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Chapter 44: Well, Fuck
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The reality was, Hydra had sacrificed a significant operational cell, three state-of-the-art ballistic missiles, and God knows how much embedded credibility, all for nothing.
They had failed to kill Adam, failed to decapitate the nascent underworld power, and failed to send a message.
But who could blame their miscalculation? Their contingency plans hadn't accounted for a literal force of nature deciding to play defense.
But for Nick Fury, nothing short of the total, root-and-stem annihilation of Hydra would be enough.
That's why Adam's next words, despite everything, made a rough, grudging laugh escape his lips.
"Don't worry, Director," Adam said, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. "I have some ideas. They're a bit on the crazy side, though."
"I'm not afraid of crazy, Cypher," Fury replied, the ghost of a smile in his voice. "I'm afraid of you having no ideas at all."
They spoke for a few minutes more, Adam deftly avoiding any specifics about his "crazy" plans.
The time wasn't right; they were seeds for a future harvest. Fury ended the call with a final warning.
"The vacuum you've created in the underworld, Cypher… It's going to bring every shark and vulture on the eastern seaboard to your doorstep."
Adam cut him off. "Already taken care of." Then he hung up.
Of course, he had, Fury thought inwardly, slamming his own secure phone down on his desk.
Talking to Adam Cypher was like trying to negotiate with a hyper-intelligent, prescient schizophrenic who also happened to be a pragmatic sociopath.
It was a paradox wrapped in an enigma, shoved into a meat suit that seemed to actively despise being intact, and the whole thing was set to the tune of a circus theme played on a broken calliope.
It was, in a word, exhausting.
The way Adam had "taken care of it" was, like most of his schemes, a blend of audacity and cold-blooded realpolitik.
He had made a deal with the Maggia.
It was a move that would make any sane crime lord choke on his cigar.
After all, Adam had systematically dismantled a significant portion of the Maggia's operations in New York.
But the Maggia was not a monolith.
It was an international crime syndicate, a mini hydra in its own right, with families independent of one another, usually agreeing to a non-interference policy.
Usually being the keyword here.
When Adam, even before he had made his move on the Kingpin, had reached out to the other New York-based Maggia families with an offer, they listened.
He was a crime syndicate's dream and nightmare rolled into one.
The offer was simple: their help in creating chaos and applying pressure, and in return, they would get to devour the remains of the rival Maggia family and the lion's share of Wilson Fisk's legitimate and illegitimate business empire.
There isn't just one Maggia group operating in New York; there were several, and when they got the offer to devour some free, delicious food, they simply couldn't refuse.
But of course, everything had a price.
The price? A substantial but manageable amount of cash, one of Fisk's commercial buildings, and a promise of "protection" for his future business ventures.
Adam had been very specific about the protection, clarifying it was for "when Magneto is not around," making it abundantly clear who his primary backer was.
Any doubts they harbored about that claim were vaporized, along with the top floors of Fisk Tower, by the man who could hold missiles in the sky.
The thought of backstabbing Adam had crossed their minds, of course. It was the nature of the business. But now? Now, the very idea felt like signing their own death warrants.
So, while Magneto and Adam took the priceless treasures; the valuables, the experimental tech, the liquid capital; the Maggia families feasted on the fertile soil of the empire itself.
They got what they desired most: the loan-sharking operations, the illegal gambling rings, the narcotics pipelines, the protection rackets, and the prostitution networks.
They had profited so immensely, so bloodlessly, that they were currently in a state of criminal euphoria.
[He played the Maggia against each other and then made them his grateful tenants!]
[It's smart, but also, had Adam had manpower, he could've taken care of it himself.]
[Yup, he gave up so much, but why? Is it because he didn't have time to build a criminal organization, or does he not want to?]
[Could it be both? Especially since involving himself in that kind of business will call forth many determined heroes, even an anti-hero like the Punisher.]
[True, the Punisher would turn against him in a sec had he done that.]
That night, Adam slept.
His body was a canvas of agony, a symphony of pain conducted by a madman.
Every nerve ending screamed, every burn throbbed, and the empty socket of his eye itched in a way that was profoundly disturbing.
Yet, as he lay in the darkness, a small, genuine smile touched his lips. His plans had succeeded.
The foundation was laid.
Cypher Industries was no longer a concept; it was a phoenix preparing to rise from the ashes of the Kingpin's empire.
