"Whoever comes to us with a sword... is easier to shoot."
A dwarf gunner.
Walter Mayer.
****************
I stared grimly at the dying tissue in my left hand. Even Logan's healing factor wasn't helping. And how could it, when the problem wasn't an injury or poison, but incompatible genomes? Looks like this body had reached its limit. I couldn't cram anything else into it. Or maybe I'd simply been unlucky with the DNA combination? All right. Roll back the DNA changes and start sorting through the new sets one by one.
Since I finally had a little free time, I'd decided to find out what I'd picked up during our walk through the park. The fragments were just large enough to assimilate. There was no way to determine what exactly they did without first integrating them, so I'd accepted the genomes. Good thing I'd had enough sense to start with only one arm. Now I was trying to understand what exactly had gone wrong.
The park had given me only two new sets. Further experiments showed that using them simultaneously caused tissue degeneration. The two genomes simply killed each other and, as a bonus, the organism containing them. So I decided to proceed more carefully and examine my acquisitions in order.
Sample number one. Let's see. I concentrated and sent energy—and a request—into the altered arm. The limb became covered in spikes of ice. Hmm. Interesting. I could still feel the ice spikes as though they were extensions of my own body. I flicked my hand experimentally. The opposite wall acquired an attractive new decoration: icicles buried about half a meter into it. Impressive, considering the wall was brick. And there was no rejection. Hmm. What about energy? Oh. Now that was interesting. I actually had more energy than I'd possessed at the beginning of the experiment.
Which made sense. The fastest way to cool something is to remove energy from it. And if conservation of energy still applies, where is that energy supposed to go? Right now, it was churning inside me. Hmm. I could definitely use this ability. It could increase Symby's power several times over simply by improving my ability to absorb heat from the environment.
And it would make a fascinating weapon. Especially if I could refine it properly. A cone of near-space-level cold from my hand. What could be nicer? And with enough practice, I could probably shoot icicles as accurately as rifle rounds. Very tasty. I'd already been considering using Victor's lightning.
But to get any respectable output I'd have to replace at least half my cells with his metal-organic tissue. I didn't particularly want to do that. Insulating the rest of my organs would be a nightmare. And if I converted myself completely, I'd lose my 'Blood Magic.' Its foundation would change, and the ability would almost stop working on ordinary organics.
I could make a smaller alteration. Metallize only the claws, for example. They'd be easy enough to isolate. But what would that give me? A good built-in stun gun. Not enough power to punch through air resistance. And shocking someone on contact seemed rather pointless.
If a person was already impaled on blades capable of slicing steel like butter, electricity wouldn't change much. If only I could push more power through them... Unfortunately, Symby was a hell of a reactor, but it increased output gradually.
In other words, to launch a proper lightning bolt from the claws, I'd have to stand still for three or four seconds 'charging.' In combat, that was an unacceptable luxury. I'd tested it once. Wasted my time. But with this new 'freeze' ability drawing energy from the environment... And cold air conducts better than warm air...
About Five Hours Later. Right. I seemed to have accounted for everything possible. I'd restructured the whole organism and fully integrated 'freeze.' There was still a great deal of training ahead, but the ability itself was now available at full strength. The claws had been converted to von Doom's metal. Inside my forearms, they rested in bone sheaths. Oh, how much suffering it had taken to make all of that fit and remain invisible from the outside.
And that was only bone. No nerves. No muscles. Yeah. If the Creator exists, then He truly is Great. My brain had nearly tied itself in knots trying to design a single bone of the required shape without using any existing template. That Being designed and implemented billions of different organisms. Well. At least I knew what to aspire to. Phew. Calm down. Breathe.
Enter combat mode.
Task: master new weaponry.
Priority: medium.
Secondary objectives: none.
Restrictions: avoid attracting attention.
Proceed?
Confirmed.
The black-haired young man exhaled sharply. The temperature inside the hall dropped by roughly forty degrees almost instantly. Gleaming blades snapped from his fists. A discharge crawled over the surface of the weapons and, with a deafening crack of splitting air, a bolt of lightning slammed into the wall where the icicles still protruded.
The ice vanished instantly into steam. The bricks glowed with heat and cracked. But the young man did not stop there. He launched himself five meters into the air as though gravity had never heard of him. More icicles shot from his hands and drove themselves into random points across the floor.
Still airborne, the youth sent another bolt of lightning into one of the improvised lightning rods. The discharge struck exactly where intended and vaporized the icicle. After landing, the creature drove its claws into the floor. The temperature dropped several more degrees. Then the lamps went out. Every ice spike within fifteen meters exploded simultaneously.
