"Stop screaming, wake up!"
The high-pitched noise drilling into his ears was unbearable, so Heisenberg instinctively grabbed Barbara Morse's hand and held her up toward the sky like a misbehaving kitten.
The abrupt motion snapped her out of her panic.
Disoriented, Barbara blinked and looked around. Her eyes widened, shimmering with confusion and awe.
"I must be dead... right?" she asked in a shaky voice.
Heisenberg furrowed his brow. "What? Why would you think that?"
"I'm... in space," she said breathlessly. "We're actually in space!"
"You're not in space, Morse. We're 20,000 meters up. That's barely the stratosphere. Haven't S.H.I.E.L.D. ever taken you this high?"
Barbara blinked again, finally taking in her surroundings—thin air, soft sunlight, and a view of the earth's curve below.
"I've been here before," she admitted, "but never in a blouse and pencil skirt, and definitely never sunbathing at 20,000 meters!"
Still holding onto him, she yanked herself into Heisenberg's arms and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "I mean it. This is the kind of thing women write novels about—swept into the sky by a guy who can fly? It's—romantic!"
Heisenberg rolled his eyes. "Alright, Casanova moment's over. Where's the nightclub? Or I swear I'll drop you off—vertically."
Barbara laughed, completely unfazed by the threat. That was the thing about spies—you never knew when they were bluffing. And Mockingbird? She could lie with a smile and stab with a wink.
Still, Heisenberg stayed calm. Kryptonian senses didn't lie, and his weren't exactly charmed by a woman dressed for a boardroom brawl.
Barbara caught the coolness in his tone and glanced down at her outfit. Her smirk faded briefly, but she shrugged it off.
"Well, I'd love to show you, but we're above the clouds," she gestured at the white sea below. "You can't even see Manhattan from up here."
"Right, right," Heisenberg muttered sarcastically. "All my fault for trying to show you the view."
He dipped beneath the cloud cover, slowing down just enough for Barbara to reach her hand out into the rushing wind.
"This is wild," she whispered. "Usually I need oxygen tanks and body armor at this height."
The wind tousled her hair, and for a second, her guarded demeanor dropped. Mockingbird, the S.H.I.E.L.D. operative trained to manipulate, interrogate, and escape any room—was laughing like a kid on a rollercoaster.
Heisenberg glanced at her, then quietly landed on the peak of Stark Tower.
From this perch, all of New York sprawled out before them.
"Alright, Agent Morse. Point out the club," he said.
Barbara scanned the skyline. "That one... that one... and maybe that one."
"Noted." Heisenberg nodded, pulled her close again, gave her a quick pat on the backside, and rocketed off.
Forty seconds later...
A red-and-gold blur shot through the clouds and came to a halt at the exact same rooftop.
The helmet folded back with a metallic hiss, revealing a thoroughly annoyed Tony Stark.
"You've got some nerve, Heisenberg," he muttered, glancing around. "Using my roof as your personal dating launchpad? You Kryptonian knockoff are way out of line."
He looked up, but the sky was clear. No sign of the alien.
"And of course, you're too fast for any of my sensors to track. Great."
Tony turned back toward his lab, muttering to himself. Once inside, he ripped off the chest plate of his Mark IV armor and tossed it aside.
"If I hadn't taken fifteen seconds to armor up, I could've clocked that guy in the jaw."
He sat down, the lab a chaotic mess of tools, scraps, and glowing blueprints. His fingers drummed on the table.
"This armor's too slow," he muttered. "Need something faster... lighter..."
A new thought sparked in his mind—one he wouldn't let go.
"No more screwups. I'm designing Mark V. Theme: portability."
He pulled up his holo-display and started working. "Next time some flying alien idiot shows up, I'm not getting caught in my bathrobe."
Calculations flew across the screen. New designs. Compaction matrices. Deployment speed equations.
Tony didn't stop. Not for hours.
Tony Stark probably had the data already.
With his current tech level—nanotech, arc reactors, and bleeding-edge suits—he could compress a fully functional set of Iron Man armor into something the size of a briefcase.
The weight? Probably no more than thirty kilos—nothing for him to lift, and nothing JARVIS or FRIDAY couldn't manipulate remotely.
---
While Stark was obsessing over portable firepower, Heisenberg had already arrived at his territory—a nightclub under his control, courtesy of Wilson Fisk, aka the Kingpin.
