Meanwhile In Times Square,
The whispers of the people echoed across Times Square, one of New York City's most notorious landmarks, where a conference was being bluntly set up in broad daylight.
Even though some of the bustling crowd came to see the spectacle, the majority weren't curious onlookers or loyal supporters.
They were newsmen.
Journalists in wrinkled suits with hats pulled low, photographers with flashbulbs cocked and ready, and reporters flipping through their notebooks, scribbling furiously before the event had even begun.
Even now, as the stage stood empty and the main man of the hour hadn't yet appeared, it was already a story.
Everything was a story.
The papers were sure to write about how illegal this sudden gathering was, with no permits or permission, and yet the police were there all the same, acting as an unwilling barricade for the public.
Across the square, officers stood shoulder to shoulder, forced into service as the city's wall while mobsters lingered within the crowd, eyes darting for anyone suspicious.
All while flashbulbs suddenly cracked like gunfire, washing the scene in blinding white.
And there at the epicenter of it all, beneath the blinking Coca-Cola sign, appeared the name on everyone's lips.
"RICKY, OVER HERE! OVER HERE!" A reporter shouted, practically pleading for even a flicker of that patented, smug grin of his.
However, the man of the morning simply sat lazily on a chair while the crew set up his microphone stand, preparing for him to address the public.
Even though Ricky appeared calm and collected at the side, his face flashed again and again with the burst of camera bulbs.
Yet his mind wasn't on the noise, nor the spectacle around him since he was lost in something else entirely.
Most specifically, the system.
Ever since Otherworld, Ricky had grown more and more drawn to the system.
It wasn't a secret that he had taken it for granted, using it only when it suited him, when it bent in his favor.
But now, after that ordeal in the warehouse, and after handing that 9mm to Benny, an idea had started to take root.
He had become more cautious about what he fed into Eldritch Abomination, the regret still lingering from the moment he sacrificed his Holy Aura skill without thinking.
That one reckless decision had taught him the cost of his choices within the system.
It was something entirely his to command, and yet, it was only as flawed as the man who wielded it.
So, while Ricky carefully considered which skills to feed to Eldritch Abomination, he began tinkering with the idea of giving his consumed items to his fellow mobsters.
After making blueprint copies of most of his useful items, he found them just sitting in his inventory.
His creativity had originally flourished when he started a company using all the advanced products he received from the system.
But what about the weapons or the armors?
Ricky had been given plenty that couldn't compare to the ones he actually used, yet that didn't mean he had to let them sit idle in his inventory.
That was why he wanted to try something, passing these consumed and altered weapons to the younger generation of his Luciano family.
A new tide was shifting the waters they once sailed, and Ricky wasn't about to wait for a storm to change the sails.
DING
[(Rare Weapon) The Screeching Shield→Screech of the Fallen Choir: Upon taking damage, the user unleashes a piercing shriek that disorients nearby foes and weakens their focus. The scream grows stronger with sustained pain, feeding on both suffering and conflict. Prolonged use leaves lingering echoes in the mind, blurring the line between enemy cries and one's own.]
'I need more throw-away weapons.' Ricky thought, scrolling through his inventory and realizing this fact.
'Well, it's not like I'm going to complain about how I can get them-'
"Aye, boss, we're ready for you!" Lil Tony called, approaching him after finally setting up the microphones.
"Gimme a second," Ricky said, watching Lil Tony give him a slight nod before stepping aside as a high-mounted camera slowly clicked a photo.
Ricky's mind remained tethered to his system, scouring his inventory, then shaking his head as he returned to the rewards he had received yesterday
The very thing that had prompted this entire event.
[(Legendary Armor) Dragonfire Gauntlets: These gauntlets are said to have been forged from the molten scales of a primordial dragon, retaining the beast's fierce energy.
Attributes:
Infernal Strike: Each punch releases a burst of fire, capable of melting armor and incinerating foes.
Flame Projection: The gauntlets can channel energy into a controlled stream of dragonfire up to 20 meters.
(Legendary Item) Jack Sparrow's Compass: A battered, salt-stained compass whose needle never points north, only toward what the holder most desires, or what fate thinks they need.
