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Vanko studied Luke for a long moment.
"...Deal."
What did he have to lose? His purpose in life had been revenge against the Starks. Tony was dead, but Stark Industries still stood—the company built on stolen technology, the empire that should have belonged to his family.
If HYDRA could help him tear that empire down, it would be enough. His father's ghost might finally rest.
"But I want control over how it happens," Vanko added, spitting his toothpick onto the floor. "Don't try to manipulate me. If I find out you're playing games, I'll make you regret it. All of you."
The threat was genuine. Vanko had nothing left to lose, which made him genuinely dangerous.
Luke didn't flinch. "Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Vanko."
He turned and walked out quickly—partly to project confidence, partly because he genuinely couldn't stand the smell anymore. When was the last time this man had showered? The combination of stale vodka, unwashed skin, and general despair was almost a physical assault.
Cold climate people, Luke thought, shaking his head. Different bathing standards.
He'd grown up taking daily showers. The idea of going more than a day without one made his skin crawl.
Back in the residential level of Umbrella's underground base, Luke collapsed onto the couch and started reviewing his drops from the Reaper hunt.
The system worked on rules he still didn't fully understand. Characters and hostile units appeared directly—no packaging, no delivery, just sudden existence. This time, thankfully, nothing hostile had spawned. No rampaging monsters, no bioweapons, no world-ending threats.
Just loot.
Luke wasn't complaining. The hostile drop pool included things he really didn't want to deal with. What if he accidentally spawned Golza from Ultraman? Or worse—what if some of the absurdly powerful boss characters from his gaming history showed up? There were beings in his drop pool that would require someone like the Ancient One to handle.
He was sorting through the usual assortment of equipment and consumables when something materialized in his hands.
Luke's breath caught.
"Yamato."
The legendary katana gleamed in the artificial light, its blade impossibly sharp, its presence almost alive. Vergil's weapon of choice. The sword that could cut through dimensions, that had been forged in the demon world, that represented the pinnacle of demonic craftsmanship.
Luke blinked back tears. He'd wanted this for so long.
Then reality reasserted itself.
Without an awakened Devil Trigger, he couldn't access Yamato's true power. No dimensional slashes. No Judgment Cuts. No reality-rending techniques. The sword was still incredibly sharp—probably the most lethal blade on Earth—but its signature abilities were locked behind a wall he couldn't yet climb.
Still, Luke thought, running his fingers along the scabbard, if Yamato dropped, Rebellion and the Sparda sword can't be far behind.
He examined it more closely, recognizing the design. "DMC4 version. My favorite look."
The fourth game's Yamato had always been his aesthetic preference. Elegant, deadly, perfect.
Other drops were interesting but less immediately useful. Some valuable items he'd need to catalog later. And one that made him laugh out loud.
A Blue-Eyes White Dragon card.
Not a summonable creature. Not a magical artifact. Just... a trading card. A piece of cardboard with artwork on it.
"The system has a sense of humor," Luke muttered, tucking the card away. Maybe it would be worth something to collectors. Or maybe it was just cosmic mockery.
Then he saw it.
"What the hell?"
Sitting in his inventory was something that shouldn't exist outside of a video game: an Allied Barracks from Command & Conquer: Red Alert.
The building. The actual building. Ready to be placed.
Luke stared at it for a solid minute, trying to process the implications.
Does this actually work?
There was only one way to find out.
He took the elevator down to the second-lowest level of the facility—a massive open space that had been intended for future expansion. The barracks materialized when he triggered the placement, assembling itself with the same instant construction that made Red Alert gameplay so satisfying.
Information flooded his mind the moment it finished.
The barracks was operational. It could produce units. But the available roster was limited—no Navy SEALs, no engineers, no special forces. Just two options:
GIs. And Attack Dogs.
Luke's gaming knowledge filled in the details. GIs were the Allied faction's basic infantry—trained soldiers equipped with assault rifles and deployable heavy machine guns. Decent firepower, reasonable durability, absolutely loyal.
Attack Dogs were German Shepherds bred and trained for military operations. Fast, vicious, capable of instantly killing infantry targets in close combat. And crucially, they could detect enemy spies.
Both units cost 200 gold to produce.
Not dollars. Gold. Actual gold coins, measured to a specific standard that the system had helpfully implanted in his brain.
That would have been a problem a few months ago. Now? Luke made a few phone calls.
Gitano Dragonetti's organization had access to precious metals. So did HYDRA, through Pierce. And Emil Garrett was instructed to begin acquiring gold mining operations through shell companies.
Supply wouldn't be an issue.
Luke's first production test was a GI.
The soldier emerged from the barracks fully equipped—body armor, helmet, weapons, the works. Muscular, alert, ready for orders.
"Report to the training area," Luke commanded. "Demonstrate combat capabilities."
The GI moved immediately, without question or hesitation.
What followed was impressive. The Red Alert soldier outperformed every mercenary in Wolfpack on marksmanship, physical conditioning, and tactical awareness. His combat skills were genuinely elite.
But there was something off about him.
Luke watched more closely and realized what it was: the GI had almost no independent thought. He could understand orders, execute orders, and adapt to battlefield conditions. But there was no curiosity. No personality. No self.
It was like having a very sophisticated robot in human form.
Assembly line production, Luke realized. The system is literally manufacturing soldiers. They're not clones—they're constructs.
The Attack Dog was different.
When Luke produced his first canine unit, the German Shepherd that emerged radiated predatory intelligence. This wasn't a mindless drone—it was a hunter. The kind of animal that could think, plan, and kill with equal facility.
More importantly, it was smart. Noticeably smarter than the GI, despite being a dog.
"Interesting," Luke murmured, watching the Attack Dog complete its diagnostic routines. "The dogs are the real prize here."
The spy detection ability was invaluable. HYDRA had moles in SHIELD. SHIELD probably had moles in HYDRA. Everyone was infiltrating everyone, and Luke was sitting in the middle of multiple intelligence operations without reliable counterintelligence.
Attack Dogs could change that.
"New production priority," he decided. "Dogs first. GIs as needed for muscle."
The barracks would also solve his manpower problem. Wolfpack was good, but mercenaries had loyalties that could shift. The GIs were absolutely loyal—incapable of betrayal, because betrayal required independent will.
He'd integrate them into existing units. Not replacement, but reinforcement. Human mercenaries for flexibility and initiative; GI soldiers for reliability and firepower. Best of both worlds.
And if I ever drop a Starcraft building, Luke thought, already dreaming of possibilities, or something from Warcraft...
The game system kept surprising him. First characters. Then weapons. Now infrastructure.
What would come next?