Ben 10/MCU: Under Going Editing

The air was heavy with tension as the crime syndicates gathered outside the unassuming dojo in Hell's Kitchen. Madame Masque observed the scene from the safety of her armored limousine parked half a block away. Through tinted windows, she watched the cacophony of criminal ambition converge. Vehicles screeched to a halt, spilling armed men and women onto the darkened streets, each group representing a different faction of New York's underworld.

Her gloved hand adjusted the sleek golden mask on her face as she activated the comms device in her ear. "Report," she demanded, her voice calm but commanding.

"We're in position," a gravelly voice responded, likely one of her henchmen stationed on a nearby rooftop. "The Hand hasn't shown themselves yet, but the others are already getting restless."

She exhaled through her nose. Of course, they were restless. They always were, these criminals. Unpredictable, aggressive, and so often lacking the patience needed for true power plays. Her eyes flicked to the Hammerhead Family's contingent, led tonight by a burly enforcer. He barked orders at his men with the confidence of someone who thought their brute strength was enough to intimidate The Hand.

"Amateurs."

Her gaze shifted to the Russians, their ranks tightly disciplined, their menacing stoicism a stark contrast to the Hammerhead lackeys. The Italians were more flamboyant, laughing too loudly as if this was just another night on the town. Then there was The Rose, flanked by his own crew, who stood slightly apart from the others, a calculating gleam in his eyes.

They were all here for the same reason: The promise of taking down the Hand and seizing their power and territory. What they didn't realize was that this wasn't an opportunity. It was a trap.

Madame Masque smirked under her mask. The Hand was always five steps ahead. If this little coup failed, she'd lose nothing but expendable pawns. But if it succeeded? She'd secure an alliance with the Hand—and Black Tarantula himself.

"Movement inside the dojo," the voice in her ear crackled.

She leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. Through her binoculars, she saw the first group of syndicate members cautiously approaching the entrance, weapons drawn. The dojo's exterior looked ordinary—a faded sign, weathered wood, a single dim light above the door. But as the Hammerhead enforcer kicked it open, the interior revealed an ominous emptiness.

"Keep going!" he barked, waving his men inside.

The other groups hesitated, exchanging wary glances.

"Cowards," Madame Masque muttered, watching as the Hammerhead Family disappeared into the dojo. A few moments later, the Russians followed, then the Italians, and finally The Rose and his crew.

"Follow them in, but hang back," she instructed her men. "I want eyes and ears on whatever's about to happen."

The inside of the dojo was eerily silent, its polished wooden floors reflecting the flickering fluorescent lights. The armed criminals fanned out cautiously, weapons sweeping from side to side.

"Where are they?" a Russian thug muttered.

As if in answer, the floor beneath their feet groaned ominously. A hidden mechanism activated, and the floor split open, revealing a staircase descending into the darkness.

One of Hammerhead's goons shined a flashlight down the stairs. "Guess we're going underground."

The men descended warily, their footsteps echoing in the confined space. The stairwell opened into a cavernous chamber illuminated by dim red lanterns. The room was massive, with ornate carvings on the walls depicting scenes of ancient battles. In the center of the room stood Black Tarantula, his towering frame shrouded in shadow, his sharp eyes gleaming.

"Welcome," he said, his deep voice reverberating through the chamber. "I'm so glad you all could join us."

The criminals froze, their weapons raised.

"What is this?" snarled The Rose, stepping forward. "We came here to deal with The Hand, not to play games with you."

Black Tarantula chuckled, the sound low and menacing. "Oh, you'll deal with The Hand, all right."

The room shifted. From the shadows emerged the red-clad ninjas of The Hand, their movements silent and precise. They surrounded the intruders, their weapons glinting in the lantern light.

"Ambush!" someone shouted, and chaos erupted.

The Hammerhead goons opened fire, their bullets tearing through the air. But the ninjas moved like phantoms, dodging and weaving with impossible agility. One leaped onto a Hammerhead thug, driving a blade into his chest before vanishing into the shadows.

The Russians formed a tight formation, their firepower driving back the first wave of attackers. But The Hand was relentless. Smoke bombs exploded, filling the room with choking fog. In the confusion, one of the Russians was dragged screaming into the darkness.

The Italians fared no better. Their laughter and bravado evaporated as they were picked off one by one. A katana flashed, and blood sprayed across the ornate carvings.

