Chapter 51: The real villain

The Empire State Building had survived alien invasions, three civil wars, orbital bombardments, and one unfortunate incident involving Kael, a rocket launcher, and a very traumatized zoo.

It was not, however, prepared for the rampant sexual tension currently threatening to combust the penthouse.

Or the paperwork.

"This can't be real," Mari growled, leaning over the massive obsidian conference table.

"It is," Ren said, not even looking up from his datapad.

"This stack alone is seventy-two thousand pages." Mari stared at the mountain of glowing holographic documents hovering between them. Her gaze slid from the text to Adrian, who was lounging back in a heavy leather chair across from her, broad legs spread impossibly wide, his dark eyes tracking every move she made like a predator waiting for an excuse to pounce.

She swallowed hard, turning back to the glowing blue lights. "Burn it."

"We need those," Ren sighed.

"Burn them anyway," she hissed, taking a slow step toward Adrian's chair. "Or I’m going to start setting fire to people instead."

Three hours after conquering New York, the ruler of the largest empire on the East Coast was losing a fistfight against administration. And her own utterly filth-ridden impulses regarding her newly conquered general.

Across the table, Adrian looked equally horrified by the documents—and equally distracted by the sheer line of Mari's thighs under her combat armor. His deep, velvet voice cut through the hum of the holo-projectors like a purr. "What is that one?"

Ren checked. "Dock taxation reform."

"Kill it," Adrian rumbled, his thick fingers tracing a lazy circle on the dark armrest.

"You can't kill taxes," Ren said.

"Has anyone tried hard enough with a broadsword?" Adrian countered, dark eyes locking with Mari’s. The heat in his gaze was practically physical, a dark, bruised promise of what he intended to do to her the second they cleared the room.

Sera snorted loudly into her Irish coffee. "Look at the pair of you. Pathetic."

"What?" Mari snapped, her cheeks flushing hot.

"You two fought six armies without blinking," Sera said, kicking her boots up onto the edge of the table. "I watched you tear a warlord's throat out with your bare hands last night, boss. But a spreadsheet shows up and suddenly you're both bleeding-heart veterans with sexual frustration PTSD."

Kael nodded solemnly from the windowsill, polishing a knife that looked far too sharp for polite company. "The true horrors of war. The blue balls alone could fell a titan."

Mari picked up another glowing report, her eye twitching. "Why," she said slowly, dangerously, "is there a two-hundred-page form requesting permission to move a battlecruiser from Pier Seven to Pier Eight?"

Ren shrugged. "Oh, that's easy. Government officials are demons. Literal, sulfur-snorting hell-spawn."

A collective, heavy silence filled the room.

Lance, who was currently chained to a reinforced titanium chair in the corner—stripped down to his skin-tight tactical undertop and looking thoroughly humiliated—raised his manicured hands. "For once, I actually agree with the barbarian."

Mari pointed a lethal finger at him. "Don't speak, captive."

"You captured me," Lance whined, his voice tight. "You stole my entire Atlantic fleet. You auctioned off my custom silk wardrobe!"

Kael looked immensely proud of himself. "Record profits, darling. Your velvet cloaks bought us three months of heavy plasma artillery."

"And yet," Lance muttered, glaring at Adrian, "I am still getting more basic human dignity than these bureaucrats are offering you."

Nobody could argue with that.

The heavy reinforced doors suddenly hissed open. Lena strode in, clutching a glowing tablet. Everyone brightened—finally, a legitimate excuse to stop looking at tax brackets and start shooting things.

"Tell me someone needs to die," Mari pleaded.

Lena looked at the screen. Then at Mari. Then at Adrian. "Oh. Well..."

"What?" Mari asked.

"There are thirteen warlords requesting immediate, conditional surrender negotiations."

Mari grinned, her sharp teeth flashing. "Good. We'll strip them bare and make them crawl."

"And twenty-one megacorporations offering full, unconditional financial capitulation."