Properties:
Desire Guidance: The compass will subtly point toward objects, people, or locations the user subconsciously longs for, even if they're unaware of it.
(Legendary Item) McLovin's Fake ID: A seemingly ordinary ID card, aged just enough to look authentic, yet impossible to trace.
Properties:
Universal Authenticity: Can pass through any security checkpoint, scanner, or verification system, from mundane offices to high-tech magical barriers.
(Legendary Item) Pandora's Pendant: A delicate, ornate necklace with a gem that seems to shimmer with its own inner light.
Properties:
Bonded Tracking: Once placed on a person and worn as a necklace, bracelet, or even pinned somewhere on their body, the wearer's location can be sensed by the pendant's owner no matter the distance. X 2]
However, it wasn't the rewards that brought the smile to his face, or even the reason he stood from his chair.
"Everything's ready." Lucky called from the side, stepping onto the stage.
"I even brought the buffoon in case you need him or something." Lucky added, walking to Ricky's side and gesturing toward Morgan, who was happily eating what he called a 'common man's' hotdog.
"Oh man, he's gonna be pissed." Ricky chuckled to himself, grinning ear to ear as Lucky shot him a puzzled look.
"Wait, this ain't you picking a fight-"
"You know Dracula, right?" Ricky interrupted, shifting the subject.
He draped an arm around Lucky and turned him toward the reporter, who immediately began snapping rapid-fire photos of the two of them.
"The guy whose ass you kicked, yeah, I remember." Lucky muttered, forcing a stiff smile at the photographers as he waved his hand.
"What everyone doesn't know was that the guy became THE vampire because of Abraham." Ricky explained, offering context on something Lucky barely understood in the first place.
"What-"
"He was a Van Helsing, but that's beside the point, the guy made Dracula so feared because he told his story to an author." Ricky said, speaking in a way that only made sense if you had the right context, which Lucky definitely didn't.
Ricky had this spontaneous idea, sparked by the Mythic Coupon, to take a page out of Dracula's diary, specifically his words from August 9, 1898:
'The very public display of our enmity with Van Helsing has, rather than diminishing me, elevated my status, transforming me into a symbol of resilience and defiance.'
It was the exact diary entry Ricky had read from Dracula's journal, the same one he'd skim through whenever boredom crept in and he had time to kill.
"I-I still don't get it." Lucky said, completely lost in whatever the hell Ricky was talking about.
"I'm gonna make Roosevelt my Abraham." Ricky said cryptically, watching Lucky finally give up on trying to understand as he turned his attention toward the crowd.
SIGH
"Whatever, I'm gonna go sit down." Lucky sighed, shaking his head and simply waiting to hear what Ricky had in store rather than chase the rabbit hole of his thought process.
Ricky chuckled and patted Lucky's back before turning toward the microphone stand, taking slow steps, milking the moment for everything it was worth.
The moment he did, the flurry of camera flashes intensified to an almost unnatural degree, bathing his body in white light that matched the gleam of his smile.
And while Ricky certainly enjoyed the attention, his eyes weren't truly on the crowd, or the people, but on his system.
At the mythic skill he had received.
[Mythic Skill: Narrative
Description: Your words become living stories, drawing attention and shaping perception. Audiences experience your tale, feeling the emotions and significance you convey.
Powers:
Attention Command: You can draw focus, but only to groups of up to 10 people at a time. Larger crowds weaken the effect proportionally.
Emotion Weaving: You can influence a single dominant emotion in your audience (awe, fear, joy, etc.), but only one emotion at a time. Trying to evoke multiple conflicting emotions may leave the audience confused or hostile.
Truth-Bending: Minor exaggerations are accepted, but major falsehoods break the effect and may backfire, making the audience distrust you.
Legendary Memory : Listeners retain your words vividly, but only for 24 hours, after which memories fade normally.
Side Effects:
Belief Requirement: Your conviction in the story must be genuine. If you knowingly lie or are unsure, the effect weakens unless your willpower is strong enough to override this.
Physical / Mental Fatigue: Sustained use (more than 10 minutes of intense speaking) causes mental exhaustion and slight voice strain.
Environmental Dependence: The skill works best when your audience can see and hear you clearly; chaotic or noisy environments reduce effectiveness.]