The Rose, to his credit, maintained his composure. He barked orders, directing his men to hold their ground. But even his tactical mind couldn't account for The Hand's sheer ferocity.

Above it all, Black Tarantula watched, unmoving, his arms crossed over his chest. He was waiting.

Madame Masque's voice came over the comms. "Report. What's happening?"

"It's a bloodbath," her man whispered, his voice trembling. "The Hand is tearing them apart."

She leaned back in her seat, her lips curling into a satisfied smile.

"Good," she said. "Let them bleed. This is only the beginning."

Back in the chamber, the criminals fought desperately, but it was clear they were outmatched. Black Tarantula finally stepped forward, his presence commanding.

"Enough," he said, his voice cutting through the chaos.

The Hand froze, their weapons still poised. The surviving criminals stared at him, their faces pale with fear.

"This is your chance," Black Tarantula continued. "Kneel before me, swear your loyalty, and you may yet live."

The room fell silent, the only sound the ragged breathing of the survivors.

And then, one by one, they began to kneel.

--- Back Outside the Dojo

Madame Masque at this time entered into the dojo, as she crouched deeper into the shadows as the Hand's forces solidified their dominance over the room. Black Tarantula stood tall, commanding the defeated criminals with a chilling authority. Yet, even in the depths of their submission, Richard Fisk remained unyielding.

She shifted her gaze as a new figure entered the chamber. Emerging from the shadows like a living monolith, Wilson Fisk—Kingpin himself—descended the stairs. His steps were deliberate, his presence commanding. The room seemed to shrink in his wake.

Black Tarantula turned to greet him, bowing slightly. "You're just in time."

Fisk's expression was unreadable, but his tone carried an undeniable authority. "Have the negotiations begun?"

Black Tarantula smirked. "More or less. Those who value their lives have already pledged their loyalty." He gestured toward the kneeling figures, then toward Richard Fisk, who stood apart.

Wilson's eyes locked onto his son, and for a moment, the air grew tense.

"Richard," Fisk said, his deep voice resonating. "What a pleasant surprise."

Richard clenched his jaw, his defiance unwavering. "I'm not here for you."

Fisk approached him, his towering frame casting a shadow over the younger man. "No, but you'll soon realize you're here because of me. You think standing alone will save you? It won't."

Madame Masque watched intently from the shadows, noting the subtle power play between father and son. She had no love for Fisk, but she couldn't deny his ability to manipulate and dominate any situation.

Black Tarantula cleared his throat, breaking the tension. "Shall we proceed? The Black Sky awaits."

At his words, the chamber grew eerily silent. The ninjas guarding the wooden chest stepped aside, allowing Fisk and Tarantula to approach. Upon lifting open the wooden chest open, an old man in his mid50s was laying inside.

The old man inside the chest remained motionless, his ethereal eyes fixed on the ceiling. Even from her vantage point, Madame Masque could feel the weight of his presence—a mixture of dread and fascination.

"The Black Sky," Tarantula said reverently, "is the key to our ascendancy. With him, the Hand's control over New York will be absolute."

Fisk knelt before the the old man, his massive hands resting on the edge of the chest. His gaze softened, though his expression remained calculating. "And he understands his role?"

The Hand's instructor, who had silently entered the chamber, spoke up. "He needs no words to understand. His very existence serves as a vessel for the Beast will."

Fisk's lips curled into a thin smile. "Then let us ensure he fulfills his purpose."

As the Hand began chanting in an ancient tongue, Madame Masque's earpiece crackled again.

"Boss, update on the Rand Industries convoy," her operative reported. "It's heading toward the waterfront. Heavy security—looks like they're transporting something big."

Her eyes narrowed. The connection between the Hand and Rand Industries was becoming clearer. Harold Meachum, Rand's elusive CEO, had long been rumored to have dealings with mystical forces, but the specifics had always eluded her.

"I want eyes on that convoy," she whispered. "And get me a list of every asset Rand Industries has moved in the last six months."

"Yes, ma'am."

Back in the chamber, the chanting reached a crescendo. The Black Sky rose to his feet, his chains falling away as though they had been an illusion. His movements were graceful yet unnatural, like a puppet guided by an unseen hand.

Madame Masque felt a shiver run down her spine. For all her power and resources, she realized this old man was something beyond her comprehension.

