Jason sent the freshly taken photos to Stan, instructing him to arrange the necessary travel documents. Stan, ever the reliable man, assured him with a cocky grin that he'd have everything sorted within forty-eight hours, no questions asked.
For the next two days, Jason and Harley slipped into full-blown vacation mode, tearing through Los Angeles like a pair of reckless hedonists. They prowled the glitzy malls of Rodeo Drive, splurging on designer threads, overpriced cocktails, and shiny trinkets that caught Harley's magpie eye. Jason's wallet, once plump with cash, deflated faster than a punctured tire, each swipe of his card a painful reminder of Harley's insatiable appetite for luxury. By the end of their spree, his bank account was screaming for mercy, but the thrill of their carefree escapade made it almost worth the financial carnage.
Meanwhile, Christine was preparing to ditch Los Angeles, her mind already scheming beyond the city's sun-soaked streets. Using Jason's name as a blunt instrument, she strong-armed her sleazy agent into liquidating her assets, her voice dripping with icy menace as she ensured every loose end was tied up. Christine wasn't just leaving—she was burning bridges with a goddamn flamethrower, ready to carve out her next empire.
David, on the other hand, lived a simpler, almost monastic existence. The man was obsessed, spending his days holed up at the shooting range, honing his marksmanship with a focus that bordered on psychotic. His fingers caressed the cold steel of his guns like a lover, each shot a symphony of precision. When he wasn't blasting targets to smithereens, he'd sprawl out with a copy of Forbes, studying the billionaire list like a predator sizing up prey. He'd smirk, imagining himself crashing some tycoon's mansion, maybe "borrowing" a few valuables while he was at it.
During this period, the Los Angeles government finally admitted defeat, announcing that their half-assed mission to capture the Joker's crew had crashed and burned spectacularly. The news triggered a notification in Jason's system, the digital chime cutting through his thoughts like a knife.
[Ding! Mission "First Clash" completed. Reward: 20,000 Villain Points. Current Progress: 25,270/14,000]
[Ding! Congratulations, Host, for reaching Level 15! Reward: 10 Attribute Points. Current Progress: 11,270/15,000]
[Level: 15 (11,270/15,000)]
[Strength: 73 → 73]
[Agility: 60 → 60]
[Endurance: 60 → 60]
[Intelligence: 60 → 60]
[Remaining Attribute Points: 10]
[Reputation: 31,541 → 86,440]
[Allies: David, Christine… (Reputation required for next recruitment: 100,000)]
[Points: 59,850]
[Rechargeable Points: 0]
[Abilities: Combat Mastery (Level 10), Driving Mastery (Level 3), Firearms Mastery (Level 10), Melee Weapon Mastery (Level 2)]
[Shop: Click Here]
The system's cold, mechanical voice was like a shot of adrenaline, reminding Jason of the power pulsing through his veins. He had ten attribute points to play with, a currency of raw potential that could sharpen his edge in this cutthroat world. But for now, he let them sit, savoring the possibilities like a gambler eyeing a loaded deck.
Two days of debauchery flew by in a blur of laughter, booze, and fleeting pleasures. On the morning of the third day, a FedEx package arrived, right on cue. Jason tore it open, revealing a stack of pristine DEA credentials, each bearing the photos he'd snapped days earlier. Stan hadn't just delivered—he'd fucking aced it. Two days, no bullshit, no delays. The guy's efficiency was almost infuriatingly perfect.
As Jason ran his fingers over the sleek, embossed DEA badge—proof of his new identity as a high-ranking agent—his phone buzzed with an obnoxious ringtone. He smirked, already knowing who it was.
"Boss!" Stan's voice crackled through the line, brimming with his usual smug confidence. "You get the package?"
Jason leaned back, the badge's weight reassuring in his hand. "You're like a fucking psychic, Stan. Just opened it. Nice work. Plane ready? I want us out of here today."
"Already done, boss. 9 a.m. sharp, DEA private jet. Just you and the crew, no outsiders sniffing around."
Jason nodded, impressed despite himself. "Solid. We'll see you in New York in a few hours."
Stan's tone shifted, a hint of urgency creeping in. "One more thing, boss. Got a situation here. Something big I need to run by you."
"Alright, we'll talk face-to-face," Jason said, cutting the call. He glanced at his watch—two hours until takeoff. Time to move.
He rallied the crew, barking orders to pack their shit and move out. Harley pouted, tossing clothes into a suitcase with dramatic flair, while Christine and David handled their gear with the precision of seasoned operators. Thirty minutes later, three sleek Mercedes-Benzes roared out of their hideout, loaded with LA's finest "souvenirs"—cash, guns, and enough contraband to make a cartel blush. They sped toward LAX, the city's skyline fading in the rearview mirror.
