The transition from the kitchen to the "Quantum Elevator" was always the most jarring part of Mim's day. One moment, she was smelling the lingering scent of Ron Stoppable's cheap cologne and burnt toast; the next, she was surrounded by the scent of pure, ionized ozone.
She stepped into the lift, which was disguised as a broom closet tucked behind the water heater. As the doors hissed shut, she didn't press a button. She simply thought the number.
Sublevel 4,200,000.
The lift didn't move so much as the universe rearranged itself around it. There was no sensation of falling, only a momentary shimmer in her vision. When the doors opened, the scale of the Lab—the real Lab—was revealed.
It was a cavernous, subterranean city that defied every law of geological stability. Massive, obsidian-slick pillars reached up into an artificial sky, glowing with the rhythmic, violet pulse of Black Hole Power Generators. These weren't just batteries; they were captured singularities, encased in Dyson-sphere-style shells that harvested the Hawking radiation to power Mim's empire. Below the walkways, the "Genius Coalition" Server Hub hummed—a city-sized grid of liquid-cooled processors that handled 98% of the multiverse's encrypted data traffic.
Mim stepped onto a floating mag-lev platform. "Good morning, H.E.L.E.N.," she said to the air.
"Good morning, Dr. Possible," the AI responded, her voice a synthesized blend of every Nobel Prize winner's vocal frequency. "You have seventeen missed calls from the Galactic Council, three requests for antimatter from Phineas Flynn, and Experiment 702 is currently experiencing… gastrointestinal distress."
"On it," Mim sighed.
The platform glided toward the Bio-Engineering Sector. She passed rows of containment units holding Lilo & Stitch-style experiments—creatures designed not for conquest, but for the betterment of mundane life. She waved at Experiment 519, a fluffy blue creature designed to perfectly fold laundry, before stopping at the enclosure for Experiment 702.
702, a small, six-legged creature that looked like a cross between a red panda and a nebula, was sneezing violently. Each sneeze didn't produce mucus, however. Instead, a cloud of shimmering, pink dust erupted from its nose, instantly filling the air with the smell of fresh strawberries.
"High oxygen saturation in the dome," Mim noted, checking her tablet. She adjusted the atmospheric scrubbers. "There you go, 702. Let's keep the glitter-farts to a minimum today. I have guests later."
Next came the "Business" block. Mim pulled up a holographic interface that displayed the global stock market. Most people saw a mess of red and green lines; Mim saw a predictable symphony of human error.
"H.E.L.E.N., what's the status of 'Vertex Communications'?"
"On the verge of bankruptcy, Doctor. They've laid off four thousand employees in the Middleton tri-state area."
"Unacceptable," Mim muttered. Her fingers danced across the light-keys. "Buy them. All of them. Use the shell company in the Cayman Islands—the one named 'Not A Supervillain, LLC.'"
In less than three minutes, the acquisition was complete. Mim didn't plan on keeping the profits. She restructured the entire corporation into a non-profit foundation. By the time the news hit the surface, every household in Middleton would have free, un-hackable, 10G Wi-Fi, and the employees would have a 400% pay raise funded by Mim's private asteroid-mining ventures.
"That should keep the local economy stable enough to ignore my energy spikes," she murmured.
Finally, she steered the platform toward Sublevel 8,402,711: The Mythical Flora Dome. Tonight was date night, and Monique deserved perfection.
As she entered the dome, the humid, floral air hit her. It was a masterpiece of scientific taxonomy, but one plant was causing a literal fire hazard. In the center of the grove, the Lignum Phoenix—the Phoenix Wood—was molting. Its bark, made of a rare carbon-silicon hybrid that mimicked feathers, was glowing a dangerous cherry-red.
"Temperature at 1,500 degrees Kelvin," H.E.L.E.N. warned. "Heat-sink failure imminent."
Mim didn't panic. she pulled a localized cryo-stabilizer from her belt and began recalibrating the tree's roots. "You're just dramatic," she whispered to the glowing tree. "You're not dying, you're just shedding. And you are not ruining my date."
She adjusted the heat-sink, drawing the excess thermal energy away from the tree and venting it into the black hole generators. The glow softened to a romantic, golden amber.
Mim stood back, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead. The dome was ready. The Wi-Fi was free. The world was safe. Now, she just had to survive a conversation with Monique without accidentally mentioning she'd bought a satellite network before lunch.