Otto nodded, the prospect of unlimited resources overriding any lingering caution. "I'll retrieve the prototypes and schematics immediately."
He paused, the engineer's compulsion for a safety briefing overriding even his excitement. "But sir, the neural interface—it's protected by an inhibitor chip. It's critical. If damaged or bypassed, the arms' autonomous operational protocols can override the host's motor cortex. The risk of a full parasitic takeover is non-trivial."
"I am aware of the operational hazards," Aaron stated, his tone implying a familiarity that went beyond technical manuals. "And I will not be the end-user."
He had no intention of becoming a puppet to his own tools. The arms were not for wearing; they were for consuming. A complex synthesis of advanced mechanics, adaptive AI, and direct neural integration. The Primal Furnace could assimilate that conceptual blend as readily as it had a spider's biology. What would it yield? Technopathic manipulation? Psionic force-field generation? The potential was a tantalizing equation.
A thought surfaced. "Your expertise extends to artificial intelligence as well?"
Otto's chest puffed slightly. "I have conducted significant parallel research in cognitive algorithms and machine learning. In the realm of dedicated, narrow-focus AI, I would consider myself among the global vanguard."
"Good. A secondary project, then. Develop an AI construct for me. Maximize its adaptive intelligence, learning capacity, and problem-solving breadth. I have a specific application in mind."
Otto agreed without hesitation. If this was the price for his fusion sun, he would build a hundred AIs. The trade was more than fair.
After ushering the two scientists out, Aaron shivered slightly, a minute, pleasurable tremor. He glanced down. "Your technique has improved markedly, Felicia. Commendable."
Felicia emerged from beneath the imposing conference table, discreetly wiping her mouth. "The enhancements you provided, sir… the fine motor control and flexibility are extraordinary. I feel like my tongue is more dexterous than my fingers."
She demonstrated with a deliberate, cat-like lick at the corner of her lips.
The Specialized Lingual Appendage Development, combined with her new Precise Musculoskeletal Control, had turned a novelty into a weapon of surprising… utility. It was, he mused, arguably one of the most versatile support abilities in his repertoire.
He nodded, a flicker of approval in his eyes, before his expression sobered. "Where is Norman? I haven't seen him since this morning. Is he sequestered in the lab?"
With his background in volatile serum development, Norman was the logical, if ironic, overseer for reverse-engineering the healing accelerant. Reports indicated he was pulling all-nighters in his private villa laboratory, a man possessed. His drive to prove his worth, to secure his son's cure, was even fiercer than Aaron's own interest.
Felicia quickly checked her phone, her brow furrowing as she read a message from Norman's executive assistant. "A situation, sir. The minority shareholder bloc has convened an emergency meeting. Mr. Norman has been… engaged with them since early morning. It appears contentious."
Aaron's eyes narrowed. "Those leeches. A clean buyout would have been the civilized choice."
The unspoken truth hung in the air: there was no liquidity for a clean buyout. The stock was in freefall. Norman's prior mismanagement had strained reserves. Only a steady stream of Department of Defense funding for the now-abandoned super-soldier program was keeping the corporate heart beating.
"Sir," Felicia added, her voice lower, "there's been a leak. Word is out that Norman has pivoted all priority resources from the military's enhancement serum to an unspecified 'healing accelerant.' Our contacts in the Pentagon are… displeased. The shareholders are using this as leverage. They want to force a fire-sale of corporate assets before the value erodes further. Hammer Industries, Advanced Idea Mechanics, even Pym Technologies and Venture Aerospace are circling. Especially A.I.M.—their portfolio in biotech and military applications directly competes with ours."
Aaron's lip curled. A feeding frenzy. They saw a wounded giant and thought it was carrion. They'd mistaken the convulsions of metamorphosis for death throes.
"So these boardroom parasites are fronting for outside vultures," he concluded, his voice gone cold. "Take me to them. I'd like to meet the individuals who believe they can dictate terms to me."
He disliked unnecessary slaughter. It was messy, attracted attention, and was often a sign of poor strategic planning. But that didn't mean he was incapable of it. If these fools insisted on being the obstacle, he would simply demonstrate why he was the immovable object.
