Arc 7 - Ch 11: On The Surface

Chapter 94

Arc 7 - Ch 11: On The Surface

Date: Tuesday, August 30, 2011.

Location: House of M, Manhattan, New York

As Tyson entered House of M, Maria Hill was already waiting for him. He had lost all track of time. It had to be after midnight. This felt like the longest day of his life, and the grim expression on Hill's face told him that it wasn't over. "I know you said you needed time. Seems you've been busy," she began, her voice clipped and professional, "and it looks like you have your hands full, but we have a situation."

"What happened?"

"The RAFT was hit while you were gone. Osborn and Kraven escaped."

Tyson let his head fall back, and a long groan escaped his lips. "How?"

In response, Hill pulled out a tablet and opened security footage. Tyson leaned in to watch the scene on the small screen.

"The imposter," he muttered, recognizing the figure dropping from the ventilation. "And Rhino and Scorpion? Where the hell did these guys come from?"

As the words left his mouth, his memory shifted to his internship at Oscorp and meeting Mac Gargan that first day. Aleksei Sytsevich had been his boss; he still remembered the man's gruff voice as he focused on his magazines during Tyson's night shifts. It'd been months since he went to his internship at Oscorp, and now that he'd been outed, he'd likely never be welcome inside again.

Shaking off the thoughts, Tyson focused on the matter at hand. He couldn't reveal his metaknowledge without raising suspicions with SHIELD's deputy director. Instead, he asked, "So they broke Osborn out. Did we look into Oscorp?"

Hill's response was immediate. "Squeaky clean. We canvassed the security camera footage from that entire neighborhood. They didn't originate from Manhattan at all. We tracked their approach from Brooklyn."

"Brooklyn?" Tyson muttered, confused.

He mentally ticked off the players:

Green Goblin,

Rhino,

Scorpion,

Kraven,

and Kaine the Imposter.

He muttered, "Five."

Hill's eyes narrowed, catching his thoughtful expression. "Does the number make a difference?"

Tyson nodded slowly, a sinking feeling in his gut. "I have a feeling there's going to be one more."

With a grim expression, he mumbled, "I need to warn Spider-Man."

Hill's eyebrow arched. "Spider-Man? Care to fill me in on what's going on in that head of yours, Smith?"

"Six. I have a feeling there are going to be six of these guys. A team of Spider-Man's enemies, brought together to take him down."

"And you think Osborn is putting this team together?" Hill asked skepticly.

"Maybe," Tyson admitted.

Hill studied him for a long moment before nodding. "Alright. I'll trust your judgment on this. But don't think this conversation is over. The higher-ups are breathing down our necks about your activities, and I can only run interference for so long."

"I know, Deputy Director. And I promise I'll give you a full debrief. I need a few more hours to get this situation under control, and then I'm all yours. But I can give you some quick intel right now." He pointed out the Rhino and Scorpion in turn. "Aleksei Sytsevich and Mac Gargan. I remember them from my internship at Oscorp."

She replied, "Good enough for us to get started."

As Hill turned to leave, Tyson called out, "Oh, Deputy Director, send someone to check on Dr. Otto Octavius. He was injured during the Stark Expo, and I have a feeling something is off about him." She waved in acknowledgment as she continued, leaving Tyson with his thoughts and the looming crisis.

Inside the Flatiron Armory's arena, Morlocks huddled in groups with their fear and uncertainty plain on their faces. Many of them hadn't been on the surface in a long time. As he made his way through the crowded arena, Tyson wondered who the sixth member of this Sinister Six would be. Octavius seemed the most likely candidate, but he'd been in a coma since the Stark Expo. Tyson needed to warn Peter, coordinate with his team, and somehow manage this mess. All while a team of supervillains was on the loose in his city.

He pulled out his phone and dialed Peter's number. It rang in his ear once, twice, three times before Peter's groggy voice finally answered on the fourth.

