Sweat and Strategy

Manhattan, 1940

In the heart of The Big Apple, where the iconic skyline stretched like a concrete jungle alive with the cacophony of vendors and the thunderous roar of bustling crowds, stood Sterling Tower. It rose like a switchblade among butter knives, its sharp angles and glittering windows exuding an aura of cold, hard utility. It pierced the clouds, refusing to be constrained by nature's whims, a mirror to the unyielding ambition of the man who owned it.

On its top floor, far from the concept of a typical 'executive suite,' lay a realm more akin to a gladiator's arena. The air was thick with the musky scent of leather and the palpable exertion of human spirit, accompanied only by the rhythmic thuds of fists against a heavy bag and the deep, measured breathing of the room's occupant.

Bam!

The punching bag shuddered violently, its chains rattling in protest as Alexander Sterling unleashed a flurry of strikes. His torso, bare and slick with the sheen of sweat, glistened under the dim, unforgiving light. Each muscle stood out in sharp relief, a testament to years of disciplined training and battles both in and out of the boardroom. His face, usually a mask of composed calculation, was now drawn in a grimace of effort and fierce concentration.

"Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine..." Alexander's voice was a low growl, counting each hit as he worked the bag with a series of punishing hooks and crosses. With a final, powerful strike, he stepped back, chest heaving in controlled gasps, observing the bag's wild swing.

Then, in a sudden burst of movement, Alexander spun and delivered a back kick that hit the bag like a sledgehammer. The impact sent it swinging wildly, the chains groaning under the force.

"Oleg, Surat! You're up!" he called out, his voice cutting through the room's heavy air without a glance backward.

From the shadows of the expansive room, two figures emerged. The first was Oleg, a mountain of a man whose stoic expression and hulking form were crisscrossed with the scars of a thousand fights. His body was a network of tightly packed muscle honed from years of Sambo—a ruthless Russian martial art known for its brutal efficiency and bone-crushing grappling techniques. Oleg's eyes, calm and unreadable, held the stillness of a looming storm.

Surat, in contrast, was leaner, his body flexible and whip-like, moving with the fluid grace of a dancer. His eyes, however, sparkled with an unquenchable fighter's fire, a testament to his mastery of Muay Thai, known as the "Art of Eight Limbs" for its use of fists, elbows, knees, and shins to deliver devastating blows.

Alexander turned to face them, a wolfish grin spreading across his sweat-glistened face. 

Oleg stepped forward first, his eyes locked onto Alexander's in an unspoken challenge. "Ready, Boss?" Oleg's voice was a low rumble, his Russian accent wrapping around the words like a thick coat.

"Always," Alexander replied, his grin never wavering. He shifted his weight, ready to counter whatever Oleg threw at him.

Whoosh!

Oleg lunged forward with the agility of a man half his size, his large frame moving with a surprising grace. He aimed a sweeping leg at Alexander's knees, a classic Sambo takedown intended to unbalance and dominate. Alexander sidestepped smoothly, feeling the rush of air as Oleg's leg passed dangerously close. Quick as a flash, he countered with a sharp jab towards Oleg's exposed side.

Oleg grunted, the sound rumbling from deep within as he absorbed the blow. His large hands grabbed Alexander's arm, attempting to twist it into a joint lock. The two men moved in a deadly dance, a mix of grace and raw power. Oleg's moves were efficient and ruthless, each one designed to immobilize and incapacitate, while Alexander's style was more fluid, evading and striking with the precision of a seasoned fighter.

"Is that all you got?" Alexander taunted, his breath heavy as he narrowly avoided a crushing bear hug. He ducked under Oleg's outstretched arms, delivering a swift uppercut that made Oleg's head snap back.

"Not even close," Oleg growled, shaking off the hit with a bear-like resilience. He feinted to the left, then spun, his heel aiming for Alexander's temple in a deadly arc. Alexander ducked just in time, feeling the wind from Oleg's kick ruffle his hair. He pushed forward, unleashing a series of quick punches that forced Oleg to step back, reassessing.

