Viral Latency - Sinstealer - Prototype (Video Games) [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

Chapter 1: Chapter One: Two Roads Diverged Under A Red Sky/The Crucible

Chapter Text

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Prototype and My Hero Academia
Chapter One: Two Roads Diverged Under A Red Sky/The Crucible

Chapter 1

Several Centuries Ago

Two kids destined to become bitter enemies, locked in a centuries-long shadow war to the death, are enjoying ice cream on the streets of New York with their father; and bundled against the chilly fall weather. The trip is ostensibly part business, part vacation, but neither Hideyoshi and Yoichi care much about why. Their father prefers it that way. He’s in the city to negotiate the sale of medical and laboratory equipment with Gentek: a biological and genetic research company; with their connections to the American government, he hopes to set his family up for life.

Eyes wide open, the children continue to swivel their heads around, lost in the sights and sounds of the bustling city. They wear matching T-shirts emblazoned with their love for New York, and baseball caps, reveling in the excitement of the foreign country.

Sudden popping noises fill the air, sowing a scene of confusion. Hideyoshi and Yoichi and the crowd look around in befuddlement; their father recognizes the sound immediately.

Spittle flying from his mouth, he says: “We have to go now!” Grabbing his sons' hands, he runs towards the nearest storefront. Yoichi, the younger brother, bursts into tears when his ice cream falls to the ground. Hideyoshi tries to remain calm and figures he needs to do something, in the innocent earnestness of children.

Inside, he hits his brother’s arm and receives a sharp “Ow!” in anger. “Why’d you do that?” Yoichi says as he rubs the sore spot.

“Here, you big cry baby, take mine. All for you.” Hideyoshi attempts, and fails, to look nonchalant as he hands his cone over. Yoichi sniffs, gives a watery smile, and starts to eat.

As the popping sounds grow louder and the store begins to vibrate, the people outside scream and run away—

—An entire flaming humvee careens down the street, bouncing and skidding across the pavement.

The children's father holds them close, shielding them, partially, from the sight of a man chased and shot at by the military. Bullets exit the stranger alongside blood splatters, but he himself is unphased, using strength—impossible strength—to pick up the heavy vehicle and throw it at the chasing soldiers.

“Don’t look; it's not right for you to see this,” their father says in panic.

Hideyoshi cannot look away; the display of power enamours him, even as others avert their gazes from the horrible crushing of men. He is secretly, horribly, envious. He wants it: the man's ability to destroy soldiers from the most powerful nation in the world.

Soon, the fighting subsides in the distance and the family emerges from the store. They are met with a chaotic scene: crying, panicked civilians herded away by soldiers. Smoke and the sound of howling fill the air, signaling that things will never be the same again.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Lost and alone in the chaotic Blue Zones, Yoichi's heart fills with fear as he is separated from his beloved father and brother. Tears flow like a river, mixing with the smoke that fills the air. He cries out for help.

No one seems to care, consumed by their own selfish desires for survival and success. Yoichi feels more alone and abandoned than ever before.

Without warning, more explosions and gunfire shake the earth, and Yoichi sees a man, the same man, flying through the air, chased by three helicopters. Their indiscriminate fire rains down upon the streets and people, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake. Yoichi tries to run with the crowd; he is pushed and pulled, knocked to the ground. When he looks up, he sees one helicopter burning on the street and another crash into a building. He takes in the destruction around him with wide, wet eyes.

A heavy weight lands next to him—the man with the black jacket and piercing blue eyes, his claws glinting in the light. This man has powers, and as the last gunship takes aim, he shields Yoichi with his own body.

He has powers. The thought repeats as shock turns his brain to mush, mind seeking any comfort in the face of imminent death. Then, the first missile is away.
Yoichi closes his eyes and wishes for his father…
And the seconds tick by…

When he opens them, he sees the hero deflecting missiles with ease. The explosions shake the ground, but the hero remains unscathed, a shield of pure strength and courage; Yoichi blinks and rubs his eyes—no, the man’s entire arm has turned into a shield.

This man, this hero, saved him.

The gunship fires another missile, scattering his thoughts. With a flick of the Hero’s extended hand, he catches the missile; looks back at him, eye-to-eye with Yoichi; with a half-conceited smirk and a wink, he returns it to sender.
The gunship explodes in a shower of fire and debris, and the hero disappears as quickly as he appeared.

Once the smoke clears, a kind couple comes to Yoichi's aid, offering a safe place with food, clothing, and protection from infection. Yoichi smiles with gratitude, knowing now in his heart that in the darkest of times, there are heroes who will risk their lives for strangers, even if some have powers and others don't.
A happy smile overtakes him as they lift him up and carry him away. One day, he vows to be a hero too, helping everyone. No matter what, there will be a hero for everyone.
_____________________________________________________________________________________

Hideyoshi’s father has become unstable since they lost Yoichi. He blames Hideyoshi, he blames himself, he blames Gentek, he blames everyone and everything. The sky is burning red as they trudge onwards towards nowhere. Heading around a corner, they see rows of buildings covered with red tumor looking pustules. Everyone is running away, or stumbling. Some primal instinct beckons the—incomplete, fracturing—family to look closely at the uncanniness of the crowd. Infected.

One jumps on a elderly man trying to run away, to tear apart and eat. Stumbling backwards, Hideyoshi and his father hightail it out of there. Back the way they came they see a welcoming sight: a military convoy—tanks, humvees, and marching soldiers.
Thinking quickly, his father flags them down, hoping against hope his contacts can prove fruitful. Hideyoshi however is uneasy; the soldiers wear all black, the eyes on the helmet closer to an insect than a human. He hides behind a trash can as his father talks and pleads.

A soldier takes their rifle and bashes it against his father’s face. On the ground moaning, he never sees the bullets that end his life; his dead face lolls to the side; Hideyoshi locks eyes with the glassy gaze of his father: empty of love, hate, or anything else. None of the soldiers acknowledge this brutal murder. The son does nothing as a tank drives over the body.

Hideyoshi is ignored by everyone who passes by him as the convoy goes by. Finally, he tears his eyes from the smear that is his father and stumbles through the empty and increasingly dangerous streets. His tears and injuries go unnoticed and elicit no sympathy. He is alone in hell. On this day, he learns his lesson: no one will save him or Yoichi but himself. If his father had true power to protect his family, nothing like this would be happening; with all of these conflicting emotions and the whirlwind of events, a deep conviction and contempt rises within him: he will be nothing like that, he will never be so weak. Everyone will be his stepping stones, and no one would treat him like they did his father.

He will never forget this.
_____________________________________________________________________________________

A girl, barely older than Hideyoshi, is in the soup kitchen line when she starts coughing blood. Everyone starts to run; within a minute she is tearing apart cooks until someone bashes in her skull. Shouts of fear and anger ring out as others gather their courage and join in.

They don't stop until her head is unrecognizable, brain dripping down the wall and strewn across the food. Hideyoshi feels nothing but relief that it wasn't him.
_____________________________________________________________________________________

The infection is spreading rapidly throughout the city. Yoichi has been with the older couple—Mr. and Mrs. Juarez—throughout the 18 days of the Outbreak, moving from Blue Zone to Blue Zone as the infection shifts the battlefield every day. He sees bravery everywhere: people defying curfew to bring medical supplies to injured people in ad-hoc medical stations; soldiers giving their all, holding the line against a parade of twisted infected creatures.

Yoichi searches for rumors about the superpowered man, said to be able to leap across blocks and fend off armies of man, machine, or infected flesh on his own. He admires him, and ignores the less savory whispers—the government must be painting him in a bad light, he believes. It was the man who saved him from the gunship, after all.

Perhaps it’s because his English is poor—rudimentary at best, his father usually handled all the talking—that he doesn’t hear praises for the stranger. Though he does hear a name. As Yoichi waits in line with the older couple at the soup kitchen, he reviews the alphabet again.

The third person in front of them coughs once, twice, three times. Everyone’s eyes snap to the middle-aged man and back away from him. The soldiers standing guard raise their weapons: long, sleek rifles pointing straight at a sweaty, bald head.

“I’m not infected, I swear to God! I just choked on water!” the man says. The adrenaline subsides a touch; Yoichi notices water splattered on the ground and a water bottle in trembling hands.

The paranoia is going to kill the city before the infection does, Yoichi thinks. He doesn’t like the constant fear people have of each other—it’s wrong. They lack hope; they need a brighter future to believe in. They need a symbol of it: like the superpowered man.

Yoichi promises himself that he will strive to be a hero like that man. Even if he doesn't have the same strength, even if it kills him, he will possess the same heart and soul; even if it means putting his own life in danger, he will stand up for and inspire others as Alex Mercer inspired him.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Hideyoshi—on the other hand—has the misfortune of constantly being in the Red Zones or on their borders. He sees despair everywhere: the military burning entire buildings full of people alive, the same man from before effortlessly destroying entire platoons of soldiers and vehicles. And his own theft from people dead and alive—Hideyoshi doesn’t want to think about that.

He both fears and envies this man, wondering how he could possess such power and how he could gain a fraction of it for himself. He wants that power badly, wants to destroy armies like this man does and keep it all for himself. Hideyoshi promises himself that no one will ever be able to threaten him or his little brother; no one—whether superpowered criminal or government—will ever make him kneel. The virulent poison of his fate takes root in his heart and soul, fueling his desire for power.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Surprisingly, neither brother has even the slightest sniffle or symptom, despite their proximity to infected areas and people. The experiences they had will forever alter their course—one will become the greatest demon lord of all time; the other will stop him. Their shadow war will echo through the centuries and generations.

In the aftermath of the chaos and cleanup, they eventually find each other. Happy and broken beyond all measure, each brother hides the cracked foundations of light and darkness in their hearts. Neither shares what they saw or were up to during those fateful 18 days. Neither comes back unscathed.

There is no end to their hardship. Though they are declared clean and able to go home, they are treated like pariahs in their community: they are feared for their ‘uncleanness’. Their mother falls into alcoholism and neglects her children. Her attention is better off on anything but them, and during this time Hideyoshi steps up as the bigger brother. It is for the best: the death of their father and her husband leaves a festering wound that never heals until she passes away.

He and his brother against the world makes Hideyoshi bitter as he shields Yoichi from cruelty after cruelty. Their only inheritance is the blood in their veins. A year after the New York Outbreak, the ‘Glowing Child’ is born. The incoming instability creates an opportunity for Hideyoshi once he realizes the power he has.

The rest, as they say, is history. But the past never stays buried for long…

Chapter 2: Chapter Two: Treasure Hunt/A Chest Full Of Maggots

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

Present Day

In Italy, they are known as Tombaroli; in America, Prospectors; and in Japan, Matagi. These treasure hunters do not earn their living through normal or virtuous means: laboring as an office drone, scrambling to disaster areas and burning buildings; nor through sinful acts: theft or fraud. They live in the gray area of semi-quasi-legality: seeking out the ruins of the old world. They delve into libraries, ancient internet archives, and pluck out the secrets of the past from the mouths of the elderly; and when they discover a hint of their next quarry, they race off in pursuit.

Their salvage varies from military bases, corporate strongholds, doomsday bunkers, and caches of weapons left behind for wars that never came to pass. They unearth technologies and blueprints long thought lost, and are rewarded in wealth and glory for their efforts. It is a modern-day treasure hunt, with all the danger and excitement of the unknown, and it captures the imagination of the world.

One hunt is taking place now. This particular group of Matagi have stumbled upon their latest tip from the coughing wheeze of a lovely grandmother, who proudly bears a Japanese name and Western features; and had come to their attention when a small local newspaper ran a filler on the dramatic lives of her ancestors—of both families: her in-laws and birth. Each has a proud tradition of military service, with multiple members making the cut in their respective special forces.

The Matagi, over tea and a wonderful batch of cookies, learn all they can, paying double and double again the market rate as she talks about family lore, operations unseen and unspoken of; gives letters, and shares her own intuition. After wishing a fond farewell, both find themselves satisfied with the meeting—the grandmother, for ensuring her grandchildren will have the funds to attend college; and the treasure hunters, for the future of decadence. They say: “It’s about time we hit the jackpot.”

*****

Months pass, examining written and audio recordings, financial statements, and old receipts of defunct gas stations and restaurants; they search for any information that might be related to the secrets whispered by their now-deceased source. Finally, on a map on the wall marked with dozens of red scribbles, the leader of the group circles a ten-mile zone.

*****

Located in the heart of Shikoku, Iya Valley is a deeply isolated and mountainous region. In some aspects, it is fitting that the Matagi should be exploring there: for centuries, Iya Valley had been the refuge of samurais and generals fleeing from their enemies, its geography letting the cunning hide entire armies for years at a time. In the early 2000s era, it appeared the Americans had added to that storied history by building a secret base.

There is a hum of conversation, as the Matagi ready for the trek ahead in a myriad of superstitious routines; ostensibly to prepare their mind and body, but also serving a greater purpose in calming their nerves and fear. None among them has quirks that can shatter buildings, ignite forests, or do anything particularly noteworthy. In lieu of being born lucky, they have cultivated their skills and muscles like priceless vines of fruit; and of course, their collection of guns as well. But little of the weaponry they carried is legal, so great care has gone in acquiring them…discreetly.

This practice is common enough to become a staple in the Matagi culture: a sort of code among them, embedded enough that none would snitch upon each other. Other notable aspects include not stealing from the living, not striking the first blow, and dedication to hunting and researching old-world relics. The common grave-robbers may kill each other over stashes of treasure, but the Matagi held themselves to a different standard of ethos, morality, bearing, and nature: should one group, dedicated enthusiasts or weary archeologists, lose their prize to another, they gave congratulations and arrogant boasts instead of blood and death.

Some groups, like this one, keep an almost religious fervor to those that came before them. They reminisce on the old days, decades and centuries removed from them. They tell stories of past heroes, and the chaos, collapse, and rebirth of nations.

And of how groups like theirs came to be. When they first appeared, the half-collapsed or newly restructured nations had a tenuous relationship with them; they were lawbreakers by all accounts, the Matagi had no right to dig up old government facilities and bunkers. But the new institutions that had sprung up lacked knowledge—they barely knew these places existed. And in those tumultuous times, even in modern times, governments couldn’t afford the resources or political capital to hunt down every rumor of lost technology. So an unwritten and unspoken pact was reached.

One in which the treasure hunters had more than pulled their fair share. The alleged descendant of the ‘glowing baby’, Fāguāngde, was a daring Chenbaozhe during the People’s Republic’s collapse. His securing of nuclear warhead silos helped deescalate fighting among petty warlords and broker peace. Then there was Laura Cruz, who hacked her way through South American jungles, fought metahuman warlords to a standstill—all to access the hidden away treasures of the New World. And of course, Dakota James. During the collapse, he raided the countless military caches in the Midwest of America. He kept to his code and sold the advanced technology to the closest thing the desolate Americas had to a successor of the United States: the United Pacific Coast. It was what won that region the war.

Matagi, Prospectors, Ladronas, or whatever other title whispered around campfires and lullabies, provide a service and benefit to the world—in their own humble opinion. The worst catastrophes from breaking into these facilities are usually done by those not in their profession: dirty opportunists and thieves. Matagi have standards, all others do not.

*****

That stubborn pride is what keeps them going through the search. It is a wet, muddy, and frustrating season in the valleys and mountains. The drones they use are constantly battered by the high winds and rain, and the metal detectors fail to unearth anything besides more mud. In truth, their equipment is minimal. Other teams have access to world-class detection quirks and technology, but not them.

Their light wallets wouldn’t let them forget the shoestring budget they operate on, either. When not tracking down facilities, they repurpose their tech and skills for odd jobs: pictures of cheating spouses, tracking stolen corporate prototypes, anything else not illegal. It's grimy work, but makes their ends meet. It is nothing close to the adventure of finding a long lost piece of their history, but it's honest labor. From a certain perspective. To them, anyways.

And it all serves as a respite from the constant research months before. Ninety percent of Matagi work is reading, writing, prepping, and copious amounts of caffeine. The other ten percent of the job is sweeping a large area and securing any facilities. It is harder, and tedious at times, but it is what they all live for.

They deal with the odd unexploded landmine from post Quirk emergence conflicts, putting to rest past mistakes by their ancestors. They hike deep into the valleys and mountains, marking off locations from their map. They make small talk with the small number of locals residing in the area, asking idle questions about old facilities or anything strange they’ve seen. And they pour over all of this information—after work, late at night—fervently, kept awake by the thrill of the hunt and unadvised usages of not-quite legal stimulants.

But they too have limits. Yet when all appears lost, when they turn to each and whisper of giving up, they finally hit their breakthrough: a random picture of the thousands taken from their drone. Overgrowth covering all but the middle, where they see it: metal, well-forged in the middle of seemingly nowhere. Other shots put together reveal a slightly unnatural incline—the analysis sub-team says: “Topsoil depletion has eroded the land around it”—leading to one of the few dirt roads in the area.

Past experience and stories from other Matagi tell them the purpose of this hatch: resupply. With such careful deceptions, it can only mean one thing: a lost piece of human history and treasure underneath the mountain.

The game changes in that instant. Speed and secrecy are their best allies; poachers often let Matagi do all of the hard work, before swooping in with bribes or threats of violence to get their way. With great care, the group covers up the entrance using nearby greenery, records the coordinates, and heads back to their base of operations. It is time to prepare for the moment of truth.

*****

They choose old, beaten-down vehicles; while rusty, they are serviceable. Paired with the camouflage nets, the trucks are able to hide in plain sight. Along the way, the Matagi bicker over dead drop locations: their hopes lead them to believe there may be more treasure than they can carry in one trip, their fears warn them of possible watchers back in town. It will not do for them to be known for entering town several times with strange loot in quick succession. Better to hide the extras and come back another time, should it come to that.

Their tools of trade bump and rustle against each other as the trucks forge their way through the dirt path, mirroring that of a burglar: rope, crowbar, and lockpicks; with far more exotic and strange additions: blowtorches, plastic explosives, and a pistol. Also included is a Japanese to English dictionary, a mechanical watch, a non-functioning crash dummy, and a robot equipped with wheels. They also bring shovels and other digging tools to fully expose the surrounding elevator area.

Once there, they quickly get to work: they cut a hole into the metal with a blowtorch, big enough for a drone; they send one—their only one—to map out the shaft, armed with flashlights in all directions, GPS, sonar, and recording equipment; and slowly lower it down the bunker elevator shaft.

The elevator floor at the bottom is large enough for two to three trucks: a perfect size for the vehicles hauling equipment and supplies. Drawing the eye, though, is a wide steel door; oddly enough, it is locked from the outside. The strange design has the group whispering: “Who’d want to lock themselves in?”

Once they assert that it is safe, they prep rope for rappelling down the elevator shaft. Two stay up top on sentry duty, the rest go in with more rope and a metal winch for heavy extraction.

As they rappel down slowly, they notice the clunking of vents: the breeze and noise signify that the ventilation system, and by extension the power, is still working after all these years. One says: “This isn’t rare in pre-Quirk bunkers, they were built to last.” The Matagi just hope any defense systems are offline; there are enough tales about dead kindred all over the world, and they possess no wish to be another story of the many terrible fates awaiting those in their profession.

Standing below, they stare at ‘The Door’. It is worthy of admiration, a monument to surpass fever dreams of both pre-Quirk militaries and preppers around the world. Preliminary scanning shows the blast doors to be an astounding four feet thick. At three times the height and width of an average man, they are sure even a tank could drive through them. The panel to the side is at chest height, still glowing with activity.

Instructions flash on the screen: English; luckily, their skills and the dictionary are up to par. It’s the work of minutes.

Lights flash above them. Sounds should accompany it, the strong aesthetic demands it, but no alarms or sirens go off. Some system must be malfunctioning. It’s a relief, despite their growing concern; the grinding noise of the door is loud enough as it is.

The door finally opens fully, ushering in blessed silence. Humvees and trucks filled the loading bay. Thick layers of dust cover them, evidence of centuries of accumulation, even with ventilation. The group sniffs around, searching for more valuables. They see barrels and equipment adjacent to the car pool, while several human-sized doors lead to offices. They hope to find pre-Quirk documents in the ancient desks, which are always popular with museums and private collectors. However, the better prizes tend to be further inside the facility.

The loading bay condenses into a one and a half tank-sized tunnel, where the group discovers the first sign that something is wrong. In ancient military facilities all over the world, there is always a large chance of encountering automated defense systems pointed towards intruders. However, these turrets face inward, sowing confusion among the group—they say: “Is it twisted? No.” Unable to budge the weapons, the group continues further down the tunnel.

As they progress, they encounter dormitories and medical stations. Their unease grows. There are no signs of life, no personal touches of people living there, and the medical supplies are untouched. One Matagi remarks: “It's as if the facility was built and then abandoned.” Unlike other sites, there are no journals, graffiti, or any signs of bored troops. The Matagi wonder who once lived here. One says: “Surely it had to be someone with extreme professionalism or control over their personnel, yes?” Another says in response: “What secrets were hidden that necessitated such tight control over the inhabitants?”

Part of them, rooted deep and buried, warns them to turn back now. That this place isn’t like the others they’ve excavated—the leader says: “The other sites were already looted”. But they are Matagi. They push onwards. It certainly didn’t stop them from greedily eyeing the armory, their own equipment feeling mighty inadequate all of a sudden.

Soon they have progressed down an empty tunnel for over a kilometer. Up ahead lays a large gate. A sign proclaims it as ‘AIRLOCK 1’ in big, bold letters. It’s the work of moments to set up another break-in; the security for the panel, all panels they’ve encountered really, is lousy. The leader of the Matagi states in a melancholic tone: “This place never envisioned someone trying to break in—the secrecy and army that must have occupied this place would have been all the deterrent one needed.”

With a hiss of steam, the doors slowly open. The group feels a breeze as the cold air from inside the airlock meets the warmer air of the tunnel; and echoing through the tunnel are the wailing of sirens.

Jackpot. Adrenaline rushes through the team like a raging current. It draws them into the allure of the treasure beyond. Grins break out as they dream, in the heartbeats that follow, of the prize of the decade—no, century.

Then the door opens and steam vanishes. Their sight sets on something not seen for centuries. Their stomachs turn in nausea. The smiles and jubilation are as dead as the people sprawled in front of them.

If death could paint, this would be its masterpiece. Each corpse is lovingly preserved by the sterile and cold air. There are half-skeletonized mummies with missing limbs. Blood sprayed liberally across their airlock room. And so much worse—the youngest says, weakly: “I'm going to vomit.”

On the secondary airlock door are crimson words, sloppily written. Two men lie below the text. One is in better shape. Salt and pepper hair on his forehead compliment his clean shaven face. The scar on the lip lends him a dangerous edge, like a panther caught sleeping, only eternally. His black high collared uniform is marred with a deep wound across the gut.

The other man, bald and tall, has only a single arm. Light blue armor covers his body. In his hand is a picture of two women, presumed to be his wife and daughter.

The crimson message, written in their life’s blood, simply states, “Leave”.

*****

Unanimously, the Matagi agree to swipe as many guns and equipment as they can find, then collect the finders fee. The leader says, shaken: “Better the government deal with whatever…horror lies inside.”

Chapter 3: Chapter Three: Tense Exposition/What Lies In the Hero’s Shadow

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

Present Day

Amidst the gathering storm in Matsuyama, sound booms: thunder crashes against the windows with the force of a rushing train. At the head of the room, Gashadokuro and Tengu stand, backs straight and unmoved despite the rising tension. To the adoring public, they are known as All-Might and Endeavour, but here, they have adopted different personas: ones more suited to the grim work ahead of them.

The operation that brings them all together today is no ordinary task—it is not even an official task—but it must be done. These kinds of situations require the cooperation of heroes and various respective government agencies.

Once upon a time, the two spheres were the same: prominent battalions of specialized quirk forces, capable of crushing nearly any threat. Following the ruinous wars that had plagued the past, from the Quirk wars to the eugenic arm races, they were disbanded and banned forevermore—but the threat of sanctions and worse did not stop countries; they were subverting the spirit and letter of the treaty mere days after the ink had dried.

Japan was no exception. Beneath the glittering heroes and the flamboyancy and the much vaunted Hero Billboard Charts—whose inception and fanatic following was copied around the globe—the country and its underworld did their necessary business. They had always been interlinked. Before quirks, the Yakuza and government were cutting deals: gentlemen’s agreements and ceasefires for the good of the nation.

Soon after the birth of the golden child in China, things changed. The government found and relied on the less flashy operatives of the time—both before and after the Quirk regulation treaties. A dedication and particular patriotism was needed, power and versatility second; and of course, flexible morals.

When quirks evolved to be more complex and powerful, their pool of potential applicants increased. With the right disguises and training, any bold hero could be a quiet and unassuming thief or assassin at the flip of the coin.

Unofficially, they are known as the Yuki Onna. A strange name, but fitting for stranger individuals; frustrating for anyone trying to uncover more—many criminals believe they are all composed of women, or possess quirks relating to the icy weather, or some other nonsense. What is known however is simple: they work ‘cold’ dark operations—said to be in the guise of demons—during the night.

Yet, each demon is an angel to the public, a ‘hot’ bright hero by day. These Yuki Onna are made up of a wide variety: out of the top ten heroes in the country, two grace the organization; out of the thousands that litter the full breadth of Japan, only an additional twenty have earned the privilege of joining—plus one more if the short stranger in the back of the room is included.

The unknown man wears a golden fish bowl on his head for a helmet, obscuring his face and voice. Amidst his dark costume, there are small openings where little red feathers peak out. The other agents murmur to each other, trying to discern the newcomer—clearly vetted, to be let in like everyone else.

*****

Heads close together, the longest serving and most experienced operatives remain standing in front of the room. Japan—even the world, for such is their fame—would be shocked to see All-Might and Endeavour, side-by-side, chatting amicably. The secret pseudo-CIA Quirked organization isn’t as strange.

Outside of clandestine operations, Endeavour holds All-Might in a poor view: the hero is the last mountain he needs to cross over to ignite his name in history, and it grows ever higher as All-Might's reputation and sheer prowess continue to dominate. It is infuriating; Endeavour’s personal pride and ambition demands he be at the top of everything he does. But here he is Tengu. And Tengu is almost inseparable from Gashadokuro.

In this organization, there are only two virtues—results and obedience. And neither have ever disobeyed an order or failed a mission.

And yet, there are some things that cannot be buried under layers and layers of personas. Deep within his heart, Endeavour is jealous of how he is never first—in Japan, at home, even in this secretive organization, under a different name, where public perception hardly matters.

As small talk continues here and there around the room—it is foolish to think secret government operatives are immune to gossip—an undercurrent of tension laces each conversation: never before have so many agents gathered together. All present have heard of a large operation on-going in Iya Valley, involving the deployment of an NBC unit alongside the military—accompanied by a preliminary, discrete Yuki Onna strike team to buy time should calamity occur. It is enough to make them nervous at what is to come.

*****

It is enough speculation that Toshinori decides a history lesson is in order. Many operatives do not possess the reach or extensive knowledge he has on this subject: a natural consequence of Japan possessing few famous or notable pre-Quirk facilities. If their operatives ever engage with pre-Quirk technology, it is usually after they have been thoroughly plundered and sequestered elsewhere. So it is that a lesson from his own experiences is in order, if only to placate the nervous energy in the room. Gashadokuro leaves, and All Might steps forward with only a few changes in mannerisms.

“Over in my time in America,” he begins, “I learned how as the governments around the world crumbled: many dedicated and fanatic politicians, corporate agents, and wealthy individuals saw the opportunity to once and for all erase or clean up their messes over the decades past; keep valuable objects or research safe during the unrest; or destroy classified information that would be harmful to their historical image.

“David Shield and I went exploring in these lost bases. Sometimes we even got shot at! They were also the best times I had—we recovered important history and technologies that went on to help the country and the whole world: automated surgical bots and their blueprints, super fruits capable of saving whole populations from starvation. However, the darker side of these secrets soon revealed themselves.”

All-Might expresses a somber mood through his mask. “Those that escaped or were broken into by foolish explorers: biological weapons programs, spilled radioactive waste, autonomous killbots with their own dedicated fortress—evils that were unleashed or broke through their containment to wreak havoc on the world. Even I wasn’t enough for some of these catastrophes. Some cities bore the ultimate price.”

His grim tone spreads to the other operatives. The veteran operatives knew about such tragedies yet the retelling strikes a discordant tone. They can almost see the past horror, like they were drawn into a vision.

Thunder booms again; it is as if heaven itself laments the events. Noticing the effect of his words, All-Might holds back a wince and quickly wraps up the lesson. “Point is, secrets can be a double-edged sword: bright or corrosive. There will always be those that seek them out, their location a beacon to the adventurous spirit who breaks them free from their confinement—a good deed nominally. But there are secrets that corrode and chip away at their bindings until their deadly purpose blooms. I can only hope…”

As he trails off, there is a strange silence, an unease bubbling forth from the listeners. Shaking his head, All-Might flashes one of his signature heroic smiles. “But there’s nothing to fear. We are all here!”

Almost in habit, laughter and smiles fill the room. In truth, no one is comforted.

Chapter 4: Into the Belly of the Beast/The Grim and Gruesome Aftermath

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

Present Day

Old, dead flesh-like grafts paint the walls and ceiling. Giving testimony, gouges and scratches tell of the strength once contained.

“Radiation level nominal. Spore saturation nominal. Chemical background nominal. Biological material present but inert. Mandate decontamination for entry and exit until further notice,” Asashima says in his gas mask. The new scanner detects something. The older models have proven useless. He puts it away.

A frown blooms walking to another growth. The rate of decay still contradicts what the devices detect. He’ll have to rely on his quirk alone—bacteria, viruses, and fungi have unique reactions to it. This…material looks and acts like fungus, yet decays slower than either it or bacteria. Simple deduction indicates a virus base; their rapid adaptation and longevity makes them deadly even in the modern age.

It is only right to be cautious. Diseases flourished during the chaos of previous centuries, along with the release of potent biological and chemical weapons. Too many medical advancements were lost in the generational chaos. But that can change. The world is clawing itself back into order. Discoveries by Matagi and others around the world—sanitized, filtered back—were pillars of modern life in Japan.

Asashima writes down his observations. The prior airlock area had been carefully documented; the human remains had caused a storm, though: they were American bodies. The lab techs would try their best to analyze them, but would be obligated to return the corpses soon.

He’s grateful this area has none. The team will be able to move on soon. An hour must have passed and yet they have only progressed a kilometer down the long hallway. It feels like an endless hotel corridor, save for the bio-waste. The few rooms found were brief escapes from the monotony—but not much. Any equipment and records inside were long destroyed by the ravages of time or the strange growths.

Well, he personally thinks it’s monotonous: not everyone feels the same. Ueda is tense. His quirk surrounds him in a safety bubble, filtering everything but oxygen; the masks provided to them all do the same, but the quirk envelops Ueda in multiple layers of protection. The sight makes his salaryman-like figure look absurd. The large rifle in his thin hands almost doesn’t belong. But he knows better: Ueda is a highly trained professional.

And prone to superstition. The omens outside are most unkind. “Stuff it with explosives, light the fuse, pretend it never existed,” Ueda had said on the ride to the facility.

The other two members of their team watch Asashima. Their talents are…different from investigative work. Nishimura looms menacingly. That and his ripped gloves lend him a Yakuza impression. The holes are for his quirk. One hand spits sparks, the other belches reactive gas; he uses a canister and a modified-flamethrower. It all makes him a one-man incineration crew. Yasui is slightly shorter and more defensive. His mutations make him extremely hard to put down; he’s tough inside and out. In most operations, Yasui is the designated survivor.

Asashima’s team is worth more than the sum of their quirks, of course. They have years of training and dedication to their job. Better ten loyal men than ten powerful quirks as the saying went; they know their worth to the government; they know the value of silence. They’re the top NBC unit Japan has to offer.

“Let’s move on,” Asashima says, finally. They push further into the complex.

Behind him, Yasui brings up Ueda’s words from the ride. The tall man is argumentative, especially when he has a point to prove. “You know as well as I do there’s no surefire way to really cleanse a place like this. This sh*t could end up airborne, spreading throughout the island.”

“If it hadn’t escaped for this long, chances are if we dig under, hollow it out, and rig it to blow, everything would be buried too deeply to ever escape,” Ueda says. His tone is calm.

Nishimura hums in agreement. One hand clenches and unclenches in eagerness.

Ueda’s mixture of superstitiousness and white-collar respectability is almost cult-like, Asashima thinks. It’s amusing in a way that he also tends to be right for the wrong reasons. However, the Japanese government has a more grand—and greedier—plan for this facility.

Site discoveries have dwindled over the years; the few—untouched, unblemished—unearthed in recent times are better hidden than in decades past. And more valuable. These days, they are all international tales of treasures, breakthroughs, and historical finds. France now boasts a first draft of Napoleon’s legal code, royal jewels, and other findings in their national museum—all after unearthing one facility holding items of cultural significance. But that is not all: Japan hasn’t missed how France received a windfall of prestige and tourism as well.

Similar stories have played out across other parts of the globe. In the badlands of Australia, they found the missing third of pre-quirk gold bullion, hundreds of crates of advanced weapons, and an Eden Rebirth Kit meant to revive the region around it into a verdant paradise. Japan had watched the news break with badly-hidden envy.

With tourists chasing other hotspots and a recession threatening the economy, Japan’s government is chasing a hail mary: there are few facilities in Japan to begin with, yet they’re banking on objects of value or significance left by America. The political web they spun and found themselves trapped in will not allow anything else; the party in power needs a win. The declining crime rate hasn’t brought back tourism or the economy as promised.

There were always multiple facets for a country’s success. Unless—Japan finds their golden goose. And so it is, Asashima and his team dive deep while old politicians sit in their offices.

“Let’s hope nothing horrifying, deadly, or world ending is down there, yeah?” Ueda says with his fingers crossed. The others sigh or roll their eyes. Asashima grunts in agreement.

*****

They’d be proven wrong on two accounts at least. Three if they screwed up what was to come…

*****

The further into the facility they go, the more Asashima uses his quirk: he aggressively purges pantheons; when he encounters more red and black growths, he makes sure to sterilize every bit of them. Invisible to the eye, the microorganisms rot away. It becomes tedious quickly. Every room is contaminated, every paper and device beyond salvage—the viral growths and time prime suspects.

Asashima doesn’t ask Nishimura to cleanse with him; an inferno is risky. The team doubts the filters and ventilation systems work properly despite the steady hum of power in the background.

Some scenes have become common: broken turrets littered with used shells lay every dozen feet, pointed deeper towards the facility; large, unnerving splatters dominate impromptu battle zones; countless gouges, tears, gashes and bullet holes are everywhere.

No less unsettling are the hints of clean-up: there are no corpses next to large stained areas of concrete—like someone dragged them away, or otherwise vanished them. The facility is older than quirks, but Asashima feels less and less confident the explanation is something mundane.

The rest of his team feels the same way; the silence and lack of any bodies besides the airlocked ‘survivors’ creates a tense environment. Ueda once more voices the desire to leave and bury the facility, to greater assent. Even Yasui considers it. Asashima is tempted, very tempted, but there is pressure from above he has to consider: the government demands substantial results from them. They want something exceptional. So he reassures them with a heavy heart and they press on.

Finally, they reach the end of the facility. The massive, stadium-size area has multiple branching catwalks. He knows it should be a treasure chest, like other black sites; here, it is a nightmare.

Multiple tanks are torn apart or upside down, as though a giant ruined their toys, and the mystery of the missing corpses is answered in the most gruesome way possible: they are all amalgamated together, in a Frankenstein creation straight out of 20th century cinema. There are eye sockets with claws growing out; open chests with bony outgrowths, a fusion of humanity and strange growths; arms dangling free of the pile at random areas, fingers long and bony; and mouths with fingernails for teeth. It is an abomination that cannot decide what it should be.

And it is dead and well-rotten. Soot-marked fire and holes share a story of desperate survival. Deep, imprinted footsteps lead to the end of the facility, gradually turning smaller. Asashima notices the amalgamation is bisected cleanly, though half is completely missing. He has the rest of the team go well around it, just in case. Tentatively, Asashima edges closer and uses his quirk. Flakes of bone and flesh dissolve away in dust—the only sort of tissues to stand the test of time.

The sights numb him in horror; this is like an awful horror movie, or some over-the-top video game, he thinks. He clings to the NBC unit’s purpose like a lifeline. Against his better judgment, he leaves the corpses as they are. He knows the government will wish to investigate the bodies.

It takes some more prodding, but the team goes deeper in. Asashima finds piles of scientific equipment, smashed beyond all recognition—but one: a cryogenics machine with glass completely iced over. The imprinted footsteps end there.

A severed hand is poised over the controls, reduced to tendons and bone. Asahima moves closer and uses his quirk on it. It fades to dust faster than anything else in the facility.

His heart feels joy for the first time in this operation; the machine alone makes the venture worthwhile. And who or whatever is in there will be the cherry on top. An old-world scientist would be invaluable. Preserved documents, a prototype, even some famous would-be VIP acceptable. A superhuman…is impossible. The facility is older than quirks, Asashima reminds himself again: the carnage must be because of some biological superweapon, made inert by the decay of generations.

There are explanations, he knows, and Japan will uncover them.

Chapter 5: One Last Ride Into The Sunset/The Land of the Rising Sun

Chapter Text

Chapter 5

Several Centuries Ago

“Captain Robert Cross. You have been summoned to this august body to give an honest accounting of Blackwatch and Gentek dealings, to the best of your knowledge. You are not and will not be subject to any investigation or censure. Please be as thorough as you can be,” says the heavy-set congressman, silence echoing in the chamber after his opening statement. The captain is stoic as grim faces belonging to the most powerful Congressional committees—Armed Forces to Appropriations—stare at him.

He knows this is his one true chance at redemption: ensuring the mistakes of Blackwatch are not repeated. He is sure the representatives will be his allies—some had started investigations into Blackwatch even before the outbreak.