I surveyed the hall. Or rather, what remained of it. Yeah. Serious. Very serious. New data flowed into my brain. Translated from Symbiote into human language, the picture looked roughly like this: one big fat lightning bolt cost me a temperature drop of about two degrees within a radius of five or six meters. Symby's energy capacity let me stockpile a respectable reserve in advance. So I could impersonate my much-respected Emperor Palpatine for quite a while.
Accuracy was interesting too. If I fired randomly, the result was mediocre. But if there was anything with noticeably higher conductivity in the general direction of the shot, the discharge would be drawn toward it. In other words, the human body conducted slightly better than air.
So there was a degree of automatic guidance. And if that person happened to be carrying a lot of metal... or had a few bleeding scratches... he would be very sad. Briefly.
The final trick was step voltage. Good thing I'd worked with electricity in my previous world and remembered a few things. In simple terms, if you have a powerful voltage source discharging into the ground, the ground picks up a substantial potential. The farther you move from the source, the lower that potential becomes. So a person walking nearby places one foot on a point with one potential and the other on a point with another. Where there is a potential difference, there is current. That is why, near a fallen high-voltage line, you move ONLY with tiny shuffling steps, keeping your feet close together.
And judging by the radius within which my 'lightning rods' had exploded, I was throwing something on the order of five hundred kilovolts. Which made sense. A natural lightning bolt can easily reach close to a thousand. All I needed now was a red lightsaber and the image would be complete. I already had the black robe.
The second ability was far less promising. I'd even call it defective. Or maybe I'd simply become spoiled. Fire control. The fire had to exist first. Thankfully, the requirement wasn't too strict. A spark between my claws was enough. Sure, I could imitate a flamethrower. Raise or lower flame temperature. But what kind of creature would have enough energy to produce something truly powerful? Let's put it this way: I managed to reach the level of 'cold,' or ionized plasma only by additionally ionizing it through the claws. That was difficult. A temperature of several thousand kelvin was unquestionably powerful. But after an attack like that I spent a while resembling a squeezed lemon.
As for 'hot' plasma at a couple million kelvin... First, I wasn't insane enough to test something like that in a densely populated city. If a thermonuclear reaction started, the boom would be big. No. BIG. Second, I simply didn't have enough energy. Even with Symby's output, I'd need roughly fifty times as many cells.
Then sure. Store power for a day or two and I could really let it rip. Not that I was convinced I needed a nuclear-explosion attack in the first place. Especially since I had no idea whether I'd survive it myself. The temperature wasn't quite what you'd find in the center of a star. But it was already far beyond 'very warm.' So at my current stage of development, direct fire control was almost useless. If I ever 'leveled up' far enough to make it practical, I suspected I'd already have more efficient—and definitely safer—ways to eliminate opponents. For now, the ability could remain buried deep in Symby's memory and keep its head down.
In an emergency, I could use it to frighten unpleasant people like Apocalypse... Actually, no. He might enjoy it.
The one area where this power unquestionably surpassed my beloved ice was maneuverability. You couldn't change the flight path of an icicle once launched. Fire, on the other hand, could be made to do all sorts of tricks. My Inner Hamster rebelled, screamed, and demanded everything in larger quantities. But until I found a way to combine the two abilities properly, I was choosing ice.
As for Rogue's power... Even separated from her body, her blood resisted every attempt to study it. If anything, the absorptive properties seemed stronger. I had to fall back on the old faithful microscope, centrifuge, various inhibitors, and the rest of the scientific horror show. Naturally, I wasn't doing that in the ruined hall. I was working in Kurt's laboratory. He was currently settling into Doom's corporation.
After some thought, I'd had to arrange a 'gas explosion' in the building where the training hall had been. There was no other clean way to hide the evidence. Something exploded in an industrial district. No dead. No injured. Why make unnecessary noise? The paperwork was processed, reports written, and everyone forgot about it.
But Rogue's blood... That was something else. I found a great many similarities to Symby. In certain respects, Rogue's organism was actually more advanced than the Symbiote. Especially in extracting a genome from suitable material. Her main problem was simply a lack of energy. From a fighter's perspective, she also had critical points. Tearing my head off, for example, wouldn't cause me any particular problems. For her, it would be fatal—or at least require an enormous amount of time to recover.
