Kaine logged the episode into memory with mechanical precision, filing every detail of Jared Grey's tone, posture, and psychological vulnerability into a mental archive. Emotional leverage, familial attachment, guilt-driven compliance—useful variables.
By the time he finished, Bobby had already returned, practically bouncing on his heels, his energy out of place in a facility designed to erase individuality.
"Great job, dude," Bobby said, clapping Kaine lightly on the shoulder as if they were old friends. "I'm surprised. You didn't seem like a people person, but that guy left looking like a new man!"
Kaine waved it off with a minimal gesture. "Human emotions are capable of being swayed by an infinite number of variables and thus are truly chaotic," he said calmly, tone neither proud nor dismissive. "But human personality counters that chaos. Humans have stronger, weaker, or nonexistent reactions to certain variables, which introduces patterns. Logic. Order. That makes analysis and prediction possible."
He paused briefly, eyes unfocused as if sorting through invisible data. "This applies to all humans. Even I function using that system."
Bobby blinked twice, visibly struggling to follow the logic. "Yeah… I understand why I leave the thinking to people with PhDs…"
Kaine allowed a faint smile to surface—so subtle it could have been mistaken for a trick of the light. As Bobby led him toward the canteen for dinner, Kaine's mind continued working, invisible gears turning beneath a calm exterior.
Bobby never asked how Kaine understood such things, nor could he have known that Kaine possessed multiple doctorates. Therefore, Bobby must have been subconsciously referencing another potential ally within the camp—someone academically inclined, someone capable of strategic thinking. A variable worth noting.
The canteen came into view: large, sterile, and deliberately bland. It served as both a breakfast and dinner hall, its design optimized for efficiency rather than comfort. Harsh lights reflected off metal tables bolted to the floor, while guards stood at elevated positions, eyes scanning the crowd like predators evaluating prey.
As Kaine stepped inside, Bobby slipped away almost immediately, drawn toward clusters of mutants with the gravitational pull of someone who thrived on social interaction.
Of course, Kaine never truly lost track of him.
Bobby was no more than six meters away, laughing with several unfamiliar mutants. Kaine could hear subtle shifts in their voices, the faint friction of fabric, the irregular rhythms of heartbeats. He could see micro-expressions—fleeting glances toward his purple armband, tightening jaws, slight tensing of muscles. And beneath it all, the quiet hum of his Spider-Sense, reacting not to immediate danger but to underlying instability in the environment.
Twelve years as Spider-Man had reshaped him. The five basic human senses were no longer limitations but tools, sharpened beyond ordinary perception. He was not as absurdly attuned as the "other one" with the red-and-blue suit—the man who could rival intergalactic radar systems—but Kaine's perception was more than sufficient. Within a two-meter radius, almost nothing escaped his awareness.
He understood something clearly: if he stayed here too long, surrounded by this density of unstable variables, his probability of being forced into lethal self-defence would increase exponentially.
And killing mutants—valuable genetic anomalies—would be inefficient. Wasteful.
So Kaine moved.
He found himself in what passed for a prison restroom, a neglected space that smelled faintly of disinfectant and rust. The walls were stained, the mirrors cracked, the sinks worn down by years of careless use. No cameras. Minimal oversight.
He leaned against the counter and picked up a brandless granola bar someone had discarded near the sink.
"These would be amazing for the Spider-Slayers," Kaine murmured, examining it with quiet interest. "If they existed anymore."
He unwrapped it slowly. The smell was faint, almost nonexistent. The texture felt ordinary. But Kaine's three dark markings beneath his eyes remained still, expressionless—like the eyes of a real spider.
Yet he already knew something was wrong.
He closed his eyes.
Just like a spider, the fine hairs across his skin reacted to microscopic changes in the air. Vibrations, temperature fluctuations, chemical residues—every subtle signal was translated into information. He didn't need to break the bar apart. He didn't need laboratory equipment.
He dissected it with perception alone.
"Hiding in the washroom and feeling up a day-old grain bar," Kaine said quietly, voice devoid of irony. "How exciting."
Then—
"How amazing..."
The voice was soft, playful, almost syrupy.
Kaine's eyes opened slowly.
The granola bar in his hand glistened faintly under the harsh light. A substance, similar in viscosity to syrup, coated its surface—almost invisible unless you knew exactly what to look for. A compound engineered with precision: not lethal, not obvious, but tailored to suppress mutant physiology at the genetic level.
