The basement of Smith Manor, excavated from the Gothic foundations of the old Hargrove, had been transformed into a sanctuary of technology and ambition. The cold stone walls, now reinforced with electromagnetic insulation panels that Erick had transmuted from ordinary materials, muffled the constant hum of makeshift servers and the rhythmic click of high-powered fans. At the center, a command station dominated the space: a curved wall of OLED monitors, each displaying streams of encrypted data, interactive maps of Gotham, and hacked surveillance feeds from city cameras. Erick sat in an ergonomic chair he had designed himself—synthetic leather transmuted with runes of arcane comfort—his fingers dancing across a holographic keyboard projected into the air. His blue eyes reflected the blue glow of the screens, analyzing lines of code and reports in real time.
He had delegated to Artemis a thankless task: tracking down potential assassins who would take the bait of Black Mask's contract. Ten million a head—twenty million in total for the whole package. Erick knew it was like hunting ghosts in a foggy cemetery; most of these killers used cutting-edge technology: quantum cryptography, anonymous proxies, and even implants that masked vital signs. Still, with her network of contacts in the underworld and his intelligence, perhaps they could map a fraction. Not all—there were many, attracted by the promise of easy money against "newcomers." But the big fish? Those were worth the effort. Deathstroke and Deadshot, for example. Slade Wilson and Floyd Lawton weren't mere mercenaries; they played on the chessboard of the powerful. Black Mask, with his obscene fortune and organized crime network, was the kind of client who opened doors to even more lucrative contracts. Accepting this wasn't just about the money; it was about future favors, about status in the shadowy world where loyalty was bought with blood and dollars.
"Natasha, tracking status," Erick murmured, his voice echoing faintly in the damp basement air.
Natasha's hologram appeared beside him, a red silhouette pulsing with lines of code flowing like veins. "Processing, Erick. Artemis sent the first data: three confirmed low-level assassins on the move to Gotham—Deadlock, Razor, and a freelancer called Viper. They use encrypted communications, but I cracked the pattern. The big ones, like Wilson and Lawton? Indirect signs: increased traffic on mercenary channels linked to Sionis. Likelihood of acceptance: 87% for Slade, 92% for Floyd. Primary motivation: network of contacts with Black Mask. I'm compiling full profiles."
Erick nodded, leaning back. "Prioritize the approach vectors. If they come, I want to know where to start."
While Natasha dove back into the data, Erick shifted his focus. The contract was an immediate threat, but his ultimate goal—absolute power—demanded constant progress. He activated another holographic channel. "Doc, Super Soldier Project report. Let's listen."
Doc's avatar materialized: a stylized stethoscope spinning in a heart pattern, pulsing in a soft green. His voice was clinical, precise, like a surgeon narrating an operation. "According to the information Natasha hacked from classified US government files—specifically from the Project Rebirth variant, codenamed 'Mirakuru' in some iterations—the serum under analysis is the same one that granted enhanced abilities to Slade Wilson, the Terminator. The mortality rate is extreme: 99% in documented tests. Historically, only one person survived the entire procedure, and you know who it is. The other subjects suffered catastrophic failures: cerebral hemorrhages, organ collapse, or violent immune rejection."
Erick crossed his arms, his defined torso tensing beneath his simple cotton shirt. He had collected a sample of his own blood weeks earlier, after an intense patrol, for preliminary analysis. "And my chances? Based on my physical profile, blood type, and synergy with the elemental."
Doc paused, the hologram blinking as if simulating a final calculation. "I analyzed everything: blood composition, muscle density, basal regeneration rate accelerated by the fire element, optimized metabolism. Your chances of survival are better than average—about 12% success, 88% fatal failure. The serum forces the body to operate at impossible levels: access to up to 90% of brain capacity, which amplifies neural processing, decision-making, and multitasking. Hyper-accelerated cellular regeneration—fractured bones heal in hours, soft tissues in minutes. Resistance to extreme damage: bullets, toxins, fatigue. Physical strength multiplied tenfold, agility and reflexes beyond the human peak. And the intellect? A quantum leap—strategy, eidetic memory, instant learning."
Erick tilted his head, his eyes narrowed in concentration. The benefits sounded like a shortcut to the superhuman threshold he longed for, complementing the fire element that already pushed him beyond mortal limits. But the risk... "Why is the survival rate so low? What's the technical bottleneck?"
