"I hope Freken-Bok that… you like children, right?"
"Well, how shall I put it... Madly!"
'Karlsson-on-the-Roof.'
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Felicia Hardy.
Certain problems had forced Felicia to leave the city. More precisely, Lydia Hardy—her mother—had insistently asked her to travel to another city and read one rather interesting file.
Ah, but everything had begun so well, too. But the conversation that had taken place on the day Walter asked her to date him... The young woman sank into her memories. When Felicia said goodbye to the young man and returned home, her mother was already waiting. She sat on the sofa, thoughtfully running old prayer beads—the ones left by Felicia's father—through her fingers.
"You wanted to talk about something, Mom?"
"Yes, Felicia. Tell me, what do you think of Walter Mayer?"
The woman looked up from the beads and into her daughter's eyes. The student felt herself beginning to blush. 'What is wrong with me? Pull yourself together!'
"Hm. He's handsome, quick-witted, and doesn't try to rape me with his eyes. Mm... I like him," the young woman finished with slight embarrassment.
"Is that so? I understand. Well, I won't lecture you or tell you to be careful. You're an adult now. Still, take a closer look at him. Is he truly right for you?"
Lydia was clearly leaving something unsaid.
"Mom?"
One eyebrow rose questioningly.
"What do you mean, 'Mom?'" the woman exploded. "I saw how you looked at that Mayer. The last time I had that look was when I saw your father. I simply don't want you tying yourself to some idiot. So I'm asking you: watch how he reacts in different situations. Meanwhile, I'll try to find something about your new boyfriend."
"All right. But I'm not thrilled by the idea of provoking someone who saved my life."
Felicia had taken her mother's advice and decided to observe how the young man reacted when other suitors tried to take her away. Michael Morbius had appeared at an extremely convenient time. The Romanian resembled Walter so strongly that Felicia had initially mistaken them for brothers. Those two 'brothers,' however, had fallen into such intense 'love' with one another at first sight that she sometimes feared they would kill each other. But no. Walter had managed everything far more elegantly, without descending into an ordinary fistfight—and without getting caught.
She and her mother had laughed until they cried when Felicia showed Lydia the photographs of a glowing Michael in a pink cloak. Now her mother's friends had assembled a file on the young man. Walter had told her a great deal about himself: his education, where he had been born, how he had lived before moving. Still, intruding so shamelessly into his private affairs felt wrong. But they had to make certain he was not another hunter after the Hardy fortune—or a 'collector.' Felicia opened the rather thin folder with trepidation. What did it contain?
Name: Walter Mayer.
Age: 23.
Place of birth: Moscow.
Parents:
Mother: Victoria Mayer. Died in childbirth.
Father: information unknown.
Raised by his mother's brother, Oswald Mayer.
So. No criminal record, no suspicious associations, never arrested. A school certificate. University enrollment documents in microbiology. Oswald von Kirche's death certificate and will. Hm. At least her family's money was unlikely to interest him. He was hardly poor himself.
There was no evidence of romantic adventures either, which was reassuring. Of course, not being caught did not mean he had never participated, but she wanted to believe the best. Why was there so little information, though? Where were his medical records? Had he truly never been ill in twenty-three years? And that line concerning his father...
Felicia felt the eternal curiosity characteristic of the entire Hardy clan raise its head inside her. Quietly, she whispered:
"What is your secret, Walter Mayer? Perhaps one day you'll tell me..."
Walter Mayer.
What miserable luck. Twelve hours! Nothing had happened for twelve entire hours! No battles. No intrigue. Silence. Yes, I understood that this was the calm before the storm, but I wanted to plunge into a fresh wave of battle as soon as possible. Damn it, what was happening to me? The longer this continued, the more restless I became. To make matters worse, Felicia would remain away for at least another two or three days. Otherwise we could have gone somewhere and relaxed.
But alas. Sitting through lectures was boring. Parker had heard them several years earlier, so associative chains allowed me to absorb the material at record speed. I did not particularly want to torment students during laboratory sessions either. The moment several young women noticed Miss Hardy was absent, they made it their personal mission to drag me into bed.
