The Pocket Dimension
Azazel stared at Ernst, his yellow eyes wide with a mix of awe and vindication.
He felt a sudden urge to jump for joy.
There had been a wall between them.
Ernst was the master, the human genius; Azazel was the mutant tool.
But now, that wall had shattered.
Ernst had awakened the X-Gene.
"We are the same," Azazel whispered, a grin splitting his face.
"Brothers in blood."
"Partners in evolution," Ernst corrected, though his tone was warm.
He stripped the Tesseract gauntlet from his hand.
With a press of a button, the metal plates folded and shifted, encasing the glowing red Reality Stone into a compact, lead-lined cube.
Ernst shoved the cube into his pack and turned to leave.
"Doctor," Azazel paused, pointing at the swirling cloud of red Aether still floating between the barriers.
"We are leaving that? It is power."
"It is bait," Ernst said, slinging his pack over his shoulder.
"The Stone is the source; that fluid is just the exhaust. If Malekith or the Asgardians track the energy signature, let them come here. Let them fight over the scraps while we vanish with the prize."
"Clever," Azazel nodded.
"And the equipment?"
"Self-destruct sequence is already armed," Ernst checked his watch.
"In seventy-two hours, acid reservoirs will rupture. The tech will dissolve into sludge. No evidence, no loose ends."
"You truly are the Boss's son," Azazel laughed.
"I pity the fool who finds this place."
"Let's go," Ernst ordered.
Azazel grabbed his shoulder.
BAMF.
The Blackwood Estate, London
They reappeared in the basement laboratory.
Kerry and the research team jumped, startled by the displacement of air.
Seeing Ernst alive and holding the cube, Kerry let out a breath that rattled his ribs.
"Master Ernst," Kerry gasped.
"The sensors picked up a massive spatial tear. We thought..."
"Shut it down," Ernst ordered, striding past him.
"Scrub the logs. Burn the hard drives. This never happened."
"But the spatial fluctuations?" Kerry asked, hurrying to keep up.
"Surely someone detected that?"
"The walls of this facility are lined with lead and vibranium alloy," Ernst lied smoothly (it was actually just high-grade lead and dampeners, but Kerry didn't need to know).
"We were ghosts, Kerry. Ghosts."
Kerry relaxed, wiping sweat from his brow.
"And the... acquisition?"
Ernst patted the metal cube in his hand.
"Secure the perimeter. I will be in the vault. Do not disturb me unless London is burning."
The Vault
An hour later, Ernst sat alone in the deepest chamber of the manor.
He held the Reality Stone, now stripped of its containment cube, in his hand.
It pulsed with a deep, liquid crimson light.
It felt warm, like holding a beating heart.
"Time to learn," Ernst whispered.
He had raw power now.
He had the kinetic absorption of Sebastian Shaw and the intellect of a supercomputer.
But he had no skill.
If he fought Captain America or Batman today, he would lose simply because he didn't know how to throw a punch.
He needed a teacher. But he couldn't spare the years it took to master martial arts.
"Reality can be whatever I want," Ernst murmured.
He focused his will on the Stone. The red light flared, consuming the room.
The Simulation
Ernst opened his eyes.
The smell of ozone and antiseptic was gone, replaced by the stench of wet garbage and stale beer.
He was standing in a narrow, rain-slicked alleyway in what looked like 1980s New York, or perhaps Gotham.
The architecture was oppressive, the shadows long.
Groans echoed from the darkness.
Ernst looked down.
A dozen thugs lay scattered across the wet pavement. Broken limbs, shattered jaws.
They were incapacitated with surgical precision.
Standing over them was a young man, barely eighteen.
He wiped blood from his knuckles on a dirty tank top.
He moved with the predatory grace of a jungle cat.
The boy looked up, grinning through a split lip.
"Boss," the boy panted.
"Clear. twelve down. How'd I do?"
Ernst smiled. This was Cain.
In this fabricated reality, Ernst had written a backstory: He was the brains, the fragile childhood friend who strategized.
Cain was the muscle, the prodigy fighter.
"Sloppy," Ernst said, stepping over a groaning thug.
"You over-extended on the last hook. If he had a knife, you'd be bleeding."
Cain rolled his eyes, a gesture full of youthful arrogance.
"But he didn't. And I'm not. You worry too much, Boss. Just stand behind me. I'm the sword, remember?"
"And I'm the hand that swings it," Ernst countered, though his tone was affectionate.
This was why Ernst built this world.
He couldn't just download kung fu like The Matrix.
His brain needed to experience the muscle memory.
By observing Cain, the perfect fighter he had designed, and by directing him, Ernst was absorbing the logic of combat.
Eventually, the simulation's script would flip.
Ernst would start training with Cain, pushing his body through thousands of hours of sparring in the span of a single night in the real world.
"Alright, sword," Ernst said, looking at the unconscious bodies.
"Lesson one: Mercy is expensive. Lesson two: Efficiency."
Ernst pointed to a thug trying to crawl away.
"He's going for a gun in his ankle holster. You missed it."
Cain's eyes widened. He spun around, kicking the gun out of the thug's hand before the man could draw.
"Good catch, Boss," Cain muttered, looking at Ernst with renewed respect.
"How do you always see that stuff?"
"I pay attention," Ernst said, tapping his temple.
"Now, let's go. We have training to do."
Ernst walked down the alley, the rain sliding off his coat.
He had the power of a god and the mind of a genius.
Now, he would forge the skills of a soldier.
One night here, Ernst thought.
By morning, he wouldn't just be smart. He would be lethal.
——
Authors Note:
I have analyzed the physics of 'Writer Motivation.'
It turns out, my typing speed is directly correlated to the number of shiny blue rocks (Power Stones) in my inventory.
200 Power Stones = 1 Bonus Chapter
10 reviews = 1 bonus Chapter