After leaving Hartwell Chemical Solutions, Marcus didn't go back to his hotel room.
He had a better destination in mind.
His own laboratory.
Marcus had been planning this for weeks. While Hartwell had been focused on replicating the original NZT formula, Marcus had been thinking three steps ahead. He'd known he'd need a place to scale up production, somewhere he controlled completely.
So he'd bought a warehouse in Brooklyn through a shell corporation, hired contractors to renovate it, and ordered equipment using his newly legitimate identity. By the time he and Hartwell had successfully created the improved NZT formula, Marcus's personal lab was already operational.
The building wasn't much to look at from the outside—just a two-story industrial warehouse in a quiet part of Brooklyn. But inside? Inside was a proper research facility that would make most university chemistry departments jealous.
The main floor had been converted into a full chemistry lab—fume hoods, workbenches, storage cabinets for reagents, an industrial-grade HPLC machine that had cost more than some people's houses. In the back corner, a small clean room for handling sensitive compounds. Upstairs, he'd set up offices and a break room.
The security system alone had cost him two hundred thousand dollars. Cameras covering every angle, reinforced doors, a monitoring station, 24/7 guards from Sentinel Protection Services. Marcus wasn't taking any chances. The NZT formula was too valuable, and he'd seen enough movies to know what happened to people with valuable secrets who got sloppy about security.
He parked his Mercedes and headed inside with the briefcase containing Hartwell's two hundred doses of improved NZT.
Time to scale up production.
Day 1
The first thing Marcus did was synthesize more of the improved formula.
Hartwell had given him the complete synthesis protocols, and Marcus had memorized every step. With NZT-49 currently active in his system—yes, he'd already started calling it NZT-49 to distinguish it from the original NZT-48—the process was almost trivially easy.
He set up multiple reaction vessels, carefully measured out reagents, and started the first batch.
While the synthesis ran, Marcus dealt with something he'd been putting off: his arms.
Rolling up his sleeve revealed what looked like a junkie's nightmare. Dozens of needle marks, some still bruised, from weeks of injecting the original NZT-48. The injection method had extended the drug's effects from twelve hours to sixteen, but the cosmetic cost had been unfortunate.
"Yeah, that's not great," he muttered to the empty lab.
One of the improvements he'd made to the NZT-49 formula was simple but game-changing: when taken orally, it now lasted the full sixteen hours. Same duration as injection, none of the trackmarks.
Marcus took one of his new pills and swallowed it dry.
Forty-five seconds later, his brain lit up like a Christmas tree.
God, I'll never get tired of this feeling.
The enhancement felt smoother than the original NZT-48. Less like someone had flipped a switch and more like his brain was naturally operating at peak capacity. The clarity was still there, the perfect memory, the enhanced perception. But it didn't feel violent anymore. It felt right.
Hartwell had done good work.
No—they'd done good work. Together.
Day 3
Marcus had been careful about hiring researchers.
He couldn't exactly post a job listing: "Wanted: Chemists willing to work on highly illegal cognitive enhancement drug. Discretion required. Flexible morals a plus."
Instead, he'd used his hacking skills to identify candidates. People with the right expertise who also had the right vulnerabilities. Researchers who'd been fired for ethics violations. Grad students drowning in debt. Talented people who'd been shut out of legitimate academia for one reason or another.
People who wouldn't ask too many questions if the money was good enough.
Over the past few weeks—while working with Hartwell—Marcus had quietly recruited five researchers. Each one had signed an NDA so restrictive it would make a Fortune 500 company's legal team weep with envy. Each one was paid well enough that they didn't complain.
And each one understood, implicitly if not explicitly, that betraying Marcus's trust would be unwise.
The security team helped reinforce that message. Nothing overt—just their constant presence, their professional demeanor, the way they logged everyone's movements in and out of the facility.
The heart of defense is indispensable, Marcus thought, watching his team settle into their workstations. Trust nobody completely.
Now, with his team in place and the synthesis protocols from Hartwell, production went smoothly. The improved formula was easier to manufacture than Marcus had hoped—Hartwell had designed the process to be modular, allowing multiple researchers to work on different stages simultaneously.
