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[15 Chapters in Advance on Patre.on]
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Chapter 1: Let The Show Begin I
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[What's this show? Why is it live? Why the chatting section?]
[Don't ask me, it's weirder that it's live on all platforms, even piracy sites]
[Tf? How? A Disney marketing stunt?]
[Reincarnation? That's a rare theme in Marvel, no?]
[Think so, there was Moira with Reincarnation mutant power, but this is different.]
[What the fuck is this garbage show? Why are they spending the whole episode showing us scenes of torture and backstories? This Jigsaw?]
[Yo, you above, have ADHD? Go watch some TikTok, dumbass.]
The air in the outermost laboratory hummed with sterile efficiency.
Rows of technicians in white coats monitored banks of flickering screens, their faces illuminated by the cold glow of data streams.
The air smelled of ozone and antiseptic, a scent that grew more potent with each successive security checkpoint.
At the heart of this scientific nesting doll lay the innermost sanctum: Laboratory Zero.
This was where the most valuable asset was kept. Not a weapon, not a crystal, but a man.
He was pinned upright against a massive, cruciform research table, heavy polymer restraints biting into his wrists, ankles, and throat.
His naked body was a canvas of pale, scarred flesh, crisscrossed with the evidence of countless procedures.
[Already nudity? Have a feeling I'm gonna like this show]
[You like cock?]
[???????]
[To be fair, that's one big cock]
[What's wrong with u guys?????]
Around him, a team of researchers in environmental suits moved with practiced precision, their faces obscured behind tinted visors. All except one.
Dr. Alistair Pryce, the chief researcher, stood closest to the phenomenon, his own face exposed, his eyes wide with a fanatical gleam that bordered on the unholy.
His gaze was fixed not on the man, but on the machine that whirred and spun a mere ten feet away.
It was a nightmare of intricate engineering, a thousand interlocking rings of polished brass and glowing wires, all rotating in conflicting directions at impossible speeds.
At its core, where the geometries aligned for a nanosecond before spinning apart again, reality itself was failing.
Hairline fractures, blacker than the void between stars, would spiderweb through the air.
"Cease," Pryce commanded, his voice tight with anticipation, his eyes never leaving the machine.
The command was strange, directed at the bound man. For a long moment, nothing happened.
The man, known only as Subject Gamma, gave no indication he had even heard. His head was lolled forward, his breathing shallow.
The researchers held their collective breath. Then, slowly, the fractures began to heal.
The unnatural black lines sealed themselves, the terrifying sound faded to a whisper, and then to nothing.
The machine continued its mad spin, but it was now just a machine, a complex and beautiful toy.
The silence broke into a wave of euphoric chatter. One researcher clapped his gloved hands together, another let out a choked sob of relief, a third began frantically scribbling notes on a datapad.
But Pryce's reaction was the most profound. He threw his head back and laughed, a raw, jagged sound that echoed in the sterile chamber.
"Do you see?" He crowed, spinning to face his team, his arms spread wide.
"Do you SEE? Stability! Controlled cessation! A stable spatial disruption device is no longer a theory! We are on the precipice of creating a bomb that can unmake a city, a country, a world! A weapon that can annihilate the very space it occupies!"
He turned back to the bound man, his expression shifting to a grotesque parody of camaraderie.
He stepped close, his breath fogging in the suddenly cold air. "Do you understand your role in this, my friend? When the world ends, and it will, it will be thanks to you."
"Your name, though lost to history, will be the one whispered by the void as it consumes all."
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You are the key to the lock on the universe's door. And we are so very grateful."
The man remained as unresponsive as stone. His flesh was cold, his pulse, monitored on a dozen screens, remained steady and unfluctuating. He was a statue of suffering.
Pryce's grin widened. "Now… let's try something new. The tertiary auxiliary ring. Slow its spin. Just a fraction. You know how."
Another bizarre instruction. The man's head lifted a fraction of an inch. His eyes, a startling and beautiful hazel, opened just enough to be seen.
He stared at the whirring machine, at one specific ring spinning within the chaotic whole.
A faint sheen of sweat broke out on his scarred scalp. The researchers watched their instruments, their screens displaying the machine's impossible physics.
And then, it happened. The designated ring, for no discernible mechanical reason, stuttered. Its blurring edge became visible for a split second, its spin visibly, measurably, slowing.
The effect was instantaneous. The fractures returned, not as hairline cracks, but as jagged, lightning-fast rents in reality.
The shrieking of tortured space returned, louder this time, making the researchers flinch and cover their ears.
Pryce, however, only laughed louder, his eyes reflecting the devouring blackness.
The research continued for hours, a cycle of command and phenomenon, of ceasing and slowing, of Pryce's manic commentary and the researchers' terrified glee.
Finally, a chronometer on the wall chimed softly.
"Ah, the day is done," Pryce announced, his voice hoarse from excitement.
He walked over to the research table and began loosening the restraints himself, his fingers brushing against the cold, scarred skin. The man didn't flinch.
"You are Hydra's gift to us, I know it," Pryce murmured, almost to himself. "So placid. So… empty. We broke you, didn't we? Shattered whatever was inside and left a hollow vessel. But a vessel is meant to be filled."
He giggled, a high, creepy sound that was worse than his laughter. "Patience. Soon, I will have the final approval from the Council. We will restart the conditioning program. We will fill you with purpose. Our purpose."
With the restraints off, the man would have collapsed if two burly guards in Hydra black hadn't stepped forward to catch him.
They half-dragged, half-carried his limp form out of Laboratory Zero, through the concentric layers of science and security, and into the stark, brutalist corridors of the holding facility.
