This was the last coherent thought that flashed through his head. One of the arms, moving instinctively to maintain balance, caught an equipment stand. Chain reaction. The crash of falling metal. And the goddamn experimental gamma reactor he'd so carelessly bumped wavered and fell to the floor... directly onto the sharp claw of another manipulator that subconsciously reacted to catch the reactor.
A sickening screech of pierced casing rang out. For a moment, silence reigned. And then the laboratory flooded with unbearable emerald radiance, and Otto Octavius's world exploded.
Francis Freeman hated delegating important tasks. Subordinates were tools, dull but obedient. However, sometimes seemingly simple work required personal presence. Required a scalpel, not a hammer. Like now.
He sat at the bar counter with the ironic name "Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Girls" and had been waiting for half an hour already. The air was thick, saturated with the smell of cheap beer, sweat, and notes of despair. Francis surveyed the shabby premises with disgust. He was foreign here, an expensive suit in a pile of dirty laundry. But his goal was worth temporarily immersing himself in this filth.
Wade Wilson. Former special forces operative, though there's no such thing as "former" in their business. Iraq, Afghanistan. Sniper, sabotage master, and hand-to-hand combat expert. After the military, one of the best mercenaries on the market, with a track record that would make civilians' hair stand on end. Incredibly valuable personnel. The perfect candidate for the Program.
Francis's thoughts smoothly flowed to his brainchild. "Weapon X." A secret project started back in Canada in the distant '80s. Creating super-soldiers with regeneration. Thirty years later, echoes of this program still stirred the minds of the world's powerful. Alas, truly successful specimens were few and far between, and he, Francis, was one of them. So they decided to revise the approach. Come at it from another, more perverted angle. Cancer cells.
Francis wasn't a scientist. He didn't care where the biomass for regeneration would come from. The eggheads assured him it would work. That was enough. All that remained was finding the ideal test subject. After a string of failed specimens turned into whimpering lumps of flesh, selection criteria became extremely strict.
First, presence of cancer at a late, incurable stage. Second, unbreakable will. The "conversion" process was hell, and only a hardened subject could endure it. And third, most important, internal consent. Not words. The candidate had to desperately, viscerally want to live. A spark had to burn in them, and the survival mechanism had to work at its limit.
The bar door creaked. Wade entered. He swayed but held himself confidently, like someone for whom this state was normal.
"Mr. Wilson?" Francis's voice sounded even and cold.
Wade ignored him, plopping onto the neighboring stool.
"Jackie, old man, who's this blonde in your daddy's suit loitering here?" Wade loudly inquired of the bartender, casually nodding toward Francis. The bartender, an elderly man with a scar across his entire cheek, just shrugged, pouring whiskey.
"Hell if I know. Seems like he was waiting for you. Probably wants to offer you work."
"Tell him I don't take jobs from unvetted blondes. Especially without a middleman," Wade downed the glass in one gulp and banged it on the counter. "Repeat."
"He's not..." Jack began, addressing Francis.
Francis interrupted him without even turning his head. His voice cut through ears like glass.
"I heard everything. Wade Wilson. Hopelessly cancer-ridden bastard with metastases in liver, lungs, and judging by your humor, brain. Tell me, do you want to live? Or are you ready to croak in a month, leaving behind only a farted-out spot in this bar and debts?"
He knew how to talk to people like Wade. He himself was one of them, albeit in the past... The silence hanging at the counter was more eloquent than any words. Wade slowly turned his head. The fish had bitten.
"Jackie, am I hearing things?" Wade cartoonishly cleaned his ear with a finger, but his gaze became sharp and attentive. "It's Tuesday, not Thursday. There should be fewer crazies on the horizon."
"Well, some crazies flew into space today," Jack noted philosophically, wiping a glass. "Others are offering cures for the incurable. Perfectly in the spirit of Tuesday. Thursday just has a higher degree of absurdity."
Wade smirked, but his gaze didn't leave Francis. All the jocularity flew off him, leaving only a hard, assessing mask.
"And what's next?" he finally addressed Francis directly. "Let's say... I want to live."
"As Gagarin said, POEHALI!" Reed Richards's voice, full of boyish excitement and brilliant confidence, rang out across the entire world.
And the ship took off.
First, deafening roar, which to the crowd was just noise, but to Marcus Milton, a symphony. He heard not thunder, but the heart's mighty rhythm of the engine. He saw not flame, but controlled fury of a miniature sun, tearing the bonds of Earth's gravity. The metal shuttle, aimed at infinity, carried five brave fools to conquer space. Space that, contrary to their boldest dreams, wasn't empty. It was inhabited, it was alive, and it was merciless.
A figure separated from the crowd of enthusiastic journalists. A pumped, sinewy blonde in glasses and an inexpensive suit. The badge read: "Marcus Milton, journalist NYC News." A mask. The perfect mask he'd worn for two decades already. To any outside observer, Marcus's concentrated face would've seemed like ordinary professionalism. Same as hundreds of other people who'd raised their heads to the sky. Humanity was entering a new era. Everyone was inspired. And only he alone knew the terrible truth.
There are far more threats in space than on Earth.
The ship soaring upward momentarily blocked the sun, and the shadow covering Marcus awakened a memory. A memory of another sky, crimson, torn apart by the silent scream of a dying planet. Eterna. His home world. Destroyed by one such threat. Galactus. A name that still echoed icily in his soul. An entity of incredible power whose hunger was absolute. His race, technologically ahead of humanity by millennia, couldn't withstand him. They burned trying to protect their world.
His parents, the last of the last, invested their own life energies into an experimental portal. He still remembered the warmth of their hands on his shoulders, the desperate love in their eyes, and the last word that sounded not as voice but thought: "Live." And the seven-year-old boy was thrown into this world, to Earth. Here he was found and adopted by a pleasant farming family from Kansas. Here he lived as an ordinary human, which he never was and could never be.
He was an Eternal. The last son of Eterna. Under this yellow sun's light, his cells sang with power. He was thousands of times stronger, hundreds of times faster than any human. He could fly. His skin was practically invulnerable. His vision pierced walls, his hearing caught whispers miles away. People here called such beings simply and succinctly, "meta." And their fate, as he'd noticed, was unenviable.
Noble individuals trying to become heroes quickly and mysteriously disappeared. Those who succumbed to power's temptation became villains and burned even faster. Being different in this world was a curse. And until today, Marcus hadn't stuck his neck out. But he admired. Admired Spider-Woman's courage, soaring over night streets. He read with interest stories about old British and Soviet superheroes. Heroism was in his blood, the legacy of a protector race. And now... it was time.
This launch wasn't just a scientific breakthrough. It was the starting pistol's shot. Humanity taking its first, childishly naive step into the space age. And very soon it would learn it wasn't alone. They'd be lucky if the first they met were Kree or Korbinites. But most likely, the world awaited a series of catastrophes spawned by this step.
And this world, more than ever before, would need a symbol.
A symbol that even facing cosmic horror, there is hope. A symbol that facing chaos, unity is possible. A symbol of indestructible Strength that would stand in their defense.
Marcus Milton lowered his gaze. The notepad fell from his weakened fingers to the ground, forgotten and unnecessary. The mask no longer mattered. His gaze, no longer a journalist's but a guardian's, was fixed on the sky, where the ship's fiery point had disappeared.
It was time. Time for Hyperion to emerge from the shadows.
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