A week after Marcus obtained his completely legitimate—okay, mostly legitimate—identity documents, he found himself staring at a driver's license that proclaimed him to be Marcus Reid, born in Lincoln, Nebraska, current resident of New York City.
The photo wasn't half bad, actually. He looked like any other twenty-something who'd moved to the big city chasing dreams and opportunities. The SSN card felt real because it was real—the numbers actually existed in the system now, complete with tax records and everything. His passport had that satisfying heft of authenticity.
"Problem solved," he muttered, tucking the documents into his jacket's inner pocket.
No more worrying about cops asking for ID. No more hotel clerks trying to shake him down. As long as he didn't do something monumentally stupid—like rob a bank in broad daylight while shouting his name—nobody would ever know he'd been a "ghost" just two weeks ago.
Marcus allowed himself a small smile. The foundation was laid. Now it was time to really get to work.
Over the next two weeks, Marcus kept his head down and focused on what he did best: being invisible while his bank account did the opposite.
He also kept tabs on Eddie Moran.
Without access to more NZT from Finn, Eddie had pretty much reverted to his old street-rat existence. Well, almost. The guy had managed to pound out something like forty thousand words of a novel after taking that first pill—apparently the NZT hangover hadn't completely wiped his memory of the story. He couldn't finish it, obviously, since he couldn't remember the ending he'd planned, but publishers didn't care. Forty thousand words of genuinely brilliant prose was enough to get him a decent advance.
So Eddie wasn't exactly destitute anymore. He'd upgraded from "can't pay rent" to "can pay rent and eat something other than ramen." But he also hadn't given up searching for NZT. Marcus spotted him lurking around a few of Finn's old haunts, asking careful questions, trying to track down where the pills came from.
Good luck with that, Marcus thought. Finn's notebook was currently sitting in Marcus's hotel room, and Ivan Pharmaceuticals wasn't exactly advertising their miracle brain drug in the Yellow Pages.
Still, Eddie was persistent. The guy had that hungry look—the one that said he'd tasted something incredible and couldn't forget it. Marcus understood that feeling all too well.
He made a mental note to keep monitoring Eddie, just in case.
Three weeks after obtaining his documents.
Marcus sat in his cramped hotel room, laptop open, watching numbers cascade across multiple terminal windows. His fingers danced across the keyboard with the kind of fluid precision that made professional pianists look clumsy.
He checked his bank balance.
Nine figures.
Over one hundred million dollars.
The smile that spread across his face could only be described as shit-eating.
"Hell yes," he breathed.
Getting to this point hadn't been easy, even with NZT turning his brain into a supercomputer. The key was diversification and discretion. A million here from a Cayman Islands shell corporation, two million there from a Swiss bank with security protocols written by someone who clearly didn't understand modern cryptography, another three million from—
Well. The details didn't matter.
What did matter was that Marcus Reid was now obscenely, ridiculously, stupidly rich.
And nobody had any idea.
Two days later.
Marcus's latest target was the Japanese banking system.
He'd been setting this up for a while now, building backdoors and mapping their network infrastructure. Japanese banks had decent security—certainly better than some of the amateur-hour stuff he'd encountered in smaller countries—but "decent" didn't mean much when you were up against someone with a superhuman brain and unlimited time to probe for weaknesses.
The vulnerability he found was almost elegant in its stupidity: a third-party payment processor that interfaced with multiple major banks. The processor had been acquired by a larger company six months ago, and during the integration, someone had left a legacy authentication system running. It was like finding a unlocked back door in a fortress.
Marcus spent four hours routing his access through seventeen different proxy servers across four continents. When he finally initiated the transfer, the digital trail looked like a drunken spider had designed it.
Twelve million dollars—converted to yen, bounced through crypto exchanges, split into hundreds of smaller transactions, and ultimately routed back to his accounts through a maze of shell corporations that would take forensic accountants years to untangle.
If they ever even found them.
The next morning.
Marcus was eating breakfast at a diner—actual food, not the gray slop the Ten Rings had fed him, thank God—when he saw the news.
"—Japanese government officials announced today that the country's banking system suffered a major cyberattack," the TV behind the counter droned. "Initial estimates suggest losses of approximately 500 billion yen—"
Marcus choked on his coffee.
Five hundred billion?
He'd taken twelve million dollars. Even with the most generous exchange rate, that was maybe... what, 1.4 billion yen? And they were claiming 500 billion in losses?
"Holy shit," he muttered.
The waitress gave him a weird look, but he ignored her, watching the broadcast with fascination.