****
The boardroom was a pressure cooker of cigar smoke and suppressed rage.
"—a complete and utter fabrication, Norman! You promised us a finalized super-soldier serum, assured us of pentagon contracts that would make Stark look like a boutique shop! Now we learn you've shelved it for some… some patent medicine? This isn't mismanagement; it's fraud!"
"The situation is untenable! We have a fiduciary duty to salvage shareholder value. We've voted. We're initiating the process to liquidate non-core assets and seek a merger or acquisition. This company is no longer yours to drive into the ground!"
"That's right! And you… you don't even belong in this room anymore! You're not the chairman. You're not even the majority holder. You're just a glorified employee who got swindled by a cheap charlatan! We don't answer to you. Now go fetch your master so we can deliver the news. Immediately!"
Norman stood, his face pale with a fury so intense it was almost calm. "You short-sighted, grasping—"
The double oak doors exploded inward with a sound like a gunshot, not from force, but from the sheer violence of their swing stopping dead against the walls.
Aaron strolled in, Felicia a silent shadow at his shoulder. He ignored the ring of flushed, angry faces, his gaze passing over them as if they were stains on the wallpaper, and went straight to the head of the long mahogany table.
The Chairman's seat was occupied.
Aaron stopped, looking down at the man sitting there—a silver-haired venture capitalist with the tan of a perpetual vacation and the eyes of a shark. He offered the man a benign, inquiring smile.
"Who," Aaron asked, his voice pleasantly conversational, "granted you permission to sit in my chair?"
The financier, a man named Warwick, sneered. "Your chair? You see, that's the issue. This is a matter of corporate governance, and you are no longer in a position of—"
"Get. Out."
Aaron's smile didn't falter, but the temperature in the room seemed to plunge ten degrees, then just as rapidly spike. Warwick gasped, a hand flying to his throat. His skin flushed, then beaded with sweat that had nothing to do with the room's climate control. It felt like the air had turned to syrup, hot and suffocating. He struggled to draw a breath, his eyes bulging as he looked frantically at his colleagues.
They stared back, bewildered. To them, Warwick just looked suddenly ill—panicked and sweaty.
Weak, they thought. Can't even handle a little confrontation.
"Pathetic," Aaron murmured, the word barely audible but carrying through the dead silence.
Warwick, driven by a primal need for air and a terror he couldn't explain, scrambled out of the chair, stumbling away from the table. Aaron looked at the now-empty leather seat, damp with perspiration, his lip curling in open disgust.
"A captain of industry," he said, the mockery dripping like acid. "How inspiring."
The insult landed collectively. These were men (and a few women) who built fortunes on leverage and influence, who were treated with deference in every room they entered. A unified snarl of protest rose.
"How dare you!""This is outrageous!""You insolent little—"
Aaron held up a single finger. The protests died, choked off by the sheer, absurd authority of the gesture. He turned to Norman. "Stand up, Norman."
A wave of smug satisfaction washed over the shareholders. See? He knows he needs Norman to face us. They exchanged triumphant glances.
Norman, puzzled but obedient, rose from his seat further down the table.
Aaron swept his gaze across the assembled faces, his expression settling into one of cold, clinical contempt.
"Don't misunderstand. My request had nothing to do with your perceived power." He let the pause stretch, letting the confusion build. "I asked him to stand so he could have a better view."
He leaned forward, planting his hands on the polished table.
"What I mean to say is… in my professional assessment, every single person in this room, save for Norman, is redundant. You are obsolete. You are trash."
The room erupted. Chairs scraped. Faces purpled with apoplectic rage.
Aaron's voice cut through the din, cold and flat as a surgical blade. "I am invoking my rights as majority stakeholder. You are all removed from the board, effective immediately. I will purchase your combined minority holdings at the current market price."
He straightened up, his eyes devoid of any negotiation.
"This is not a proposal. It is a statement of fact. Now," he said, his voice dropping to a deadly calm. "Who is in favor? And who wishes to demonstrate their opposition?"