Madame Gao's gaze settled on Alexandra across the table. "Do I have any reason to deceive you?"
The question hung in the air for a moment before the others nodded in acknowledgment. Given the web of alliances and mutual interests binding the five fingers of the Hand together, deception served no purpose here. Whatever had prompted Madame Gao to call this meeting was clearly significant enough to warrant their collective attention.
Madame Gao leaned forward, her fingers steepled before her. "According to the intelligence I've gathered, the Dragon Ball incident centers on two individuals: John Wick, the former Continental Hotel assassin, and Smith Doyle, the newly appointed leader of the Fraternity."
A ripple of surprise passed through the room. The Fraternity had operated under an elder council system for over a decade, a structure the Hand had assumed indicated a shift toward their own organizational philosophy. The emergence of a singular leader suggested the assassin's guild was consolidating power once again.
"My sources confirm that two Dragon Balls are in John Wick's possession," Madame Gao continued. "He has since allied himself with the Fraternity, placing him under their protection. This alliance is the catalyst for the current war between the Fraternity and what remains of the High Table."
She withdrew a photograph from her sleeve and placed it deliberately in the center of the table. All eyes fixed on the image as she began her explanation.
"This is Helen Wick, John's late wife. She succumbed to cancer several months ago." Madame Gao paused, allowing the weight of her next words to build. "This photograph was taken three days ago."
The silence that followed was absolute.
"I possess both her hospital treatment records and death certificate, if verification is required."
Each of the five leaders examined the photograph in turn. The background showed the exterior of John Wick's house, clearly captured by surveillance when he had brought his resurrected wife home. The woman in the frame was unmistakably alive, her arm linked with John's as they walked toward the front door.
Sowande broke the silence, his deep voice measured. "Resurrection of the dead. The Dragon Balls are authentic, then. The question remains whether he also secured the Dragon Bone during his acquisition of the balls."
"Such a waste," Murakami muttered, shaking his head. "How much of the Dragon Balls energy did they waste on this?"
Bakuto drummed his fingers against the table. "Confirmation is all we needed. We shouldn't delay any further, we move on New York and retrieve the Dragon Balls from the Fraternity."
Seeing unanimous agreement in their expressions, Madame Gao pressed her advantage. "We pursue the Dragon Balls from the Fraternity, yes. But we cannot overlook the dragon bones buried beneath Midland Circle. That building sits in our territory, and we've allowed it to remain dormant for far too long."
Her gaze swept across each of them in turn, sharp and unyielding. "I expect full cooperation this time. Bring your most capable operatives to New York. No half-measures."
Across the city, Wilson Fisk sat behind his mahogany desk, his massive frame radiating barely contained fury. Bullseye stood at attention nearby, silent and watchful as his employer processed the latest intelligence.
The destruction of the High Table should have been Fisk's moment of ascension. With the criminal underworld's leadership vacuum, he had positioned himself to expand beyond Hell's Kitchen, to claim all of New York as his domain, and from there, to establish himself as the undisputed king of America's underground. He had even initiated contact with the Hand, intending to leverage their distribution networks to expand his operations into more lucrative markets.
But now those plans lay in ruins.
Word had reached him that the Hand was deploying a substantial force into New York. The wolf had barely left before the tiger arrived at his door.
Fisk's mind worked through the implications. The Hand traced its origins to sixteenth-century Japan. More troubling were the persistent rumors that its leadership had remained unchanged for five centuries. Was this simply a title passed down through generations, each new leader assuming the mantle of their predecessor? Or was it something far more unsettling?
If the former, the Hand was merely another ancient organization, rare, certainly, but not unprecedented. The Fraternity itself claimed over a thousand years of history. But if the latter possibility held true, if those leaders had genuinely survived for half a millennium, then the Hand represented something beyond normal comprehension.
Fisk's jaw tightened as he reached his decision. He would redirect the threat. Let someone else deal with the Hand's incursion.
"Bullseye," he rumbled.
His lieutenant straightened. "Yes, boss?"
"The Fraternity needs to learn about the Hand's movements into New York. Discreetly." Fisk's eyes narrowed. "Use a computer printer, nothing in your handwriting. Then deliver the message with one of your throwing knives. Make it memorable, but ensure it can't be traced back to us."
If he could engineer a conflict between the Hand and the Fraternity, he might yet salvage his position. The two forces would grind against each other, creating opportunities in the chaos. But if the Hand established themselves unopposed, his empire would crumble beneath their advance.
"Understood, boss." Bullseye's lips curved into a thin smile as he departed to execute the order.
Obadiah Stane charged through the corridors of Stark Industries the moment he learned Tony had entered the building. After confirming with Happy that Tony was at the arc reactor exhibition hall, he swiped his security card and strode through the door.