Captain Robert Cross says, “Blackwatch was a top-down organization. It had—has—little to no regard for scientific ethics, national and state laws, or keeping to the promise of the Constitution. Soldiers and civilians were subjected to experiments: inhumane atrocities that yielded little to no practical results or evidence of long-term planning—these men and women were, in effect, little more than guinea pigs.

“The various experiment aims and goals were dictated by Randall and other non-scientific persons. Their policies led to wasteful use of funds and equipment.” His composure cracks for a moment: “They were playing darts—tens of millions of dollars of darts—with almost nothing to show for it.”

A different Congressman says, “What of CARNIVAL 1 and 2? The process for which—if I am not mistaken—led to the successful implementation of the D-Codes?” The thin, gangly, and focused individual is Gregory Smith, who looks with barely-restrained hunger in his bloodshot eyes.

“While the illegal human trials,” Captain Cross says, “went well, newer data indicates D-Codes will suffer from a host of maladies and organ failures in less than a decade; they all have an expiration date.”

Gregory Smith is unperturbed. “But Captain Cross. You were at the head of many forays into the outbreak zones—so tell me, how were D-Codes fairing against these…Hunters?” Shuffles his papers: “They weigh around half of a car. And—after action reports noted they could, pardon my bluntness, chew up an entire platoon without proper fire power.” Smith looks up, smiling: “So please tell me, from your own…experiences, how D-Codes helped stave off casualties?”

Captain Cross is perturbed. Hiding it—this should have been a reckoning against Blackwatch—he says, “In my experience, casualties were lower when D-Codes were present.” Raises a finger: “However, our most consistent casualty-reducing efforts came from the combined arms doctrine. D-Codes performed suboptimally against Hunters. D-Codes frequently suffered from friendly-fire incidents; close proximity to the infected is not ideal and is not needed with modern arms.”

“All very true—but the cost per D-Code is less than newer tanks or even javelin launchers. We’ve compared the costs of ammunition, training, and development.” Bloodshot-eyes wide, Smith holds up a summary: “It sure looks like D-Codes work damn well on a shoestring budget. Let soldiers sign waivers for the process. They should be f*cking glad to serve their country to its fullest extent.” Other Appropriations committee members signal their approval. Captain Cross can almost see the schemes they are devising to minimize blowback: bonuses; free healthcare, for the time they have left; better rates on home loans; and anything else that balances their balance sheets. He can hear mutters about the overall savings; soldiers were mindless dolls to them.

Captain Cross feels anger, hidden, ice-cold anger, as his worst fears come true. The questions take hours. The representatives are all the same.

“Hope, Idaho was a tragic mistake. From now on, all testing and development should be outside US borders.”

“Alex Mercer destroyed an entire strike team in under a few minutes. Could you imagine—the next Afghanistan and we have ten of him?”

“All organizations have dirty laundry, Captain Cross. We don’t need to hear about their failures. We need to hear about their damn successes.”

The representatives are all happy. Captain Cross sees them wave away the horrors and mistakes time and time again; latch onto positives like self-proclaimed wise men. His facade remains the same: a stony-eyed look that betrays away nothing.

He says nothing—too horrified to say anything—when he has a reprieve. He listens to different committees argue and debate each other: business-like, calm, careless like the crimes he confessed to were unfortunate little accidents. He wonders why he ever swore to defend them.

Captain Cross is silent as they discuss the merits of inflicting the virus on other people—not Americans.

Finally, the meeting comes to a close. It is his last chance that day—maybe ever—to convince them to turn back; to get them to understand how atrocious it all is.

Captain Cross says in his closing remarks, “It is my sworn duty as a soldier—and as a patriotic American—to uphold the Constitution to the best of my ability. And I have upheld my duty for decades. Distinguished members of Congress, I tell you the experiments done on US soil violated it to the utmost degree: often haphazard, always a clear and present danger to American citizens, always a violation of rights and dignity and humanity.” Takes a deep breath: “I believe continuing the program is not conducive to the safety of the nation.”

“You are correct, Captain Cross,” the heavy-set congressman says—was he finally being listened to? “Which is why we will move operations outside the country. No need to sh*t in our own backyard.” No. Nods and murmurers of agreement went around the room. He feels bile creeping up his throat; he wants to burn the uniform and everything it stands for.

Gregory Smith says, “Captain Robert Cross. Thank you very much for being here. We appreciate your feedback and insight.” Voice dismissive: “We will authorize a new project—and we will have the President’s approval. One hundred f*cking percent. Please prepare possible locations for yourself and Blackwatch; we’re all grateful for your loyalty and discretion.”

Another faceless, mindless, heartless Congressman speaks, conciliatory: “We understand how difficult this meeting is. You must understand the situation we face: desperate times are ahead. Our influence and manpower are waning; hostile nations will seek to take us by surprise. That cannot be allowed—but how can we pursue this further without endangering our people? Simple: Blackwatch’s biggest mistake was keeping this in-house. We see now the wisdom of operating these…experiments outside our borders—much like other…unsavory programs.”

The head chairman of the hearing clears his throat. He says, “Thank you for your service Captain Cross. The government is pleased to know good men remain in our forces. You are dismissed.”

“I serve at the behest and pleasure of my superiors and the United States government. Whatever the orders may be, I, and everyone at Blackwatch, are ready to obey.” In Cross’ eyes, a dark storm thunders: invisible to the representatives, cold, vindictive feelings morph into grim determination.

He had failed.

*****

As Cross exits the room, he takes out a notepad. He writes on it, keeps writing on it through his exit from the Capital; keeps writing on it through the train back to Blackwatch headquarters. In his temporary—and private—bunks, he stares at the list: names spanning several pages, crossing party and moral lines. He does not feel sick or like a traitor; he feels like a janitor cleaning up shop. A deep exhaustion fills him.

*****

Cross stares at his orders, their orders—Colonel Rooks is beside him. It is infuriating; with the destruction of Manhattan averted and clean-up operations well underway, the both of them believe their jobs are done: the spotlight has shined on them long enough. The time has come for Blackwatch to return once more to the shadows. Yet Fate and Congress have other plans.

Cross has kept secrets from the other man: his ‘alliance’ with Mercer most prominently. He knows that Colonel Rooks has an inflexible mindset: a world of black and white and orders. But the Redlight virus splashes color on that line of thinking; Rooks had been shaken when Cross had revealed the true origins of that virus and the disaster at Hope, Idaho. To an extent. Mercer’s disposal of a nuke has not lessened Colonel Rook’s opposition to that man. Which is a shame; Cross, upon learning hatred remains, had not tried to feel him out for further sympathies or discontent.

Part of Cross itches to try again after the latest news: Blackwatch has been titled ‘Saviors of Manhattan’. From being threatened with investigations to this farce, he thinks. And some political maneuvering—of which he knows only the barest glimpse of—has made Congress come up with a brilliant idea: to go all in with their organization. With some painful stipulations: more funds for Blackwatch, including its less ethical divisions. He reads the transparent message loud and clear; withholds a scream of rage as Committee members in both Houses seek to continue Blackwatch’s mission and biological experimentation.

The other attached message is no better: Blackwatch command is to undergo a restructuring, leaving those who knew its history, those who actually saved the city, a small group that can be counted on one hand. Two of whom were himself and Colonel Rooks, who is also in disbelief. At the orders, at what they represent: far from being horrified, Congress has taken a serious interest in the further development of certain Redlight and Blacklight strains; they see Manhattan as an unavoidable accident by a deranged scientist, rather than the result of decades of intentional harm and mismanagement. No one would really be punished in the end, Cross thinks.

“Sir, this isn’t right,” he says to Colonel Rooks. His superior has always valued honesty.

“Rarely do we have the luxury of determining right or wrong when we wear this uniform and swear our oaths. Blackwatch has eyes everywhere on it now.” We can’t afford to buckle the leash, is unsaid by Colonel Rooks. He answers the unspoken parts of Cross’ statement: the President and Congress want to restart everything.

This time however, it will be off American soil. The government does not want a repeat of New York City—at home. Japan is a pliable nation; some within call themselves a ‘Vassal State’ to the American Empire, a title no red, white, and blue blooded official will lose sleep about. Cross knows Blackwatch has already begun—under orders, in secret—construction of a new base in Iya Valley. The nation is the perfect testbed: islands, isolated by a few hundred miles from nearby countries; a culture which values conformity and obedience; and dense networks of cities and rapid travel throughout the country.

Colonel Rook stares at the embers dying out in the city, conflict striking across his face for a moment, then says, “If we won’t be there, there’s no one else to stop it. They’d continue with or without us.” Turns around to stare at Cross: “Our profession is not kind to those who don’t follow orders. Their retirements tend to be abrupt; final. You have your orders, and I have mine. Get to it, soldier. Dismissed.”

And with that, Captain Cross neatly salutes Colonel Rook as he walks past him.

After footsteps fade to nothingness, Cross reaches into his pocket. He hesitates—not for privacy concerns but moral—before pulling out a discrete recording device: similar to a MP3 player at a glance, but more secure. He initiates a new message.

Cross says to the device, “Mercer, they’re going ahead with the project. I did my part, but they didn’t listen to a damn word I said. I need you now, just as I needed you before. I’ll write the appropriate coordinates the usual way.” He references the dead drops set up between them. Pauses. The burden of his actions settle on his shoulders; he’s Atlas holding up the weight of a nation’s sins and failures. Saying with every ounce of uncomfortable sincerity: “Even if no one remembers what you did, I do. And so do some of the men. You won’t go it alone, I promise; when the time comes, you’ll have support. While we prepare for the trip…”

He tells Alex Mercer many things: the names of the representatives, others who supported and developed the plan, and the scientists slated to join the program will also be provided the usual way; and bluntly states on neutralizing the targets: anything is permitted, so long it couldn’t be traced to them.

“...Blackwatch units suffered heavy casualties from the fighting. Most are combat ineffective. What’s left and not aligned with us will be located at specific bases; the rest are coming with us.” Regret flashes across his face: “No one is going to admit an entire base of soldiers are dead. Use that. Good hunting.” The recording ends. He takes out his notepad and stares at the list.

Cross prepares the information for the dead drop. The documents will also have the next location for the deliveries. A few minutes later, he tucks it away safely in his coat. Thinks, whatever comes next, he prays he’d have the strength to see it through. He’s already spent the blood of Colonel Rook—it better be worth it. Enough good soldiers have died, and because of him, more will. The cost has to be worth it.

Chapter 6: Chapter Six: Packing The Bags/Getting The Tickets

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

Several Centuries Ago

Preparations for Colonel Rook and Captain Cross amount to reviewing maps and blueprints for the new Japanese base, from one in New York; the construction is handled by a joint operation between a Japanese building company and American overseers. The company is small and largely employs single men seeking to break into the lucrative foreign contract market—of whom most will be dead by the end of the project. Blackwatch is thorough in maintaining secrecy. They know the Japanese government is willing to stomach the sacrifices, having been sold a grand idea: America testing some kind of non-nuclear weapon to defend Japan.

Cross focuses on his own secret efforts: feeling out soldiers for their loyalties. The ones who know him personally or saw the worst fighting listen; the newer dregs hastily recruited in the aftermath of the conflict are…problematic. Blackwatch casualties were bad even with marine sacrifices—mostly because of Mercer—and what D-Codes remain are too indoctrinated. Loyalty was—and is—one of the key requirements of the program.

Regardless, his efforts bear fruit—though Colonel Rook does not realize it, half of the men are under his sole command. Cross has told them enough about Gentek and New York that they have no true love or loyalty left for Blackwatch. To honor his lost team and to differentiate his loyalists, he commissions a patch: the ‘Three Kings’ silhouetted by a sunset. When Colonel Rooks inquires of it, Cross plays it off; he says his soldiers are paying him homage for his long, storied history in the organization.

He also gives them copies of the book ‘The Wiseman’. Very on the nose, but the book reminds his soldiers what is at stake: not just America, but the whole world. He wants his men to understand the bigger picture, what they will be fighting and dying over. Cross leaves the base, wanting to see what they have already fought and died over.

Signs of resilient recovery are abundant in New York: bodegas are alive with civilian and military personnel, food carts with lines half a block strong; people with life in their eyes, laughing and talking loudly; and all saturated with viral detectors. This is what he fought—and fights—for. This is why he helped Alex Mercer. This city deserves to live. And he will make sure calamity never strikes again.

*****

Alex Mercer looks over the dead drop, commits it to memory, then burns it. After he cleans up the targets, he’ll head to Japan himself. Blackwatch understands how he operates; every soldier and scientist will be under constant watch, subject to random—even daily—blood and urine tests. So he’ll find another way, make his own entrance. But first—he has a long list of names that need to be crossed out.

*****

During his checklist and grocery shopping adventures, Mercer keeps thinking about how he’ll infiltrate the new facility. Security is tight; technically he’s never been declared dead, and it’s reflected in their operations: the military is keeping a close eye on all flights; viral detectors are becoming more widespread, not just for containment purposes; but some things stay the same—inept bureaucracy. It’s something he discovered when he tore through his targets and their pleas, as he hunted down the last remnants of Blackwatch and the bureaucrats enabling future atrocities: passengers are routinely screened, but not the pilots. They can bypass the entire process, and the co*ckpit is always free of those viral detectors.

The plan is simple: once he finds the right pilot, he’ll consume them; not just wearing their skin for a few hours, but for days on end. The irony that he’ll be transporting his enemies to their destination isn’t lost on him.

*****

Hotaru Bakugo, age 35: his grandmother came with her American husband to the mainland; has family in Japan but never contacted them, especially after getting into the military; no noteworthy actions, average piloting skills, enjoys tinkering with aircraft; survived Mercer’s rampage by virtue of not being there, one of the few Blackwatch personnel not in New York; involved in logistics, transporting sensitive Blackwatch personnel and equipment around the boroughs; and not a murderer or remorseless psychopath. Just a simple taximan who joined for the bigger paycheck.

As Alex Mercer sneaks inside a single story house, he sees much of it is bare though the man—Bakugo—has lived there for five years. Sporadic photos of family and acquaintances dot the few shelves. His room, however, has the real look into his personality: framed pictures of different aircraft, shelves with model planes; tacky bedsheets with explosions and more aircraft; a carefully folded American flag above the bed; and a small library of airplane history and technical documents. Then Mercer looks at the sleeping target.

He wants to know this man before he murders him in cold blood, before he becomes him. All of his targets make the world better with their passing. Enough sins to fill a church twice over. Mercer can fancy himself an avenger: a revenant sent to punish evil. But all he sees here is a baby-faced pilot snoring softly; the closest thing Blackwatch has to an innocent man according to all of his meticulous records and memories. Hell, Bakugo’s room is a testament to his undying love for all things aviation.

Alex feels heavy. Standing in this dark room, he looks at his hands: the hands that worked in science for decades; the hands that smashed vials of virus in a petulant and defiant last stand; the hands that tore apart man and machine. He’s tired of killing, of adding to the chorus of the damned in his body. Every cell vibrates with the memories of the dead. Every closed eyelid creates a visage of the human lives he never had nor never would—the mosaic of New York and beyond. Thousands of years worth of lifetimes; every flavor of emotions and life experience.

Alex wishes there is a better way: that f*cking Blackwatch will just stop. But they will not—and he can’t afford to either.

He looks at Bakugo. Mercer thinks of hundreds of ways to kill him—but remembers he is more than just a man: the power he holds can create better things. Harkening back to his experiments after he saved the city, he manipulates the viral mechanisms in himself. His body is a natural living furnace for evolution and change.

Alex creates an organic spray solution in his hands, then creates thin holes along his fingers. Using makeshift internal muscles, he slowly spritzes the chemicals around Bakugo’s body and face. As the liquid seeps into the skin and mouth, a smile begins to grow on the face of Mercer’s victim.

Blacklight, Redlight, it’s all the culmination of Blackwatch’s work, however awful its origins are; perhaps even the endpoint to Human evolution itself. Here, he utilizes the awe-inspiring power of genetics and evolution to give the man he is about to kill the best damn dream of his life. Mercer stimulates the parts of the brain where the happiest and most impactful memories reside. Bakugo’s body is overdosing on all of the feel-good chemicals it can safely produce. The viral vectors in the chemicals adapt to the victim’s body, creating a unique, one-of-a-kind singular experience.

It is beautiful.

Had Hotaru Bakugo lived to see the morning sun, he would have never forgotten this night. It would have changed him on a fundamental level.

But Mercer needs him: needs his skin, his memories, his credentials. The work isn’t done yet; the score isn’t settled, the danger to Humanity not over. Alex hopes this is one of the last sacrifices he’ll have to make to the altar of peace. Mercer fashions an arm into a needle conventional engineering can never create: biology always has ways of surpassing mechanical ingenuity. Alex aims it at the brainstem—pushes quickly—and impales his brain.

In his experiments with consuming others, Mercer had found he didn’t have to go fast: with experience and sufficient time, a slow consumption can be painless for himself and others. Subsuming memories slowly removes the pain and disorientation aspect, keeping a person alive while eating them—like many insects and animals do to their prey. But his victim here never has the taint of fear and the dread of death. Hotaru Bakugo simply falls into a pleasant, endless dream.

It is the least Mercer can do for him.

*****

Alex Mercer’s favorite haunt is Ragland’s hospital. Not many of the staff remain between trying to leave the city or dying during the outbreak. It makes it easier to sneak in to visit one of the few long term patients left: Dana, still the same, unchanging. The rise and fall of her chest gives him hope; the quiet footsteps and smell of the military uniform gives away his guest: Captain Cross.

The list is not yet crossed out. The latest dead drop only contained a simple message: a request for one final meeting in America, between enemies turned allies.

“Is her condition…the same?” Captain Cross says. His voice, unexpectedly, is full of sincere sympathy. He and Mercer have talked more than once about the loved ones once present in their lives.

Alex doesn’t turn his head, eyes remaining on Dana. Says: “There’s no sign of any virus—it’s like it’s gone dormant. Ragland keeps a good eye on her, but there’s only so much one man can do.” He turns fully to face Cross. “That’s why I’ve been developing my abilities—trying to find the fix myself I guess.” Now morose: “What the hell is the point of all this power? How does ripping apart a tank or knocking a helicopter out of the sky help—help Dana?”

Alex is angry. He says, “How does consuming others help the world? Murder begetting more murder—always. My—the virus’—powers don’t lend themselves to any good future, do they?” The last words exit in a yell. Mercer keeps himself in check by sheer willpower.

Cross eyes him strangely. Mercer wants to punch him. “So you’re dealing with the same issues regular humans do.” Alex blinks, anger falling to melancholy. Those aren’t words he ever expected to come out of the captain’s mouth; he’s a military man through and through. “Strip away everything: power, names, origin. And you end up asking the big question everyone asks—what do I do with the talents I have? Some people spend their entire lives trying to figure it out.”

“Then what’s our end goal? Do we just keep killing until they get the bright idea to stop?” Alex laughs sharply. “What is our long term goal? Hell, what’s my long term goal? As far I know, I’m immortal—in every way that matters. What comes after this?” Mercer is as low as he’s ever been. Before, there were always tasks, short term crises to stave off emotional introspection. Now, he was beset by too much time and not enough action.

Captain Cross says, “As far as I know from Blackwatch briefings, you always wanted to leave a mark; it didn't matter what kind of mark: good or bad. A legacy, get yourself into some sort of medical textbook. Obviously—you did. Not just in the way you wanted to.

“The impact you leave should always be a net positive—in its addition or removal. You’re not the man you were before Penn Station. You have the right and opportunity to change where your life goes from here—you deserve it.” The kind words hit Alex hard. Captain Cross sounds like he knows what he’s saying.

With the memories Alex has from soldiers, there was always a sergeant, a captain, someone who took broken down soldiers and brought them back up. For better or worse, part of him is one of Captain Cross’. Even before he became something…less and more than human, no one but his sister has ever said anything like that: everyone always wanted something from him. The Mercer before Penn Station ignored the rumors he was a sociopath; he knew the truth: he shut the world out, and took whatever he wanted from it. It was the only way he survived, in foster care or with an alcoholic mother. It was always him and Dana against the world.

“…Sometimes I feel like a hive mind rather than a person,” Alex Mercer says. Admitting it feels like pulling teeth and fingernails. But Cross paid him a kindness; he seeks to return it with raw honesty: “For the thousands I’ve consumed, from infected or not, they were all unique. Bright stars. Always the heroes of their story—and all met tragedy at my hands.

“That’s the curse I possess: taking someone’s life and memories and seeing exactly who they were, how they felt; I alone carry the weight of their dreams, their traumas, their burdens. No one can speak for them like I can. You want to know how dense I am, inside? All the biomass I’ve accumulated—every step cracks the pavement if I’m not careful. Every leap creates a crater. But what’s up here?” Mercer shifts a finger into a claw, and points it to his head. Says with weariness: “It’s far heavier up here.”

Mercer takes a breath he doesn’t need. Facsimiles of organs that do nothing but give false assurances to Alex Mercer that he is still a human being. At least Cross keeps his captain’s silence, letting ‘his’ soldier empty all of his worries to him.

“I can’t forget them: they are as fundamental to me as Alex Mercer the scientist was. They’re embedded in a hive mind of one. I am a legion of damned souls. Thousands of minds at my disposal, every skill and language imaginable.” As he speaks, he gets louder, pacing faster; he moves like a tiger on the prowl, stalking his past.

“I don’t want their sacrifices to go in vain—no matter who they were or what they did. Even Blackwatch. Something good has to come from this.” At that, he deflates. All the manic, tense energy exists at once. “How many orphans will I make with the list you’ve given me? How many unwanted memories will I gain? Consuming so many people—I understand them better than I know myself.

“Am I a shadow, taking on the form of others—rather than my own? Am I going to end up addicted to the memories of those I consume, lost in people I’ve taken?” Cross stares at him, resolutely.

Once hated enemies, now trusted allies. It’s perplexing how life puts the strangest people in the most unlikely of circ*mstances. Captain Cross says, confidentially: “It was you who gave me a different path—to find the evidence to turn against Blackwatch. It was you, Dr. Alexander J. Mercer, who stopped Greene. It was you who saved the city from a scared madman’s last gambit.” The captain continues, pushing through any words or half-aborted gestures from Mercer.

“No one will ever know. No one will ever believe us. You. Me. Ragland. And my select men. We are the only ones who know the real truth—and that’s enough for me. Our work was always in the shadows. We didn’t come here to be recognized. We came here to do the right damn thing.” Captain Cross’ eyes are full of silver, soldier steel. He speaks as though every word is an immutable fact. Uncontested by any moral being. Mercer feels the words fill him with determination.

Alex Mercer clasps arms with Captain Robert Cross. “I promise we’ll never stop, Cross. No matter what stands before us. To the bitter end.”

Chapter 7: Chapter Seven: His Last Mission/The King Under The Mountain

Chapter Text

Happy 4th of July!

Chapter 7

Several Centuries Ago

The sounds of cicadas. The smells of ocean air and fish. They are finally in Japan, after a speedy twelve-hour flight. If Mercer had proper muscles, they'd be aching; as it is, he's always feeling refreshed.

Complaints and groaning abound on the jet-lagged company. The bulk of the soldiers do not share his feelings.

Down below, Mercer sees the sheer scope of Blackwatch's operations, the result of additional Congressional funding and sanction: an entire airport had been created in the middle of nowhere. There is only one road, though. A dirt path leading up to a manned gate. The rest of the airport isn't fit for tourism either. Speed and a low-profile were prioritized over quality during construction. Mercer can guess why: the 'airport' itself can easily be removed from sight and dismantled.

The rumors Alex had heard, piloting the plane during the trip, mainly concern the facility they are all bound to go to. The men had said it was fully prepped and prepared in a few months. To Mercer, it is almost like they'd planned everything out already. If he wasn't suspicious before, he damn well is now.

Even with those he had consumed, the information was compartmentalized to hell and back. Thankfully, he doesn't need to kill any more soldiers in order to infiltrate the facility. He is to remain with the main facility convoy. A task awaits him. Colonel Rooks wants the 'pilot' to understand how and where to land on future occasions. Despite supplies mostly being transported by truck, key personnel and shipments will require a stealth helicopter.

…Understanding the stealth screening and elevator controls is one of Mercer's objectives. It's been handed to him on a platter by his enemy. Never has he been so grateful for his twisted abilities. This is his in. Before anything will be created, he'll slice the tumor from the source.

Captain Cross had put in his own work swaying some of the men most open to him, but the D-Codes were too loyal and indoctrinated. It had paid off, still. Half of the force is on 'their' side. It makes other objectives easier. Mercer's priority is the scientists and what samples they have already started to develop. Everything else, everyone who shoots at him later, can come next.

By the time he's through, nothing will be left of Blackwatch or Gentek's legacy.

*****

Cross is in front of the convoy with Colonel Rooks. All their trucks and equipment are in single file. He's been debriefed on new developments during their ride to the facility, troubling ones. He desperately needs to reconvene with Alex. The view slips from his churning mind—he can admire the scenery when it's time to rest. Iva Valley is infamous for its natural terrain and lack of modern infrastructure. Those features also keep out prying eyes.

Many of the D-Codes forgo the trucks completely, leaping from ravine to ravine, scouting for any hints of intruders or spies. The men in the convoy differ majorly: there are those with the Three Kings' patches and those without. The former are more sullen. The latter do not notice; they chat normally. The divide isn't apparent to most soldiers, unless they pay close attention. For all the paranoia Blackwatch likes to instill into operatives, the camaraderie among fellow soldiers makes them lax. But Cross' people know they'd be shooting their old friends soon.

…The convoy takes a break with the sweltering weather beating down on them. Rations and water are handed out as operatives drift into familiar groups. Captain Cross makes an effort to bolster resolve for his troops. He knows what they'll be sacrificing: loyalty, oaths, even themselves. As Cross makes his rounds in the makeshift camp, Colonel Rooks stays to coordinate with the bunker over the radio. A skeleton crew is already in place.

Cross is suddenly tapped on the shoulder. Turning around, swiftly to see who snuck up on him, his eyes widen. He recognizes who the other man is: the pilot he and Mercer had agreed is their best option. He locks eyes, feeling the weight of regret and command push him down further. The pilot's irises shift from a dark brown to a vibrant blue.

It is most definitely Mercer.

"Lieutenant Bakugo…it's a pleasure. That was some steady flying, even through the weather." Cross starts up some small-talk. It's the most he and Mercer can do, here. Regulations, born out from fear and paranoia of that man, prevent them from leaving line-of-sight. Or earshot. But they're both old hands at this game. They've devised a code of sorts. A simple one. All that's required is understanding the true context.

Mercer-in-disguise says, "I've had many teachers. I wouldn't be who I am today without them." All of Mercer's teachers were consumed during the Manhattan outbreak. Some of them were Gentek scientists, of course.

"Naturally, son. Those who came before gave us the knowledge and wisdom we use to reach greater heights. And it's our duty to help those who come after. Perhaps you'll enjoy teaching one day, eh?" Translation: those deceased scientists had students and peers, publications—censured, but distributed—and connections. Not all perished in Manhattan.

"Can't see myself as a professor, sir. Too many students, they'll just blend together—I'd want to know them, person-to-person." Nearby, a couple soldiers with certain patches tense up at what the 'pilot' says. They know enough to put Mercer's identity together, but not enough to guess at the true conversation.

"There's always standouts in each group. Geniuses, social butterflies, hard-workers." Translation: Cross says some of those scientists are good. Really good.

"…Perhaps I'm being unfair. Blackwatch skewers my perceptions. Everyone here is exceptional. I've enjoyed the company on the trip." The sincere compliment takes back some of those within earshot, and they relax.

"Then you'll enjoy the facility, lieutenant. We've got some bright people already there. Maybe you'd like a chat with some of them? I've heard—and this is between you and me—that our bosses are mighty impressed with them. There might be a show-and-tell in the near future." Translation: Cross says that Mercer doesn't understand how good the scientists are; they're in the bunker and are already on the cusp of achieving a breakthrough.

"Sounds exciting. Is security prepared to handle the event?" Mercer says. Translation: his hopes for a clean coup have gone down the drain, like the errant vial crashing to the ground in Penn Station. Both of them have a deadline. They need to choose—should they wait or try to grab the research first?

"The defense systems are fully operational. You and the other soldiers will receive a briefing when you arrive, on its workings, but you wouldn't mind if I gave you one now, would you son?"

"No, sir. I appreciate it, sir."

"Smart choice, lieutenant. Wouldn't want you accidentally plastering yourself on the walls. Security isn't willing to take chances with the nature of the…experiments. They've learned some lessons after Manhattan. With the money thrown at them, they've been able to put them in practice. Fingerprints, passwords, retina scans—none of that really matters. Oh, you'll encounter that here and there. We wouldn't want to get sloppy, now would we?"

"…Of course not, sir." Mercer takes the subtle jest in stride, along with the more important details. Cross hides his own pleasure. Some humor helps the mind.

"Exactly, son. But to get to the point, most of our systems will require a two hundred and fifty six bit encrypted DNA sequence. In other words, blood is what matters. Let the programs worry about storing it digitally. When you enter the facility, the doctor there will take a blood sample and you'll be registered for your appropriate clearance."

"I've never liked needles," Mercer says, asking subtly.

"Don't worry, lieutenant Bakugo. The doctor's good." Translation: Cross says the doctor is one of theirs.

And with that, nothing more is said. They enjoy the quiet silence. Soon, the break ends. All that's left is the end of the road.

*****

They have to move the soldiers and equipment sequentially. Mercer sees how the exposure makes Captain Cross uneasy. Everyone does double-time loading the elevators, which reach deep into the earth, all the way to the facility.

As one of the few officers, Mercer is on the first one down. Glancing back, he sees Captain Cross in the middle of the men and Colonel Rooks himself bringing up the rear.

…Enough time for a little exploration, then. The first bunch of soldiers wear the King's Men patches, and they evidently know who he is. They give him space despite the cramped quarters. Even with the truth, it doesn't change the fact that many of their friends in Blackwatch were killed in New York. By him personally. But they're professional enough to not let it show past the stiff postures and silent judgment.

As soon the elevator halts and the doors open, the soldiers immediately leave, in a sudden rush to put away vehicles and equipment. Mercer holds back a chuckle. It's tragic, but he'd rather laugh than despair at the lack of trust. At least, to anyone not named Cross. He's not some monster straining against his leash.

Still, everyone pays extra attention to their duties, ignoring his languid walk. The facility is open to him. The doctor above-ground made sure of it, including him when taking samples of blood from the entire convoy. It's amusing in a weird way: millions spent on developing new technologies, political factions in Congress throwing their weight behind Blackwatch, and the security's all subverted by a handful of people. The weak links in any system.

Or the strongest, when it comes to doing the right thing.

The funding's most obvious in the sparseness of the place. It's massive and reminds him of a parking garage, stripped of spirit to pure utilitarianism. There's no markings. No human touches. It's absent from even the symbols militaries and secret organizations love to plaster everywhere.

…Mercer's back in front of the elevators by the time Captain Cross arrives, with the majority of the soldiers. Casually, he falls into step beside him. There'll be another briefing soon, here, with everyone in attendance.

"Real cozy accommodations, sir." Mercer says to Cross under the cover of soldier and machine clamor. Asking: did you notice what I noticed?

"Indeed, lieutenant. The facility is better than I expected…Blackwatch has certainly improved in its fortification capabilities." Cross shares Mercer's discomfort. The facility is too well made, too sturdy. Even before New York, Blackwatch couldn't build this fast. It's another mystery to unravel. But first, the two of them have to keep their eyes on the prize. Answers can come later.

They watch the soldiers prepping the bay. Mercer knows, with all of his memories, that a good chunk of them are doing sloppy work. He mentions that to Captain Cross.

Cross grimaces. "We've had a lot of casualties recently, son. Too many senior or veteran soldiers dead. Congress wants to fill our ranks, but the branches are reluctant to send their best. They see us as a threat to their funding. Nevermind the billions they receive annually. There's nothing to do but grab some warm bodies and build a new group around a solid core." The captain looks pained at that. Even though he's a traitor by technicality, he's military through and through. The declining standards must hurt him right where his rank is.

"Have there been any…culture issues?"

"…Yes. The new men, especially. Some of them might be unfit for this company."

A sudden clang announces the last arrivals, ending their conversation. The group that arrives marches to their own triumphant score, boots pounding the floor and engines roaring. At the front is Colonel Rooks, the poster-child of the military man, flanked and guarded by the last detachment of D-Codes left in the world. But not for long. They're burly, heavily armored, and more deadly with the new additions to the gear: someone finally had the bright idea to give them vehicle guns and rockets if they're so strong. No more hand-to-hand combat. Machine guns and modified weapons were their new doctrine.

They make for an intimidating sight. Alex is already calculating how to kill them.

Colonel Rooks shouts for attention. His roar echoes throughout the sparsely-filled facility, all the louder for its emptiness. The last soldiers pivot into the formation of waiting men and wait.

"Parade, rest." Mercer spreads his feet by a foot and interlocks his hands behind his back, like everyone else. "This facility is your home for the next three hundred and sixty-five days," Rooks says. "It has no name, because it does not exist. You will not find it on any map. Secrecy is our highest priority. Our orders come straight from the Commander-in-Chief and Congress. You will follow them exactly. There is no margin for error, mediocrity, or slacking. Do you understand?"

"Sir, yes, sir!" the soldiers say. Mercer joins in, amused as Captain Cross subtly eyes him. His ears are good enough to notice only half the room responds with heart. Rook paces, unaware, his controlled demeanor uplifting his fellow soldiers, and just his fellow soldiers.

"We held the line in New York. The line here is these doors. Nothing gets to the elevator. Inside or outside. Do you understand?"

"Sir, yes, sir!" Mercer subtly eyes Captain Cross as both yell those words. He finds the speech deeply ironic.

"In a week's time, you will come to understand that this facility is our last fortress. The soldiers beside you are your only allies. Your only family. They need you. Blackwatch was devastated by the Outbreak and Alex f*cking Mercer himself. But now we face a new threat. An entity codenamed ZEUS." Colonel Rook pauses. His face is pained. He twists around in a remnant of a soldier's funeral march, escorting the valiant dead. "I have received word…that the detachments not with us have been wiped out by ZEUS."

The grim news ripples through the assembled soldiers. Many of them—bereft of the Three King's patches—cry out, breaking decorum, stomping their feet in anger and vengeance. The veterans stand still with a deadly edge, but Mercer knows they feel relieved to have picked the winning side. So far. Just like he knows that many of those angry newcomers have goosebumps, fearful and understanding their luck to be here. For now.

Captain Cross, the D-Codes, and Mercer himself are the least reactive, though he too puts on an external display of grief.

Colonel Rooks lets the display occur for a moment, before his gaze hits every corner of the room. The soldiers melt back into formation. Gracious, he doesn't rebuke them with words. Mercer can guess why. The outpour increases the social cohesiveness of the group and boosts their morale for a time. Rooks will have to correct their discipline soon, however, when he drills them. It's a fine line to walk, when locked inside a secret facility with an army for the next year.

"…There's enough circ*mstantial evidence that we believe it may have been the work of Alex Mercer. But enough speculation. Make no mistake. We are the last people America can truly depend on. ZEUS is our number one threat to the facility. We will ensure the entity does not survive a visit here." No defense can win against someone already inside, Mercer thinks. "About, face." Mercer turns around with everyone else, stolen lifetimes executing the movement perfectly. Colonel Rooks walks to the new front, escorted by D-Codes. "Forward, march. Follow me."

Conveniently, Captain Cross and 'Lieutenant Bakugo' are near the rear of the column. Cross' men surround them, an island to plot conspiracy.

Colonel Rooks narrates on the facilities in the tunnel. He has no fear of being ignored. His voice echoes, reaching every soldier over the drumbeat of boots and engines. They pass the barracks, armory, and infirmary: all furnished in more utilitarianism. The aesthetic pervades every square inch. There are offices for scientists and NCO personnel. Hints of personality or personal touches are absent there, too.

Rooks points out defensive emplacements every so often. The turrets are all pointed to the company's final destination.

…The tunnel is very long. Most of it is endlessly bare. Mercer gets why this facility is large enough to accommodate tanks and vehicles: easy transportation for soldiers; and an invader's nightmare going through long, open hallways.

That thought plays on repeat in his head. Back near the elevators, the facility was shining new. But the more they walk, the duller and grimier the tunnel gets. Almost like it's getting older and older. As though most of it was built years ago.

But his suspicions have to wait for another time.

They arrive at the airlock. A sign in big, bold text denotes it as 'AIRLOCK 1'. Colonel Rooks calls them to halt. With his eagle-eyes, Mercer sees Rooks use his keycard.

Heavy, grinding sounds emit from the doors. No alarm. There's no need—nothing's going to sleep through the racket. Alex isn't even sure if he can crack them open by himself. But he can always go around: drilling through the tunnels or walking in with Blackwatch.

Frosty winds meet them as the massive doors finally halt, opened wide. The airlock is cold and stinging with decontamination procedures. They're packed together like sardines, but every soldier and vehicle fits inside.

It makes Alex uneasy. As much progress as he's made rediscovering his humanity, the press of the crowd like a New York subway before…everything isn't comforting. Captain Cross catches his eyes and sends a reassuring nod.

The column soon spaces out again, as they make their way further into the facility. Civilian personnel dart in and out of rooms, some in lab coats, pressing themselves to the side when the large group passes by. Mercer hears quiet conversations above the din of boots and wheels. The shine of the new home has worn off, and bored soldiers talk and voice their opinions.

"Nothing is getting in or out, believe me. You'd need an army and some of God's angels to break into this place," one voice says.

"Give John some spicy gumbo and we'll be hoping Satan breaks us out."

"f*ck off," a third voice says. "I hope ZEUS sneaks in and makes all your socks wet."

"Ain't nobody coming near here but a stray hiker." The second voice is very sure of himself.