The room echoed with the sound of their grunts and the thud of flesh on flesh. They were well-matched, each man's strength and skill pushing the other to the limit, a testament to their mutual respect.

"Come on, Oleg. Don't tell me you're tired already," Alexander goaded, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

Oleg responded with a snarl, launching into a brutal combination of strikes and throws that spoke of his years of combat experience. Alexander danced away from each attack, his body moving on instinct and years of training. He could feel the sweat dripping into his eyes, the aches in his muscles, but he pushed them aside, focusing only on the man in front of him.

The fight continued, neither man gaining a clear advantage. They were warriors, locked in a battle that was as much about will and endurance as it was about skill. With each move, they pushed each other further, testing limits, seeking that one opening that would end it all.

Finally, with a well-timed move, Alexander caught Oleg's arm and twisted, using his opponent's momentum to flip the larger man over his shoulder. Oleg hit the ground with a thud, the air whooshing out of him. Alexander stood over him, breathing hard, his hands on his knees.

"Yield?" Alexander asked.

Oleg lay on the floor for a moment, then slowly picked himself up. His face showing mild frustration. "You win this round, Boss. But next time..." His voice trailed off as he extended a hand.

Alexander took it, pulling Oleg to his feet. "Next time," he echoed, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. As Oleg stepped back, Surat advanced, his body a coiled spring of lethal intent.

"Let's see what you've got, Surat," Alexander challenged, his body still thrumming from the previous bout.

Surat merely nodded, his expression unchanging. Then, like lightning, he launched forward. A swift, sharp kick aimed at Alexander's ribs was his opening salvo, the move quick and precise. Alexander twisted away, feeling the breeze as the kick missed by inches. He countered with a low sweep, trying to catch Surat off balance, but the Muay Thai fighter jumped, avoiding the attempt with ease.

The room resonated with the rhythm of their fight, each strike, each block, a note in a violent symphony. Surat's style was aggressive, his elbows and knees weapons as much as his fists and feet. He moved in close, trying to overwhelm Alexander with a barrage of strikes.

Alexander responded in kind, his own moves mirroring the Muay Thai style. He knew he had to match Surat's intensity, to use his own speed and agility against the relentless assault.

"You're good, Boss," Surat said between strikes, a hint of respect in his voice. "But not good enough."

"Don't count me out just yet," Alexander retorted, ducking as Surat's elbow sliced through the air where his head had been a moment earlier.

The fight escalated, both men pushing each other to the brink. Surat's attacks were like a storm, relentless and fierce. Alexander moved like the wind, evading and striking, his body sore but his spirit unyielded.

They were a blur of motion, a dance of destruction. Surat landed a solid kick to Alexander's thigh, making him grimace. Alexander caught Surat's arm and twisted, forcing him back. They were evenly matched, each blow answered with another, neither willing to concede.

As the fight wore on, their breathing became ragged, their movements slower, more deliberate. Sweat coated their skin, making them shine under the dim lights.

Finally, with a sudden burst of energy, Alexander feinted left then struck right, his fist connecting with Surat's jaw. Surat stumbled back, dazed, and Alexander moved in. But instead of delivering a final blow, he stopped, his fist an inch from Surat's face.

"That's enough for today," he said, his chest heaving.

Surat straightened up and nodded while rubbing his jaw. A brief nod of mutual respect passed between them as the intensity of the moment faded.

As Oleg and Surat dispersed, Alexander turned to make his solitary descent into the depths of Sterling Tower via his private elevator. The elevator hummed softly, its brass doors polished to a high shine. Leaning against the wall, Alexander's gaze was fixed on the flickering numbers above the door, his mind already shifting away from the sparring session.

With a ding, the elevator reached its destination. The doors slid open, revealing a corridor that led to his private indoor shooting range, a sanctuary of sorts lined with an impressive array of firearms. Alexander stepped out, his stride purposeful, each step echoing in the quiet corridor.

