The next morning, Lock, Dr. Pym, and Scott gathered in the living room, preparing to attend Cross's highly publicized demonstration.
Hope, however, was nowhere to be found. After ten minutes of waiting, Scott started pacing. "You don't think she bailed, do you?"
Then, from around the corner, a hesitant voice called out—
"Um… can we go now?"
The three men turned.
Hope stood in the doorway, head ducked slightly, as if she wasn't used to being seen.
Lock blinked. Well, that explains it.
Gone was the sharp, businesslike woman with dark red lipstick and severe makeup. Instead, she'd tied her hair back on both sides, revealing the clean lines of her face. She wore no lipstick, no heavy cosmetics—just a quiet, effortless brightness that made her look years younger.
She looked… human.
Even Lock, who'd faced gods and monsters, found himself briefly stunned. Dr. Pym let out a low whistle.
"I almost forgot my daughter looked like this," he murmured. "Apparently, other people's advice works better than a father's."
Scott leaned toward Lock, whispering, "Okay, now I get it. You really gave up priceless info to give her a makeover, huh? Totally worth it."
Hope flushed slightly but tried to hold her composure. She carried herself with more grace now—less edge, more poise—but once she climbed into the car, the "gentle" act ended.
She leaned close to Lock, lowering her voice. "Alright, coward. I changed my look just like you wanted. But if you can't save my mother, I'll make you regret it."
Lock smiled, unbothered. "Hope, you really don't know business, do you? You've already paid before seeing results. Whether I perform now depends entirely on my mood."
Hope's nostrils flared. "You—!"
Dr. Pym sighed. "Children, please."
---
Four people, one car.
Before long, they arrived at a sleek glass tower crowned by a massive sign: Pym Technologies.
Dr. Pym stared up at it in silence. His own name emblazoned across a building he no longer controlled—it was a bitter sight.
"Alright," he said finally. "You two—" he pointed to Lock and Scott, "—pretend to be my assistants. If security stops us, wait in the lobby."
Hope shook her head. "Dad, you haven't been here in years. Cross overhauled the whole system. Security's airtight—facial recognition, clearance checkpoints. Anyone unauthorized gets flagged within seconds."
Scott scratched his chin. "Give me a few minutes. I could hack the database, add Lock and me to the staff registry—"
Dr. Pym waved him off. "No time. Too risky."
Lock stretched lazily. "No need for that. Just don't make eye contact with the guards. They won't notice we're outsiders."
The others stared.
Hope crossed her arms. "You think you can fool facial scanners by not looking at them?"
But before she could say more, Lock casually strolled through the main entrance.
The uniformed security guard looked up—then smiled warmly. "Good morning, sir. Welcome back."
Lock nodded in return and kept walking.
Dr. Pym and the others froze mid-step.
"Did… did Cross cut the security budget?" Dr. Pym muttered.
Hope's eyes narrowed. "Either that, or he just walked straight past reality."
Inside, employees whispered as they passed.
"Wait—that's Dr. Pym. I thought he'd retired years ago!"
"And that's Hope! She's… actually gorgeous?"
"Both of them back in the building at once? Something's about to explode."
"Eh, even if it does," another voice replied, "we'll just join CrossTech next week."
The murmurs followed them all the way to the top floor—Cross's private laboratory.
---
The lab gleamed like a cathedral of steel and glass. Guests in tailored suits mingled in small groups, glasses of champagne in hand. The air buzzed with wealth and anticipation.
Then, a man descended the stairs—tall, bald, dressed sharply, a self-satisfied smile etched onto his face.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" he announced. "Before we begin, allow me to introduce a very special guest—the founder of Pym Technologies and my esteemed mentor, Dr. Hank Pym!"
A wave of polite applause filled the room.
Cross continued smoothly, his voice amplified by the acoustics. "I was inspired by my mentor's pioneering work. For over a decade, I've refined his research—developing a particle capable of compressing atomic distance while increasing density and strength. The result—"
He gestured toward the holographic screen, where grainy black-and-white footage began to play. Soldiers from the Cold War era fired wildly at unseen enemies, collapsing one by one.
The footage had been restored from old film reels—Dr. Pym's secret missions as the original Ant-Man.
"How did he even get this?" Hope whispered.
Cross froze the image. The crowd gasped as he enhanced the frame. Amid the distortion, a tiny black silhouette darted across the battlefield—small, fast, unmistakably human.
"Some dismissed this as a myth," Cross said, his grin widening. "A phantom. A trick of light. But I believed."
"And now, that belief has become reality."
He pressed a button on the remote.
A mechanical arm descended from the ceiling, lowering a transparent containment pod. Inside stood a tiny, golden suit of armor no bigger than a thumb.
"The next evolution of warfare," Cross declared proudly. "The Yellowjacket Armor."
Gasps rippled through the crowd as he pressed another button—and the armor expanded to full size before their eyes.
Cross stepped forward, sealing the suit around himself. The plates clicked into place, the helmet sliding down with a hiss.
"Ladies and gentlemen," his voice echoed through the speakers, "prepare to witness the future."
A faint whoosh filled the air—then Cross vanished.
On the magnified display, the reduced Cross stood proudly atop a metal pillar, waving to the crowd.
"Gentlemen and ladies," he said, voice booming through the speakers, "the future is standing before you!"
The audience erupted.
Arms dealers, military contractors, and power brokers jostled for position, shouting over one another.
"Three thousand units, Mr. Cross—whatever the cost!"
"Five hundred for me!"
"I'll pay double if I get exclusive distribution!"
Cross's smile grew sharper. Let them fight for scraps. The suits were just the shell; the true power—the Pym Particles—would remain his alone. He would control the supply. He would control the world.
Dr. Pym and Hope exchanged worried glances.
This was worse than they'd feared. Cross had not only replicated Pym Particles—he'd perfected them, breaking through every biological barrier. The Yellowjacket suit was complete.
And as the chaos of shouting and bidding filled the room, one calm voice cut through the noise.
A voice that silenced the entire hall.
"I'll take one."
---
A/N: Advanced Chapters Have Been Uploaded On My Patreon
Support: patreon.com/Narrator_San