His room was not a cell in the traditional sense. It was a prison designed by psychiatrists and sadists.
Every surface; walls, floor, and ceiling; was padded with a dense, white polymer.
The light came from a recessed, shatterproof fixture behind a thick polycarbonate lens.
In one corner was a stainless-steel toilet and a small sink, both seamlessly integrated into the padding.
There was no bed, only a slightly softer pad on the floor.
There were no seams, no edges, nothing that could be torn, sharpened, or used as a tool.
It was a womb of utter control, designed for one thing: to keep him alive, because his power was a resource too valuable to waste.
It looks like the most boring place in the world, and honestly, the only thing that kept him entertained in here is his imaginary friends.
Once the heavy, electrified door hissed shut, the guards gone, the man finally moved under his own power.
He simply lied down more comfortably, thoroughly exhausted from their endless experiments. Using his power is too costly.
It's only now that one could get a clear look at him.
He was almost completely hairless; no eyebrows, a stark, bald scalp. Every part of his body has been experimented upon, which is why they regularly shake his body, as if he's a toy.
His body, though lean and corded with muscle, was a roadmap of suffering.
Scars of every kind littered his skin: the neat, precise lines of laser surgery, the ragged tears of exploratory procedures, the pucker of biopsy marks, the burn marks of electrical stimulation.
They were most concentrated on his head, a testament to the countless craniotomies and neural grafts, attempts to physically locate the seat of his power.
No, they also want to control him, to rewrite how his brain works, but that proved to be strangely unsuccessful despite their experience in that department.
For years, the narrative Hydra had built was one of a broken, empty tool. But the truth, hidden beneath the scarred flesh and the emotionless mask, was a mind of crystalline clarity.
He was still sane. He at least thinks so.
Interesting, the man thought, his internal voice a stark contrast to his vacant exterior.
Spatial fractures. They're actually a success.
No wonder Hydra has thrived for so long. They have a singular talent for perverting the extraordinary into a weapon, all built on a foundation of misery like mine.
He had heard the words, whispered, chanted, shouted. Hail Hydra. It hadn't been difficult to figure out who held his leash.
Today, however, will be different.
As he did every day, after some rest, he began to warm up. He moved through a series of stretches and calisthenics, his body flowing with a grace that belied his tortured appearance.
In this padded hell, there was little else to do. Hydra, needing his body healthy and his power accessible, provided enough nutrients to keep him at peak physical condition.
The weakness after surgeries was the only break in this grueling routine. He had trained his body, the one thing they had allowed him to cultivate.
Maybe they believe that this routine was to fight off boredom, indeed, but also for his eventual escape.
Today was the day. The last round of neural mapping had healed. The next was scheduled for three days hence.
And Pryce's promise of renewed brainwashing only cemented his determination.
He finished his warm-up and stood perfectly still in the center of the room.
His eyes closed, and his mind, for a moment, drifted away from the white prison.
If there are other reincarnators out there, he mused, I must be a contender for the most unfortunate.
The thought was dry, devoid of self-pity, a simple statement of fact.
His name was Adam. And he was not of this world.
The memories of his past life, a short, bedridden existence filled with the envy of healthy people, dead before he'd ever truly lived, had only awakened in the midst of Hydra's initial, most brutal torture.
It was as if the trauma had shattered the seal on his previous consciousness.
Reincarnation had not been kind.
He had been born a mutant. At eight years old, his power manifested. He'd envied a faster boy in the schoolyard, and in a burst of uncontrolled emotion, he had deprived the boy of much of his speed.
His parents had seen it. But they didn't need to. He told them. His innocent self, without his previous memories, told them the truth.
He received fear in return, a terror so profound it eclipsed their love.
The news channels, owned or influenced by those who hate or fear mutants, painted his kind as monsters, ticking time bombs, abominations.
The propaganda was relentless and effective. Fear won. They turned him over to the "authorities," who were, in this godforsaken world, merely another tentacle of the Hydra beast.
They had labeled his ability as chronokinesis; time manipulation. It was a rare and coveted power.
But they were wrong.
That was the foundational error in all their research, the reason their attempts to make him speed up time or see the future had failed so spectacularly, resulting in some of his most vivid scars.
His power was not Time. It was Envy.
The deep-seated, gnawing envy that had defined his past life had become the core of his mutant ability.
Before his memories awakened, as a child, he had envied speed, and his power had manifested as its deprivation: Slow.
Throughout his years in this hell, he had envied other things with a desperation that was a physical pain.
He had envied the researchers their freedom, privacy, the very air, and its ability to move unconstrained.
And in those moments of pure, concentrated longing, he had awakened new facets of his power. New curses, as he calls them.
However, it's now his Envy that will truly help him escape, nor is it what kept him 'sane'.
Hydra is very effective at dealing with mutants after all.
What kept him alive were his imaginary friends and what brought him to this world, the only solace in his miserable life.
[Information: Little To Nothing]
[Natural Traits]
Envy(B): Slow. Fade. Hollow. Recoil
[Information Traits]
Cyberpathy(C)
Adam opened his eyes. His beautiful, untouched hazel eyes, the only part of him that had not been marred, stared at the electrified door.
[Ohhh, he's finally gonna escape!]
[Such a fucking miserable start]
[I don't understand this show? What comics is this based on?]
[I think it's original? Not sure.]
[This show's weird, like, it just appeared without any promotions?]
Indeed, his new life is somehow being broadcast as a TV show, and the audience watching him grants him [Information].
[Information] has plenty of uses, including awakening powers... Such as Cyberpathy, what shall help him escape today.