He reached out and selected a matte black Colt 1911 from the wall display, grasping the checkered polymer grips before lifting it carefully. In his hands, the gun became more than steel - it was an extension of intent, cold and sharper than any knife.

He entered the range, flicking on the lights. The room stretched ahead, lanes marked out for each shooter, but today it was his alone. At the end of each lane stood paper targets—silhouettes of men, their centers bullseyes waiting to be punctured.

Alexander approached his usual spot and flipped open a case that lay next to the bench with a satisfying click. He began assembling the suppressor onto the barrel of the Colt with practiced ease; a symphony of clicks and twists until the silencer sat snug against the muzzle.

He picked up a magazine filled with .45 ACP rounds and slammed it into place. The slide pulled back with a smooth action and released—a sound as familiar as his own heartbeat.

Alexander lifted the gun, his stance relaxed yet firm. He took a breath, letting it out slowly as he raised the pistol. The world narrowed to the space between him and those paper adversaries at the end of the lane.

The first shot broke the silence—a muffled 'pew' from the suppressed weapon. The bullet tore through the air and punched through the target's heart. A soft thump echoed as paper met lead.

He fired again and again—each shot deliberate, unhurried. His focus was absolute; there was only him, the gun, and that small circle on each target that beckoned for a bullet.

The Colt bucked gently in his hand with each shot, but Alexander's grip was steady as stone. He moved from target to target with methodical precision—a ritual he'd performed countless times before.

He emptied one magazine and reloaded without looking away from his targets. The slide locked back once more before being sent forward with a sharp snap.

Another series of muffled sounds filled the room as he continued to fire—each round striking true. His breathing remained even throughout, unaffected by exertion or adrenaline.

When he finished, spent casings littered the floor around him like brass petals. Silence returned to reign over the range—only now it was punctuated by holes in each silhouette where hearts and heads had been mere moments before.

***

'John Cale - The Ritual' plays in the background.

My morning routine is a meticulous symphony of self-care and precision, every step calculated to maintain the perfect balance between a well-oiled mind and a body equally well-tended. As the steaming water cascades over me, I allow myself the briefest moment of indulgence—a pause in the constant march of thoughts and strategies. The heat permeates my skin, sluicing away the vestiges of exertion from my rigorous training.

I lather my skin with handmade soap—its subtle scent a complex blend of sandalwood and bergamot, chosen not for any perceived status but for its grounding qualities. The rich lather clings to my form, accentuating the delineation of muscle and sinew sculpted from years of discipline. Rinsing off, I feel each droplet trace the contours of my physique, an intimate audience to my solitary performance.

Stepping out from the shower, I wrap a plush towel around my waist, patting down my skin with careful pats. In the mirror, fog condenses around my reflection like clouds reluctant to reveal the mountain peak beneath. I swipe a clear path with my hand and scrutinize the face that stares back at me—sharp jawline, eyes cold and assessing. I apply an alcohol-free witch hazel toner with a cotton pad to soothe and prepare my skin for the day ahead.

In front of the expansive wardrobe, I select a suit—a charcoal gray number that's custom-tailored to fit me like a second skin. Its fabric whispers against my fingers as I dress—each article of clothing an affirmation of identity: cufflinks, tie, watch. They are not mere accessories but components –

Suddenly a jarring sound slices through the air. It's the telephone, a stark reminder that no matter how high you climb, you're never beyond reach.

"Alexander, darling, it's Mother. Are you coming down for breakfast? I've made your favorite."

Dam! My Patrick Bateman monologue got ruined.

Breakfast awaited me in the dining room: poached eggs on toast with smoked salmon, accompanied by a freshly brewed cup of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee. The eggs were cooked just so—the whites firm and glistening, yolks rich and velvety. As I savored each bite for its texture and taste, I unfolded the day's newspaper, its pages crisp and still smelling faintly of ink. The headline caught my eye immediately: Sub-Mariner escapes death in electric chair. Well, well, what do we have here.