Activating his skill, his eyes flickered faintly with that subtle shade of will as he leaned toward the microphone, adjusting it with deliberate care.
Then, after a heartbeat of silence, he finally addressed the rumors that had hovered like smoke over the city.
"Last night, I met with the President of the United States." Ricky said bluntly, watching in real time as the entire audience seemed to freeze in place.
Click
It took a single click of a camera shutter for everyone's minds to jolt back from the flood of thoughts that had crashed through them at the sound of that ridiculous rumor.
Actually being true.
"RICKY, RICKY, IS THE RUMOR THAT YOU BARGED INTO HIS OFFICE ALSO TRUE!"
"IS IT ABOUT THE OLYMPICS!"
"WHAT COLOR SOCKS ARE YOU WEARING!"
The questions bombarded Ricky from all directions, erupting like a storm that had been waiting for permission to break.
Microphones shoved forward, flashbulbs from cameras exploded in frantic rhythm, and the once orderly crowd turned into a cacophony of overlapping voices.
"Everyone, hold questions until after I'm done-"
"BUT MR. LUCIANO-"
"Please."
The word rolled off Ricky's tongue like an apology, but it carried none of the humility it implied.
A chill swept through the crowd as Ricky lifted his gaze, that unamused look in his eyes daring anyone to mistake his patience for weakness.
"But to answer the first three; no, yes, and I think they're blue." Ricky said lightly, the edge in his voice dissolving into casual humor as the tension thinned.
"Yep, blue." Ricky laughed, tugging up his pant leg just enough to prove his point.
A ripple of chuckles broke through the crowd, mixing awkwardly with the coughs of those still catching up to the sudden shift in tone that had fallen over Times Square.
"Now, I don't know if this is being reported yet, but I'm here to confirm that I did, in fact, meet with the President." Ricky smiled, gesturing casually toward the sea of reporters still snapping photos and scribbling his every word.
"And yes, it was about the Olympics." Ricky confirmed, clarifying his earlier statement.
"But, I won't be participating in them."
Everyone, regardless of whether they were involved with the news or not, froze at the shocking revelation.
Though Ricky's reputation as a mobster wasn't widely known outside New York, his identity as a mutant was.
More importantly, the public had tolerated him after he had publicly committed to serving his country.
Much of the reason his mutant status hadn't been completely vilified was due to the way he carried himself during the trial.
As a proud, self-proclaimed American willing to stand for his nation after committing himself to joining the military.
With Europe growing increasingly unstable and dangerous, this stance offered reassurance to those who had once despised him; at least someone powerful was on their side.
Yet now, to witness this so-called patriot refuse to represent his country, reporters' faces betrayed a wave of disbelief and displeasure.
Even so, they held their tongues.
"The President asked me to not only wear our flag, but to convince my mutant brethren to do the same."
As Ricky continued, Lucky's eyes widened at the story he was weaving, while Morgan tilted his head, clearly trying to make sense of the narrative Ricky was spinning.
"That's not what he-" Morgan tried to say, only to have his mouth covered by Lucky who stared at Ricky's back.
"But I told him, just as I'm telling you: 'How can I represent a country that refuses to recognize the rights of my people?'" Ricky said, lying through his teeth, every word charged with the force of his Narrative skill as he imbued his will to counteract the side-effects.
"How can I stand proud for a nation that forces us to compromise our very existence?" Ricky asked, eyes scanning the audience, daring anyone to challenge him.
"How come every other country is recognizing mutants as a species, yet our president, who called me to the White House, still doesn't acknowledge who I am?" Ricky asked again, the lie rolling off his tongue so convincingly that he could feel the drain in his stamina, the side effects of his Narrative skill tugging at him like invisible weights.
"I am a mutant, don't get it twisted." Ricky huffed, exhaling sharply as a bead of sweat slid down his temple, the strain of sustaining such a blatant lie pressing against him.
"But I'm still a man, an Italian-American, and I have to stand up for what I believe in." Ricky said, clenching his fist before everywhere who was so enthralled
"I'm not asking America to change, and I'm not asking any of you to accept or love me, cause that's f*cking ridiculous." Ricky said, his voice cutting through the murmur of the crowd.