Wilson Fisk, however, seemed unfazed. Rising to his full height, he turned to the gathered syndicates, his voice booming.

"This is the future," he declared, gesturing to the Black Sky. "Serve the Hand, serve me, and you will share in this power. Resist, and you will be erased."

Madame Masque smirked behind her mask. Fisk's audacity never failed to amuse her. But she also recognized the brilliance of his strategy. By aligning with the Hand and leveraging their mystical weapon, he was securing his dominance over New York's underworld.

As Fisk and Black Tarantula continued their address, she slipped away, her mind already racing with plans.

The Hand might believe themselves untouchable, but their arrogance could be their downfall. And if Wilson Fisk thought he could control this Black Sky, he might soon learn that power often comes with a price.

Madame Masque had no intention of being caught in the crossfire. But if she played her cards right, she could turn this chaos into an opportunity—one that would leave her at the top of the city's food chain.

Scene Continuation: Madam Masque's Perspective

The air in the underground chamber was thick with tension. Ancient stone walls lined with crimson banners bore the sigils of the Hand, their ominous symbols illuminated by flickering torches. In the center of the room, a ceremonial altar loomed, its surface etched with intricate carvings that whispered secrets of power and sacrifice.

Madame Masque adjusted her golden mask, the metallic surface gleaming faintly in the dim light. Behind her mask, her sharp eyes scanned the room. At her side, several of the Hand's highest-ranking members stood silent, their red robes blending seamlessly into the shadows.

She tapped the edge of her gilded pistol against her gloved palm, her mind racing. Tonight's operation was critical. The artifact on the altar—the obsidian figurine recently retrieved by Fisk—was rumored to hold the key to awakening the Black Sky. Everything hinged on the Hand's ability to protect it.

A low murmur rippled through the gathered assassins. One of the sentries approached hurriedly, his expression tense.

"The intruder has breached the perimeter," he whispered, bowing his head.

Madame Masque's lips curled into a thin smile beneath her mask. "Let the Hand deal with them. I have no time for distractions."

Before the sentry could respond, the ceiling above the chamber groaned ominously. Dust cascaded down like rain, followed by the sound of cracking stone. Masque's smile vanished as her instincts screamed a warning.

With a deafening crash, the ceiling exploded inward. Massive shards of debris rained down as a figure cloaked in green energy and shimmering crystalline armor plummeted into the room, landing with earth-shaking force.

The room fell silent as the figure rose to his full height, diamond-like spikes gleaming under the flickering torchlight. The imposing intruder turned his gaze to the altar, his emerald eyes glowing with a fierce intensity.

Madame Masque stepped back, raising her pistol. "What in the—?"

Flashback: Ben's Perspective Before the Transformation.

Ben crouched behind the dumpster, his breath ragged as shurikens and stray gunfire ricocheted off the metal nearby. His shoulder throbbed where the shuriken had grazed him, but he pushed the pain aside.

He glanced around the corner, his detective mode picking up more heat signatures converging on his position. The Hand was relentless, their numbers seemingly endless. His hand hovered over the Omnitrix, his mind racing.

"Alright, let's calm down. Charging in with little to no idea of the situation, might become a bad habit. And might draw too much attention. Need to pick the right moment. Ok, what would Batman do in at moment. " Ben took deep breaths, rethinking his plan of attack.

Ben couldn't afford to linger. He sprinted toward the dojo, his detective mode illuminating the path. Shurikens whizzed past him once again, one grazing close to his right ear.

He winced, under his mask as he ducked behind a building corner his detective mode pulsed to life. Casting the world in a gradient of blues and reds. He scanned his surroundings, his eyes narrowing on the faint heat signature of a Hand ninja perched on a rooftop across the alley. The figure was motionless, watching him like a predator sizing up its prey.

Ben's mind raced. If he stayed here, it was only a matter of time before more ninjas arrived. He had to move, but blindly running into the open was suicide.

He reached into his utility belt and pulled out a smoke pellet. He held it tight, keeping his movements slow and deliberate to avoid giving away his position. As the Hand ninja shifted slightly, likely preparing another attack, Ben seized the moment.

He hurled the smoke pellet into the air. It detonated with a sharp pop, releasing a thick plume of gray smoke that billowed out across the alley. Without waiting for the cover to settle, Ben activated the grappling hook on his gauntlet. The line shot upward, latching onto the edge of the rooftop.