It was not that I objected strongly, but rumors would immediately begin: Felicia had barely left town before a certain Walter Mayer found a replacement. Besides, compared with the blue-eyed blonde, the other girls looked distinctly pale. To hell with excuses. I needed to admit the truth to myself. I had fallen in love—hopelessly. What could I do with myself?
Then I remembered that I had postponed upgrading my body for quite some time. Why not now? No sooner said than done. I concentrated on my organism.
First, the nervous system. We would take Spider's. There was no real alternative, and his reaction speed was genuinely impressive. Though the Lizard... He might be faster, but I did not possess material from the final transformed form. Using an unfinished sample would be unwise, and the difference was not enormous. Spider remained the best option, especially because his gene variant was more 'human.'
Next, muscle tissue. What did I have? Spider again? No. First, something else. Parker's mutation had altered the structure of his cells, but the muscle fibers themselves remained ordinary red and white fibers. What if I first replaced them with pink fibers? Right. That immediately created a list of problems involving nutrition and oxygen delivery. Pink muscle fibers surpassed both red and white by an order of magnitude, but they also consumed a monstrous amount of energy. I needed an energy source. The Symbiote appeared capable of absorbing any form of radiation. Photosynthesis could not even compete. Could I...? Excellent. Then I would modify the host body's cells to perform the same function.
Damn. Difficult. Copying Spider's genes was five times easier—perhaps ten. Whew. Fine. It would work. It would be better not to separate host-me and symbiote-me afterward, however. Just in case.
What next? Right. Now examine the genes from Spider, Scorpion, Rhino, and the Lizard that were responsible for enhancement. Try to identify a common denominator by combining them and removing all the garbage. As one of my lecturers in my previous life used to say: 'What a lovely equation we've produced. Multilevel, provocative, brain-breaking, and it makes the eye twitch merely to look at it. A pleasure even for me! And imagine how much fun you dear students will have now...' He had been a good man. He could explain any topic in five minutes using nothing more than his fingers. There. If this worked, I would be able to lift a dump truck without the Suit's assistance.
Muscles handled. What came next? Oh. Scorpion's splendid assortment of organic toxins. A tail did not suit my status, so I would arrange the appropriate glands in my arm. At the same time, I would create an additional pair of bones designed according to a scorpion's stinger. They would extend from the base of the palm and deliver venom into an opponent's body. I also needed additional muscle fibers to deploy them. The result was two narrow bone blades approximately ten inches long. I had to work hard shifting blood vessels and fibers around the new configuration, but the result was not bad. Claws emerging from the fist like Wolverine's would have been more aesthetically pleasing, but I could not imagine how the bones and muscle tissue had to be arranged for that mechanism. I had already rebuilt almost everything here. What happened inside Logan's arm was beyond me.
Still, mine were not bad. There was one unpleasant detail. The web outlet lay very close, only a couple of inches farther up the arm. If I became confused and activated both devices, the result would be extremely entertaining. Hm. Where did all my webbing come from, anyway? It was not created from air. I had only one idea: matter was essentially another form of energy, and with enough energy one could create anything—for example, the chemical compounds required for web fluid.
But how much energy could the Symbiote absorb and produce? The approximate number made me feel ill, so I hurriedly turned my attention elsewhere. Bones? Hm. No. At the moment, I possessed nothing except Rhino's variant. Lizard scales and scorpion chitin might have worked, but the particular mutants I knew had not inherited armor from their smaller relatives—or had inherited almost none. Rhino, however, possessed actual bone tissue, which meant less adaptation was required. Granted, the strength of his bones came less from their quality than their thickness, but it was still better than nothing. If only I had an adamantium skeleton like Logan's. No matter. With Darkness willing, I would obtain something even better one day.
To soothe my conscience, I would attempt the same trick as with the muscles: combine the genes of several different comrades and perhaps gain a few additional percent of strength. In the future, I would seek more impressive donors.
Now the skin. Almost nothing needed changing there. A little correction in the areas the muscle upgrade had not affected through cascading consequences, and that would be enough. Yes! The Chameleon's cells. I had nearly forgotten. They were imperfect, of course. Mystique's abilities were far superior, but one worked with what one had.