…The talks stop as their final destination appears, an awed hush filling the column. The end of the facility opens up into an area the size of a sports stadium. Underneath bright white, fluorescent lights, the empty space is filled with tanks, golf carts for quick travel, and swathes of scientific equipment. Mercer spots tubes in protective enclosures, command consoles running watchdog services, quarantine squares, mobile decontamination rooms, and a laptop in the back giving six coded messages for a simulation. At the entrance, a nearly-overshadowed, motley group of scientists present themselves.

Surrounded by screens of men, Captain Cross and Alex exchange a glance: this is what I meant, Mercer, the scientists are doing good work. And yet, this is too fast. The construction, the aged material, the progress, all of it. Alex goes through possibilities like paths down a maze, shifting left and right between truths he doesn't want to believe and secrets he doesn't know.

Cross had said Japan agreed to host Blackwatch for some would-be defense weapon. A futuristic technology without nukes. Alex…believes that, in a different way now. He doesn't think they're so naïve. But there's something he's missing, he knows that.

He doesn't know enough to unravel the truth. And he doesn't want to risk spending more time.

"So when does the exciting afterparty start, fireworks and all?" Mercer says to Captain Cross, quietly, asking the important question: When do we kill half the room?

"After we hear the quarterback's speech, lieutenant. The shiny equipment looks impressive. But I'm betting the presentation's going to bore you." Translation: hold until they've received updates from the scientists. The sterile lighting reflects across Cross' steely jaw, teeth grinding together. Mercer knows that Cross is exercising patience. The captain doesn't like this anymore than he does. It's not adding up, and for a man used to being on the other side, the turnaround is grating. They need to know more. Reluctantly, Alex concedes with a nod that listening might be the better choice.

…Colonel Rooks spends the better part of ten minutes giving introductions and an orientation. The previous ones were about safety and security. This one concerns living underground for a year, with only health-mandated visits in the sun. Rooks especially emphasizes culture and camaraderie. It's not a bad speech, Mercer admits.

Then Doctor Murray Smith is given the stage. The white lights emphasize the bags underneath his bloodshot eyes. His lab coat looks two sizes too big, hanging off of his gangly figure. And the man has a nervous twitch in his left pinky—Alex had seen him move it whenever Colonel Rooks mentioned possible VIP visits.

"Blackwatch must have been working those poor boys and girls hard," Cross says with some sympathy. His voice is a whisper. "Turnover is always rough on those left to pick up the slack."

"True, sir. They should consider asking for a reposting."

"Wouldn't we all, lieutenant."

Mercer and Cross stand in comfortable silence as the scientist begins talking. Immediately, it's clear the man was hired solely for his technical skills. If Mercer is feeling kind, he'd say the man is better talking face-to-face. But in front of a crowd, the man is painful to listen to. His voice is monotonous, alternating only to be too loud or too quiet. There's too many filler sounds. And the terms aren't at a vocabulary meant for the average lay-person.

But Mercer isn't there to embarrass the man, whose pinky is shaking like a leaf. He listens carefully to the gems hidden in the poor speech. The soldiers, both Cross' men and Rooks', have much less tolerance. They're in the practiced posture of professional boredom. The jargon goes straight over their heads. The men are smart, but they don't spend their free time reading dissertations.

Mercer has. Did. His own pedigree and consumed knowledge makes him in a league of his own. It makes him wonder what black box Blackwatch pulls these scientists from. He consumed the ones he could without notice, but maybe…he should consider a different approach. Like finding their recruiters and encouraging retirement.

"This is…quite intriguing, sir. I think you're going to lose the bet."

"We never agreed formally on that, son. And I'm afraid I don't understand what's so great about this speech."

"It bores you, sir?"

"A bit."

"Don't worry, sir. You're near the exit. Some soldiers might be jealous."

At those words, Cross glances at Mercer, shadows dancing across a blank, dangerous look etched on his skin. In the light, Bakugo's face appears heroic with a fiery gaze and slightly mad grin. Alex is up in serious bloodlust about ending everything now.

"Let's try to make it an orderly exit," the captain says.

Mercer doesn't respond. Doctor Smith is closing his speech. For the first time, his words are clear. His left pinky settles down. The scientist is unaware of the enemies in his midst, instead glad to end the presentation.

"…In recap: preliminary experiments under these unique circ*mstances and equipment have yielded results beyond expectations. The data on mammals with a close DNA relation to humans has proved promising. Ahem, we at Blackwatch regret the tragic sacrifices of those animals, and promise that their last days were spent in great luxury." Mercer sees the man crane his neck to the side, mouth: sentimental Congress policies. "We are now ready for human trials. By retrieving pieces of ZEUS' DNA across various battlefields, seeing it evolve over the duration of the outbreak, and comparing it with the corpse of the construct Elizabeth Greens created, we have been able to create a synthesis of both subjects. The test subject has been disposed of, but the modified Redlight virus had an observable increase in mutations and speed in hijacking the host's body, compared to before. With enough time and funding, we can one day create a soldier suited for any job or conflict imaginable."

Colonel Rooks starts clapping politely, soon with everyone else joining in. Mercer looks up, seeking refuge in the simplicity provided by light, that simple banishment of darkness, before locking doused-maniac eyes with Cross.

"You want orderly…sir?"

"Yes."

"Alright." And with that, Mercer marches out of formation. The first step is like a drum. The second, third, and fourth give it a warrior's beat. He's near the back. He's going to the front. No one stops him.

A change ripples in the room, slowly. Each foot dims the applause. Columns he passes turn their gazes to him. Half of the soldiers are placid, because Mercer walks with purpose. An agent of Blackwatch interrupting a presentation must have something important to say. It's happened to him before, on the other end.

Cross's men are all razor-focused now. The island that surrounded Cross and Mercer also surrounds the exit. And other things—the vehicles in the back, technicals and trucks.

The captain had positioned his men like a man in an alley preparing his knife. But he's hesitating. He wants everything done 'orderly'. The D-Codes aren't the reason. Mercer is confident he can take care of them with minimum casualties. It's the betrayal itself.

When Mercer reaches the front, Colonel Rooks is waiting in silence. Puzzled, but wearing a serious façade. His shadow bridges the gap between them.

"Lieutenant," Rooks says quietly, clasping his hands behind his back. A faint tone of questioning is in his voice. Dr. Smith takes the opportunity to fade into the group of scientists.

"Sir. I believe there's something you need to know." Mercer says, voice pitched to every ear underneath the earth. A part of him enjoys the dramatic theater now that he has to play it.

"Report." Rooks raises his volume to match Alex. The colonel is frowning. He can no longer screen the information from the men, whatever it may be. The act is petty and satisfying.

"You have…failed your mission. Sir."

"…Lieutenant?"

"The current mission." He tilts his head in mock-concern. "To make this place a last bastion against ZEUS. A last bastion to experiment with the Redlight virus. You have—failed, sir."

…Mercer lets his disguise fall slowly. Horrified silence. He grows into a figure just taller than Rooks.

All at once, every soldier co*cks a gun or heavy weapon. Horrified silence. Half of them, Cross' men, are pointing at their fellow soldiers—rifles for humans, heavy weapons and turrets for the D-Codes.

Mercer's tendrils leisurely re-assemble clothing, muscular, and bone. Spikes, armor, and claws form in gruesome seconds, as soldiers watch with their hearts in their throats. The only sounds audible are the echoing roars of vehicles in a closed room.

And another man marching to the front. Captain Cross' stride is impeccable. The steady thump of boots on polished stone draws more eyes than the panicked soldiers—who have no idea why they have guns pointed at them—or the wrathful colonel. He's the only one in motion for agonizing seconds. Mercer is staring at Rooks with a wild grin. Rooks stares at Mercer in despair then in professional grimness.

"Alex Mercer," Rooks says, matter-of-fact.

That too cracks when Captain Cross stops next to Alex and stands side-by-side. Rooks' face twists and warps, transcending grief to rage in heartbeats.

"Traitor."

Captain Cross takes the condemnation without flinching. "Colonel Rooks," he says, "you and your men are asked to surrender. You have violated the Constitution. You have violated local law. You will be detained as prisoners until other accommodations are available."

"You f*cking betrayed—" Rooks pauses. Mercer is disappointed—he would have liked to hear the man yell and scream. But instead, the colonel forces himself to look around. The bright lighting shows frightened soldiers and the turncoat looking right back. Alex can guess what he's seeing: Blackwatch agents.

"You," Colonel Rooks forces the vitriol down his throat, "were the best of us, Captain Cross. An example to every soldier and Blackwatch agent. Don't tarnish…your legacy this way. Your men's. Where did this disloyalty come from? You know what America does to traitors. Your men must know that their families will bear the brunt of retribution. Always outsiders. Always the stranger from a bad name.

"Look at the soldier next to you." Rooks turns to address the lost half of his men. "The one you would fight. Kill. Look into his eyes. Do it! Do you see a burning hatred of America? Do you see a disdain for its people? No! It's love for our country. He feels the same way you do. The entire room feels the same way you do. Don't let Alex Mercer trick you like he did Cross." The hate is clear to Mercer—Rooks doesn't believe Alex tricked the captain. But the men love him. So Cross is portrayed as a fallen hero. "Do what you want to do. Do what your fellow soldiers want to do. What everyone wants to do besides ZEUS. Side with humanity."

Overall, Mercer thinks, it's not a bad appeal for an improvised and sudden speech. Colonel Rooks is trying to fight against the takeover—coup, really—by subtly starting a new one: the most important step, always, is convincing people that the majority are on one particular side. It's a catch-22: if enough people believe it, it becomes true. And if it's true, it's because enough people believe it. Rooks is trying to shepherd them by establishing a common ground, then portraying his side as the logical conclusion.

But Captain Cross has the truth and hardened veterans. And of course, a superstar witness. Mercer lets the two of them battle with words, content to play the silent terror with amusem*nt. "I am siding with humanity. Blackwatch has not. The US government has not." Captain Cross turns away from Rooks. The light casts the paternal affection for every soldier in stark view. Even the ones with a gun to their heads. Especially them. "The virus which ravaged New York City did not come from a foreign lab. It was not a foreign terrorist attack. It was not a natural disaster. It was not foreign or natural—because it was the product of our own government.

"They tested it on tricked soldiers and unaware civilians." Captain Cross' voice is sincere in its anger. Light casts his shadow far. Mercer discreetly adjusts a light stand with a tendril so that it stretches to the first column, larger than any man. No one notices the subtle creak, besides the scientists. "They wiped away an entire population to hide their sins, when the monster they sought to chain turned against them. Do you believe…they learned their lesson? When the town they destroyed lies in ruins?"

A horrible sort of understanding appears on many of Rook's men, a sort of violent and instinctual denial. In some ways, it's fortunate Cross and Mercer waited until after the scientist had finished presenting. Dr. Smith had mentioned some keywords: human trials and a disposed test-subject. That sort of language isn't forgotten in a day, let alone minutes. And sort of language makes it easier to jump to certain conclusions. Especially when it was true.

"No. They learned nothing. New York City wasn't the first damn containment breach. Years before, Blackwatch abandoned its central tenet—to stop all foreign and domestic biological or chemical threats—the day command failed to take responsibility for their own unethical experiments. Blackwatch abandoned it twice-over, the day General Randall, fearful and desperate at Blackwatch's failures in New York City, launched another attack: a goddamn nuke. At you." Captain Cross meets the eyes of certain, 'bad culture-fits'. "Yes soldier, even you. You were—and are—worthless to the monsters who run Blackwatch. Your family is not cared for. Colonel Rooks says families will be treated worse for birthing traitors? General Randall would have killed them, along with every civilian, military personnel, and Blackwatch itself just to keep himself safe for a little longer. The Outbreak would have never stopped." He lets the silence linger for a moment.

"Is this what we have fought and died for?"

Half the soldiers don't answer. They're silent. But that doesn't matter—the "No, sir, no!" from the veterans disperses it. And Rooks' coup with it—his subtle, feeble wool about the majority is shattered. The roar is in every ear. The roar comes from the stronger half of the room.

"Did we all sign up to serve a single man, a king?"

"No, sir, no!"

"No! We joined because we understand that the individual should sacrifice for the sake of all. We understand that Greene shouldn't have escaped from a skyscraper in the heart of Manhattan, before Penn Station, when one of us would have been thrown in a bunker cell with no keys. And we understand that our superiors created an entire biological weapons program in one of the most populated cities in the world."

"…They failed their duty, of course. They sought to wipe the slate clean. And they would have succeeded—if it weren't for Alex Mercer, our enemy at the time. He saved the city. He tore out the heart of the infection almost single-handedly. He was the one who enacted justice on war criminals and violators of humanity when no one else would."

Mercer sees the speech ripple throughout the soldiers. For the first time since getting on-stage, he believes the quiet approach may actually have been the best choice. Cross' veterans are resolved. Rook's men are wavering. Some have already given up. They were at a disadvantage to begin with, and now they lack the morale to push through.

"Mercer stopped the outbreak. I helped him stop General Randall from killing us all." Captain Cross turns to Colonel Rooks. Says: "Colonel Rooks, I must ask you again. Stand down. My men know their path is right and are in better position. Yours doubt the cause, are outgunned, and surrounded." In truth, the normal soldiers are effectively neutralized. More and more are giving up. It is the D-Codes that Mercer has his eyes on, along with a significant chunk of Cross's men aiming at the hulking threats. As if seeking to dispel the last bit of tension, the captain says, "And of course, Alex f*cking Mercer is on my side."

…Colonel Rooks clenches his fists. Mercer sees the grimace in the man's face as he chews his tongue. Weighs his options. Then the fire in his eyes douses. Rooks' entire body loses its fight and sags. "All units, stand down." The words are met with slacking bodies and the multitude clicks of gun safeties. "Captain Cross, if I may?" Cross nods, relief visible in his eyes. Mercer knows this is what he hoped for. And privately, Mercer's glad that it worked out. It's the…humane approach. "This operation is over. You are relieved from our original mandate. Your new orders are to scrub the facility and wipe our presence clean. High command will be informed that ZEUS got here before we did." Underneath his booming voice, the resigned tone of Colonel Rook's voice seeps through. "Captain Cross will provide more details."

"Yes sir," Captain Cross says, light illuminating the barest hint of a smile. "If we're going to do this, Colonel, we'll do it properly. This facility will be rigged to collapse. An avalanche will be engineered to completely seal it off. High yield explosives from the armory are required. The investigation team will receive a report about ZEUS and find no inaccuracies."

The veterans take over from there. They direct the soldiers they previously held at gunpoint, who obey with a trust that will never be recovered. And a disbelief that it's all over. The D-Codes are tasked with transporting supplies. Eyes hidden by a shadow covering the top half of his face, Colonel Rooks turns away slightly. He addresses Cross: "I hope you're ready for the consequences of your actions."

"I always am, sir."

Mercer loses the transformation, once more Lieutenant Bakugo. "For what it's worth, Rooks, this was the right decision. I'm…glad we don't have to fight."

"Are you?" Rooks doesn't wait for an answer. "It doesn't matter. I didn't do this for you or Cross. I'm doing it for them." He nods at the young, loyal soldiers. "I won't have them join the ones you murdered in New York." And with that, he begins to march back to his men. Captain Cross joins him after a heartbeat. Mercer watches with a faint smile.

"You can't do this!" A shout rings out among the scientists. Mercer looks back in curiosity. A handful of soldiers are directing them to destroy their research. An unfortunate corporal is the target of one irate scientist. "Do you know how many hours we spent? How many days went without sleep? You f*cking military goons all but chained us to our work like slaves and now, when we finally succeed, you want us to f*cking destroy it?"

"Sir, I won't ask again."

"You f*cking—" the scientist is cut-off by Dr. Smith squeezing his right shoulder.

"Let me talk with the good men," Dr. Smith says, voice less nervous with armed soldiers than when those same soldiers were bored with his presentation. The angry scientist stomps back to the equipment. The sound of a laptop smashing to the ground rings out, drawing attention from others. Dr. Smith smiles placidly at the curious folk, before addressing the ones in front of him. "My…understandably angry colleague is merely concerned for his future. Our futures." Raising an eyebrow, Mercer finds himself invested in the little drama playing out. "We left good jobs on the promise of exciting research and large grants. And those were true. For a time. Now what do we have to show for it? We cannot simply put our work on a resume for private companies. Nor can we do so for other secret government agencies—if I am understanding your intentions correctly?"

"You are, doctor, " the corporal says, voice calmer now.

"Good sir, you must see then, the dilemma we face: how are we to answer the gap in our resume and publications—"

"This was supposed to be my ticket! My big chance to carve my name into history! I was supposed to finally be someone!" Many stopped and stared at the fight, the corporal pushing Doctor Smith aside and marching up to the hysterical scientist. "There was no one left but me! All those assholes and c*nts who thought they were so much better than me. I'm alive and they're not. This was supposed to be my magnum opus." He was crying at this point. The soldier gently tried to take the briefcase from the lead scientist and was suddenly stabbed in the neck with an empty syringe. He gurgled and collapsed as the syringe stabbed him right in the artery and throat. The crazed scientist in one swift motion unfurls a briefcase.

—Mercer sees it happen too late. The deranged scientist has a full syringe in one hand, and an empty briefcase with 'Prepared for Human Testing' stickers in the other. His hair is disheveled and a mad grin stretches from teeth to teeth.

Then he injects it right into his heart.

Mercer was too slow, but the guns weren't. They shot as soon as he stabbed the injector into his heart.

"Engage! Engage!" The corporal says, panic high in his voice. Six rifles click off their safeties, point, and unleash a hail of bullets. One ricochets and knocks out a ceiling light, casting the dark shadows across the squad with the sound of sparks

The demented scientist jerked back and was thrown to the ground as a hail of gunfire smashed into him. He was peppered with bullet holes and one of his limbs was hanging on a few strands of sinew. However, the syringes were depressed automatically. Mercer knew damn well it wasn't the end. He was living proof.

Soldiers crowded forward-

—Foreign tendrils burst from a still-beating heart chest, seeking opportunity-

—And six soldiers were impaled through the eyes, along with a barrage of wicked sharp tendrils following to fully pierce them. The tendrils immediately pulled back. It started to unpack and expand itself, a terrible form emerging. Then a dozen fluorescent lights are shattered. In the cocoon of darkness, Mercer sees the creature unfurl like a grotesque flower.

The rounds echo in the cavern, even if the words don't, and they say enough. Every soldier yet inside drops what they're doing, and readies their weapons. Some mount the technicals. Two run to get the D-Codes and heavy explosives, yelling into their radios.

One hundred rifles shoot, ripping up each petal. A rain of blood showers down, every drop poisonous to the five soldiers it lands upon. They scream in pain and hysteria. Someone launches a rocket. Mercer sends up a dozen tendrils behind the missile.

As the shooting started, the writhing viral mass compressed, segmented, and exploded outwards. A rain of malformed creatures, some the size of dogs, began the killing.

Soldier's bodies were hijacked or dragged to the main growth.

It was Penn Station all over again.

Chapter 8: Chapter Eight: Ils Ne Passeront Pas!/Heroism In Every Breath

Chapter Text

Chapter 8

Chapter Eight: Ils Ne Passeront Pas!/Heroism In Every Breath

Several Centuries Ago

The abomination screams, heaving with each monstrous birth, its agony echoing and its only midwife the brutal caress of bullets and rockets. Mercer sees how the flesh of soldiers is put to gruesome use. Vividly. Some of the malformed creatures are covered in bits of military camouflage. Broken Three King’s patches cover the head of one like a crown.

Alarms ring out, sharp and high-pitched. The loud whine draws the attention of everyone else in the base. Inside, they’re drowned out by the roaring of weapons in the cavern and by the death rattles of men.

The main growth expresses its misery onto others.

…Mercer does his best. He sincerely tries. But he and the soldiers are limited—by each other. They’ve never trained together. There is no single front to concentrate their fury. The abomination is screened by its progeny. They’re punished. Brutally. The birthed creatures dart between squads, shadows in half-broken lights, daring them to kill each other in friendly fire. Or they dash to load-bearing pillars, where the soldiers on the technicals hesitate to damage the structural integrity of the complex.

When the D-Codes act, decisive with uncompromising speed, carrying turrets and rocket launchers in the darkness of their bulk, they hold no such compunction. In the first second, a squad of six good men is blown up alongside a creature the size of a dog. In the next, a concrete column is strafed with five dozen bullets, missing its elusive target. It’s infuriating, Alex thinks. Wasteful.

Mercer takes charge of the D-Codes. He does it with yells and the threat of his tendrils. Together, they’re able to stem the tide. They push it back, inch by inch. Alex has the D-Codes organize a cross-section of deadly bullets and explosions. Then he shields them. Any creature that gets too close is cut down by his claws. The other soldiers, half the number they were before, notice and pull back to the sides, clearing the killing zone and adding their efforts.

—Then the D-Codes run out of ammo. Their weaponry is spent. Their turrets are smoking with heat, barrels warped with relentless firing. But evolution has flourished. The main growth and creatures are mutating at a prodigious rate, adapting to heavy weapons fire faster than Alex could have ever done. The soldiers are a pitiful few. Captain Cross and Colonel Rooks organize the men as best they can. Everything is too quick.

One brave D-Code abandons standard doctrine for furious melee, stepping up to Mercer’s left. His entrance is magnificent. He wields his empty launcher like a club, smacking with enough force to send creatures skidding back to the main growth. Others soon follow.

A V-shaped formation appears, Alex at the tip. They hold the line for ten seconds.

Then it breaks.

In the chaotic frenzy, the first D-Code into the melee charges with a manic laugh. The enemy focuses on him. The others regroup further back. He ignores the rips and tears into his body by the creatures, then by the tendrils of the main growth. He leaps, his launcher held like a spear, glorious in the dark, and stabs it into the closest thing the abomination has for eyes. He does so again and again, even as it sprays acid that dissolves his face—and only stops when his brain is half-melted.

The tanks—initially back to make space for the presentation and coup—finally move forward and act with the threat of friendly fire mitigated. They’re firing near the entrance, by Mercer, the living D-Codes, and the squads alive since the start. Together, they make another stand. Another push. The enemy falls back. The tank cannons pack a punch the creatures haven’t adapted to, turning organisms into red paste wherever they hit. When they unload on the increasingly large main growth—designated as Alpha Amalgam Abomination—it reacts with horrific, piercing screams.

Tendrils plunge into the earth, sounding like a dozen jackhammers going off at once. The ground shakes. Vibrations are felt under every foot. Seconds later, they uppercut one tank from below the concrete. Another is dragged back to the main growth by a team of malformed creatures. Mercer is too late to save them. It spits corrosive acid, eating through the metal and crew like the brave D-Code from earlier. They melt too quickly for screams, and no one besides Mercer sees them die like flies in the dark.

More tanks and men take their place with the human roar of boots and engines. Defiant. The only lights functioning are the ones provided by the equipment the soldiers use. It’s enough. Hundreds of beams track and follow each malformed creature, their illumination a herald to gunfire. For the first time since the battle begins, Mercer knows that his forces are steadily overwhelming it. He’s gotten into the rhythm of fighting with Blackwatch by now, and they operate like a well-oiled machine.

—Then the abomination reveals its trump card. Each old and new grotesque petal had steadily grown in volume over the fight, starting flat then rounding like a ball. Soft flesh had been covered by biological growth harder than steel. They bulge. Mercer hadn’t thought to check what lay inside, doing what he could to stem the tide. He learns now.

The petals burst as the horrors inside claw out of their hardened wombs. So this is the result of the fusion, Mercer thinks, the most potent strains of Blacklight and Redlight combined—and the most stable.

Hundreds of flashlights and mounted beams shine on the new children of the abomination. It’s a mistake for sane eyes. They walk on six arms, each one bent and jointed at random areas; their eyes bleed around the claws that pierce their retinas; their skin is akin to a flayed man; and when they roar in the pain of their birth and the bullets hitting them, Mercer sees that their teeth are the nubs of fingers, ending with misshapen nails. Though their bodies look riddled with tumors, they boast rippling musculature.

The hexapod abominations swing their ruined eyes around. Pause. They lock them with the opposing forces, unblinking through the blinding lights and bullets trained on them, and release a dozen screeches. The sound is joined by thundering hands pounding the earth, charging. The fat is damaged by weapons, but the veins and bones are unhurt. A moment passes. A shifting of flesh occurs. That meager progress is taken away from Mercer’s forces. The hexapods had reached out and consumed from malformed creatures rallying around them. The borrowed flesh was used to grow carpaces. The new armor resists all but the strongest turrets available to the soldiers.

They’re still defiant. The soldiers aren’t entirely sane. Lesser men would have broken. They respond with rockets and cannons. And yet, there’s a desperate air. The destruction of one hexapod sees the rest grab the last malformed creatures with them in a fury visible through any body language.

A quiet sound emerges. Mercer hears it first. Then it grows louder with numbers. A buzzing noise is dimly heard above the yells and guns echoing back and forth in the cavern. Little, flying creatures shoot out from the hexapods’ backs. They’re different. Weak. Unlike their parents, they do not try to fight. Instead, they ignore the gore and deaths of their fellows as they seek to escape the barricade. Mercer knows in his heart that they will never stop spreading should they exit the facility.

The abomination is learning.

He yells out warnings, D-Codes and normal soldiers snapping to the new threats. The former are tasked with killing the new abominations, alongside himself and the tanks. He’s met with grim affirmations. The rest of Blackwatch is to fill the air above them with lethal rounds. The formation shifts. Men move to new locations. They don’t lose their discipline even under the circ*mstances.

Behind the threats and deep in the dark, Mercer notices the pulsating main growth get bigger and bigger.

The first hexapod abomination reaches the line of D-Codes and Alex. Six hands pound the blood-striken ground in speed and challenge. He accepts. A savage smile crosses his face. Mercer pounces on it, ripping into its flayed torso, and severing its spine. Alex lets the bloodlust rise in him. He breaks apart the screeching, paralyzed hexapod with his tendrils. The prehensile limbs rip into its body with no regard for mercy, stretching from himself like the closing legs of a spider. Some of the tendrils reach into its mind and consume—

It’s all wrong, wrong, wrong.

—The sickening taste and ‘spread’ of its constituent parts leaves him gasping for a breath he hasn’t needed since Penn Station. The very genetics of the abominations are cancer-like to Alex’s own cells. It’s wrong. It’s wrong. The DNA of the hexapods did not try to damage him—it emphasizes, instead, how every cell is the true him. It’s disruptive. And it scares him. Alex doesn’t need to use a brain. He doesn’t need a spine or nerves. He doesn’t have a centralized nervous system in control. His consciousness is the one in charge because his cells agree on it even through the transformations. But the abominations try to change that. Their consumed bodies give tools that encourage rebellion on the cellular level.

Left in the open air, those same, genetic tools would spread airborne. It would turn the bodies of everyone in the area against themselves. He can’t allow that. Won’t. Not on his watch. As Alex struggles to overcome the ‘deadman switch’ inside this one, confusion flicking on and off in him, he drags his tendrils to the hexapod blown up earlier. Consumes. Then reaches. He grasps those being bludgeoned to death by the D-Codes. Not a single one can be left unconsumed or not turned to ash.

Amidst images and colors swirling around his head, the viral product of genetic evolution, Alex tries to understand the creatures’ next moves. His eyes swivel back and forth around the barricade. D-Codes fight furiously to put each one in the ground. They struggle. The hexapods are intelligent sapients, driven by a burning need to protect its parent. They dance and jump between the men, more agile than a dozen monkeys as their six hands grab any handle to push off of. Even the heads of soldiers, which burst into red blood and bone under the force of five fingers.

And each bit of consumed flesh births more of the flying creatures. A constant, black line of newborns pour from their backs—defying gravity. The swarms hide the roof of the cavern from beams and flashlights with sheer numbers. The hail of bullets are like rocks flung into a pond, causing ripples among them but never dispersing.

“They’re behind us,” a soldier says in panic, as the insect-like abominations suddenly fly past. The swarm flies coordinated. The realization hits Alex like a lightning bolt. The flying creatures are following the orders of the hexapods.

Alex slices into his enemy, severing all six limbs and consuming it with a migraine of daze, before stumbling back into the line of soldiers. He hears the coarse yells of Colonel Rooks and Captain Cross, still alive and giving orders. They live up to their reputations. Adaptable and competent. The two are stiffening the spines of the men, who have seen their comrades die gruesomely in countless ways since everything went wrong. That was one minute ago. “They’re trying to pincer us,” Alex says, shouting at Cross. “The flying creatures will spread growth in the facility, before breaking free.”

“Colonel Rooks, we need to double-back double-time before they breach the containment gate!” Cross is quick to act.

“Hostiles at six o’clock!” Alex doesn’t know who yells that. He doesn’t care. His eyes sharpen, seeing what new horrors march towards them now. The dark shadows hide the shapes from the soldiers, but not from Alex. They're ugly. He sees four arms, ruined eyes, and flayed skin; the relation between them and the hexapods. Alex understands how. The flying creatures are carriers, and from the ripped clothing and coats dotting the monkey-like monsters, they have already hit the personnel located in offices and labs closer to the entrance.

More come. Fungal spores drop down from the flying creatures, landing in the blood of the soldiers torn apart by the new horrors. New growths form. Some are smaller, boasting two or three hands. Others, the sole incubator in a deceased body, grow to be hexapods. But the seed-like clusters that land on the barren soil of concrete, absent of fertile blood and meat, do not die. They grow into lesser malformed creatures.

The men curse. The veterans yell as they reshuffle troops.

One flying creature, buzzing like a mosquito, tries to latch onto the neck of Colonel Rooks. It seeks to inject its infectious payload into the man’s veins, but he crushes it with one fist. “They must not be allowed to escape,” he says, grim, “Not another outbreak on my watch.”

Captain Cross nods. Then casts his eyes around quickly. Alex sees him assessing the forces they have left. “Mercer, we won’t be able to make it without you. Escort us to the airlock. The D-Codes and soldiers here will hold the line. They’ll last long enough for us to seal the facility—and have you confront the main creature.”

Mercer takes a moment to digest the logic, still reeling from the disorientation in his body. His tendrils still act, several pulling back a soldier from certain decapitation. He lets instinct take him. It’s easier that way. Alex pounces on a grotesque, oversized spider-like creature. He consumes it. When he finishes a second later, he nods at the plan. It makes sense. Blackwatch’s sacrifices wouldn’t be in vain. Too many soldiers were already dead.

He comes to a snap decision. “I’ll guide you and your soldiers out of here. Prevent them from escaping. Lock the doors and call for aid. If I don’t kill it, it’s all up to you.” Colonel Rooks’ face contorts in fury, visible only to Mercer’s eyes, stubborn, but the dire situation forces his acquiescement.

The colonel issues the orders on his radio. “…1st Rifle Platoon, support the D-Codes and lay down covering fire. 1st Tank Platoon, hold the entrance. 2nd Rifle Platoon, make sure nothing sneaks by them. Third Rifle Platoon, on me.” His burning eyes tell of his conflict, as he orders most of the men to sacrifice themselves. Without joining them.

Mercer takes one last look at the shadowy barricade. Hundreds of lights shine from it, like stars facing down beasts from nightmares. It’s beautiful in a certain way. A heroic way. The kind that only arises in the worst situations. The platoons obey the orders in grim determination, defiant to the end. If any soldiers were willing to abandon post, they were long dead. Third Rifle Platoon’s withdrawal, battered but still combat-effective, is met with quiet cheers and promises to regroup in Hell.

They descend into the rapidly infested tunnel.

*****

The lights of the soldiers swing back and forth, bright dots watching their front and rear. The exit of the men is steady, broken only by the pained gasps of some nursing wounds. The battle in the stadium-sized cavern had taken its toll. Their blood drips out of shallow cuts and purple bruises. They’re the lucky ones. They can still fight.

And their eyes are watchful. Mercer can see clearly in the dark, but for a moment he entertains what they must perceive; what humans must perceive. Between the handful of steady lights pointing ahead and many more rotating, they notice growing tendrils on the walls loom ominously. And not what lurks behind. The growths stretch from ceiling to floor, thick and bloody, and create a grotesque, meat-like environment in the tunnel.

“Like walking into the belly of the beast,” one soldier says, quietly to the man on his right side. Mercer hears him anyway. He thinks the comment is apt. Especially so when the first surprise attack comes—or would have been a surprise, if he hadn’t shouted a warning.

There’s no hexapod abominations, this time. Only malformed creatures. The group makes short work of them in a racket of sound. It’s butchery. The bullets are as loud as they were in the cavern. If any of the men were to make it out alive, Mercer thinks, they’d have to worry about hearing damage for the rest of their lives.

When the next attack comes, massed with foes, Mercer gets final confirmation on what happened to the base personnel and civilian attachments. His last hope for them vanishes. There’s no indomitable human spirit that could have saved them. The monkey-like abominations, few with six hands, most with two or three, are leading the charge like officers. They wear the ripped up clothing of humans as little insignias. The hexapod in charge is wearing lab safety goggles over its ruined eyes. It’s pointless. And it’s unsettling.

Merecer kills that one first. His strikes are furious and rough. It repulses him on a fundamental level, visually and cellular. His consumption is no less disorienting. He loses control of his right hand for an instant, and watches it contort and shift without his will. A rage overtakes him. Alex crushes the foreign will—his will, the DNA whispers—with prejudice, and helps the rest of the company mop up the battle.

Sustainable casualties are Mercer’s focus. It’s the humane thing. There will be more of those abominations—he’s sure of that. And he’ll need the soldiers to anchor him, in tactics and in humanity.

A little ahead, they see one more disturbing sight out of many. An infected person, body long distorted of features, is crawling mindlessly to the meat-like tendrils lining the walls. Their hands and knees make soft padding sounds with the layers of fat coating them. It’s harmless. A hand reaches out, and the growths react. They rear up like ten prehensile teeth, and pull the body inside the flesh. A round bump forms soon after, like a womb. Bulging. Mercer destroys the incubation before another horror can crawl out.

More troubling are the destroyed turrets. The automated defenses are broken into pieces, warped barrels facing the long path down to the cavern. The tendrils lining the walls stretch towards them—or more likely, Alex thinks, the main growth.

…Half-a-dozen attacks later, Colonel Rooks and Captain Cross are nursing heavy wounds. They’ve barely made any progress. More surprise attacks and mass charges have whittled their forces down. It can’t go on like this, Mercer thinks.

They need an edge, Alex decides. His eyes rove over the battered soldiers. There’s less of them now. No one’s chatting unless it's about hostiles and orders. Fingers twitch toward triggers, scared and angry. Some of them have dropped their long rifles, broken or out of ammo, and are holding pistols. They look small in their hands, and smaller when shooting at the creatures. A tough reality settles in. The handguns are ineffective, and those soldiers turn to holding flashlights or performing first aid. It’s more useful.

Then Alex’s eyes catch onto the viral growths on the wall. Still present, dangling like meat in a butcher’s shop. Mostly undamaged. Stray bullets hardly grazed them. Heavier ordinances hadn't touched them—he and the soldiers had focused on more important targets. There hasn’t been another incubation. And the consumption of that had been normal, compared to the hexapods. No disorientation or rebellion in his body. But there had been something else…

Alex reaches out a hand and rests it on one viral growth. When the tendrils rear up, shuddering, he ‘taps’ into it using the genetic key of the hexapods he’s consumed. He sees madness. He sees a dense neural neural network. It’s packed with more data and processing power than dozens of supercomputers. His mind traces it, mapping out the whole facility, and follows the ‘wires’ back to the heart of the hivemind. The main growth, the Alpha itself.

It towers psychically.

And yet. For all its speed and intellect, it's limited by its handicaps. It's naive and inexperienced. The concrete box miles under the earth isolates it from samples of intelligent thinking. Its lack of knowledge on human languages reduces its options further. It has no access to the internet, and the books brought with the soldiers and scientists are useless. The original mind of the mad scientist is so gone as to be functionally alien and illiterate.

Alex lets out a relieved laugh. The young main growth is mutating and evolving over every permutation, rather than picking the best traits and paths based on the data it has collected. Key advantages are found and discarded every iteration. It’s endlessly reinventing the wheel.

It’s still a threat, of course. The secret virus in Iya Valley combines the hive-mind power of Redlight with the infinite adaptability of Blacklight. But its own alienness has bought them a little bit of time—it doesn’t understand humanity. And it needs intelligent brains to supercharge its growth with experience and time. So it cheats. It consumes. Using human brains as processors, it’s able to keep several optimal choices throughout the generations. It isn’t very good yet at choosing what, thankfully, like creating powerful abominations with all arms instead of any legs. Or other useful evolutionary paths.

If Alex can kill and consume enough samples of it, he’ll be able to integrate his hive-mind. At the right moment, Alex could overwhelm its control. He could order the existing organisms to self-destruct or become inert. It’s a simple plan. And if he fails, it’ll spread across every ecosystem and area in the world.

The echoes of the conscious mind at the heart of the network reach him. Loud. Understandable. Some emotions are universal to any mind on earth. It’s pain and anger is excruciating to feel. It’s fearful, like a newborn bear crying out and hurting everything near it. It wants a mother long dead by his hands.

But with enough time, and brains, it will reorganize. Once when, not if, it escaped the facility, the world will be crushed under an avatar of evolution itself.

Alex sees the dreams of its goal. To connect all of Earth into a single super organism.

…The group almost makes it to the airlock. With Alex tapping into the growth network, he’s able to gather foresight on every ambush and charge. Leaving the tendrils alive is the wise choice. Captain Cross and Colonel Rooks take the intel with a grim understanding, and they position their forces lethally again and again. Each engagement still costs too much. They’re running out of bullets. The men aren’t strong enough to fight hand-to-hand, even with knives and rifles wielded as clubs.

When the wave hits, the soldiers are ready, dozens of bright dots shining on the horde. They’re defiant like an old man not ready for death. But their weapons reach a critical low-mark. They’ve fought too much. And too many guns are empty. The formation, lines and support for the front and back, falls apart. Then their morale does. Their screams give way to a rout. It’s over in ten seconds. Men are sliced and smashed, swallowed whole, or ripped apart wholesale.

