Two vials sat on the sterile metal counter, illuminated by the harsh white lights of the underground lab.
On the left, a swirling, violent red liquid that seemed to boil even without a heat source. The Broly Gene.
On the right, a sludge-like black substance that occasionally flashed with a sickly gray light, as if it was absorbing the photons around it. The Doomsday Gene.
Luther stared at them. He looked exhausted. Two years of isolation on a hostile alien planet, subsisting on synthesized nutrients and solar radiation, had hardened him.
He had succeeded in isolating both. But he had failed in the most critical step: Fusion.
"Oil and water," Luther muttered, rubbing his eyes. "Or rather, fire and antimatter."
Every time he tried to splice the Broly gene with the Doomsday gene in a simulation, the result was catastrophic cellular collapse. The Doomsday cells were too aggressive; they treated the Saiyan cells as a threat and devoured them. The Saiyan cells were too volatile; they fought back with explosive energy until the host body disintegrated.
He had run tens of thousands of simulations. Failure. Failure. Failure.
So now, he stood at a crossroads.
Option A: Inject the Broly Gene.
Pros: 70% success rate. Massive power boost. Infinite growth potential through rage. Safe—if it fails, his Kryptonian immune system just flushes it out.
Cons: It's still biological. It still has limits (albeit very high ones). And he'd have to deal with the Saiyan "battle lust," which might make him stupid in a fight.
Option B: Inject the Doomsday Gene.
Pros: Adaptive evolution. If something kills him, he comes back immune to it. Infinite stamina. The ability to survive literally anything. It is the ultimate defense and the ultimate offense.
Cons: 50% success rate. High risk of mutation into a mindless gray monster. High risk of "The Destroyer" persona taking over his mind, erasing Luther forever.
Luther paced the small lab. The ground shook as Broly—the real one—slammed a giant beetle into the cliff face miles above.
"Broly is tempting," Luther admitted. "Being a Legendary Super Saiyan Kryptonian? That's fanfiction gold. I could scream and blow up galaxies."
He looked at the red vial.
"But..."
He looked at the black vial.
"Doomsday is inevitability."
In the Marvel Universe, being strong isn't enough. The Hulk is strong. Thor is strong. They still get beaten. They still get tired.
Doomsday doesn't get tired. Doomsday is an evolutionary constant. If Luther wanted to stand toe-to-toe with Celestials, with the Infinity Stones, with entities that could rewrite reality... he needed to be unkillable.
"Ordinary Kryptonians have no future," Luther whispered, repeating his mantra. "I'm done being ordinary."
He picked up the black vial.
He didn't hesitate. He didn't write a will. He just acted.
He couldn't use a normal syringe—his skin would shatter it. He aimed for the softest tissue he had: the inside of his mouth.
He loaded the gene serum into a high-pressure injector made of Katchin (the hardest metal in the universe, which he'd synthesized in small amounts).
Click.
He fired the injector into the roof of his mouth. Even then, the needle bent, but the sheer force drove the tip just deep enough to deliver the payload.
HISSS.
The black fluid entered his bloodstream.
For three seconds, nothing happened.
Then, Luther fell to his knees.
It wasn't pain. Pain is a signal. This was destruction.
It felt like he had swallowed a black hole. His cells weren't just dying; they were being ripped apart, analyzed, and rebuilt in real-time by a hostile architect.
The Doomsday gene didn't want to cooperate. It wanted to conquer.
"GAAH!"
Luther gripped the edge of the table. The metal crumpled like tissue paper under his fingers.
His skin began to ripple. Gray, calcified bone spurs started to push through the pores of his arms. His muscles swelled, tearing his shirt to shreds. His vision went red, filled with a primal, screaming urge to KILL. DESTROY. SURVIVE.
NO!
Luther's Super Brain kicked into overdrive. It was a war on the microscopic level.
Engage Biological Field. Enforce mental pattern Omega.
He didn't fight the transformation; he guided it. He used his telekinetic bio-field to compress the mutation, forcing the bone spurs back down, smoothing the jagged edges of his DNA.
You work for ME, Luther screamed internally at the raging entity trying to birth itself in his blood. I am the host. I am the mind.
He had a fail-safe ready. If he lost control—if he felt his mind slipping away—he was going to trigger a teleportation jump without coordinates. The sheer force of the spatial tearing would grind him to dust again, hopefully killing the Doomsday cells before they fully formed.
But he didn't need it.
Slowly, agonizingly, the chaos subsided. The red haze in his vision cleared, replaced by crystal-clear, high-definition focus.
Luther stood up.
He felt… heavy. Dense.
A layer of gray, dead skin—the rejected biomass of his old self—cracked and sloughed off his body like dried mud. It fell to the floor in a foul-smelling pile.
Beneath it, Luther emerged.
He was taller now—over six-foot-three. His physique wasn't the bulky, monstrous shape of the comic-book Doomsday. It was streamlined. Sleek. His muscles looked like they were carved from gray marble, dense and incredibly defined.
His skin was pale, almost white, but smooth. No bone spurs jutting out. No monstrous overbite.
He looked like a Greek god carved from diamond.
Luther raised his hand. He flexed his fingers. The air around his hand distorted, groaning under the gravitational pressure of his sheer density.
He walked over to a polished metal panel and looked at his reflection.
His eyes were no longer blue. They were blood red, with a faint, inner glow that promised violence.
"Doomsday," Luther whispered. His voice was deeper, resonating with a metallic timbre.
He punched the air. A sonic boom shattered every beaker in the lab.
"Success."
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