Chapter 11: The Cairo Aftermath
The dust hadn't even settled. Literally. From the panoramic windows of his New York penthouse, Adam could see a live news feed broadcasting the cleanup efforts in Cairo. The reporter, a woman with a strained smile, was talking about a "miraculous defeat" and "unprecedented heroism." A helicopter, probably an official one, was flying over a crater where a gigantic, flying pyramid had once been.
"Yeah, sure. A miracle. Or, you know, just a really big, messy fight that left a lot of perfectly good mutant powers just lying around. Like cosmic confetti. And who, pray tell, gets to sweep up all the confetti? This guy," Adam thought, gesturing to himself with a flourish. He sipped his coffee, a bitter, dark roast that matched his mood.
He was a scavenger, a vulture, a very well-dressed, ethically questionable vulture. He wasn't on the ground in Cairo, risking life and limb against whatever was left of Apocalypse's crew. No, he was here, a safe distance away, pulling the strings. He had a team of Finex operatives—not soldiers, but rather a mix of medics and salvage specialists—on the ground. They were his hands and eyes, his ethical buffer.
Adam's comm crackled to life, a small, nearly invisible earpiece. It was Ben, a former EMT with a quiet demeanor and a surprisingly high tolerance for Adam's shenanigans. "We've got a confirmed mutant, male, mid-20s, with multiple fractures. His power signature is a minor one, something with enhanced endurance. The bad news? It's not enough to heal him. The good news? He's probably not going to die immediately. What's the play, boss?"
Adam leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful look on his face. "The play is compassion, Ben. The play is kindness. Tell him we're there to help. Tell him we're an anonymous aid group for mutants affected by the conflict. Get him to the clinic, patch him up, and while you're at it… run a full genetic scan. I want to know exactly what kind of enhanced endurance he has. And make sure the scan is very, very thorough. You know, for medical reasons." He said the last part with a perfectly straight face, a testament to his practiced lack of shame.
Ben chuckled. "Right. For science. Got it." The line went dead.
A few minutes later, another comm came to life. This time it was Lily, a tech expert who was navigating the ruins of the pyramid. "Sir, I'm detecting a faint, but powerful, residual energy signature. It's… like a ghost. It's not a full gene, but it's a piece of something. It feels… sharp. Like a blade made of pure thought."
Adam's eyes widened slightly. He knew exactly what she was talking about. Psylocke. One of Apocalypse's Horsemen. The psychic assassin with the killer looks and the killer psychic blade. She had been defeated, probably captured by the X-Men or left for dead. But her power... the echo of it was still there.
"A psychic blade. Man, that's a sweet one. Not a permanent, full-on power, but a ghost of it. A souvenir. It's like finding a shard of Excalibur. A cool piece of loot that tells a story, and more importantly, can be studied and potentially replicated. Or, you know, just held onto as a trophy. That works too," Adam mused, his mind racing. He gave Lily the order to "acquire" the residue.
In the next moment, the system's interface in his mind flashed with a new line: [X-GENE STORED: PSI-KNIFE, MINOR RESIDUE.] A cool, almost invisible hum of psychic energy settled in his mind, a faint echo of a power he had not yet stolen. It was a new toy, and he was already eager to play with it.
The clinic in New York became a refuge. Mutants from all over the world, injured, traumatized, and disillusioned, came to him. He offered them healing, a new life, a job within Finex. He was a beacon of hope in a world of despair, a kind, compassionate man who just happened to get a little bit richer and a little bit stronger with every good deed he did. He was, in his own words, "the best kind of selfish." His member count ticked up. The money poured in. He was a new player, a new game, and he was winning.
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