Alex Price walked the hidden paths of New York as if cloaked by fate itself. The sermons to the Omnissiah whispered from his lips as his servo-skulls scouted far and wide. Through the networks of Stark, through the encrypted files of S.H.I.E.L.D., through chatter buried in Hydra remnants, one name rose again and again Hank Pym. The reclusive scientist. The man who had mastered what no other dared: the control of matter itself at the subatomic level.
Alex had seen the signs. The key to his ascension was not merely scavenged vibranium or Stark's infantile AI designs. No, the true key was the Pym Particle, the bridge between worlds. Through it, he could compress infinite knowledge into his grasp, pierce timelines, and harvest technologies across realities. For such a treasure, no spy-craft or theft was enough. This demanded direct intervention.
From the vaults of his system, Alex summoned one of the most sacred tools granted by his Tech-Priest template: the Neuro-Resonator, a device of mind-alteration and forced memory extraction. A relic of dark knowledge, rewritten in binary litanies and anointed in oils. To the outside world, it looked like an elegant circlet of steel etched with glowing red runes. To Alex, it was a blade of truth that would open Hank Pym's mind like a tome.
On the night of the Yellowjacket's unveiling at Pym Technologies, Alex struck. Servo-skulls drifted silently through vents and access tunnels, their stealth fields rendering them ghosts. Security guards patrolled, corporate officials gathered, Darren Cross rehearsed his presentation, and the air hummed with anticipation. In the shadows of Pym's private office, Alex materialized. His nanoflesh shimmered, peeling back just enough to reveal the cold machine beneath.
Hank Pym turned, startled by the presence, but before he could reach for his cane or speak, Alex's mechadendrites coiled around him, pinning him with mechanical precision. The Neuro-Resonator descended onto Pym's head, and the machine-prayers began.
"By the Omnissiah's light, I strip the locks of your mind. By the calculus of steel, I reap your knowledge."
Pym struggled, his will strong, but against Alex's nanite-augmented psionics and the system's divine machinery, resistance was futile. Memories unfolded like scrolls: equations written in fury, the first test of the shrinking suit, warnings of quantum instability, the perfected Pym Particle formula. Alex absorbed it all, committing every fragment into the vaults of his system. Within minutes, the secret that had defined Hank's life belonged to another.
Pym collapsed, unconscious but alive. Alex had no desire to kill him yet the man was a relic, but not his true enemy. His purpose was complete.
Then came Scott Lang. Guided by Pym, the thief-turned-protector burst into the office, clad in the Ant-Man suit. He lunged at Alex, shrinking and expanding in a blur, his fists striking with all the ingenuity the suit could provide. Yet Alex was not a man bound by flesh. His nanites shifted to intercept each blow, mechadendrites snapping like vipers. Within moments, Scott was crushed against the wall, pinned helplessly.
"You wear the tools of giants," Alex murmured, voice like a hymn carried by static. "But you are an insect. Go back to the shadows, little thief."
A surge of electricity from a servo-skull sent Scott sprawling, unconscious. Alex discarded him without another thought.
The presentation below began. Darren Cross stood on the stage, exalting the Yellowjacket as the next evolution of warfare. Screens displayed footage of the suit's capabilities, the audience gasping at its potential. But the suit itself, locked in containment, was Alex's true quarry. With surgical precision, his servo-skulls infiltrated the holding chamber. Guards fell silently, their throats cut by monomolecular mechadendrites. Locks disengaged under machine-prayers. By the time Cross reached the climax of his pitch, the Yellowjacket was gone.
Alex did not stop there. He stripped PymTech's servers, siphoning data on particle stabilization, quantum field projections, and prototype weapons. Files of future projects, blueprints, and hidden accounts all fed into the system's vault. Cross, enraged at the intrusion, attempted to rally his guards, but Alex himself descended from the rafters like a steel angel of death.
The fight was brief. Cross, donning a secondary prototype, charged at Alex with reckless fury. Yet Alex's nanites swarmed, adapting instantly to the suit's weaponry. A flick of his wrist unleashed a swarm that burrowed into Cross's armor, corrupting its systems from within. Cross screamed as the Yellowjacket turned against its master, constricting, crushing, until silence fell. Alex pried the shattered remains from Cross's body, sanctifying them in oil as he claimed another relic of technology.
When he left PymTech, it was in ruins. Flames consumed the lower floors, alarms blared into the night, and the world would remember it as a terrorist attack, another act of chaos in an increasingly unstable age. But Alex left unseen, carrying with him the perfected formula of the Pym Particles, the Yellowjacket armor, and data that even S.H.I.E.L.D. had failed to secure.
In his hidden sanctum by the docks, the work began anew. The formula was integrated into his nanites, allowing him to carry entire swarms compressed within his own form without distorting his appearance. His arsenal expanded, his power multiplied. For the first time, Alex could see the doorway to infinite realities opening before him.
And as Gear's voice sang praises in binary hymns, Alex bowed his head in prayer.
"The Omnissiah provides. The Machine God guides. The harvest has only begun."