Mercer saves as many as he can, and mercy-kills those he can’t. His tendrils and claws are flurry of wrath and hope to the soldiers—especially those beginning to turn, infected by the insect-like creatures. It’s also a form of afterlife. They won’t be forgotten in his body. By the time the fighting subsides, they only have seven men left, including Rooks and Cross. The two stoically boast heavy wounds. Mercer doesn’t need to use the expertise of all the doctors and scientists he’s consumed. He knows both men aren’t going to make it.

His blue eyes lock with Cross. Alex’s devastated expression is enough for the captain.

“Go. We’ll do our best to make it out. We don’t have enough firepower to help.” Cross clasps arms with Mercer. Once enemies, now the stoutest of allies. “We’ll close the doors behind us. Good luck. Finish the job, Mercer.” Nothing more is said. They share a silent moment, then Alex squeezes Cross’ arm one last time. Before letting go. Mercer nods and shoots off back to the cavern.

Pained, feral screams echoes from his destination.

*****

Mercer soon learns that the rebellious DNA has spread to the other malformed creatures. He learns it by feeling he’s eaten rotten, maggot infested food. Malformed creatures shouldn’t do that.

The newer generations are increasingly evolved and mutated. Every abomination Mercer consumes now is a torturous endeavor. It aggregates. He’s only felt pain like this once before: the parasite Cross injected him with.

“From bad to worse,” Alex says, needing to hear a human voice. His mouth complies. It twists back into a human jaw. Some of his cells scream. For a second. Then the latest disruption is crushed.

It drains him, nonetheless. None of the consumptions have replenished him since the abominations adapted. He loses more energy each time. But he can’t stop. Mercer needs as diverse an array of samples as he could get, to create countermeasures and resistances. The idea has two components. Part one is simple. Like a man injecting venom inside his body, increasing dosages, he needs to build up an immunity for the final fight. Part two is also simple—for a world-class scientist with access to the minds of dozens of peers. He analyzes twisted biology at the deepest levels. He needs to understand the genetic structure and abilities of every creation. A simple hypothesis is tested, and the results are as expected: any creature left unconsumed would eventually become a breeding ground for more of them.

…By the time he comes back to the dark, stadium-sized cavern, Mercer is half-drained from the fighting and self-mutations he’s performed. And the sight also drains him, emotionally. It’s what he expected, but being right isn’t something he wanted. The rifle platoons are gone. Human flesh included. The remains of violent birth are scattered about. Their corpses must have been used as incubators for the hordes Mercer faced on the way. The tank and technical crews weren’t granted dignity in death either. The vehicles are torn apart. Thrown around. Metal is ripped to make holes or smashed open like an egg. Some large pieces are scattered around like children’s toys.

Mercer also arrives to see the end of the last D-Code. He’s too late to save him. In a gloriously short spectacle, the man stabs the main growth with a piece of metal bent into a knife while tendrils rip him apart—like a child with an ant. Cruel. And gigantic. The main growth has grown to a size three times greater than the Supreme Hunter Mercer fought on the carrier. He sees how. Vividly. It had drained the nutrient vats and even sucked up the broken bodies of its creations.

The Alpha Amalgam Abomination had supercharged its maturity with every human brain consumed. To an extent. It’s too big for borrowed time and experience to be more than drops in a bucket. It has no true wisdom of its own. It hasn’t learned properly. That’s the reason every creature starts out mangled, malformed, and tumor-ridden. Only after going through permutations, does it store optimal traits in the brains. Even so, it mutates rapidly. Generations of evolution are wasted.

In the pitch-black darkness, Mercer sees the horror look wrong, like all of its children. In the depths and surfaces of its body, cancers and warped developments have bloomed. The eyes are wrong. Bloody claws of chitin and bone rip out. The hair is wrong. Bristles and tendrils cover its body. The body parts are wrong. They’re all in the wrong f*cking areas.

It turns towards him. Sees with broken eyes. It roars, misshapen teeth-like tusks stabbing into its own mouth.

The first step towards Mercer shakes the earth. Then the abomination charges. A living earthquake comes barrelling at him, arms and hands replacing feet and legs. Then the arms shift. A mass of tendrils take their place, for a moment. Then they shift too. New and deadly configurations appear every heartbeat before the clash.

Alex takes first blood. He times his strike perfectly, and slices through the deformed tentacles shaped into a limb. Red mist sprays up. His force was powered by an upward leap, and as he soars over the creature, Alex creates a ball of volatile chemicals that shatter on its cancer-ridden skin. Mercer lands behind it, feet light. Exposure to air creates a fire hot enough to feel on his back. But it's neutralized quickly. Mercer turns around to see a waxy mucus oozing out of its pores.

A retaliation of harpoons fires upon him. Bone and gristle shaped hooks seek to drag him into its all-devouring embrace. Mercer tilts his head to the side. His hair swishes with the passage of a fast object. Then he jukes past the second and third harpoons. Graceful. Free. And caught. The fourth takes his left leg through the knee. It was hidden in the shadow of the others, and is colored black. The wire of bone tightens in the direction of a looming mouth.

So Alex detaches his leg entirely. A new one grows. As the limb is consumed, he adds large chunks of concrete and sharp metal to the chewing mouth. The ground is filled with indents of his fingers.

New idea, Alex thinks. He holds up a clawed hand and gestures at the creature. He signals it to come at him. It roars. The floor is cracked and the lighting dark, and it only gets worse when the living disaster charges at him again. Its hands continue shifting, adulating. Before the clash, they’re replaced by bone claws, in imitation of him, and just as sharp.

Alex feints. It’s an imitation of what he did before. He gets a foot airborne, the creature raising its claws above, ready to catch him, then he kicks off of the body. He touches it for an instant. Blood gushes forth. Both of theirs. And a length of meat is captured in his hand, still connected to the main growth.

He skids to the side, as the titanic creature halts its momentum. It turns broken eyes upon him. Then on the limb in his hand. Alex grins savagely. He tries to tap into its viral network, like with the tendrils lining the walls.

Its psychic presence nearly crushes him outright.

Its mind is so fast, so filled with alien thoughts, that Alex knows he can’t hope to match it in his current condition. But—its strength is also its weakness. All that power cannot help a mind that has no proper direction.

Alex lets go. He has a plan.

…Every stab and slice into the Alpha Amalgam Abomination gives him more material to work with and analyze. The scientists in him are put to good use. Their results are unsettling—for what he must do. Alex shifts the deepest part of his genetic code to attune with the structure of the abomination.

Alex hates the last option available to him. For someone who fought so hard to be human, now to cast it off as a last ditch effort? He has staked his entire sense of self and uniqueness on one of himself existing, with no other copy or clone. Alex Mercer was the prototype, with nothing else like him in the world. But he has no choice. It’s his only path to victory. Humanity and the world depends on it. Once, he had longed to silence the hive of own self, all of the countless consciousnesses, memories, and organisms. Now he counts on them.

Mercer dives, lifetimes deep, into his hivemind of one, and tears it into two.

He performs mitosis on himself, splitting his biomass in half.

Two Alex Mercers now exist in the world.

They stare at each for a single second, feeling decades, as time stretches with every emotion and heartbeat. The doppelganger nods. One is chosen to sacrifice himself. It’s the only way.

No time is wasted hesitating. The abomination—tricked to buy that precious moment—charges back with a deafening roar. The sound comes from the top of its head, its forehead split apart for sword-length teeth. The current permutation shows intentional design, to favor it in new circ*mstances. It boasts another set of dental features below, like a normal jaw, and each tooth is ten feet long. And ten feet up. Its lower body is balanced on spiked tendrils, some stretching the length of the entire cavern, others smaller and more nimble. Several of those deadly limbs grow from the jaw on its forehead too, like a horrific version of nose and beard hair.

And dotted nearly everywhere, are bleeding eyes with baby-hand sized claws. They’re wide with rage. And animal cunning.

The sacrifice throws himself at the abomination. His fingers shift into syringe-like creations, like needles from nightmares. He stabs at seemingly random parts of its body. Hundreds of puncture points are hit in seconds.

The original Mercer, surely, stands still despite the chaos. He prepares. His body heats up the very air around him, as he goes into biological overdrive. He looks inside. At the cellular level, the genetic factory within him makes every weapon possible to combat the rebellious DNA.

Seconds pass. It takes the Alpha only seconds to fully seize the attacking Mercer. He’s dragged down by limbs the weight of heavy flesh akin to tanks. He doesn’t struggle. The original Mercer wishes he did. Without fanfare, thousands of tendrils encase him and tear him apart on a microscopic level. Alex feels every agony of the copy through their rapidly failing link.

The trap had been set. At each point where the sacrificial Mercer stabbed it, an inert agent was injected amidst deadly plagues. Harmless and unnoticed, disguised as the cells of the Alpha itself, the excess junk DNA was ignored by the Abomination’s immune system.

And now, the trap is sprung. The sacrifice’s plan comes together. As the abomination consumes and analyzes the body, the ‘detonator’ inside blooms in every cell and vein. The hostile proteins fuse with the inert agents, activating them and beginning to paralyze and digest the creature from the inside.

The Alpha screams, tilting to the side. Tendrils fall limp with a heavy crash and its jaw droops like a man having a stroke. Then the sound cuts out, suddenly. But Mercer still hears it writhe in agony inside of its mind. The trap was multi-layered. The sacrifice also held the port for a hivemind connection, and through it, Alex can feel the panic. Its child-like mind, towering psychically and so very thin, shrieks for Elizabeth Greene—the woman Alex consumed and tore apart entirely, leaving nothing left for even his hivemind to integrate, at last battle for NYC.

It’s left hopeless. Mercer grins, feeling triumphant. He burns away copious amounts of biomass for his final strike. Every limb is empowered beyond his limits. He bends his knees, crushing the concrete floor underneath him, before erupting in a single thunderous moment. Suspended in the air, almost touching the cavern’s ceiling, he turns his entire top half into an enormous, microscopic-sharpened blade.

He swings. In one devastating crash, he bisects the goliath.

A keen wailing echoes, psychically.

Even so, the abomination is alive and dangerous. So he implements the last part of his sacrifice’s plan.

Using every last nanometer of the blooming trap, Mercer forces one half of the abomination’s body to self-destruct. It had been a simple, cunning idea. He had to paralyze and weaken it at the right time, and to infiltrate its cells during the chaos. Only then could he begin to consume. But only then. For now, the sacrificial Mercer, or what’s left of him, will transform this half into a harmless vector for sporulation. That Mercer isn’t strong enough to consume it—but that’s acceptable. If they win, it will be ‘disarmed’ in a day. Playing it safe, the original Mercer also creates thin pustules on this half, forcing them to burst open and neutralize any last-ditch countermeasures or regeneration.

The other half…he must consume at all costs.

Its tendrils move towards him, thrashing in fury, and he obliges, letting the heady feeling of victory-within-grasp lend an extra strength to his blows. Their tendrils coil around one another, stabbing, slicing, and crushing each other for dominance. It’s a substitute for screaming in fury. This abomination half still cannot use its mouth; it is still affected by the partial-paralyzation. And yet…

The confidence Mercer felt earlier begins to drop. A pit forms in his stomach. The drainage from the malformed creatures, the hellish fighting with the soldiers, the massive, necessary use of biomass—they all begin to catch up to him. One moment, he’s fighting strong and fast. Feeling high on bloodlust. The next, he reaches a threshold his body can no longer take, and drops perilously in power. His concentration snaps back and forth.

He’s had to split it between fighting the abomination, surviving, and hijacking its network to release spores in mass. And he can’t stop any of them, especially the latter—he has to ensure the entire facility is made inert of any infested areas. Or bodies. The spores also dissolved the dead creatures around. He’s wiping the slate clean, though the growths are dealt in a different matter. As the arteries of the network, they cannot be destroyed until everything else they reach is consumed first—so he’s forced it into a harmless mutation. He essentially neutered and declawed it. Negating any possibility of its deadly potential, the growths become no more dangerous than the average toxic mushroom.

…They slowly fuse together with no clear victor. Like tsunamis crashing into each other, they are a mass of grasping limbs and tentacles, to the point where an observer wouldn’t be able to tell what belongs to who. Alex can’t, either.

He becomes It. It becomes Him. His ego, his sense of self,

slowly

falls

into

the

abyss

!@&@!---!#!!###!!#!

—But Alex has the biggest, most significant advantage. Time. Time gives him experience. Time gives him depth. Time gives him a hundred thousand screaming minds.

Alex Mercer is a hivemind of one.

With the last grasp of the lost and the damned, he devours it whole.

…It struggles within him.

Mercer feels it, trying to poison and rebel against him. The consumption of the Alpha’s half produces a denser biomass than he’s ever had before. He feels so very heavy. His every crashing step leaves impressions of stumbling feet into the ground. And there is a war going on in his body—the genetic weapons he had created with his inner factory barely hold the line. If he doesn’t do something right now, it will turn the tables. He needs his biggest advantage again. Time.

Mercer’s false heart beats hard. It’s defiant against despair. His viral, infested muscles are trembling. They refuse to give up. His legs are weak, his eyes blurry with parasites eating away at every inch of him—and not a single cell abandons his mission. When he sees his salvation, a cryotube large enough to fit him, Mercer struggles on faster. It’s at the far end of the facility; so Alex drags himself step by step, every stride a marathon, every second a lifetime of misery and torment.

…His dense weight shatters the concrete steps up. His hope nearly gives him flight. Alex has finally made it to his frigid salvation.

Using his expertise, taken from countless technicians, his trembling hands go as fast as they can. Inputting the proper codes and settings, Alex forces it open at the coldest possible option. In excruciating pain. The hundred pound opening had felt like the weight of the world. It forces him to take breaths he doesn’t need. He falls inside, with grace worse than the drunkest soldier on leave.

Even now, it consumes him as he consumes it. The truth is unavoidable. If Alex dies, the Alpha will be absolutely unstoppable. So Alex raises a fist to the sky, and hits the freezing protocols. His hand, four fingers and thumb spread out, is left severed outside the cryotube—he wills it to activate the final procedures after the opening closes. He tries not to think about how easy it is, to give parts of himself sentience, even partially. The icy tomb helps. Mercer immediately feels its effects. And he feels the way his body tries to adapt to the freezing cold, mutations surging and cells shifting to resemble those of sleeping bears in winter. In a few moments, he and the Amalgamate Abomination will be semi-hibernating.

His other hand locks the cryotube from the inside. It’s a last resort. Alex has no certainty of victory. He’s…dying. His body struggles to overcome the Alpha’s rapid spreads and attempts at partition, even as Mercer performs his last, conscious mutations to himself.

But he doesn’t plan on going gently into the night. The organism is young and inexperienced, compared to him. With the freezing he’s about to endure, he’ll be able to adapt better to the surroundings. It was like cutting off their arms—but Alex knows how to fight with his teeth and feet. Or without a mind, in this case: without a guiding intelligence, raw instinct and countless mutations created in the fires of the Outbreak will see him to victory.

The freezing inhibits him and the Amalgamation Abomination’s DNA. His own strain of Blacklight can overcome it. In time.

…In time. They will be waging a microscopic war for decades in that cryotube. The cold will slow them both down to less than sentiency. It will slow down the rapid permutations of the abomination’s DNA. Alex knows he will have the upper hand here, knows that time and evolution favors him, and knows it is greatest chance of subsuming the Alpha Amalgam Abomination wholly. He also knows that it will be years or decades at the earliest before he wakes up…and he’s content with that. He thinks how with this freezing process, with no one to unfreeze him, it might take even centuries. Then Alex thinks about his sister and the sacrifices that led to this event. His last thoughts are how worth it all is for all humanity—his adopted species.

He’ll lay dormant until the power turns off—or some intrepid and foolish explorers unseal the hushed casket…

*****

Their bedraggled and sorry state is evident to anyone still alive to witness them. The platoon is down to six men, including Cross himself—and all of them are dying. His eyes flicker over his loyal soldiers. Some have lost legs, using their guns as a crutch. Others bleed out from partially-eaten arms. The medical kits are only enough to push their bodies across the final finish line, and they limp furiously, as the airlock doors come in sight.

There is no attempt to live past the mission. They only seek to shut the facility and warn the outside world of the disaster inside. Closing the doors behind them, Cross leans back against it, and watches with relieved eyes as the airlock cycles several times.

Then, they all hear a synthetic, automated voice. “Warning, unidentified particles detected. Contacting Command….Command unresponsive. Contacting High Command…High Command unresponsive. Falling back to Quarantine Protocols…Lockdown is in effect. Doors will be sealed for a minimum of one thousand years. External authorization required for override. We thank you for your sacrifice and understanding.”

And just like that, it’s over. Hope was gained and lost in equal measures.

The men utter their final words. One cracks dark jokes. A solemn ceremony, consecrated in their blood, is then held. Then bandages are undone, followed by sighs of relief and despair. The soldiers let themselves bleed out. The last of the painkillers are applied. They succumb to the blood loss and cold of the airlock room, drifting off to a peaceful death. Captain Cross and Colonel Rooks watch over them, refusing to turn away, as the officiators of their funeral rites.

The men, at least, knew their efforts were not in vain.

…Cross doesn’t let himself go yet, and neither does Rooks. With all of the furious beating left in their hearts, they smear their own blood on their fingers in tandem. They’ll create a single message. Bright red. One preserved by the cold, Cross thinks grimly. Among the high tech surrounding them, the two have resorted to the most primitive form of writing.

Colonel Douglas Rooks, the highest surviving officer of Blackwatch, finishes his side, puts his back to the wall, and finally collapses. With one arm, he slowly fishes out photos of his family. He stares at it even as blood drips down from the stump of his other arm.

Captain Robert Cross, a man who betrayed his own military to save a city and the world from certain disaster, collapses slower. He takes care to not agitate the deep gut wounds. He has done his duty. He begins talking, keeping himself occupied and awake, and uncaring if Rooks even hears him.

“I was one of the first D-Codes, you know? The precursor to all of them. It’s why I survived when no one else did. It’s why I was able to hunt Runners, all by myself when everyone else died. Enhanced strength, enhanced reaction time, and it made me a tough f*cker.” Cross coughs out large drops of blood. Some of them are solid, others are squishy. He continues, unhurried.

“It won’t be enough this time. I’ve had a good run. And I’m proud to have been here—with all of us. My faith in God was always unwavering, and it seems He kept putting me in the right places at the right times. I knew we’d sacrifice ourselves one day. I knew that we would one way or another, no matter what high command or anyone else would say.

“It’s plain to see why. Blackwatch, the actual soldiers in it, worked for the benefit of all. Even as tainted as it was. One for all, never all for one.” Captain Cross acts like he’s in a confessional. He checks if anyone is listening. One sweep of his eyes, and he sees everyone is dead. Colonel Rooks is glazed over, dead eyes still staring at the photo of his loved ones. And the two of them have already acted as confidants to the soldiers’ confessions. They’re all slumped over or huddled near each other.

“When General Randall made it about himself,” Cross continues like their ghosts are listening, “To live, to benefit from it, to avoid the consequences he had sown, he lost. It was that mighty heart of Humanity that beat even within Alex Mercer, something—no, someone—who was no longer human. My faith in Mercer will never die, even if I die in this forsaken place.

“I am not alone. I am surrounded by those who reached out and clasped hands with me, to fight for something higher than themselves.

“Even if it was the harder way. It’s plain to see why they committed. It was natural they’d help—it was their oaths, their mighty hearts that put them in the line of fire. Even half a world away from home, they kept their faith in Mercer and I. And even if Mercer fights alone, he is not alone. Our united purpose, even to the end, is a constant companion. Our combined strength will see us to a victory we’ll never see.

“Victory is always about making sure the dark, terrible things of this world are buried or burned away.”

And if they have to bury themselves, so be it. The Redline is the last line to hold. It has never fallen, and it never will.

Not all for one, not like men such as Randall and Taggart. One for all, for the people he swore to protect.

“We’ll stay here, until the end,” Cross says, whispering and hoarse. His voice is nearly gone, whittled away by his last words and the wounds he took. He struggles to breathe. Drops of blood drip from his mouth.

Cross…doesn’t regret taking the hard road. He never will. Not for his training, his missions, or his decisions to ally with Alex. His heart has always led him true. When he places his faith in a person, that faith never dies or wavers. It’s as natural as breathing. And he suppose, coughing out his last breaths, he and Alex are more alike than they thought.

He passes away quietly, his final duty at an end, as the last Blackwatch operative on Earth.

Chapter 9: Chapter Nine: Unsealing The Hushed Casket/To Wake A God(Beware of Lightning)

Chapter Text

Chapter Nine: Unsealing The Hushed Casket/To Wake A God(Beware of Lightning)

(ART FOR CHAPTER) https://imgur.com/cRdC2uW

https://imgur.com/tsDydGd

Present Day

The remnants of a severed hand are brushed clean off the console. Dust falls and settles on cracked stone and steel-toed boots. Asashima’s face reflects a dull blue glow as he eyes the English text quickly scrolling past the screen, mouth set into a firm line behind his mask. He’s smiling on the inside. With a gesture of his hand, the rest of his squad inspects the cryotube and the surrounding area—even Yasui, the designated survivor, joins them when the all-clear is declared.

Stepping back, Asashima paces around the equipment with forced patience. His feet tread carefully and his notepad fills out with his diligent observations. The agents back at base will comb through all of the objects later, in the lab, but their discovered state is valuable data and gives hints to their true purpose. It’s a pity most machines are damaged, he thinks.

“No heart or brain activity,” Yasui says. The only pristine items are the tube and power source next to him. He’s fiddling with the console and has pulled up a read out. Asashima’s gaze lingers briefly on the text, then drags itself back to the iced over and opaque cryotube. A curiosity rises in him. He wants to know what’s inside; if there’s actually a dead body. Anything could be present. Any treasure. The politicians who sent him into this cavern, banking on a hail mary, no doubt hope for their golden goose.

The team collectively and morbidly hopes whatever is inside is dead.

“…Boss, got any ideas on how to open it?” Yasui says after a short while. Frustration is visible in his body language. Asashima gets up from his crouch, jotting down details about a destroyed laptop, and walks over. He understands Yasui’s impatience soon enough. The instructions aren’t user-friendly at all: dense language, acronyms, and words with no context fill the screen. The blue light illuminates Asashima’s narrowed eyes. He thinks deeply for a moment. Then smiles slightly, patting Yasui on the back.

“Let’s unplug it.” The words have Yasui scratching the side of his head in an embarrassed manner.

The designated survivor starts taking out any and all wires and tubes. A distance away, he finally unplugs the power outlet.

Shrill warning signs abruptly die as all the lights and machinery of the cryotube turn off. The magnetic locks switch off. Everything is dead and silent. The team—Ueda, Nishimura, Yasui, and Asashima himself—look at each other. A collective understanding passes through them: they’ve already come this far, why not farther? They act swiftly.

Asashima gives a quick update on the radio while shortened crowbars are equipped, then he takes his place with the rest of the men. They circle the cryotube, like pallbearers surrounding a casket. The crowbars plunge suddenly into the slight cracks in the opening. A slight screech is heard, as metal grinds against ice, before breaking it. The material and time may have froze the tube well, but with their combined strength, Asashima’s squad lifts the opening completely.

…Asashima sees no treasure, no scientific or famous individual—just a man. A dwindling feeling fills him—there would be no miracles for Japan—but it’s overpowered by relief. There’s no monster to slay. The dim lighting from the squad shines on a person indistinguishable from any normal hoodlum in a prefecture. He has a black jacket, two white stripes around each arm, and his dead face is locked in a tense and painful expression. There’s a mystery here, Asashima knows, but it’s a mundane one for the investigators after them. The enigmatic cryotube held nothing special in the end—besides itself. That will be the true prize to his superiors.

Nishimura quietly teases Ueda about his bad feeling and omens. The latter snorts, before walking off to the side and radioing the outside forces.

“Command…Unit 939, over.” A static voice answers back. Ueda nods, looking back with a wry grin. “Command, all locations searched. No hostiles detected. Word twice: no hostiles detected. No VIP discovered. An unknown corpse inhabits the cryotube, preliminary designation Yankee-Yankee-Alpha.” Asashima hears more static words. “Roger. I read back: field autopsy will be performed. Unit 939, out.”

Ueda looks sharply at Asashima, who nods and edges closer to the body. Like with the rest of the facility, he uses it on the organic flesh inside the cryotube. And it makes him puzzled. Asashima raises an eyebrow at the creeping decay indicative of his quirk. With the way it's reacting…it was like all of the dead man was nothing but a virus. But that’s impossible, Asashima thinks. Unless—he’s an experiment? Some victim of mad science, or plague, preserved as a cadaver throughout the centuries.

Asashima leans in. He’s frowning as he gets a closer look at the man. He thinks something isn’t right—then, all of a sudden, Asashima feels his nerves come alive with electricity. He hears a dull thump, and with rising horror, the squad leader of the NBC unit looks down.

He sees tendrils impaling him.

Asashima slumps, lower body paralyzed by the shattering of his spine, mouth unable to scream. He’s dumbfounded, he’s in disbelief, desperate thoughts rising up maniacally —then he’s pulled into the tube.

*****

None of the squad has a clear idea of what just took their leader. Their loyalty almost has them charging foolishly in an attempt to save him. But then their training kicks in, bodies tensing and adrenaline surging, and they fly into motion. Yasui, the designated survivor, runs away at once while screaming into his radio. He yells for a medic, for reinforcements, for All Might to crush this cursed place into rubble.

There’s the sound of gas hissing as Nishimura makes preparations for his quirk. Then he rushes to join with the safety-bubble clad Ueda besides the cryotube. The upper-half of Asashima’s body is still visible, being dragged in with the eerie sound of bones snapping and soft flesh being liquified. It draws a hellish fury from Nishimura, and with a precise application of flame, the tendrils encasing his beloved squad leader’s body are burnt away. Ueda reaches out and begins to pull back the unresponsive but still alive Asashima. The tendrils rail against his quirk in a hungry rage. His safety-bubble is nearly shattered in seconds, but with the additional strength of Nishimaru, the two are able to engage in a morbid tug of war.

It ends with a few wet snaps and clicks. Asashima’s spine and muscles are ripped apart. While what’s left of the lower half disappears with a grinding, organic, and wet noise, Ueda is left holding onto the torso, head, and arms of his rapidly dying leader. He despairs as years of service and loyalty are snuffed out in seconds, and screams.

Nishimura stops Ueda from throwing away his life in futile vengeance. He pulls the man back and chucks him away, safety-bubble rolling on the ground with speed and uncontrolled direction. It pops suddenly, and with a furious nod, Ueda begins to run away too. Nishimura will join him in a moment.

Nishimura sprints around the open tube and unloads gas and sparks. The man inside screams as fire and ice create a boiling steam, and his casket-turned-grill becomes the greatest source of light in the cavern. A heavy fist narrowly misses Nishimura, instead crushing a piece of machinery.

The last squad member alive in the cavern doesn’t try to engage further. He sprints away to the reinforcements closing in.

…As they all rush back outside, they don’t notice the man crawling out of the tube.

*****

Alex is…in extreme fatigue and pain. The years and years under the ice, mind blank and thoughts empty save for a vicious genetic war, have done him no favors. Tiny ice crystals have torn him apart through constant construction and expansion. But the foreign viral presence has been wholly subsumed by him. His gambit—to lock himself into the cryotube—has worked.

And yet…his mind aches with the mother of all headaches as he tries to pull it together. His subconscious had divided itself during his time under. Different fragments of his mind had been dedicated to different tasks and potential threats. It is almost akin to a hive. Now Alex has to make himself whole psychically. It’s slow-going, too slow by too many heartbeats, as the tomb of the cryotube is released. When a subfragment detects the greater body slowly decaying, when it identifies the culprit via his olfactory organs, Alex is helpless and rendered a passenger as his body reacts on autopilot. It lashes out towards the scents of gunpowder and masks. Tendrils catch prey blindly and reel in his first victim in centuries.

Mercer is barely on the level of a rabid dog as he begins to rend and tear with countless tendrils all throughout his body. It’s too late to regret the self-fragmentation when human flesh is consumed with hunger. Even the strange incompatibility of the victim’s body is ignored with sheer ravenous pulsing in his guts, the genetic rejection pushed through even though it feels like oil to water. It’s only when the lower half is consumed that Mercer regains control of all his faculties, and he lets the upper half escape—not just for the sake of regret and empathy, but to stop the barrage of memories that will surely incapacitate him in a dangerous situation.

Dim lighting illuminates his weakened form as the man’s shadow disappears. The impromptu awakening has frozen chunks of his pseudo clothes and skin, and left other parts ripped off of him, leaving bare red and black tendril muscle glistening underneath. Half of Mercer’s face is exposed to the bone. The bloody half is contorted into an animalistic snarl, a remnant of his subconscious, while the human skin expresses a deep empathy—and Mercer for a brief, terrifying moment, can’t tell what side bears his true feelings.

His doubt disappears as the ensuing struggle and sudden fire creates a hellish, boiling steam, deadly enough that the fat and liquids in his body sizzle away. His throat and pseudo-lungs are seared away in agony, his tongue is half-melted, and he’s left looking like a half-cooked steak. A broken growl escapes his tattered mouth. It sounds like the corrupted recording of a lion’s roar, distorted and skipping, and merely adds to the gaunt, pale image of his corpse-like body. Biologically created clothing sticks to him like a second skin fused by heat. Alex looks like a pathetically emaciated, starved and burned victim.

Everything is torture, and the control he just gained nearly falls apart. His cells are chomping to eat, hungry and starved of biomass for centuries, and his first real meal is a pittance that does more damage than help. Alex has no choice but to align himself with ravenous survival if he wishes to remain in control. He can barely move, time flowing like molasses, his consciousness fading in and out. A deep groan escapes his repairing throat as his starving body cannibalizes itself. The worst burn wounds are healed, slowly, and his cells gain a tighter rein on his purpose.

Alex must consume.

…When he finally staggers his way out of his frigid crypt, it is this sight he presents to the mass of soldiers gathered a distance away: a horrific hungry monster from the depths of nightmares, shuffling forwards like a zombie before stopping suddenly. Lights shine on him in their multitudes amidst a shadowy backdrop.

The array of guns ahead of him are ignored in favor of the bizarre strangers. Alex’s threat detection is sounding off in primal warning. These…people have mutations even more bizarre than Redlight-infected victims. He takes them all in with weary, dangerous eyes, like a predator watching a prey they’d avoid in all other circ*mstances. Mercer doesn’t want to fight them. Mercer needs to eat. He’s still fading in and out of consciousness, and he fears his instinctual mind will be a worse monster than a sane mind could ever be. Warring desires beset his scrambled consciousness. So Mercer eyes—with his sole working eye, the other was burnt and slowly regrowing—the potential human meals before him: a dark suited person flying on nothing; a shorter, almost deformed person with an orbit of sizzling daggers; another person that looks like they could bench-press a D-Code; and dozens of tense and fearful soldiers, armed and clothed in familiar military gear. The sight of something more normal to him helped bring him down into recognizable territory.

They stare down each other for several tense, rapidly-beating heartbeats.

Mercer takes a single, shuffling, unsteady step forwards. His mouth opens in an inhuman and broken groan coming from a half-functioning vocal box.

They immediately open fire with bullets, flying knives, fire, and multicolored beams of light. So that’s how it is going to be, Alex thinks with a deep regret buried underneath his starving gut.

Mercer charges. He targets the soldiers first. His body dances with the grace of a puppet on strings, legs and arms bending in unnatural angles, leaping over and ducking gunfire with cracking bones and sudden movements—then he’s in front of his first victim with a bloody, hungry grin and a reaching fist. The punch in his weakened state simply cracks the poor soldier’s chest instead of caving it in, so Mercer’s other hand, armed with shortened serrated claws, stabs into him several times down his face to his navel. His skin splits open like a meat locker. The horrific stench is immensely satisfying to Alex’s monstrous stomach. He ignores the furious gunfire, the panicked screams, the bizarre strangers repositioning themselves, as his tendrils plunge into the corpse before him. As he feeds, Mercer feels the genetic rejection again—but it’s muted. His body is adapting to the biology of these people.

It takes only heartbeats to consume enough for the regeneration process. Steam boils from his skin as cells start getting to work repairing the long and new damage. The soldier next to Mercer snaps out of his horrific stance, gun clicking empty as every bullet in the magazine was fired in panic, and grabs a knife from his sheathe. The soldier starts to stab—Alex grabs the hand, snaps it in half. And wrapping his grip around the handle of the knife, he forces the soldier’s fingers and weapon into his own neck. Blood sprays into Mercer’s dark smile. His regrowing eye flickers briefly into something inhuman as the man bleeds out. That’s…a concern for another time. Moments later, Alex has broken open the corpse’s chest and consumed enough for several organ transplants. Again, Mercer leaves everything above the neck alone. The memories will make him too incapacitated. Every second matters here.

The replenishment feels too good. It’s the vicious triumph of the hungry, Mercer comforts himself as he turns to his next victim. He’ll feel terrible guilt and regret and all those human morals after he’s had his fill. Now…well, Mercer is going to rip apart the third soldier in this company.

There’s a gun about to fire at his head. Potential friendly fire is ignored with shaking hands and the soldiers behind Alex dive for cover. Mercer uses a trick he had learned from experimentation and self-mutation. A claw forms and shoots out like a crossbow, propelled by pneumatic air pressure and his own altered musculature. It punctures the other man’s gut, throwing back the soldier like a ragdoll, and bones snap as he lands terribly. The gut and leg wounds won’t kill him as fast the toxins in the claw.

He makes a delicious meal. Alex has killed three men within seconds. His body wants more. His mind…lets it happen.

The rest of the soldiers and strange people don’t hesitate for a moment. They display a level of coordination that suggests serious training together. Like a mirage fading away, Mercer finds himself trapped in a killzone as he leaps towards the next squad of men. Under the onslaught of bullets and fire and more exotic materials, Mercer isn’t lucky enough to avoid heavy burns or blows to the head. Gritting his broken teeth, Mercer pushes through as he loses strength, body still reduced from his prime due to the centuries of sleep and the hard awakening.

Plan A, Alex thinks with the resolve to drown cities in blood. It’s just like the military and Blackwatch. Wipe out the soldiers, move onto armor, helicopters, then take on the D-Codes. He’ll treat the mutated strangers as the latter—and it’s like he’s back in NYC.

An opportunity to free himself from the fuselage of fire presents itself. The next second, Alex has leapt clear over everyone, almost hitting the ceiling itself, form hidden in the darkness, then he’s launching down with a push from his tendrils. The concrete roof cracks, lights snap to him in panic, and soldiers scream for a single heartbeat. Alex’s impact is like the Fist of God. Men and special troops go flying everywhere.

It’s like flying fish, Alex thinks with a mad laugh. The bodies launched upwards from the force, nearly all with crushing knee injuries, are picked out like a bird eating flies. Some are passed out. Some let loose a single scream or pained grunt. Alex envelopes each one in tendrils and blades, and red blood stains the floor—before that too is consumed.

The soldiers in his immediate vicinity are dead. The ones nearby wish they had died so quickly. Alex’s tendrils hit the ground like a dozen jackhammers, bits of human flesh still sticking to them, and a second later, spikes shoot out from the earth like horrific bear traps. Feet and legs are subjected to sickening destruction, inhumane in treatment, and they break loudly enough to be mistaken for gunshots. Every soldier caught is out of the fight. They drop their weapons in tears while wailing and pounding on their jail. Alex launches a few as makeshift projectiles to the ones farther away, letting them absorb heavy weapons with bursting bodies, or smashing key leaders and officers to the stone.

A person with black goo pouring out of his skin strikes at Alex. He attempts to pin Alex with the adhesive flowing off his body. A punishment is meted out: his hands and feet stick to Mercer, while the rest of the body is howling away. Painful screaming rings out, answered by a sympathetic yell of rage, as one of the flying individuals snatches him out of the air and whisks him away to the exit.

Mercer is reluctant to admit it. These elite mutants are much more powerful than the D-Codes. They’re not as disciplined, no, with the way they fight like they’re the hero of their own story—but strong nonetheless. They twist out of the way with acrobatics or use their unique abilities to evade him entirely, making Alex feel like he’s a bodybuilder among ballerinas. One unlucky, bizarre person with springs for legs and arms becomes his next meal, when he’s piledrived head-first into the floor. He lacks a helmet, wearing some dark leather cap instead, and that explodes with a shower of gore clearly audible over the mayhem.

The bits of flesh and blood add to the remains coating the floor. They’re all that’s left of too many soldiers and mutants. The rest are settling comfortably in Alex’s body subsumed entirely, as despite his enemies’ efforts, he’s able to devour with a hunger that has only grown deeper. It’s because he’s getting stronger—regaining his former strength bit by bit—and that thought has him feeling triumphant all over. Mercer feels invincible and unstoppable.

And too arrogant.

Like Icarus plummeting back to the Earth, a new force smashes him into the ground then. It impacts him with all the weight of a tank, one falling at terminal velocity, and Alex shatters concrete with his prone body. A shockwave ripples outwards. Wind blows with the fury of a hurricane.

Alex raises his head against the weight of the world. He sees a lone individual staring back at him. The mutant eyes him with a technicolor gaze, fury visible and swirling from a scant few yards away. As concrete dust embedded in Alex’s hair rains down like a shower, pulled with immeasurable force, he strains his neck and back with incredulity. He’s getting the distinct feeling that this person is responsible for all that weight. But Alex has carried heavier loads before. He’s carried—is carrying—the hopes and dreams of everyone he’s ever consumed. So Alex does what he always does, buffeted by a terrible rage, and gets back up on one foot.

The weight increases.

Mercer gets on one knee.

The technicolor gaze is surrounded by burst capillaries as weight increases yet again.

Alex stands under his own power, hardened tendrils piercing the ground, giving the stability and leverage needed to launch a bloodthirsty smile.