"I'm asking to be treated with some goddamn courtesy, for my people to be given some f*cking courtesy." Ricky demanded, his gaze sweeping the crowd, burning with conviction.
"So I will not compete in the Olympics." Ricky declared again, striking the iron first, his tone leaving no room for doubt as he revealed the reason he would not represent America.
"Not 'cause I'm refusing to serve, but 'cause service without recognition is no service at all," Ricky continued, leaning into his words, surprised at himself for saying it as the crowd struggled to tear their eyes away from him.
"This is America, give me some f*cking freedom or give me nothing at all!" Ricky yelled, his voice cutting through the crowd as he rode the momentum of the moment.
"If being in the Olympics requires me to just ignore who I am, to compromise my people's dignity for applause, then I refuse it, everytime!" Ricky said, his excitement rising with every cheer from the mutants in the crowd.
Meanwhile, the regular men stuck out like sore thumbs, their faces a mixture of confusion, awe, and disbelief.
But mostly awe.
Ricky's Narrative skill was bending their perception, weaving a magnetic pull that left them powerless to look away, hanging on every word.
"So, I will not stand on their podiums until every mutant can stand freely in the streets!"
"AND FOR ANYONE OUT THERE WHO CAN'T STAND FOR THEMSELVES, THAT'S WHY I'M RIGHT HERE!" Ricky bellowed, the words cutting through the square like a flare.
"YOU WANNA PAINT ME A VILLAIN? F*CKING FINE!" Ricky shrugged, half-laughing, half-spitting the last word as the mutants around him erupted in cheers
"BUT I AIN'T GONNA WIN GOLD UNTIL EVERY MUTANT GETS THE GOLD STANDARD!" Ricky shouted, letting the words hang like a challenge in the air.
Franky, the mutant reporter, stared at him with a mix of awe and reverence, the line searing itself into his memory.
"AND THAT'S BACKED BY THE MOST VALUABLE RESOURCE IN THE WORLD, MY WORD!" Ricky said, thrusting a hand toward the crowd as a wave of cheers erupted, drowning out the reporters' pens and cameras.
Newsmen flinched, caught off guard, as mutants of every shape, size, and color leapt with joy, shouting and clapping for Ricky.
They roared, cheered, for no one except him, the sound rolling like a wave through Times Square.
Amid the frenzy, a lone figure began moving slowly through the crowd.
An overcoat and a hat shielding him as he pressed onward, almost asleep to the chaos around him, while Ricky rode the momentum.
"I WILL SERVE THIS COUNTRY, I WILL LAY DOWN MY LIFE IF IT'S ASKED!" Ricky blended lies with truth, purifying it all through the sheer force of his willpower, every word radiating authority.
Meanwhile, the lone figure edged closer.
Franky, still beaming at seeing Ricky in person, collided briefly with him, snapping him out of his daze.
His wide smile faltered, twisting into a frown as the man brushed past, pushing him aside with indifferent precision.
"Hey-" Franky started, but the second his eyes locked on the man, a chill ran through him, shaking him to his very core.
"BUT IF I'M TO COMPETE, NOT TO PROTECT OUR FREEDOM, BUT TO PROTECT OUR DIGNITY, THEN GIVE ME SOME OF IT-"
"GUN!" Franky screamed, lunging toward the gunman, only to realize that the man had already yanked the pistol from his coat.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
The crowd erupted in a collective scream, a wave of terror that rippled through Times Square as mobsters immediately surged toward the shooter.
Panic cascaded like a tidal wave as hundreds of bodies reacted in unison as people ducked, stumbled, and scattered in every direction.
"DIE YOU F*CKING DEVIL!"
BANG
The shot cracked through the square, unnaturally loud, reverberating off the surrounding buildings as the crowd instinctively flinched.
Mobsters lunged in unison, tackling the shooter with a coordinated force, slamming him into the ground.
Yet Franky's eyes widened in horror as the bullet tore through the air, aimed straight at Ricky's forehead.
DINK
Amid the chaos, amidst the screams of the crowd, and even amidst the curses of the gunman, Ricky simply raised an eyebrow, effortlessly manifesting a force field as the bullet collapsed in on itself beneath the green dome.
