Hell's Kitchen, New York – Nightclub Controlled by Heisenberg
Inside the low-lit, exclusive nightclub, Heisenberg nursed a glass of top-shelf bourbon. The Kryptonian's enhanced physiology made it almost impossible to get drunk, but the sensation of the burn was still something.
Bullseye stood before him, finishing his report.
> "The Sixth Street Gang and the remnants of the Rhino Crew are at each other's throats. The fallout's spilling into Brooklyn."
> "Since we stepped back from narcotics, the Red Hood Riders, Skeleton Crew, and Iron Serpents are tearing each other apart trying to seize the market."
> "Fisk's muscle—I mean, his elite enforcers—I've either neutralized or brought under our banner. The Kingpin's grip is slipping fast."
He took a breath.
> "Hell's Kitchen is a warzone. People are dropping like flies, boss. I say we make our move—now."
Heisenberg raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the assassin's ambition.
Bullseye wasn't just reporting—he was staking his claim. He wanted to be more than a trigger man. He wanted to be a kingmaker.
Heisenberg gave a small nod.
> "Do it."
That was all Bullseye needed. His grin stretched unnaturally wide.
> "Yes, sir."
For the last 72 hours, he'd watched petty gangs climb the ladder, watched nobodies carving out territory and headlines. It chewed at him. He should've been the one making the news.
Drugs weren't the only currency in the streets. Not under Heisenberg's rule. There was arms trafficking, bootleg liquor, loan sharking, extortion, and shady real estate deals—all cleaner, more sustainable revenue streams.
> I'll out-earn Kingpin himself, he thought.
But first, there was a pest that needed squashing: a street-level vigilante stirring trouble. Probably Daredevil, or one of his copycats. Still, Bullseye wasn't planning to bring it up yet. The boss had been... distracted lately.
After Bullseye left, Heisenberg sat alone, staring into his glass.
Kryptonian biology meant alcohol barely touched him—but drink enough, and even he could feel something. He welcomed that feeling. It reminded him he was still human, in a way.
The novelty of being a Kryptonian had worn off. Time travel, godlike power... it all seemed far away now. He was beginning to feel homesick. Not for his original world, exactly—but for a simpler time. Before all of this.
He looked around the nightclub. This place had once been a dream. A true den of power. In this city, owning the biggest club didn't just mean wealth—it meant influence. Status. Fear.
Now, it felt hollow.
> Was this really what I wanted?
His thoughts were broken by a soft voice at his side.
> "Boss."
It was Billy, his assistant, tablet in hand.
> "The Mars Quest theme party's all set up. But we're short on headliners. We need some star power if we want the upper crust to show up."
Billy looked uncomfortable.
> "And... with the chaos in Hell's Kitchen, your hold on Fisk's turf is still shaky. The old-money clients who liked doing business with Fisk might not come through."
Heisenberg shrugged.
> "Invite Tony Stark."
Billy blinked. "You're serious?"
> "If he doesn't show, I'll personally fly over and drag him to the party," Heisenberg said, half-joking. But only half.
Billy gave a cautious smile.
> "Alright. I'll slant the invites toward investors and capital types. Can we use Stark's name to promote it?"
> "Go ahead. Run it how you want."
Heisenberg waved him off and sat down to write Stark a personal invitation. Once it was sent, he glanced at the clock.
3:20 PM.
> Time for another 'ambitious' woman to come knocking, he mused, lips curling into a smirk.
---
Three Days Earlier – S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters
After Heisenberg had left with Barbara Gordon—now under his "protection"—Maria Hill stood in the lab, swabbing her own lips with sterile gauze.
Saliva sample secured.
> So he kissed me, she thought. Amusing.
She wasn't the sentimental type. Female agents were trained to use their appearance, their charm, and yes, sometimes their bodies. It was standard protocol. Not a matter of shame—just another tool in the field.
She sealed the sample tube.
How to use one's strengths while avoiding one's weaknesses is a skill every wise person must master.
No, Maria Hill didn't get Heisenberg's precious saliva sample through some elaborate mission or covert strike.
She got it easily—when Heisenberg was emotionally unstable, shortly after his unexpected arrival on Earth.
