratemporal breach.
Only one conclusion was shared: whoever sent those machines possessed a level of technology that rivalled—if not exceeded—their own.
In the heart of the Royal Scientific Wing, one analyst muttered, adjusting his lenses, "Whoever it is… they knew exactly what they were looking for. We've confirmed vibranium losses at multiple sites."
"There are no signature trails," another added, gesturing to the floating hologram. "Not even radio waves to control them. Whoever this thief is, they're beyond anything we've seen… or they're not from this Earth."
In the corner of the lab, a little girl leaned over a panel twice her size, eyes gleaming with curiosity behind a pair of augmented lenses—Shuri.
"They're not from Earth?" she echoed with a grin. "You're saying we got robbed by aliens now?"
Her tone was playful, but her fingers danced across the console with growing precision. Diagrams bloomed before her—scraps of data from the Scarab's destruction, fragments of the strange metal casing.
"I wouldn't joke too much, little sister," a voice murmured from the entrance.
Okoye entered, flanked by two guards. She carried a tablet, her expression grim.
"Because if this happens again, we may be forced to respond. And I do not wish to explain to the queen how an entire defence perimeter was bypassed without a single alarm."
Shuri turned, raising an eyebrow.
"Technically, it did trigger an alarm. It's just that the drone exploded after 2 seconds, leaving us with no clue to follow."
Okoye did not look amused.
"But even if we find the person behind the theft," Shuri said quickly, "we can't do too much…" Then, under her breath: "From the looks of it, whoever's behind this isn't an easy person to deal with."
She tapped one image—metal folding like organic flesh, Pym-like distortions, impossibly precise cuts.
"Pym Particles," she murmured. "At least now we know how they were able to take out that much vibranium from our country."
While preparations were being made to escalate the investigation, Luthar stood elsewhere—far removed from Wakandan scrutiny.
He faced a suspended hololithic feed, one hand clasped behind his back as he reviewed the Scarab's final ten seconds of visual input. The outline of Wakandan scanning beams, the distortion field rupture, and the detonation trigger all played in perfect silence.
He showed no frustration. No urgency.
"That's going to be troublesome," he said softly. "It will be harder to get more vibranium now."
Lily glanced up from her terminal. "So what are you going to do next?"
"Delay the next extraction until they become overconfident. Or…" he paused with a dry smile, "in my free time—just conquer them."
"You're pushing the line," Lily said cautiously. "It's one thing to steal a little… but now you want to take over the country?"
Luthar did not answer. Instead, he activated a small containment unit on the side of the lab. A shard of raw vibranium floated within—compressed to a fraction of its original size using Pym distortion fields.
"Let me tell you this," he said quietly. "If I built you clothing from vibranium, you'd be immune to most attacks. That vibranium would be extremely valuable to us. Of course, if I found another deposit in space, I'd ignore Wakanda entirely."
His gaze drifted from the containment unit to a new screen. A blinking map of Eastern Europe began to populate with data.
He was shifting his focus—from Wakanda to Russia.
Specifically, to a man not yet fully formed: Ivan Vanko.
The future villain of Iron Man 2 was, at this point, still living in obscurity with his father, Anton Vanko. The man would likely die in the coming months.
Luthar's mind weighed the equation. Ivan's intelligence was average at best, but there was some utility in his work. Still, his refusal to submit and his pride and volatility made him difficult to predict—perhaps too troublesome.
Luthar's mind had already mapped out every scenario involving Ivan Vanko.
Recruiting him would end in betrayal. Attempting to brainwash him quickly would risk catastrophic neural damage. A slower, subtler reprogramming was equally futile—Vanko was the type to rig explosives beneath his own lab just to make a dramatic exit before fleeing to fight Iron Man.
He understood the man's character: prideful, volatile, and wholly uninterested in loyalty. A tool wrapped in rusted iron and too much ego.
"Well," Luthar muttered to himself, fingers tapping the edge of the console, "no point chasing a time bomb when I can wait for something more stable."
His eyes drifted to the containment bay, where another sequence slowly counted upward—energy convergence climbing toward one hundred percent.
Better to focus on the real objective.
To bring the goddesses and the blacksmith into this world—beings who would not betray him, who understood true purpose, and who could help him.
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