"Even better," Adrian growled, his hand dropping casually to touch Mari’s hip as she leaned near him. The touch sent a violent spark straight down her spine.

"And..." Lena winced, pulling the tablet back against her chest.

Everyone immediately went rigid.

"What?" Mari demanded.

"The New York Department of Infrastructure wants to schedule a mandatory seven-hour onboarding meeting. With a PowerPoint."

The penthouse dropped into sub-zero silence.

Adrian slowly, deliberately stood up. His massive frame shadowed the entire side of the table, his chair scraping violently against the marble floor.

"No."

Lena blinked. "What?"

"No."

"Adrian, it's civil protocol—"

"No." The massive warlord looked genuinely, deeply offended. He leaned over the table, his muscular forearms straining the leather of his jacket. "I didn't conquer the crown jewel of the East Coast, slaughter three blood-lines, and force this gorgeous psycho into my bed just to sit through a slide deck."

Ren pointed a glowing stylus at him. "Technically, by right of conquest and co-rulership, you are the King-Consort."

Adrian froze. "The what?"

"The King-Consort," Ren repeated cheerfully. "It’s on the deed."

"No."

"It's literally your legal title now, Your Grace."

"No."

Mari was already doubled over, a dirty, wicked laugh tearing from her throat. "Actually... oh god, that's fucking hilarious."

Adrian turned a slow, terrifying glare onto her, his dark eyes narrowing into slits. "You planned this, didn't you, little bird?"

"I absolutely did," she choked out, wiping a tear from her eye. "My royal bitch."

Kael practically fell off the windowsill, howling with laughter. "YOUR MAJESTY! SHALL I FETCH YOUR ROYAL TIARA?"

Adrian’s jaw clenched so hard a vein throbbed in his neck.

Kael laughed harder, clutching his stomach. "YOUR HIGHNESS! DO YOU REQUIRE A CUSHION FOR YOUR ROYAL ASS?"

"Kael," Adrian warned, his voice dropping an octave into a low, rumbling death sentence.

"PRINCESS ADRIAN!"

The room exploded. Sera sprayed coffee across the desk. Lena doubled over, wheezing. Ren buried his face in his hands, shaking violently with silent laughter. Mari was hanging onto the edge of the conference table, tears streaming down her face.

Adrian looked ready to commit a war crime. "One more word out of your mouth, you twitchy little bastard."

Kael grinned, flexing his fingers. "Your Prettyness."

The penthouse instantly devolved into absolute chaos.

Kael bolted. Adrian launched himself over the conference table like a quarter-ton apex predator.

An antique mahogany side table disintegrated. A chair shattered into splinters against the far wall. Lance instinctively ducked his head into his knees, praying for mercy. "I feel significantly better about losing the war now," he squeaked to himself.

Kael’s screams echoed down the marble hallway. "YOU'LL NEVER TAKE ME ALIVE, YOUR HIGHNESS!"

"GET BACK HERE SO I CAN RIP YOUR TONGUE OUT!"

"I'M A POLITICAL PRISONER OF THE PRINCESS!"

"YOU INSULTED MY HONOR!"

"I INSULTED YOUR DECORATIVE TITLE!"

"THAT'S WORSE!"

A heavy ceramic vase shattered. A glass wall cracked. Someone shrieked in agony, followed by a sickening thud, and then absolute, profound silence.

Sera took a slow sip of her coffee. "He's dead."

"Oh, entirely," Lena agreed, checking her nails.

Mari leaned back against the edge of the table, catching her breath. Her cheeks burned, her heart thumping wildly in her chest. For the first time all day, things felt normal. Violent, unhinged, ridiculously hot, and completely unprofessional.

Then Ren looked down at his main terminal console. "Oh... oh, no."

The ambient temperature in the room plummeted.

"What now?" Mari asked, straightening up.

Ren’s face went ghastly white. The kind of pale that only appeared seconds before an orbital strike. "The surrender broadcast."

"What about it?" Mari frowned. "It went out on all channels."

"Yes," Ren whimpered. "It did. But... someone edited it."