One team handled reagent preparation. Another managed the actual reactions. A third handled purification and quality control.
It was efficient. Professional. Exactly what Marcus needed.
One Week Later
Within a week, they'd produced over three hundred pills of NZT-49.
Marcus kept Hartwell's original two hundred doses locked in a safe in his private office. Those were his emergency reserve, the pills he'd take with him when he eventually returned to the Marvel universe. Everything else—the new production—went into carefully organized storage in the lab's climate-controlled vault.
"Mr. Reid," one of his researchers said, approaching him with a tablet. Dr. Chen—a woman in her thirties who'd been blacklisted from pharmaceutical work after blowing the whistle on her former employer's safety violations. "The latest batch just finished QC. Purity is at 99.7%, well within acceptable parameters."
Marcus nodded, reviewing the data. "Good work. Keep it up."
Dr. Chen smiled. "I have to say, this is fascinating work. The molecular structure is elegant. Whoever designed the base compound was a genius."
"They were," Marcus agreed. "But we're making it better."
And they were. The improved NZT-49 formula was everything Marcus had hoped for. Sixteen hours of enhancement when taken orally. Reduced side effects. Smoother cognitive boost.
But it still wasn't perfect.
The withdrawal symptoms were milder, yes. The dependency developed slower. But it was still there, lurking. Long-term use would still cause problems. And those problems could still be fatal.
Marcus needed a real solution—an antidote that would eliminate the side effects entirely, not just reduce them.
And for that, he needed Eddie Moran.
Approaching the Three-Month Mark
Marcus had been in the Limitless universe for nearly three months now.
Three months of careful planning, building his infrastructure, creating his fortune, establishing his power base. He'd gone from a nobody with stolen NZT to a multi-millionaire with his own research laboratory and a small army of employees.
And throughout all of it, he'd been monitoring Eddie Moran.
The surveillance had been subtle—hacking Eddie's laptop, tracking his movements through public cameras, monitoring his social media. Marcus had watched Eddie's trajectory like a scientist observing a particularly interesting experiment.
And what he'd seen was exactly what he'd expected: a slow, painful decline back to mediocrity.
After Finn's death, Eddie had managed to write forty thousand words of a brilliant novel fragment. That had gotten him a decent publishing advance—enough to pay rent, buy food, live like a normal person for a few months.
But without NZT, Eddie couldn't finish the book. Couldn't even write anything else worth publishing. Marcus had read Eddie's attempts—hacked his laptop and reviewed the drafts. The prose was mediocre at best, the kind of stuff that might get published in a small literary magazine nobody read.
So the money had run out. The advance was gone, spent on rent and food and probably some bad decisions. Eddie's agent had stopped returning his calls. His ex-girlfriend Melissa had moved on. His dealer—well, that connection had died with Finn.
Now Eddie was back where he'd started: broke, depressed, lying flat on his couch contemplating the meaninglessness of existence.
Which made this the perfect time for Marcus to make his move.
He had the strength and influence now to approach Eddie properly—not as some desperate nobody, but as someone with resources Eddie needed. Someone who could offer Eddie everything he wanted.
For a price, of course.
Eddie's Apartment
Marcus stood outside a run-down apartment building in one of New York's less desirable neighborhoods and checked the address on his phone one more time.
This was it. Eddie Moran's current residence.
The building looked like it was one strong wind away from being condemned. Cracked windows, peeling paint, graffiti on the walls, the faint smell of garbage drifting from somewhere nearby. A far cry from the penthouse Eddie would have been living in if he'd managed to keep his NZT supply going.
Marcus had dressed well for this meeting—tailored suit, expensive watch, polished shoes. Image mattered. He needed to look like someone successful, someone with resources, someone Eddie would want to work with.
He climbed the stairs to the third floor. The hallway smelled like old cooking oil and regret. He found apartment 3B and knocked firmly.
"Dong dong dong!"
Inside the apartment, Eddie Moran was lying on his couch in sweatpants and a stained t-shirt, staring at the ceiling, contemplating whether it was worth getting up to pee or if he should just hold it.
Life had become a series of small, meaningless decisions like this.