The ninja's heat signature moved, leaping from their perch toward his position.

Ben smirked, bracing his feet against the wall as he ascended rapidly. The assassin landed in the alley below, their head darting left and right in search of their quarry. Ben reached the rooftop and pulled himself up, crouching low to avoid silhouetting himself against the skyline.

The Hand ninja was fast—but Ben was faster.

He moved silently, activating the sound dampeners in his boots as he crept toward the edge of the roof. The ninja below stepped cautiously through the smoke, their movements fluid but uncertain. Ben reached for the collapsible escrima sticks on his belt. The lightweight metal rods extended with a quiet snap, their tips sparking faintly with an electric charge.

Timing was everything.

When the ninja stopped directly beneath him, Ben dropped down. He landed with precision, driving his knees into the assassin's shoulders and knocking them to the ground. Before they could recover, he struck with the escrima sticks, the crackling electricity sending jolts through their body.

The ninja spasmed, their katana clattering to the ground. Ben delivered a quick chop to the side of their neck, rendering them unconscious.

"Nighty-night," he muttered, retrieving the discarded katana and tossing it into a nearby dumpster.

Approaching the Dojo, Ben crouched in the shadows, his detective mode highlighting the dojo's defenses. Sentries patrolled the perimeter, their movements precise and deliberate. He counted at least a dozen heat signatures, each one glowing like a beacon against the cold night air.

The front entrance was a non-starter—too many eyes and too much risk. His gaze shifted to a ventilation duct near the eastern wall, its faint heat signature suggesting it connected to the interior.

"Bingo," he whispered, plotting his route.

Ben moved swiftly, hugging the walls and using the cover of storm clouds and darkness to obscure his movements. He reached the base of the duct without incident, but as he prepared to climb, he froze.

A pair of sentries rounded the corner, their muted voices carrying over the rain.

Ben ducked into the shadows, pressing himself against the cold stone wall. He deactivated his escrima sticks and tucked them back into his belt, opting for stealth over confrontation.

The ninjas stopped mere feet from his position, their faces obscured by black masks. One gestured toward the perimeter, while the other scanned the alley.

Ben held his breath, his muscles coiled like springs. As the sentries began to move again, he silently unclipped a gadget from his belt—a small, palm-sized device he'd borrowed from Tennyson Industries' R&D team.

He pressed a button, and the device emitted a faint, high-pitched chirp. The sound was nearly imperceptible, but the ninjas snapped to attention, their heads turning toward the source.

The device skittered across the ground, coming to rest near a stack of crates.

The sentries exchanged a glance before moving toward the noise, their weapons drawn. Ben seized the opportunity, scaling the duct with practiced ease and slipping inside.

Inside the Dojo's ventilation shaft was narrow, forcing Ben to crawl on his hands and knees. The sound of rain faded, replaced by the faint hum of voices echoing through the metal. His detective mode picked up multiple heat signatures below, confirming that he was directly above a large gathering.

He paused at a vent cover, peering through the slats. Below, a spacious chamber unfolded. The room was dominated by an ornate altar, flanked by red-clad figures standing at attention. At the center of it all stood Madame Masque, her golden mask catching the flickering light of the torches.

Ben's eyes narrowed. Whatever the Hand was planning, it wasn't good.

He adjusted his position, preparing to make his move. But the sound of footsteps behind him made him freeze.

"Clever," a voice hissed, low and venomous.

Ben twisted, his detective mode revealing a Hand ninja crawling through the duct toward him. The assassin's katana gleamed ominously in the dim light, their movements unnaturally fluid.

Ben grimaced. "Guess I'm out of time."

He slammed his palm onto the Omnitrix, triggering a green flash that lit up the duct like a firework. The ninja recoiled, momentarily blinded.

When the light faded, Diamondhead filled the cramped space, his crystalline frame barely fitting within the narrow confines.

"Let's see you cut through this," Ben growled, shattering the duct around him with his sheer size and plummeting into the chamber below.

The ceiling gave way, and the assembled figures turned in shock as Ben crashed into the room in a storm of debris and diamond shards.

"Alright, now it's hero time," he announced, his voice reverberating through the chamber.

Stunning everyone inside at his suddenly dramatic entrance into the room.