The Japanese Finance Minister looked appropriately grave as he explained—in dubbed English—that this was a devastating attack on their financial infrastructure. National security implications. Possible state-sponsored hackers. Very serious. Much concern.
Marcus sat back, a slow grin spreading across his face.
They were lying their asses off.
Of course they were. What were they going to tell their citizens—"Sorry folks, some random hacker stole a bit of money and we have no idea who they are or how they got in"? No. Much better to inflate the numbers, make it sound like a massive coordinated assault, maybe even imply it was China or North Korea.
Save face. Deflect blame. Classic move.
"Well," Marcus said to himself, "if they're going to lie about it anyway..."
He left a twenty on the counter and headed back to his hotel.
That night.
Marcus hit them again.
This time he wasn't even particularly careful. The Japanese banking system was in full panic mode—they'd locked down some of their security holes, sure, but in doing so they'd created new ones. It was like watching someone frantically bolt their front door while leaving the windows wide open.
He took another eight million.
By morning, the Japanese government had updated their press release. The losses had now reached one trillion yen.
Marcus nearly fell off his chair laughing.
"Are you kidding me right now?"
He'd stolen maybe twenty million total, and they were claiming a trillion yen in damages? That was like... he did the quick mental math... almost ten billion dollars?
"Unbelievable."
The best part? The press release specifically mentioned "strong evidence" that the hackers were based in the United States, possibly working with organized crime syndicates.
Marcus had deliberately left some breadcrumbs pointing west—minor tells in his routing patterns, a few American-based proxy servers, that sort of thing. But the Japanese response had gone way beyond what he'd planted. They weren't just following his trail; they were embellishing it.
He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, thinking.
On one hand, this was hilarious. On the other hand, if they were going to make him out to be some kind of international cybercrime mastermind, he should probably lay low for a while.
Besides, he had bigger problems to solve.
Two months later.
Marcus stood outside a nondescript building in a quiet New Jersey suburb, checking the address on his phone one more time.
Hartwell Chemical Solutions. Private chemical laboratory and research facility.
It didn't look like much from the outside—just a two-story brick building with tinted windows and a small parking lot. But Marcus had done his homework. They had the equipment he needed, a clean reputation, and most importantly, they weren't afraid to take on "proprietary research" for private clients who valued discretion.
The pharmaceutical industry was full of little labs like this—places where companies could outsource R&D without having to explain every detail to shareholders and regulators. Some of them were perfectly legitimate. Others... well. They asked fewer questions.
Marcus pushed through the front door. A bell chimed softly.
The reception area was exactly what he'd expected: worn linoleum floors, fluorescent lighting, a desk with a bored-looking woman scrolling through her phone. The faint smell of chemicals hung in the air—not unpleasant, just... clinical.
"Help you?" the receptionist asked without looking up.
"I'm here to see Dr. David Hartwell. I have an appointment."
"Name?"
"Marcus Reid."
She tapped at her computer, then gestured vaguely toward a hallway. "Third door on the right."
Dr. David Hartwell looked exactly like what Marcus had imagined when he'd researched the lab online: mid-forties, wire-rimmed glasses, the kind of permanent tiredness in his eyes that came from twenty years of grant applications and budget meetings. His white lab coat had a coffee stain on the collar.
The man's office was cramped and cluttered—papers everywhere, a skeleton model shoved in the corner, three different coffee mugs in various states of abandonment. It smelled like old coffee and desperation.
"Mr. Reid," Hartwell said, standing to shake his hand. His grip was firm enough, but there was something resigned about the gesture. Like he'd already decided this meeting would be a waste of time. "Please, sit."
Marcus sat. He'd dressed well for this—button-down shirt, slacks, the kind of outfit that said "I have money" without being obnoxious about it. First impressions mattered.
"So," Hartwell said, settling back into his chair, "your email mentioned pharmaceutical replication. Something proprietary?"
"That's right." Marcus pulled out a small plastic bag containing a single NZT pill and set it on the desk. "I need you to analyze this, identify all the active ingredients, and then synthesize more of it."
Hartwell picked up the bag, holding it up to the light. The clear pill glinted. He frowned.
"What is it?"
"A cognitive enhancer. Nootropic. Stimulant properties, improves focus and mental clarity, but with some... significant side effects." Marcus kept his description vague. "I'm not interested in FDA approval or bringing it to market. This is purely private research. Personal use."
That got Hartwell's attention. His eyes sharpened slightly.
