"I am the Lord of Death now. Not metaphorically. Literally."
Taskmaster stared at Michael in silence for a moment—then burst out laughing.
"Hahahahahaha!" The sound echoed across the warehouse. "What are you, a sixth grader trying to sound cool?"
He cackled even louder, mockingly wiping away a nonexistent tear. "Oh man, that was rich."
Michael just looked at him, amused. He tilted his head slightly. "Guess we'll find out soon enough."
He cleared his throat. "Ahem. Now—where was I?"
Michael took a slow step forward, eyes glowing dimly again. "Yes. I am the Lord of Death. But what does that mean, exactly?"
He raised a hand, and the shadows near his feet shimmered.
"It means I can create powerful undead—bound to my will. Loyal even in death. Whether they want to serve or not… well, that's irrelevant. Because once they're mine…"
He smiled thinly, "They stay mine. Forever."
Taskmaster's smirk faltered slightly.
"So, Taskmaster," Michael asked, his tone casual but his power thrumming in the air, "how would you like to live out eternity? As a mindless puppet guarding my gate?"
Taskmaster scowled. "Go to hell."
Michael gave a faint chuckle. "Oh, I've been there. You wouldn't survive the first minute."
He lifted his palm—and in a flicker of shadow and light, a staff appeared in his grip. It was ornate, blackened silver with veins of ethereal blue pulsing along its length. The head of the staff held a crystal skull surrounded by flickering soulflame.
A unique necromancer's staff—from another world entirely. One forged in the Overgeared universe, refined by essence and death.
"I wasn't planning to do my worst," Michael said, gripping the staff with one hand, "but since you asked…"
He pointed it forward, dark energy gathering at the tip like a brewing storm.
"Let's see what you really fear."
Michael planted the necromancer's staff into the ground with a deep thrum—a sound that echoed like a funeral bell from beyond the veil.
Dark mist rolled outward from the impact, thick as smoke, coiling like serpents across the warehouse floor. The lights flickered violently, then burst, plunging the chamber into shadow lit only by the eerie glow of the staff's soulflame.
Michael began chanting—not in English, but in a forgotten, guttural tongue only the dead would understand. Words of old death. Words of binding.
"Zher'thaal Nok'vorr…
Ael'morith kai un'daar…
Rise from life, forsake the flesh…
Serve not your will, but mine."
Taskmaster screamed—not in pain, but in denial. His body began to seize, then levitate. Shadowy tendrils crawled up his limbs like vines, invading his bones and rewriting his essence. His armor rattled as metal groaned and warped unnaturally.
His suit—once pristine white with combat gear—blackened and deepened into inky crimson. His mask melted into a sleeker, more sinister shape, the skeletal design now veined with abyssal silver. His once standard twin swords rusted, corroded, then reformed—twisted into jagged Abyssal Blades that shimmered with dark light, as if thirsting for souls.
A sigil of undeath flared on his chest, pulsing once… twice…
Then silence.
Taskmaster dropped to one knee, the echo of his fall heavy in the dark.
His voice was hollow, metallic—and utterly obedient.
"I kneel to you now… Master."
Michael stood tall, eyes glowing violet as he regarded his newest creation. "You were a warrior in life," he said, approaching. "Now you'll be a general in death. An Abyssal Knight, bound to my will."
Taskmaster looked up, his once-proud defiance now replaced with a cold, loyal stillness.
"Command me."
Michael turned, his coat fluttering with phantom wind as the deathly aura withdrew back into him.
'So cool,' he thought to himself—just for a moment—before his face returned to its usual cold, unreadable calm.
He looked down at the kneeling knight.
"Well then… let's start with the obvious. Who gave you the order to kill me?"
Taskmaster—now reshaped into a corrupted warrior of the abyss—raised his head slowly.
"It was Alexander Pierce," he said, voice now deep, metallic. "A high-ranking commander in S.H.I.E.L.D."
Michael's gaze narrowed. "Pierce, huh…?"
"He feared you. Thought you would be an hindrance to Hydra," Taskmaster continued. "Your power… it terrifies men like him."
Michael gave a small nod. "It should."
He folded his arms. "What do you know about the Crimson Talons?"
"They deal in a synthetic drug that's tearing through the black market," Taskmaster answered immediately. "Unstable. Potent. Highly addictive. They've got ties to powerful vampires and underground syndicates. Their upper ranks aren't fully human anymore."
Michael nodded again, this time slower, thoughtful.
"You know a lot more than I expected, Abyssal Knight."
With a faint smile, he spoke a command—calm, almost casual:
"Go. Find every Crimson Talon den left... and kill them all."
Taskmaster rose in one smooth motion, blades humming with corrupted energy. He bowed his head slightly.
"As you command, my master."
And with that, he vanished into the darkness—death's loyal blade unleashed.
Michael watched as Taskmaster vanished into the night, leaving only silence in his wake. The corrupted knight was now a shadow unleashed on his behalf.
Turning back to the warehouse, Michael glanced around slowly.
"Taskmaster said this was one of their side bases... not bad. Cold, industrial. Functional."
He placed his palm flat against the steel wall. A quiet hum resonated from his touch as his silver eyes flickered faintly.
From his hand, White Devil emerged like smoke made solid—writhing tendrils of black and silver that crawled into the circuitry of the warehouse. They slithered over data ports, security nodes, server cores, even mechanical locks.
Michael raised his other hand, and with a lazy wave upward, the entire internal system of the warehouse began submitting to him. Screens blinked. Doors sealed. Lights flickered red, then white. And then—stillness.
The warehouse was his.
White Devil perched itself on the main terminal, interfacing directly. Its spectral tendrils danced across the keyboard, pulling up all stored information.
Michael stepped forward, his boots clicking softly on the concrete.
"This place... will do nicely."
Now that the warehouse was under his control, it would serve as a new satellite hub—interception point, monitoring station, or trap.
*******
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