Marvel: The Villain Chapter 366 Symphony

Minutes later, Tony and Steve descended from the sky in their armor.

"There it is!" Steve identified the location and pointed toward the apartment window.

Tony activated the suit's scanners, and the interior layout of the apartment immediately projected onto his HUD. After a careful scan, Tony frowned. "There are four living people inside, but they're standing completely still. They haven't moved an inch."

"What?" Steve asked, confused. In the Joker Organization, the only one capable of freezing people in place was Harley with her abilities. While John could freeze people, he did it with absolute-zero temperatures, and those four wouldn't be alive to tell the tale.

Steve wondered if the Joker Organization had realized their mole was compromised and sent Harley to extract him. But what he really feared was that this apartment might be a trap.

"Should we breach through the window and take them by surprise?" Tony suggested. No matter the situation, Stark usually only had a Plan A.

Steve shook his head and shared his concerns. Tony, however, dismissed them. "You're overthinking it. The Joker Organization is a shadow of its former self; they've been rotting away in Africa for over three years. Even if they're making a comeback today, they wouldn't come looking for trouble with us. Did you forget? Nick left you a little something."

Tony was referring to the communicator used to contact the mysterious person who defeated Jason. Indeed, with that person's help, the Joker Organization shouldn't be a major concern. But remembering Fury's warning not to trouble the mysterious benefactor, Steve insisted, "Nothing is absolute. We need to be cautious."

"..." Tony was speechless. The scanners showed the place was empty of enemies, yet Steve was still dragging his feet. It seemed Steve's courage had shrunk after losing to the Joker a few times. Just like I used to be, Tony thought.

Without waiting for Steve's consensus, Tony fired his thrusters and smashed through the glass into the apartment. The moment he landed, his sensors went to full power and his weapon bays slid open, ready for anything.

After a quick sweep, he confirmed there were no hostiles. Steve reluctantly followed him in. Tony relaxed and smirked, "See? Told you it was fine."

Steve started to speak but held his tongue. They walked from the bedroom to the living room and found the four agents standing there, pistols raised, staring forward with dead-serious expressions.

"What's wrong with them?" Steve asked.

"No idea." Tony waved a hand in front of their eyes. He had scanned them for vitals; everything was normal. No external injuries, no internal damage, no enemies in sight—just four men standing like idiots. It was eerie.

Tony tried a few more things before throwing up his hands in frustration. "Since Norman is gone and these four are vegetables, let's hand the search over to SHIELD... no, wait, the FBI handles this now."

Steve sighed. "I guess so. I hope they can be saved."

Suddenly, one of the four agents began to tremble slightly. His eyes snapped into focus. He shifted his gaze toward the two armored heroes, a twisted, grotesque smile spreading across his face.

"Welcome, you two!"

At the sound of the voice behind them, the hair on the back of Tony and Steve's necks stood up. A chill raced up their spines. They spun around instantly, repulsors charging with a high-pitched whine.

BOOM!

The apartment exploded. A massive fireball accompanied by a shockwave tore through the room, incinerating everything and blasting the two heroes out through the walls.

The roar faded. Tony and Steve climbed to their feet. Their armor had protected them, but the apartment was now a raging inferno. Tony flew back to extinguish the flames while Steve contacted HQ to report.

Once the fire was out, they re-entered. The four agents had been blown into unrecognizable bits of gore. Looking at the carnage, they breathed heavily, their expressions grim. Four agents dead and every scrap of evidence destroyed—the mission was a total failure.

Feeling something amiss, Tony walked out onto the balcony. Steve joined him. After a moment of silence, Steve asked, "What do you make of that agent's behavior at the end?"

Tony leaned his arms on the railing. "What's to think? He was clearly being controlled—not just his body, but his mind."

"My thoughts exactly," Steve said. "This Stansfield is likely a metahuman. He can control people's minds, similar to how Hydra controlled Bucky, but this seems several levels more powerful."

"A heavy hitter like that... he must be a high member in the Joker Organization. I can't believe Jason was willing to park him in SHIELD to rot," Tony remarked bitterly.

"Think back to our clashes with the Joker. They always had key intel. It had to be Norman feeding them. With his power, he's the perfect mole," Steve analyzed.

"Another high member... as if we didn't have enough headaches," Tony muttered, feeling a deep sense of exhaustion. None of the Joker's top brass were easy to deal with.

*

Stansfield drove toward the city, laughing out loud as he remembered the look of pure shock on their faces when they turned around. He had pre-planted the remote explosives; everything that happened today was according to his script.

The moment he heard he was suspended, he knew SHIELD was about to collapse. Hydra had ambition and talent, but they lacked the core combat power to defeat the superheroes. Once Hydra fell, his cover would be blown—Fury had more than just two or three eyes on him.

Norman loved big cities. He had no desire to run back to Africa, even if their new base looked like something out of a sci-fi movie. To stay in D.C., he needed a new path. And while watching the news earlier, he found it.

Ten minutes later, he parked his car in a secluded corner of an upscale neighborhood. The entire street consisted of massive estates exceeding 1,000 square meters. Given how close this was to the city center, the owners were clearly the elite of American politics.