"Seriously?" Ricky asked, catching the bullet as it lazily fell to the ground, holding it up before his eye with a casual smirk.
"We already went through this in Texas, c'mon man, be original," Ricky sighed, flicking the bullet back at him as it smacked into the struggling gunman's forehead.
BAM
The impact knocked the gunman unconscious as mobsters rained punches down on him until the police were forced to pull them off and take him into custody.
"Where was I?" Ricky asked, scanning the crowd, who were still in the middle of dispersing, their eyes blankly fixed on him in stunned silence.
"Oh yeah, dignity-"
SIGH
He let out a long, frustrated sigh, feeling the surge of energy and anticipation he had so carefully built evaporate like smoke in the wind.
Every cheer, every roar, every shred of awe that had hung in the air just moments ago seemed to dissipate, leaving only stunned silence and scattered murmurs in its wake.
"No, it's ruined." Ricky frowned, slicking his hair back as his shoulders slumped slightly, annoyance etched clearly across his features
"Alright, anyone got any questions?" Ricky asked, waving his hand at the crowd, trying to reclaim some semblance of control after losing his train of thought.
It was completely nonchalant, Ricky's calm demeanor sending a ripple of shock through the crowd as they turned their eyes from the downed gunman back to him, still trying to process the chaos that had just unfolded.
All except one.
Franky, sensing the chance to snag a quote for his upcoming paper, didn't hesitate.
"Me, ME!" Franky shouted, barreling toward the front as the other reporters surged around him, each jockeying for position in the chaotic race of the news event.
"RICKY-"
"Mr. Luciano-"
"You, the guy who spoke first." Ricky said, pointing directly at Franky as the sudden attention made him gulp, his excitement tangled with a flicker of nervousness.
"F-Frank Bohannan, mutant times-"
"Mutant Times?" Ricky chuckled, raising an eyebrow at the paper he had never heard of, as the other mutants all turned their attention to Franky.
"Yes, sir-Mr.Luciano-" Franky stammered, unsure what to call him.
"Just call me Ricky, Mr. Luciano's over there." Ricky joked, gesturing toward Lucky, who was crossing his arms and scowling at the soon-to-be-dead gunman being dragged away by the police.
"T-Then Ricky, my question is: How can we ensure that your stand isn't just symbolic, but actually creates lasting change?" Franky asked genuinely, his pen frozen over the notebook.
"Woah, good question," Ricky said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Uh, well, I'm gonna be honest with you." Ricky continued, letting the pause hang like a weight.
"I don't know." Ricky shrugged nonchalantly, watching Franky's face go blank, clearly expecting some inspired response that never came.
"Then-"
"But if we give in now, if we compromise even a little, we'll just always give in later." Ricky said, his voice firm, eyes scanning the area as if daring anyone to challenge him.
"I will win every event I compete in, literally every single one." Ricky announced, letting the declaration hang like a promise.
"But I don't want to win for myself, I want to win for my children," Ricky said, pausing as his gaze dropped toward the podium.
For someone who seemed untouchable, his reasoning struck a chord that even the most skeptical, the ones poised to brand him a fiend in tomorrow's papers, couldn't help but pause and appreciate the display of emotion.
In truth, Ricky was lying so hard that the effort of sustaining his skill was already starting to steal his breath.
Ricky honestly didn't care about the Olympic Games, he was only doing this for leverage, but that was a truth nobody needed to know.
"I don't want them to grow up in the world I did." Ricky said, letting the skill ease slightly as a sliver of his real truth bled through.
"I don't want them sent off to the Vatican, or anywhere else, just because people refuse to accept them for who they are," Ricky said, his voice steady but carrying an edge of genuine weight that even shocked him.
"And I don't want them to inherit the compromises I had too." Ricky revealed, his gaze tightening slightly as if looking past the audience and straight into the future he envisioned.
"I want them to be proud of who they are, of who their dad is." Ricky added, the faintest shadow of a smile tugging at his lips as the skill within him hummed quietly, amplifying the sincerity of his performance.
"And I think all fathers out there feel the same," Ricky added, his tone carrying that rare, unguarded resonance that made even his harshest critics pause for a moment.
