The neon pulse of Times Square felt less like light and more like an assault on the senses. To Aaron, who now perceived the world through a filter of electromagnetic sensitivity, the city was a screaming tapestry of invisible noise. Every cell phone conversation was a buzzing insect; every Wi-Fi signal was a humid draft against his skin. He adjusted the collar of his pinstriped suit, the fabric feeling impossibly crisp against his neck, and tapped the ferrule of his microphone-staff—which had manifested from the ether moments ago—against the grimy pavement.
He caught his reflection in the darkened window of a deli. The face staring back was his, yet not. The smile was too wide, a permanent fixture of porcelain malice, and his eyes held the turning dials of a radio tuner deep within the iris. A sudden, sharp hunger pang twisted his gut, a carnivorous demand for raw venison that had nothing to do with his previous human appetite. The static in his head roared, a rising tide of dissonant feedback threatening to drown his thoughts in bloodlust.
*Control,* Aaron commanded himself.
He stepped into the shadows of a scaffolding tunnel, shielding himself from the sensory overload. He shifted his weight to his back leg, sinking into a *Ma Bu* stance, though he kept it subtle, disguised as a gentleman leaning on his cane. He inhaled slowly, visualizing the chaotic white noise as a stream of water. With a gentle, internal exhalation, he performed the mental equivalent of 'Parting the Wild Horse's Mane.' The demonic screeching in his mind softened, organized itself, and settled into a low, rhythmic hum, like a jazz record spinning in an empty room. The Tai Chi grounded the eldritch volatility of his new soul, anchoring the Radio Demon to the human discipline Aaron refused to surrender.
"Better," he crooned, his voice accompanied by a faint, warm crackle. "Now, let's see what the higher-ups are whispering about."
He closed his eyes and tuned his consciousness. The local chatter was boring—panic about Stark, mundane police dispatches, a taxi driver cursing out a tourist. He pushed deeper, turning the metaphysical dial past the civilian bands. He sought the taste of secrets.
And there it was.
A frequency that tasted of cold steel, bureaucracy, and high-grade encryption. It was a dense, oily black stream of data cutting through the chaotic airwaves of Manhattan. SHIELD.
Aaron's grin widened, exposing teeth that were unmistakably jagged. He reached out with a shadow-clawed hand, gripping the invisible signal. Most minds would have been fried by the complex encryption algorithms, but to him, it was merely a stubborn lock, and he was the master skeleton key. With a twist of his wrist and a flare of green energy around his fingertips, he forced the frequency open.
***
High above the city, on the Helicarrier cloaked within the cloud layer, the atmosphere on the bridge was tense. Director Nick Fury stood with his back to the command center, staring out at the expansive nothingness of the night sky. The monitors behind him were replaying Tony Stark's press conference on a loop.
"Sir," Agent Coulson said, stepping up beside him, a tablet in hand. "The press is having a field day. The board is demanding a statement regarding the 'Iron Man' security protocols."
Fury sighed, his one good eye narrowing. "Tell the board to sit tight. Stark just blew the lid off the secrecy act, and I need to figure out how to put the genie back in the—"
Suddenly, the ambient hum of the bridge died. Every monitor flickered and went black. The frantic typing of analysts ceased as keyboards became unresponsive. For a heartbeat, there was absolute silence, heavy and suffocating.
Then, a sound erupted from every speaker on the deck—a screech of feedback that transitioned smoothly into a jaunty, scratchy phonograph recording of a brass band.
"*Testing, testing! Is this thing on?*"
The voice was unmistakable: mid-Atlantic, charismatic, and layered with the distinct audio decay of a 1930s broadcast. It didn't sound like it was coming from the speakers; it sounded like it was coming from the walls themselves.
Fury spun around, his hand instinctively going to his sidearm. "Hill! Status!"
Maria Hill was frantically tapping her console. "We're locked out, sir! Total system override. It's… it's an audio intrusion, but the signal origin is everywhere."
"*Oh, put the toys away, Nicholas,*" the voice chided, the audio quality sharpening as if the speaker had just leaned closer to a microphone. "*It's terribly rude to point weapons at a guest, even a spectral one.*"
Fury glared at the main screen, which now displayed a stylized, oscillating audio waveform in neon green. "Who is this? You're violating a sovereign secure channel. Identify yourself."
"*You may call me… The Broadcaster,*" Aaron's voice purred, dripping with theatrical amusement. "*I simply had to call. I was listening to your little conundrum regarding Mr. Stark. Tsk, tsk. Iron Man. A bit literal, isn't it? I always preferred a moniker with a bit more… pizazz.*"
"Trace him," Fury whispered to Coulson, who was already coordinating with the cyber-warfare division.
"*Don't bother, Phil,*" Aaron said, causing Coulson to freeze. "*I'm not on a server farm in Jersey. I'm in the airwaves, old boy. I'm the static between your thoughts.*"
Aaron, standing comfortably in the scaffolding tunnel miles below, twirled his cane. He decided to test his divination. He pulled a shadow from the brick wall, molding it into a small viewing screen. Through the mist of the future, he saw a coffee mug on a console near a young technician.
"*Now, Director,*" Aaron continued, his voice echoing on the Helicarrier bridge. "*I called to offer a friendly weather forecast. You see, the winds of change are blowing. A storm is brewing in Gotham, a red blur is waking up in Central City, and—oh, do warn that intern on terminal four to move his elbow. He's about to spill his latte.*"
On the bridge, a young agent named Sitwell jerked in surprise at being singled out, knocking his elbow against his coffee cup. The dark liquid splashed all over his keyboard. Sparks flew, and the agent yelped.
The bridge went silent. Fury stared at the wet console, then back at the green waveform.
"*Precision, Director,*" Aaron chuckled, the sound distorting into a low, demonic growl before snapping back to the cheerful radio host. "*That is what you lack. You watch the skies for aliens, but you forget to listen to the shadows. I'll be watching. Do try to keep it entertaining. I loathe boredom.*"
"What do you want?" Fury demanded, his voice steely.
"*Want? My dear fellow, I just want to watch the world turn! And perhaps… provide a little commentary.*"
The brass music swelled to a crescendo. "*Stay tuned!*"
With a final pop of static, the screens on the Helicarrier flared back to life. The normal hum of the engines returned. The intrusion was gone as quickly as it had arrived, leaving the most advanced intelligence agency on the planet sweating in their seats.
Back in the alley, Aaron released the frequency, exhaling a breath he didn't need. He felt a rush of endorphins, an almost intoxicating high. The use of his powers felt natural, fluid, like stretching a limb that had been cramped for decades. Yet, beneath the thrill, the shadow-hunger scratched at the door of his mind, demanding payment for the expenditure of energy.
He leaned on his cane, closing his eyes. He performed the 'Golden Rooster Stands on One Leg' mentally, focusing his chi into his core. The shadows that had begun to pool menacingly around his boots receded, submitting to his will.
"Showmanship," Aaron whispered to the empty street, straightening his suit. "The key is always showmanship."
He stepped out of the scaffolding, merging into the oblivious crowd of New Yorkers. He had rattled the cage of the eagle. Now, he needed a base of operations. A studio.
His gaze drifted upward, past the towering skyscrapers of Stark Industries and Wayne Enterprises, landing on a derelict radio tower atop an abandoned hotel in the distance. It was crumbling, forgotten, and utterly perfect.