Walking down the wide, clean street, Norman felt the air smelled sweeter. A suspicious, burly man brushed past him. Norman kept walking normally, but the man frowned and spun around to glare at him. The man was a Secret Service agent—most people on this street were. Every resident here was a major political player.

Norman ignored him, checking the mailboxes as he walked, which only deepened the agent's suspicion. When he found the right house number and prepared to knock, the agent shouted, "Hold it right there!"

Norman turned as the agent and several colleagues quickly surrounded him. They looked him up and down. "Who are you? Why are you approaching this house?"

Since none of the security detail recognized him, he clearly wasn't a resident or a guest. Norman didn't answer. He just smiled and activated his power.

His Level 8 power allowed him to sense every human within a dozen kilometers. He could dive into their brains, peel back their memories, and briefly puppet their consciousness. These agents were highly trained, but against his power, their willpower was like wet tissue paper.

In an instant, Norman breached their minds. Their bodies jolted. A moment later, they lowered their weapons and spoke with deep respect: "Sir!"

Norman nodded. "Follow me. We have an emergency mission."

The agents drew their pistols and formed a defensive perimeter around him. Norman walked to the villa door, straightened his bow tie, and rang the bell.

Ding-dong!

"Who is it?" A voice called from inside. A woman in her 40s, dressed like a domestic servant, opened the door. She looked at Norman and the grim-faced agents behind him. "You are..."

Before she could finish, Norman stepped aside. An agent lunged forward, tackling the maid to the ground and muffling her screams while the others swarmed inside.

"Ah!"

"What are you doing!"

"Help!"

Panic erupted inside the luxury villa. Norman, wearing a serene smile, strolled in. He took a tour before ending up in the dining room. An oval table sat in the center, set for eight with covered plates. Dinner had been prepared in anticipation of the owner's return.

Norman sat at the head of the table and began to slowly enjoy the fine cuisine. The screams elsewhere in the house faded into silence. The agents dragged a group of men, women, and children into the dining room, many of them showing signs of a struggle. One girl in a wheelchair with an amputated leg caught Norman's eye briefly.

"Who the hell are you?" An older woman hissed, her eyes blazing with fury. Based on her bearing, she was the lady of the house.

Norman continued eating, ignoring her completely. Her face turned bright red with rage, but the moment she opened her mouth, an agent grabbed her jaw and stuffed a rolled-up tablecloth into her mouth.

Without the noise, the food tasted much better. But eating alone was dull. "Is there any music?" Norman asked.

The elderly butler spoke up quickly, "There is a gramophone in the living room."

"Excellent. Let's have some music. I like Beethoven," Norman said.

The butler, under the watchful eye of an agent, started the record. As the beautiful notes filled the air, Norman finally smiled with satisfaction. Dining to Beethoven—what an exquisite experience. He popped a morsel of food into his mouth and, while chewing, waved his fork and knife in the air, excitedly mimicking a conductor.

The massive villa became his one-man stage while the hostages watched in terrified silence. An hour later, dinner was over. And his target for the night finally entered the range of his telepathy.

*

It was pitch black outside. A Cadillac rolled down the street and pulled up smoothly at the curb. A tall, thin man—the Vice President of the United States—stepped out, accompanied by two agents.

As he reached for the door, he heard the booming music from inside. Though he wasn't a music connoisseur, even he recognized Beethoven's Symphony No. 5. He was an hour late because of work—were they throwing a party?

He noticed the door wasn't fully closed. He pushed it open, and the music grew louder. He stepped into the foyer and saw a suspicious man dancing and gesturing wildly by the gramophone. Aside from him, the entire first floor was empty.

"Who are you?" The Vice President demanded, voice sharp with shock and anger.

Stansfield turned around, put a finger to his lips to shush him, and returned to his trance-like state, lost in the music.

Is this guy a lunatic? He wondered. "Arrest him!"

The two Secret Service agents dropped their briefcases and drew their guns.

"Hands up! On the ground, now!"

"Turn that goddamn music off!"

Norman stopped conducting and turned around, frowning with annoyance.

"Sleep."

Power activated. The two highly alert agents rolled their eyes back and collapsed onto the floor, instantly snoring.

"You... what are you?" The Vice President backed away, nearly tripping.

Norman ignored him, turning back to the music. He was a fanatic for powerful melodies, and the crescendo was coming. He wasn't about to stop now.

It was a surreal scene: a man in a white suit standing in the middle of a living room, eyes closed, waving his hands in total passion, while a man in a black suit stood nearby, frozen in terror. The Vice President thought about running, but he feared ending up like his agents.

As the music peaked and then settled into a low, slow rhythm, Norman sighed. The mood was gone. He walked over, turned off the gramophone, and wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve.

Once he was calm, he sat on the sofa and said, "Good evening, Mr. Vice President."

"Hello there... Mr. Stansfield."

Looking at his face, the Vice President finally remembered. This eccentric man was the former Director of the New York DEA—and the first non-active-duty civilian in history to receive the Medal of Honor.

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