Yes. I'd love to graft her power onto myself. Unfortunately, that seemed impossible. I simply couldn't obtain her genome. Analyzer cells were devoured before they even began their work. Damn it. I only needed a couple of minutes. If I could somehow block the ability... Wait. That's it! I remembered. In one of the X-Men movies there had been a boy capable of blocking other mutants' powers. But he blocked the abilities. He didn't change the genome. Which meant the genes themselves could still be transplanted later. Right. Rogue's blood into my private refrigerator. That part could wait until I got home.
Then I'd wait for the Brotherhood to finish forming. After that, they could turn the entire planet upside down if necessary—but they would find that boy. He absolutely could not fall into human hands. With a weapon like that against mutants, humanity really would march into war.
Enough for today. Time to relax a little. Maybe I could drag Felicia out somewhere? Hmm. What time was it? Half past two in the morning. Yeah. I suspected that would not be appreciated. On the other hand, for vampires this was prime working time. I'd give my assistant, deputy, and generally good friend a call. Hopefully Count Federico wasn't asleep. Though perhaps he'd finally switched completely to a daytime schedule. Hmm. That sounded very strange.
Federico was not asleep. More than that, he delighted me with news. The Council had already selected deputies and the next level of command. Which meant I now had to initiate the whole crowd. Fine. The night was long. Especially in the last days of November. I'd manage.
Yeees. The Council had worked well. Waiting for me were sixteen deputies and twenty-four 'captains.' Victor, after collective consideration, had been designated head of the scientific branch. His people were researchers rather than soldiers, and most were human, so he presented neither deputies nor captains, saying he saw no point in the ranks.
The right to appoint assistants remained his if he changed his mind. Scanning the emotional background, I also noticed something surprising. Something was very clearly developing between the scientist and Nyssa. Heh. Good girl. Fast worker.
The ritual passed without incident. The oaths were given. The 'captains' received the ability to initiate 'lieutenants' and lower ranks. A little blood and a kiss to the ring were enough. I warned them that the number of initiates was limited. Though the lower the rank, the more vampires could be granted it.
'Privates,' who received only protection from sunlight and reduced Thirst, could theoretically number in the hundreds. But by agreement, for now they would be limited to the 'chicks' of those present and their existing vassals.
All in all, the Brotherhood would have plenty of people. Rough estimates put the rank-and-file strength at four to five thousand. Not very much, really, for a planet with a population of more than six billion. One thing did bother me. The way the initiates looked at me. I didn't know exactly what the Council had told them. But emotionally it felt as though they were swearing allegiance not merely to a ruler, but to something approaching a god.
Paladins, damn it. Which apparently made the Council something like apostles. Yeah. The moment I got out of there I urgently needed to blow off steam. Maybe walk into a biker bar and start a brawl. Otherwise these people were going to drive me insane. Ah, the joys of being an empath.
Nick Fury.
******************
The colonel could no longer remember when he'd last slept. How could anyone sleep at a time like this? The reports grew darker by the hour. His superiors applied more pressure every day. And the one person he could actually speak with honestly—Natasha—had been sent on assignment to Stark's corporation.
The analysts had found a possible connection between the kidnapping of that weapons genius several months ago and the appearance of a certain man in a stylish suit. They still hadn't located their leak. The bastard had apparently realized someone was looking for him and gone to ground. But even that was a minor problem.
Vampires continued pouring into New York. Another four dozen had arrived recently. All of them old, influential, accomplished, or some combination thereof. 'Night Ghost' alone was worth attention. During the Second World War, German units had sometimes abandoned captured towns merely after hearing that the saboteur might be operating somewhere nearby.
And then there were the rumors circulating among the bloodsuckers. Director Fury had never been particularly religious. That was difficult after personally dealing with Thor or Loki. To him they were simply beings of a different nature, not fundamentally different from mutants. But now, more than ever, he believed he'd somehow angered someone Upstairs.
Because the bloodsuckers were whispering about La Magra—their damned Blood God. And according to the same rumors, this being was already granting his vassals protection from sunlight and freedom from the Thirst. The fact that the most influential and ancient vampires in the world had collectively traveled—some literally halfway around the globe—to the Big Apple said quite a lot to anyone capable of thinking. Colonel Fury considered himself capable of thinking. So he hurried to take certain measures.
"Leak information about the vampires' unhealthy activity to the vampire hunters."
"Yes, sir!"
A lieutenant serving as Fury's adjutant for the day snapped a salute.
"One more thing. Bring Walter Mayer here. Too many events have involved him lately. And his specialization... geneticist and microbiologist. I have several questions for him."