I scanned the article, reading the details of how it all came about with interest. It was an intriguing development, but one that wouldn't matter in the grand scheme of things…I think?

My mind began calculating scenarios, contingencies spinning out like threads from a spider's web. Uhh wait. I don't have time for this today. I've got things to do and places to be.

For example, a meeting with President Franklin D. Roosevelt. I had an inkling of why he had called me, the two-time…consecutive years. I'm talking about back-to-back consecutive years 1938, 1939 Nobel Prize Winner. You're looking at him. An international scientific phenomenon. Not just in the past, not just right now, but you're looking at the future.

THE TWO-TIME!

Sorry, I got side-tracked. Anyway, it was time for my flight to leave for Washington, DC.

***

The grandeur of the Oval Office, with its imposing desk and the weight of history pressing in from all sides, struck a stark contrast to the modern lines and cold steel of Sterling Tower. As Alexander entered, he was met by President Franklin D. Roosevelt, a figure of immense authority and warmth despite his physical challenges. The President's smile, lighting up the room, offered a welcome that seemed to transcend the formalities of their meeting. Beside him stood Colonel Chester Phillips, his very posture speaking to military precision and unwavering duty.

"Alexander, my boy, it's been too long!" Roosevelt's voice resonated with both the weight of his office and the warmth of an old friend.

"Mr. President," Alexander replied, his tone respectful yet colored with the familiarity of many previous, less formal encounters. "The honor is mine, as always."

The two men shared a handshake, more befitting longtime comrades than a formal meeting between the leader of the free world and a private citizen. Colonel Phillips, a silent sentinel until this point, offered a curt nod, his gaze sharply appraising the man before him.

"Alexander, I'll get straight to the point," Roosevelt said, his expression sobering. "These are dark times. The world teeters on the brink of something terrible, and we need men of your caliber on the front lines, not just in the battlefield but in a new kind of warfare."

Phillips chimed in, his voice measured and authoritative. "We're assembling the Strategic Scientific Reserve, a multi-national agency gathering the best minds and innovators our nation has to offer—a preemptive strike force against threats most can't even imagine."

"And you want Sterling Enterprises on board?" Alexander inquired, his expression revealing nothing of his thoughts.

"Not just Sterling Enterprises," Roosevelt corrected gently. "You, Alexander. Your insight could be invaluable."

Alexander had anticipated this conversation; after all, one doesn't amass power without understanding how it might be leveraged in times of need. Leaning back, he allowed himself a small, knowing smile. This offer aligned perfectly with his interests—the pursuit of power and survival were constants in his life.

He met Roosevelt's gaze squarely. "Mr. President, Colonel Phillips," he began, his voice confident and clear, "you're not asking me to join this Strategic Scientific Reserve because you want my answer. You're asking because you already know it."

A twinkle of relief and respect flashed in Roosevelt's eyes. "I had a feeling you'd say that, Alexander. Welcome aboard."

"My pleasure. By the way, who else is on your wish list for this Reserve?" Alexander asked.

Roosevelt exchanged a glance with Phillips before replying, "Howard Stark is another we're keen on recruiting. His ingenuity could be a game-changer."

The mention of Stark's name brought a contemplative silence from Alexander. Everything was falling into place, just as he expected. "When do we begin?"

.

.

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• Namor McKenzie, a.k.a. the Sub-Mariner. Born as a hybrid mutant son of a human father and an Atlantean princess.

• 1938 Nobel Prize for Physiology or Medicine - Discoveries concerning the molecular structure of DNA.

• 1939 Nobel Prize for Physiology or Medicine - Discovery of Penicillin and its curative value. (Recieved alongside Dr. Alexander Fleming)

• Alexander Sterling (character info):

- Age: 26 years old

- Height: 5'11/180cm

- Weight: 75kg/165lbs

- Hair Color: Black

- Eye Color: Blue