"I see." He set the pill down carefully. "Mr. Reid, I have to be honest with you. Replicating an unknown pharmaceutical compound isn't like following a recipe. Even if I can identify every single ingredient, matching the exact proportions, synthesis methods, chemical interactions... that takes time. We're talking months of testing, probably multiple iterations to get it right."
"I understand."
"And even then, there's no guarantee it'll work the same way. Pharmaceuticals are finicky. Sometimes changing the synthesis temperature by five degrees completely alters the drug's properties. You could end up with something that looks identical but does nothing, or worse, something toxic."
"I'm aware of the risks."
Hartwell leaned back in his chair, studying Marcus with the weary patience of someone who'd heard too many rich guys pitch miracle drug ideas.
"Clinical trials would take at least a year. Maybe eighteen months. And that's if everything goes smoothly, which it never does. We'd need to test on cell cultures, then mice, then potentially primates before even thinking about human trials—"
"I'll give you three hundred million dollars if you can complete it in six months."
Hartwell stopped mid-sentence. His mouth hung open slightly.
"I'm sorry?"
"Three hundred million dollars," Marcus repeated calmly. "Six months or less. And I'll be joining you in the research—I have some background in chemistry and pharmacology. Consider me an active collaborator."
For a long moment, Hartwell just stared at him. Marcus could practically see the man's brain rebooting, trying to process what he'd just heard.
The rejection that had been forming on Hartwell's lips died stillborn. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. When he spoke again, his voice came out rough, almost trembling.
"I... I would need to see proof of funds. Not that I'm doubting you, but—"
"Of course." Marcus pulled out his phone and opened his banking app, turning the screen to show Hartwell. "I can transfer a fifty-million-dollar deposit today. The rest on completion."
Hartwell's eyes went wide. His face flushed red, then white, then red again. He licked his lips.
"I... Jesus. Okay. I'll..." He took a shaky breath. "I'll try my best, Mr. Reid."
"That's all I ask."
Marcus didn't tell Hartwell the truth about NZT, of course.
As far as the chemist knew, this was just some fancy nootropic that improved concentration and had some unfortunate side effects—headaches, probably, maybe some stimulant-related crashes. Rich people spent stupid amounts of money on dumber things all the time. Hartwell didn't need to know he was replicating a drug that would unlock 100% of the human brain's potential.
The "serious side effects" line did the trick. It explained why Marcus wanted private research instead of going through legitimate channels. Plausible deniability.
And Hartwell... well. The man had clearly been struggling to keep his lab afloat. The eagerness in his eyes when Marcus mentioned the money was almost painful to watch. This was his lottery ticket, his retirement fund, his chance to finally stop worrying about which equipment needed replacing and whether he could make payroll next month.
Marcus understood that desperation. He'd felt it himself, working three jobs in his previous life, watching his bank account drain despite his best efforts.
Besides, Hartwell was a good chemist. Marcus had vetted him thoroughly—published papers, solid reputation in the industry, no major scandals. The lab had decent equipment, even if some of it was a bit outdated. With NZT enhancing Marcus's own knowledge, and Hartwell's practical experience, they could make this work.
Probably.
Two weeks into the project.
"—and if we adjust the pH during the binding phase, we might be able to increase the stability of the intermediate compound," Marcus said, pointing at the molecular diagram on the whiteboard.
Hartwell stared at him.
"Where did you learn this?"
"I read a lot," Marcus said mildly.
That wasn't technically a lie. He had read a lot. An inhuman amount, actually. Every biochemistry textbook the New York Public Library had, plus everything he could find online, plus several graduate-level research papers on neurochemistry and pharmaceutical synthesis.
The NZT made it easy. Information just... stuck. He'd absorbed twenty years of chemistry education in two weeks.
"You 'read a lot,'" Hartwell repeated flatly. "Mr. Reid, what you just described is a technique that's only been published in one paper, from a Japanese research team, six months ago. It's cutting-edge work."
Marcus shrugged. "I said I have background in chemistry."
Hartwell took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Background. Right." He put his glasses back on and gave Marcus a long, evaluating look. "You're not just some rich kid playing scientist, are you?"
"Would it matter if I was?"
"No, I suppose not." Hartwell turned back to the whiteboard, studying Marcus's notes. "Your money spends the same either way. But for the record... you're right. That modification should work. I don't know why I didn't think of it."
Because you're running on regular human intelligence, Marcus thought, while I'm currently using about 100% of my brain's capacity.
Out loud, he just said, "Two heads are better than one."
Six weeks in.
The first batch was a disaster.
Oh, it looked right. The molecular structure matched. The synthesis had gone smoothly. But when they tested it on the rat...