"Tyson?" he mumbled with the rough voice of someone who'd been roused from sleep. "Oh man, it's so late. I'm sorry I forgot to call you after we saved Gwen. I walked her home, and we talked for a while, and it just slipped my mind."

"Pete, it's fine. Jes… Spider-Woman told me what happened. Listen, we've got a big problem. I need you to wake up Aunt May and come to House of M."

There was a pause on the other end of the line, followed by the rustle of bedsheets as Peter presumably sat up. "What? Why?"

"Osborn escaped from prison. Remember, he went after May last time. She'll be safe here."

"Damn it," Peter cursed, fully awake now. "How do I explain this without revealing myself to her?"

"Look, I got outed as Mirage earlier. Just tell her that I need her help. She's done work with shelters before, right? Well, House of M became a shelter tonight. I found a bunch of mutants in the sewers; they're in bad shape, and I've got them all here. I need to arrange food and stuff." He paused. "Tell her there are people in need, and I'll pay her to coordinate things here. And it's the truth. I do need help. This place is like a refugee center." As Peter mulled over his words, his mind jumped to another potential target. "Where's Gwen?"

Peter's voice was tight when he answered. "She's home... You don't think they'd go after her again so soon, do you?"

"Why not?" Tyson replied grimly. "Get May here. Osborn didn't go after Gwen last time. But the Imposter did, and he was the one that broke Osborne out of prison. I'll call her and try to get her and her family here too."

Peter cursed again, the sound of drawers opening in the background indicating he was already moving. "Alright, I'll get May. But Tyson, what exactly do you think we're dealing with here?"

"It's big, Pete," he admitted. "Osborn, your imposter, Kaine, and two guys in what looked like organic animal-themed super-suits, one a Rhino, and one a Scorpion, plus Kraven the Hunter."

Peter's sharp breath was audible even over the phone. "All of them? Together? That is bad. Really bad."

"That's why we need to get everyone we care about to safety. Osborne knows who you are, and now everyone knows who I am. Once everyone's safe, then we can focus on taking these guys down."

"Okay. I'll get May, and be there as soon as I can."

"See you soon, Pete," Tyson replied before ending the call.

— Rogue Redemption —

Peter arrived with May in tow. Tyson stood at the entrance to the arena, watching their approach. He was unsure how May would react now that she knew his secret identity. To his surprise, May waved Peter into the arena and approached Tyson with open arms.

Peter paused at the door, his hand hovering over the door handle. Before his eyes, the bold letters spelling out "Arena Entrance" rippled like water, and new words formed in their place.

"Get Gwen."

He glanced back at Tyson. The taller man tipped his head slightly, wordlessly indicating for Peter to slip away. After a brief moment of hesitation, Peter gave a slight nod. With one last furtive look around, he eased the door open and slid inside, keeping to the shadows along the walls. Soon, he reached a side exit before stepping into the alleyway. The door closed noiselessly behind him, leaving no trace of his departure.

"You poor dear," May said softly, enveloping Tyson in a hug, mindful of his skin. "You've been through so much today. Thank you for helping these people and for stopping Norman all those months ago."

Tyson returned the embrace gently. "Of course, Aunt May. It's what we do."

May pulled back, her eyes twinkling with a knowing light. "You keep doing what you're doing. I'll take care of this." She leaned in, whispering, "Thank you for keeping Peter safe."

Tyson's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Did she know?

May chuckled, "I'm old, dear, not blind."

A genuine smile spread across Tyson's face. "Thanks for helping, May. I'll catch up when I can. Spend whatever you need to help these people."

As May bustled off to the arena, Tyson felt a hand on his arm. He turned to find Jessica with Felicia, who looked concerned.

"You need to rest," she said.

Tyson shook his head. "I can go weeks without sleep. You rest. I need to stop the Imposter and Osborn."

"How?!" Felicia's voice rose. "Do you know where they are?"

"I... No. But I can't just sit here and do nothing."

