Experiment number fifty-three. Testing multitasking and attention distribution between complex processes. Process one – cooking dinner in my kitchen, waiting for Dad to return from work. If I don't intervene, he'll follow his usual routine: microwave some frozen dinner, crack open a beer, and zone out in front of the TV. Not on my watch. I'd stopped by the farmer's market earlier, picking up fresh vegetables and herbs. Now I'm assembling a proper lasagna, layer by careful layer. Better than the cardboard-tasting frozen pizzas from the supermarket, with their sad scatter of processed cheese and mystery meat.
The second process running parallel to the first – controlling the ants beneath the Hebert house. Their numbers had surprised even me. An ant colony is a marvel of natural engineering, a strict hierarchy with its own fascinating quirks. Take their eggs, for instance. Unlike chicken eggs that simply mature on schedule, ant eggs exist in a state of suspended animation. They lie dormant in nursery chambers, waiting. Need more workers? Soldiers? A new queen? The nurse ants know exactly which eggs to awaken from stasis. Two days later – voilà – perfectly specialized ants emerge.
Consider the weaver ants with their massive mandibles designed to stitch leaves together, creating aerial fortresses. Though 'stapler ants' might be more accurate – they pierce and bind leaves like living construction tools. I'd read that some indigenous tribes use them as surgical sutures: hold the ant to a wound, let it bite, then twist off the body, leaving the jaws as a natural stitch.
This evolutionary adaptability flows through ant DNA like water. They're perhaps Earth's most versatile species. Bullet ants pack neurotoxins that can paralyze a grown man. Army ants devour everything in their path like a living wildfire. Here's a sobering fact: ants comprise twenty-five percent of all terrestrial animal biomass. One quarter of all land animals by weight. So finding extensive colonies beneath Brockton Bay's urban sprawl? Not surprising at all.
What normally limits colony growth is simple: resources. Each colony expands only as far as its food supply allows – nature's iron law. But my colonies had entered a new age of abundance. I'd granted them access to our basement, where shallow trays of sugar syrup awaited. Glucose – the fundamental currency of biological energy. Meanwhile, meat flies from the nearby waste facility were delivered directly to colony entrances. The city had no shortage of those. My colonies gorged themselves, awakening eighty percent of their dormant egg reserves. Every available queen worked overtime, laying fresh clutches.
Why this population explosion? I needed numbers. Massive numbers. The workers had abandoned foraging entirely – why search when food appeared like manna? Instead, they excavated the deepest tunnels where the work was hardest. Apparently an ancient river had deposited sediment there, leaving suspiciously heavy particles. After analyzing the first samples, I'd redirected all workers to extraction duty. The glass vial on my bookshelf now held seven ounces of gold dust. Completely natural-looking, as if panned from some mountain stream. If I'd had powers like Alchemist and produced pure gold, the pawn shop might ask uncomfortable questions. But this? Just river gold. Maybe I'd found it, maybe someone else had. Who could say?
Given my ants' extraction rate, money worries were fading fast. Not enough for mansions or sports cars – that would raise eyebrows – but sufficient for a comfortable life.
So there's process two: managing my gold-mining operation. Process three justified cracking open every egg reserve: evolution. Fruit flies had always been evolution's laboratory darlings. With twenty-four hour lifespans, researchers could observe seven generations per week. But consolidating beneficial traits remained challenging without genetic manipulation or environmental pressure.
I had neither limitation. Take soldier ants – already formidable. Now select only the most venomous specimens. No wait, dead end. Better: start with queens. They fly and carry venom. Select the most toxic, most resilient. Breed them immediately, awakening their eggs in hours instead of weeks. One day later: hundreds of hyper-aggressive, ultra-venomous queens. Repeat the process. Select. Breed. Accelerate.
By now I had specimens dozens of times more venomous than standard ants. Overdeveloped mandibles. Reinforced chitin armor. And we were just getting started. Call it forced evolution, evolution on steroids. What nature might achieve in decades under perfect conditions, I'd accomplished in two weeks. The end goal? A compact but powerful flying ant, armed with neurotoxin potent enough to drop a full-grown man. Better delivered as an aerosol spray than through stings – like bombardier beetles but worse.
Already I could see my power's limitations. Sure, I commanded vast swarms, could stop armies in their tracks. But throw on a beekeeper's suit and I'm neutralized. Even without specialized gear, any prepared enemy could defeat me: leather jacket, thick jeans, work boots, duct tape at the joints, wrapped face, safety goggles. My insects might eventually chew through, but not before I got beaten down. Or shot.