The knock on the door startled him out of his stupor.
Who the hell was knocking? His landlord? His ex-girlfriend? Someone coming to hassle him about unpaid bills?
Eddie dragged himself off the couch and shuffled to the door. He probably looked terrible—greasy hair, unshaven, wearing clothes he'd slept in for two days. Whatever. If it was the landlord, maybe looking pathetic would buy him some sympathy.
He opened the door.
Standing in the hallway was a young Asian guy—early twenties, about five-foot-eleven—wearing a suit that probably cost more than Eddie's entire wardrobe combined. The guy looked put together in a way Eddie hadn't felt in months. Clean, confident, successful.
Eddie immediately hated him.
"Who are you?" Eddie asked, suspicion and confusion warring in his voice.
The young man smiled professionally. "Mr. Moran, hello. My name is Marcus Reid. I came to discuss a business opportunity with you."
Eddie blinked. "Business opportunity?"
"That's right. May I come in?"
Eddie's brain, running on about forty percent capacity without NZT, tried to process this. On one hand, inviting a stranger into his disaster of an apartment seemed like a bad idea. On the other hand, this guy didn't look like a serial killer. He looked like a businessman.
And Eddie was desperate enough that "business opportunity" sounded pretty damn good right now.
"Uh... sure. I guess."
Eddie stepped back, letting Marcus into his apartment.
The place was a disaster. Dishes piled in the sink, takeout containers on every surface, clothes scattered across the floor like some kind of fabric explosion. Eddie's laptop sat on the coffee table, surrounded by empty energy drink cans and crumpled papers.
Marcus glanced around but didn't react to the mess. He remained standing rather than sit on the suspicious-looking couch.
"Nice place," Marcus said neutrally.
"Yeah, it's... cozy." Eddie closed the door. "So what's this business opportunity? And how do you know who I am?"
"I'll get straight to the point, Mr. Moran. I'm a researcher working in pharmaceutical development. I'm currently studying a particular compound and need someone to participate in clinical trials. The pay is generous, and the work is relatively straightforward."
Eddie frowned. "Clinical trials? Like drug testing?"
"Exactly like that."
"Dude, I don't know. That sounds sketchy as hell. What kind of drug are we talking about?"
Marcus reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small clear pill bottle. Inside were several translucent pills that caught the light beautifully.
Eddie's breath caught in his throat.
He knew those pills. He knew them intimately.
"Is that..." Eddie's voice came out strangled.
"NZT-48," Marcus said calmly. "Though technically, this is an improved version I've been developing. I call it NZT-49."
Eddie's mind raced. This guy—Marcus—had NZT. Actual, real NZT. Not just one pill, but multiple. Which meant he had a supply. Which meant...
"How do you have that?" Eddie demanded. "Who are you really?"
"I told you. I'm a researcher. I've been studying NZT for several months now, trying to understand its mechanisms and improve its formulation." Marcus's expression remained neutral, professional. "And I need test subjects. You've taken NZT before—I know this because I've done my research on you, Mr. Moran. That makes you a valuable data point."
Eddie's hands were shaking. The pills were right there. Right fucking there. After three months of searching, of trying every contact Finn had ever mentioned, of coming up empty again and again...
"What do you want me to do?" Eddie asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Simple. Come work in my laboratory. Take NZT-49 under controlled conditions. Let me monitor your vitals, run some tests, collect data on how the drug affects you over time. In exchange, you get a steady supply of NZT and a generous salary."
It was too good to be true. Eddie knew it was too good to be true. This Marcus guy had to have some kind of ulterior motive, some hidden agenda. You didn't just hand out super-intelligence drugs and pay people for the privilege of taking them.
But Eddie also didn't care.
The memory of what NZT felt like—the clarity, the power, the sheer aliveness of it—was too strong. He'd tasted godhood and then had it ripped away. He wasn't strong enough to turn this down.
"I'm in," Eddie said without hesitation.
Marcus smiled, and this time it looked almost genuine. "Excellent. My car is downstairs. Shall we go?"
Marcus's Laboratory - That Afternoon
Eddie stood in the center of Marcus's lab and tried not to look too impressed.
He failed miserably.