His foe’s eyes are bleeding heavily, and she directs a fierce scowl at him. There’s a dim satisfaction in her expression, though, as the daggers controlled by the orbiting mutant keep stabbing at Mercer. They slip in and out between strategic armor points. Alex doesn’t care enough to stop them. He’s being greedy, hoarding his precious biomass by not forming hardened armor over his entire form, but the absolute hunger he felt waking up is still forefront in his thoughts. It’s better, Alex feels, to take a few hits now than to be left wanting when a greater challenge appears.

His predicament doesn’t count. This ‘gravity-mutant’ has done more to stop him than any of the others here. And yet…the both of them know that she’s staring at her own death. Neither flinch, watching with hardened resolve, as Alex’s whipfist—transformed into something serrated and unweighted—goes straight for the eyes.

It’s cut in half by the ‘dagger-mutant’. The gravity-mutant blinks. Her eyes don’t open, as thick blood congeals around the lids. Another layer of weight is added to Alex’s shoulders, but he bears it with ease as he takes a step that sinks into the ground. Picking up a chunk of concrete, fingers cutting into it like butter, Alex chucks it straight to her head with deadly speed. He hears a crack with a grim smile stretching his mouth. A thud echoes under the racket as she falls bonelessly to the ground.

The force on his back vanishes with a suddenness that’s disruptive. That moment of flying release is enough for a bed of daggers to lift her up and away before he can confirm her death. Regardless if she’s alive, she won’t be fighting anytime soon. Mercer cracks his neck in satisfaction, twisting his head side to side, as he views what’s left.

From dozens of soldiers, whittled down, leaving only half their number. The mutants had come fewer, making each defeat hurt more, leaving the rest wary of the predator in their midst.

No one is rushing to face him head-on like before.

It’s only been a minute.

Mercer is strong.

…To a point. He certainly feels like he’s in control. The consumptions, small victories, and adaptations to the strange genetic make-up of his enemies has him feeling rejuvenated. His heart’s beating a steady drum, and in that rhythm, Mercer has dissected the orchestra of this fight. He’s got their mark, their fighting style, or whatever else they want to call it. He’s sure of what they’re going to do next.

Then they start retreating. Why? No, it’s obvious, Mercer thinks. Even if they outnumber him, everyone knows this is a fight he cannot lose. So Mercer eyes their fleeing backs lazily. He’ll make his way to the exit and finish off everyone too slow or dumb to leave before him—

Alex hears the thunder—

And a second later, he’s embedded several feet deep into the far end of the facility’s concrete wall. His blood and bits soak and scatter everywhere, as every part of him is pulverized or liquified. Parts of the wall rain down onto his struggling cells. Embodied in each is the entirety of his instinctual stubbornness and defiance. His regenerative abilities are pushed to their limit. Eyes, ears, nose, and mouth start to form. A loud, wet gasp is heard, followed by an inhuman growl. Then Alex feels the fire.

It’s a lesser cousin to the inferno of a nuke. Only just. Its ferocity is all-consuming.

The combined attacks threaten Alex’s survival in his weakened state.

Again Alex pushes his regeneration to his limits—and snarling—even further beyond, reforming at breakneck speeds. There are flaws, a thousand little differences between what is a human and what is just off, but it’s the price he must pay to get back up. Mercer leaps out like a deformed bullet. He’s diving straight towards the new challengers.

He never makes it.

He’s punched. So, so, so hard. Blinking away his destroyed eyes, deafened to the sound of the impact with no ears, Mercer feels the broken wall with what remains of his broken body. He yells so loudly it vibrates his shattered bones, and that thrum of hate lifts clear his form of the new hole. One of his eyes regenerates. It narrows in on burning blue eyes and a literal burning body. Alex spits blood, watches one of the new mutants charge up another blow, and thinks beyond his current strategy. He doesn’t have much time, so only modifications to himself can be made. Mercer needs enhanced muscles. His hammerfist quadruples in size and strength. And he needs a shield—something sturdy enough to tank bombs in the shape of men—so a braced and hardened slab of biomass replaces his left hand.

The massive air wave comes down on him like a hurricane. It makes the same comparison to the gravity-mutant look laughable. Nothing in the stadium is spared the buffeting winds. Mercer nearly isn’t either, only barely deflecting the blow. The first one, that is, as the second one comes down like the Fist of God. It simply…deletes his arm. It’s gone. His shield is no more. Like a crustacean escaping a predator, Mercer sacrifices a limb to live another moment. And another day if he can escape. There’s nothing for him here with these two mutants.

There’s no shame. Honest.

Mercer will recover to his prime and beyond. Then he’ll challenge these two and see who’s the apex.

That plan dies the second he thinks of it. Mercer tried to use the momentum of the punch to boost his speed. Tried and failed, as a wave of fire meets him. He’s forced to dive head-first into an oven hot enough to cook even his cells alive. Alex nearly dies again there, before leaping out burning and burning, little more than a skeleton panicking at finding himself now in front of the mutant with super strength. His bones go every which way, scattered to the four winds summoned by that monumental punch, and Alex’s skull and head-flesh finds itself embedded in a different piece of concrete wall.

There’s more fire.

Just like the beginning of his life, it looks like the end will mimic it.

…But Mercer still has a few tricks up his sleeve, his aces snuck in from being an absolute cheater at fighting. He’s not going to let this be the end of his story. He didn’t then and isn’t going to start now. The newly formed bones and flesh of his body, shooting from his head like vine-growths, not yet past his hips, condense into an inhuman form. A ball, layered with hardened biomass. And a different set of skin is formed besides it. It’s a replica of his armored cells, akin to shedding of snake skin to fool predators. Once the fire ends, the two of his foes will see what appears to be a charred skull and torso.

Mercer hides in a burst of rolling. And…they fall for it.

An almighty explosion comes from below the two mutants. Concrete shatters upwards. The larger, more muscled man suddenly has a blunt spear of that material slamming into his gut. His companion yells, while the mutant spits blood as he’s sent flying away. Retaliation is swift. The burning man creates a blazing inferno around Mercer.

It’s less effective than before. Mercer has been adapting to his foes since they appeared. The intense heat buffets his whipfist, as it wraps around the legs of his opponent. There’s a gasp of pain when his foe feels the barbs digging into the vulnerable flesh of skin and muscle. His challenger tries to burn away the binding, and when that doesn’t work, fly away on wings of fire. Alex holds on, letting the man rip up gobs of meat from his struggles, while he endures the renewed fire and pain with a snarl. Mercer doesn’t know why he’s still fighting them. But this is making his anger feel so satisfied. He should be taking the opportunity to run. And yet…

Mercer shoots out harpoons from his legs to anchor himself. He’s not fleeing. Maybe the hits to the skull affected his consciousness—there’s no reason besides a deep desire to win and to inflict payback that has him pulling down the burning man like an angel dragged to Hell. The whip to the man’s leg is like an anchor from a mighty ship, pulling him down to Earth. They lock gazes for a second. Then Mercer’s other arm co*cks back and punches the man in the face.

There are several crunches. And blood splatters. The man’s nose and several teeth are broken—and only his nose and several teeth, because the bulk of Mercer’s biomass wasn’t in his fist. Instead of strengthening a blow to carve in a skull—something that would be deeply cathartic, Alex admits—Mercer had to pay the cost of empowering his whipfist and his leg anchors and all the fighting he did earlier and just not starving to death. It means the man doesn’t die. It also means the man can’t escape when he retaliates. Fire erupts from burning arms and legs. A growing mantra of “more…more!” reach Alex’s ears.

The temperature reaches a breaking point—for Alex’s fire resistant armor. The carapace cracks, then shatters in an explosion that throws the both of them away from each other. Alex tumbles into one of the many craters in the ground. His whipfist is gone and his leg harpoons are broken.

By now, the complex looks like something out of World War One. There’s too many fissures, holes, and carved trenches for any normal building to remain standing. The concrete wounds from centuries ago blend in with the ones from the present. But this isn’t any ordinary doomsday location. It was made to stand up against Mercer, and though almost all of the old equipment has been smashed, the foundations still stand. Even the towering half of the Alpha Aglamate Abomination has been reduced to charcoal-like chunks, its last half of ossified hard tissue burnt and crushed beyond any recognition.

Mercer isn’t feeling much better himself. He sympathizes with that dead monster for one terrible moment. Its corpse is the closest connection Mercer has to the past, in another org*smism, when the titans of strength that roamed the world were few in number. Or concentrated weapons in the hands of superpowers: nukes, chemical agents, bioweapons. He feels a terrible longing for that time. But it’s a childish notion in the end.

The past is dead. And Mercer isn’t going to gain back all of his old strength by wishing for it. The strength of the explosion must have done something else to his head, his consciousness, because the all-encompassing hunger and fury from earlier has diminished. Even Alex’s bloodlust has been tamed, like the heat from the explosion was an ice-cold shower, and he…no longer feels the urge to keep fighting. There’s more important things. Alex has to get out of here.

He shifts his form akin to a mass of boneless tendrils, burrowing through the cracks and crevices in the concrete. This shape is a risky one, with the thinness and lowered brain activity, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Alex is going to sneak his way out. He’s relying on the two challengers to be too out of it to notice him.

They have to be lagging in will, right? Humans—even mutants—have some limits, and the fight must have been tiring for them.

…Alex is still going to proceed cautiously. He amplifies all of his senses, using his boneless nature to his advantage by creating sensory organs next to shallow cracks and under cover. He dampers his own smell just in case. Alex even shifts his cells to absorb primitive echolocation.

Soon, Alex hears more mutants and soldiers arrive. He curses silently, knowing his work just got harder. He’s left the cavern but not the facility. He’s been too slow flowing through the tunnel. Every step near him is startling, every rolling of heavy vehicles a risk to the cover he’s hiding behind. Alex feels like he’s being trapped in a circle, as the frequency of bodies and machines increase around him.

Then someone steps onto him. There’s a splash of boneless fluid. Shouts of panic erupt, as the unfortunate soldier trips and falls while trying to get away from Alex. Mercer can kill him, here and now—even though it would change nothing in the grand scheme of things, it would be so satisfying to satiate his anger at failure on the poor man. And even practical: Alex is running far too low on biomass, having depleted most of what he gained in the same battle. But he doesn’t. Alex lets the man run behind a squad of mutants that show up.

Engaging in a fight isn’t what he wants anymore. Or needs. There’s more ways to solve a problem than killing his way through…like this risky gamble. Using what little material he has left in him, Alex creates a white flag. It’s the weakest and most vulnerable position he’s been in since waking up. It’s also the wisest. Alex knows he doesn’t deserve mercy or diplomacy after what he put his past victims through, but there’s a part of him putting his cards on human nature. However, as tough as it’ll be, he’ll accept it if they start shooting and restart the conflict. Alex doesn’t intend to die tonight. He’ll survive in one way or another.

The single protruding eye Alex has peeking out sees much disgust from the uncovered faces. Immediately, Alex marks the burning man with fire coiling around his body like clothing, and the burning blue eyes man with a body that could rival D-Codes. Everyone else is insignificant compared to them. They’re all that’s needed. The guns and other mutants fade into the background, as Alex comes to terms with losing again if the men decide to throw punches. He’s already putting contingency plans in place, planning to regrow from small clumps of cells weeks from now if he must, hiding the bundles as discreetly as he can.

A strange standoff ensues. The white flag is pristine amidst the red and black flesh it emerged from.

When no one attacks him, Alex begins to consider how bizarre a boneless flesh would be to talk with. Would they even believe he can talk? Most likely not, unless…

Alex’s mass shifts again. Everyone grows tense. Alex moves his flesh slowly, creating naked, visible lungs and a rudimentary mouth. It’s a worse sight than the fluid, and a soldier off to the side—the same one that stepped in him—moves away and vomits.

After the organs are fully ready, Alex attempts to speak. Poorly. “Hellooo” leaves him in wet clicks and the sound of gravel. It’s met with shock, then confusion as a burst of puzzled Japanese enters his ears. It’s also a little embarrassing. Alex adjusts his vocal cords to something human. Then he calls upon his consumed dead to speak the language of the land, unwilling to let poor communication impede the talks that will surely follow.

Alex introduces himself.

“Hello.”

Chapter 10: Chapter Ten: Meetings With A Monster/Hearing Out The Horror

Chapter Text

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“Thank you all for arriving here on such short notice. We’ll begin by—”

“Saying we have a f*cking crisis.” A man dressed in a crumpled collar shirt, sleeves rolled up, leans back in his chair while flicking a lighter. It sparks once, twice, before a cigarette is lit. His black hair and brown eyes are messy and cold respectively in the sterile white light of the meeting room. His breathing is stressed as he huffs tobacco. “Our party’s f*cked if the media finds out before next election.”

“I understand, Minister of Defense.” The interrupted man says, bald face cast in a severe look by his narrowed eyes. “We are indeed facing a…massive crisis.” His gaze flicks to the other people in the room. Important officials, military officers, Heroes. Each with their own take on the mess and each brimming with what they believe is the biggest problem. “Let us all be on the same page. Tell me your concerns.”

The words flood in. Some offer different perspectives.

“Think of the public. They’re going to be scared. It’s one thing to lose so many people in a flashy villain fight, another to lose them quietly like this.”

“The public ain’t gonna believe a word. Heroes don't just disappear. Not famous ones.”

“Precisely.” A third voice speaks up. “These heroes have mass followings, endorsem*nts from corporations, big public reputations…all it’ll take is one leak and we’re going to have a media firestorm.”

Some people…are merely scared.

“We’re facing a crisis not seen in decades!”

“Which f*cking party appointed the current head of the Yuki Onna?”

“Maybe we ought to start looking at third years in Hero Schools. Start a recruitment drive. Who knows how many potential recruits lie in those on the cusp of graduation? I’ve said it before, we should start young!”

The storm of emotions in the meeting room is the only chill to be felt. There are no windows. As time goes on, the body heat of angry and fearful people affects the area. Several have wiped the sweat off their foreheads. A haze fills the air—the Minister of Defense no longer the only one to smoke stressfully. The flurry of papers shuffling and voices interrupting each other creates a very particular beat, something fast-paced and irritating to the ears, and the atmosphere takes a turn for the worse.

The man who started the meeting has to take it in hand.

“Let us agree that the operation was a total wash,” he says, his bald forehead now beaded with moisture. "The government has duplicates of the equipment and information recovered or is on favorable terms with the nations that do. The priceless artifacts and documents such as the cryogenic tubes behind the vault door are completely destroyed."

"You don't think the Matagi took the good f*cking sh*t for themselves, do you?" The comment by the Minister of Defense sounds like a threat. The forty-year old looks closer to fifty as he scowls. He leans forward, crushing his second cigarette in an ash table, before saying: "Because if they have, Riku, I'm willing to say they stole military secrets and property."

Silence.

"You speak in haste, Minato. The Matagi would have sold anything worth having. Besides—they haven't stolen our captive," says Riku. He forces a chuckle, and soon, others join the chairman for the meeting. It's a brief moment of unity, where the men and women present cover up the near-breaking of a societal norm followed for decades.

One last laugh joins after several heartbeats. The Minister of Defense no longer leans over the table. His brown eyes show a brief shrewdness. "Yes. It's merely the stress, honorable chairman. But thank you for bringing the man up, codenamed Raijin."

Named for the thundergod of Japanese myth, Raijin was forced to stop his spree of destruction, to bring only rain and bounty to Japan forever.

Another cigarette is pulled out and lit with a smooth motion. Leaning back against his chair, smoke puffing up, Minato says, “What the f*ck is he?”

So goes the rest of the meeting. There are, over the span of hours, only several statements worth noting.

“Tengu and Gashadokuro are running security on his transport to that prison. The subject regenerated into a full human when moved from a small container to a larger one. Clearly, Raijin has some healing properties.”

“Raijin fought our forces while in a suboptimal state and triumphed over nearly everyone. Contingencies must be made for a fight at his full strength.”

“Every inch of the facility that had those growths has been incinerated and sterilized. Perhaps…Raijin is related to that, if I may put forth my speculation?”

Grim faces abound. No matter the window-dressing used, the only salvation for the night lay in the ultra-secure cell meant for the strong and versatile villains. They cannot afford to kill him; too much blood and dreams have been spent to not extract their own pound of flesh. And there were many oddities in the facility that needed answering.

So it concludes that there is only one reliable witness and testimony: a metahuman who should not exist, especially with such a complex and versatile ‘Quirk’.

*****

Said metahuman is thinking, grudgingly, that his cell is well-suited for him.

Mercer sees the glow of energy chains, hears the crackle and pop of electricity, feels layers of heavy metal binding him, smells stagnant air mixed with chemicals, and tastes the opposite of sweet freedom. He can shift himself, barely. There’s a ringing in his mind from the beating he took. It makes forming an escape plan difficult.

The cell is also fortified with barbed mesh wire. Similar to the sort seen atop prison walls, but to his eyes, the edges are smaller than a mouse’s iris. Past that, the heavy bars in city-jails and drunk tanks are present—yet encased in technology right out of science fiction. Like the energy chains restricting his body, the bars are encased in a bright energy field. It’s an absurd setup. It makes the scientists in him giddy and eager to write outlandish theories. Mercer can’t help but think of who else this cell is meant to hold.

Not anyone weak, obviously. Impossible to miss, a plethora of turrets point at him from eight directions, each with barrels the width of a clenched fist.

Mercer has zero ideas and no way out. There’s no door. All the fortifications ultimately protrude from a shadowy blackness that hides nothing but thick walls. And no ventilation. Part of his subtle shifts makes the oxygen in the cell more breathable.

If only his senses hadn’t been f*cked up during his removal from Blackwatch’s facility. But it’s not like he could have spared the biomass to create something greater than a human’s eyes and ears—Mercer laughs sharply at the idea of them standing by while he desecrates their dead by absorbing corpses. A simple mobile cage covered up was all it took to blind him then. All he had felt was an ozone crackle and pop. And so he was in his glory: a chunk of flesh slowly turning itself back into a man. Something small, something mortal—a thinness he hadn't felt since the nuclear catastrophe he averted. Weaker than a child. Hell, one could have thrown him across a room.

Can still. Maybe a burly highschooler. Now, all he has to defend himself is his wits.

A haze slowly starts to emerge, blurry and indistinct. Like a mirage, a form came to life. Mercer can smell nothing. He feels a headache coming. For all intents and purposes, the shadowy figure in front of him only exists in his eyes.

A clipboard is materialized. “Fifty-nine dead.” The figure blooms into life. So too does a leather chair. Suddenly, one of the many dead soldiers Mercer killed is sitting across from him, hands atop the chair’s back, itself turned around so the person’s legs are planted around the rear. Nothing is said for a moment.

“Nice trick,” Mercer says in Japanese.

The features shift, from one man to another, and Mercer settles back as it becomes clear that this is some sort of power play. The illusionist takes their time going through all the dead killed in the facility. If they expect some sudden outpouring of guilt, they don’t give away their disappointment. Mercer doesn’t need to see his victims in another’s face—they already exist inside him.

“Eight crippled for life.” The voice comes across as one of those heavily modulated witnesses in TV shows. This time, Mercer feels a bit of sympathy. He sees a plethora of injuries: quadriplegic, brain-damage, blindness, near-complete paralyzation.

“You should treat them well—veterans can get neglected,” is all Mercer says.

“Fourteen widows, twenty-five newly made orphans.” Their voice overlaps and reverberates around the room, sounding like every stern teacher or professor Alex ever had. The illusionist shifts back into their initial form of a human shadow. They wish to protect the civilian’s identities, Mercer guesses. Perhaps it’s about time he gives a display of strength?

Mercer digs deep into the newly deceased. The illusion itself malfunctions like a glitch when Alex shifts into the first soldier, turrets following his moves as flesh and clothing ripple. By the tenth, the illusionist has enough.

“Nice trick,” they say. “It’s time we talk properly.”

A faceless soldier appears, looking like every Mercer has killed and none. The uniforms and features are picture-like when he focuses, yet fade away into a myriad of shapes in the corner of his eyes. “I’m not going to sugarcoat it friend,” they say, looking intently into his eyes. A reverberation echoes with dozens of voices around the room: “You’re in a whole heap of trouble.”

*****

The outside of the room hides a second government agent. This one is a highly-regarded psychologist with an exceptional empath Quirk. She’s frowning as she views the proceedings. There’s only one entity inside the cell—the illusionist too far away to pollute the readings—so why are the emotions so confusing?

A suited official near her notices. “Anything wrong, ma’am?”

“It’s…like he’s giving off every emotion at once. Literally everything. It’s going absolutely haywire and off the charts according to my Quirk.” The psychologist takes the implicit offer to treat the official as a rubber duck. Someone to bounce ideas off of. “You know, I’ve dealt with a variety of patients. Some things are universal. Regardless of the mutation or Quirk, every human has about two dozen distinct emotions or combinations.”

The suit nods and hums appropriately. “Interesting.”

“Yeah. And every second, at best, you can only ‘feel’ two to three. People have varying intensities, like feeling relief and anxiety in equal measure after avoiding an accident, but that can easily slide into rage and fear. I’ve seen it in myself. See it in you. People switch between many different emotions, but not all at once. There's always a delay, no matter how slow or fast. But here…”

“What exactly are you seeing, ma’am?”

A deep breath then: “Like I said, everything. Every emotion flaring with no break, at the highest levels I’ve ever seen. He’s an impossibility. It’s like there are thousands of different minds in him, experiencing the sun total of the human condition at once, intensified.” The psychologist fidgets with her collared shirt. A bead of sweat falls down her brow.

In another room, one with many screens, murmurs break out. These individuals analyze the interrogation through cameras. The psychologist’s words spark a micro-discussion. The sentiment is equivalent to doctors querying about a mental asylum: Raijin shows complete control currently and surrendered willingly, but had acted monstrously before. Was he prone to psychotic breaks?

Several steps forward brings peace and quiet. All Might gently nudges aside a man and speaks into a communicator. “Try to provoke a reaction, any at all.” A hand clenches—but eager to make a fist or clasp arms is anyone's guess.

*****

A period of silence. Mercer's fist tightening is noticeable when one can hear bones cracking and shifting. The faceless soldier still looks like no one, still looks like everyone—even an echo of Captain Cross for a heartbreaking moment.

You’re in a whole heap of trouble. “Story of my f*cking life,” Mercer says. “Always on the wrong end of some bad guys. Woke up with armed men over me. What was I supposed to think? It was self-defense.” It's a battle for the narrative here, for the framing of events, and though he surrendered to these people, Alex will try to give himself as much leverage as possible.

“Killing was your only option? Your tentacle Quirk seemed pretty versatile when you tore through all those men.” The interrogator displays pictures from helmet cams, stills capturing Alex’s murder in motion. “Torn apart and seemingly absorbed, some with no traces but their blood to mark their last remains.”

What the hell is a Quirk? Alex thinks fast. He notes the emphasis. A quick deflection to give him more time: “Grew up American. ‘Stand Your Ground’ is how things are done. But we're in Japan. A different culture. And yet…if there's a villain attacking you, you expect me to believe you'd hold back?”

The illusionist pauses, before giving a small smile. Mercer gets the feeling he just stepped into a trap.

“That's an old attitude,” the faceless soldier says. A hand mimes a clock ticking backwards. “You know, that dialect of Japanese you’re using is also pretty outdated. Only place I’ve heard it from are the oldest movies still around.”

“Date.” Mercer isn't asking.

“April 17th, 2317.”

Alex feels his insides squirm in agitation.

*****

“Irritation colored his emotions, for a moment.” The psychologist's voice comes from the speakers. The group analyzing the data has been split in two: half focus on Raijin’s personality, while the other deal with the implications of what they learned.

Sumida Haruzo does both. A tall and bespoke man, he furiously writes notes. Cross-referencing dialects and language uses with time periods is first on the agenda later. Sumida is also a fastidious man at heart, serving as the symbol of the long arm of the law in many interrogations, notorious for his inevitability among even more stubborn prisoners.

His pair of sharp glasses glint in the artificial light. They’re pushed up. “Break off from that line of questioning,” he says to the communicator. “Let Raijin remain in control.” To the handful around him: “We’ve got enough information to cross-reference the dialect with audio samples.” What’s left unsaid is that others will be doing that busy work, not him.

Sumida then taps his knuckles against a table, grabbing everyone’s attention. His calm demeanor hides a desire to show off what he’s deduced. “Despite his older dialect, he spoke perfectly, like a native. However, the subject definitely looks and acts like a Westerner. Raijin also appeared unaware of the differences in dialect between him and the illusionist—like he was speaking or translating on autopilot. Thus, something is afoot. What is it? Well, we must find out. I’ll be directing the interrogator as we continue.”

Nothing but ‘yes, sir’ comes from the crowd. No one objects, eyes down and already focusing on the task at hand.

*****

“You've been under a while, haven't you?” the illusionist says.

“Suppose so,” Mercer says, ignoring the prod for the last date he remembered. “If the older movies have survived, surely history has.”

“Oh, some of this and that.”

That doesn’t give him much to work with. Uncertainty colors the true value of his knowledge and thus, bargaining power. Not eating the minds of the 24th century soldiers had been a smart move at the time, to not lose himself in a barrage of memories, but the lack of intel was biting him in the ass now. Mercer thinks it's clear the illusionist won't give anything without receiving something first. “Do the words Blackwatch, Redlight, or Blacklight mean anything to anyone?” There's a grim smile on Alex’s face.

There's a pause for a minute. The illusionist grows puppet-like with stiff limbs and an unnatural stillness. Their concentration must be split elsewhere; that, or Mercer's mind is beginning to adapt to the intrusion. Finally: “No, I can't say I have. Must not have been that important.” There's a wry smirk on the faceless soldier's face, opposite of the words, conveying they know it's something valuable indeed.

“Of course they covered it up.” Mercer confirms it. “What about the Manhattan outbreak?”

“Which one? There was the influenza outbreak fifty years ago-“

“No. The one in the twenty-first century. I’ll even give you the exact year—2009.”

Another pause. Another minute. The illusion is less stable now. Frayed edges and mismatched colors make the faceless soldier appear out of a corrupted video, indescribable yet intent in their gaze. Hands open up to show emptiness: “Records are sparse.”

Alex raises an eyebrow; casually leans back.

“Describe your Quirk.” Bluntness from his opposite.

Another deflection from Mercer: “Is that what they call it these days?”

The illusionist says after a beat, “You’ve been asleep for a very, very long time. Missed some important developments, no doubt. We know more about Quirks and metahumans than in the past.” Mercer understands he just gave away information, again. Yet he gained something. Experiments and science are still done to people like him. The faceless soldier stops talking before Alex wishes. “But…do you know what you’ll learn if you don’t cooperate?” Hands emphasize nothing.

The research is tantalizing. He’d love to know how they—the punch and fire guys in particular—were so strong. And if he needed to fight more of them in the future. “We obviously had a bad first impression.”

“I agree. The dead and crippled would call it something else, though. Walk me through what happened, let me understand.” There’s a sympathetic yet intense look on the interrogator’s face.

“Your men shot first.” Mercer lays down his casus belli.

“You tore a man in half first, if I understand correctly.” They lean forwards with a raised eyebrow.

“Let’s not go through this song and dance again. I wasn’t in a stable state of mind.”

There’s a hum of consideration. “Temporary insanity?”

…Mercer nods. He feels more secure in his position. It seems like his captors were genuinely scrutinizing him. They want Alex to justify himself. Alex thinks they want to tell themselves that he’s not a ruthless killing machine—for what purpose, he doesn't know yet. But he can guess.

Science. Money. Power.

“Are you still unstable?” the illusionist says. For a single heartbeat, they vanish.

“I had extenuating circ*mstances.” Mercer notes that the individual begins flickering in and out of vision, like a glitched NPC in a video game, and tells his brain to halt adaptation. He wants to continue talking. He feels like he’s getting somewhere—not like he could get anywhere else without words. The faceless soldier returns to the stability present in an 80's film.

“To be frank…we’re all trying to find a mutually beneficial solution. One that helps us all. My name is Yamamura Sadako, and I am here to find that solution.” A belated introduction, but a good indicator of the changing nature of their conversation. “You mentioned New York City. Is that where you’re from?”

Mercer thinks: You could say I’m idiopathic. I’m from nowhere and everywhere. I’m Patient Zero and the last victim. Back then, it was just one of my many haunts.

Mercer considers deflecting again. Bad habit. His origin can be obscured with flowery language taken out of context. But…he is displaced centuries ahead in time. Everyone and everything he had ever known is ashes or dust. The last threat to humanity is him, and the realistically small-chance of a prodigious mad scientist. Dana and Ragland are surely dead, New York altered beyond belief. He is adrift and alone.

No purpose. An uncomfortable listlessness overtakes him. He always had a goal or crisis to face. Never before has the yawning void of uncertainty ahead look so daunting.

But even for his mid-life crisis, he isn’t here to get fleeced. He has to gauge what they want, what they want to learn, and what they already know.

Mercer decides to at the very least, share his name and origin. It is a step somewhere, after all.

“Yes. Alex Mercer”.

“Excuse me?”

“My name. Alex Mercer.”

He gets a relieved smile in return.

Sadako says while manifesting a report: “Glad you’ve introduced yourself to me. Now we can get down to proper business. First and foremost—your feats. How? No Quirk factors present from the scraps of DNA we’ve tested. Our forensic team carbon dated the bodies found in the airlock and the equipment to the early twenty-first century, long before the rise of Quirks.”

Shock. Acceptance. They could guess Mercer’s age the whole time. So why had the interrogator…of course, his captors wouldn’t rely on a single data point.

Mercer leans back, affects a calm mask, and fires back with a question. “Define first: what exactly is a quirk?”

“A unique, superhuman ability genetically passed down from generation to generation. As you see, I can create illusions from a distance.” The faceless soldier warps into a variety of forms, colors, and even creates extra props, before reverting back. It’s a demonstration for children. It’s something completely beyond Alex Mercer.

Alex’s thoughts race. There’s no way he can even conceive to create that biologically. He almost wants to call it magic. But there must be something in common with genetics—if there wasn’t, he wouldn’t have been able to adapt to it earlier. Yet…“How exactly can human bodies today afford such energy draining mutations? Evolution isn’t that fast.”

Argued Mercer, ironically the poster boy for accelerated evolution in seconds.

Sadako shrugs. “Not a scientist. If we manage to have a mutually beneficial arrangement, you’ll get access to one. I’m sure with your extraordinary individuality, that’ll be no issue. However, I must ask, even if you are from the past, we need to know more about you. I have your name, but so many records have been lost to the chaos.”

“Born 1979, July 16th. Childhood wasn’t pleasant. Had a sister once. Became a scientist. Got entangled in a conspiracy.” Mercer keeps his answers short and to the point—no point in spilling history that was of no use to anyone.

Sadako’s smile fades into a chuckle. “Said enough for the biography, huh?” A rueful tone. “Going to have to give your ghost writers more than that.”

There’s a frustrating back and forth. The more Sadako probes, the shorter Mercer’s answers become. Acting candidly…is difficult for him.

Sadako finally hits him with the obvious question: “Why does that facility exist? Are you tied to the growths and the enormous creature seen there?”

Give me more first, Mercer thinks. He’ll answer fully. Then Alex wonders why he’s even bothering.

Why is he stalling?

How much can telling the truth really harm his prospects? His position? What does he even want? Need?

He doesn’t need to protect his country, or keep any secrets. Why would he? His America declassified old operations all the time. And this is ancient history. And it isn’t like the original Alex was especially patriotic either. No statute of limitations or successor governments will surely care by this point.

It is obvious too how much his captors want him and his skills. They won’t just throw him out.

Hopefully. At least, not before he can stand up to the strongest in this world.

…He’s still thinking too much about fighting, about conflicts and power—it’s coloring his every interaction.

He realizes what it is. The knee jerk deflection. The unwillingness to spill secrets. It’s the fear handed down from the original Alex Mercer. It is the all too human fear that revealing too much might make him vulnerable.

Alex straightens up. He stiffens his back and holds his head up high.

He's almost resigned, but comforted by the knowledge at least the catastrophes in the future weren’t Blackwatch caused. He made a difference, and maybe it was all worth it. Should he accept whatever happens, happens? Even if his violence is to be punished?

Where is he without Blackwatch to fight? Where is he without Ragland or Dana?

What does he want from life? To create? To destroy?

Whatever it is, it’s certainly not under anyone’s thumb. He’d struggle for independence. Thousands of lives showed him how those who sought to be above—who sought to rise by punching down—just kept taking. Taking, until there’s nothing but a ground-down soul to throw away when convenient.

He is better than that. Stronger than that. He isn’t simply human, he’s far more.

“I’ll be frank...the U.S government did inhumane, vile things. I’ve mentioned the 2009 Manhattan outbreak. Tell me, does anyone today know what happened?”

“I’ll ask, but I’m going to assume records are, again, sparse,” Sadako says with an interested gleam in their eyes.

“Won’t be surprised.”

And indeed they are none. So Mercer explains what the United States did to Hope, Idaho, and to many other places.

It goes as well as expected.

No one likes to hear what a foreign government sanctioned on their own soil.

“I pretty much saved Japan. You're welcome by the way, a lot of good people died for the sake of all of you to exist.” Mercer’s leaning back as far as his restraints will let him. He’s nonchalant. He’s fudged some details. Certain revelations are better left unspoken and unheard of, if Mercer wants to live as freely as he can. The government may put him in a petri dish forever—though forever sounds closer to centuries of imprisonment when one is, effectively, immortal.

That’s another detail Alex omitted.

Sadako’s face is unstable. The illusion grows erratic on its own accord. Mercer takes it to mean the illusionist behind the faceless soldier mask is pale.

“f*ck.”

“Yeah.”

“Give us a moment, please.”

“The people upstairs aren’t taking it well?”

Sadako laughs sharply. “Not at all.” Then there’s a conspiratorial look. “Between you and me, that’s good for you.”

“I’ll be expecting big sales from my biography.”

Sadako laughs earnestly.

There’s a time of chatting and learning about the modern world, and a longer time of comfortable silence, the end of which has Mercer confident that there were some serious talks happening with lawyers and officials.

“I’m pleased to inform you of the following,” Sadako says. The faceless soldier sweeps away illusionary newspaper articles into nothingness. “The government will offer you leniency and terms on a conditional basis. How would you like to save some more people, even all of humanity? With your powers…”

Alex stops him with a shake of his head. He has a different career in mind than hero-ing. “My greatest strengths aren’t my abilities, they’re up here.” Alex crudely gestures towards his head for emphasis, turrets still following his every move. He shows off. “I’ve gotten my PhD and doctorates in genetics, biology, virology, and more with extensive practical lab work. I am also extensively learned in interdisciplinary fields such as astrophysics, chemistry, geology, computer science, and programming.” He chuckles in false modesty. “A refresher may be needed to stay on top of advances.”

One more detail omitted: how everything but genetics and biology is derived from the many scientists and unlucky passersby he had consumed during and after the outbreak.

“...How do you know so much? An intelligence modification from the virus?”

“You can say that again. I practically devoured it all.” This time, Mercer’s lack of modern-day knowledge, from not consuming memories in his fight, lets him utter such words unchallenged. It fits within established parameters. They know he devoured bodies but remained ignorant of the knowledge those poor people contained. His actions would have surely been different otherwise.

Sadako takes Mercer’s enigmatic smile as dark humor. They laugh politely. With an eager tone, they say, “Is this how you learned Japanese?”

“Yeah. Guess I speak old-fashioned now.” A wry grin.

“You must have so much old world knowledge. You could use it for the good of all people. But, we can’t forget what happened. We must push forward, make amends.”

Mercer almost rolls his eyes. He isn’t a martyr, and he definitely isn’t looking to sacrifice himself.

He lost his taste after the nuclear blast and the desperate last stand against the Amalgamation Abomination. Alex wants to live.

The interrogator continues, unknowing of Mercer’s thoughts. “There will be stipulations of course. Rules to follow, a probationary period, and, obviously, updating you on laws such as Quirk usage.”

“Not a Quirk.”

“Regardless of if it’s a Quirk or not, virtually every legal system will treat it as one for obvious reasons.”

“Fair enough.” It’s not like Alex has a pressing need to crawl up skyscrapers or glide over cities.

“Good. Now it’s time for paperwork.” Sadako leans back. “And there shall be a time of trouble, such as never was since there was a nation even to that same time.”

Mercer blinks. That came from the Bible. “Religious?”

“Just like doomsday books.”

Predictably, it takes a while. Cover stories are made, formalized legal agreements are hashed by government lawyers sworn to secrecy, terms and conditions fly fast and furious—the process makes Mercer a citizen and much more.

“What about America?” Sadako says at one point.

“What about it?” Mercer says back. America holds nothing but ghosts for him. “Rather make a fresh start here.”

And as he does so, he shoots for the moon. He asks for everything.

A fully functional lab with assistants personally vetted. A sizable grant probably worth as much as the entire facility and the salaries of everyone inside. A refusal to engage in weapon development. No government mandates on what to do or projects to research.

Mercer doesn’t win every point, but he takes whatever he can get. The negotiations bring up old memories of hustling with his sister. They’re bittersweet.

The one thing he gets without issue is a full secret pardon—with strings and stipulations attached.

“No one can know the truth of these events,” Sadako says.

“Obviously.”

“You’ll have bodyguards. Non-negotiable during the probationary period. Monthly check-ins later.”

Alex can’t quite escape that. He'd rather have an ankle bracelet, but everyone knows his strength. Still, he isn’t exactly a people’s person.

“You’ll also have regular audits.”

His eyes twitch.

“We spoke briefly earlier about your ‘dietary requirements’. Are they flexible?”

Mercer says, “I’d appreciate a government funded food stipend. And a place nearby with large livestock. I doubt I’ll be injured or wounded enough for it to be needed, but it’s better to be on the safe side.”

Sadako nods. “Deal.“

*****

Sumida says, “Interesting.”

Some members have a more irrational response: worried looks are shared. “What kind of Quirk, or whatever bio-weapon he is, needs people to possibly eat?” Disgust is visible on the speaker’s face.