These thoughts cycled through my mind as I managed the gold mine, stimulated breeding programs, selected prime specimens, and slid the lasagna into the oven. Wait. Where were these combat scenarios coming from? Was I seriously planning to fight capes? Why? Soon I'd have money. I could buy an apiary, produce premium honey, build a legitimate fortune. Why tangle with capes?
No, a voice whispered in my mind. Look around. This city, this country – it's drowning. Millionaires attract cape thieves like honey draws flies. Or worse, the Slaughterhouse Nine. Want to survive? Want to thrive? You need strength. Why else are you breeding combat ants? Why direct two wasp colonies toward neurotoxin development?
Self-defense, I told myself. Protecting what little family I had left. Hence the neurotoxic super-ants and killer wasps.
Street insects alerted me to an approaching vehicle. Oil scent, engine vibration – Dad's truck. I checked the clock. Fifteen minutes until the lasagna finished. Perfect timing.
I dried my hands and turned toward the door. Danny Hebert wasn't my father – not really. I was a stranger wearing his daughter's face. The original Taylor had harbored complicated feelings toward him. Blamed him, deep down, for everything from her mother's death to the school bullying. Childish logic: he was the adult, the protector who'd failed to protect. Such feelings needed processing, release. Left to fester, they'd poison any relationship.
Danny hadn't helped matters, withdrawing into himself after his wife's death. The locker incident only widened the gulf between them. Unable to face his own helplessness, he'd found it easier to avoid his daughter's eyes entirely. Well, I was working to salvage this broken family, to transform it from a case study in dysfunction into something resembling normal.
"Welcome home, Dad!" I called as Danny crossed the threshold. Exhaustion lined his face, shadows under his eyes. He managed a nod and attempted a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Dinner's almost ready! You can change and wash up while the lasagna finishes."
"You shouldn't have gone to the trouble, kiddo," he said, shaking his head. "Should've been doing homework. I grabbed pizza at the store anyway."
"That pizza's basically cardboard with cheese-colored plastic," I said, hands on hips. "Zero nutritional value. Besides, I already made lasagna. Can't let it go to waste."
"No, of course not." This time his smile seemed genuine. "I'd love to try your cooking. Just don't want you overworking yourself. How's school, kiddo?"
"Honestly? A complete waste of time," I said. "I'm thinking of dropping out. Did you know I'm old enough to work as a waitress? Several diners would hire me. Extra income wouldn't hurt."
"We've discussed this, Taylor." He shook his head firmly. "As long as I can work, you're staying in school. Education matters for your future."
"Right. Career prospects." I sighed, knowing this battle was lost. "Fine. I'll keep attending that prison."
"But really, how are things? Nobody's... bothering you anymore?" He looked away. The locker incident – our shared trauma, though experienced differently.
"Nope, all quiet on that front," I said, remembering Sophia Hess's twisted expression. Note to self: watch for retaliation from that psycho. She might escalate beyond simple pranks. Actually, tonight I planned my own brand of justice. As Jules Winnfield said: And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers.
"You're sure everything's okay?" Danny pressed, and the old Taylor would have snapped at his belated concern.
"Everything's fine," I assured him. Adulthood meant carrying your own burdens. Danny struggled daily just to function after losing his wife. Who was I to judge? Besides, the lasagna was ready. And deep in my colony's nursery chambers, Catherine de Medici had just emerged – a fifth-generation queen of my increasingly lethal creations. Formicidae heberti venenum – Hebert's Venomous Ant. Or maybe something more dramatic: Heaven's Scourge. Biblical plague references had style. The Eighth! If I ever went cape, that would be my name. Let them puzzle over its meaning while I maintained the element of surprise.
"Lasagna's ready!" I announced, grabbing oven mitts. "Wash up and grab a seat, Dad!"
"On my way!" He practically bounced toward the bathroom.
I plated the lasagna while monitoring my colonies. Fifth generation queens showed high mortality – half succumbed to their own toxins. Immunity would need development. Continue breeding, emphasize toxin resistance.
Tomorrow I'd skip school, visit the pawn shop, test my gold's purity and value. I needed a laptop, cell phone, decent clothes. My ants consumed sugar by the pound – evolution was hungry work. Plus my parasitic wasp experiments, developing human-targeted larvae. Tracking beacons at first, maybe neurotoxin delivery later. Definitely not mind control parasites. Where did these thoughts keep coming from? No human experimentation! Well, maybe on corpses... No! What was wrong with me?
"Dad! Dinner's getting cold! Want some tea?" A loaded question – Danny usually preferred beer in the evenings.
"With lemon and sugar!" he called back. "Like a proper Russian!"
I smiled. Maybe we could salvage this family after all.