"It will be done, sir!"
The lieutenant saluted again.
Walter Mayer. Looking for Trouble.
**********************
It seemed the problem wasn't only—or even primarily—emotional overload. It was another Symby quirk. His core objectives hadn't gone anywhere. Adrenaline doses, hormonal shocks from interacting with the opposite sex, and acquisition of new genomes all did a great deal to calm Venom. But the hunger for battle remained. And I had the feeling it was starting to spill over. I suspected my tendency toward malicious jokes (yeah, sure, keep making excuses and blaming poor Symby) and my excessive enthusiasm while clearing the bunker came from the same source.
The saddest part was that I couldn't do anything about it. Still not enough knowledge. Still not enough capability. And for some reason, thoughts about modifying the Symbiote itself appeared only rarely and vanished almost immediately. Hmm. What was I thinking about? Right. Where could I find an enemy worthy of me? Or at least someone who wouldn't die instantly. Go beat Logan's face in? No. A rare bird lived nearby. The Brainpecker. Answers to Charles. Bad idea. I still didn't know what psions could do to my beloved self in terms of damage. And I wasn't yet crazy enough to determine that experimentally without a very good reason.
And then... I saw Him. Some weird bastard in a black-and-red suit was running across rooftops, casually leaping from one to another. Something about him seemed familiar. But I couldn't understand what. I wasn't capable of doing anything socially useful right now. So I decided to follow him for a while. I didn't bother hiding. I was too lazy. And I sensed no danger.
If only I'd known how badly mistaken I was. No. Physically, this individual couldn't really hurt me. But his brain-destruction skill was developed beyond all reasonable limits. Judge for yourself. The man noticed me quickly enough, stopped, and stared. I stared back. My counterpart didn't last long. Verbal diarrhea had clearly conquered him years ago.
"Oh, what a doll! I've been looking forever for something exactly like you!" Genuine delight filled the stranger's voice. "You're the perfect scarecrow for my watermelon patch! Hey, buddy, want to earn a little extra cash? I guarantee easy outdoor work and a lovely rural landscape!"
I'd expected everything. An attack. An attempt to escape. Negotiation. Even ignoring my beautiful self. But this? That level of magnificent nerve and complete absence not merely of fear, but even of caution... Respectable. You had to admire it. The man's emotional background, however, was... strange. The Nazgûl had never met a schizophrenic before. Now he'd apparently found a nearly clinical case.
"What? Can't believe your luck? Don't worry—Deadpool never throws words to the wind!"
The... lunatic continued advertising the glorious career of scarecrow. Wait. Did he just say Deadpool? Wasn't that the idiot mercenary who believed he lived inside a comic book? Hmm. 'We shall see,' as they say in Odessa. I had a couple of plans for this specimen... assuming he passed one tiny, completely harmless test. Sinister laughter again.
For now, though, a little fight would be exactly what I needed. If I remembered correctly, his survivability was comparable to Logan's. Perhaps even superior. And if I remembered incorrectly... well. Unlucky him.
"Man, are you feeling all right? Because I get the impression somebody dropped you as a baby. Headfirst. Onto concrete. About eight times. No? Sure looks like it." I prodded the mercenary.
"There you go! One little thing happens and everybody starts insulting me. And here I am pouring out my soul, offering you honest employment. Though what am I saying? Judging from that outfit, in this comic you're clearly working for the Dark Side of the Force. Which means I must punish you in the sacred name of delivering goodness and causing justice!"
The lunatic struck a dramatic pose out of something Sailor-Moon-like. For complete authenticity he only lacked a short skirt and sailor collar. And, well... he'd had bad luck with his sex. Yeah. This was worse than I'd thought. He was definitely insane. Charismatic. But insane. At least my conscience definitely wouldn't bother me now. As if it had bothered you much before. I'd simply classify my actions as self-defense transitioning smoothly into attempted treatment.
"Heh. You're wrong about one thing. There are also several movies, cartoons, and a couple dozen games!"
After that grand declaration, I attacked. I could have hit him with lightning or nailed him to the roof with a couple of ice spears. But right now, what I wanted was hand-to-hand combat. So I simply charged into the most ordinary brawl imaginable. Worth noting: Deadpool didn't reach for his blades either. He devoted himself wholeheartedly to trying to rearrange my face.