Now a general organ upgrade based on the multigene. Heh-heh. And... That was everything. I opened my eyes and stretched blissfully. The plan was complete. All that remained was to issue the command to begin. But first... Absolute memory had advantages. I remembered how desperately host-me and symbiote-me had wanted to EAT after small, practically cosmetic changes. Therefore, I prudently decided to stock provisions. I visited a grocery store—or rather several—and bought roughly thirty pounds of meat in each. The total came to almost two hundred pounds. After hauling all of it home, I went out again, this time to a pharmacy. Protein was protein, but vitamin deficiency and scurvy had not been abolished. Several packages of assorted vitamins joined the hundred kilograms of meat in my apartment. What else? Calcium! Back to the stores. This time I purchased kefir, cottage cheese, and ordinary cheese. Damn. This felt ominous. As a precaution, I memorized every available current parameter of my body, climbed into the bathtub, placed three syringes of adrenaline beside me, and surrounded myself with meat, cheese, and vitamins.
I felt like an idiot. Well then. Here we go. I regained consciousness about eight hours later. My body ached, and I wanted to EAT beyond all description. No meat remained in the bathtub. Neither did the cheese. About five tablets had survived in one package of vitamins. I somehow rose and drove a syringe needle into my arm. The needle bent slightly but held, though the injection proceeded noticeably more slowly than usual. My hunger continued to grow, so I simply poured the contents of the two remaining syringes into my mouth.
That helped a little. I staggered to the refrigerator, once again struggling with my center of gravity and muscle memory. Fortunately, adapting went faster this time. Then I began transferring its contents into myself, paying little attention to trivial details such as heating the food or removing the packaging. Terrifying. What would have happened if I had not thought to buy food? Once I recovered somewhat, I hurried to a mirror. Externally I had not changed, apart from monstrous thinness and an unhealthy skin tone. With that appearance, I could play nothing except a reanimated corpse.
The Chameleon's cells proved useful immediately. I ordered them to assume a healthy color and texture. Afterward, people would probably no longer mistake me for an escaped morgue patient. A small café might still offer me an extra serving 'on the house.' All right. Perhaps that was an exaggeration. The café idea, however, was excellent. Reaching the nearest diner took less than five minutes. I remained horribly hungry, but there was simply no food left at home. At the café, I astonished everyone present by consuming fourteen large portions of something resembling ramen. Naruto, I finally understood you. That stuff truly was filling.
Sated and satisfied, I went outside. Wanting some air, I entered an isolated dead end, assumed the Nazgûl's form, and decided to swing around on web lines for a while. There I discovered another unpleasant feature of my new body. Although my appearance had not changed, my weight certainly had. I had gained at least forty or sixty pounds.
In principle, that might be blamed on the large quantity of food I had eaten and not yet processed, but it would be dangerously easy to expose myself that way. My mass had undoubtedly increased regardless, and I needed to do something about it. But what? At that moment, someone in a black leather coat flew past nearby.
Oh. I believed I saw a solution. I followed the vampire. I had no intention of catching him, much less fighting. He posed no threat to me. It would, however, be useful to blame some of my 'mischief' on Michael and establish contact with Blade. Though who knew when Blade would actually appear? I simply ordered almost all my cells—apart from the standard duty detachment—to separate from Morbius as he flew about his vampiric affairs.
Collecting them afterward was easy. The new genetic material brought several interesting possibilities, so I hurried home. What did we have? An unusual digestive system. Blood broke down within it almost to the atomic level, like fuel in a cold-fusion reactor, producing a truly insane amount of energy. Why did other matter entering the vampire's stomach not undergo the same process? Only blood dissolved that way. And where did he spend so much energy? Ah. Clear. It powered the muscles, most of which had also become pink fibers with an interesting genetic deviation. And, naturally, it maintained flight. The mechanism was unbelievable. A genuine biological antigravity system. The cells emitted... mm... a wave... radiation... hm... Let us call it a signal. That signal allowed the gravitational component to invert. The more cells emitted it, the higher one rose. The greater the difference between the 'volume' of signals in different areas, the faster one flew toward the 'loudest' side.
Fairly simple, with astonishing maneuverability. I just had absolutely no idea how it worked. I could not even explain it properly. It seemed I would need a second university degree—this time in quantum physics. Genetics alone would not be enough. I wondered whether Stark would take me as an assistant. No. Stark remained far beyond my reach.
