January 9th, New Year. Miami Convention Center.
"I officially announce!"
Jobson stood on the podium, a sleek touch-screen phone in one hand and a microphone in the other. His face was flushed with triumph. "This revolutionary product—integrating telephone functions, a music player, and a mobile internet communicator—is officially on sale!"
Thundering applause.
In the front row, Karl joined the standing ovation with a practiced, confident smile. He hadn't gone up to speak himself, not because he didn't want the spotlight, but because he didn't actually understand the complex data comparisons and technical specs. It was safer to let Jobson, the "face of engineering," handle the presentation.
The launch was a landslide success. After a brief window of market observation, demand skyrocketed. The touch-screen phone became an overnight sensation, making Karl Manufacturing the most talked-about name in the country.
By the time the winter break ended, Karl had returned to campus life, but he was no longer just a student. He was a celebrity. Driving a two-million-dollar supercar through the shaded college paths, wearing designer aviators, he had fully adapted to his new life. In just six months, he had transformed from a gawky teenager into a tech mogul.
However, Karl's meteoric rise hadn't just attracted the attention of fans and journalists. It had drawn the gaze of the "sharks."
"This is the file on the young CEO of Karl Manufacturing. Read it, and then tell me how we respond."
Inside a lavishly decorated boardroom, a group of men in bespoke suits sat in silence. These were the directors of Motorola, the reigning titan of the mobile industry. They had smelled the blood in the water the moment the touch-screen phone went viral.
"Hmph. A lucky kid," one director sneered after scanning the brief.
"At twenty years old, he probably doesn't realize how deep this ocean actually is," another added with a dismissive wave.
At the head of the table, Watrick, the Chairman and CEO, leaned forward. "Alright, let's hear suggestions."
"Buy out their lead engineer, Jobson. Double his salary, triple it if you have to. Without him, Karl Manufacturing's R&D will be paralyzed within a month."
"And the patents? The technology is registered to the company. We can't build a competitor without a license."
Watrick flashed a cold, predatory grin. "Have you forgotten how Motorola has handled rivals for nearly a hundred years? We don't compete with disruptors. We consume them."
Acquisition. It was the oldest game in the capitalist playbook. Motorola's sales had halved in a single month; Watrick didn't want to innovate, he wanted to own the innovation. Similar conversations were happening in boardrooms across the globe.
Soon, professional negotiation teams were swarming the offices of Karl Manufacturing. Initially, Karl ignored them. He had Skygnaw's technology; why would he sell his empire?
But the sharks didn't like being told 'no.'
Suddenly, the touch-screen phone was plagued by negative press. "Privacy leaks." "Radiation hazards." One viral news clip featured a man claiming the phone's "energy waves" had physically altered his skin color overnight.
Inside the company, key researchers began resigning for "personal reasons." Strange men began loitering in the lobby. One afternoon, Karl walked into his private office to find a single, heavy .50 caliber sniper round standing upright on his desk. Its tip was pointed directly at his chair.
Realizing that this was no longer a business dispute, but a threat to his life, Karl reached into his pocket and pulled out a small iron box—the emergency transmitter Skygnaw had given him.
Base One, Alaska.
Skygnaw had just finished calibrating a Pretender shell when the distress signal pinged.
"So," Skygnaw summarized after listening to Karl's frantic explanation over the encrypted screen. "They want your company. You said no. Now they're leaving bullets on your desk."
Karl looked haggard on the screen, his eyes bloodshot and his hair a mess. "Mr. Skygnaw, these are old, powerful corporations. They have senators in their pockets. I can't fight them on my own..."
Old? Powerful? Skygnaw felt a flicker of mechanical irony. Does he think a century of human history compares to four million years of Decepticon warfare?
"I understand. I will handle these 'complications' for you."
"Mr. Skygnaw..." Karl hesitated, desperate for a guarantee.
"Calm yourself. Within three days, you will meet the person I am sending to assist you."
When the screen went dark, Skygnaw looked down at the experimental rig on his workbench. "Fortunate that I finished this shell today."
The Pretender Shell was a masterpiece of biomimetic engineering. This specific unit was equipped with internal sub-dermal weapons—a small-caliber concealed firearm and a high-frequency alloy blade. For a human, she would be a ghost; for an assassin, she would be a nightmare.
Skygnaw had originally intended to use the Pretender to infiltrate the US government to spy on NEST, but Karl was his primary source of rare earth minerals. If Karl fell, the production of the four High-Class bodies would stall.
He checked the memory core of the miniature Decepticon he had sparked to inhabit the shell. He had programmed her with a vast database of human psychology, corporate law, and tactical assassination.
"Your designation is Alice," Skygnaw commanded.
The machine's optics flickered with a stream of data before the biomimetic skin finished knitting over the metal. In a few seconds, a beautiful, young human woman stood in the lab.
"Yes, Master," Alice replied, her voice perfectly mimicking a soft, human lilt.
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