The Second Bar wasn't in Queens, as Heisenberg originally requested. Instead, it was closer to Brooklyn, nestled on the edge of Hell's Kitchen.
He didn't mind the change—his earlier request was made on impulse, thinking about that kid in red and blue. But now? There were bigger things to handle.
The club sat atop one of the most opulent towers in Brooklyn—a three-floor fortress of sin wrapped in glass and steel, courtesy of Fisk's bottomless bankroll.
But Heisenberg didn't care about luxury towers.
He cared about control.
So he flew—yes, flew—straight to the third and topmost floor. The rooftop was exactly what he expected: a helipad, a glowing ultramodern infinity pool, and even a rooftop badminton court, because why not?
He walked past the pool and toward a glass-paneled attic suite—his personal residence. 800 square meters of indulgent space: spiral staircase, entertainment deck, full gym, and... one particularly suspicious room.
Ahem.
He coughed twice and ushered Barbara Morse—Mockingbird, his ever-sharp companion—past the velvet-draped "fun room" full of ropes, clamps, and objects even Tony Stark might raise an eyebrow at.
"This place needs renovations," he said calmly. "Too much glass. Not enough privacy."
They stepped into a private elevator through a sound-dampened passage and descended into the main event—the heart of the Second Bazaar.
As the doors slid open, two sharply dressed enforcers stood waiting under soft pink lighting, standing out like bruisers at a ballet.
"Boss Bullseye gave us the heads-up," said one. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Heisenberg. I'm George Aldrod, and this is Billy Kerhan. We handle promotions and client coordination."
Heisenberg nodded with a chill that could put Frost Giants to shame.
"First order of business: change the club's name."
The men blinked.
"From now on, it's called the Academy of Sciences."
George and Billy looked like their brains just soft-rebooted.
"The... Academy of...?"
Heisenberg didn't flinch.
"Theme event: exploration of Mars. I want red dust lighting, orbital banners, and dancers in Martian-themed outfits. Got that?"
Billy stammered.
"You are... absolutely brilliant, sir."
The two men practically bowed, now completely under his spell.
As Heisenberg swept past, they exchanged ideas.
"Do we print Mars textures on the dancers' bodysuits or go full Red Planet cosplay?"
"What about the panties? Maybe... the Mariana Trench?"
"Or the Valles Marineris!"
Backstage, Heisenberg entered through the performer's cloakroom, where over forty women paused mid-prep.
At least seven were still putting on pants when the door opened.
Heisenberg paused.
This... was not a sight he had expected.
Was this what Fisk lived with every night?
Shameless.
Still, he maintained his composure. A slow, practiced smile spread across his face.
"Ladies," he said. "I'm your new boss. Just call me Heisenberg."
"Woooo~!"
"The new boss is hot!"
"So tall... so built!"
"That chest could crush me like a grape!"
"Boss, do you need help oiling up?"
The room buzzed with energy. Heisenberg smiled, but didn't lose control. Not here. Not now.
Barbara, standing just behind him, made her presence known with nothing more than a tilt of her head—and the teasing girl instantly remembered she was an ex-S.H.I.E.L.D. agent trained to dismantle people.
The girls quickly returned to dressing—especially the strippers, who had the hardest job of all: putting on extra clothes before they could take them off later.
A few of the bolder ones nearly played games with Heisenberg—guess who I am, just by the boobs—but Barbara's cold stare stopped them cold.
When everyone was ready, Heisenberg addressed them seriously.
"I don't know what Fisk demanded from you before—but I don't care. I have one rule, and one rule only: No drugs. No selling. No carrying. Not here."
He paused, then added with a smirk:
"Everything else? Go nuts. You want to party, you want to sleep with guests, you want to make your own rules? Fine. Just keep the club exciting, safe, and profitable. Make your money. Make your night. That's freedom."
The cheers were deafening.
"Heisenberg! Heisenberg!"
"Boss, can I call you sugar daddy?"
"I've got kung fu you haven't even dreamed of!"
They loved him. Not because he was kind—but because he gave them agency. He wasn't micromanaging. He wasn't sleazy. He was real.
Heisenberg smiled once more, nodded, and left the dressing room.
Back on the main floor, he picked a booth he liked and sat alone. The music pulsed. The lights danced. Well-trained staff drifted by, refilling his glass, bowing politely.
And yet, amid the chaos, Heisenberg sat still.
Like a god disguised as a man.