In fact, Blaine didn't know much about liquor. Rémy Martin, brandy, XO, Louis XIII, Lafite — those were the names rich men like Tony could enjoy. Blaine hadn't grown up in those circles. He had heard of Bloody Mary and Royal Salute in bars, but as an upstart, most of his money had been poured into the Hunter system.
He really didn't care for those illusory luxuries. He picked a name casually at the bar so he wouldn't embarrass himself; this was his first time pretending to be anything but himself. There were card tables and scattered seats, and Blaine didn't want to make a fool of himself.
As everyone knew, American bar counters had big display screens, usually showing either risqué videos or football games that big men loved. But today the screens showed news.
Another nuclear power plant had been attacked, the report said. The power was gone. Several nearby towns had also lost power. Worse, the attacker had been acting on his own; at least three towns were already hit by the "King of Electricity." Reliable sources said entire farmlands in those towns had been devastated by waves of electricity.
Now the man had the full attention of the U.S. government and was listed at the highest danger level. Citizens across the country panicked; dozens of communities near the plant were relocating en masse.
"This guy doesn't want to destroy the world, does he…" Blaine muttered. He finished his drink, left a stack of bills, and stood.
Bars were just noisy, chaotic places—nothing more. The Bloody Mary had tasted terrible, too spicy. He wondered who would drink that garbage. Better to go home and play games than sit through that mess.
At home, Blaine took a few pills to calm down, but boredom ate at him. He collapsed on the bed and dozed. After an afternoon nap, sleep wouldn't come. He tossed and turned and drifted into thought.
"I don't know what's going on with Galactus…"
"I really miss that girl, hey…"
If there was a Level-Universe beater, Blaine thought, what could Uncle Galactus do to solve their hunger problem? The question felt too cosmic for him—these were gods of creation; their methods were beyond Blaine's imagination.
The weekend ends like this? Too boring. I won't go to school tomorrow. The new teacher should be here soon…
Blaine was bored, but not everyone was. In S.H.I.E.L.D., in front of Nick Fury's office, several AR avatars were locked in serious discussion with him.
"Today is the eighth day; tomorrow will be the ninth. It's hard to live without the system."
Days when twenty billion couldn't be spent were difficult to imagine. Looking at the green attribute panel in his head, Blaine vaguely remembered the days he'd scrambled for fifty dollars.
He fell asleep again before he noticed.
Early the next morning, while Blaine was brushing his teeth, there was a knock at the door. He kept his eyes closed, concentrated, and continued brushing without stopping.
"Come on—hey, you're still here? Just a moment…"
Seeing who it was, Blaine smiled and kept brushing. He washed his face, warmed some bread, boiled milk. He pretended not to hear the knock. After eating, Blaine pulled on his Hunter suit and opened the door.
"Mr. Hunter, you're really elegant—made me wait this long," Nick Fury said. The old fox knew exactly why he'd been made to wait, but he had to keep his posture and his title.
"Of course. It was deliberate," Blaine replied. He didn't try to hide it—if you're going to be an air of a director like S.H.I.E.L.D., you sharpen your spirit. If you're a dragon you coil; if a tiger you lie low. Very domineering.
"Mr. Hunter, won't you invite me in?" Fury asked. He didn't care that Blaine wore a suit at home; maybe he wondered if Blaine was spying. Blaine wouldn't tell him that, as a bounty hunter, a uniform was part of being someone else—and it hid his microexpressions.
"Cut to it. What do you want me to do?" Fury sat on the couch; Blaine got straight to business. He hadn't planned to let Fury into his private villa, but this might be a serious negotiation, so he relented.
"You already know the purpose of my visit?" Fury prompted.
"That depends on your price," Blaine said, not denying anything.
"Two billion. How about that?" Fury asked.
"See yourself out," Blaine replied plainly.
"Mr. Hunter, think again. Twenty billion would handle one person. Much easier than the Chitauri and Loki last time."
"Is that what you have in mind?" Blaine asked back.
"Uh… Mr. Hunter can read minds and always beats me at my own game…how funny," Fury said. He laughed uneasily.
"It's humorous—like you," Blaine said. He didn't know who the real old fox was, who was dodging the point, or who was hungry for petty gains.
"Since Blaine knew this long ago, I'll hire you at the price in my head. This time, I don't want you to stop Electro—I want you to capture him. Kill him on the spot if necessary."
Fury had learned to be blunt; the order was simple and clear. No vagueness this time—no letting Blaine earn money for nothing. Blaine had deliberately pointed Fury toward this course, and now Fury had his terms.
"Did I say yes?" Blaine asked.
"Okay???" Fury blinked. The price was on the table—how could this be? What trick was in the bottle this time?
Blaine chuckled inwardly. What kind of trick? None—just a con, pure and simple. He wanted more money and gladly watched Fury squirm, forced to swallow it.
"Mr. Hunter, you're joking—sixty billion is not small…" Fury protested.
"It's up to me to decide," Blaine said.
"Sixty-five billion…" Fury offered. He'd been around long enough to read the signs.
"Seventy-eight billion, Mr. Hunter. On behalf of the United States—please."
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