Kaine let the realization settle without any visible change in expression. The granola bar rested in his hand like evidence at a crime scene, its bland packaging and artificial sweetness now stripped of innocence. The fluorescent lights above flickered once, casting brief shadows across the cracked tiles and stained sinks of the restroom. Around him, the prison breathed—pipes rattling faintly, distant voices echoing through corridors, boots striking concrete in slow, rhythmic patrols.
"Found you~," he repeated softly, the words carrying no triumph, only confirmation.
He rotated the bar between his fingers, examining it from multiple angles. His vision adjusted automatically, pupils narrowing, sensory perception sharpening beyond human limits. The microscopic irregularities in texture, the faint chemical scent masked by sugar, the subtle distortion in the air around it—everything aligned with his conclusion.
A suppressant.
Not lethal. Not immediate. Designed for subtlety.
"Efficient," Kaine murmured.
He remembered the Spider-Slayers—machines born from obsession, hatred, and money. Back then, they had been engineered to counter him specifically, to neutralize his biology with tailored radiation and destabilizing compounds. Most of them had failed spectacularly, collapsing under their own over-engineered complexity. Humans often mistook excess for superiority.
This, however, was different.
Not flashy. Not dramatic.
Systemic.
He closed his eyes and focused, letting his heightened sensory system dissect the environment. The air itself told a story. Traces of the same compound lingered faintly in the ventilation system, diluted but omnipresent. That meant it wasn't limited to food. Water supply, cleaning agents, and maybe even the air filtration units.
They weren't just imprisoning mutants.
They were slowly rewriting them.
Kaine's fingers tightened slightly around the granola bar, compressing it just enough to feel the resistance of the processed grains without breaking the wrapper. His mind began constructing models, probabilities, and timelines.
If the compound was ingested daily, its effects would accumulate gradually—weakening mutant abilities, destabilizing gene expression, and reducing resistance. Over weeks or months, the prisoners would become easier to control. Over the years, perhaps they would become something else entirely.
"Primitive," Kaine concluded, though his tone carried neither disdain nor approval. Merely observation.
He imagined how someone like Nate Gray would be affected. The psionic presence he had sensed earlier—dense, volatile, dangerous—would not vanish overnight. But even power like that could be eroded with patience and chemistry. Roberto's heat, Sam's resilience, Prodigy's intellect—all of it would slowly dull, like blades left in acid.
The door creaked open.
Kaine didn't turn immediately.
Footsteps entered, light and uneven. Not military. Too casual. Too hesitant.
"You always vanish when things get loud," Bobby's voice echoed, half amused, half suspicious. "I thought maybe you got lost or something. Or worse—decided to start a revolution without inviting me."
Kaine placed the granola bar on the cracked sink beside him and turned slowly. "You talk too much," he said calmly.
Bobby leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes flicking briefly to the bar. "And you think too much. Balance of the universe." He paused, then tilted his head slightly. "So? What did you find? Your face looks like you just discovered the world's worst cafeteria secret."
Kaine studied him in silence for a moment.
Bobby was perceptive—but not analytical. Emotional intelligence, social adaptability, instinctive warmth. Useful traits. Dangerous ones, too.
"Nothing you need to worry about," Kaine replied.
Bobby snorted softly. "That's what everyone says before things explode."
Kaine ignored the comment. Instead, he picked up the granola bar again, holding it loosely. "Tell me something," he said, voice almost casual. "How long have you been here?"
Bobby hesitated. The faintest flicker of discomfort crossed his eyes. "Long enough," he answered after a moment. "Why?"
"And how many people have left?"
This time, Bobby didn't answer immediately.
Silence stretched between them, heavier than before.
"…Not many," Bobby admitted quietly.
Kaine nodded once, as if confirming a hypothesis. His gaze drifted back to the bar.
"Then you should start paying attention to what you eat," he said.
Bobby frowned slightly. "You saying the food's bad? Trust me, I already know that."
"No," Kaine corrected gently. "I'm saying it's designed to be worse than just tasting bad."
Bobby's joking expression faded just a little.
Outside the restroom, the prison continued its routine. Mutants laughed, argued, trained, ate, and hoped. Guards watched. Cameras recorded. Machines hummed.
And somewhere above them all, Samuel Frost was likely smiling—convinced that order was being restored to chaos. "Racist old white men are usually Carol's job..."
Kaine slipped the granola bar into the pocket of his jumpsuit, ignoring Bobby, who was expecting an answer.
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[Auther: Hello.]