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Chaos.
Absolute chaos descended upon Washington D.C.
Just moments ago, a small, formerly unnoticed meteorite had breached the atmosphere and, with impossible precision, slammed directly into the White House, instantly vaporizing the Commander-in-Chief.
The press pool, permanently camped outside the gates, had managed to capture crystal-clear footage of the culprit—a smoking rock being hauled out of the wreckage...
Followed closely by a stretcher covered with a plain white sheet.
Shortly after, a hastily organized press conference was held on the White House lawn. Under the dazzling flash of cameras and the gaze of a stunned nation, the Vice President—an older man with thinning gray hair—placed his right hand on a Bible and was hurriedly sworn in as the new President of the United States.
His first official act as Commander-in-Chief, signed mere minutes after taking the oath, was an executive order immediately repealing the Sokovia Accords and dropping all charges of treason against Steve Rogers, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, and Sharon Carter.
All of this transpired within an hour of the "meteorite" strike.
Meanwhile—
In Arlington County, just southwest of the capital, a team of heavily armed soldiers descended upon an expansive estate. Without hesitating, they kicked the front door off its hinges and stormed inside.
The commanding officer marched with grim purpose toward the homeowner—a mixed-race man who stared at the invading force in utter panic. Without a word, the officer drove the butt of his rifle hard into the man's face.
"Take him!"
"Yes, sir!"
The officer watched impassively as his men dragged the bleeding, semiconscious David Harris away. He checked his watch, pulled out a secure sat phone, and dialed a number connecting directly to the Secretary of Defense, who was currently sweating in the Pentagon's Situation Room.
The call connected instantly.
"Sir."
"We have the target. We're en route back to base."
"Excellent!"
The Secretary's eyes lit up. He slapped his hand on the table in relief, hung up the phone, and immediately turned to Hawk, who was standing quietly in the corner, his eyes closed in apparent meditation.
"Mr. Phoenix, we have Harris. He's on his way here now."
Hawk opened his eyes, his eyes settling coolly on the Secretary of Defense.
"You know, Mr. Secretary, there are very few things in this world that I truly detest. Three, to be exact. Do you know what they are?"
"Uh..."
"I hate the dark, because I'm afraid of the dark."
"I hate ghosts, because I'm afraid of ghosts."
"And I hate squids, because I'm allergic to seafood."
"So..."
Hawk's eyes turned dead and fathomless. "You have two hours and ten minutes left. Just like at Quantico: either you give me an acceptable resolution, or I will create one myself."
With that.
He closed his eyes again.
This was exactly why he had bypassed everything else and come straight to the Pentagon.
It was exactly what he had told the Secretary.
Whether it was Harris, the puppet in the White House, or the deep-pocketed financiers pulling their strings...
The only reason they entertained the delusion that they could test his boundaries was because they believed the military brass in this very room had their backs.
After all...
The U.S. military extended its power across the globe.
To these arrogant elites, it didn't matter how badly they screwed up—they believed the world's most powerful military would always be there to clean up their mess and protect them from the consequences. It made them feel invincible.
Coincidentally, Hawk operated on the exact same logic.
So, he hadn't bothered with the middleman. He had simply grabbed the President from the Oval Office, dragged him here, and executed him right in front of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
The message was clear.
The military thinks it can do whatever it wants.
I do whatever I want.
Ever since the Quantico incident, Hawk had adopted a very simple philosophy.
No matter who caused the problem, he held the military accountable.
Either the military cleaned up the mess to his satisfaction, or he cleaned up the military.
It was that simple.
And so—
Hearing Hawk's thinly veiled threat regarding "squids"—a not-so-subtle reference to the Wall Street financiers backing Harris—the Secretary pulled out his handkerchief again, mopping his brow.
He looked around the table. The generals were staring back at him. Their eyes practically screamed, 'Better them than us,' and a few even glinted with the realization that ' Wall Street has a lot of fat to trim.' The Secretary took a deep breath, his voice sinking to a low murmur.
"Tell the new boss to sign an emergency lockdown order for New York City."
"Mobilize the National Guard."
"Arrest them all."
It's a known fact.
The Anglo-Saxons were the muscle, the boots on the ground, the blunt force that conquered nations. They were the wolves.
The Wall Street 'squids' were the money, sitting safely in their penthouses, hoarding the wealth of the oceans. They were the leeches.
But!
It's also a known fact.
When violence finally decides to speak, money has no choice but to go completely, utterly silent.
Soon—
The directive reached the White House. The new President, possessing a strong desire not to share his predecessor's sudden case of meteorite-induced death, swiftly exercised his executive power. He declared a state of emergency for the island of Manhattan and ordered the immediate deployment of the National Guard.
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In New York, Governor Newsom was caught completely off guard.
He hadn't even processed the news that the President had been vaporized by a falling rock, and now the new guy was putting his city under martial law?
WHAT THE HELL?
WHAT DID NEW YORK DO TO DESERVE A STATE OF EMERGENCY?
Once the shock wore off, Newsom slammed his hands on his desk, his face turning red with indignation.
"This is an outrage!"
"This is an unlawful overreach! I won't stand for this. I absolutely refuse to—"
"Governor!"