Felicia stepped closer. "Tyson, you've been through too much today. You need to stop and recover." For the first time, Tyson noticed the slight tremor in her hands. Her usual mask of cool indifference was slipping, revealing a vulnerability he rarely saw.

"I'm worried for Gwen," he admitted. "I need to stop them before they hurt someone we're close to."

Felicia slipped into Tyson's arms as she spun to face away from him. Guiding his hands, she wrapped one muscular arm just below her collarbone, the other at her slender waist. "Gwen is strong, right? As strong as Jessica or Spider-Man?" She asked leadingly.

"But she's not a fighter. All the more reason to stop them now before they can get to her," Tyson insisted.

At those words, Felicia's demeanor finally shattered. She pressed closer, her body fitting against his sculpted frame. "Please, Tyson, don't go," she implored.

With her back turned to him, Tyson couldn't see Felicia's face. She shot Jessica a desperate look, saying, 'Help me convince him.'

"I'll get Gwen," Jessica interrupted. "I'll make sure she's safe. Promise." She said as she took off.

Tyson looked down at Felicia's white hair, still encircled in his embrace. There was an unfamiliar fragility to her. He'd never seen Felicia like this, her usual strength giving way to a raw, emotional vulnerability. She trembled almost imperceptibly as she awaited his response. Feeling her like this, the weight of everything that had happened began to press down on him.

The battles, the death, the constant strain of holding it together.

"I'm afraid of what's going to happen when I stop," Tyson confessed.

"That's why you have all of us. I need you right now. And I think you need me, too. You don't need to stop moving, but I need you to stay, please."

"Okay," he whispered, allowing himself to lean on her. "I'll stay."

— Rogue Redemption —

The soft glow of a streetlamp filtered through the curtains of Gwen Stacy's bedroom. She lay motionless on her bed, deep in sleep.

A sudden vibration broke her from her rest.

She answered on the fourth ring, as the screen displayed it was Tyson calling. Before she could ask if he was okay, his words came through urgently.

"Gwen, listen," his voice crackled through the speaker, "Norman Osborn's been broken out of prison. It was the imposter, but he wasn't working alone. We think they're coming after Peter... and maybe you too."

Gwen sat up straighter. "What? How? When did this happen?"

"Just a few hours ago," Tyson replied. "Look, I need you to get yourself and your family to House of M. It's the safest place right now. Peter's already on his way."

Gwen's eyes darted to her bedroom door, thoughts of her mother and brothers flooded her mind. "Tyson, I appreciate the offer, but... I think we need to get out of town altogether."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Gwen, we can protect you here."

"I know," Gwen said softly, "Fine. You're right. We'll come, for now… But if Norman's free, he's got a vendetta against both Peter and you. The further away we are, the safer we'll be."

The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken tension. Finally, Tyson sighed. "Alright. House of M is close and secure, we'll worry about getting you out of town later."

"Alright, we're on our way," Gwen promised. "Thanks for the warning. We'll see you soon."

As she hung up the phone, her mind was already racing with plans. She needed to wake her family, pack essentials, and get on the road as quickly as possible. She pushed her initial fear aside. There would be time for that later.

For now, she had a family to protect.

Outside Gwen's window, hidden in the shadows, a figure crouched on a fire escape. Kaine's eyes, wild and filled with a manic gleam, were fixed on Gwen's silhouette. His fists clenched and unclenched rhythmically. His hatred for Tyson burned white-hot, consuming every rational thought. Tyson was the source of all his pain, all his failures. The man who had everything Kaine desired; respect, power, the love of those around him.

"You think you can protect her, Tyson?" Kaine snarled under his breath. "You can't even protect yourself from what's coming."

Gwen moved about her room, gathering things in haste. As she turned her back to the window, her mind raced with plans for their hasty departure.

In that moment of vulnerability, Kaine saw his opportunity.

His muscles tensed as he prepared to launch himself through Gwen's window. But movement from his periphery caught his attention. Someone was swinging through the sky, heading in their direction. Quickly, Kaine crawled around to the far side of the building and swung out of view.