"Ren," Mari warned, her tone sharpening. "Show me."

Slowly, reluctantly, Ren turned the holographic projection around.

The entire room stared. Then stared harder. Then completely lost their minds.

The top trending broadcast on the entire planetary network was a crystal-clear, high-definition clip of Lance screaming in sheer, hysterical terror during his final defeat. Only someone had stripped out the original audio and replaced it with full, booming dramatic opera.

Holographic subtitles flashed across the bottom: [SCREAMING IN CAPITALIST TERROR].

Slow-motion fireworks exploded around his tear-stained face in bright pink and neon blue.

The title hovering above the video read: THE BALLAD OF WARLORD LANCE AND THE WORST DAY OF HIS ENTIRE EXISTENCE.

Views: 4.2 Billion.

Lance stared at the screen. His eyes went wide. He looked away, shook his head, looked back, and then slowly collapsed forward, burying his face directly into his chained knees.

"Kill me," Lance whispered into his own lap. "Please. Just put a bullet in my brain."

Ren tapped the interface. "Oh, wow. It gets better."

"How could that possibly get better?" Sera cackled.

"It’s officially been integrated into the East Coast high school history curriculum," Ren said brightly. "As a primary source document."

"WHAT?!" Lance shrieked, bolting upright, his face red. "MY HUMILIATION IS EDUCATIONAL?!"

Mari was laughing so hard no sound was coming out of her mouth anymore, clinging to Ren’s shoulder for support.

At that exact moment, the heavy heavy double doors opened again. Adrian dragged Kael back into the room by his left ankle, the assassin’s head thumping rhythmically against the floorboards.

"Problem solved," Adrian grunted, tossing Kael toward the couch like a bag of laundry.

Kael weakly gave a thumbs-up from the rug. "I regret... nothing..."

"He's lying," Sera said. "His ribs are definitely broken."

Before anyone could drop another punchline, every holographic screen, light fixture, and interface in the room violently flashed deep, blood red.

The laughter died instantly.

The air in the room shifted, turning heavy and metallic. The playful energy evaporated, replaced in a split second by the cold, lethal instinct of survivors.

Ren tapped furiously at his console, his playful grin completely wiped away. Mari took three slow steps forward, her hand dropping automatically to the heavy plasma pistol at her hip.

"Report," Mari said, her voice dropping into a dark, commanding tone.

Ren swallowed hard, the red glow reflecting off his pale face. "Well."

"Ren."

He looked up, his eyes wide. "We've got company. Big company."

A massive tactical grid bloomed over the center of the table. A dense, terrifying swarm of radar blips was descending through the upper atmosphere, cutting straight across the Atlantic toward the New York skyline.

Not corporate fleets. Not local warlords. Not civilian transports.

The signatures were massive, sleek, and utterly unknown.

And they were moving at re-entry speeds directly toward the Empire State Building.

Across the table, Mari stared at the flashing red grid. Then, slowly, a dark, wicked smile spread across her lips—the exact kind of unhinged, beautiful smile that usually meant several hundred people were about to die horribly.

Beside her, Adrian stepped up, his massive shoulder brushing hers. He cracked his knuckles with a sound like snapping timber, his dark eyes glowing with sick anticipation.

Kael sat up on the floor, popping his dislocated shoulder back into place with a wet crunch and a grin. Sera set her coffee down and unholstered twin hand-cannons. Lena casually flipped off the safety of her heavy rifle.

In the corner, chained to his chair, Lance stared at the incoming apocalypse on the screen, then slowly looked at the armed lunatics surrounding him.

"Oh, thank God," Lance whispered softly.

Everyone turned to stare at him.

Lance pointed an arm-chained finger at the red radar cloud. "If those freaks are here to vaporize all of you, I am officially rooting for them."

Mari chuckled, a dark, velvet sound. "Fair enough, Lance."

She drew her sidearm, the harsh metallic click echo

ing through the silent room, and looked at Adrian.

"Let's go show our guests how we treat uninvited visitors in New York."