"Holy shit," he breathed. "This is... this is a real operation."
"I don't do things halfway," Marcus said, leading him through the facility. "This is the main synthesis floor. That's the clean room. Upstairs are the offices and break room. You'll have a desk up there."
Researchers in lab coats moved through the space with professional efficiency. Security guards stood at strategic locations. Everything looked expensive and legitimate.
"How can you afford all this?" Eddie asked, still looking around in amazement.
"I'm a successful investor."
"Bullshit. Nobody makes this kind of money just investing. Not at your age."
Marcus glanced at him. "You'd be surprised what you can accomplish with a sufficiently enhanced intellect and a complete lack of moral scruples regarding international financial regulations."
Eddie barked out a laugh. "So you're a criminal."
"I prefer 'regulatory-compliance-optional entrepreneur.'"
"That's just 'criminal' with more words."
"Mr. Moran, we're about to start illegally testing an unregulated cognitive enhancement drug. I think the time for moral high ground has passed."
Fair point.
Testing Begins
Marcus had Eddie set up in one of the laboratory's medical examination rooms. The walls were lined with monitoring equipment—EKG, EEG, blood pressure monitors, the works.
"Before we start," Marcus said, studying a tablet, "I need comprehensive samples. Blood work, saliva, urine, hair follicles. Then we'll do a full neurological workup."
Eddie, sitting on an examination table in a hospital gown, looked uncomfortable. "This is way more invasive than you said."
"I said the work was straightforward. I didn't say it wasn't thorough." Marcus gestured to one of the researchers. "Dr. Williams will handle the blood draw."
Over the next two hours, Eddie was poked, prodded, scanned, and sampled. Marcus collected enough baseline data to make a hypochondriac nervous. He needed to understand Eddie's normal physiological state before introducing NZT-49 into the mix.
Finally, when all the preliminary testing was complete, Marcus held up a single clear pill.
"NZT-48," he said. "Original formulation. I want to see how you react to it before we move to the improved version."
Eddie practically lunged for it.
"Easy," Marcus said, pulling it back. "First, you need to sign these consent forms."
"Consent forms for illegal drug testing?"
"My lawyers insist."
"You have lawyers?"
"Mr. Moran, I have everything."
Eddie signed the papers without reading them. Marcus made a mental note that Eddie's desperation for NZT made him dangerously easy to manipulate. Useful information.
"Alright," Marcus said, handing over the pill. "Take it. And try to describe what you feel as it kicks in."
Eddie swallowed the pill without hesitation.
Thirty seconds later, his eyes went wide.
"Oh," he breathed. "Oh God. I forgot. I forgot how good this feels."
Marcus watched him carefully, monitoring the readouts on his equipment. Eddie's heart rate spiked, his neural activity exploded, his pupils dilated. All expected responses, all within normal parameters for NZT use.
"Eddie," Marcus said quietly. "I need you to focus. Can you tell me what you're experiencing?"
Eddie's gaze snapped to him, and Marcus could see the intelligence burning behind his eyes. The Eddie on NZT was a completely different person from the guy who'd opened the door in sweatpants thirty minutes ago.
"Everything," Eddie said, his voice sharp and clear. "I can see everything. The patterns in the ceiling tiles, the hum of the electrical systems, the way you're breathing—it's all data, and I'm processing all of it simultaneously. I can hear the security guard's footsteps three rooms over. I can smell the chemical residue from the synthesis lab. I can..."
He trailed off, overwhelmed by the sensory input.
"Good," Marcus said, making notes on his tablet. "That's exactly what I needed to hear. Now, you're going to stay on NZT for the next few days while we run more tests. Cognitive challenges, memory tests, physical coordination tasks. We're going to map exactly what NZT does to you."
Eddie nodded eagerly. "Fine. Whatever. Just... can I have more when this wears off?"
"We'll see."
One Week Later
A week into testing, Eddie had burned through seven doses of NZT-48.
He'd also started to notice the side effects.
"My head feels like someone's driving a railroad spike through it," Eddie groaned, slumped over his desk in Marcus's lab. "And I threw up twice this morning."