He watched the figure reach Gwen's building from a few blocks away. It didn't enter, but it stood watch. Several minutes later, another figure swung into the area. Kaine scowled. Jessica had come to watch over Gwen, and Peter had arrived a few minutes later. Rage boiled within Kaine as he realized they were working with Tyson to keep Gwen away from him. His mind raced wildly, trying to figure out how he was going to get to Gwen. Soon, she'd be at House of M with Tyson, out of his reach.

Kaine fumed, his fists clenching so tightly that his nails dug into his palms. He wouldn't be able to solve this problem on his own. There were too many of them poised to fight him. But Kaine had allies now, though he wondered if they'd be enough. They'd have to be smart, divide and conquer. He couldn't fight Jessica and Peter at once, let alone Tyson. But with Harry's forces at his back, they might be able to pick them off one by one.

Kaine's eyes narrowed as he began to formulate a plan. He'd need to draw them away from Gwen, separate them from each other. But that was only the first step. Kaine's ultimate goal was to strike at Tyson, to make him feel the pain and loss that Kaine himself had experienced. Tonight was just the start. House of M, Tyson's fortress, would need to fall. As his plan began to take shape, a manic grin spread across his face. He imagined Tyson's look of horror when he breached his sanctuary. When he understood that nowhere was truly safe from Kaine's vengeance.

But Kaine knew he couldn't rush this.

Patience had never been his strong suit, but he forced himself to remain still, to continue observing. He watched as Peter swung in a wide arc around the building. Jessica remained more stationary, her eyes constantly scanning the surroundings. They were both alert, ready for any threat.

Kaine's mind drifted to the others in Harry's group. Kraven's hunting skills could be invaluable in tracking their targets, and in finding the perfect moment to strike. The raw power of Rhino and Scorpion could provide the brute force needed to overwhelm their opponents. And Norman... Kaine's thoughts lingered on the elder Osborn. His tactical mind and ruthless nature could be the key to refining this plan into something devastating. Assuming he could contain his madness. Norman's hatred for Spider-Man and Tyson rivaled Kaine's own.

At worst, he could use them all as a distraction and slip away, taking Gwen for himself.

As the night wore on, Kaine remained hidden. He could see the shadows of figures moving inside and imagined Gwen hurriedly packing, preparing to flee the city. The urge to act immediately, to burst through the window and take her, was almost overwhelming. But Kaine forced himself to remain still. He had to be smart about this. Rushing in now would only result in failure, in being beaten back by Peter and Jessica. No, he needed to wait, to plan, to strike when the moment was perfect.

Kaine's eyes drifted back to the window of Gwen's room. Soon, she would leave, and this window of opportunity would close.

He'd just needed to create another one.

— Rogue Redemption —

Mystique's eyes fluttered open. Her head throbbed. As her vision cleared, she saw a figure sitting across from her, the familiar silhouette of Magneto's helmet bringing a momentary wave of relief.

But as the man rose and stepped into the light, Mystique's breath caught in her throat. At first, she thought it was Erik, but it wasn't him under the helmet.

It was Tyson Smith.

"You." She accused, trying to mask her rapidly rising fear. "What happened to Magneto?"

"I killed him. Absorbed him. Magneto is me now."

She had seen Tyson's power firsthand and had felt his draining touch last year on the train. If he had truly absorbed Magneto...

"He killed my girlfriend. The girl I loved." Mystique remained silent, her yellow eyes never leaving Tyson's face. But the sensation of dread she felt was growing. "What should I do with you now, Mystique?" he asked in a deceptively casual tone.

Mystique's heart raced as she stared at Tyson, his presence overwhelming her senses. The memory of their encounter on the train flooded back, unbidden and unwelcome.

"You belong to me."