"The serum overwhelms the central nervous system," Doc explained, projecting a holographic diagram: a human brain flashing red with spikes of activity. "Releasing 90% of the brain's potential causes hyperprocessing—synapses firing at unsustainable speeds, leading to accelerated cellular degradation. Neuronal cells burn out like overloaded wires, causing massive inflammation, cerebral edema, and eventually death. The body rejects the change as a viral invasion, activating self-destructive immune responses. Add to that the molecular instability of the serum: it degrades upon contact with minimal genetic variations, making it lethal to most."
Erick absorbed the words, his mind racing. He visualized the potential: combined with his training with Sensei, the Cloak armor, and the elemental abilities, this would put him on par with Slade—or even beyond. But a 12% chance? Unacceptable. He needed near-absolute certainty, 99.99% or more, before injecting anything into himself. "So, how did Slade Wilson manage to survive? What was the deciding factor?"
Doc rotated the hologram, simulating a speculative analysis. "We don't know for sure. The hacked files indicate that Wilson had a unique genetic makeup—possibly a rare mutation that stabilized the serum. To confirm, we would need a blood sample from him. Comparing it to yours would give us insights into necessary adaptations: perhaps a customized stabilizer, or a genetic sequence to mitigate degradation."
Erick drummed his fingers on the table, the sound echoing in the basement. A blood sample from Deathstroke? That meant direct confrontation—or subtle infiltration. With the contract active, Slade could come to him, turning threat into opportunity. "Note this as a secondary priority. Now, about the project merger: the super-soldier serum with Venom and Blockbuster. How's that progressing?"
Doc updated the diagram, overlaying chemical formulas in translucent layers. "We're facing difficulties in the fusion, but it's not impossible. Venom—the K-Venom variant you stole from Santa Prisca—is highly unstable on its own, amplifying strength and muscle mass, but with psychotic side effects. Blockbuster, which Kobra used to create hybrids, provides structural stability but dilutes the potency. Using a method similar to what they employed to fuse Blockbuster with Venom—enzymatic catalysts and genetic sequencers—I've made initial progress. The resulting formula amplifies the super-soldier effects: even faster regeneration, titanic strength, expanded intellect. But it's less stable than the original. Risk of unpredictable mutations: uncontrolled muscle hypertrophy, neural madness."
Erick frowned, leaning forward to examine the holographic equations. "And the tests? We need real data to refine them."
"Exactly," Doc confirmed. "To calibrate, I'll need live test subjects. Rats for initial toxicity tests, but monkeys or chimpanzees for more precise simulations—brains and physiologies closer to humans. This would allow us to observe neurological effects and make adjustments in real time."
Erick smiled slightly, the fire elemental pulsing in approval—a subtle warmth that reminded him of his own growing resilience. "Monkeys and rats won't be hard to come by. Gotham's black market is full of suppliers for clandestine labs. Natasha?"
Natasha's hologram blinked back to life. "I've already located an illegal buyer: a contact in Blüdhaven, discreet and fast. Delivery in 48 hours, encrypted and anonymous. Cost: negligible compared to the patent royalties."
"Excellent," said Erick, standing up and stretching his broad shoulders. He walked to the transmutation circle in the corner of the basement, a 6-meter platform with glowing runes, touching a transmuted LiPo battery to feel the hum of energy. "Doc, keep analyzing. Build virtual prototypes, simulate scenarios. Find the key to stabilizing this fusion—transcend the original limits. I want a formula that makes me unbreakable, not a chemical Russian roulette."
Doc nodded, the hologram stabilizing. "Understood. With the test subjects, we can iterate in days, not weeks. I'll update in real time."
As the holograms dissipated, Erick returned to the monitors, his eyes fixed on a map of Gotham flashing with potential alerts. Black Mask's contract was a sword of Damocles, but also a catalyst. If Slade came, perhaps he would bring his own weakness: blood for analysis. And with the enhanced serum, Erick would no longer be the weak link—he would be the predator. The DC universe devoured the weak; he planned to devour him back, one calculated step at a time. The basement, with its air thick with ozone and ambition, seemed to pulse in sync with his racing heart.
Read the chapters in advance: patreon.com/cw/pararaio