China Arc by choice of the vote
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The Laboratory, Skull Island
The Cradle of Rebirth hummed with a low, rhythmic thrum, a sound like a mechanical heartbeat.
To the untrained eye, it was a miracle, a machine capable of knitting flesh from data, of pulling life from the cold stasis of death.
It could be considered Ernst's magnum opus.
But to Ernst, standing before the glowing amber amniotic tanks, it was flawed.
He traced a finger over the glass. There was condensation on the surface.
"Incomplete," he muttered.
The machine worked, yes. But the logistics were a nightmare.
Every time a mutant passed away, whether in a back alley in New York or a trench in Korea, Azazel had to be deployed instantly.
The window for retrieval was shrinking.
In the beginning, they had hours. Now, they had minutes.
The universe, it seemed, was noticing the theft.
"The competition is waking up," Ernst mused, walking back to his desk.
He pulled up a holographic display of the metaphysical planes. It was a chaotic map of dimensions superimposed over the physical world.
Ernst had meticulously examined the theological and dimensional infrastructure of this reality.
He had read the Vatican archives, stolen scrolls from Tibet, and analyzed the energy signatures of dying men.
The conclusion was cynical, but statistically probable: The Afterlife was a marketplace.
"Shri Lanka, Anubis, Yama, Hela, Mephisto," Ernst listed them like rival CEOs.
The realms of the afterlife and heaven undoubtedly existed.
But the common human notion, that the virtuous ascend and the wicked descend, was a falsehood. It was propaganda.
"It is recruitment," Ernst whispered, typing his notes.
"Resources."
Angels and the deities of the Upper Realms required faith. They fed on adoration, on the willing submission of the soul.
Good-hearted individuals were simply high-quality batteries for the Light Dimension, molded into servants or soldiers for a war Ernst wanted no part of.
On the contrary, the demons of the Lower Realms, the Splinter Realms, Hell, Limbo sought fear.
They fed on revulsion and pain. The wicked were not punished for justice; they were harvested for their spicy flavor.
And Mutants?
Mutants were the prize catch.
Their souls possessed an array of extraordinary abilities. They were brighter, denser, and more potent than ordinary human souls.
A single mutant soul was worth a thousand humans in the metaphysical economy.
"Which is why they are snatching them faster," Ernst realized.
"I am poaching from the Gods."
Once a soul was dragged into Hell or ascended to a sealed Heaven, Ernst's ability to recover it via the Cradle diminished to near zero.
He could clone the body, yes, but without the original spark, the result would be a hollow shell.
He glanced at Azazel, who was sharpening a knife in the corner of the lab.
"Tell me again about the Rider," Ernst commanded.
Azazel stopped sharpening. A rare look of annoyance crossed his red features.
"It was... irritating," Azazel rumbled.
"The subject was a pyrokinetic in Texas. I arrived three minutes after his heart stopped. But he was already there."
"The Ghost Rider," Ernst clarified.
"A skeleton on fire," Azazel corrected.
"Riding a horse made of brimstone and hatred. He had the soul in a chain."
"And?"
"And I took it back," Azazel grinned, showing his fangs.
"But he was fast. He hit me with a chain that burned not the flesh, but the soul."
Ernst nodded. "Hellfire. It bypasses physical durability."
"He tried to look at me," Azazel continued, tapping his own eyes.
"The Eye of Judgment. He wanted to make me feel the weight of my sins."
"And?"
"I shifted," Azazel shrugged.
"I stepped sideways into the Brimstone Dimension. You cannot judge what is not there. His stare met the void, and the void does not blink."
Azazel had survived because he was a dimensional traveler. He had grabbed the mutant soul and teleported out before the Rider could re-engage.
"That was likely Carter Slade," Ernst analyzed, referencing his previous life knowledge.
"The Phantom Rider. The predecessor to Johnny Blaze. If the Spirit of Vengeance is active, Mephisto is watching."
Ernst turned back to the Cradle.
The resurrection process did have one massive benefit: Optimization.
Mutants who underwent rebirth could have their inherent defects rectified.
He thought of the test subject from last month, a girl whose powers were similar to the comic book character Rogue.
In her original life, she drained life force involuntarily. Skin-to-skin contact was lethal.
But in the Cradle, Ernst had edited the gene. He had installed a bio-switch.
Now, she could touch, hold, and love without killing.
She was loyal to Ernst not because he paid her, but because he gave her back her humanity.
"The Phalanx energy," Ernst muttered, looking at the glowing blue conduits powering the machine.
He speculated that the genes used in cloning were being enhanced by the magical energy harvested from the Tesseract and the residual Phalanx tech he had scavenged.
It acted as a super-nutrient, promoting healthy growth where nature had failed.
"But it is finite," Ernst sighed.
His gaze wandered past the main tanks to a secluded corner of the lab, behind a wall of lead glass.
There sat a small, specialized incubator.
Inside floated a fetus.
It was small, barely the size of a bowl. Its skin was translucent, its heartbeat rapid and faint.
His son.
Ernst's face softened, the cold mask of the General slipping for a fraction of a second.
The boy had been born too early.
"The Phalanx energy is insufficient," Ernst observed, reading the vitals.
"It can bolster cells, but it cannot create Vitality. It is cold energy. The boy needs... warmth. He needs Chi."