The words echoed in her mind, a haunting refrain she'd tried desperately to forget. She'd pushed them aside for months, burying them beneath layers of denial and distraction. Even when she'd infiltrated House of M, she'd managed to suppress the memory. But now, faced with Tyson's piercing gaze, the carefully constructed walls crumbled. She tried to convince herself it had been Azazel who'd uttered those words. After all, it had been his mouth they'd come from, his form Tyson had worn. But deep down, Mystique knew the truth. It was Tyson who'd spoken them, Tyson whose touch had seared her very soul.

Her breath caught in her throat as she remembered the intensity of that moment. The way his fingers had wrapped around her neck... The raw power that had radiated from him. Mystique shifted uncomfortably, her yellow eyes never leaving Tyson's face, the man who'd marked her indelibly.

Shaking her head, she tried to clear her thoughts.

This was madness. She belonged to no one, least of all, this man who'd killed her friend. But even as she told herself this, she knew it wasn't entirely true. Tyson had marked her that day as surely as if he'd branded her skin. She couldn't ignore the pull she felt towards him.

"What do you want from me?" she asked.

"Will you help me continue my work?" Tyson's question caught her off guard.

It wasn't what she expected.

Tyson seemed to take her silence as encouragement to continue. "Magneto was never the leader mutants needed," he said, his voice gaining conviction. "I could be that leader, but I need loyal followers." With deliberate slowness, Tyson removed Magneto's helmet. Mystique's gaze was drawn to a streak of white in his hair, a stark reminder of the man he had absorbed. For a moment, she saw the echo of Magneto in his stance, in the set of his jaw.

"Come with me," Tyson ordered. "I want to show you something."

Against her better judgment, Mystique found herself following him. They made their way through the corridors, finally emerging onto an upper level overlooking the arena. Mystique recognized the figures below. Morlocks, dozens of them, milling about in what appeared to be a makeshift shelter.

"You were there when the Brotherhood found them in the tunnels but did nothing to help them."

Magneto had seen them as weak and as a liability, and he had recruited only those from them who he thought were strong enough to help the cause. But seeing them here, under Tyson's protection...

"Are you truly a mutant supremacist?" Tyson challenged, "Or were you always looking for a place where you could just be yourself? And not have to hide who you are?" Mystique's lips curled into a sneer, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. He gestured to the Morlocks below, his movement drawing Mystique's gaze back to the arena. "They hid in the sewers below the city because they couldn't blend in with the world," he continued. "They were persecuted, discriminated against, and banded together to hide from society."

Mystique watched as a young Morlock with iridescent scales helped an elderly mutant with gnarled, tree-like limbs. The simple act of kindness struck a chord deep within her.

"Look at them now," Tyson pressed. "Yes, they're still isolated, but I've only had a few hours."

"If there's anyone who I thought would sympathize or want to help them... It'd be you. If anyone knows the struggle you face, it's them."

Mystique's fists clenched at her sides, conflicting emotions warring within her. The part of her that had been loyal to Magneto, that had embraced his vision of mutant superiority, rebelled against Tyson's words. But another part, a part she had long suppressed, resonated with the truth of what he was saying.

"You know nothing of my struggles," she hissed, but the words lacked venom.

Tyson took a step closer, and Mystique felt that familiar pull, the echo of their first encounter. "Don't I?" he asked softly. "I've been inside your head, Mystique. I've felt your longing for acceptance, for a place to belong."

"I'm trying to provide a better life for them," Tyson continued. "This is what leaders are supposed to do. They raise their people up. Bring them together, and try to provide a better life for all. Not just those with power."

Mystique turned to look at him, really look at him. The anger she felt towards him burned in her chest, but it was tempered by a grudging respect. And beneath it all, there was still that spark of connection, a pull she couldn't resist.

"Why are you showing me this?" Mystique asked, her voice carefully neutral.

Tyson's eyes met hers, and for a moment, Mystique felt as if he could see right through her carefully constructed defenses. "Because I want you to understand what I'm trying to build here," he said. "A true haven for mutants. Not just the strong or the useful, but for all of us."

