For the first time in years, Alex allowed himself to breathe. He had the Pym Particles, refined and optimized, woven into the fabric of his nanites. He had Ultron's vibranium husks harvested and sanctified into new constructs. He had power enough now to face the coming storm, the titan who would one day reach for the Infinity Stones. The purple star-eater, the Mad Titan, Thanos. Alex knew that war was inevitable. But war was not today. Today, he would enjoy life, or at least his own strange interpretation of it.
At dawn, New York's skyline glowed amber as Alex signed the final transfer: four hundred million dollars in untraceable accounts, routed through the system's networks, now belonged to the Stark real estate group. A towering building adjacent to the Avengers Compound became his. Glass walls, steel supports, and open labs now bore a new name etched into them in steel and binary runes: Mechanicus Tech. A company born of Earth but anointed by the Machine God.
The press arrived first, swarming the gates. They expected another arms dealer, another corporate face, another Hammer or Oscorp clone. Instead, Alex appeared in a black suit tailored to perfection, his eyes bright with artificial clarity, his voice calm but commanding. Cameras flashed as he announced his venture. Mechanicus Tech would specialize not in recycled Earth toys but in the next leap of warfare. Laser rifles with self-recharging cells, bolt weapons inspired by ancient prayers of Mars, armored exosuits that turned infantry into juggernauts, and fighter jets that could outpace drones and bend radar like illusions. To most, it seemed like science fiction. To Alex, it was sacred science finally revealed to a primitive world.
Within weeks, the military came knocking. At a secure base in Nevada, Alex arrived with containers of his creations. He stood before generals, admirals, and shadowy figures from intelligence branches, his mechadendrites hidden beneath his flesh but twitching with anticipation. Soldiers tested the laser rifles first, firing crimson bolts that vaporized armored plates in seconds. Generals leaned forward, impressed, whispers cutting through the desert wind. Then came the mechs: towering bipedal war machines clad in black alloy, armed with autocannons and plasma blades. They walked the firing range like gods of war, leveling derelict tanks in minutes. Finally, Alex revealed the jets, sleek constructs of nanite-forged composites, engines silent but powerful enough to break the sound barrier without heat signature.
When the demonstration ended, the military men applauded. Their hands shook Alex's with genuine hunger in their eyes. Contracts were signed, a strategic cooperation forged in secrecy. Billions in orders were promised for the weapons of tomorrow. For Alex, it was not greed but positioning. The world now saw him not as a shadow, not as a threat, but as a visionary. He had claimed legitimacy with fire and steel.
The world was shocked. News outlets ran endless coverage of Mechanicus Tech. Investors clamored to buy shares but found none, as the company remained tightly locked under Alex's hand. Politicians whispered of the balance of power shifting, of the United States gaining weapons decades ahead of the rest of the world.
In the halls of the Avengers Compound, Tony Stark frowned at the news feeds. He watched footage of the laser rifles, the mechs tearing through tanks, the jets cutting through radar like ghosts. It wasn't Hammer's trash, wasn't stolen Stark tech either. This was something new, something alien in its refinement. The fact that the company had risen overnight, with no investors, no venture capital, and no traceable history, bothered him most. Mechanicus Tech was a fortress of secrets. And Tony hated not knowing. Jarvis no, FRIDAY now was ordered to dig. Find Alex Price, founder, creator, and man who had just parked a weapons empire beside Stark's own Avengers.
Meanwhile, Justin Hammer seethed. He sat in his gaudy office, television screens showing Mechanicus Tech's unveiling, his glass of scotch trembling in his grip. For years he had fought to step out of Stark's shadow, to claw his way back after humiliation and prison. And now, this nobody this ghost named Alex Price had done what Hammer never could. He had captured the military's trust, their contracts, and the public's fascination. Worse, he had done it with technology Hammer couldn't even begin to copy.
Red with fury, Hammer slammed his glass into the floor, shards scattering across marble. His company was bleeding, his investors nervous, his relevance fading. If Alex rose, Hammer fell. He would not allow that. Not again. He swore Mechanicus Tech would be destroyed, swallowed, or stolen, no matter the cost. His men began reaching out to mercenaries, hackers, spies, anyone who could crack open Alex's fortress and drag his secrets into Hammer's hands.
In the shadows of his new tower, Alex watched it all unfold. He saw the contracts stacking, the praise rising, the investigations tightening, and the jealousy boiling. He felt the Machine God whispering through the circuits of his nanites, reminding him that this too was part of the great plan. He had declared himself to the world not as a warlord, not as a terrorist, but as a prophet of steel and fire. The pieces were moving, and he was ready to play.
Mechanicus Tech had risen.