Domino, slipping into bed beside him, saw the smile and shook her head with a soft, fond sigh.
She found herself smiling too. Lying next to him, in this chaotic, blood-stained brownstone, was the only place in the entire garbage-fire of a world where she felt a semblance of safety.
Maybe it was her power's instinct guiding her to the statistically safest bet, or maybe it was something more.
It didn't matter.
What truly baffled her, as she listened to the even, pain-free breathing of the man beside her and the similarly steady rhythm from Frank's room down the hall, was their relationship with agony.
She was no stranger to pain, but her luck often ensured she avoided the worst of it.
These two, however, seemed to wear it like a second skin. Frank, a man of sheer, brute-force will. And Adam… Adam accepted it like a lover's embrace.
The narrator, seemingly unable to contain itself, chimed in with an observation that left the audience reeling.
For Christ's sake, the man had sustained more burns than the number of times a certain unfunny comedian had roasted her own vagina, and at this point, that number was reaching the billions.
Now, that was a level of endurance that was both impressive and deeply, deeply concerning.
[OKAY, NARRATOR! ENOUGH! MY MIND IS BLEACHED!]
[I choked on my drink! That came out of nowhere!]
[That's… a very specific and horrifying metric. I hate that I understand the reference.]
[The narrator is mental... The show is mental.]
Adam and Frank woke at the same time the next morning, their internal clocks calibrated by a lifetime of discipline and violence.
They were men who despised wasting daylight.
Before Adam could even suggest a breakfast of nutrient paste and painkillers, Frank, moving stiffly but with purpose, was already at the door, pulling on his battered leather jacket over his bandages.
"I'm out," He grunted. "Still got names on the list. Work to do."
Adam smiled, leaning against the doorframe. "I'll do you the favor of feeding you their information in real-time. Try not to get yourself killed, ya?"
Frank turned, his eyes, dark and flinty, scanning Adam's heavily bandaged form, apparent even under his shirt.
A rough, almost imperceptible chuckle escaped him. "You get yourself some more burns and scars. They're a sign of character, y'know?"
He paused, his expression turning deadly serious. "If you need help. With matters that suit my… profession. Call. My bullets are always ready for the deserving."
He let the last word hang in the air, his gaze unwavering.
"Even if that deserving is you."
It was said with the flat cadence of a joke, but Adam heard the absolute truth beneath it.
Frank Castle wasn't a fool. He didn't understand Adam's motives or his endgame, but the beast in him, the predator that hunted predators, recognized a kindred and terrifying spirit.
Adam's ambition was a bottomless pit, his determination an unbreakable alloy.
Men like that, Frank knew, had no limits. And that made them the most dangerous men of all.
Adam, as always, simply absorbed the warning and reflected back a blinding, wild smile.
"I always have ideas and deserving targets, Frank. But I'd advise you to take care of your own business first. And most importantly," He added, his tone laced with mock concern, "Get some rest. I know Bullseye really ran a train through you last night."
The sheer, absurd inaccuracy of the statement made Frank's eye twitch. Bullseye had not, in any sense of the phrase, "run a train" on him.
He opened his mouth to retort, but found he had no words. Instead, Adam opened his arms wide, the gesture pulling at the burns on his chest.
"A hug?" Adam asked, his face a mask of sincere offering. "You know, to feel each other's pain."
From the kitchen, Domino let out a sudden, choked giggle that she quickly tried to disguise as a cough.
Frank's expression scrunched up as if he'd just smelled something foul. "No," He stated, the word final and absolute. "A big no."
[Frank's face at the hug offer is my new favorite reaction image.]
[He sure knows how to make others uncomfortable.]
[Hydra's turned him sadistic, I noticed. He seems to take enjoyment from teasing and messing with others.]
[I noticed that too.]
Adam laughed, a real, full-bodied sound that made him wince, and shrugged. "Your loss. The offer stands."
He walked Frank to the brownstone's front door, pulling it open to let in the pale morning light of Hell's Kitchen.
As Frank gave a final, curt nod and turned to leave, a sleek, classic old school car silently pulled up to the curb.
The passenger door opened, and a familiar figure emerged, her red hair a vibrant shock of color against the drab cityscape.
Jean Grey. And the expression on her face, a stormy mixture of worry, anger, and profound dissatisfaction, was anything but pretty.
Adam's smile didn't fade, but it tightened at the edges. His single, good eye met hers.
Well, he thought. Fuck.
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