Nothing.
The rat just sat there, whiskers twitching, completely unaffected.
"Shit," Hartwell muttered, making notes. "Okay. So the molecule is stable, but it's not crossing the blood-brain barrier effectively. Or it's not binding to the right receptors. Or both."
Marcus leaned against the lab bench, thinking. The NZT in his system was singing, making connections, suggesting possibilities.
"What if we modify the carrier molecule?" he said slowly. "Add a lipophilic group to increase permeability?"
Hartwell looked up. "That could work. But which group? If we make it too lipophilic, it won't dissolve properly in the bloodstream."
"What about..." Marcus grabbed a marker and started sketching. "Here. This derivative. It's amphipathic—should pass through the barrier but still remain soluble."
Hartwell studied the diagram. A slow smile spread across his face.
"You know what? I think you might be onto something."
Three months in.
They'd burned through seven different iterations. Some were completely inert. One made the test rat incredibly aggressive—they'd had to euthanize it after it bit through its cage. Another seemed promising until the rat started having seizures.
Hartwell was getting worried. Marcus could see it in the way the man checked his watch obsessively, the way his coffee consumption had doubled, the way he jumped every time his phone rang.
Three months down. Three months left. And they didn't have a working product.
But Marcus wasn't worried.
He'd learned something important during this process: NZT wasn't just making him smarter. It was teaching him how to think like a scientist. Every failed experiment added to his understanding. Every dead rat gave him more data.
The original NZT formulation was brilliant, but it wasn't perfect. The side effects were brutal. The addiction was nasty. The withdrawal could literally kill you if you'd been on it long enough.
What if they could fix that?
Marcus started looking at the problem differently. Not just "how do we replicate NZT?" but "how do we make something better?"
He began making modifications. Small changes to the molecular structure, adjustments to the binding affinity, tweaks to the metabolic pathway. Hartwell noticed but didn't comment—by this point, he'd stopped questioning Marcus's expertise.
The man had finally figured out that Marcus wasn't just some rich amateur playing chemist. Whatever his background was, he knew what he was doing.
Four months in.
"Holy shit," Hartwell breathed.
They were watching a rat navigate a maze. Not just any maze—a complex, multi-level puzzle that usually took rats dozens of attempts to solve.
This rat had figured it out in three tries.
Now, on its fourth run, it was moving through the maze with almost casual efficiency. No hesitation. No backtracking. It knew exactly where it was going.
"The retention is incredible," Hartwell muttered, scribbling notes frantically. "Look at that. Perfect recall. And its movements—did you see how quickly it corrected when it hit that dead end?"
Marcus said nothing. He just watched the rat, a small smile playing at his lips.
They'd done it.
Well. They'd done something. Whether it was exactly like the original NZT remained to be seen. But this... this was real. A cognitive enhancement drug that actually worked.
And the best part?
"No seizures," Marcus said quietly. "No aggression. No obvious side effects."
"Not yet," Hartwell cautioned. "We need to monitor it for longer. Check organ function, brain chemistry, behavior over extended periods—"
"Of course. But this is a good sign."
Hartwell set down his pen and looked at Marcus with something like awe.
"How did you know? The modifications you made—I've been doing this for twenty years, and I wouldn't have thought of half of them. Some of these compounds..." He gestured at their notes. "This is novel work. Publishable. Maybe even Nobel Prize-worthy if we could prove long-term safety."
Marcus shrugged. "Sometimes you just have to think outside the box."
Five months in.
They'd moved to human testing.
Well. "Human testing."
The test subject was Marcus himself.
Hartwell had protested, obviously. Liability issues. Ethical concerns. The very real possibility that Marcus might drop dead or suffer permanent brain damage.
Marcus took the pill anyway.
"If it kills me," he'd said, "you keep the fifty million I already paid you. Call it a bonus."
"That's not funny."
"Wasn't trying to be."
The new formulation took about forty-five seconds to kick in. A bit slower than the original NZT, but Marcus felt the difference immediately.
It was... smoother. The original NZT had felt like flipping a switch—instant clarity, but also a kind of manic intensity. Like his brain was overclocking so hard it might catch fire.
This version was gentler. The clarity was still there, the perfect memory, the enhanced perception. But it didn't feel violent. It felt natural. Like this was how his brain was supposed to work all along.
"How do you feel?" Hartwell asked, watching him anxiously.
Marcus closed his eyes, taking inventory. His heart rate was slightly elevated but stable. No headache. No nausea. No sense of impending doom.
"Good," he said. "Really good."