Surprisingly, it is Endeavour that responds. His steady silence is broken when he says: “Quirk science and psychology is still a young, underdeveloped field. We still don’t know if his ‘Quirk’ requirements are purely physical or psychological. Many of the criminals I’ve had to take in over the years were negatively affected by it.”

Suitably chastened, the disgusted speaker nods. Suitably disinterested, Endeavour ignores All-Might’s approving look.

A much older woman in the front acknowledges what is going through all of their minds. “Maybe human consumption is a one off thing or maybe it’s a requirement. But the wealth of knowledge and utility he represents makes him an asset we cannot afford to alienate. Not until we recoup our investment.

“I will acknowledge there’s a limit to how much we can cover up. If anything happens in the future with his needs—just in case, you understand—send me a file of all Tartarus inmates for review. Start with the least Lindahl-Linnaeus ratings but highest crime sheet.”

“You’ll get it in the morning,” Sumida says before anyone else, and that’s that. A hand carefully wipes clean the lenses of his glasses. His face looks more honest without them. A pile of after action reports lie on a nearby desk. “We must ask him more. This tragedy started with miscommunication and error. It cannot continue any longer. We must ask him again about the full extent of his abilities, and if possible his true origins.” Then the glasses come on, hiding the flash of empathy with a shining reflection of sterile light.

*****

Sadako co*cks their head to the side. Images of several technological developments disappear. “I think it’s high time we confront the…” a discomforted pause ensues. “Unfortunate elephant in the room.

“Dr. Mercer, we find ourselves at a critical juncture. In our society and others around the world, there exist a myriad of Quirks and their effect on the mind or others. Some require therapy, others medication. But as a last resort for the most unstable and powerful, detainment.

“We have gone over eyewitness reports and the after action reports. The bottom half of the squad leader Asa was never found. And more troubling, during the ensuing conflict, reports say you ‘absorbed’ soldiers. Whether they were in pieces or wholly taken. We must have complete clarity.”

“I’m sure by now you’re aware of my regenerative abilities, correct? That energy and mass must come from somewhere, and organic tissue is the fastest and most effective option in high violence situations.” Alex gives the faceless soldier something. That illusion makes it more uncomfortable to say partial-truths than it normally is. It’s the topic, Alex thinks, and what he did to innocent men in all honesty. But he has complete control of his body—there’s no twitch, tell, or modulation of his voice at that moment. “Rarely do I ever get injured enough to have to resort to people. Any animal tends to be sufficient. Rats, cats, dogs, the occasional pigeon or rare cow. I won’t be going on a serial killing eating spree.” Mercer mocks that possibility with a derisive sneering tone. “Do you understand now why I wanted a place nearby with livestock?”

“I see. A young energetic supercentenarian such as yourself needs plenty of energy.” Sadako’s dry wit gets a chuckle out of Mercer.

With that matter settled, they once more iron out responsibilities, expectations, benefits, housing, and a story to the public. Everyone’s accounts would be straight and airtight.

“The last thing we need to go over are your twenty-four seven watchers.” Sadako bites their lip. “You agreed to them. Let me tell you who they are. Endeavor and All Might—the individuals who subdued you—will alternate watch. We’ll publically excuse it as anti-kidnapping measures. Think of them less as a threat and more of a probationary officer. Once we can establish a consistent, mutually beneficial relationship, you’ll no longer have them. It’s non-negotiable, but think of them as the best equipped guides. Will this cause…problems?”

Merecer shrugs. “Fine by me.” He doesn’t care too much. There’s no plans for wide-scale destruction or disruption. He has a new, fresh start. Maybe now he can start paying back the tab to the dead haunting him.

Sadako puts their hands out. And despite it being fake, the future feels warm and inviting. He may have been gripping an imaginary hand, but he grasped his future securely.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Chapter 11: SIDE STORIES SPANNING SEASONS: THE FOUR FACTIONS OF JAPAN: “THE SILENT WAR”/ THE CULT OF ALL FOR ONE

Chapter Text

Now for something new.

This is going to be something a little bit different from your usual dose of Viral Latency. This project has as much weight as mainline VL, but because the story itself doesn’t lend well to including this, it’ll be considered a “side project”.

These stories will mostly focus on the world of My Hero Academia after the events of Prototype, but before Viral Latency starts. “Side Stories Spanning Seasons” isn’t mandatory to read, but I highly recommend it as a companion piece to VL. I hope you all enjoy it! This isn’t taking away from the main story because these were already finished. However, they are all unedited. It's not terrible, but you’ll see why I enjoy having 7imelock helping me edit and co-write my story!

SIDE STORIES SPANNING SEASONS (SSSS)

THE FOUR FACTIONS OF JAPAN: “THE SILENT WAR”

There was a war in Japan. Not the bloody, country destroying wars happening all over the world. Not the wholesale internal implosions. This was a quiet war. For now. It was waged with words, petty acts of violence, nonconformity, and silent secret decrees. The four factions vied for the very heart and soul of Japan, it seemed like the last stable country left on Earth.

There was of course, obviously the national government. Always resistant to change, socially conservative, and domineering even after they lost the Pacific War. The backing of an entire people reflexively, the control over much of the legal systems and military. Tied down by bureaucracy, internal hardliners, the global chaos, loss of their leash keeper America and so on.

Yet the national government had at its disposal the entirety of Japan. Where the other factions needed to expand from neighborhoods and cities, at every moment the government had access to every industry, business, and citizens. Ironically, they didn’t realize that the combination of All For One and the Meta Liberation Army made Japan less violent and totally broken compared to the rest of the world. By virtue of its military and conscription of metahuman citizens, they just barely were able to stay on the same level as the other organizations just by inertia.

The rise of quirks and the sheer spotlight of differences it put on citizens made the government react harshly. First, it was documentation. They were encouraged as good, law abiding citizens to register themselves, what abilities they had, and all other relevant information. Then came the spying, ferreting out who was keeping themselves or family secreted away. There was the “official” registry, and the secret list the government maintained for possible or confirmed mutant citizens.

Then as these abilities became stronger and the world took a bloodier turn, the government reacted as predictable as anyone with two eyes could have seen coming.

Desperate not to end up like the rest of the world, they came up with decentralized, scattershot plans. turned to plans that veered between horrifying to foolhardy ventures. Trying to breed the “perfect” metahuman ability through eugenics, establishing proxy sanctioned organizations to do what the government couldn’t, mass conscripting citizens, especially metahumans into the police or military. They built up such a surplus of manpower and mutant power that even Destro and All For One at their height couldn’t fight them in a straight fight.

Even when the government utilized concentration camps, horrifying and at times pointless experiments, breaking up families and communities, they always retained a strong upper hand. Despite the genocides, they always had a majority of the thirty and older population on their side. The apathetic, the clueless, politically non-engaged, the nationalistic and the fearful. All were mostly on the national government’s side.

Ironically, taking down Destro was one of their biggest coups, but also strengthened All For One since his own primary enemy was gone. He could fully focus on the government.

After the government, the next large faction was the Meta Liberation Army. Their leader, Destro marinated in a mix of Maoist, Leftist, and strangely enough, Jean-Jacques Rousseau philosophy. The second most numerous of the organizations, followed the idea of “swimming with the minnows to hide”. Hearts and minds helped them grow to high numbers as their attractive ideology included “platforms” and ideas such as being open to western style individualism and radical cultural changes.

This mishmash, especially as a reaction to world wide atrocities and the government’s attempt at control and peace led to a rather disjointed ideology. The ultimate freedom to use Quirks; the “might makes right '' of the strength of Quirks; the emphasis on metahuman community, charity and support to the point of communities that resembled communes more than traditional Japanese society; all these things both isolated and empowered them. The younger generation took to the MLA with gusto; the older, with disdain and fear.

It was also no surprise and each new and younger generation displayed more and more metahuman abilities compared to the older, “Quirkless” majority. The MLA represented a new, modern path forward that kept getting stronger since the end of World War Two and the extensive liberalization in the decades after.

The loss of Destro, their charismatic, personally powerful leader dealt a mighty blow, and within a few decades, they retreated to their home cities. Like the loss of a unifying Daimyo, the feudal lords went back to their lands and bickered until the legacy of Destro would rear its head in the future…

Then, the third and seemingly last organized faction. All For One’s organization. They had no official name, just referred to by his metahuman nickname. Just his existence and power made him the boogeyman of Japan. What could the strongest metahuman do once their power was stolen from them? To empower All For One, or to be spread and gifted to others.

But his charisma was on-par with Destro, and often appealed to the older generation. He styled himself as “The Daimyo”. Which resonated heavily with the older population, thus chipping away at both the national government’s and MLA’s base of support. He offered a more Japanese traditional style of culture that existed within the DNA of the nation for centuries. Many powerful metahumans not under the MLA or government were killed, recruited, or had their Quirks taken by All For One. He did provide protection, security, and was ironically more proactive to crises.

The secret to his success was the subversion of the criminal underworld, many legitimate businesses and corporations. His path appealed to the conservative nature of crime and business. After all, the government was nationalizing at a furious rate, their foreign markets almost dead, and of course the crackdown on organized crime driving the moneymakers into the boogeyman’s arms.

His final point of influence was of course, the buying and selling of metahuman abilities to those without the genetic lottery. For those who found their powers too unstable, unsightly, or a plain annoyance, they could essentially make free money by selling something they cared nothing about. And for the buyers, they could finally feel special in a society that prized collectivism above all else. They could finally attain real power, akin to buying their first gun.

Among his other actions was inserting or forcibly creating agents into every opposing organization except for the last “organization”.

But All For One's main passion was about securing his power base and taking care of his brother. He scoured Japan and even risked international travel to obtain healing Quirks as conventional medicine failed his brother. His love was so great, he would even transfer his brother’s pain to himself. But that is a story for another time.

As the shadow war drew on, he became crueler and more murderous to anyone not under his banner. When the situation would be “balanced” in the coming decades, his organization would be stymied by the settling of “peaceful” times, with the stringent restrictions and recording from the government databases of quirks.

Additionally, the establishment of Heros as empowered legal servants that could use their Quirks quickly grew popular as a way to finally utilize quirks in a useful manner. “Heros” were just the term they used to associate them with goodness and the pop culture baggage with it.

These were the three big organized factions.

But I said four factions, did I not?

The “unaffiliated”. The most disorganized, patchwork, and random groups of people. These were what historians would later call the first vigilantes, first villains, and the first heroes.

They ranged from neighborhood watches made up of metahumans to deter community threats, to people going out to fight injustice with the power they had all alone, or taking back what they thought was rightfully theirs from the government or corporations.

To the government, they were a nuisance to be jailed or press ganged. To the MLA, they were misguided and ripe for recruitment. To All For One, they were a source of Quirks and target practice. And for the longest time, these masses of isolated islands were only notable because they had Quirks, unlike much of the population of the time.

But the seasons change, the dice are cast, and even the rats can have the hearts of lions once the fire rises from the sparks. And that spark was One For All.

THE CULT OF ALL FOR ONE

His underlings had the most amusing name for him in the beginning of those dark times. They would chant “All For One”, proud that they dedicated their lives and resources just for him. A living cult he hadn’t even intended on or to carefully cultivate. In a world where powers were a lottery chance, he alone could rig the system.

His currency wasn’t always cash. It could be favors, deals, or even a whimsical mood. Wealth was meant to advance his progress. Investments always paid off.

This is how he became a faction unto himself. Where every other game in town relied on random chance, he could pick and choose his teams and personnel. A near unkillable juggernaut by way of genetic gambling? Why fight him, when he could simply take his power and put a few revolver rounds in him?

Loyalty and subversion could always carry the day. And if things got a little too heated?

A few city blocks could be sacrificed for the greater good.

Chapter 12: SIDE STORIES SPANNING SEASONS: ONE FOR ALL RISING

Chapter Text

One For All Rising

Yoichi was too clever for his own good. Where Hideyoshi started out with brawn and agility, pickpocketing to thuggery, Yoichi had to compensate with his mind. He was all sharp intellect and had a way of empathizing with everyone from all walks of life.

It was no surprise, Hideyoshi supposed, that he’d eventually hacked into enough government and criminal databases to piece the puzzle together. The secret he tried to keep from his brother. That he controlled much of the underworld elements. That he was an architect for human misery (for a greater cause mind you!).

And so a fight ensued, words and actions neither of them would take back. Hideyoshi raged at Yoichi, telling him what an ungrateful asshole he was. He did all of this for a single person, him, his only brother and family left in the world.

“I wish I had died in the Outbreak then. Because even a single drop of blood or an ounce of suffering just for my sake isn’t worth it.” The silence was loud. All For One’s heart beating loudly, his adrenaline up and anger even further up.

Not one of his finest moments, locking away Yoichi in a gilded palace of luxury, servants, and prostitutes. He tried to throw every peace offering at him, from his charitable programs, offering him a seat at his organization to introduce his own vision, to making his own offshoot organization, anything. All were refused.

And then instead of locking him in a gilded palace, he had to lock him in an actual vault when he started to leak away his empire to the government.

Hideyoshi still loved his brother to death. So that's why he decided to finally give his brother a metahuman ability. His traditional, normal healing Quirks so far haven’t worked, he had to think outside the box, and lo and behold, the stockpile quirk. Unorthodox Quirk combinations relieved some issues, but always overall put too much strain on Yoichi’s body, or eventually failed. He gives, takes, and combines Quirks, but always has to start from scratch. The process is painful for both of them, but Hideyoshi tries to shoulder as much of the pain as possible.

But the stockpile Quirk seemed to do the trick. It also lit a fire under Yoichi. Whenever he sent him mixed pleasurable company, he instead saw them under his brother’s orders, helping him exercise. It was funny seeing a hundred fifty-k a night sex worker holding his brother’s legs while he did several sets of crunches. Hideyoshi always provided whatever his brother asked for. Weights, workout equipment, protein shakes and more.

But as time goes on, he finds himself more busy with the escalating cold war with the MLA and national government. And soon, he's completely distracted with unaffiliated raiding distractions on his territory…

The fire burned within Yoichi. It was the fire of change that burnt him away to cinders. Yet the foundations and roots became stronger than ever. The fire within was greater than the fire encapsulating the world. It was the fires of justice and righteous anger. It burned every day and hour, and it needed an outlet.

This fire enhanced his actions. A single curl up yielded results like he had done five instead. Five enhanced push-ups equaled twenty-five “regular” push-ups. And still he pushed his body to the limits, nothing was off-limits, everything was given over to the fire. Each day it got stronger and stronger, never decreasing even once. What he was preparing for, he wasn’t entirely sure. But when the opportunity came, he would seize it with both hands.

One time, in a particularly agonizing day of energetic haze, he found that had crushed his fifty pound lead dumbbells.

He prepared himself for the day of his escape, ignoring all the petty distractions his brother sent, or reusing him in his own ways. His brother sent countless peace offerings, from nutritionists, trainers, and the occasional escort he ignored.

This prison would be cracked open by his own hands. No one would save him but himself.

All For One eyed the last two surviving partisans with a haughty sneer. What seemed to be their leader, unimaginatively named “Ichi” had the remains of their skull leaking onto his carpet. All that was left was “Ni” and “San”.

“Did you honestly think I didn’t know about this? All those diversionary attacks on my operations? I let you get this far so I’d have you all in one place. As we speak, your motley crew is being killed. Your people are done for. You’ve not only lost, you’ve become extinct. The hanging bodies of you and your allies will deter far more attacks than if I had just silenced you months ago. So thank you, at least you’ve done me that.”

Their faces were bloodied yet defiant, even as they stared towards their end. Despair was barely kept at bay.

Then, they heard a thump. A louder hit. A squeal of strained metal.

All For One walked towards the door-

His body was pulverized by the speeding vault door, but that barely mattered. From the first clang and impact he had already cycled through self preservation quirks, but much of them were delayed even with tinkering -

As soon as he lifted the massive vault door off of himself, the assailant with lightning fast speed uppercutted him and elbow kidney smashed him. He hadn’t bothered to fix his upper skull yet, so his eyes were out. He used variations on echolocation quirks to pinpoint where they were but they were faster than sound!

Whomever this was had hurt him more than any assassin or fight had before, pushing him to the knife's edge of death. As he avoided crippling blows, he activated Blood Memory. It would be able to tell him atleast who he was related to, so he could at least know who’s family he killed to try this-

Oh.

A microsecond of stunned silence was all it took for his brother to take the initiative. They crashed to the ground, his younger brother on top as he rained quick and dirty blows to the face, neck, chest and arm pressure points.

Hideyoshi laughed as his brother beat the ever loving sh*t out of him.

Yoichi, once a sickly and emancipated figure, is now a towering figure of rippling strength. His shirtless attire clearly showcased every tight, powerful muscle on his body.

He lets his brother thrash him around, nor does he try to defend himself. Why would he? He didn’t want to hurt his brother. In fact, he was so proud of him even as his own lungs filled with blood.

No longer was Yoichi a feeble, weak mess. This was proof he truly helped his little brother grow up into a formidable force. Hideyoshi wanted to see his brother live and thrive.

At the end of the beating and Yoichi was done, he resembled a piece of raw, hammered meat. He was breathing through his skin and using other organs to live. It was like Yoichi knew he was close to the edge. He beat him within a centimeter of his life.

But he was alive by the “mercy” of his brother.

The brotherly silence was broken by the bewildered survivors. “Aren’t you going to finish him off?!” They yelled at Yoichi.

He snapped his eyes towards them and they quickly quieted down.

Yoichi looked at his brother and spared him. “This power was made for justice, not wanton murder. To break chains, to create a better future.”

“And.” He paused.

“He’s my brother, the only family I had left, who took care of me when the world turned itself against us. This is my goodbye and my last favor to him.” He freed the other two and ran before his security forces would come back into the area.

“Stop!” He thundered with a Quirk. They halted, and turned around.

“Oh what games we’ll play. You’re growing into your own man now. Good luck. Leave!” Using the Quirk again, he bade them to flee.

His little brother, all grown up. How proud he was of him.

When his security forces finally got to him, they saw the terrifying sight of his blooded form. He laughed as his own blood pooled around him.

“Sir, we can still pursue them. Torakkā has their scent-” A brave underling stepping forward. Useful, but not now.

“No. You’ll do nothing.” His thundering tone of voice and stare silenced them all.

Yoichi Shigaraki looked over what was left of his rescuer’s company. They had sacrificed dearly to put their best people for a direct assassination attempt against his brother, All For One. They had attacked many of his holdings and strong points, all for naught.

Tales of what he did and his heritage inspired hope and distrust in equal measure. Frankly, he couldn't blame them.

“We’ve got to underground, regroup and recruit!” They were currently arguing on the next action.

“Are you crazy? After all we went through and the momentum we’ve only now began to really charge, we leave the neighborhoods to the local MLA chapters?” Some suggestions had more merit than others.

“We should consider giving up. It's hopeless. What can we do against the big three?!” It silenced everyone. Was this truly the end?

A crushing noise broke the silence. Yoichi had a chunk of concrete, powdered into dust in his hands.

He had been silent this entire time, listening to the bickering and fighting. No more.

“What can we do? What you can all afford to do. What you all came together to do. To fight for freedom, to attack tyranny. Hope isn’t a ragged band of freedom fighters. Hope is what we inspire in our communities and people. What can we do against the big three? Throw me at them. I’ll even get run up on them with or without your support, but I’m no longer staying on the sidelines. You can all choose to reorganize painfully slowly, to fight to the last man on some useless and pointless operation, or to leave entirely. Or, we start to go back to basics.”

No one argued as they raptly listened to him. Even though he was the brother of one of their most hated enemies, he had a passion and fire that warmed rather than burned.

“One For All” worked fast under a new direction. They made ingroups with community organizations, pseudo neighborhood watches, and the rabble everyone else ignored. Vigilantes with powers fought the small-time gangs trying to encroach under the chaos of the country.

These isolated communities of metahumans needed One For All as much as they needed manpower. Even small-time criminals who fought for no purpose and no flag could be reforged and reused for a greater cause.

They started out small. They burned government offices full of metahuman registration records.

Then they escalated to sabotaging government supply lines, which sounded grandiose at first, but was diminished when one realized they cut the tires of trucks. It became far more spectacular when they started to bomb railways.

There were the all out running gun battles against government sweeps and purges, allowing both targeted metahuman and regular human dissidents to escape.

However, Yoichi did not forget where he came from, or where his morals were. When parts of the group became more extreme, more personal with their violence, he put a stop to it.

So their efforts became more humanitarian. Smuggling families to safety, fighting increasingly larger battles against the government and Meta Liberation Army for the people. Not just fighting and killing for the sake of wounding the other factions.

All For One in his war room marveled at the relative devastation his brother had wrought. He had taken a bloody swath across several cities, taking territory, munitions, and freeing a variety of civilians from the government run camps. He gave a bloody nose to everyone it seemed, and this was just the beginning.

He couldn’t be happier with this outcome. Hideyoshi could envision it now. His brother as the ultimate leader of the light, himself as the ultimate leader of darkness. Yoichi being forced into making a deal with him, necessitating the use of an alliance to not tear the country apart.

Perhaps this idle fantasy could even become a reality. He could keep his brother by giving him all the power in the world, and he would assume his place under him. Hideyoshi could live without being the top dog as long as his brother called the shots. Being a co-ruler wasn’t so bad, doing the unpleasant things his brother could never do, bless his righteous soul.

He began a campaign of feeding. Fattening up his brother with leaked information on his organization, the government, and MLA. Putting the right people and equipment in the most vulnerable places so Yoichi could grow his own organization, even sacrificing the outer and unimportant parts of his own faction. All of this to throw off Yoichi's suspicion, give him the confidence necessary to grow his own network.

The war between the now dubbed “One For All” and All For One had now truly started.

Yoichi’s natural charisma and personal power rallies the “unaffiliated” to him. It seems they’re fighting government oppression and their concentration camps, his own shadow empire, and the remnants of the Meta Liberation Army. Even without their leader, they put up a strong fight.

Hit and run attacks, spontaneous running gun battles and unrestrained quirk uses heighten the conflict. It’s still not as awful as what's happening on the mainland. Being an island nation with a mostly hom*ogenous population helps.

Strangely as the fighting intensified, and more Quirks were taken, All for One’s appetite increased. Must have been the stress getting to him.

As America has completely pulled out, sea raiders from various burning nations target Japan. Japan is also viewed as a safer place, spurring immigration.

It was in one of those meetings with his subordinates that their uneasiness finally prompted them to ask him. Why did he let his brother roam free?

“They’ve only been attacking our shell games and low level dealers. They aren’t important in the grand scheme of things. Let my little brother feel like he’s doing something.”

His brother didn’t share his own line of thinking, but between his informants and bait, Yoichi hit only the “unimportant parts” of his underworld empire. Who cares that a major drug producer was arrested when he’s on the board of a major pharmaceutical company and flooding the market with cheap opioids?

He was on the boards of several different drug and key manufacturing companies. From cancer medication to computer goods, he had a steady stream of income that helped give him an edge over all of the old timers who were too comfortable in the underworld. With a vote and a nudge, he could jack up the prices of common cold medicines, then sell cheaper black market items, diluted products just below the market rate. His double dipping ensured regardless of where the scales tipped, he made a profit.

His apartment interests destroyed in a running government battle? The government practically paid him back in damages, paid him in rebuilding, and paid him to house displaced people.

And who was the government fighting in the first place? His own people.

His reach into every faction varied, but what didn’t vary was their dependence on him, ironically. By hook or crook his shell game consolidation meant he made more legally in a day than he did two weeks illegally. But his illegal activities help his legal influence reach higher.

It also seems that like himself, his little brother doesn’t like the government too. They were both influenced by what they saw in New York City during the Outbreak, how the American government turned on its own people. And the Japanese national government has practically been committing genocide and other unsavory actions. He comes up in the news, daring raids on camps, prisons and more cementing a growing reputation. From his sources, he had united everyone not under his, the government’s, or MLA’s banner. The disorganized and weak “4th faction” was the fastest growing new power.

It made him so proud.

Yoichi Shigaraki and his brother may have been on opposite sides of the silent war, but they were alike in their ability to gather others under their banner.

He spread his influence and ideology across a burgeoning network of resistance. Sympathetic citizens and government officials tired of the atrocities. There were the freedom fighters, metahumans who found no home with the MLA or All For One, and delinquents looking for a cause to rally under.

They fought a silent war that will never be featured in memorials or history books. It was a conflict fought for the sake of all people. Yoichi took no names, but his allies saw his efforts and gave him reverent titles. The whispers in the dark, the hollow gazes of families, the hope he inspired.

The lone savior of the beaten and downtrodden.

All For One is attending some unimportant raid. It seems like his underlings have been getting cold feet due to actual pushback. So there he was, bolstering the spine of his people. In this abandoned factory, it's supposed to have been inhabited by MLA troopers. Either they defected, or his little brother was faster than his intel. Very impressive. A purple skinned mutant is running to the exit, and he casually sends off a concussive blast at them. But it met an unstoppable force and even reversed.

By none other than his brother. One For All!

He was supposed to be fifty miles away in a podunk town freeing the local government’s prison camps and bombing the local railways. Why in the hell was he here? With the battle well under way and several wounds on his brother, he couldn’t control the battlefield as easily as he wanted to. Beside Yoichi was Ni and San, from his reports they were inseparable. Yoichi took a drop of his own blood, and rubbed it on Ni’s finger.

“Leave me to me brother. The torch is passed onto you. Use it well, and never let the flame die.” With that resolute and nonsensical statement out of the way, they fled. All For One let them go. He’d find them later.

As he walked to him, he smiled. “Little brother! If I’d have known you were coming, I’d have brought some wine to celebrate! It's your birthday after all!” And he would have been willing to stop hostilities, if only for an evening. Family time is precious, even if your brother wants to murder you.

His brother does not smile. He does not laugh. He squares up and readies himself to fight to the bitter end. “Violence breeds violence All For One. But as long as you act this way, with injustice and cruelty, it has to be this way.” Then he suddenly collapses and Hideyoshi panically runs to his brother-!

And immediately gets punched halfway across the street. He gets up and blasts his way to the factory. Just as Hideyoshi sees Yoichi again, fighting his forces, he suddenly gets impaled on a spike of concrete. He’s spewing blood from his mouth and hole in his chest.

The culprit beams up at All For One. “Damn, he sure had some fight left in him. Are you alright sir?”

All For One exsanguinates him slowly, turning up his nerve-sensitivity Quirk to its highest possible power.

After the screams have ended, after his subordinate’s heartbeat has stopped, and everyone around him has fled as fast as they could, he gathers up his brother’s body. He uses no Quirk. Hideyoshi carries him out of the city, across the train, to their hometown.

No one dares speak or confront him with the volume of blood on him. He finds his brother’s favorite spot in the woods. An open clearing, a pond filled with koi fish, and a breathtaking view of the stars.

He digs a hole with only his hands at the base of the tree he and his brother carved their names into. Still he refuses to use a Quirk, even when his hands start to bleed. Finally, he takes off his suit and wraps his brother in it. It was the first suit he ever bought, and always wore as a sign of his own grit and success. Re-tailored time and time again, even specifically finding a Quirk to ensure its durability at all times.

He wrapped his brother in it, put him in the ground, and buried him. He cries long and loud for the last time in his life. He is mourning his happiness and success. Because neither could exist without his brother in the world.

Chapter 13: SIDE STORIES SPANNING SEASONS: NANA SHIMURA’S LAST STAND/THE NEW MAN

Chapter Text

HIDEYOSHI SHIGARAKI- “NANA SHIMURA’S LAST STAND”

Her protege, who he assumed was the next One For All, was gone. She herself was beaten down to a bloody pulp, but still unyielding and standing strong. Most of her allies were long dead. Her carefully curated network, descended from an unbroken line of continuity since his brother created it, was wiped out. He had triumphed over every aspect of his brother’s legacy except for the most important one. But that was a problem for later. Now he could revel in his victory.

Blood leaked from her ears, nose and mouth. Heavy cuts and bruises marred what he could see of her body. Her breathing was weighed down, like there was an enormous weight on her chest. But she still stood strong, back upright, and a defiant gaze to her regal features.

He himself was untouched, unvarnished, and unbloodied. The difference was stark.

They stood in the devastation of the city that was built for the future. Away from the bloodshed of the world and cruelty, it would have been the city of tomorrow. Now it was rubble and ashes. The stillness endured for another moment, then was disturbed by a collection of light all around them gathering in strength and intensity.

All For One started to laugh. The government finally brought out their most desperate weapon, huh? An old world orbital platform, hijacked by Japan. It was probably so degraded they’d have one shot before it imploded spectacularly.

He activated his tried and true trump card. It was an organic shield that filtered all poison and chemicals, and had the toughness to shrug off nukes. The previous user couldn’t use it however. They were far too busy being tortured with illusions until they were begging him to take it. As far as quirks go, it was his kind of quirk, despite the downsides

Super protective and powerful, but it locked you in. And it heats up very fast over time, but with a man with many quirks, with a taste towards the simple or passive, he found it useful on occasion. The most important criteria was how simple it was to use. When you could have hundreds or even thousands of Quirks, you had to be simple and straightforward.

“I’m going to stay right here, Shimura. You’re free to join me, if you want to survive.” He was grinning as he said it, already knowing her answer.

Bloodied, bruised, but unbeaten, she refused him. She stood on two proud feet, eyes closed, head up in the sky. She was radiant for only a moment before the colossal orbital strike reduced everything but All For One to ashes.

It was ironic that he didn’t kill One For All this time. It was the government trying to kill him.

YAGI TOSHINORI- “THE NEW MAN”

The lineage of One For All was a heavy burden. Each successive user increased the strength and expectations placed on the next generation. They added exploits, support networks, and in the case of the “One For All Manual”, their own words, encouragement, and testing.

They were all shadowed legends. Freedom fighters, terrorists, barely kids, and most importantly, all heroes. The destruction All For One wrought on Shimura’s legacy was so final, so devastating, Toshinori had to remake the entire board. Having a close knit network didn’t help the last seven generations of One For All defeat All For One. Sorahiko Torino was out of the game. Almost everyone he knew was dead or out. He’d stayed on only to complete Toshinori’s training, as the last favor to Shimura.

And the government was often politely ignored. While Daigoro Banjo was the first user to join the pilot program that would later coalesce into the Pro-Heros of today, most users tried to keep their reputations and actions restrained. Both to avoid detection and to continue without constant attack.

But even so, almost every user including the First distrusted the government on some level. The First user mentioned an outbreak in America, how they massacred their own people. Closer to home was the actions of the national Japanese government towards its own people during the emergence of metahuman abilities. This feeling persisted through each user in some way.

But not Toshinori. With the changing of the times and demographic changes, almost every aspect of life included a metahuman majority. The government wasn’t as awful as it was all those centuries ago. And he was determined to make the most out of it.

The First and other users were more biased against the government due to the shadow wars, genocides, conscriptions, and pogroms. Now that there’s a “new” generation, a critical mass of ideas and quirks, it’s not a bad idea to team up

One For All kept failing in its mission. Defeating All For One permanently, and fighting the injustice of the world. It was time to try something new. He was the latest in the long, storied line of One For All users. He intended to finish this fight once and for all.

And that's what led him to join the secretive offer to become a boogeyman for the government. Emerging as a Yuki Onna so he could access classified government information, keep tabs on All For One and strike back at his underworld facilities with the backing and resources of an entire nation.

Armed with the overwhelming power of One For All and the government on his side, unknowingly, he was far more effective than he dared thought; the last seven generations of users combined.

Of all the users, Toshinori was the one with the brightest target on his chest. He found it a point of pride and All For One saw Yagi as his truest, existential threat, even beyond the exponential power increase.

He was more flexible than the past users, more willing to give up portions of his mountains of morals to see crime go down. His public persona was as loud as his Yuki Onna persona was silent.

But the feeling always nagged at him.

“What would his mentors and past users have thought of him?”

They were made up of freedom fighters, vigilantes, the first legally sanctioned heroes, and all shared the burden of combating All For One.

In the history he had gleaned, some of the past users, especially at the beginning resorted to violent means to protect the metahuman population from genocide. Later, acting where the government was powerless.

He had, of course, kept the secret of One For All away from the government. His loyalty and dogged faith only went so far with this immense power. Additionally, through his discreet investigations with Night Eye and a few trusted associates, the government was at war with itself. The tendrils of All For One had centuries to chip away and subvert the monolithic regime. Everyone who was anyone was at least tangentially aware of “the wraith”. They did their best to work around his “irradiated” spaces. The Yuki Onna was one such effort. Untouchable, out of sight, and totally undercover.

More than once he thought of including Endeavor into the fight against All For One. But the memory of Nana Shimura burned in his gut. The murder of her husband. The giving up of her child.

He couldn't do that to Endeavor. So he kept his silence from one of his most trusted and capable friends.

Chapter 14: Chapter Eleven: Settling In/Unsettling Discoveries

Chapter Text

Chapter 11: Settling In/Unsettling Discoveries

Chapter 11: Settling In/Unsettling Discoveries

A somber air fills the Yuki Onna over the next few days. Amidst the wakes held for heroes months before the official funerals, personnel deal with all loose ends and arrangements. Of utmost priority is the press. They must buy the cover story. The government helps. Together, they sanitize evidence, create new policies, and coach witnesses to rant and rave about the monster they fought and the old-world civilian they rescued.

Consequences for failing to pull the wool over the public’s eyes need not be discussed. The truth cannot get out. It simply will not.

When the official press briefings finally come, the personnel celebrate a successful spin. The faithful among them pray to their fallen comrades for forgiveness, but the image of those heroes is too useful to be sullied by a miserable death. The tale is like an old-world superhero movie—the only casualties are the mooks and soldiers. The heroes survive in good health. The monster is slayed. It is the most rabid tabloids and talk shows that speak of conspiracy and superweapons, next to stories of ancient aliens and pyramids.

It is acceptable.

The day after the briefings, the major newspaper headlines are as the government wanted:

“Daring rescue! Famous old world scientist saved!”

“Discovery of facility ends in triumph and tragedy!”

Several personnel create a collection of outrageous articles. The conspirators crack jokes over how accurate the conspiracy theorists are.

“Government co*ck up costs countless lives!”

“Crazed bioweapons scientist captured in raid!”

“Superweapon in the shape of a man unleashed upon the world—The Ten Best Stocks To Bet On!”

Even with this shocking news, life does not stand still in Japan.

“Broken window epidemic continues with no end in sight.”

But when the stars come out in the sky and on TV, most of the country is captivated with the developing story. Stations play and analyze the briefing:

“...A deadly facility found by Matagi who did the right thing to report it. The place was filled with hostile creatures and we had to destroy it after saving the sole survivor.

“The scientist is currently under protection. More details will be given as the days go on. There will be no interviews until after his full recovery and acclimation to the new world. But however, he is in good health and thankful for the hospitality of the Japanese Government.

“…Yes, you guessed correctly Lin. The government has asked our top heroes to lend their efforts in protecting this scientist. But fear not for their safety. We hope the bodyguard duty is as cushy as a macaque bathing in the hot spring.”

One such station is a fringe network, whose wide-eyed host pauses the spokeswoman and adds his own commentary:

“My oh my, don’t I just feel reassured. You, my smart viewer, can rest easy knowing the government always tells the truth. Is the crime rate over 6 percent? Well, you’re just imagining things. But what she won’t imagine is the sponsor of this segment: the latest line of penis enhancing pills from XHero. Guaranteed to grow your hero over 6 inches.”

*****

Soon, people will move on. There’s always something happening in this post-Quirk world of theirs.

*****

At a special government retreat on Honshu, Alex savors the new mundanity of his life. He’s far from prying eyes. He has no threats to fight. There’s nothing to do. Out of boredom, he’s flipped through various newspapers; the government doesn’t trust him with internet access.

Far from the boundless optimism of the 90’s, technology in the future has largely stayed the same or regressed. There’s no flying cars much to his disappointment. Most of the great innovations are in supporting equipment for heroes. The average person’s quality of life has stagnated, with corporations and small businesses alike preferring to avoid risk. The instability to society by quirks is to blame. These days, the market disruptors are the Matagi who scavenge the past. Which used to be his present.

Alex doesn’t want to think about that. He collects a variety of papers instead. His favorites are the lurid, inaccurate headlines and tabloids. There’s something amusing about heroes receiving the Peter Parker treatment: much like the comics of the past, nothing a hero does is ever good enough for everyone. Humans are still humans.

Even his ever-present guards are criticized. But unlike Spiderman, the number one and number two heroes in Japan have full-staffed PR teams.

Sitting in a chair on the front porch, Alex’s enhanced hearing nonetheless picks up the conversation in the kitchen. Endeavour leads the discussion about their home prefectures and crime rates. Unknown heroes and villains are name-dropped. Schadenfreude grows in Alex with each fight mentioned. He can’t help it. He likes listening to bad guys getting their ass kicked like his old Saturday morning cartoons.

Alex snorts after one particularly embarrassing defeat, grabbing his guards attention. Speaking loudly, he says, “If there’s one thing I can’t believe, it’s how much the future resembles the comics I grew out of before I was eleven.” Not because Alex considered himself too mature for them. But between food and comics, food always won out. “You all have so many powers and geniuses, but not much has changed the surface of what I remember. It’s the same old problems to progress. If I was a more shameless man,” which Alex is, “I’d even say the hero industry, and quirks in general, cause a brain drain from other fields. Who needs to push the boundaries of human knowledge when you can push your own body and immediately become stronger?”

Too lazy to turn around, Alex creates a pair of eyes on the back of his head. All Might looks contemplative, but Endeavor shows offense. Alex smiles slightly.

Endeavour says, voice measured, “The Hero industry is a well-oiled and time tested machine that’s nothing like the comics and movies in your time. We have procedures; law and order. So what if we do not spend all our time researching for the average citizen? It’s not our responsibility. We create the environment to make slow and steady progress possible. Inviting widespread Quirk usage, even in technological or exception cases, invites too much chaos. Society needs us. I know you are ignorant, but we’ve had enough on our plates keeping everything stable. The status quo is not something to discard, when what comes next may very well be worse—like those warlord days of our past.”

