Sitting at home on the island of Madripoor, Ophelia Sarkissian was annoyed with herself. Since her father had died, leaving the leadership of the small island nation to her, she had quadrupled the wealth of its citizens, and herself, through a series of underworld businesses. Madripoor played host to gambling casinos, black market deals, several mobs from different countries, and the most brutal fighting match in the world. Because money laundering required product, the tiny country was quickly becoming a haven for artists, resorts, and restauranteurs, not just taxes. As the saying went, there were no poor in Madripoor.
Of course, beloved queen was not the only title she had. As her eyes perused the recent encoded email again, Ophelia scowled. Things were good right now. She lived free of the historic entanglements of the past. Why was she even considering this ridiculous assignment? A long, green fingernail twirled in her equally green hair.
Because I need a challenge. She thought absently. Everything is too perfect here.
Ophelia sat back in her overstuffed sofa, looking out at the ocean waves. It's too risky to become Madame Hydra again. Ophelia had led a very long, eventful life. Even though she looked a young woman of 26, she was pushing 95, at least in years. Being head of Hydra had landed her several powerful enemies, including a certain star-spangled captain, and the entirety of SHIELD. Any ties to the Hydra organization had been scattered to the wind decades ago. Her fascist days were long over. No, she would have to work under the radar if she accepted. A smile crossed her lips. Viper… Viper would be perfect.
The queen typed a few quick lines in reply, her nails clicking along, then hit send. Time to pack, and plan.