The giant arc reactor loomed before them, its ring glowing softly in the dimmed lighting. Obadiah took a long pull from his cigar, then fixed Tony with a hard stare.
"Look at the mess you've made."
Tony barely glanced up from where he stood at the railing. "I assume you're referring to my new status as public enemy number one?"
Obadiah yanked the cigar from his mouth, advancing on Tony with barely restrained frustration. "You've made yourself the target, fine. But what about the rest of us? What about me?"
He gestured sharply with the cigar. "How far do you think our stock price will fall tomorrow?"
Tony draped his jacket over the railing beside him, his tone infuriatingly casual. "Optimistically? Forty percent."
"At minimum." Obadiah positioned himself beside Tony, his voice rising. "We're a weapons manufacturer, Tony. That's what we do, "
"I know what we do, Obadiah." Tony cut him off, his jaw setting. "I just don't want to build my fortune on corpses anymore."
"This is our business!" Obadiah's voice echoed in the cavernous space. "We're arms dealers, Tony. That's the reality, "
"This is my company." Tony turned to face him fully, his voice hardening. "My name is on the building. I make the decisions."
Obadiah pressed forward, unwilling to concede ground. "Everything we do maintains global order. We provide the tools that keep the world stable, "
"That's not what I saw in Afghanistan." Tony's eyes flashed. "We're not doing enough. We need to evolve, to redirect our capabilities toward something better."
Obadiah threw up his hands. "What, you want to manufacture baby bottles now?"
"The arc reactor." Tony's gaze drifted to the massive structure before them. "The technology has real potential. We should be developing it."
Obadiah's laugh was sharp and derisive. "The arc reactor? That relic is pure publicity, Tony. We built this thing to shut up the hippies and tree-huggers. It's always been nothing but a PR stunt."
Tony's eyes remained fixed on the glowing ring. "It's more than that. The technology has genuine applications."
"Sure, as a science fair project." Obadiah's tone dripped with condescension. "We knew from the beginning we'd never recoup the construction costs. Arc reactor technology is a dead end, Tony. There's no commercial viability. You know this."
"That's your assessment." Tony lifted his chin slightly, his voice quiet but firm.
Obadiah moved behind him, his frustration mounting. "Am I wrong? How long has it been since we made any meaningful progress on this thing? Twenty years? Thirty?"
Tony turned to face his father's old partner, a slight smile playing at his lips. "According to them, you mean." He paused, letting the moment stretch. "So which one told you? Was it Rhodey who ran to you, or was it Pepper?"
Obadiah's eyes narrowed. "That's irrelevant. Show me this supposed breakthrough you're so confident about."
"I'm guessing Rhodey." Tony's smile widened slightly.
"Show me the breakthrough, Tony."
"Yeah, definitely Rhodey."
With deliberate slowness, Tony unbuttoned his shirt, revealing the glowing arc reactor embedded in his chest. The miniaturized device pulsed with soft blue light, impossibly small yet unmistakably functional.
"Well? Satisfied?"
Obadiah's entire demeanor transformed in an instant. His eyes widened, reflecting the reactor's glow, and a smile spread across his face, genuine and predatory all at once. He stepped forward, already reaching up to help Tony button his shirt, his movements almost paternal.
"Tony, you magnificent bastard." His hands worked quickly, concealing the reactor once more. "Listen to me. We're a team, understand? Together, there's nothing we can't accomplish. Just like your father and I in the old days."
Tony's expression softened slightly. "Look, I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. But if I had mentioned it before I'd proven the concept, "
Obadiah pulled him into a brief embrace, clapping him on the back. "No more of this lone wolf routine, Tony. We communicate before making moves this significant. Are we clear?"
Tony glanced back at the massive reactor behind them. "Going off alone was always my father's approach."
"Then we'll do better than Howard did." Obadiah kept his hand on Tony's shoulder, his voice taking on a conspiratorial warmth. "We're going to pivot this company completely. But you need to promise me something, keep your head down for now. Let me handle the board and the stockholders. Can you do that?"
Tony collected his jacket from the railing, slipping it back on as he headed toward the exit. "I'll try, Obie. No promises."
Obadiah watched him go, his smile lingering even as his eyes returned to the giant arc reactor. The gears in his mind were already turning, calculating possibilities and opportunities that Tony, for all his genius, hadn't yet considered.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Writing takes time, coffee, and a lot of love.If you'd like to support my work, join me at [email protected]/GoldenGaruda
You'll get early access to over 50 chapters, selection on new series, and the satisfaction of knowing your support directly fuels more stories.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~