The sirens were no longer alarms; they were a screeching, dissonant symphony of rage. Crimson strobes pulsed down the rusted corridors, painting the scene in a violent, bloody light. The air was thick with the scent of ozone and burnt circuits, a metallic tang of recycled air mingling with the rising odor of blood. He felt the vibration of the bulkheads grinding shut, the physical finality of the seals echoing the change within him.
From the threshold of the control room, Subject-#SP07 let the guard's disguise fall. The transformation jutsu flickered like a dying projection, revealing his true face beneath—pale and angular, marked with the faint lines of a genetic curse. As the last of the chakra-infused illusion dissolved, a wave of profound clarity, a raw, primal liberation washed over him.
He was no longer a shadow, a number, or a ghost of another man's memories. He was an entity. His own. His instincts sharpened, fusing Peter Parker's muscle memory with Hashirama's battlefield calm. He was a force of nature, a new apex predator in a steel and concrete jungle.
The facility's PA system cracked with a new, chilling voice. "Containment breach confirmed. Full security protocols engaged. Self-destruct authorization on standby."
A chorus of conflicting voices erupted in his mind. Get out! There's still time! Peter's voice was a plea, a reflex of a life spent saving others. Endure. Grow strong. Let the crucible refine you. Hashirama's was a whisper of cold steel and ancient trees. SP07 listened to neither. He listened to the silence, to the newfound, roaring clarity in his own mind. He would not run. He would not merely endure. He would consume this facility, this tomb, and everything in it.
A patrol squad of four guards swept the corridor, their rifles raised, flashlights carving nervous arcs through the bloody haze. They were confident, but their footsteps betrayed a tremor of fear. SP07 watched them from the ceiling, his body pressed tight against the grated catwalk, a spider in a web of his own making. The sound of their footsteps was a metronome, a countdown to their end.
He felt the moment of hesitation, a ghostly echo of Peter's moral compass urging him to find another way. They're just workers. They have no idea… The thought was a whisper. But Hashirama's cold, tactical judgment slammed into it, crushing the empathy. They are obstacles. Cogs in the machine that created you. They are not victims. They are the enemy.
Without a sound, he dropped. The first two were gone before they knew what hit them. A wooden spike, grown silently from the grated floor, impaled the first guard's leg and rifle, pinning him to the ground. The second was a blur of movement—SP07's hand, coated in a hardening layer of Mokuton bark, clamped over the man's mouth. His other hand twisted, and with a sickening crunch, the man's neck snapped.
The last guard, a young man with wide, terrified eyes, dropped his weapon and fell to his knees. "Don't!" he sobbed. "Please… I'm just a guard…"
SP07's face was a mask of cold, terrifying calm. He didn't reply. His silence was scarier than any threat. With a swift, silent motion, a sliver of wood burst from the floor and pierced the man's heart. He didn't even have time to scream
.
After the silence returned, SP07 dragged the bodies into the shadows. He ripped an earpiece from one of the dead guards, his voice a perfect replica of the man's. "Sector C clear. False alarm." The voice on the other end was too panicked to question it. He was a perfect, efficient predator now—no hesitation, no remorse.
In the sterile, pristine main control room, a group of scientists and supervisors stared at the flickering monitors. The feeds were fragmented, filled with static and glitches, but they showed enough: the quick, brutal deaths; the impossible movement; the strange, organic forms of wood and bark that grew from the clone's body.
"He's learning," one of the lead scientists, a man named Dr. Thorne, breathed, horrified. "It's impossible. His cellular degeneration should have begun already. He shouldn't be adapting this fast."
"Containment," another voice, a cold, remote one from a secure channel, commanded. "Do not evacuate. The asset is too valuable to lose. We will activate the automated defenses."
On cue, screens flashed red. Turrets along the main corridors hummed to life. The floors began to crackle with an unseen electric charge. Incendiary failsafes in the ventilation ducts primed, ready to turn the corridors into an inferno. The facility, in its dying throes, became a living, breathing weapon.