Just as Newsom was about to call a press conference to publicly denounce Washington's heavy-handed tactics, his chief of staff rushed in, pale-faced, and leaned in to mumble in his ear.
Newsom's indignant expression froze instantly. His eyes bulged as he stared at his aide.
"Are you serious?"
"Yes, sir. The Deputy Secretary of Defense just called personally. He said the lockdown isn't aimed at us. It's to protect us. He said the Demon King is furious, and the consequences will be severe."
Hiss!
Newsom sucked in a sharp breath. His look darted involuntarily toward Wall Street.
"Are those Wall Street idiots insane?"
"I don't know, sir."
The aide shook his head, a grim, humorless smile on his face. He couldn't fathom how anyone, after witnessing the Quantico Massacre, the Scorched Earth of Wakanda, the Atlantic Annihilation, and the Hydra Eradication, could still think it was a good idea to poke the Demon King.
Goes to show, Sometimes, people who spend centuries wandering without a homeland do so for a very good reason.
RUMBLE!
Receiving their orders, the National Guard didn't hesitate for a second. Fully armed convoys rolled into Manhattan, locking down the island.
"Hurry! Faster!"
"Go!"
A Wall Street financier, his face covered in panic, scrambled into his private helicopter on the roof of his penthouse, screaming at his pilot.
The pilot frantically worked the controls, lifting the chopper off the pad and banking hard, trying to cross the border as fast as possible.
"Mr. Secretary, we've got reports of several targets attempting to flee the country by air. And we have several senators on hold, demanding to speak with you..."
An aide scurried into the Situation Room, whispering urgently in the Secretary's ear.
But before the Secretary could respond.
CRACK!
The sickening sound of bone shattering cut across the tension.
Hawk flicked his wrist, casually tossing the newly-arrived, freshly-dead body of David Harris onto the tactical table. He looked at the Secretary... and then at the aide who had just spoken.
"Thanks for the reminder. I almost forgot."
"Add a new condition."
"Anyone who begs for mercy on their behalf... dies with them."
"Again."
"Don't try to hide them. Don't try to play games. You either handle this yourselves, or when the clock runs out, you, and this entire country, can go join Wakanda."
"You have one hour and forty-five minutes left."
Hawk's voice was perfectly level. Having delivered the addendum, he closed his eyes once more.
He had meant what he said. He would give no one the opportunity to reach forth and touch what was his.
He wouldn't even tolerate the thought of it.
If you had the courage to think it, Hawk would end your life.
The Secretary of Defense listened to the lethal, uncompromising promise in Hawk's voice. The images of a ruined Quantico, a pulverized Wakanda, and a vaporized Atlantis flashed in his mind. He spun around, glaring at his aide. "Names. Get me the names. Arrange for their suicides. Immediately."
The aide gulped, his already pale face turning the color of chalk.
He seemed like an executioner who had just been handed the axe.
Ten minutes later.
BOOM!
A helicopter exploded mid-air over the Mexican border. A fighter pilot from a nearby Air Force base keyed his mic, confirming the target was destroyed.
Meanwhile.
A prominent senator, hurrying across the street to the Capitol building, was tragically struck by an out-of-control vehicle and killed on impact.
After all...
Suicides are efficient, but a sudden rash of high-profile suicides looks a little too suspicious.
The clock ticked down.
"Are they done?"
"Hold on, we're still waiting on two."
"Hurry it up! We're out of time. Ten minutes left!"
"I'm pushing them! Damn it, two of them decided to go hiking in the Grand Canyon!"
"Okay, they're handled. How do we want them to go?"
"We don't have time to make it look like an accident. Just list them as missing."
"...Done."
"Photos. Where are the photos?"
"Coming through now."
"Got 'em."
"Print them! Now!"
"Printed."
"Hurry!"
"Time's up!"
Hawk, sensing the exact moment the three hours expired, opened his eyes. His voice rang out over the frantic murmurings of the Situation Room.
It was calm. But to the men in the room, it sounded like the Grim Reaper calling roll.
"Kirk Thomas. Thomas Investment Group."
"...Here!"
A four-star general launched a freshly printed photograph of a corpse into the air.
With a thought, Hawk summoned the photo from the general's hand. It floated over to him.
He glanced at it, his face expressionless.
"Senator Rachel Bernok."
"Here."
"..."
"Martha Williams."
"Here!"
"Wade Payne."
"Here, sir."
"..."
As Hawk methodically called out each name, the stack of printed photographs on the tactical table rapidly decreased.
And the pile of photos hovering in front of Hawk grew.
There were nearly a hundred of them.
Soon.
After Hawk called out the final name, only a dozen or so photos remained on the table.
He smiled.
Then—
Hawk looked up at the Secretary of Defense, his voice composed.
"Thank you, Mr. Secretary."
"You're welcome."
The Secretary let out a massive, quivering breath. The entire Situation Room, which had been keeping its unified breath during Hawk's lethal roll call, finally exhaled.
The next second, Hawk's gaze shifted to the two lifeless bodies splayed across their tactical map.
"Do me one last favor."
"Anything you need."
"Chop them up. Feed them to the dogs."
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