"Any side effects?"
"Not that I can tell."
He opened his eyes and smiled at Hartwell. The chemist was standing there with a notebook, pen poised, looking like a nervous parent watching their kid ride a bike for the first time.
"Relax," Marcus said. "I'm fine. Better than fine."
And he was.
The modifications he'd made had worked. The new NZT still gave him the cognitive enhancement he needed, but without the brutal crashes and horrific side effects. It wasn't perfect—he could feel that he'd probably still have some withdrawal symptoms when it wore off—but it was leagues better than the original formulation.
"We need to run more tests," Hartwell said, still scribbling frantically. "Cognitive function, motor skills, memory retention. And we'll need to monitor you for the next forty-eight hours minimum—"
"Sure. Whatever you need."
Marcus was already thinking ahead. With the improved NZT formula, he could take it more regularly without destroying his brain. That meant more time in the "overclocked" state. More time to learn, to plan, to prepare.
And once he got back to the Marvel universe?
Game on.
Six months in.
Marcus stood in Hartwell's office, a briefcase full of pills sitting on the desk between them.
"Two hundred doses," Hartwell said, gesturing at the case. "Stored in climate-controlled containers. Each pill is identical—we've standardized the synthesis process. And I've included the complete documentation: chemical composition, synthesis protocols, safety data, everything."
Marcus nodded. "Good work."
"I'll be honest, Mr. Reid. I still don't fully understand what you're planning to do with these. But..." Hartwell hesitated. "Be careful. This drug is powerful. We reduced the side effects, but they're not gone entirely. Long-term use could still have consequences we haven't discovered yet."
"I understand the risks."
"Do you?" Hartwell leaned forward, his expression serious. "Because I need you to understand something. What we've created here? This is revolutionary. This could change the world—treat Alzheimer's, enhance learning for people with disabilities, help humanity reach its full potential. But it could also be incredibly dangerous in the wrong hands."
Marcus met his gaze steadily. "It's not going to the wrong hands."
"How can you be sure?"
"Because the only hands it's going to are mine."
Hartwell held his stare for a moment, then sighed and sat back.
"I suppose that's the best I can hope for." He picked up a tablet from his desk. "I'll need your signature on the completion contract. Once you transfer the remaining funds, we're done. As per our agreement, all research documentation will be deleted, and I'll sign an NDA agreeing never to discuss this project with anyone."
"Perfect."
Marcus pulled out his phone and initiated the transfer. Two hundred and fifty million dollars, minus the fifty million deposit he'd already paid. He watched Hartwell's face as the man refreshed his bank account and saw the incoming wire transfer.
The chemist's eyes went wide. His hands started shaking slightly.
"It's really real," Hartwell whispered.
"Congratulations," Marcus said dryly. "Try not to spend it all at once."
Hartwell let out a slightly hysterical laugh. "My kids' college funds are paid for. My lab is saved. I can afford to replace the HPLC machine that's been making that grinding noise for six months. I can..."
He trailed off, staring at the number on his screen like he was afraid it might disappear.
Marcus understood. He'd felt the same way when his own balance had first hit nine figures. That surreal moment when you realized you never had to worry about money again.
"You earned it," Marcus said. "You're a good chemist, Dr. Hartwell. Better than you give yourself credit for."
"I..." Hartwell blinked rapidly. "Thank you. And for what it's worth... you're a genius. I mean that literally. I don't know what your background is, where you learned what you know, but..." He shook his head. "I've worked with PhD students from MIT, industry professionals, corporate researchers. None of them hold a candle to you."
Marcus picked up the briefcase. "High praise."
"I'm serious." Hartwell stood, extending his hand. "Whatever you do with that drug, Mr. Reid... I hope it's something good."
Marcus shook his hand. "So do I."
Marcus walked out of Hartwell Chemical Solutions, briefcase in hand containing two hundred doses of improved NZT.
Behind him, through the lab's glass door, Dr. Hartwell watched him go. The chemist stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty parking lot even after Marcus's car had disappeared.
They'd never see each other again. Hartwell knew that with certainty.
And as he stood there, the tablet still showing that impossible bank balance, Dr. David Hartwell couldn't stop wondering: Why?
Why had this young man been in such a desperate hurry to create this drug?
What could possibly require someone to spend three hundred million dollars and six months of intensive research on a cognitive enhancer with dangerous side effects?
What was Marcus Reid really planning to do?
The questions lingered in Hartwell's mind, unanswered and unsettling, as he slowly walked back into his lab.
Plz throw powerstones.