Marcus, currently on a dose of NZT-49 himself, studied Eddie's latest test results with clinical detachment.
"That's the withdrawal," he said calmly. "Your body is becoming dependent on the drug. Each time it wears off, the crash gets worse."
"That's not... you didn't mention that part."
"I assumed you'd figured it out already. You took NZT from Finn, didn't you? You had to have experienced some level of withdrawal when your supply ran out."
Eddie's face went pale. "Yeah, but I thought that was just... I don't know, stress or something. You're saying it's permanent? The more I take this stuff, the worse the crashes get?"
"Essentially, yes." Marcus pulled up a chart on his tablet and turned it to show Eddie. "Look at this. Your cortisol levels are through the roof. Your neural chemistry is adapting to expect NZT. Your neurotransmitter production is already showing signs of dysregulation. If you keep taking the original formula at this rate, within a few months you'll be completely dependent. And at that point, withdrawal could literally kill you."
Eddie stared at the chart, his enhanced brain processing the implications instantly even through the headache.
"You're telling me this drug is slowly killing me."
"Correct."
"And you knew this before you asked me to take it."
"Also correct."
Eddie's hands clenched into fists. His face flushed red with anger. "You son of a bitch."
Marcus set down his tablet and looked at Eddie calmly. "Mr. Moran, I'm not forcing you to take NZT. You can walk out of here right now. Go back to your apartment, go back to your failed writing career, go back to being mediocre. Nobody's stopping you."
Eddie opened his mouth to respond, then closed it.
Because Marcus was right. Eddie could leave. Could walk away from the NZT, from the enhanced intelligence, from the feeling of being more than human.
He could.
But he wouldn't.
And they both knew it.
"What's your game here?" Eddie asked quietly, the anger draining out of him, replaced by wary resignation. "Why did you bring me into this?"
Marcus smiled slightly. "Because, Mr. Moran, you and I have a shared interest. I don't want to die from NZT side effects any more than you do. And I need someone who understands what this drug does, someone who has firsthand experience with its effects, to help me develop an antidote."
"An antidote?"
"Something that eliminates or at least minimizes the negative side effects. Lets us keep the cognitive benefits without the dependency and withdrawal." Marcus gestured at the laboratory around them. "I have the facilities, the funding, and the basic expertise. What I need is a research partner. And you, Eddie, are the perfect partner because you're highly motivated to help me succeed."
Eddie processed this, his NZT-enhanced brain running through the implications, the possibilities, the trap he'd walked into.
"So I'm stuck," he said flatly. "Either I help you develop this antidote, or I die from withdrawal."
"That's putting it rather dramatically, but essentially correct."
"Jesus Christ." Eddie rubbed his face with both hands. "This is so fucked up."
"Yes," Marcus agreed. "But it's also your best chance at survival. So what do you say? Are you in for the long haul?"
Eddie looked around the laboratory—at the equipment, the resources, the researchers working diligently at their stations. Without this place, Eddie would have to start from scratch. Build his own lab. Find his own funding. Recruit his own team. All while slowly dying from NZT withdrawal, his brain deteriorating with each crash.
He didn't have a choice. Not really.
"I don't have a choice, do I?"
"Everyone has a choice," Marcus said. "But some choices are easier than others."
Eddie sighed deeply and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fine. Fuck it. I'm in. Let's develop this goddamn antidote before we both drop dead."
Marcus extended his hand across the desk. "Welcome to the team, Mr. Moran."
Eddie shook it, feeling like he was signing a deal with the devil.
Which, honestly, he probably was.
With Eddie now fully committed to the project—albeit reluctantly and under duress—the research accelerated dramatically.
Eddie, when on NZT, was brilliant. Marcus had known this from the movie, but experiencing it firsthand was something else entirely. The guy could look at a complex chemical formula and immediately spot potential modifications. He could read through dense scientific papers at absurd speed and synthesize information across multiple disciplines.
Most importantly, Eddie was creative in ways Marcus wasn't. Marcus was methodical, analytical, systematic. He approached problems like a computer, breaking them down into logical steps and executing each one with precision.
Eddie was intuitive. He made leaps of logic that seemed like magic but were actually just his brain making connections at superhuman speed, pulling together disparate pieces of information into coherent insights.