She weighed her options. Tyson had killed Magneto, so by all rights, she should hate him and begin plotting her revenge. But something in his vision, in the way he spoke of raising up their people, resonated with a part of her she had long buried.

"And where do I fit into this grand vision of yours?" she asked, unable to keep the sarcasm from her voice.

"As always, you fit in everywhere, Mystique. Adaptable. Cunning. Those are qualities I need if we're going to make this work." Tyson's expression softened slightly. " This is a chance to make a difference. To help build a world where mutants like them," he nodded towards the Morlocks, "and like you, don't have to hide."

He stepped closer again, and Mystique fought the urge to step back. "I remember our fight on the train," he said softly.

She remembered, too. But forced herself not to think about it, to keep talking. "And what about Magneto?" she asked, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice. "You killed him. How can I trust you won't do the same to me or to them if we disagree with your vision?"

"If I wanted you dead, you would've never woken up."

"Magneto's death was... necessary. He would have watched the world burn if it meant mutants could rule over the ashes." He gestured once more to the Morlocks below. "This is about building something, not destroying. It's about giving our people a real future, not just survival."

"I'm offering you a choice, Mystique. A real choice. Not servitude, not blind loyalty, but a chance to be part of something greater. To help shape the future of mutantkind." He gestured to the Morlocks below. "This is just the beginning. With your help, we could do so much more."

Mystique found herself torn. The part of her that had been loyal to Magneto recoiled at the idea of working with his killer. But another part, a part that had always questioned, always adapted, was intrigued by Tyson's offer.

"And if I refuse?" she asked, testing the waters.

Tyson's gaze hardened slightly. "Then you're free to go. But know that I'm done looking over my shoulder. Magneto's machine will only work with me. The man is dead. There's no sense in pursuing his goal anymore. Either the Brotherhood falls in line behind me, disbands, or dies with Magneto.

The threat was clear, but so was the implicit offer of freedom.

Mystique turned back to the arena, watching the Morlocks below. They looked... content. Safe.

"That's it?"

"Magneto held the Brotherhood together against me. Without him, are they a threat?"

She thought of Wanda and Pietro, the Maximoff twins, powerful but directionless without guidance. The Juggernaut was a force of nature but lacking in strategy. Madrox was clever but not a natural leader. And the others would be scattered and potentially disillusioned by Magneto's defeat.

"You're counting on them falling apart," Mystique realized.

"I have too much going on to waste time searching for them, especially if they're scattered."

She found herself nodding along, seeing the logic in his strategy. "I'm free to go?"

"You're not a prisoner, Mystique. But I hope you'll choose to stay."

"I need time," she said finally. "To think. To... process all of this."

"Take the time you need. But know that you don't have to be alone anymore. None of us do."

As he turned to leave, Mystique found herself speaking before she could stop herself. "Why? After everything that's happened, why trust me at all?"

Tyson paused, looking back at her. "Because I've seen inside your mind. I've felt your passion, your drive. And I believe that deep down, you want the same thing I do."

He wasn't wrong. All these years fighting for Magneto's vision of mutant supremacy, and yet a part of her had never stopped questioning. Never stopped imagining a different path where their kind could simply... exist. Without fear, without bloodshed.

"We just disagreed on how to get there. And Magneto trusts you, and since he's part of me, now, I kind of do too."

With that, he had stepped off the ledge, hovering down to the arena floor on currents of magnetism so reminiscent of Erik. Demonstrating his power... Magneto's power. And leaving Mystique alone with her thoughts.

She watched the people below. Here, Tyson had given them a haven. A glimpse of the world he spoke of. Mystique yearned for it, she realized. For community. For freedom from endless war with humanity. But could she turn her back on everything she had believed in for so long? Abandon Magneto's dream?