And she didn't need a needle or a lab team. She used psychology—body language, subtle expressions—everything she'd learned as a trained S.H.I.E.L.D. operative.
Unfortunately, even though she managed to collect a sample of his saliva…
S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn't do a thing with it.
Their scientists tried everything—high-intensity lasers, vibranium scalpels, even experimental nanotech—but they couldn't even split a single Kryptonian cell.
In the DC universe, attempts to clone Superman often hinge on one thing: kryptonite. It weakens the cellular structure just enough for manipulation.
But Heisenberg? There was no kryptonite here—no known weakness, no way to pierce his biology.
Cloning isn't about just copying a cell. It requires access. Without it, all you can do is try to cultivate. But cultivating Heisenberg's tissues?
Nick Fury had a different idea.
He figured the most viable genetic material would come from bodily fluids exchanged during... closer contact. Fluids that carried organic compounds with higher cultivation potential.
So now?
Heisenberg's nightclub had turned into a honeypot.
A parade of "goddesses"—undercover S.H.I.E.L.D. agents—had taken up residence, dancing and mingling, all under the watchful eye of the Kryptonian.
---
"Boss, there's a new dancer applying. Want to meet her yourself?"
Billy leaned in, whispering discreetly.
Heisenberg didn't even need to look. He nodded, already knowing who it was.
When the "dancer" appeared near his booth, he sighed.
"Long time no see, Agent Hill."
"Heh. Could've gone a bit longer without seeing you."
She slid into the seat across from him, casually lifting his glass and sipping.
Heisenberg didn't look up.
"Our deal's done. Walk away while I'm still disinterested."
"Sure, your deal with S.H.I.E.L.D. is over. But the chaos you left behind? That's just beginning."
She poured herself a fresh drink and took another swig, more forceful than graceful.
"You killed Fisk. Took over his territory. Now you're playing king of the underworld. That's beneath you, isn't it?"
Heisenberg smirked.
"So because I'm powerful, I should... what, assault a military base?"
"Not exactly. But maybe… you're better suited for bigger things. What about exploring the universe?"
"Please. They could send you straight to my bed and I still wouldn't care. I'm an exile. The universe? I'm already tired of it."
Hill stood up, walking closer.
"This is about your home, isn't it?"
"Maybe."
It was the most honest answer he could give. And rare, for him.
He clinked glasses with her. She flushed slightly—third whiskey in.
"Texas," Hill said, staring into her glass. "That's where I'm from. Hated it. Dad was a vet—violent, harsh. Took years to realize he wasn't a monster… just broken."
She stared off for a moment.
"I can't go back. Not really. My identity, my job—it'd ruin them. But maybe I get it. A little. Not eighteen-thousand-years-stranded-on-another-planet level, but… enough to understand."
Heisenberg stayed quiet. That kind of understanding wasn't something he expected. But even if it was fleeting, it meant something.
He finally spoke.
"You can plant your people in my nightclub. But they watch. They listen. They don't interfere. The moment they do, they die. And so do you."
"Charming." Hill rolled her eyes. "Nice to know you remember who bothered you most."
"Heh. I'll even give you a tip. Next time, skip the disguise. Just say my name at the door. Consider it a privilege."
Hill paused at the edge of the booth.
"Should I thank you? Or be insulted?"
"Call it a make-up for my earlier rashness."
She left slowly. And Heisenberg… sat alone.
Thoughts of his parents echoed. A past long gone.
He needed air.
He left the club and drifted to the rooftop, basking in sunlight.
But the warmth didn't help. It only reminded him of what he'd lost. What he could never get back.
What the hell was he supposed to do in this Marvel universe?
There were no mandatory missions now. No system prompting him. Just endless waiting—and power with no purpose.
He'd been a regular person before. The excitement of crossing over was real.
But now? It was giving way to emptiness.
He was just a mortal—one who happened to stand among gods.
And every gift came with a price.
---
Back at S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ, Maria Hill debriefed with Nick Fury.
"Director, Psych Division was right. He's confused, adrift. But… I still don't think we should try to use him."
"I don't want to use him," Fury replied. "I just need to know if he feels like us. If he has emotions."
"He does. And that means weaknesses. But his strength? It can eliminate 99% of those weaknesses in a second."
Fury gave a grim nod.
"That leaves one percent."