My body hit the mattress with the finality of a corpse hitting concrete. The last thing I registered before darkness claimed me was the metallic scent of blood—both mine and Dietrich Voss's—still clinging to my skin despite the shower. When consciousness returned, it came with the violent protest of my stomach. I bolted upright, the movement sending white-hot pain through my shoulders where Logan's claws had punched through days before. The digital clock on the wall mocked me with its display: 48 hours and 17 minutes lost to exhaustion.
"Magina," I croaked, my voice like gravel. "Status."
The AI's holographic form materialized beside my bed, her usual composed demeanor showing the barest hint of relief. "Welcome back, Father. Your vitals stabilized six hours ago. The children have—"
"Food first." My hands shook as I reached for the nutrient bar on my nightstand. "Then debrief."
A Shadow servant appeared with a tray—steaming miso soup, rice, and enough protein to feed a small army. I devoured it all with the table manners of a starved wolf. Only when the last grain of rice disappeared did I finally feel human again.
"The Sprout Initiative is proceeding as planned,"* Magina reported, projecting holographic feeds around my bed. "Phase one implementation began 36 hours ago."
The security footage showed our makeshift academy in action. In the underground training facility, Kwannon moved through combat katas with lethal precision, her psionic blade humming through the air. Nearby, Forge was elbow-deep in what appeared to be a dismantled gun—because of course the little guy had already raided my trophy room.
"He claims he can reverse-engineer anything," Magina said dryly.
I snorted. "And Clarice?"
The feed switched to show the purple-haired girl in the library, surrounded by history texts. Not the sanitized versions they taught in schools—the real accounts. Her fingers trembled as she turned a page detailing the Weapon X program's atrocities.
"She's asked three times if these records are verified."
"Good." That was the point—to make them question everything. "And Melancon?"
The quietest of our new recruits appeared in the next feed, curled in a window seat with a tablet. The screen showed schematics of alien/Galactic history—Skrull, Kree, Shi'ar—with detailed notes on their weaknesses.
"She's memorized seventeen different extraterrestrial threat profiles."
I allowed myself a small, satisfied smile. The Sprout Initiative wasn't just education—it was preparation for survival in a world that hated what they are. The Sprout Initiative Manifesto, is an educational program that I planned, for Meta-Human education system.
It will the best approach and style of education that aimed to propelled Meta-Human mindset in this ever-changing world. The real Truth in Education History untainted by political agendas. Science focused on practical applications. Literature analysis through the lens of propaganda recognition
Survival Curriculum. Urban evasion tactics like how to disappear in any city. Wilderness survival. Psychological warfare resistance like recognizing and countering manipulation. Combat Mastery training. A Hand-to-hand from twelve different disciplines. Weapons training and Tactical teamwork exercises.
Power Development. Control drills to prevent accidental manifestations. Creative applications. Power synergy experiments Medical Training. Field trauma care (including how to stitch yourself up mid-battle). Psychological first aid (recognizing PTSD in yourself and others). Biochemical warfare recognition. This is the type of education that would help not just Meta-Human but also anyone survived the coming chaotic age.
The mess hall fell silent when I entered. Four pairs of eyes tracked my movement—Forge's calculating, Clarice's bright with curiosity, Melancon's shy but attentive, Kwannon's sharp as her blades.
"You look like shit," Kwannon observed around a mouthful of rice.
"Feel like it too." I grabbed a protein shake from the fridge. "Evaluation time. I want to see what you've learned in forty-eight hours."
Forge groaned dramatically. "Can't we finish breakfast first? I was in the middle of—"
"No." I cut him off. "In the real world, threats don't wait for you to finish your chocolate."
As they scrambled to their feet, I caught the way Clarice's fingers formed miniature portals to catch her falling napkin, how Melancon's eyes darted to every exit point in the room, how Kwannon's stance shifted into something ready for combat even while clearing her tray. They were learning. Fast.
The underground workshop hummed with energy, the scent of ozone and hot metal thick in the air. Forge sat hunched over a half-dismantled my boas' drone, his fingers moving with the precision of a concert pianist as he rewired its circuitry. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his tongue poking out in concentration.
"If I reroute the power flow through the secondary relay..." he muttered to himself, completely absorbed.
I leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. "You're bypassing the safety protocols."
Forge jumped, nearly dropping his screwdriver. "Wraith! I—uh—yeah, but it increases the output by 37%!" He grinned, holding up the modified drone. "Watch this!"
With a flick of his wrist, the drone whirred to life, its repulsors glowing brighter than before. It shot forward—then promptly exploded against the far wall in a shower of sparks.
Forge blinked. "...Okay, maybe 37% was optimistic."
I sighed, rubbing my temples. "Next time, test it outside."
He nodded eagerly, already scavenging parts from the wreckage. "Can I take apart one of the HYDRA pulse rifles next?"
"After you clean this up."
Forge was a prodigy—his Intuitive Mind and Technoforming abilities made him a natural engineer. He couldn't quite glance at a piece of tech and instantly replicate it yet, but give him a week, and he'd have blueprints. And ever since Magina introduced him to video game development, he'd been hooked, spending his free time coding his own indie games.
The training room echoed with the sharp snap of displaced air as Clarice Fong practiced her Portal Creation. A purple-rimmed hole the size of a dinner plate flickered into existence five meters away—then collapsed with a pop.
"Ugh!" She kicked the floor in frustration. "Why can't I make it bigger?!"
Kwannon, mid-kata nearby, didn't even look up. "Because you're impatient."
Clarice stuck her tongue out. "Easy for you to say, Miss Perfect."
I stepped in before it could escalate. "Portal size is about control, not power. Start small. Master the precision. Then scale up."
Clarice groaned but nodded, refocusing. As she worked, her phone buzzed—some new pop-rap track blaring from the speakers. She perked up instantly. "Oh! This is Firestarter's new drop!"
I arched a brow. "You still want to be a rapper?"
"Influencer-rapper," she corrected, grinning. "Once you launch Mwitter, I'm gonna be viral."
I made a mental note to monitor her account. Closely.
Melancon sat at the command center's terminal, three identical blonde girls typing in perfect synchronization. Her Clones worked seamlessly—one handling logistics, another cross-referencing data, the third taking notes.
"The supply shipment arrives at 1400 hours," all three said simultaneously, then blinked. The two clones vanished in puffs of smoke, their memories flooding back into the original.
Melancon rubbed her temples. "Still gives me a headache."
"But you're getting better," I noted. "Longer duration. Smoother reintegration."
She smiled shyly. "Thank you, sir."
Of the four, Melancon was the most... normal. No flashy combat skills, no genius-level intellect—just quiet competence. And in a world like ours, that made her invaluable.
Kwannon moved like liquid shadow through the obstacle course, her Psychic Blade slicing through dummy targets with surgical precision. She didn't waste motion. Didn't hesitate.
"Again," she ordered the training drones.
They obliged, firing stun rounds. She dodged, twisted, deflected—every movement economical. Deadly.
When she finished, barely winded, she turned to me. "Your turn."
I smirked. "Trying to humble me?"
"Trying to learn."
That was Kwannon. Driven. Focused. Ever since we'd rescued her from HYDRA, she'd latched onto me like a second shadow. My personal bodyguard, self-appointed. If I so much as stepped into a room, she was there, assessing threats.
Magina found it amusing. "She imprinted on you like a duckling," the AI had teased.
I wasn't complaining. Having a psychic ninja as your right hand had its perks.
"Magina Electronics is live," Magina announced one evening, her hologram flickering above the conference table. The logo—a sleek, silver "ME" inside a circuit-like circle—projected onto the wall.
"What is our first, Product, Father?" Magina asked inquisitively.
"Mwitter," I said. "Twitter, but without the idiocy."
"No blue check paywall?" Magina asked again.
"No paywall. Verification through actual credentials. And it's just the start." I tapped the table, bringing up schematics. "ME Digital Garden will link everything—social media, cloud storage, even future hardware. A fully integrated ecosystem."
"Understood father, launching Mwitter, now…". Magina began the work immediately.
It was time for me to being my electronic and tech empire, given the barren landscape of this world and right now it was 2004, naturally I would grab the opportunity to recreate all of the fun social media that grab the world attention in old earth. Making this world fun and also makes me richer as well.