Clunk.
Su Ming set a heavy silver-white pillar in the office corner, stripped off his uniform, and hurried to the bathroom, reeking of scorched flesh.
He’d returned to Marvel smoothly, plan mostly on track.
Except for the fallout from storming Sector Seven.
gatron was handled, but maybe too fast—or Starscream sold him out again. No other Decepticons showed.
Instead, Su Ming and the Autobots faced a war with "United Nations" forces in Egypt.
Raiding the dam wasn’t an issue, just branded as alien invaders.
After finding the Matrix, intending to do good by dismantling the stellar extractor, Su Ming’s group was besieged by an army.
It escalated until the U.S. launched ballistic missiles at their pyramid. The rest was a gauntlet of obstacles.
No nukes, but every conventional weapon was thrown at them.
Su Ming, posing as alien leader, flew solo to the White House for a "friendly chat" with the President, securing a rocket to send Optimus and crew back to space.
The President was thrilled, claiming on TV that Arica defeated aliens—a historic triumph, all thanks to the beacon of democracy.
Next, he’d make Arica great again.
At the White House, Su Ming t "Scarlett" and "Duke" from G.I. Joe.
The worlds had fused, though he missed the process.
Heroes keep promises. Back on Ark II, Optimus fused with the Matrix and paid Su Ming—a limbless, non-transforming Cybertronian data module in a canister.
No rush. Optimus now ruled Cybertron. Build rapport, and next ti, trade for more on their planet.
Cybertron’s material civilization was advanced, but their cultural enjoynt lagged behind humans. Bumblebee loved human music, movies, and internet culture.
Next, Su Ming would trade gas, films, novels, comics—valuable stuff.
Leave Bumblebee on Cybertron. As Optimus’s confidant, he’d be useful.
The canister? Heat-shielded for atmospheric entry and disguised for this era’s tech level.
Fresh from his shower, towel-wrapped, Su Ming erged. "Adjutant, start collecting intel from radio waves. Build a database."
The canister’s door slid open, revealing a StarCraft II Adjutant.
"Yes, Sheriff."
Su Ming’s choice—Jim Raynor’s rugged Adjutant had a cyberpunk Venus vibe, broken yet beautiful.
When Optimus asked what module he wanted, Su Ming sketched it.
Optimus approved—a Cybertronian-tech essence with human-like form, a symbol of their friendship.
He ordered Wheeljack to craft it from Cybertronian alloy—a basic-intelligence analysis matrix, or supercomputer brain.
Autobots were straightforward. After fighting together, you’re friends. The newborn "Adjutant" was tasked to aid Deathstroke.
Marvel’s 1940s tech ant she couldn’t roam yet. In decades, Su Ming would upgrade her on Cybertron for autonomy.
He noticed his desk calendar: 1943.
"Earth’s current ti, Adjutant?"
"Per collected intel, it’s February 2, 1943. Humanity’s in a massive civil war."
"Tch, a few days in Transforrs’ world, and half a year passed here. First-ti dual-world hops must ss with ti."
Su Ming suited up, popped back to DC.
No changes. Using the Source Wall and Codian’s badge, he was still in Harley’s apartnt closet, Harley and Ivy giggling over drinks outside.
Back at his exact departure mont, as if nothing happened.
Relieved, he returned to Marvel. DC had issues, but with ti to spare, he’d bolster his strength before moving that chessboard.
Picking up the phone, he called Gin to co over. Radio intel wasn’t enough.
Gin arrived fast, as efficient as ever after decades.
"Boss, you were gone a while," Gin said, hanging his fedora and coat by the door. "We had no idea where to find you."
"My bad," Su Ming chuckled, motioning Gin to sit, uncorking a bottle.
Staying untraceable was the point—otherwise, he’d be dragged to Kamar-Taj for duty.
"I see a new art piece in your office. Classical art versus future tech?" Gin eyed the Adjutant, puzzled.
Expecting 1940s folks to grasp robots was tough. They pictured clunky, riveted iron shells from sci-fi pulps.
"It’s a lamp," Su Ming said, patting the Adjutant’s head. She bead blue light from her eyes, mimicking a floor lamp.
"If you vanished for months just for a lamp, its glow doesn’t match its size," Gin said, skeptical. He knew Su Ming’s cosmic jaunts weren’t magic tricks, and this wasn’t a lamp.
"Alright, Gin, why’d you look for ? Joss handles PR, Vodka’s on legal, factory heads manage plants, and you run the show. I don’t need to sign papers daily."
Su Ming clinked glasses, dodging the topic.
He’d only micromanaged the distillery early on due to short staff. Gin handled most since.
Loyal, always on call, Gin didn’t need expertise—just control. Su Ming trusted him.
"Rember, boss? Over half a year ago, you ntioned building a school."
"Of course." To Su Ming, it was days ago. "Finished already? You didn’t just slap up a shed, right?"
Gin smiled, grabbing a map from his coat, spreading it on the desk, brightening the lamp.
"Here. Vodka bought most of Montauk, Long Island’s east end. Thanks to the market crash and war, it was mostly farmland—affordable."
"Joss probably pulled strings to buy big so close to New York," Su Ming said, sipping, studying the map. Montauk ant a massive campus.
"Local governnt welcod it. It’s a school. Montauk grows grapes and carrots, but professors and artists are more appealing."
Gin traced the map, smiling. Not every farr sold ancestral land, but Joss and Vodka’s silver tongues—plus premiums—convinced most to relocate.
So got greedy or refused. That’s where Gin stepped in.
Wilson Enterprises started as a "distillery" with a black-market past. Reason didn’t always work. Gin’s enforcers never dwindled.
Now, they were "legit" ard security.
Su Ming always grinned seeing forr street thugs in sharp suits, flush with cash and guns.
Felt like he’d done society a solid.
"So, how big’s my school?"
If it weren’t midnight, he’d have Gin drive him there.
"We hired multiple contractors, even benches built by dozens at once. In half a year, we built a small city, boss—2,000 hectares."
Twenty square kiloters. To Su Ming, ex-Huaxia native, it wasn’t huge.
But in 1943 Arica, it was plenty for a school. Future Stanford was 33 square kiloters, Duke 40.
Montauk’s peninsula, sea on three sides, ant less usable land.
Gin clarified: not a traditional school, more a training facility.
Beyond standard campus buildings, it had a swamp, beach, and forest.
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