There’s a moment of silence.

“In my experience,” All Might says, “there aren’t a great quantity of Quirks suited to advancing civilization. And even less people suited for them.” His usual persona is muted. “Power corrupts. There are enough young punks running through the streets with dangerous Quirks. No need to encourage it.”

Mercer rolls all four of his eyes. “You’re missing my point. You don’t need a Quirk suited to advancing civilization. But even so, there's no need for people to use superpowers, is there? Like being born with great power doesn’t confer responsibility.”

Perhaps the same applies to himself. Mercer isn’t a hypocrite. He thinks for a second. He’s kind of glad there’s no responsibilities fit for a superweapon out there, like world-ending threats or wars. If he was only a killing machine, he’d feel a lack of purpose, but he is so much more than that. What good is a warrior with no world ending threats or wars on the horizon?

______________________________________________________________
Being on this long term project was getting to All Might. He was patrolling less and engaged in long periods of guarding/babysitting duties. He was fielding nonstop questions and being engaged personally about his own views and politics. The difference between Mercer and the reporters he dealt with on a daily basis was that at least with reporters, a pithy one-liner, smile, and leap could solve any PR situation or uncomfortable questions. Whereas here, he was often cooped up with the man. Enji had the privilege of being able to step out more to visit his family.

Which often meant it was just Mercer and a disguised Toshinori out and about at the government retreat for families and high clearance personnel.

Mercer, on educating himself of the history of the last few centuries, took umbrage at the history written about time periods he personally lived through. He pointed out inaccuracies to Toshinori and Todoroki, the former with rapt attention, the latter with an indifference that came from primarily concerned with the present and future.

The retreat’s residents were vaguely aware of who Mercer was, but their discretion and disinterest was understandable. They were all government employees or families of them. Mercer was just another oddity.

Integrating Mercer into this micro society was almost too easy. He drank in information like a vampire, mimicking customs and culture like he was already here for a lifetime. Mercer seemed to read the room accurately with the interactions with the families on personnel in the retreat. Almost like he could sniff out emotions.

Yagi would have been unsettled if he was a normal person. Him or Mercer. Considering his circ*mstances, the enigma that was Mercer was unsurprising at this point.

It was just another one of his seemingly infinite skills and strengths.

When they ran him through various Quirk examinations, the results were nothing short of amazing and terrifying in their implications.

By every classification and charting, his rating across every metric was staggering.

The first issue of course, was that Mercer defied the modern Quirk classifications to an absurd extent. He defied the paradigm which had evolved for centuries after Quirk Emergence. The only thing comparable to Mercer was the newest generation of Metahumans born recently. Even if he didn’t have a Quirk, it was useful to model in lieu of a few existing data points. He could express Emitter, Transformational and Mutation type qualities.
The Lindahl-Linnaeus test was a broad spectrum test devised by the country of Sweden during the Quirk Emergence. Its original function was to gauge the usefulness of quirks in military and civilian action. Like the infamous IQ tests used by American in World War 1, they were meant for practical, mainly military purposes. Its range of scores helped determine how best to utilize metahuman citizens during the various Quirk Wars. Many nations soon followed, its widespread usage going far outside its scope, creating controversy on the bias of the tester/country, and didn't the fact that it didn’t account for the uniqueness of quirks as they evolved.

Its categories slightly vary from nation to nation, but the six main points and their 3 subcategories mostly stayed the same.

There was first and foremost, the Destructive Potential. Its subcategories as followed were:
1. The Quirk’s ability to modify a given set of materials.
2. The Quirk’s ability to affect living targets.
3. Collateral damage as a byproduct of the Quirk’s function

Speed which tested:
1. How quickly a Quirk could activate/perform/transform.
2. Refraction speed, how quickly a Quirk could be used in succession.
3. Maximum speed a Quirk/its usage could go.

Range which tested:
The farthest distance a Quirk can be used.
The farthest target the Quirk can affect/hit.
Axis of usage on the y/x-axis coordinates.

Stamina which tested:
1. How long a Quirk can be used.
2. How many times a Quirk can be used.
3. Durability of power.

Precision which tested:
1. Accuracy over distance.
2. Control over time.
3. Tolerance of power towards user

And then of course, came the mostly hotly and intensely debated category. Developmental Potential. Its controversy stemmed from how culturally or politically biased it was, from the tester or country. Category Six was the kneecapper for many potential heroes or civilians seeking approval for their work Quirk licenses. In order as followed was:

1. The upper ceiling of power.
2. Direct applicability.
3. Liabilities/threat to social order.

Essentially everything and the kitchen sink. Best Jeanist was famous for his criticisms of the test and in particular, the dreaded “Six restricts” rhyme. Best Jeanist had talked in many interviews over the years how much Category Six almost kneecapped his career before it even started. Work studies often judged students on their Lindahl-Linnaeus tests. Jeanist was passed over many times before finally securing his internship and proving to the world his skill and determination. It was a popular subject for school children to debate in class around the world, as it directly affected them. It was fodder for entertainment and controversy. Despite that, it was a testament to its strength and durability that much of the world followed it to today with little alteration from the baseline.

Someone like Endeavor scored high, only with his stamina lowering his near perfect scores. All Might truly justified category #6, his power seemingly growing year to year with no upper ceiling in sight or lack of applicability in any conflict or catastrophe. He, of course, had some of the highest scores known in the world. Stars and Stripe’s LL score is classified beyond belief.

Alex Mercer’s score was absurd, much like the man himself. Obviously with his performance during the fight being a good example of going all out, the formalized tests proved it even further. Not being starved or damaged allowed Doctor Mercer to showcase feats and flexibility that would have been the envy of any Hero agency.

Of the five first categories, Mercer showcased the kind of results you saw in the top twenty, if not ten of any country with a Hero ranking system. But it was the sixth category that elevated Mercer as a living bomb to fear and control by any means necessary. According to his own words, there was no upper ceiling or end to his adaptation. He created mimic chemical compounds or even everyday items using his own biology. Anything nature could do, Alex Mercer could do faster and stronger.

By that same category, Mercer’s liabilities and threats to social order, especially highlighted in the unfortunate bloodshed, required them to make contingencies for the worst possible outcomes.
______________________________________________________________
Yagi, on his break, passed a compound where the children of select officials were starting their first LL tests of their lives. They were carefree and playful.

He was reminded of Mercer’s secret LL tests, and the extraordinary results. These kids were probably closer in their scores to Mercer than the majority of his own generation.

Todoroki fell in next to him, matching stride and step.

Yagi broke the silence first. “Alex continues to surprise everyone. His LL scores caught everyone off guard, and we’re being asked to advise and weigh in on an all-hands meeting.”

The enormous LL scores required an emergency, for your eyes only type cabinet meeting. They not only needed to discuss the implications, but special authorization. A list of need to know people and which protocols of authorizations can be adapted or reused. They had to classify from now on anything related to Mercer. The only exception obviously would be his work in the field or lab.

“You’ve been talking with Mercer more than I have. What's your read on him?” His tone was curt and to the point.

Toshinori thought about it for a moment. “He reminds me of you, Endeavor.”

Todoroki gave him an unimpressed look.

“Mercer cares more about getting important work done fast than he is about looking good.”

Of course, he was All Might. He could get it done and look good while doing it too.

______________________________________________________________

Todoroki and Toshinori joined the emergency discussion concerning Doctor Mercer’s LL scores. They both wore business suits, with Enji having his reading glasses on. Everyone was already deep into their own stubborn rut.There was few if any types of consensus occurring. Finally, the director of this facility turned to them. Noriko Yume looked exhausted, having run herself ragged since Alex arrived here.

“Thank you both for coming. I understand this assignment is most unorthodox, and we deeply appreciate your efforts so far. With these scores, we’re trying to determine the best steps forward.”

Todoroki frowned, a constant companion to his face. “What do you mean about that? Shouldn’t we be keeping an eye on him in our facilities?”

The director winced, and Todoroki became resigned to the nonsense he was about to hear.

“My superiors and their superiors want to do something with him. We cannot unfortunately leave him idle, consuming time and money. We must convert Alex Mercer to outside for the greater good of Japan. You two, as his constant companions, know him better than anyone else. Your input carries much weight.”

What really carried weight was the stares from all corners of the room. They were being peered at, ironically, like how much of the people they saved, desperate and relieved that they were there.

Toshinori stepped forward. “With Mercer’s deep sense of responsibility and the power he wields, I could easily see him rocket up to the top twenty of the country easily, hero-wise. Alex seems to recognize and appreciate the work I and Enji do. Even beyond that, his actions against his own government show he truly cares for the people.”

When you’re a hammer, everything looks like a nail. When you’re a saw, everything needs to be cut. That could describe Yagi to a tee, from the beginning of his powers to today. For him, everything was tied to heroism. Could this person have the potential to become a great hero? Nurture it, sponsor it, show them the way. Even staying within gray lines, All Might never forgot what was really black and white.

But Enji had a life outside being a hero, a mostly normal childhood. If Yagi was wholly focused on heroing, Enji was closer to being a swiss army knife in his thinking.

“That wouldn’t work, All Might. You and I saw Mercer in action, and it's what he does that shows his truest self. He is a man accustomed to violence. We’ve talked to him, yes, and have seen the greater whole of his being. But never discount what his violence says. When he fights, he fights to end conflicts as soon as possible with the greatest amount of death. He does not, and in my opinion, cannot pull his punches. That says to me that his temperament is like that of a warrior. Warriors do not keep societies peaceful, we keep warriors to fight the battles against other warriors. Mercer is suited for war, not peace.”

A contemplative silence settled after he ended. A man in glasses, Akira Kenji, voiced his own idea, tapping his pen in a rapid tap.

“Didn’t Mister Mercer say he was a scientist? We should ask him what exactly he was a scientist of. Who knows what kind of old world knowledge he has? If we can determine his skills and research areas, we can qualify him and put him to work. This ingratiates himself with us, and will pay off in the years to come.”

Director Noriko was pleased. “This sounds like the ideal course of action. Having read his file, I have no idea how much scrutiny he could take if his file tried to explain his “quirk” as a Hero anyways.”

It was decided.
______________________________________________________________

To certify him as a genetics scientist, they threw all tests, practical and written, at him.

Perfect marks.

Someone had an idea of working him through degree certifications. They had to stop on account of him needing to have some papers published first.

They then just started to throw in everything for certification. Geology, general surgery, astronomy, physics and more. Even a carpenter certification test. Nothing but excellence across the board. Alex Mercer could do anything, which gave the government officials in charge of him sighs of relief and excitement for what he could offer to Japan. Interdisciplinary occupations and cooperation between different fields were notoriously almost impossible to have. What advancements could have occurred if so many people from so many professions and knowledge bases could come together and combine forces?

Now, they had Mercer.
______________________________________________________
Walking in the park, parents and their children were picnicking there.

Looking at them, Alex was reminded of how long its been since hes seen his own sister. She was beyond dust now.

Enji was looking at him oddly. Alex realized he had silent tears running down his face. He didn’t even realize he could still cry.

Todoroki gestured towards an empty bench, and they both sat, watching precious moments flint by. He broke the silence first.

“You know I’ve got a family. What you don’t know is I nearly ruined them. Several years ago, I lost my eldest son to my own failings. I nearly lost my wife to grief, and my children were like strangers to me. I stood on a precipice. As a professional Hero, it's all too easy to ignore your feelings or precious people in service to society. But as a husband and father, you are a personal hero to your family. And to fail them is to fail the most important thing in society. Families are our foundations, and how could I serve the people when I can’t help my own family?” Todoroki looked awkward. Mercer could barely imagine Enji with a family, looking as every bit driven as Yagi. He continued after a pause.

“I had to change my relationship with my family. I had to mend bridges, and even if they wouldn’t forgive me, atleast I stopped the bleeding. I made sure all my children were trained in Quirk safety. My wife and I went to therapy. I had to admit to some unsavory things about myself.” Enji smiled the most genuine smile Mercer had ever seen since entering this brave new world. “Rei makes sure I don’t go overboard. She is my guardian and my rock. In my worst moments, I’m not the father or husband I wanted to be. But she reminds me the path goes both ways. I can always find myself back home.”

After hearing all of that, how could Alex not reciprocate?

He leaned back, looking at a mother playing with her son and younger daughter.

“My dad was never in the picture. My mother found herself between bottles or men. The only person I ever gave a sh*t about was my sister. We were tough kids in foster care. But after I became an adult, I left her. Got an education, a dream career, even someone I loved. But none of it lasted as long as the bond between me and Dana. Now in this f*cked up future, I have no family, no connections, no real past anymore. All I have left to me are the legacies I’ll make in the future.”

Enji puts a warm hand on his shoulder. “I’ll help you see to it.”
_________________________________________________________

With the expanded freedoms Mercer had, he had a set free time given until the labs were up and running. Eventually, they were going to relocate him to Wakō, in the Saitama Prefecture. That was going to be his home for the foreseeable future. And its main attraction?

The longest lasting modern lab known as Riken, having existed before the 21st century. It was in fact, Japan’s first scientific institute founded in 1917. It ushered in Japan’s first formal generation of scientists, endured World War Two, and all the subsequent chaos of the centuries to come. It had everything and the kitchen sink. Riken conducted research in virtually every area of science, including physics, chemistry, biology, genomics, medical science, engineering, high-performance computing and computational science, and ranging from basic research to practical applications. It was also, naturally, the hub of many new and radical Quirk sciences, its prestigious alumni winning many Nobel Prizes over the years for their groundbreaking work. The history of Quirk Emergence was a story of the loss of knowledge and brain power. Even in “relatively” peaceful Japan, the chain of knowledge was broken. The world's scientists and fields relied on an unbroken continuity of knowledge from the foremost in their field. Researchers often took on college students or grads, both parties benefiting from this symbiosis. What happens when the master blacksmith has no students, and with his knowledge, takes all of it with him to the underworld? With the killing Mercer did and the world wide chaos overall, entire research fields were extinguished or choked out. A small part of Mercer was the very people whose science fields he helped extinguish..

Virtually all fields of science were akin to a single, small nation. Almost everyone in their respective fields knew their country’s colleagues or foreign peers. The same tragedy repeated over the centuries. The bright lights of intellect being isolated, dying, or choosing another field. For what did a dying nation need with physics scientists? This and more led to the brain drain that stymied the march of progress. Were it not for Quirks, would Mars and the Moon be colonized or even terraformed? The world never knew and didn’t care to as the wounds healed, stability inched up, and they settled into a murky new world.

Riken was always entirely funded by the Japanese government, one of the few bright spots throughout the turmoil of the past. It was this edge that allowed them to rise above the disorder of bygone times and secure its place in the world order.

He felt like this was a new beginning. No longer boxed into Gentek’s direction, Mercer felt like this was the dream his progenitor would have wanted had Blackwatch not existed.

Mercer had no belief in gods or divinity, but he made a prayer anyway. One dedicated to all the brave soldiers who stood with him at Iwa Valley.

“I’ve decided that I want a normal life. The world is lessened when we insist on using powers. Humanity made it this far without these Quirks or my abilities.”

Chapter 15: Chapter Twelve: Nothing Like Home/Where I Belong

Chapter Text

Alex looked up, the light of the day filtering through his window. Surrounding him were tablets, laptops, and mobile phones, each having its own tendrils and eye assigned to it. As much as the slow, leisurely research appealed to his more human side, this was the most efficient and fastest way of collecting centuries worth of information. Even then there was so much still to catch up on.

It also didn’t hurt to see what kind of research and breakthroughs that had happened the last few centuries, and figure out his own project.

Ever since settling into Wakō, a city located in Saitama Prefecture, Mercer had felt a sort of calm and excitement. He had a future ahead of him that would help not just Japan, but all Humanity. The city had become a high tech hub for scientists and entrepreneurs, with the successes attracting others, leading to a self-sustaining cycle of visiting and permanent population of foreign researchers. Of course, the fantastic sights couldn’t draw him away from his more earthly problems.

Surrounding him was a mess of crumbs and scraps of flesh so small it wasn’t worth the calories to grab them. His enormous appetite was an unfortunate issue considering his sky-high metabolism and needs, even at rest. The government food allowance forced him to slowly adjust his body to a lesser form. Unless he had a quick injection of sizable biomass, he wouldn’t be fist fighting tanks or taking missiles to the face and winning anytime soon. Solutions ranged from rat catching, discreet stray animal consumption, to converting raw biological sewage and waste to something usable. He definitely wasn’t desperate enough yet, so he kept scaling down his high cost mutations.

Finishing the last of his reading, he ignored the shower and went straight to the closet. He could have shifted his flesh into whatever configuration he desired. But picking up his own outfits helped make him feel more human. He confidently walked outside the door, leaving the ghosts behind. He finally felt like he had a sense of where he was going.

The stairwell was clean, but visibly old. No shouting or the cries of kids here. It lacked character or culture. It was a place for people of modest means to commute to Tokyo or Riken. The block was well kept, but outside the bubble, rougher surroundings abounded. The government wasn’t exactly eager to splurge on safer surroundings. Alex didn’t mind. At any point, he was the danger.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Ambling along a street filled with the early morning crowd towards the train station, he saw various vendors serving a variety of foods. He grabbed culinary delights from all over the world in the span of a mere hundred feet worth of walking. Japan helped snag various scientists due to its relative stability over the decades, and each success built on another, until there was a substantial population of visiting and permanent foreign scientists residing in Wakō.

Mercer could identify some languages, some he didn’t know or only vaguely recognized. Some were serious, some were humorous, others were combative. Most of them involved their scientific field or a problem in the lab. One particular complaint was being denied funding again because of their department head having another spat with the new administration.

He was dressed in an immaculate suit he bought himself. Alex didn’t expect to do any actual in-depth science today. One part was to meet and greet his new team, another part making a good impression.

It was a bustling city, a far cry from the declining birth rate crisis Mercer knew in his day. It was also quite anachronistic, technologically advanced buildings alongside far older and recognizable buildings to him. He had to make minute adjustments to his sensory organs. He didn’t need overspecialized senses for being a normal human, after all.

High-tech digital screens displayed advertisem*nts for medical supplements allegedly designed to enhance Quirk usage, another for a law firm advertising services for those hurt in Hero/Villain fights.

That wasn’t all it was. Honest to god robots. Clunky, large things, but with enough processing power to be able to pick trash and avoid collisions. Mercer knew from his memories that large scale commercial robotics in his time was barely in its infancy, decades away and only a sci-fi dream.

He also saw the ugly side of the future. Wakō, even with its proximity to Tokyo and the importance of its institutions, seemed to have visible crime every day. Muggings, petty and large theft sprees, even public battles with heroes using destructive metahuman abilities. Not even the worst parts of New York before the Outbreak had been this bad. The homeless were only a few feet away from bustling mall centers, with some mutant-types looking starved and haggard. Alex had done his own research into as many aspects of history and society as he could, benefitting from not needing to sleep. Success led many to come here. Those that failed to grasp prosperity, fell into poverty or crime.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Arriving at the train, Mercer’s enhanced senses were affected by the deluge of humanity. At least the oppressive heat didn’t bother him. Both his bodily regulations and tolerances were high considering his past experiences. But he kept his five senses sharp and evolved to perfection, which meant he could pick out everyone's unique perspiration odor overlaid with cheap and expensive cologne or perfume. Alex, using only his nose, could make out the self-segregation of the various economic classes. Generally the better off kept to their own corners like the working class with their own enclave.

His keen vision could home in on the fibers of their clothing itself. There was a visible difference in fabrics and material, further proving his hunch on class division. The silk wearers mingled with linen enjoyers, while rough cotton and cheap suits kept to their own areas. It was all so pointless to him, which was why he was one of the few oddballs standing in the middle. Having consumed the young, old, rich and poor, he had an intimate view of the world perhaps better than anyone else alive. New York City was the melting pot, and he took as much as he saved. His separation from Humanity further enhanced his own views on the matter. He was the lone mimic tree that saw every individual tree and the whole forest as one.

Alex overheard a smorgasbord of languages. Two darker skinned men than much of the crowd argued over “ghost particles'' and their effect on quantum microscopes. Another casual conversation switched languages every few minutes, talking about their work in German, Urdu, then Swahili with the ease and practice of someone trusting the jargon to carry on meaning where they forgot a particular word. Language held so much power. Hundreds of ways to describe the same thing in unique ways. Those who knew more languages could express themselves so much better. Along with obviously helping deter eavesdroppers, or impressing others with their polyglot status.

A woman with disheveled hair and clothing even at these early hours, ranted in Japanese about how her team leader expected miracles in their solution to the efficiency bottleneck in experimental weapons production. It seemed like the team leader was looking for a promotion by building a ladder of successes. Unfortunately, they were driving the team into the ground. Ambition was overextending their team to the breaking point. Mercer could feel some dregs of sympathy, but ultimately it was second hand. He rarely encountered issues before Penn Station. Everything came naturally to Dr. Mercer, including turning straw to gold. He was an indispensable part of Blacklight until he wasn’t.

Alex turned away and focused on the sights, emptying his mind of distractions and eavesdropping. He looked at anachronistic sights, ultra modern, technologically advanced buildings and vehicles next to places that were old even when Mercer existed. He kept thinking about future project plans. He wasn’t sure ultimately about what his big splash would be, but he was getting there.

Then came Riken, the scientific jewel of progress in Japan. It had expanded greatly from his day, greedily consuming the area around it with newer campuses, research centers, and outrageous living quarters for the top echelon. It even warranted its own exclusive train and subway station stop.

Like most things that last longer than a century, its history piles up with unsavory matters. As the institute grew, so too did its rapacious appetite for growth. It consumed parks, businesses, and homes. The city grew away, and yet Riken kept needing more. The locals had never forgiven Riken or the national government. The local government had to always balance between the edges of the factions, the people who voted for them, the notoriety and success given by the prestigious institute. The crime rate in Wakō could be neatly divided by property values and distance to Riken. The crime ridden, poorly built neighborhoods further away from the institute were in contrast to the accommodations and homes for the ultra wealthy or the communities of scientists and researchers. The march of progress bulldozed dreams, doorsteps, and domiciles. Of course those neat lines blurred at the borders. The national government in response to spread out Hero agencies, often employed legal mercenary groups.

That of course, was another can of worms, the rise of legal and armed groups contracted by the government to protect specific sites or assets without government responsibility. They defended and patrolled key housing areas. They weren’t allowed to use Quirks, but ironically had no issues with firepower or hesitated in its usage. The buildings with scientist majority populations and their dependents tended to have discreet armed guards. Legal mercenaries had never been more successful in their post-Quirk world.

And they weren’t exactly nice in their job, leaving an ever more angry local population.

Alex banished such thoughts away as the train came to a stop. Interns, scientists, security guards and the oil that kept the gears running all flooded into the various buildings. Mercer kept walking long after much of the crowd had found their destinations. He finally arrived at the government’s own building personally for him. As befitted all public buildings with no private investment, it was utilitarian and ugly as sin. And like all buildings of that nature, there was a human desire to transform, to leave their own mark. A barely visible sticker on the outside wall, advertising a niche, underground band. A lush, well tended plant visible through a window. And a rather childish looking teru-teru-bozu clothed in a lab coat hanging by a window. He immediately took a liking to it. Genetics and microbiology frequently featured the unassuming and small overlooked details, after all. A lone security guard buzzed him in, her gaze on metahuman Sumo wrestling instead of welcoming him. He leisurely walked the stairs rather than the elevator, preferring to be on the move.

When he arrived on the third floor, he found a crowd waiting for him, murmuring and talking.

He walked up to the closest person, with a large cyclopean eye. Mercer tapped them on the shoulder. “What's going on with the crowd?”

“We’re waiting on the project lead, some frozen popsicle. They’re supposed to have the keys I’m sure. All the doors are locked.” He was grumbling as he said this.

Mercer frowned. “No one told me I was supposed to have the keys.”

The cyclops metahuman slowly turned around and really looked at him.

Realizing his mistake, he gave a short bow. “Welcome to the twenty-third century boss, as you can see, we’re still the same humans as we always were. Putting our foot in mouth and waiting on a janitor. “ He fidgeted for a second before remembering his manners.

“Hitotsume Katame, at your service.”

Alex decided to take charge of the absurd situation. People took no notice of him until doors started popping open, one by one. They saw his hand separate into a multitude of tendrils worming their way into the locks.

There was a muted cheer as everyone started to hurry into their respective rooms. Alex saw a variety of name tags. The government had really stuck to their bargain out of confidence or desperation. He noticed their name tags also displayed their field.

Economists, sociologists, anthropologists, and political scientists rubbed shoulders with microbiologists, biochemists, and geneticists. As people set up their workstations and personal touches, Mercer took an impromptu tour. The entire floor was his domain. Computers, server racks, and specialized equipment was plentiful, albeit cramped. Centrifuges, sterilizing stations, freezers and genetic sequencers galore. They could do anything on this floor with little to no outsourcing to other labs. A self-sufficient paradise. A more cynical mind would have said it was to minimize contact with anyone outside more than necessary.

In the center of the entire level, there was a meeting room large enough to fit everyone, but packed in like sardines.

Mercer’s obvious place was at the wall opposite of the entrance, a small raised podium waiting for him.

After he made his way to the front, others soon followed into the room.

Standing before a mixed crowd, Alex surveyed the audience. They were there because the government wanted them here. They were here for the prestige of working with the oldest living scientist on the planet, before the advent of Quirks.

They were here for the same reason as a young Dr. Alexander J. Mercer joined a shady company like Gentek. This was their chance at greatness. To be a part of something spectacular. To carve their name into history, even if only as a cited footnote.

The murmuring came to a stop once everyone noticed his attention on them. Alex had led teams, but ultimately reported to others. Here, on Level Three, he was the ultimate authority. What projects they’d commit to, who was assigned where, and if they stayed on the team.

“My name is Doctor Mercer. You have all been chosen by the government for your skills and drive to succeed. They’ve placed me here and given me full discretion on our future plans. I’m sure you’ve all heard about who I am, and where I came from.” He paused for impact, having them right where he wanted them.

“It's irrelevant. Your own past and circ*mstances are irrelevant. What matters here are results. My skills and expertise are varied and wide, but I cannot do it alone. All science is team science. Karl Popper once explained that we, as researchers, must confront problems whose complexities intersect across many fields and disciplines. It is all too often that scientists of many fields often self-segregate themselves from their colleagues. What does a geneticist need with an economist, after all? But no field is a far off island. Every field intersects and mingles with each other. We need each other to interpret and reinterpret data through multiple eyes, to identify potential bias, to see an angle that others are too tunnel visioned to see. Even to present and explain our findings, we need to respect the fact that our discoveries may have world wide effects on society. Even the language explaining it must be carefully vetted and scrutinized. I know from first hand experience what happens when you strip empathy, human emotion, and ethics from purely scientific endeavors. It leads to absolute catastrophe.” Mercer enthralled the audience as he hit a fervor pitch in his speech.

“I wasn’t paid to feel” “Maintained objectivity. It helps if the test subject does not know that he or she is taking part in a test." "You're not paid to think.”.

He let the words settle into the audience, and saw some tilted heads along with a slew of microexpressions. Some of the scientists seemed to consider his words, moreso since he was their boss. Others seemed to carefully blank out, and for now it was hard to tell what the defensive posture was guarding against.

“All words spoken to deflect blame or any responsibility. Everything here will be aboveboard, and for the advancement of all humanity. We are here to solve problems, not create them.” His impassioned speech hooked in the crowd, all the oratory skills of all he’s consumed combining with his own natural ferocious charisma.

“Look to your left, your right, and behind you. These will be the colleagues you will depend on for as long as you are here. We are not here for a single project, a short aim. We are here to tackle the fundamental problems of society. We are here to shine a light on places and research no one even thought of to do because of all the ruin and chaos the last few centuries had in fracturing every field imaginable.” Mercer looked across his audience, making frequent eye contact with as many as he could.

“That is why for our first collaboration, we will be working parallel with each other. Each one of our “trains” will collect the passengers of knowledge, but ultimately we will arrive at the same destination. Each one of your department heads will confer with their overall teams in suggesting an avenue of research. I myself have a few ideas going forward.” There was a round of excited applause and discussions breaking out. Most of them had to work for projects for the sake of publishing or staying relevant, not because they wanted to. Mercer continued after the noise died down. “Make no mistake, this is no top-down organization. Everyone is free to suggest and put forward their own ideas to pursue. But when we reach consensus, you are expected to work as hard as anyone to see it through.” Mercer could make out a few murmurs here and there. He was pleased to see the positive impressions. This was the beginning of something grandiose, he was sure.
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All for One, between taking advantage of All Might and Endeavor being busy, only now realized what's been happening in the news. A glass breaks in his hand, full of 2077 California wine, a terrible year for the world, but a fine taste. Collections of Meiji-era ceramics around his favorite penthouse start spontaneous breaking. He couldn’t articulate his feelings. Never before since he was a child had he felt so vulnerable. Just seeing that man’s face after he seemingly dropped off the face of the Earth made him feel like a child.

Memories he hadn’t thought of in decades. Years of trying to uncover the cover up and any scraps of knowledge about what really happened in New York City. Only to end up finding moldering corpses or ashes.

It was like the world forgot about the Outbreak. Like it was just a deranged fever dream. But he never forgot. Perhaps the coming disasters made the Outbreak lesser in comparison, a city ruined compared to a nation.

Or just the sheer time that had passed since he was able to investigate, made it ancient history. But his longevity only made the past closer, despite it getting farther away each decade.

All for One decided to plan a visit. Not so easy with the government keeping a discreet eye on Alex Mercer, but this would be well worth the effort.

Plus, he could have a proper test run of one of Doctor Garaki’s pet project’s. See how it performed in a proper stealthy, discreet mission.
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Chapter 16: Chapter Thirteen: Your Reputation Precedes You/How The Other Half Lives

Chapter Text

ATTENTION ALL READERS! My favorite author, OstensibleMammal, creator of GODCLADS, has created "Through Tribulation Falls", a litrpg, xianxia, system apocalypse novel! https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/89249/though-tribulation-falls-counter-systemreality

But he needs our help. In order to get more visibility, he needs more Follows and Favorites (5 stars if you have a Royal Road account created more than a month ago, but not super important). I am releasing this chapter in the hopes that many of you will be able to create a Royal Road account, and please Follow and Favorite his work. Thats all you need to do, nothing more on your part, and you can pretty much ignore RR after. An additional chapter after this will be released IF we hit 270 Followers AND 80 Favorites.

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Now, onto our irregularly scheduled program!

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Mercer returned to his apartment that evening. His neighbors weren't as silent or typical as he first thought. He saw more overworked salarymen and single mothers around now.

His restrictions are pretty much nil since he assumed the position at Riken. Even so, Todoroki and Toshinori still rotated around for in-person visits. Ostensibly official, they were often closer to social calls than anything else. The unfortunate first contact was smoothed away by the weeks of forced close contact, especially once they had gotten the full story about the facility and why he was there. His stories were a source of endless interest to the men.

Of course, there were government employees visiting him more often as the other men were often away on Hero business. Mercer's days, before the formal start of the projects, tended to be divided up. He was taking in the city sights, researching history at the local library, and observing the night life.

It was during these excursions he could really take in the sheer breadth of Quirks. People with subtle mutations, others extreme, many absurd. People with animal or mineral features. People who could defy gravity with no technolog and a riot of diversity unheard of back in his time, normal or otherwise.

And of course, the elephant in the room he had mocked Toshinori and Todoroki about. Villains and Heroes.

Atleast once a day he saw with his own eyes a fight or chase between people committing crimes with their Quirk, and those using their own abilities to take them down. Some were bloody affairs, others short and painless. Almost all of them were absurdities to his eyes.

He couldn't judge too hard, being a man out of time and place. But Mercer felt almost professionally offended with how the average fight went. Seeing one or more parties with unprofessional behavior, sloppy moves or tactics, or watching the average collateral damage was strange. Alex could attest to his own collateral damage as a consequence of what was essentially a war. Manhattan was full of trigger happy psychopaths, Elizabeth Greene was after him. Both of them had little regard for people. So he had to use heavy handed methods out of necessity..

To the Pro-Hero's credit, they consistently prioritized the lives of civilians over simply winning or catching the criminal most of the time. His natural cynicism could only be eroded seeing heroism in action. Moreso, Alex was genuinely inspired by the "top ten". He could freely admit All Might and Endeavor lived up to their reputations. All Might saving fifty people from a collapsing building in under five minutes? Unheard of!

Endeavor subduing an entire meta-human gang without actually crippling or killing them?

Even Alex wasn't so sure he could replicate those superb results.

As he familiarized himself with the city, he felt an ache. Not of hunger, where he was given a large food budget sufficient for his current needs. The ache of loneliness. He was at best, friendly acquaintances with Enji and Yagi, if only because of the sheer amount of time he'd spent with them thus far. His project teams were distant in a certain way. They weren't used to violence and survival like he was. It created a sort of gulf between them. Researching the new world and exploring only went so far.

If bars were out of the question, where else then?

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Which is how he found himself at a citizens social club.

Mid-level business men, representatives from local hero agencies, well-to-do community members, and the prefecture's government officials. When people recognized him, they respectively nodded at him and congratulated him on his appointment. Others started hushed conversations, as he was easily the most interesting person there in the building. They were too polite to start asking him all kinds of questions about the past, or his past specifically. But the doctors and scientists at the social club, even the ones not related to "his field" didn't hesitate to include him into their discussions. They were delighted when they found out he could talk on a variety of niche fields without sounding like a dullard or fake.

Mercer soon amassed a crowd of interested people, talking of breakthroughs and new research "in his day". It was. unfortunately, new or unknown to some of these experts. The degradation over time truly ruined everyone.

Even those in the crowd who didn't know an appendix from a gallbladder found Mercer entrancing and commanding. The crowd had soon started to disperse when Alex was suddenly tapped on the shoulder. He turned around and was face to face with a tall, white haired man smiling.

"That sure was something Doctor Mercer. Ever thought of becoming a professor?" He had an easy going charm about him.

Alex was in a good mood, and decided to indulge the stranger. Plus, for all he knew, he was someone important.

Crossing his arms and careful not to lean on a wall, he replied. "Not really. Don't have the patience. I wouldn't be able to stand the students who can't tell the cerebrum from the cerebellum, or RNA from DNA. Much prefer to be on the cutting edge of a field."

He also decided to formally introduce himself, see who the man was.

"Doctor Alex J. Mercer, man out of time." He shook a careful, firm handshake with him.

"Shigaraki Hideyoshi. Your reputation precedes you Doctor Mercer." Shigaraki had an enigmatic smile, like he knew an inside joke Mercer wasn't privy to.

Mercer returned a tight smile. "I wasn't aware I had one already."

"Only to me I'm afraid. Seeing a humvee flatten a squad of American soldiers does leave one with a heavy impression."

Alex was blindsided completely, tensing imperceptibly. That kind of hyper specific example no one should have known about rang all kinds of warning bells.

His next statement shocked Mercer even further. "Seeing the Blackwatch platoon that murdered my father be torn apart by you was quite the cathartic, Zeus." A jolly and beatific smile was on Shigaraki's face.

Shigaraki continued after the slight pause, letting it sink in for Alex. "I'm sure you have many questions. I'll answer yours if you answer mine. Shall we?" Pointing to the stairs leading to the roof.

He didn't hesitate. Someone with that much specific information, offering to lay it out without the veiled threats of violence or ego? Besides, someone that could have been as old as himself felt like a welcome change from everyone else who didn't know any time without Quirks. His thoughts raced even further. Was it inconceivable that there existed long lasting metahumans even before the Outbreak? The only way to find out was to follow this rabbit hole to its exit.

"I'll follow you, Hideyoshi." Far from being offended at the use of his first name, Hideyoshi beamed at him.

"Perfect." He gestured out of the room and Alex took the initiative, leading the way, Shigaraki following.

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On the roof, a wide million yen view was on display. The city was ablaze with life. A solitary figure was waiting for them. A bespoke uniform that wouldn't be out of place for a high class bartender and a clearly mutated form. It was like he was made of smoke and darkness, with blazing eyes.

All three of them stared out onto the smoldering vista. They made for an unconventional sight.

Alex decided to break the silence. "I'm sure you didn't invite me here for pleasant sights here, Shigaraki."

His host's languid smile humored him for a moment. "Let me ask you, a man out of time and place, what you think of our humble home? Our island in the gaze of the rising sun." Gesturing out into the darkness of the night.

Alex decided to indulge him. What other diversions did he really have? This was the most interesting thing this week.

"I think I'm in a madhouse that grew a stable society after generations of insanity. But I also see people trying to make what they have better than they found it."

"And do you think everyone tries to make it better? Or that their definition of better involves crushing those under them?"

Alex shrugged. "What do I know?"

Shigaraki pointed to the city shadows. "Let me take you to the places you've never seen, that your handlers keep you away from, that you might ignore but exist like a sore, festering underneath the bright lights."

He walked closer to him, tilting his head down to look him right in the eyes. "You've seen the high and mighty, the cream of the crop. So, I'll show you the dark and wild sides, how the other half lives. Kurogiri!" He spread his arms out, and wings of darkness and shadow erupted. The well dressed aberration simply created a writhing vortex of purple and black, literally entering himself and shifting away.

He walked to the edge of the building, a breath away from falling. He offered a co*cky grin. "Shall we?"

Not waiting for an answer, he jumped and flew away.

What else was Alex going to do in the face of such arrogance? Taking a running start, he leapt and glided into the night.

At select points, Shigaraki would stop and pause. Kurogiri was silent the entire time, always making himself scarce but never out of sight. At each point, Alex was treated to one spectacle after another.

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There, a hero was rifling through the wallets of what seemed to be gang members, laid out and pitifully groaning. There were electric lamps, boxes, scattered dice and the broken bottles of cheap booze lying around. When one of them tried crawling away, an extended arm like rubber capped with a metal gauntlet dropped onto his back and knocked all air out of him. He could barely groan in pain. Many of the gang members had visible quirks, but obviously weren't enough to stave off the attack. The patches on their jackets were all of a multitude of hands, all grasping upwards.