The antagonism she felt towards Tyson for killing Magneto wouldn't easily be extinguished. But alongside it, growing stronger with each passing moment, was a spark of possibility. And beneath it all, that inexplicable connection they had shared during their first encounter continued to pull at her.

Doubt warred within her. But observing the joy below, for the first time in forever, Raven dared to hope. She found herself wondering what Magneto would have thought of all this. Would he have seen it as weakness, as a capitulation to human ideals, as he had with Charles? Or would he have recognized the potential in Tyson's vision?

In the end, Mystique knew the choice was between clinging to the past and the memory of Magneto or adapting, once again, and embracing a new future.

— Rogue Redemption —

Dr. Miles Warren entered his lab. The acrid smell of chemicals and the hum of machinery greeted him, but were little comfort in the face of a spiraling situation. He'd witnessed Harry Osborn's latest triumph, but the spectacle had left a bitter taste in his mouth. Warren's hands trembled as he hung up his lab coat. The image of those monstrous creations, born from his research, haunted him. Scorpion and Rhino, they called them. Abominations crafted without his consultation, his life's work twisted and perverted by Smythe's inferior mind.

"Usurpers," he muttered. "Thieves and charlatans."

He moved to his workstation and pulled up his latest projects. The screen flickered to life. There, in lines of code and strings of DNA, lay the blueprints for his magnum opus.

The perfect clone.

"I'm not blind," Warren hissed, his reflection in the monitor staring back at him with sunken eyes. "I can see what's coming."

The writing was on the wall, clear as day.

Harry didn't need him anymore.

With Kaine at his disposal and Warren's perfect clone nearing completion, the doctor's usefulness was rapidly approaching its expiration date. His hands clenched into fists.

Fired?

He almost laughed at the notion. No, disposal was more likely. With the secrets he held, the knowledge locked away in his brilliant mind, a simple termination wouldn't suffice.

He would be Terminated with a capital 'T'. Miles could already imagine Kaine's twisted grin as Harry set the unstable clone upon his creator.

"Not if I have anything to say about it," Warren growled, spinning in his chair to face the lab's extensive chemical storage. He needed protection, a failsafe. Something to ensure his survival in the face of betrayal. Warren's eyes narrowed as he considered his options. While they had access to his work, he, too, had glimpsed their research. The animal hybrids they'd created sparked an idea in his mind.

Warren pulled up the database of animals available on-site, scrolling through the list with growing frustration.

Lions? Too reliant on the pride.

Gorillas? Too brutish and social, he couldn't rely on anyone but himself.

Snakes? maybe... Then, his cursor hovered over an entry.

Jackals.

"Of course," he whispered.

Jackals were survivors, opportunists. They knew when to fight and when to flee. Warren felt an immediate kinship with the creatures, recognizing in them the traits he'd need to weather the coming storm. With renewed purpose, Warren set to work. He pulled up genetic sequences, cross-referencing them with his research. Fingers flew across the keyboard, inputting complex formulas and tweaking variables. Hours passed in a blur of calculations and simulations. Finally, as the first rays of dawn peeked through the lab's high windows, Warren sat back, exhausted but triumphant. A new sequence glowed green on the screen before him, ready for synthesis.

"I've discovered perfection for a second time," he murmured, reaching out to touch the screen reverently.

Warren wasted no time. He moved to the synthesis station and input the necessary commands. Machines whirred to life, mixing chemicals and splicing genes. A vial of luminescent green liquid slowly filled. When the process was completed, he carefully removed the vial from its cradle. Holding it up to the light, he said, "This is the key to my survival."

Warren knew the risks. Dr. Connors proved that animal hybrid serums were notoriously unstable, and their effects were unpredictable at best. But he had no choice: adapt, die, evolve, or be discarded.

Preparing a syringe, he filled it with the glowing green liquid, tapping out any air bubbles. Rolling up his sleeve, he found a vein and positioned the needle.

"To survival," he whispered and plunged the needle home.

