Chapter 51
Peter sat slouched in his desk chair, his black hoodie clinging to his back with sweat. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting stark white over the mess of printed tissue samples, broken cartridges, and data sheets scattered across the table. The lair smelled of chemicals and burnt ozone—a scent he had grown used to over the past three days of relentless work.
His eyes were bloodshot, but sharp. A line of code blinked on his screen, a green box reading: "Splice Viable – Delivery Protocol Confirmed."
He pushed himself up, the chair scraping against the concrete. "Finally," he whispered, voice hoarse.
The process had been brutal. Every attempt to merge the agility-enhancing gene sequence from Earth-1610 with his own had failed—either the proteins denatured during printing, or the cells rejected the tissue outright. But now, after tweaking the vector composition and stabilizing the splicing enzymes using a CRISPR-Cas9 variant, he had something that worked. A gene cocktail tailored to his body.
He crossed to the bioprinter. The cartridge inside contained the final batch—tissue laced with both the speed genes from Earth-1610 and the regeneration markers from Earth-928. It looked like a pink spiral of muscle, delicate and moist under the glass. Synthetic, but alive in its own way.
Peter took a deep breath and pulled open the adjacent cabinet. Inside sat the injector—a bulky, medical-grade auto-syringe he had scavenged from Vera's black market supplies. It wasn't designed for gene therapy, but he'd reprogrammed it to deliver the payload subdermally and allow gradual cell absorption. It beeped as he slotted in the vial, blinking blue.
He rolled up his sleeve. His hand trembled slightly. "Okay, Pete. You've been slammed through windows, thrown into walls, electrocuted twice. You've got this."
He pressed the injector against his arm and pulled the trigger.
A loud hiss, then a punch of cold fire as the serum blasted under his skin. He gasped and nearly dropped the device. A second later, his veins lit up with pain, his arm spasming uncontrollably as if his muscles were rewriting themselves in real time.
Peter staggered backward, gripping the table for support. A wave of nausea hit, followed by heat rolling off his body like a furnace. He stumbled toward the medical rig—a rough metal recliner rigged with IV lines, monitors, and a repurposed EEG helmet—and collapsed into it.
The lair lights dimmed as the system kicked in. Electrodes on his skin began to blink. His heartbeat spiked, then steadied. He groaned as his muscles convulsed once more.
The process took twenty minutes.
When the pain faded, Peter was soaked in sweat, his shirt clinging to his chest. But his breathing was even. His vision clear.
"System scan," he rasped.
The monitor beside him beeped and displayed a skeletal overlay of his body. Cellular integration was at 92%, with no signs of rejection. The new genes had grafted.
He sat up slowly, surprised at how light he felt. Every movement was fluid, effortless. He could feel the difference—not just in his body, but in how the world moved around him.
He walked to the back of the lair where he'd set up a training rig: a tall steel frame hung with wires, weights, targets, and motion sensors. He pulled off his soaked hoodie and tightened the straps on his wrist guards.
"Test time," he muttered.
He jumped. Not a crouch-and-spring kind of jump, but a blur—straight up ten feet to the top of the frame, landing silently like a cat. His eyes widened.
"Holy hell."
He dropped, flipping midair, landing in a perfect roll. The motion sensors blinked—reaction time had shaved down by 40%.
Next, he launched himself at a line of moving targets. His hands became a blur, each strike precise, effortless. He moved like he'd trained in this body for years.
After five minutes of testing, he stood still, panting lightly—not from exhaustion, but exhilaration.
He was faster. More agile. Stronger too, but in a smoother way. The rigidity of raw strength had been replaced with balance and finesse.
Then he picked up a combat knife and sliced it across his palm—not deeply, but enough to draw blood.
The cut welled red for a heartbeat… then began to close.
Within ten seconds, the skin had knitted shut, leaving only a faint pink mark.
Peter stared at his hand, silent. "Regeneration," he whispered. "Not instant, but fast enough."
It worked. All of it.
The gene splice had taken. The upgrades were real.
Peter walked back to the desk and stared at the vials still sitting there—samples from Earth-65, Earth-616B, Earth-50101. Possibilities. Each one a version of himself, each one with strengths to offer.