Together, they made a formidable team.
"What if we approached it from a neurochemical angle?" Eddie said one afternoon, drawing molecular structures on a whiteboard with manic energy. "The side effects are caused by your brain's chemistry adapting to NZT, right? So instead of fighting that adaptation, what if we supported it? Give your neurons what they need to handle the enhanced activity sustainably."
Marcus considered this from his position at the lab bench. "You're talking about a supplement regimen. Something that provides the chemical building blocks your brain is burning through during enhancement."
"Exactly! Like... if NZT is overclocking your brain, we need to make sure the cooling system doesn't fail. Better cooling fluid, better heat dissipation, that kind of thing."
It was an imperfect metaphor, but Marcus understood what Eddie was getting at.
"It's worth exploring," Marcus said. "Though I suspect we'll need more than just supplements. The dependency mechanism seems more complex than simple neurochemical depletion."
Eddie nodded, already scribbling more notes. "Yeah, you're probably right. But maybe it's a piece of the puzzle. We're not going to solve this with one silver bullet. It'll be multiple approaches working together."
They worked late into the night, every night, fueled by NZT and the shared knowledge that failure meant death.
A few weeks into their partnership, Marcus carefully introduced an idea during one of their research sessions.
"What if we approached this from an enzymatic angle?" he suggested, studying their latest failed synthesis attempt. "Some kind of enzyme that could break down the dependency-causing compounds, or support the overworked neural pathways, or regulate neurotransmitter production."
Eddie paused in his work and looked up, his NZT-enhanced brain already racing through the implications.
"An enzyme?" He tilted his head, thinking. "That's... actually not a bad idea. The human body already produces thousands of different enzymes to catalyze reactions and break down compounds. If we could identify which specific enzyme affects NZT metabolism, or engineer a new one..."
"Exactly," Marcus said, careful to let Eddie think he was developing the idea himself.
Marcus knew from the TV series that an enzyme-based solution would eventually work. Four years from now, Senator Eddie Moran would have access to both temporary enzyme shots and a permanent variant that completely eliminated NZT's side effects. But Marcus couldn't tell Eddie that. He couldn't explain how he knew about events that hadn't happened yet without revealing he was a transmigrator with metaknowledge of the future.
Better to guide Eddie's brilliant brain toward the solution naturally. Plant the seed and let Eddie's enhanced intellect do the rest.
"It's a solid theory," Eddie said, already scribbling notes on the whiteboard. "We'd need to identify candidate enzymes, test their interaction with NZT compounds, figure out synthesis pathways... This could take months of work."
"We have time," Marcus said. "And more importantly, we have motivation. This is literally life or death for both of us."
Eddie nodded grimly. "Yeah. Can't argue with that."
Marcus watched him work and allowed himself a small smile. Eddie would figure this out eventually. The guy was smart enough—especially on NZT—to reach the same conclusions that would take government researchers with unlimited funding four years and hundreds of millions of dollars to discover.
They just needed to stay alive long enough to get there.
Late one night, after a particularly grueling research session that had lasted nearly fourteen hours, Eddie surprised Marcus by opening up about something personal.
"You know what I'd do if I survive this?" Eddie asked. He was sitting at his desk, staring at a molecular model rotating on his computer screen, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. His voice was quiet, almost wistful. "I mean, besides not dying from brain deterioration?"
Marcus looked up from his own work. "What's that?"
"I'd work on solving real problems. Important stuff." Eddie leaned back in his chair, his eyes distant. "Like world hunger. Did you know that over 800 million people don't have enough food to eat? Kids dying every day because they can't get proper nutrition?"
Marcus said nothing, just listened. This was interesting.
"I've been thinking about it a lot," Eddie continued. "With NZT, with this level of intelligence and cognitive ability... what if someone engineered a type of rice? Or grain? Some kind of crop that could grow in any environment—deserts, poor soil, harsh climates, whatever. Massive yields, way beyond what's currently possible. And make it nutritionally complete—all the proteins, vitamins, minerals, micronutrients the human body needs packed into one staple crop."
