In 1990, life struck harder than any lab accident ever could.
Martha Bonnet, William's mother, was involved in an eight-car pileup on the interstate. She died instantly. There were no warnings, no goodbyes—just a phone call, and then silence.
Even for someone like William, who didn't cry easily, the loss cut deep. Martha had been one of the few people who still saw the boy behind the genius. She visited him in the lab every Sunday, bringing warm food and humming old songs under her breath. Her absence echoed louder than anything he'd ever measured.
The family grieved in their own ways. Evelyn withdrew. William buried himself in data. And Theodore Bonnet, once a strong, commanding presence, began to fade.
By the summer of 1991, his health had deteriorated. Weak heart. Failing lungs. The solution was obvious—S-E8 could cure him overnight.
But Theodore refused.
"Your mother's waiting for me," he told William, voice frail but firm. "Let me go."
William didn't argue. He simply nodded.
The funeral was small. No cameras. No press. Just dirt, stone, and rain.
For weeks afterward, William barely left his room in the lab. The lights dimmed. The machines fell quiet. Even Duke stayed silent, sitting outside his door like a sentry.
Then, one morning, something strange happened.
William shuffled into the kitchen, still lost in thought. He reached for the fridge door, not looking, barely awake—and it opened.
No hand. No touch. It just... opened.
He paused, blinked, and chalked it up to muscle memory. Maybe he'd nudged it open. Maybe it hadn't closed properly.
But then it happened again.
This time, the items inside—the exact ones he wanted—floated out.
First the juice. Then a container of eggs. Then butter, slowly gliding through the air and landing softly on the counter like obedient pets.
William froze.
He stood there for a full minute, watching in complete silence.
Later that day, he ran tests. Not on equipment, not on Duke. On himself.
They measured pull, pressure, force. The math didn't lie.
He wasn't just influencing objects—he was bending the gravitational field around them.
It wasn't like telekinesis in comic books. It was more subtle, more elegant. William wasn't lifting things. He was changing how they fell—how they moved—how they interacted with the very force that kept everything grounded.
Gravity bent for him.
It bent to him.
Whatever the serum had done, whatever the grief had stirred—it had gone beyond the body.
His mind had changed, too.
And he wasn't the only one evolving.
Duke, who now spent his days roaming the estate's forest and hills, began to attract wildlife. At first, it was just other dogs. Then birds. Then deer. They gathered around him like a leader—or something closer to a guardian.
Soon, he didn't just attract them. He communicated with them.
When William observed, he saw patterns in the movements. Flashes in Duke's eyes. Vibrations in the air that even the most advanced microphones barely picked up. It was language, of a kind—instinctual and primal, but precise.
Animals obeyed him.
Flocks of birds moved with his gaze. Insects shifted at his will. Wild creatures came, not with fear, but with loyalty. With trust.
It was a bond no scientist could replicate.
In just over a decade, William Bonnet had beaten death, restructured his biology, and now... he had begun to master forces once thought untouchable.
And he wasn't finished.
Far from it.
Because in the shadows of his lab, in notebooks and files hidden even from his most trusted assistants, William had started designing again.
Not medicine.
Not cures.
Blueprints—for something new.
The next evolution.
A being that could live in any environment. Heal at will. Think faster, breathe deeper, adapt instantly.
A being made not just for Earth—or even the Moon.
But for the stars.
The next two years changed everything.
William's control over gravity grew stronger—sharper, cleaner, more deliberate. At first, he used it only when necessary. Moving tools, adjusting lab equipment, stopping a spill midair. But slowly, it became second nature. A flick of the wrist, a passing thought, and the laws of physics bent to him like an obedient servant.
He could walk without touching the floor. Lift tons without strain. Crush metal without touching it.
But even then, he didn't fully understand it.
This was new ground. New rules. No textbooks. No mentors. Just trial, error, and instinct.
By the time the year 2000 arrived, William was no longer just surviving. He was becoming.
And he was no longer alone.
Over the years, the Twelve had gone their own ways—some into medicine, others into engineering, biotech, and theoretical physics. But none of them ever truly cut ties. They watched. They waited.
And now, one by one, they returned.
Not because they were summoned—but because they were ready.
Ready to take the next step.
Together.
The lab, once quiet, buzzed with life again. Old handshakes. New questions. Long nights. Laughter in the hallways. The family William had built—not by blood, but by vision—was back under the same roof.
And they were all willing.
All twelve took the serum—now perfected and renamed S-E9. Each dose was customized, calculated down to the cell. No two versions were the same. Some were made for speed, others for mental processing, others for regeneration.
And for the first time, William wasn't the only one changing.
The Twelve began to adapt.
Some noticed improvements within days—stronger memory, increased stamina, sharper reflexes. Others took longer, their bodies recalibrating slowly. But the results were clear.
They were evolving.
And they weren't afraid.
On a crisp morning in late October, they gathered in the central chamber of the lab. Papers were spread across the table—blueprints, schematics, charts. And at the center, a digital map of something entirely new.
A facility.
Not just a lab.
A place designed to house hundreds.
Built underground, powered by solar conversion, shielded from satellites unwanted.
It would be hidden. Quiet. Safe.
And ready.
A list sat beside the blueprints—neatly typed, names organized by region and field.
Doctors. Scientists. Athletes. Artists. War veterans. All of them willing.
"They're ready to begin trials," one of the Twelve said, sliding the paper toward William. "We've been talking to them for years. Watching them. They know what this means."
William said nothing at first. He just stared at the list.
Then he looked at the blueprint.
Then, slowly, he smiled.
Not out of pride. Not out of power.
But because the moment he had imagined so long ago was finally here.
This wasn't about curing disease anymore.
This was about designing the future.
A future that would not need to fear space, or sickness, or war, or extinction.
"Then let's begin," he said, placing his hand on the table. "Earth won't last forever. But we will."