"Thank you." Franky murmured, a smile breaking across his face as he hurriedly scribbled down every word, desperate not to miss a single line of Ricky's carefully spun narrative.
"Mr. Luciano, did you just say you're going to win every event you compete in?" A reporter suddenly asked, almost skeptical that he had heard wrong.
"Yep." Ricky confirmed easily, a small smirk tugging at his lips.
"These young men and women have dedicated their lives to these sports and-"
"And it's a shame the Olympic Committee gave people like me free reign to ruin it." Ricky interjected, chuckling softly as a faint pulse of his Narrative skill rippled beneath his calm exterior.
"What do you mean-"
"Listen, just for a second," Ricky interrupted, holding up a finger as if to make a point while gesturing to the microphone next to him.
CRUNCH
The mic snapped under his grip, crushed effortlessly by his strength, drawing sharp gasps from the crowd.
"I am physically better than all those athletes." Ricky said, shrugging his shoulder and tossing the crushed object to the side.
"It's not me being a jerk, it's just the real genetic truth." Ricky said, leaning over the podium, both hands planted firmly as his gaze dropped toward the uncrushed microphones.
"My buddy Barko could explain it better, but to sum it up: life ain't fair."
A ripple ran through Times Square as cameras flashed, pens froze mid-scribble, and even the skeptics felt the subtle pull of his Narrative.
The reporters glanced at one another, realizing they were witnessing pure, raw, hate-fueled gold, utterly magnetic, their eyes practically turning into money signs as they focused on him.
"RICKY, DO YOU EVEN CARE ABOUT THE OTHER ATHLETES' FEELINGS?"
"RICKY, ARE YOU SERIOUSLY SAYING YOUR GENETIC ADVANTAGE MAKES YOU BETTER THAN EVERYONE ELSE?"
"RICKY, WHAT IF SOMEONE BEATS YOU? WILL THAT RUIN YOUR WHOLE POINT?"
"RICKY, IS THIS ABOUT MUTANT PRIDE, OR JUST PROVING HOW UNTOUCHABLE YOU ARE?"
"RICKY, HOW CAN YOU CALL THIS FAIRNESS WHEN YOU'RE OPENLY MOCKING EVERYONE ELSE?"
"RICKY, HOW DO YOU RESPOND TO CRITICS WHO SAY THIS ISN'T LEADERSHIP, IT'S ARROGANCE?"
"RICKY, WILL THIS STUNT OVERSHADOW THE ATHLETES WHO TRAINED FOR YEARS?"
The questions, held back until now, exploded like a tidal wave, each one sharper than the last.
Reporters shouted over one another, eager for a headline that would sell itself, their pens poised and cameras flashing, knowing every word would be printed for maximum profit.
"No, yes, no one will beat me, both, both, and who cares about anything that isn't winning." Ricky answered, firing off each response with a casual precision that left the reporters scrambling to match question to answer.
"Listen, I won't be competing in every event, only the physical ones." Ricky added, letting the statement hang as the crowd tried to process what that really meant.
"And to still show our support, the Lucky cooperation will be sponsoring any olympic athlete, no matter the outcome." Ricky revealed, watching as the reporters faces lit up with excitement at the controversial statement.
"DOES THAT MEAN EVEN THE NEGRO'S-"
"Anyone, the Lucky Corporation is committed to supporting not only its customers, its workers, but its athletes." Ricky interrupted with a laugh, gesturing broadly.
"And speaking of the Lucky Corporation, I have another announcement," Ricky said, holding up a finger as Chest, perched off in the distance, let out a heavy sigh.
"The company will be holding a public display, an expo, of all the products that we will be releasing-"
"WILL THEY BE FUNCTIONING"
"Yes!" Ricky announced, spreading his arms toward the crowd, who immediately let out astonished gasps while Chester buried his face in his wings.
"Fully functioning products will be on display, and they'll change our households forever!" Ricky said excitedly, feeling the crowd's curiosity ripple through every gesture and murmur.
"Set your calendars, because next week, everything you've ever known is about to change!" Ricky proclaimed, his eyes catching Chester off into the distance as he gave him a subtle wink.
