Marvel: My Life Is A TV SHOW!-Chapter 119: Le Diable

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Chapter 119: Le Diable

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The blood-arm reformed in an instant. Adam Cypher hung in the sky, seemingly suspended by nothing, bare-chested.

Below him, sprawled across the French countryside like a scar on the earth, was a military compound. He narrowed his crimson eyes, then smiled eerily.

To the casual observer, it was a legitimate defense installation. The French tricolor flew from the flagpole. Soldiers in regulation uniforms patrolled the perimeter.

But Adam saw beneath the facade. His cybernetic eye cycled through spectrums, penetrating concrete and steel to reveal the sprawling, multi-level Hydra facility buried beneath.

He could see through it all, like nodes in the sky showing themselves to him, just like how psychics see souls as bright lamps in a dark night; he sees technology as if the stars in the darkest of nights.

Laboratories. Barracks. Containment cells. A cancer hidden in the body of a sovereign nation.

Hydra’s genius was its invisibility. They moved through the grass like snakes, tempting the ambitious and the desperate with promises of order and power.

Human sin knew no bounds, and many fell. Those who refused simply... disappeared.

Nick Fury, with all his resources and paranoia, had uncovered perhaps one percent of their true reach.

Some of that one percent Hydra had allowed to be exposed, sacrificial pawns in a larger game.

Adam had done more damage to them in weeks than anyone had in decades.

But even he struggled to trace their deeper roots. They were meticulously cautious. Anti-psychic countermeasures shielded their inner circles.

Most agents in the open knew nothing of value. Even mind control was useless against people who had spent years preparing for Charles Xavier’s intrusion.

That was why only when Adam escaped Hydra did Professor X sense him. The facilities themselves were psychic dead zones.

To crack such an organization required obsession. So Adam had become obsessed.

He had infiltrated everything belonging to Alexander Pierce. His phones. His laptops. The smart thermostat in his Georgetown townhouse. The traffic cameras on his commute.

He watched. He waited. He learned.

Honestly, Adam had long stopped trying to categorize this universe. It was MCU. It was comics. It was everything, mashed together in a glorious, contradictory stew.

He didn’t care about preserving the plot. He cared about winning. So he had detonated the Cypher Conference like a bomb, exposing Hydra to the world’s spotlight, forcing them to react. Then he waited.

Fury’s call had been music to his ears. And Hydra, through Pierce, had taken the bait.

Adam had fed Pierce exquisite bullshit about having "informants" inside Hydra.

It wasn’t entirely false, though. His audience, his imaginary friends, sometimes saw Hydra’s internal meetings; fragments of their arguments, their panicked strategizing, all through the show.

In a sense, they were his greatest spies. It was kind of cheating.

Then he watched Pierce send the signal.

The number was encrypted, stored only in Pierce’s mind, typed and deleted instantly, automatically by his device.

It didn’t matter. Adam’s technopathy was a living thing, a hunting dog that had caught the scent.

He traced the connection through layers of obfuscation, through proxy servers in three continents, until it resolved to a single point in rural France.

An écrivain public. A public writer’s office, quaint and analog. The message became a physical letter, handwritten, carried by a courier.

With Alice’s assistance, Adam had compromised every electronic device along the letter’s path.

A traffic camera. A postal sorting machine. A security system in a nondescript warehouse.

The trail led him here. To this compound. To this moment.

[Tf?!]

[The trickery! The bullshit! The deception! Immaculate!]

[The outplaying in this show is grander than the outplaying pussies do to avoid weebs!]

[Not true, we have dolls.]

[Shush, shut up, u making us weebs look bad.]

[Idiot.]

[Facepalm.jpg]

["I don’t care about preserving plot." That made me fucking hard!!]

[This is what happens when a transmigrator stops giving a fuck about canon.]

[To be fair, what plot is there to preserve in that godforsaken world? It’s all chaos, hell, he doesn’t even know what Marvel universe he’s in.]

Adam’s blood wings erupted from his back.

They were enormous, each span twice his height, composed of semi-solid crimson that caught the moonlight like wet silk.

