Entertainment: Starting as a Succubus, Taking Hollywood by Storm

Muammar Gaddafi lowered his binoculars.

Truth be told, he couldn't fathom the bond between his fifth son, Mutassim, and that American, Martin. It made no sense. Mutassim was staunchly pro-Russia, vehemently anti-Western. Rumor had it he'd even clashed with Martin once. Was this some kind of plot? But Mutassim wasn't that foolish. On the contrary, despite his brash demeanor, he was Gaddafi's sharpest son.

Gaddafi mulled it over, unable to piece it together. Without turning, he ordered, "Send someone to watch that position. I don't know why Mutassim trusts them. I trust my son, but we still need to be cautious."

"Yes, sir!" A tall, striking female officer turned and left.

Mutassim himself didn't fully understand why he trusted Martin so implicitly. The thought of questioning it never crossed his mind.

Now, a wild idea surfaced: What if I entrusted Vanessa to Martin's care too?

He immediately recoiled. Am I insane?

Yet the thought lingered, burrowing into his mind.

…

Filming The Avengers was, frankly, a breeze for Martin. He handled everything—scriptwriting, casting, shooting, and post-production (including scoring and editing)—wrapping principal photography in just three and a half months. All that remained was visual effects, editing, and music.

Then, he got a call from Gordon in Iraq.

"Boss, Mutassim's got another request," Gordon said.

Martin chuckled. "Guy's got a lot of demands. What's he want now? Asylum after the war's lost, or to pull his family out of that quagmire now?"

Gordon paused. "Neither. Mutassim wants you to look after his girlfriend, Vanessa Hessler, if he dies in battle."

Martin fell silent. He's ready to die?

Given the state of Libya's government forces, it was clear they wouldn't survive the year.

Gordon continued, "He's offering you access to several anonymous Swiss bank accounts—$2 billion total. Half the codes for you, half for Vanessa. Half the money's yours, and he trusts you to deliver the other half to her. Says he believes in your integrity."

Martin snapped back. "Agree to it."

Clearly, Mutassim foresaw a grim future for Vanessa if he fell (and in the original timeline, she indeed struggled). Even with vast wealth, she might not keep it. So, he turned to Martin.

Martin was willing to help with this. He figured he'd already squeezed most of Mutassim's assets, aside from those invested in Guinea.

After a moment, he added, "Tell Satan to keep a close eye on Gaddafi and his second son, Saif al-Islam. They might try to flee."

Mutassim was tapped out, but Gaddafi and Saif likely still had fortunes. Among Gaddafi's children, only Saif and Mutassim held real power in Libya, with access to substantial overseas wealth. In the original timeline, Saif offered $2 billion for his freedom post-capture.

Martin wanted their money. Funds of murky origin were tricky to spend in countries with robust legal systems without laundering, but in legally lax regions like Africa? Easy. Guinea, and much of West Africa, was essentially Martin's turf. He could quietly funnel tens or hundreds of billions there without raising eyebrows.

After hanging up with Gordon, Martin made another call. A team of Hellfire Security professionals flew to Italy that night. If he'd promised Mutassim, he'd deliver.

Honestly, Martin's opinion of Mutassim had softened. He'd even briefly considered saving him. But he dismissed the idea—not out of pettiness, but because Mutassim's choice to fight to the end was his own. A lifelong admirer of Che Guevara, even mimicking his long hair, Mutassim died in the original timeline like his hero, fighting to the last. It was, in a way, fitting.

…

Mid-August 2011.

Satan conducted his routine inspection of their position at Aziziya Barracks. Halfway through, he glanced at the small building nearby. "Things are getting worse. The rebels are advancing, almost here. I've got a feeling Gaddafi's gonna bolt."

His gaze shifted to a female lieutenant colonel standing near a concrete barrier, watching them intently. She was part of Gaddafi's fiercely loyal all-female bodyguard unit.

Satan's eyes flickered. He stopped and told Ram and Big Dog, "Keep going. I've got something to do."

He approached the lieutenant colonel.

His team wasn't here to protect Gaddafi—they had another mission. But since May, over three months, they'd been stuck in this tiny area, under constant surveillance. Their days were monotonous: eat, sleep, check the position, maintain weapons, and listen to the ever-closer artillery. It was maddening.

That was fine. The boss had given Satan a job, and he'd do it well. Gaddafi could run, but his money couldn't.

Though Martin had assured him arrangements were in place to handle Gaddafi's escape, Satan felt restless. He needed to do something.

"What do you want?" the lieutenant colonel asked sharply as he approached.

"Nothing much. I saw you've got hot water. Mind sparing some?"

She considered, then nodded. They weren't enemies, after all.

Satan seized the chance to chat her up.

"Guess what Satan's old nickname was?" Ram smirked to Big Dog.

"What?" Big Dog rumbled.

"The Lady Harvester. Back in the day, the boss was a real playboy—almost as smooth as the big boss. His charm game was unreal. But after his marriage and divorce, something broke him. He hasn't chased women in ages."

Ram had known Satan forever—they were army buddies—so he knew the man's past well.