Marcus felt a chill run down his spine. Eddie was describing, almost word for word, exactly what he'd create in the TV series timeline.
"Imagine that," Eddie said, and there was genuine passion in his voice now. "One crop that could end famines across the world. No more malnourished children in developing countries. No more people dying because they can't afford food or because their land won't support traditional agriculture. It's not impossible—we already have hybrid rice that revolutionized farming and saved millions of lives. This would just be... the next step. The next evolution."
"That's ambitious," Marcus said carefully, trying to keep his expression neutral.
"Yeah, but that's the whole point of having this kind of brain power, right?" Eddie said, gesturing broadly. "Not just to get rich or win at poker or manipulate stock markets. To actually make a difference. To do something that matters."
Eddie's expression darkened, his enthusiasm dimming. "Of course, the agricultural industry would fight it tooth and nail. Pharmaceutical companies would hate losing all those malnutrition patients they profit from. Food corporations wouldn't want the competition. Fertilizer companies, pesticide manufacturers, the whole industrial food complex would see it as a threat. It'd be a political nightmare to actually implement."
Marcus watched Eddie's face as he talked, seeing the genuine passion mixed with frustration and resignation.
"You'd need serious power to push something like that through," Marcus said. "Not just scientific achievement. Political influence. Economic leverage."
"Yeah." Eddie laughed bitterly. "Like becoming a senator or something crazy like that. Maybe even higher. Fat chance of that happening, right? A burnout writer turned illegal drug test subject running for political office. That's a great campaign slogan."
Marcus bit back a smile. If you only knew, Eddie. If you only knew.
"I don't know, man," Eddie continued, his voice softer now. "Maybe I'm just being naive. Idealistic. But when you've got this drug making you smarter than any human should be, and you know you're probably going to die from taking it... it makes you think about legacy, you know? About doing something that actually matters. Leaving the world better than you found it."
He turned to look at Marcus directly, his eyes searching.
"What about you? What would you do with unlimited intelligence if you survive this? If we figure out the antidote and you can stay enhanced forever?"
Marcus considered the question carefully. He couldn't exactly say "go back to a parallel universe and murder the terrorists who enslaved me."
"Change things," he said simply. "Make sure I'm never powerless again. Never at someone else's mercy."
Eddie nodded slowly, seeming to understand on some level. "Fair enough. I guess we've all got our demons."
They went back to work in comfortable silence, but Marcus couldn't stop thinking about what Eddie had said.
In the TV series timeline—four years from now—Eddie would actually develop that super rice. Would engineer the grain exactly as he'd described. Would try to implement it and face exactly the opposition he'd predicted. Would run for Senate and eventually President to get the political power necessary to force it through against all the corporate interests aligned against him.
Eddie's dream wasn't just idle fantasy. It was a glimpse of a future that was going to happen. A timeline that Marcus had knowledge of but couldn't reveal.
And it meant that despite all his flaws—despite being desperate and selfish and willing to make terrible deals to get what he wanted—Eddie Moran genuinely wanted to help people. He had a conscience, a sense of purpose, buried under all the addiction and survival instinct.
It was part of why Marcus had chosen him for this project.
The world needed people like Eddie. People who dreamed big and had the ability to make those dreams real. Even if they were flawed, even if they made mistakes, even if they got lost along the way sometimes.
Marcus gave Eddie NZT willingly because, despite everything, the guy still had a conscience.
Eddie had shared his dream—that engineered super rice that could provide complete nutrition, grow in any environment, produce massive yields. Marcus knew from his metaknowledge of the TV series that Eddie would actually succeed in creating it four years from now. But Eddie didn't know that. For him, it was just an ambitious dream, something he hoped to achieve if he survived long enough and stayed smart enough.
And if Eddie could implement it globally—if he could overcome the opposition from agricultural conglomerates, pharmaceutical companies, and all the other industries that profited from scarcity and malnutrition—then millions of people would never go hungry again.
Like the hybrid rice that had revolutionized agriculture decades ago and saved countless lives, Eddie's super rice would be an invention that could benefit the entire world.
That was worth something.
That was worth keeping Eddie alive and working.
PLZ THROW POWERSTONES.