He had tried using the Tesseract energy, but it was too volatile. It would vaporize the child. He needed something organic. Something spiritual.
He needed the oldest magic in the world.
"I need to expedite the soul-summoning protocols," Ernst decided, turning away from his son.
"If I can master the retrieval of souls without Azazel physically chasing them, I can automate the Cradle. And perhaps, I can find a way to infuse the boy with enough life force to wake him up."
He had focused too much on genetics, on King Kong and the Skull Crawlers. He had neglected the metaphysical.
Ernst closed his eyes, digging deep into the memories of his past life, or rather, the life of the man he used to be before he woke up in this body.
He was knew of Chinese mysticism. They were the best in soul-related magic.
"I am going to China," Ernst announced to the empty room.
"Red Queen," Ernst called out.
The air in the center of the lab began to shimmer.
A faint buzzing filled the room, the sound of a million mechanical wings.
From the vents, from the floorboards, microscopic entities converged.
Nanorobots.
They swirled like dust in a sunbeam, condensing, solidifying.
Liquid metal took shape, hardening into the form of a young girl in a Victorian dress.
The Red Queen.
"Dr. Ernst," the avatar curtsied, her voice echoing with a digital harmonic.
"I am at your service."
She wasn't a mere illusion. She was a tangible, physical extension of the ship's AI, capable of interfacing with every piece of tech on the island.
"Tomorrow, I'm departing for the East," Ernst said, checking his watch.
"Although I can have Azazel bring me back instantly if there is a crisis, I cannot be distracted. The laboratory requires a warden."
He looked at the avatar.
"During my absence, you will oversee the Cradle. You will monitor the perimeter. If Hydra, SHIELD, or anyone else steps foot on this island, you are authorized to use the Skull Crawlers."
"It is my honor to serve you," the Red Queen replied, her red eyes glowing.
"Rest assured, Dr. Ernst. I will maintain the cycle of life and death in your stead."
"Excellent. Inform Azazel and Kerry for me. Ask Azazel to wait for me at the airstrip tomorrow morning. And tell Kerry... tell him I need the 'Diplomatic Package' prepared."
The Queen nodded, her form rippling as she processed the commands. She received a handwritten list from Ernst, bowed, and dissolved back into the swarm, disappearing into the walls.
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The Airstrip
Early the following morning, Ernst's internal clock roused him.
06:00. Sharp.
He dressed in a suit that was a blend of Western tactical tailoring and Eastern simplicity, a high-collared tunic made of bulletproof weave.
He picked up the prepared box and walked out into the humid morning air.
The jungle was alive with the screams of prehistoric birds.
Azazel was waiting by the jeep. The demon looked bored, tossing a grenade up and down like a tennis ball.
"You look tired, boss," Azazel noted, catching the grenade.
"Thinking is exhausting work," Ernst replied.
"Let's go. We need to stop by the Estate first."
Azazel placed a hand on Ernst's shoulder.
BAMF.
The smell of brimstone replaced the smell of wet jungle.
They appeared in the drawing room of the Blackwood Estate in London.
Kerry was waiting.
The butler looked impeccable as always, but there was a stack of heavy, bound documents on the table next to a pot of Earl Grey tea.
"Master Ernst," Kerry bowed.
"Azazel."
He handed the documents to Ernst.
"This is the information you requested. The 'Diplomatic Package'."
Ernst opened the folder.
It was a treasure trove of geopolitical leverage.
"China has recently concluded its civil war," Kerry briefed, pouring tea.
"The dust is settling, and the new government is hungry. They are isolated, paranoid, and technologically behind."
Kerry tapped the map.
"This dossier covers geological surveys that won't be discovered by the rest of the world for another twenty years. The Daqing Oil Fields. The rare earth mineral deposits in Inner Mongolia. Blueprints for basic heavy industry machinery that is efficient and rugged."
Ernst smiled, flipping through the pages.
"This is more than a gift, Kerry."
"It is enough leverage," Kerry corrected gently.
"Exactly," Ernst closed the folder.
"I am heading there not as a conqueror, but as a scholar. I need their support. I need access to their libraries, their monasteries, and their hidden sects. Sharing these resources... it buys me a seat at the table."
"I have already notified the contacts in Beijing through our channels in Hong Kong," Kerry said.
"They are... skeptical, but the sample data we sent intrigued them. They will send a delegation to meet you."
"Good."
Kerry gestured to the back door.
"I have arranged the Gulfstream prototype for you. We need to conceal Azazel's abilities. Teleporting directly into Beijing air defenses might be interpreted as an act of war."
"Wise," Ernst agreed.
"Azazel, store the luggage."
They walked to the private hangar at the rear of the estate.
The plane was sleek, unmarked, and fitted with the enhanced engines Ernst had designed based on the Hydra tech.
The pilot, a mute mercenary on the Hellfire payroll, initiated the flight sequence.
As the plane climbed through the cloud layer, banking East, Ernst looked out the skylight.
Below him, Europe was a patchwork of recovering nations.
Ahead lay the vast expanse of Asia.
But his thoughts were not on the scenery.
He was thinking about the soul.
He was thinking about the specific frequency of bio-energy required to pull a consciousness back across the void.
And he was thinking about his son, floating in a jar, waiting for his father to come home with the fire.
"Wait for me," Ernst whispered against the cold glass.
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