The next corridor was a gauntlet. The low hum of an auto-turret filled the air, its barrels swiveling. SP07 didn't hesitate. Roots, thick as his arm, erupted from the walls, forming a crude but effective bulwark. Bullets shredded the wood, cutting splinters like shrapnel, but the bulwark grew back as quickly as it was destroyed. The wood felt alive, listening to his intent, as though the facility itself wanted to be devoured.
When the electrified floor panels began to sizzle, he didn't leap over them. His Mokuton extended into the subfloor, a fine network of roots that lifted the metal plates, isolating the current and creating a safe passage. A sudden, instinctual reflex from his Peter Parker half burst from his wrists—a thick, fibrous webbing that blinded the optical sensors of a second turret. As the turret's guns spun uselessly, a wood spike crushed its mounts.
With a thought, he ruptured the sprinkler pipes, and a dense, blinding steam filled the corridor. It blinded the sensors, and in the acrid haze, he began to experiment. The roots spread further, striking multiple targets at once. A layer of wood-armored bark grew across his arms and chest, a living shield that was a part of him. He even merged briefly with a wall, his cells temporarily becoming one with the metal and concrete, before stepping out to surprise a guard on the other side. He wasn't just fighting. He was evolving under fire.
The heavy response team was the next obstacle. Riot-armored, they carried flamethrowers and electrified batons. They had him cornered.
For the first time, he took real hits. A jet of flame seared his side, the smell of his own burning flesh a sickening perfume. The pain was immediate, intense, and absolute. A shock grenade went off, and the electricity wracked his body, his muscles spasming uncontrollably. But Hashirama's DNA was a powerful healing force. He felt his flesh knitting like fabric, felt the sinews and muscle re-forming beneath the skin, smoke rising from his body as it repaired itself.
The pain didn't break him; it sharpened him. His rage boiled, infusing the Mokuton with a new, brutal intent.
The wood that grew from his body became denser, harder, spiked with malevolent purpose.
A dome of wood grew from the floor, blunting the flame. Then, with a thought, vents in the dome speared out like needles, piercing the flamethrower's fuel lines.
The tanks ruptured, erupting into a cascade of fire. A thick root lattice slammed three men into a wall, their armor groaning and bones audibly crunching.
It was a brutal, messy, and cinematic fight. He emerged burned and panting, but his movements were more fluid, and the wood-armor was now a permanent, sprouting part of his skin.
The core labs were a sanctuary of glass chambers and containment pods, a monument to their horrific hubris. Scientists in white coats scrambled to erase data, their faces pale with terror. SP07 showed them no mercy.
A single, sweeping thought, and a storm of wooden stakes burst from the ground, piercing multiple bodies at once. One scientist, a man with a desperate, deluded plea in his eyes, fell to his knees. "We can fix you… we can help—you're proof our work succeeded!"
SP07's face was a mask of cold, terrifying calm. He didn't reply. His silence was scarier than any words. This man saw his life as a victory for a failed project. He was a number, a statistic, a success story in a sea of failures. SP07 silenced him instantly, a final wooden spike silencing his last breath. Blood, antiseptic, and burnt wiring choked the air, a fitting end for this place.
The halls were now a charnel house, littered with bodies and splintered wood. Roots, thicker now, drank from the blood-soaked steel. The facility's comms, once confident, were now panicked, then filled with static and silence. He breached the central hub, the alarms a deafening roar around him. A final officer, huddled over a terminal, desperately attempted a full system override. SP07 killed him before he could complete the task.
A cold, remote voice broke through the chaos on the intercom. "Asset unrecoverable. Initiate full purge."
Terminals flashed red: self-destruct countdown engaged. Three minutes. The entire structure shrieked, the floor heaved, and pipes burst with a hiss. Bulkheads slammed shut, lifts cut, and fail-safes triggered. The facility began to shake as fuel lines primed and charges armed. SP07 stood amid the carnage, unshaken. He looked around the tomb, the place where he was born to die.
He stood like a black silhouette against the flashing crimson strobes, the roots twitching with a predatory impatience.
"If this place was my cradle… then let it burn as my grave no longer."