At the moment, however, it seemed I would have to buy meat again. I did not understand how the mechanism functioned, but I could reproduce it. Probably. Still, Morbius gaining such powers from an ordinary bat was suspicious. It was much more likely that he had already been a mutant whose abilities had not yet awakened, though I possessed no evidence.
After another three hours of manipulation, I achieved the desired result: constant self-levitation. It hurt to remember how many times I struck my head against the ceiling by supplying too much energy or slammed into walls after failing to maintain an even 'current.' I did not practice on the roof. Two men in leather coats flying around the city would cease to resemble 'The Matrix' and begin to resemble a branch of an asylum.
No, thank you. We would learn quietly, at home. The scales now displayed 187 pounds—the same as before the modifications. Thus I had spent nearly an entire day improving myself. The cherry on top was an upgrade to my coat. I simply gave symbiote-me within the garment the structure of the material from Hobgoblin's robe. Beautiful.
A new working day was beginning. I admired the awakening city through the window. Yes... the panorama from the twenty-sixth floor was impressive. A telephone call drew me out of contemplation. The employment agency had found an appropriate candidate.
Two hours later, a classic grandmother stood before me: slightly plump, with a kind face and a gentle smile. Nostalgia washed over me. I wanted to abandon everything, grab Felicia, and race home to the Motherland. Unfortunately, Russia in this world differed considerably from the one I knew. The Soviet Union had still collapsed, but unlike in my world, our beloved rulers had failed to plunder Russia afterward.
They had tried honestly enough. But when socially conscious citizens—'supers' existed outside the United States too—began simply tearing the heads off the most agile and shameless thieves, enthusiasm for looting the national wealth rapidly disappeared.
Things there were therefore not as terrible as in my old world. The main problem was that the Cold War had never ended here. The 'Evil Empire' had suffered a heavy blow, but not a mortal one. The arms race and espionage had merely moved to a different level. That had intensified the paranoia of our intelligence services, already deeply upset by the Union's collapse. I could not possibly know everything, but vague suspicions told me our State Security would not sit with its ears flapping like the American S.H.I.E.L.D. Visiting Russia or the other CIS countries was therefore inconvenient for me—except perhaps as a tourist, and only briefly.
But back to the housekeeper. After looking over my emaciated carcass and slightly cluttered apartment, Zinaida Prokopyevna solemnly swore she would turn me into a human being. According to her, it was frightening to look at such a 'little skeleton.' We settled the question of pay quickly. A housekeeper's work was valued at slightly less than twenty thousand dollars per year, even though she would have to buy her own food. I offered approximately thirty thousand annually, plus residence in a small neighboring apartment. Her duties included cleaning, cooking, and restocking the refrigerator whenever necessary. The woman agreed.
Finding work was difficult for an emigrant from the 'Evil Empire.' More precisely, it was difficult for an ordinary worker. The West always welcomed fleeing 'brains.' I dismissed questions concerning my generosity simply by switching to Russian and telling her I was pleased to speak with a compatriot. Judging by the woman's expression, I now had a genuine chance to test whether a terrifying monster from outer space could die from overeating. She would begin work the following day. For now, the agency staff were arranging her new apartment.
Then the woman inspected my refrigerators and was horrified to discover nothing except beer and a complete absence of actual food. I had to send her urgently to the store. A very energetic old lady. The entire day passed amid errands and concerns. I managed to escape the apartment only at night, fortunately because Zinaida Prokopyevna lived separately.
At a kiosk, I bought the newest issue of 'The Evening New York.' The paper reported another attack by an unknown monster against peaceful passersby and the victims' grave condition. Michael was continuing his rampage. I wondered whether he would appear at the university or whether his superior-being complex had finally removed his brain entirely.
A young man walked leisurely through the evening city, studying brightly lit shopwindows while another song played through his headphones. Somewhere nearby, a vampire's swift silhouette cut through the darkness of night. In their lairs, shadow rulers constructed plans for the coming war. One fragile, blue-eyed young woman did not know what she should do next. Blade had arrived in the city that morning, but the young man cared nothing for the wider world at that moment. He simply walked through urban life and enjoyed it, attempting to absorb the final days of peace while a song sounded in his headphones.
War lay ahead—a war he himself had begun. The young man smiled. So be it.