"RICKY-"
"Before anyone gets a question in, I've got one last announcement," Ricky said deliberately, holding the reporters at bay as they hesitated, pens hovering over fresh sheets of paper.
"Lucky Legacy Bank and J.P. Morgan have agreed on a merger that will create 10,000 new jobs!" Ricky declared, watching the crowd's eyes widen at the revelation.
"WHAT-" Lucky screamed, his budget only stretching for about two thousand, nearly a fifth of Ricky's claim.
"AND IT'S ALL THANKS TO J.P. MORGAN JR., EVERYONE GIVE HIM A HAND!" Ricky interrupted, gesturing toward Morgan, who was fidgeting with his buttons.
"What?" Morgan asked, looking up in confusion as the roar of applause washed over him.
"Come up here, buddy!" Ricky said, laughing with excitement, watching Lucky simmer in frustration at the side as Morgan hesitantly stood.
"It's all thanks to his vision, his dedication, that our banks can finally give a little back to America, which has suffered enough from all those bad eggs!" Ricky yelled, gesturing toward Morgan, who now looked like he actually believed every word himself.
"We know the banking industry is a mess and we're not saying it's not our fault."
"We're saying that we're going to do right by you, by all of you, and earn your trust back, that is what our CEO, J.P. Morgan Jr., wants to give to this country!" Ricky announced, the reporters erupting in a mix of gasps, scribbles, and roaring excitement.
The richest man in America, standing publicly next to the most charismatic man in the country, had the reporters practically foaming at the mouth.
"WE'RE GOING TO DO GREAT THINGS!" Morgan shouted, completely enthralled by the applause, while Lucky could only facepalm at the side, muttering under his breath.
"DAMN RIGHT!" Ricky laughed, patting Morgan's shoulder as the two of them, side by side, became the cover story for nearly every paper nationwide.
Although the reporters were live in Times Square, Ricky's words rippled through the airwaves, carried by radios and broadcasts in real time, reaching households across the nation.
Somewhere in the grand corridors of the White House, Franklin Delano Roosevelt sat frozen mid-meeting, his usual calm veneer cracking as his fingers dug sharply into his palms.
Ricky's little press stunt was far from what he had claimed, it was a provocation, and Roosevelt knew it.
Even now, through the radio, he could hear the pulse of the crowd, the surge of mutant pride and outrage, the subtle undercurrent of danger that accompanied every one of Ricky's gestures.
And this was the best part: Ricky had actually beaten him to the punch.
This was the very reason for the current meeting, to carefully organize the dismantling of Ricky's public image.
But as all the bureaucrats processed the unfolding chaos, they moved far too slowly.
With it, Ricky's glaring advantage became painfully clear, a weakness they hadn't realized until now.
The president had intended to control the narrative, to manage mutant dissent quietly, to offer small concessions behind closed doors before sweeping it under the rug all together.
But Ricky had already taken the story public, forcing the world to watch as a man not only refused to comply but demanded recognition for his people on the global stage.
Which was, as mentioned almost eight million times already, a blatant lie.
"That isn't what he said-"
"It's a coup, one of perception," Roosevelt bitterly snapped, wiping his hands and tossing the now-bloody rag aside.
The irony wasn't lost on him, or his advisors, as Ricky, ironically, was now the one setting the agenda for the country.
"What should we do, Mr. President?" Cordell Hull asked, his eyes nervously scanning the long table of America's most powerful men.
"Ha~" Roosevelt suddenly laughed, leaning back in his chair as a thought struck him.
"There's only one thing we can do." Roosevelt said, spreading his arms slightly toward everyone seated around the table.
"I think it's time we stop fighting Ricky head-on."
Ricky is physically, mentally, and narratively dominant in the public.
Trying to coerce or threaten him would likely backfire, giving Ricky more leverage and turning public opinion against the administration.
FDR can't control Ricky's body, but he could shape the story around him.
"I think it's time we start a new approach."
Author's Note: Ngl, I'm gonna probably simmer down with the chapter length cause putting to much is a strain on me. I'm gonna keep it around like 5-8k words rather than just whooping 10-12ks until I'm not swamped. Thanks for reading though.