At the airport, Jason flashed his shiny new DEA badge at the staff, who didn't even blink before waving the convoy through security. No checks, no questions—just the kind of power that comes with a badge and a bad attitude. The Mercedes rolled straight onto the tarmac, where a Boeing business jet sat waiting, its engines humming with promise.
After a quick ID check, the crew boarded, lugging their bags and their egos. The group numbered seven: Jason, the mastermind; Harley, his chaotic muse; David, the sharpshooting loner; Christine, the ruthless strategist; Avril, the kidnapped pop diva; and Christine's two handpicked enforcers, Gin and Rum, whose cold eyes and tighter lips screamed "don't fuck with us."
Jason had decided to take Avril with him. New York was their next conquest, and they were going to devour the city's black market like a pack of starving wolves. Christine, with her years of running gangs, was the key to making it happen. Once they claimed the turf, she'd be the one calling the shots, building an empire from the ashes of New York's underworld. But even she couldn't do it alone, so she'd pulled Gin and Rum from her Black Organization—two stone-cold killers who'd make most mobsters piss themselves.
At exactly 9:00 a.m., the Boeing jet roared into the sky, leaving Los Angeles behind as it carved a path toward Newark Airport. The long flight stretched ahead, and boredom set in fast. Jason humored Harley and the others with a couple of hours of Texas Hold'em, but after she cleaned him out with a devilish grin, he was done. Broke and mildly pissed, he slumped into an empty seat, turning his focus inward to tinker with his superpowers.
There's no such thing as a shitty superpower, only shitty users, he reminded himself. The system had gifted him abilities, but raw talent wasn't enough. If he wanted to dominate, he'd have to grind, to mold his powers into something unstoppable. He closed his eyes, sinking into the rhythm of practice, feeling the energy hum through his veins like a live wire.
The plane's entertainment screens flickered with news, and for two days straight, Jason had been the star of the show—his name plastered across every headline, his face a nightmare for the city's cops. But today, a juicier story had stolen his spotlight. Tony Stark, the golden boy of Stark Industries, had apparently cracked under the pressure of their last clash. The news claimed he was battling severe PTSD, confined to bed rest, and the board had yanked his chairman title, handing it to Obadiah Stane, the company's smarmy VP and major shareholder.
The failed mission to nab Jason wasn't entirely Tony's fault—he'd only been one piece of the puzzle. But the public needed a scapegoat, and the government and military were happy to let Tony take the fall. With the media piling on years of his bad-boy antics, the narrative was set: Tony Stark, the reckless genius, had fucked up one too many times. The board's move to sideline him was predictable, a cold-blooded play to stabilize the company's plummeting stock.
The screen cut to Obadiah, decked out in a tailored suit that screamed old money. He held a press conference, his bald head gleaming under the lights as he mourned the "tragic losses" from the botched mission. He announced $500,000 payouts to the victims' families and vowed to work with the government and military to develop bigger, badder weapons to take down "super-criminals" like Jason. The military and government sent reps to back him up, a united front to calm the public's outrage. It worked—barely. Stark Industries' stock, which had been in freefall, finally started to stabilize, though it'd be months before it recovered fully.
Jason stared at Obadiah's smug face, a flicker of recognition sparking in his mind. That shiny dome, that calculating grin—he knew this bastard. Obadiah Stane, the backstabbing villain from *Iron Man*. The memory hit him like a punch, though the details were fuzzy, warped by time and his own chaotic existence in this world. In the movie, Tony's ousting came after he escaped a terrorist stronghold and shut down Stark Industries' weapons division, not now. The timeline was fucked, twisted beyond recognition by Jason's own actions—a butterfly flapping its wings and unleashing a shitstorm.
He let out a bitter chuckle. The Marvel universe he'd landed in was no longer a neat script he could predict. But that was fine. He wasn't here to play fanboy or save the world. Jason was a selfish bastard, a villain through and through, and he had one goal: to seize everything he wanted and crush anyone who stood in his way. Hero, villain, man, woman—it didn't matter. Cross him, and you are done.
His eyes flicked back to Obadiah on the screen, the man's ambition practically oozing through the pixels. Jason's lips curled into a cold smirk. "Enjoy your moment, badly," He muttered, then turned his focus back to his powers, diving deeper into his training. The game was on, and he'd be ready for whatever came next.
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You can read advance chapters and view R-18 images of the characters on pat reon page.
pat reon.com/GreenBlue17
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