They beat once, twice, accelerating him toward the earth with the force of a meteor.

The wind screamed past his ears. His white hair streamed behind him like a war banner.

Below, alarms began to wail. Hydra’s perimeter security had finally registered the anomaly; a man falling from the sky on wings of blood.

Soldiers scrambled. Rifles raised. The night erupted with muzzle flashes.

Bullets filled the air, a leaden hailstorm.

Adam laughed.

The sound was bright, joyful, utterly mad. His blood wings folded forward, forming a concave shield that caught the incoming fire.

Rounds flattened against the crimson surface, their kinetic energy sponged, rendered meaningless. He continued his descent, untroubled, untouched.

THUD.

The ground shattered. A crater twelve feet wide erupted beneath him, concrete and rebar splintering like kindling.

The shockwave threw the nearest soldiers backward like ragdolls. But that was only the beginning.

From the point of impact, Adam’s blood exploded outward; not in a radial spray, but in directed, intelligent projectiles.

Hundreds of crimson spikes, each needle-sharp and moving at supersonic velocity, lanced through the compound.

They punched through body armor. Through helmets. Through flesh and bone and the concrete walls behind them.

Soldiers dropped. Some were pinned to the ground. Others to the walls behind them.

One man, a sergeant, was lifted clean off his feet and nailed to the side of an armored vehicle, his blood mixing with Adam’s on the cold metal.

The survivors stared in frozen horror.

Adam stood in the center of the crater, his hand raised. The blood spikes quivered, then dissolved, flowing back across the ground like a crimson tide, reabsorbed into his form.

He laughed again, the sound echoing across the sudden silence.

"Fuck," He said, his voice reverent. "I’m getting addicted to this adrenaline. It’s getting me so hard I might have to visit Hell sooner than expected."

He paused, considering. "Mephisto’s probably got a velvet rope situation. ’No shirt, no shoes, no salvation.’ I’ll bring lube. Just in case."

[Aura!] [He farming that shit.]

[My man took lessons straight from Piccolo.]

["I’ll bring lube." I’M DECEASED. THIS IS TOO MUCH.]

[Mephisto living rent free in his head, but Adam’s mind is a toxin swamp; it ain’t comfy.]

[Ewww, that was gruesome, actually feel like puking.]

[U know, we normally watch gruesome shit like this all the time, sometimes disturbing, but this... It could be real.]

[Fuck, u reminded me, this shit’s supernatural, so we might really be watching human guts flying everywhere.]

[...] [....] [...][...][...][...] [??] [I’m goonna go puke.]

A sound cut through his reverie; trembling French, muttered like prayer. "Le Diable... C’est le Diable..."

Adam’s head snapped sideways. A cluster of survivors huddled behind an overturned jeep, their weapons raised but their hands shaking too badly to aim.

One of them, a young man with terror-widened eyes, was crossing himself.

Adam’s expression shifted from euphoria to profound offense.

"Le diable?" He repeated, his French flawless, his accent aristocratic.

"Vraiment? Est-ce que j’ai vraiment l’air du diable?" He gestured at himself, at his pale skin and white hair and blood-wrought arm. "C’est irrespectueux de merde!"

He switched to English, his voice rising. "I mean, look at me! Am I not fucking handsome? The devil looks nothing like me, trust me, I’ve met him multiple times!"

"He’s some old fuck with more wrinkles than your grandmother’s ass! He’s fucking disgusting, and he’s gay; and yes, that’s a bad thing because he’s a devil and he’s been trying to ride me for so fucking long!"

He threw his hands up. "That means he doesn’t fucking need consent, if you catch my drift."

"Last time he appeared in my bedroom, I had to threaten him with a consecrated dildo. You don’t come back from that. The existential cringe alone..."

He laughed, the sound bright and genuine. Then his expression settled, the manic energy cooling to something calm and analytical.

"But seriously," He said, tilting his head. "Why did you let me monologue for so long? Do you just really love theater?"

He smiled, gentle, almost kind. "I mean, you’re a lovely audience. Any performer would be grateful. But that’s not going to save you from meeting Mephisto today."