My fingers moved across the holographic interface, discarding the high-profile liabilities. My focus sharpened on the low-consequence assets, those whose disappearance would barely register beyond a ripple. Yet, even among the Tier 3 to Tier 5 fodder, a few larger targets emerged, promising a more substantial yield.
I highlighted the primary targets with a cold gesture.
Doppelgänger (Tier 3): His ability to perfectly mimic others made him incredibly useful for infiltration.
Ice Breather (Tier 3): A dangerous opponent in a direct confrontation, his powers chillingly effective.
Ice Pick (Tier 3): He often worked in tandem with Ice Breather, a lethal pairing.
Weightlifter (Tier 4): A predictable foe, a standard brick of super strength and unwavering durability.
Then I counted the rest. There were twelve confirmed Tier 5 Supes. Most of them had gimmicky powers or minor physical enhancements. Their abilities were unimpressive, and their ambitions were far greater than what they were actually capable of.
Three Tier 3 Supes were on the list, each a valuable asset in the ecosystem of my burgeoning power. The cryokinetic abilities of Ice Breather and Ice Pick offered a potent form of elemental control. Doppelgänger's shapeshifting was the ultimate infiltration tool, a perfect complement to my ghost persona. The twelve Tier 5s and the single Tier 4 were merely appetizers, valuable XP fodder to fuel my upgrades. This party was a treasure trove waiting to be plundered.
The plan needed to be flawless. A frontal assault was out of the question. I needed a way to neutralize the entire party at once, without a single sound.
I accessed the Spencer Industries internal R&D server, a digital labyrinth of innovation and secrets. Deep within a classified project file, I found what I was looking for: CX-9. It was an advanced aerosolized anesthetic. Odorless, colorless, and heavier than air. It was engineered for dispersion through a ventilation system. A high enough concentration could render a normal human unconscious in under thirty seconds. For Supes with their enhanced durability, I would need to increase the dosage significantly.
I sent a priority-one order to my own lab, bypassing the usual channels. I requested a high-yield canister of CX-9, to be delivered to a secure Spencer Industries drop-box in Queens. The reason cited on the requisition form was a bland detail: "field testing for urban crowd control simulation."
The party was slated to be held on a privately rented floor of the Gilded Lily hotel. I hacked the hotel's network, pulling up the blueprints for the entire building. The floor plan for the party suite scrolled across my screen, followed by the detailed schematics for its independent ventilation system. I also quietly placed a digital backdoor into their security camera system, granting myself live access to every camera feed in the building.
For the next two days, I existed as a silent observer. I watched the staff prepare the suite. I tracked Ezekiel's movements with patient precision.
On the night of the party, I was ready.
I donned my ghost attire once more. My loadout was simple: the Spectre pistol, the combat knife, and the pressurized canister of CX-9 I had retrieved from the drop box. I drove the untraceable sedan and parked it in a multi story garage four blocks from the hotel.
I found a shadowed corner in the alleyway behind the hotel. I willed myself to shrink until I was no larger than a mouse. Then, I simply slipped under the door, a movement of complete anonymity.
I navigated the back hallways of the hotel as a minuscule figure. To my shrunken perception, the hallways were vast canyons, and the hotel staff lumbered through their nightly duties. I moved through the deeper shadows until I reached the service elevator. I crawled inside, found a precarious perch on a narrow ledge, and rode it upward to the party floor.
From my hiding spot in the ceiling vent of the main hallway, I saw infamous Billy Butcher, his face a mask of grim amusement, and a nervous-looking kid who had to be Hughie Campbell. Butcher had brought Hughie here to shatter his last illusions, to rub his face in the undeniable filth and hypocrisy of the Supes he might once have admired. It was a masterclass in radicalization. From the raw disgust etched onto Hughie's face as he watched Ezekiel's performance of fake piety, it was clearly working, a slow unraveling of his innocence.
When they finally re-emerged from the main party, the disgust on Hughie's face was plain to see. Their exit was a hasty retreat, a deliberate slipping away into the chaos of the crowd before anyone took too much notice.
I waited until the early hours of the morning, when the party had thinned out, and most of the remaining Supes had retired to the private rooms branching off the main suite, seeking their own form of excess.
I navigated the labyrinthine ventilation shafts, a tiny explorer in a metal maze, until I found the main intake for the party floor. The canister of CX-9 remained safely within my inventory. I found a secluded maintenance closet and returned to my normal size. I retrieved the canister, its cool metal heavy in my hand. I attached its nozzle to the vent and set a timer for a high-volume, five-minute dispersal. Then, I shrank back down to the size of a near-invisible observer.
The first to go were the few remaining partygoers in the main lounge. A woman with hands that glowed suddenly slumped forward onto the table, her head hitting the polished surface with a dull thud. A man with what looked like gills on his neck simply… wilted in his chair, his body losing all tension. Within two minutes, the entire lounge was filled with unconscious bodies, strewn across furniture and floor alike. The high dosage worked even on the Supes.
I crawled out of the vent and dropped silently onto the plush carpet below, landing with barely a whisper.
"System," I said, my voice a squeak even in my own mind, a barely audible whisper. "Queue all plunder notifications. Do not display them until I give the command. I need to focus."
[Roger that, Boss. Silent running. Stacking up the loot boxes for later. Good luck, and try not to get stepped on.] The System's voice was a low hum of compliance.
My first target was Weightlifter. I found him sprawled on a king-sized bed, two unconscious women draped beside him. He was a mountain of a man. At my current size, his head was a fleshy continent. I began the arduous climb up the bedsheets, a journey that felt like scaling a sheer cliff face, taking almost a full minute of determined effort. I stood on his temple, drew my carbon-fiber knife and plunged it directly into his ear canal.
With my Super Soldier strength, the force was devastating. I pushed the blade as deep as it would go, severing his brain stem from the spinal cord. It was a silent execution.
I slid down the bedsheets, a controlled descent that still felt like rappelling down a perilous cliff face. My next targets were the cryokinetic duo, Ice Breather and Ice Pick. I found their room easily. A thin layer of frost coated the outside of their door, and the air in the hallway in its immediate vicinity was noticeably colder. I slipped under the door, the chill immediately seeping into my tiny form.
The room was a winter wonderland of debauchery. Frost patterns spiderwebbed across the windows, creating frozen lace, and the two Supes were passed out on opposite beds, their breath misting faintly in the frigid air. The journey across the frozen tundra of the carpet was a careful one. I reached the first bed and began the arduous climb, the fabric stiff and cold beneath my tiny hands and feet. When I finally reached Ice Breather's head, I repeated the brutal process. I found the soft spot just behind his earlobe and drove the carbon-fiber blade home with all my concentrated might.
Then I scuttled across the floor, a tiny black speck against the stark white carpet, and scaled the second mountain. Ice Pick met the same anticlimactic end, an unceremonious departure. The two most powerful active threats in the party were eliminated, as easily as the first, their powers now dormant forever.
Next, I found Doppelgänger alone, his face peaceful, a serene expression unsuited to his impending fate. I climbed his pant leg, navigated the expansive terrain of his shirt, and delivered the same fatal stab, a final end to his mimicry.