For ten minutes we blew off steam. Gods, my ears were already beginning to wilt. The only moments the mercenary shut up were when I hit him hard enough in the jaw. Even then, the jaw regenerated almost instantly. Eventually the bastard adapted and, among everything else, began spitting his own teeth at me. Asshole. Soon I got tired of that and released my claws.
"Oh, useful little gadget! Always something around to slice a sandwich or sharpen a pencil!" The mercenary sounded delighted. "What else on you can extend and get longer? Actually, don't answer. Better if I chop you into salad and investigate personally."
The lunatic drew his paired swords. Oh? Had I actually found one of the few people who truly knew how to fight with two blades? Very soon I realized that yes. I had. Deadpool moved easily and naturally. His blades flashed constantly. Without my inhuman speed and Kimura-derived armor, my transformation into salad would have been only a matter of time. As it was, I circled the mercenary, studying his movements and gradually absorbing his art. Pity I hadn't brought my own swords. Training would have progressed faster. Still, this was excellent.
After about forty minutes, my opponent finally began to tire. Considering our speed and the resources he was diverting into regeneration, that endurance was more than impressive. Time to end the improvised duel. Ah, that felt good. So much adrenaline. My mood had moved from 'everything alive should die' to 'I love this world and all its inhabitants.'
I accelerated to maximum speed and drove my claws through my opponent. Through channels in the blades, a generous dose of sedative entered his body along with my cells. They immediately headed for the central nervous system. Then they shut down the victim's consciousness using the old technique I'd invented back when I first acquired the vagrant.
Oh. Speaking of him. I felt strange. Right. Too much load on an unprepared brain, plus the acceleration I'd just used. Result: a stroke. A massive one. Well. I could repair the brain. But the vagrant's personality would no longer be there. Probably about time I finally got rid of him anyway. I wondered whether his soul had gone wherever it was supposed to go only now, or back when I originally shut him down. Or was it still inside this body? Yeah. Something to think about.
But first, I should attempt to 'treat' my new acquaintance. And if that didn't work... then the memories of his treatment would keep me entertained through many long winter evenings. Grinning, I picked up the mercenary's unconscious body. I knew a certain basement that could be modified into exactly what I needed.
Deadpool. Possibly the Least Sane Character in This Insane Comic.
*********************
Consciousness slowly returned to the mercenary. The last thing he remembered was an excellent swordfight with some gothic bastard. Hmm. He was pretty sure no character like that existed. Although... who knew what the writers had smoked and what might crawl out of their heads afterward?
"Owww, my head... Last time I felt this bad... No. I've never felt THIS bad."
Deadpool looked around. Oh. This basement looked familiar somehow. A row of washbasins. Old tile everywhere. He was chained to an impressively solid pipe with an equally impressive chain. And to a chair too, just to complete the experience. A hacksaw lay nearby. There was no visible door. In the middle of the whole mess stood an ancient television with an equally ancient VCR.
"Holy moooother... I'm visiting a 'Saw' fan. How adorable! Hey, man, I get the reference, but sawing off my own arms and legs is boring. Couldn't you come up with something more original?"
In response, the television switched on. A puppet familiar to every fan of the thriller appeared on-screen.
"Hello, Deadpool. I want to play a game."
"No-no-no. I'm a big boy now and I don't like games. Unless you're offering a proper fighting game on a PlayStation, but I don't see either a PlayStation or a decent TV in here."
The puppet merely giggled nastily.
"That's all right. What matters is that I may enjoy this game, and you have no choice—you will participate anyway. The rules are very simple."
The puppet waved one little hand. A cavity opened in the wall, filled with videotapes bearing strange titles: 'Teletubbies.', 'My Little Pony.'
"You will watch every single one. Afterward, you will sing their songs and perform their dances. And you will do so convincingly enough that I believe you enjoy it and are absorbing the atmosphere of those kind-hearted creatures. Only then will you receive food. If I were you, I'd hurry. Six seasons is quite a lot. So please—rush to enjoy this unforgettable spectacle."
The image of the puppet vanished. In its place appeared a green field where four monsters ran and bounced while laughing happily. The mercenary sighed heavily. He openly admitted that something was wrong with his head, and he took sincere pleasure in tormenting other people. But when his own methods were turned against him... Well. He truly had no choice.
To stop the playback, he had to reach the television. Doing that while chained to a chair was distinctly problematic. The hardened mercenary swallowed. Perhaps he'd been wrong to offer that creature the honorable position of scarecrow. He should have hired him as an inquisitor. Or an interrogator. Well. All that remained was to relax and enjoy the experience. Relax very, very thoroughly.