The effect was immediate and intense. Fire raced through Warren's veins, setting every nerve-ending alight. He stumbled, knocking over a tray of instruments that clattered to the floor. His vision swam, and his body convulsed, muscles contracting and relaxing in rapid succession. He fell to his knees, gasping for air as his lungs seemed to reshape themselves. His skin itched and burned as if a thousand insects were crawling just beneath the surface.

Through the haze of pain, Warren caught his reflection in a steel cabinet. His jaw elongated slightly, and his teeth sharpened to points. Fur sprouted across his skin, a mottled pattern of browns and grays. The transformation seemed to last an eternity, but in reality, it was over in minutes. As the pain subsided, Warren slowly rose to his feet, marveling at his new form. He flexed his fingers, now tipped with sharp claws, and ran his tongue over his pointed teeth.

"Perfect," he growled, his voice deeper and rougher than before.

A laugh bubbled up from his chest, starting low but quickly rising to a manic pitch. He'd done it. He'd evolved, adapted. Let them try to dispose of him now.

Dr. Warren stared at his reflection. The man who gazed back at him was both familiar and alien, a grotesque fusion of human and jackal. His face had elongated into a canine-like muzzle, and his skin was now covered in a fine layer of coarse, mottled brown and gray fur. His ears had grown larger and more pointed, swiveling independently as they caught the faintest sounds of the lab's machinery. Warren's eyes had changed dramatically. Once a dull brown, now amber. The pupils had elongated into vertical slits, and as he blinked, a translucent third eyelid slid across each eye, adding to his inhuman appearance. The transformation extended beyond his face. His entire body had become leaner and more muscular with wiry strength. A tail, bushy and expressive, now protruded from the base of his spine, twitching and swaying with each shift of his mood. Warren flexed his new form, feeling faster, stronger, and more agile than ever. His senses had sharpened to an incredible degree; he could hear the faintest whisper of air through the ventilation system and smell the lingering traces of chemicals from experiments conducted days ago.

"Magnificent," he growled.

The Jackal, for that was what he now was, turned away from his reflection. He stalked across the laboratory. His claws clicked against the tile floor, a rhythmic sound that echoed in the otherwise silent room. He approached a heavy steel door, punching in a complex code with surprising dexterity despite his clawed hands.

The door hissed open, revealing a room smaller than the main laboratory. It was dominated by a massive cylindrical tank filled with a pale blue liquid that bubbled gently.

Suspended within the tank was a man, or rather, a perfect replica of one.

The clone floated serenely in the nutrient-rich fluid, its eyes closed as if in peaceful slumber. Its body was lean and muscular, every inch the pinnacle of human physical perfection. He wore nothing but a breathing apparatus that covered the lower half of his face, providing it with oxygen.

The Jackal's clawed hands reached out to touch the cool glass. This was his magnum opus, the culmination of his research and experimentation. A perfect clone of Spider-Man, genetically enhanced and primed for activation. He had succeeded in creating not just a copy but an improvement on the original.

"Soon," the Jackal murmured, his distorted reflection overlaying the image of the clone. "Soon, you'll awaken, and together, we'll show them all."

Something caught his eye as he gazed at the tank, lost in the vision of his future triumph. Another reflection superimposed over his own. The Jackal blinked, focusing on this new image.

It was a face, but not his own.

The skin was deathly pale, almost white, contrasting sharply with hair as black as midnight. But it was the forehead that drew his attention, where a brilliant red diamond seemed to glow with an inner light.

The Jackal was lost in the beauty of the gem momentarily before he remembered himself. He whirled around, claws leading, ready to face this intruder. But there was no one there. The room was empty save for him and the floating clone. Turning back to the tank, he searched for the mysterious reflection, but it was gone.

Before he could process what he had seen, a searing pain exploded in his head. The Jackal clutched at his temples, and a howl of agony tore from his throat.

The last thing the Jackal saw before consciousness fled was the serene face of his perfect clone, still floating peacefully in its tank. Then, darkness claimed him, and he knew no more.