In the late age of conferences and communiqué, there rose a figure history would later misunderstand: Super Mark.
He wore no armor, only a suit that absorbed scandal like chainmail absorbs blows. His weapon was not steel but reassurance. His smile disarmed rooms. His greatest talent was making others believe a plan had always existed, even when it was invented mid-sentence.
Across the ocean sat the Americans, loud, powerful, easily distracted. They did not need to be fooled, only gently guided. Super Mark spoke to them in their favorite language: urgency wrapped in optimism. He promised leadership without responsibility, victory without thinking, destiny without maps. They nodded. Cameras flashed. Budgets opened.
Then there was Trump the Mad, a king of noise, crown forged from applause. Super Mark never opposed him directly. That would have required conflict. Instead, he agreed vaguely, nodded enthusiastically, and let Trump think the ideas were his. Thus chaos was aimed, not stopped. A dangerous thing, but Mark had steady hands.
While everyone watched the spectacle, Europe moved like a cathedral being built at night. Quiet coordination. Logistics. Sanctions that looked boring but bit like winter. NATO expanded, trained, hardened. Not loudly. Effectively.
Russia played chess with threats and tanks, believing itself still feared. Super Mark smiled again. The board was changed while the game continued. Pieces vanished. Allies multiplied. Supply lines stretched thin. The king found itself alone, shouting at squares that no longer mattered.
When the end came, there was no dramatic collapse. No final battle. Just silence. A player still seated, realizing the tournament had ended hours ago.
And there stood NATO and Europe, immense, synchronized, calm. Not triumphant. Functional.
Super Mark adjusted his tie.
“I suppose,” he said, “this was always the plan.”
History, confused but obedient, wrote it down.