Alex didn't know who started the fight, but seeing the victor just take their possessions rubbed him raw. There was an itch of violence in his tendrils, writhing silently inside him.

"When you have state sanctioned power, you become a tool of the state. And the only tool they prefer are hammers. They all prefer it that way." Shigaraki turned away and left, Alex and Kurogiri following.

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Alex saw hungry faces and skinny bodies on the long line. Mutant quirks were disproportionately represented here. Minor and major deviations in the human form abounded. But even through their hardships, smiles and laughter could still be found. Children running around screaming playing games that only they knew the rules to. Those on the line idly chatted on the line, a strong sense of camaraderie present despite their circ*mstances. It seemed like an overly generous soup kitchen, with seconds and even thirds being happily allowed.

The staff making and handing out food and drinks seemed to be wearing a uniform, the logo matching the one behind them boldly on the wall.

Almost like the gang members, it was a multitude of hands again, but holding snapdragon flowers. A snapdragon, in his hazy memories of botanists and flower enthusiasts, meant grace and, due to its growth in rocky areas, strength. However, it can also symbolize deviousness.

Activists and enthusiastic canvassers moved through the crowds, handing out political writings or discussing the news of the day. They played with children, humoring them while asking innocuous questions about their families, schools and lives. With adults, they mentioned other private social services to adequately serve their needs.

There were even campaigners extolling the virtue of certain candidates in the upcoming elections. They were young, old, and above all fervent about their work.

Mercer himself didn't put too much stock in politicians. Or he didn't care much for politics, with the prime example of Blackwatch existing through fifty years of different administrations. It didn't speak highly of the USA. With the wealth of knowledge of humanity and its history, no single country could really claim undisputed moral high ground or grace.

No one noticed them, strangely. Alex was sure it was Shigaraki's quirk. But he had already shown one quirk. Any more would be an impossibility. Perhaps there was an agent within the crowd to heighten the mystique of him?

Kurogiri was as silent as ever as Shigaraki began to speak. "Those who live on the bottom of society will eventually find succor in the underworld. First they will ask for what they need. Then, they will ask for what they want, desires forbidden by status or society. Then, they will ask for a savior."

They left behind full stomachs and joy.

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Their next stop was a crowded mall, and the audience he saw was all too human. Angry shop owners berating a small congregation of mutants. Accusations of thievery and poor moral character abounded, with the accused yelling that they were just hanging around in the mall, to check the cameras and leave them alone. A boiling point was reached, police called and escorted every mutant from the premise, regardless if they were even part of the original group.

When both the original group and a greater crowd of mutants were waiting outside, some of the first group started to hand out pamphlets and links to the crowd. On the cover of the paper or websites were a multitude of hands all changed. Spiked hands, rocky hands, claws, animal hands all reaching upwards to a distant figure named "Justice".

The discrimination was nothing new to Alex. Inside him, he had an array of memories from racists, bigots, and victims giving a multitude of reasons why this happened. Hate was the fastest virus of them all, spreading far faster and effectively than REDLIGHT could ever do.

When they arrived at a desolate park, only the few path lamps illuminated the darkness. They walked past the sleeping homeless, the drugged out hopeless, and the occasional discreet deals going on.

He decided to break the long silence between traveling and warping to new locations.

"Is there supposed to be a point to this? The past isn't some idealistic bastion of understanding and progress. We had less differences than people today do, and yet we managed as much hate if not greater. Corruption, injustice, and poverty are parts of the civilized condition, not limited to a single nation or people." Alex was well aware of cult tactics and criminal enterprises. It didn't require being Sherlock Holmes to see how each location was tied to an organization, with a variation on design. That indicated a sophisticated enough operation that they could have multiple branches.

They continued walking as Shigaraki responded to the implication. "My point, Doctor Mercer, is don't be so quick to rush into the arms of the government. They have given you a gilded cage. The failures of the government are apparent, as too is its inflexibility. One fourth of the Japanese population have visibly mutative quirks, and yet discrimination runs rampant. In trying to contain unlawful quirk usage, more often than not it is those who cannot turn off their quirks that get the brunt of those laws thrown at them."

Alex pondered his words. "And I suppose you're the solution to the government's failings? The revolutionary who'll create a society that solves all of the issues with no pushback or violence?"

"Do you know what Hegalian Dialectics are?" Kurogiri immediately rolled his eyes and urgently portaled away out of earshot but within eyesight.

Of all those screaming masses of souls that lay inside his genetic code and memories, Alex could fancy a small percentage groaning in pain.

"No, not really." Shigaraki obviously wanted to show off, so Alex pretended he didn't know much.

"How do I put this basically enough? It's a philosophical theory, the kind you might encounter if you took time to read some old world philosophy instead of scientific papers. The fundamental premise is to envision history as a sequence of "dialectical" conflicts. Each dialectic begins with a proposition, a thesis... ...which inherently contains, or creates, its opposite - an antithesis. Thesis and antithesis. The conflict is inevitable. But the resolution of the conflict yields something new - a synthesis - eliminating the flaws in each, leaving behind common elements and ideas."

"So what's "dialectic" about you and the Japanese government?" Alex's skepticism oozed like a popped blister, but Shigaraki didn't seem to notice, or more likely, care.

"The national government has all of the problems of the old world Japan - extreme bureaucracy, corruption, extensive political infighting, rampant xenophobia, and a pathological need for conformity. Just as with the pre-Quirk Japan, it is natural that its society breeds outcasts and rebels that strive to fight and transform the nation into a unfettered and open society. Thesis and antithesis. The Hero industry and its destruction is my point of no return for the country. The Hero Public Safety Commission and later the government itself will be eradicated, but the new synthesis will change my organization as well... ...from basically a coalition of my criminal empire and the insurgency to a new, representative government that protects all its citizens, and the power that I'll wield from outside the shadows into the light."

They stopped in front of a shivering teen, probably a runaway. From his hands a heavy blanket was spun from the bark and leaves of the nearby trees, and he covered the child.

"Make no mistake Doctor Mercer, this is a war for our survival. One game I've been playing since I returned home from the Outbreak."

They walked in silence, passing human misery all along the park.

They came to Shigaraki's intended destination at one of the exits of the park. A quiet hole in the wall of an establishment. They went inside, and as soon as the staff saw Shigaraki and his associates, cleared out a private room. It had a cheap, homely feel with the smell of heavy grease and spices abounding. When they settled down and a waiter was ready for their order. Alex took the time to order a heavy meal, one part spite, one part fuel for the excursion so far. It seemed everyone had an empty stomach, because Shigaraki and Kurogiri ordered far more food than Alex even had.

They ate carefully but steadily, taking in food like it all that heavy quirk usage took a toll from them. Kurogiri simply moved food into his portals, no chewing or crunching heard of.

After they all finished, Hideyoshi finally responded.

"I am the voice for the voiceless, the strength for the weak, the sun to the plants. I am the Lord of Darkness for the co*ckroaches, rats, and children of the underworld. Those who were forced into the shadows, and those born into it." His eyes glowed, his voice became clearer and convincing.

"A beacon for the blind, a song for the deaf, and a Demon Lord for the pariahs and downtrodden of society."

"I am all of these things and more. I am the new alternative Doctor Mercer." He finished his speech at the empty table.

Alex could practically taste and smell the bullsh*t from this short distance. Cutting through the flowery words, he understood implicitly that he was in essence, justifying his criminal enterprise to Mercer between the lines. Like any revolution or crime organization, they sought to sanitize, legitimize, and justify their actions with PR events and services.

He still didn't quite care one way or another. His partnership with the government allowed him to pursue new heights for humanity.

"And where do I exactly fit into all of this?" His skeptical demeanor didn't faze Shigaraki.

"You don't fit anywhere Doctor. You have no real stake, fire or grudge, for better or worse. As close to an impartial judge as anyone can be in our world. Call it a friendly word of caution. Things are not as they seem."

He paused.

"Call this trip a personal indulgence if you'd like. I've finally buried my past today. Thank you." And the unthinkable happened. This shadowy figure of undisclosed power bowed to a full forty-five degree angle, directly looking at his shoes.

Looking down, he said his final words before entering Kurogiri's enhanced, large portal. "You saved my brother and I, and gave me the strength to endure. Thank you Alex Mercer, for everything."

He left Mercer alone and contemplative, surrounded by the remains of the meals. Little was ultimately seen and discussed, but the impact was profound. The whiplash from the stroll around town, the secrets revealed, and link to his past. But there were clues to a larger picture. He thought about the gang, the soup kitchen, the looting hero and mall dispute. He thought about the disproportionate representation of mutant type quirks, how much people were eating, even how much Shigaraki and Kurogiri was eating, even more than Alex. The unnatural voracious appetite of his company. The desperation and injustice given to mutant type quirks. It actually gave him some good ideas for research.

Calories and consumption over time by passive quirks, active quirks, and the major three classification of quirks. He could use a part of his team to study the population and their quirks in prison, perhaps see if anyone has been tracking the rates of hate crimes in the country, if there even existed laws to help mutants especially. He hadn't thought much about the laws to restrict quirks, but in conjunction with prison and sentencing records, he could see of the population in prison or who served their sentence, which category of Quirk classification got hit with quirk usage laws the most.

Perhaps one of his programmers could scrape news and other online websites and test for positive or negative reactions to Quirks, if "mutant" correlated with negative descriptions more often than. Of course, none of them really beat just plainly measuring calorie intake, usage of Quirks to test hunger, fat or calorie burning. He could very well prove definitely that different categories of quirks require large upkeep, like a refrigerator or computer still plugged in.

For example, most people can't use quirks unless authorized by the government, so it rarely comes up. Heroes and villains are obviously doing more physical activities than the normal population, so no one raises an eyebrow at their large appetites. However, mutants should be at a higher baseline for nutritional needs, requiring more calories than the average emitter or transformational quirk.

For mutants, this higher calorie need directly impacts their quality of life, the need for nutrition and feeding. Welfare or any government aid programs wouldn't even begin to properly account for all the variation in nutritional needs! This could lead to crime, being disproportionately represented in prisons and bad areas, and so on. Discrimination from everyone else and biological scarcity creating even worse outcomes.

It would take months, even a year to properly prove it, but he could drip feed the science and reports as time went on, hitting each aspect of his department with all of their varied skills. He could have a social finding in a month, a biological one in six months if he started immediately, and then combine it altogether for the wide picture. This was the big break he needed-!

"Excuse me sir?"

He was broken from his breakthrough by a watchful waiter. "Your company left before the check came." They handed him the bill. He skimmed it to the bottom.

Motherf*cker. Shigaraki was one hundred percent a villain.

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Chapter 17: Chapter Fourteen: Planning/Executing

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f*ckING AMAZING GUYS! You really blew it out the water with the Following and Favoriting!

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Mercer knew at least one line of research he was determined to carry out. When he met with his research team the next day, he solicited advice and a group discussion.

He made it clear his main line of research was the link between calorie intake and quirk usage since their emergence.

One researcher in the crowd heckled Dr. Mercer. The easy atmosphere allowed for dissent. “Isn’t this strictly social scientist stuff?”

“It would be, if you looked at it narrowly. No one’s ever done it like me.”

Mercer pointed out to the confused audience how even using Riken’s international database trying to find past, present, domestic and nothing in the mainline studies or research quoted by academia orthodoxy in related fields.

One of the few historians on the team, Takaaki Yoshimoto, elaborated on this discrepancy.

Taking out a cigarette and inhaling deeply, Yoshimoto explained the historical reasons why. “You’ll often see the same pattern repeating through the times after Quirk Emergence. The rush to weaponize metahuman abilities, or the dash to rebuild.” He was contemplative as he remembered his own youth and learning about how the world just kept crippling itself.

After a pause and puff, Yoshimoto continued. “There was no time or real funding to properly study topics that weren’t deemed important enough. I’m sure that was even the same for you Dr. Mercer. If it didn’t make money, I’m sure it would be disregarded. Everyone was focused on immediate, practical effects. Eugenics saw a massive resurgence that we’ve only relatively recently, only the last few decades, have tried to truly handle.”

“Many nations were busy trying to weaponize quirks, or focused on not dying or losing to another nation. Everyone knows when it comes to budget cuts, science and research always get on the chopping block. All the money goes to social services or the military. Science is easy to ignore unless it's related to weaponry or immediate gains. That's why comparatively, robotics and artificial intelligence development was even faster to roll out. Too much manpower loss led to its fast evolution. Deploying advanced cannon fodder to grind down the most powerful quirk users was a benefit to the richer but lower metahuman populated countries during those conflicts. “

Yoshimoto’s tone became more melancholic as he thought back to the people he remembered so long ago. What they experienced, what their families told them as a child. The sleepless nights as a teen reading about the decline of the world.

“The chain of knowledge was broken. The world’s scientists relied on an unbroken continuity of knowledge from the foremost in their field. The finest teaching of the next generation was extinguished.” He finished with a lament.

The assembly was silent, barely a whisper of discussion. To have it said so bluntly discomforted them. They lost so much time and progress. The geniuses that would have made a better world, instead were regaled to dying in some useless conflict, or stuck as a low level worker their entire life.

Could they imagine their lives if they hadn’t pursued their fields? Instead, stuck to a menial job forever?

One of the doctors chimed in with their own nuggets of knowledge. It was as much to break the silence as it was to add to the discussion.

“Additionally, when there were periods of food insecurity, everyone got hit hard. It's like asking if mutant types are more susceptible to cancer when there's radiation everywhere. You can’t establish a baseline anymore. The worst cases just get seen as an extension of the suffering. Quirks didn’t occur in a single people or ethnic group, it seemingly hit the world in a single “wave” at once, spreading from China to all over the world. So there was no single area that could exist without metahumans in society. No single pocket of quirklessness to study it in peace.”

One of the engineers, feeling left out, added their two cents. “Various global treaties after the devastation of various Quirk Wars heavily restricted Quirk use. Similar to tariffs, it was to also prevent certain metahuman abilities from destroying economic industries. Legal Quirk use for many projects can’t constitute more than 15% of production or work use. The only exceptions are applying for an expensive and heavily regulated permit. Who wants to spend grant or research money on maximizing or analyzing the use of Quirks in-depth, when it isn’t profitable or applicable? Most of the money is in the support industry, and most of them don’t have abilities that benefit their work regardless.”

A physicist even joined into the discussion. “Quirks already seemed to break the laws of thermodynamics. The greatest feats of our time output more energy than a single person could consume in their entire lives. Where else could the energy be coming from?” She shrugged. Mercer filed that tidbit for later. It did sound suspicious.

Alex took in their explanations with satisfaction. “So what you’re all saying is, we’ve got an untapped field of potential we don’t have to compete in?”

Everyone took a moment to take in the implications. They’d be breaking new ground. With the world lagging behind, they would be the force to bring something new. They could write the next generation of textbooks on these efforts! Even those not as enthused or wondering how they could offer their expertise could see how this would advance their careers. Having their name in the authorship or even an acknowledgement would be a big boon.

So it was no surprise when the groups decided to pursue two additional lines of research, apart but running parallel to Mercer’s.

Mercer expanded the reach of his research. This would include export/imports of direct consumer goods related to the food fields. The subtopics which would also be encompassed would be closely linked issues. Hunger and poverty rates divided by the three categories of quirks. And finally, crime rates based on available food social programs in Japan, controlling for wealth and education.

Group Two, made up of kinesiologists and nutritionists, wanted to pursue practical nutrition science. They wanted to see calorie burning between different quirk categories and putting in practical experiments under a variety of experimental groups.

Finally, Group Three wanted to go the deepest out of all of them. Made up of geneticists, hematologists, and chemists, they wanted to study the genetics of hunger, starvation, and its effects on the three culturally differentiated categories of quirks. They would be broadly looking at differing levels of mitochondria between mutant types, emitter and transformational quirks, along with their respective metabolism.

Much of the researchers and scientists who weren’t that applicable would help wherever they could. It could be as simple a data entry to actually finding the people needed to run the experiments. Everyone was onboard to do something, and found their way into each group one way or another.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The research groups began screening applicants responding to the calls for volunteers. They had a healthy cross section of the population given the allure and mystique of Alex Mercer technically helming the research groups.

Honestly, the only perks people would receive was an unlimited paid for budget for meals. However, there were obvious stipulations.

They had to stay on the prescribed diets or be taken off the endeavor entirely. The people involved had to come in once a day for study and experiments. The transportation would also be paid for, lessening their burdens.
Even with the strict demands, people were happy to be a part of something bigger, especially those who needed those extra calories. It was a win for everyone.

Alex Mercer felt like he was finally in his proper groove. Was it as exciting as the projects he did centuries ago? No, and the world was better for it. Maybe more interesting projects would come after. But the work of science found its greatest discoveries in the most unlikely of places.

Chapter 18: Chapter Fifteen: Young Eyes/Fresh Eyes

Chapter Text

Group Three’s residents steered clear of their boss. Well-honed instincts kicked in from years of bosses with no progress on projects with deadlines measured in months, not years. Doctor Mercer was quiet, but his expression and energy felt like a volcano about to blow.

Nagata Shigekazu, a biochemist, took one for the team. “Doctor Mercer, want a coffee break? It's on me.” Mercer took the hint. Afterall, all the coffee was free in the office. They walked out of the room and towards one of the refreshment stations.

Shigekazu and Mercer sipped their coffee. Mercer wasn’t budging, so he took the plunge.

“Good progress we’re making, don’t you think? Group One and Two are making strides, and our own stuff is chugging along.”

Mercer was quick with a scathing reply. “We’re chugging along in geologic time. And we shouldn’t be.” Shigekazu shrugged.

“No need to show that anger boss, we’re on the same team. Might not be good for morale seeing you so upset. Progress is progress, and honestly this has been some of the best work I’ve had the pleasure of being involved in. Got to look on the bright side.”

With that, they chugged their coffee. Shigekazu went back, probably to reassure the others. Mercer just stood there, thinking.

Why was Alex upset? Group One and Two’s endeavors were going well. They were seeing real and practical connections to their lines of research. Already they had a glut of data and records to support their cases. Almost everyone was happy and well motivated.

Except Mercer’s own home field advantage, his closest “people” were faltering. Group Three made up of the geneticists and such.

Ironic and frustrating. For centuries since the emergence of Quirks, people have been trying to find the “missing link” between genetics and metahuman abilities. It was obvious to see how a couple’s children would have characteristics or mutations that came from their parent’s quirks. However, trying to find “where” quirks were in DNA was the holy grail.

That wasn’t the focus of Group Three’s work. They were trying to find the genetic proof that hunger and starvation had real effects on quirk biology. Back in Mercer’s time, scientists had found the ancestral genetic links to energy/calorie retention from GHRd3, heritability of BMI from biological parents, and the hypothalamus’s role in the promotion/suppression of feeding behavior. In particular, naturally occurring leptin mRNA in human tissue correlated positively with amounts of fat mass. The early first breakthroughs Group Three had was the observed lighter concentrations of leptin in human tissue. And what would’ve had any other scientist publish their works immediately, was the fact that it was differentiated between the three classes of Quirks! Mutation type Quirks had the lowest “baseline”, followed by transformational, then emitter. Quirkless people have the consistently highest amounts of leptin.

Mercer helped in another way . Using the templates of past consumed humans pre-awakening, he stumbled upon the fact that certain humans before Quirk Emergence had different baselines for leptin! There were Pre-Quirk people he had consumed that had leptin levels equivalent or greater than that of Quirkless people, whereas most metahumans had a baseline that was well below of “regular” humans as well as far below Quirkless people. With this knowledge, he nudged the team towards intact studies that would prove this. He also put in a few requests for Pre-Quirk cadavers to actually have evidence beyond his own secret abilities.

All three groups, working in concert, found through testing that mutation types burnt the most calories, followed by transformational, then emitter. This would have been important enough by itself to publish, but this was only half of the puzzle. Atleast for Group Three. They could see the effects, but not the “why” of it. That was the key.

Group One and Two’s combined work would change how the world viewed nutrition and health sciences. For centuries, the textbooks had been continually rewritten on the standards for Body Mass Index and other areas such as exercise. “Standard” baselines were affected by the emergence of Quirks.

There were obviously mutant type quirks, but underneath the obvious, there were issues across the spectrums of classifications.

Some quirks included new and novel organs into their users. Some created internal new chemicals that affected bodily functions. The sheer divergence of the human form in small and large ways made it a headache to truly standardize anything. But after centuries of practice, they had some kind of working system. A spectrum sliding scale was the best effort that more often than not, through trial and error, worked out. Only the most extreme body forms had issues, and even then science could be as much an art in dealing with issues day to day.

However, this didn’t help Group Three much. They were stuck regardless.

Ironic he could help tip the scales for everyone but himself.

Alex was frustrated, and why wouldn’t he be? The original Alex Mercer was a genius with genetics and biology, which was only enhanced with all the fellow Gentek and Blackwatch scientists he consumed.

His own pet project team wanted to study the genetics of hunger, starvation, and its effects on the three culturally differentiated categories of Quirks. What should have been his bread and butter was instead hardtack slathered with animal fat.

He decided to take his mind off of it, and go further onto city limits. Pacing and infecting the lab with his poor attitude wasn’t helping.

He couldn’t take his mind off of it after all. He took relevant copies at home to study later.

Mercer decided to walk to the outskirts of the city, where it grew increasingly poorer and far more run down. His travels took him to an open air scrapyard, where a gang of children, middle school looking delinquents, are rooting around.

Boys being boys as they ran and laughed as they hauled junk and shiny parts to oversized bags.

“Isn’t all that junk useless and dangerous for you kids?” Alex savored the fear and wariness from the kids, most of them looking like they were caught with the cookie jar. After the shock and countless jumps or flinches, they then tried to save face by rallying together.

Cute.

The biggest and oldest looking of the group spoke first. “Whadda want mister?” The young boy was definitely protective of the younger boys, placing himself square in front of the kids.

“Nothing, except making sure no one here gets tetanus.” And to alleviate his boredom.

“You some kind of doctor?” The skinny and small child made for a belligerent juxtaposition in how tough they tried to look.

“I am some sort of doctor, actually.” Now, he was looked upon like some sort of millionaire who was slumming it.

After a short back and forth, Mercer found himself treating the ragged band of misfits to a local fast food shop.

They made for a strange sight.

The delinquents had big mouths and even bigger appetites. Money was no concern for him, thankfully. The band of kids didn’t question the charity, too eager for a free meal.

After they ate their fill, Alex decided to question them.

“Shouldn’t you kids be in school or something?” It was strange for them to be out and about on a school day.

One of the older kids spoke up. “The teachers aren’t teaching because they’re barely making money. They’ve been protesting for weeks now.”

Another, younger child chimed in, eager to be a part of the conversation. “My momma said the best teachers go deeper in the city, and she said the only ones that stay are the really dumb or the really nice. Most of them must be dumb, I think.”

A quieter kid with a scar on his nose spoke softly. “My dad isn’t doing so well. I’m trying to find stuff to sell.”

They painted a mosaic that Mercer could grasp well enough. He reclined back carefully, not wanting to break the fragile furniture. “Seems like much of what you've been collecting are heaps of garbage. Not worth it at all.”

They glowered at him petulant, defensively protecting their “job”.

“Even if ninety-nine percent of it seems useless, the one percent pays off.”

Alex pondered this long after they left, the heat beating down his back as he walked further onward. Junk that ended up being useful. Where had he heard that before?

Wait, f*ck.

The thought stayed with him as he powered on home with a purpose.

His teams were dealing with bottlenecks and uneven progress. The practical lines of research are displaying immediate and amazing results. However, Group Three has been stuck for a while.

But if his hunch was right, they’d be getting a shot to the heart with this idea.

He had members of the group meet in one of the city’s various higher end restaurants. With the nature of many of their clientele working at RIKEN, there was no shortage of private dining areas.

They sat down around him, talking as they finished appetizers and waiting for the entrees.

Alex coughed to get everyone's attention. They all fell silent.

“How do we determine gene functions?” Everyone at the table laughed, and why wouldn’t they? They were all seasoned professionals. This was a question for Biology 101.

When they stopped laughing and saw him waiting for an answer, they felt bewildered.

Suzuki Umetaro stepped up to the plate. He was the kind of person who as a kid would always try to answer a question first.

“Molecular beacons and reporter constructs have been the gold standard for centuries. Works out for animals and humans, except when it comes to Quirks.” Nods went around the group. Many countries had tried to find the holy grail of where Quirk genes were located to no avail.

Doctor Mercer nodded and continued further.

“In my distant past, genetic research was spurred on by examining chromosomal disorders and mapping the human genome.” His batch of scientists leaned in, not wanting to miss out on valuable history. Or not wanting to seem bored in front of their boss.

“Overtime, they noticed certain genetic markers would be more “active” over a period of time in people with the same conditions. In particular, in the Netherlands, the Nazi occupation ended up starving much of the population. In the decades to come, children and grandchildren born after the war had higher rates of conditions such as obesity, diabetes and schizophrenia. There was also a general propensity of weight gain. The starvation essentially “silenced” certain genes. While all cells in a person’s body share the same genes, different ones are active or silent in different cells based on conditions in the environment. That program largely is locked in place before birth.”

Doctor Watanabe Masayoshi looked very excited. “I remember reading about this when I was doing research for my thesis! Because of their discoveries, geneticists decades later found the genes for hunger. The removal of the KSR2 gene promoted obesity. And they found what MC4R was responsible for, from controlling appetite, weight control, and energy balance. They pioneered serial analysis of gene expression, or SAGE.”

Alex was very pleased. He was surrounded by the best of the best. “But what you may not know is in my time, scientists such as myself learned that later experiences — say, exposure to a virus — can cause cells to quiet a gene or boost its activity, sometimes permanently.”

“The study of this long-term gene control is called epigenetics. Researchers have identified molecules that cells use to program DNA, but how those tools work isn’t entirely clear.”

Mercer paused to let everyone digest what he was saying so far.

Blackwatch of course was a pioneer in such tools. CARNIVAL I’s success led to the human experimentation in CARNIVAL II. Nothing happened. Not until the children of Hope, Idaho were born.

Of course his colleagues didn’t need to know about those details, so he went back on the topic at hand.

“In essence, I’ve got a new idea we should pursue. Who here remembers what junk DNA is?”

They scrambled to remember the university classes a lifetime away.

Dr. Riko was the first one to snap her fingers. “Non Functional DNA! Noncoding, no function.”

Mercer nodded. “Good answer.” She smiled and rewarded herself with an extra glass full of imported French wine.

One of the more disgruntled scientists spoke up. “What does junk DNA have to do with our work?”

“I’ve got a hunch that what we’re looking for may not be in the traditional areas of DNA. I've read that even with studies over the years, virtually all genes related to possible Quirk function are still unknown and unfound, correct?”

Nods went around the room. The genie was firmly still in the bottle. Who knew what the world would look like if people could edit Quirk genes? Not that it wasn’t a fool's game, because like all functions of the body, there would be dozens if not hundreds of gene areas that would have to be narrowed down, and all adjusted carefully. Genetic engineering was always tricky. Quirks complicated everything it touched.

“So we’ve got to look where no one bothered to look in. That's our edge.” And one of their only options left, but he didn’t include that. No need to demoralize them when there was so much more work to be done.

Their entrees came, and with it, the end of the conversation.

As Alex ate, he thought of this gamble and why he thought of it. Junk DNA was an integral key to the understanding and usage of REDLIGHT/BLACKLIGHT. With so much non-coding DNA, it would have been easy for people to overlook it.

Had he left even 1% of his colleagues alive, they or their students would have eventually thought of it. Everyone in Gentek or Blackwatch’s science division were all young by the standards of most scientists or professors.

After tonight, he’d get the team’s attention on it ASAP.

In the pleasant haze of desserts and cigarettes, they argued for the sake of it. From the feasibility of such research, trying to poke holes, and just for plain fun. There was the length of time involved, the difficulty in finding the genes responsible, and “measuring” the activity.

Mercer told them one simple thing.

All great ventures required patience and sacrifice. This was worth it.

In the next few months, Group Three examined genes for hunger and weight control. Before they dived into junk DNA, they needed to find the roots, then see where they went.

Group Three’s researchers found the genes responsible for appetite and hunger were overactive, while genes for weight control barely had any activity.

In SAGE tests, they found something odd. These genes seemed to “communicate” with genes associated with hair and eye color? And even more amazingly, they went to noncoding DNA within strands for hair/eye color. The genetic markers lit up when they stimulated hunger genes. The team then had to isolate the enormous amount of genes to sift through.

It was like finally having a metal detector in a giant field of haystacks. They had the tools and rough location, now all they needed was time and effort.

Mercer also got his hands on Pre-Quirk cadavers. The entire operation took weeks of negotiations and wrangling, but they finally had Pre-Quirk cadavers to compare. It was a hassle having to interrupt his days to meet with Ethics Committees and other watchdogs in order to access Pre-Quirk, intact human bodies. All donated to science, but coveted for their value and significance. It was a boon to have a government fully and enthusiastically on your side. This allowed them to comb deeper through older genomes and see with new eyes on the differences in generations of humanity.

It took them another two months to sequence the genomes for the DNA. To properly test the lab grown flesh samples against modern day humans took another month.

One of their most important theories was also the simplest. Since eye and hair color were the most frequent mutation, even in Quirkless people, why not check the genes for those areas? Of course those are still hundreds if not thousands of genes to sift through. And to test/explore.

They needed iron-clad proof.

The team's work was slow and steady, comparing Quirkless people with a variety of subjects. Children under six with no Quirks yet, and all three categories of Quirk types.

When they searched genealogy, older research, medical papers, and Quirk records, they found those with the lowest amounts of leptin were positively correlated with a greater chance of they or their offspring having a Quirk!

They also tested weight loss in Quirk usage, hunger/leptin levels with quirk usage positively correlated.

That in itself was worthy enough to publish, but this was only a fragment of the whole puzzle.

Then came the overwhelming discovery. The “communication” between the overactive hunger genes and hair/eye color genes all originated from the noncoding DNA area. Junk DNA. It was like someone in a trash heap with a radio giving orders to a five star general.

Mercer’s hunch paid off. But instead of striking gold, he hit the motherlode of platinum.

Quirk mechanisms were hidden in junk DNA, notably where hair/eye color genes are located. Which also happened to be where the most common quirk mutations occurred since the first metahuman.

Every time they tested it, they found activity from those areas of junk DNA. They expanded their scope to pregnant women and children before and after their Quirks came in. For children below four to six years old, who have not had their Quirk kick in yet, they found minimal activity from the junk DNA area. After their Quirk arose, they found a veritable hive of activity.

Just as whales, dolphins and bats, despite being disparate species, all shared common genes for echolocation, all types of metahumans and even Quirkless people shared a wide array of active junk DNA communicating to the rest of the body’s genes.

All chemical markers, gene waves. and epigenetic tags all seemed to be coming from the junk DNA areas of the hair and eye DNA.

Then the wildest part was discovered by chance when a subject was casually using their Quirk.

The subject was a kindly old grandfather. Mr. Kōreishya’s Quirk allowed him to enlarge any part of his body that had veins running through them. That's why he was usually the favorite around the lab, since it was easier to draw blood. Even from novices.

Ōmura Satoshi just happened to be running gene scans while Mr. Kōreishya’s Quirk was active.

“Is this right?” Satoshi was bewildered looking at the heightened “communication” between the observed junk DNA segments and the rest of the body.

“Mr. Kōreishya, can you stop using your Quirk for a moment?”

“For you young man, anything!” He was a naturally gregarious older man. He really felt like he was contributing to science, and everyone was fond of talking to him.

Everything went darker in activity.

“Can you turn your Quirk back on?”

The hair and eye color genes along with the hunger genes lit up like a christmas tree.

They found the absolute holy grail of quirks. This was where it seemed the “brain” of Quirks came from. Why was it that many of the first metahuman changes and most frequent Quirk alterations were to the hair and eye color? Now they cracked the case! They knew there was communication and “pings” from the junk DNA to the rest of the body, but they didn’t quite know what it meant until Quirks were being used while being scanned!

And to think this all came from a study about the connection between epigenetics, Quirks, and calorie usage!

The entire lab was aflame! They had to temporarily poach Group One and Two researchers to assist them with the sheer volume of data they were trying to quantify and put together.

Overall, their findings were dense.

Group Three found that small silencing RNAs are the primary building blocks of Quirks.

Quirk’s themselves are the mutation and mixture of many different RNA/DNA seemingly working in tandem.

However, the sheer complexity of quirks means that it's strange that relatively there is not enough “coding” overall in these identified quirk gene structures. Where are the “heavy weights”, dense instructions for quirk genes exactly?

Almost like it's being outsourced. Like a genius with all the building plans and data, teleconferencing with workers who only get enough instruction to build up the plan in increments.

The small RNA keeps getting transmitted from one generation to another independent of the DNA. Normal small RNA spreads from cell to cell, and in certain cases is even transferable.

The most troubling fact? All forms of small RNA such as dsRNA are produced primarily in nature in reaction to viral infection.

The research team identified genetic pathways that activate in response to calorie inhibition, such as long term malnutrition to outright starvation. They identified protein translation genes that were inhibited, and found that it kickstarted an entire reaction. Mutant types were the most sensitive, followed by transformational, then emitter.

The genes that regulated protein synthesis were almost underactive in mutant types. In “baseline” humans, this meant a propensity towards obesity and an increase in chances of getting Type 2 diabetes because it often tripled fat stores in preparation of starvation survival.

There were almost five hundred genes that were determined to be fat regulatory genes, and almost two hundred for hair, eye and skin color. Tracing them through genetic markers and just the time needed to see them “activate” was definitely the issue Group Three had. It took time to see effects, time to organize and go over different genes, examine the junk DNA each time for anything new happening, and if they were positively correlated with the correct gene activation was a headache. They had to triple their staff and outsource help just to stay on track with Group’s One and Two.

The main issue was how difficult, nearly impossible epigenetic experiments were; changes resulting from external rather than genetic influences. Genetic mechanisms were already known to affect people and their children in cases of extended starvation after all. Was it so far-fetched that the same could apply for Quirks? The inheritance of beneficial traits on such a fast level to combine traits and not have the host body be killed by their Quirk was certainly a possibility. Small RNAs, which regulate gene expressions, were essentially off/on switches. These off/on switches could be anything for genes. Fat absorption, viral/bacterial immunity, the possibilities were endless and only the chaos of Quirk Emergence stifled the field in the cradle until now.

Signaling pathways were the first clue in determining where, exactly, the genes responsible for Quirk expression and regulation were located in. Junk DNA, or better thought of as “nonfunctional DNA”, was often thought of as DNA sequences that have no relevant biological functions. However, Blackwatch’s work on REDLIGHT revealed how it “activated” junk DNA, often to the detriment of living creatures.

Such as spontaneous organ failures in under a month.

There was detectable biochemical activity in these junk DNA areas, but only with the usage of Quirks!

Which was how they stumbled upon the holy grail of Quirk genetic science.

Quirk functions, mechanisms, regulation and mutations were all found in the junk DNA areas where the genetic information for hair, eye, and skin color were found. The first real “Quirks” ever to be documented always had enormously different hair/eye/skin mutations from the on-set, and are the most frequent mutations for metahumans, Quirkless or not period.

Energy expenditures in metahumans over time could be extreme compared to other culturally differentiated categories of Quirks. In order from most to least were, mutant types, transformational, and then emitters.

Of course, all hard scientific facts needed context and examination.

Despite the population staying the same or even decreasing, food consumption has gone up without a significant rise in overweight ness or obesity. Demand for food and the amount of land dedicated to crop and animal production has doubled every 20 years.

Most likely due to higher energy expenditures by Mutant types, it's probably the reason why there were disproportionate populations of Mutant-types in prisons and generally poorer socio-economic conditions. They just needed more, and often couldn’t get it. Mutant-type metahumans were already discriminated against for their experience or Quirks, which kept snowballing overtime as Quirks grew more complex with each generation.

Quirks put a higher food requirement to sustain it. A controversial take by one of the scientists involved the so-called “Quirk singularity”. According to them, the acceleration and complexity of Quirks over time create abilities which require more and more energy.

But according to the consensus in the lab, Quirk Singularity Theory was just a fringe theory espoused by a discredited scientist and accelerationists.

What was clear on the social scientist side, was that Quirks imposed new dietary needs on the population. This could be where much of the increased crime stems from, besides power imbalances. It always led back to caveman and Bronze Age thinking. Resources could be gone at any time, and therefore violence and domination were often the answer.

There was a furious flurry of activity at Mercer’s building. Like a kicked hornets nest, everyone scrambled with manic fervor to their duties.

What was the cause of this uproar? Three months ago Doctor Mercer, the project lead and overall leader of operations had committed his team to a peculiar line of research that hadn’t ever been touched upon.

As soon as each team and discipline started deep dives and research, they soon found themselves inundated with reams of data.

By the first month, they had so much to draw upon.

By the second month, it was a manic frenzy collecting surveys, in person interviews, and collecting DNA.

And the third month contained so many new revelations and relevant data that the implications were immediately clear. It was agreed that they would release a preliminary report. Such was their confidence and importance they placed on getting even the preliminary findings to the government and wider population.

Group Three with the hardest of research was reinvigorated with Mercer’s inspiration and genius. They were able to catch up or even exceed the progress of the other groups.

To think that they stumbled upon the location of Quirks as a side note to their main research points. Like looking for new antibiotics but finding new medicine to combat cancer.

So much rushing around. The mad dash to organize their citations, to make sure everyone involved was properly credited.

And this was just the beginning. They all understood the gold mine they unearthed. And it was all because of one person.

Alexander J. Mercer. A man out of time and place. Who brought new ideas and perspectives no one else could have thought of.

The final day was finally upon them. It was time to publish.

"CALORIC EXPENDITURE/INTAKE AND ITS IMPACT ON CULTURALLY DIFFERENTIATED CATEGORIES OF METAHUMAN ABILITIES OVER TIME"