In the front passenger seat, Azazel whipped his head around.
His yellow, vertically slit pupils radiated undisguised, savage killing intent. His blade-sharp demonic tail was already scraping dangerously against the edge of the seat, ready to pierce the dwarf's throat at a single look from Solomon.
Bzz-
The fervor in Trask's eyes went out like a dying candle extinguished by a hurricane, replaced by the sheer terror of plunging into an abyss.
It was as though a bucket of cold water laced with ice had been poured over his head and down his spine. His hands and feet instantly turned cold, and even his breathing stopped.
Damn it!
Had he actually just gone on and on about mass-producing Mutant-killing machines in front of a corporate tyrant who might be one of the most powerful Mutants?!
With his life hanging in the balance, Trask's supercomputer-like brain began to overclock.
He swallowed hard, his mouth dry, and frantically tried to salvage the situation, stumbling over his words:
"No! No! Boss, you've completely misunderstood! They're absolutely not meant to be used against you! What I meant was... risk management! Yes! Taking precautions!"
Trask clutched the edge of the leather seat as though it were his last lifeline, his voice turning shrill with extreme panic:
"Look at the recent Cuban Missile Crisis! That was an apocalyptic disaster caused by uncontrolled Mutants! This world has a great commander like you, but it will inevitably also have uncontrollable individuals who cannot be tamed! My invention is a trump card, one specifically meant to help you purge those disobedient outliers! It can carry out the most dangerous execution missions in place of your elite forces, preventing needless losses among Vought's precious Superheroes!"
Seeing that Solomon's gaze remained cold, Trask had a flash of desperate inspiration and offered