The first thing I felt, clawing back to consciousness, was cold. A piercing, unnatural cold that seeped into my bones. But in an instant, it turned to searing heat, as if I'd been thrown into a furnace. Then cold again. Then heat.
My body didn't understand what was happening. My eyelids felt leaden, but I forced them open. The world before me was shrouded in milky-white fog. Everything blurred, distorted, shifting like I was peering through water.
I lay on something hard and cold. I tried to move and realized I couldn't feel my hands. Panic gripped my throat for a moment, but sensation slowly returned—tingling, burning, dull pain.
The walls around me were strange. At first glance, stone, but smooth as polished glass. Gray, almost black, with a faint metallic sheen. Subtle geometric patterns flickered across their surface, appearing and vanishing in the fog.
The air was thick, stagnant. Each breath was a struggle, as if my lungs had forgotten how to work. The taste in my mouth was metallic, laced with something chemical. Revolting.
I tried to stand, but my legs wouldn't obey. My muscles trembled like a newborn foal's. What had they done to me? Where was I?
The last thing I remembered was the forest clearing, Gilgamesh's body at my feet, the taste of his golden blood on my lips. Then a blow of incredible force, flying, crashing into a tree…
Makkari. That fleet-footed creature had struck me at full speed. But how had they found me so quickly? I'd been careful, ensuring no one followed.
The fog ebbed and flowed in waves. It had no logic—enveloping me in a dense veil one moment, retreating the next, revealing patches of the walls. It felt alive, watching me.
Time moved strangely here. Minutes stretched into hours, or perhaps hours compressed into seconds. I couldn't tell. The only markers were the waves of heat and cold, crashing over me with terrifying regularity.
During one heat surge, I felt something shift in my body. My blood moved wrong—freezing in my veins one moment, racing wildly the next, bringing dizziness and nausea. My blood-based abilities faltered, like a broken machine.
I tried to focus, to sense blood around me. Normally, a second was enough to feel the pulse of life within hundreds of paces. But now—nothing. Emptiness. As if this was a dead world.
The walls seemed to close in. Or was it my imagination? The fog thickened, pressing on my chest. I gasped, but the air seemed to thin.
Panic—a feeling alien to me—crept toward my heart. For centuries, I'd been the predator, the hunter, the one in control. Here, I was helpless, a cornered beast.
Darkness enveloped me again, soft and lulling. I sank into it with almost gratitude.
Voices. Distant at first, indistinct, like wind's whispers. Then clearer, closer. Two voices—male, familiar.
"…don't understand why all this trouble," one said. "It would've been easier to end it in the mountains."
"Arishem doesn't tolerate disobedience," the other replied. "He said deliver it alive. So we deliver it alive."
Arishem. The name echoed with pain in my head. The Creator. The one behind this puppet show.
I cautiously opened my eyes. The fog had cleared, and I could see. Two figures stood with their backs to me.
One was massive, broad-shouldered. Familiar stance, familiar movements. Gilgamesh. The same Gilgamesh I'd killed hours—or days?—ago. His neck was whole, his face unmarred by our fight.
The other was smaller, but his posture exuded strength. I recognized his unique skin tone. Phastos. The maker of wondrous devices, tossing inventions to humans like scraps to dogs, out of boredom.
"He's waking," Phastos said without turning.
Gilgamesh turned to me, a smirk playing on his lips—not malicious, but intrigued, as if studying a curious oddity.
"Finally awake?" he asked, stepping closer.
I tried to stand, but my body refused. My hands trembled, legs buckled. What had they done to me?
"How…" I rasped, my voice foreign, hoarse.
Gilgamesh's smirk widened.
"How am I alive, you mean?" He crouched beside me, like an adult explaining to a child. "Unlike humans, death isn't a barrier for Olympians. We don't die as you understand it. We… rebirth."
Rebirth. Damned mechanisms. Like the puppets they were. Yet he was convinced he was alive, when I knew he wasn't. They were crafted, artificial. Not living.
"Though," he continued, standing, "it's not pleasant. Thanks for reminding me what pain feels like. I'd almost forgotten."
His voice held no anger. Curiosity, as if thanking me for an interesting experience.
Phastos stepped closer, holding a strange device—a flat panel studded with glowing symbols. The symbols shifted colors, pulsed, formed new patterns.
"Remarkable," he muttered, eyes fixed on the device. "Energy readings are off the charts. Regeneration rate hundreds of times human. Molecular-level control over biological fluids. All in a body structurally indistinguishable from human."
He looked at me with undisguised awe.
"You're a stunning specimen of evolution. Or mutation. Not clear yet."
"What do you want?" I managed to croak.
"Oh, it's not what we want," Gilgamesh laughed. "Arishem's taken an interest in you. A creature that can kill an Eternal barehanded—that's new, even for him."
Phastos nodded, tapping his device.
"Preliminary data suggests a mutant nature, but with significant differences. Typical mutants show mutation from birth, stabilizing during growth. This specimen shows stabilization and ongoing ability development."
Specimen. They spoke of me like a lab rat.
"I'm not a mutant," I rasped.
"No?" Phastos raised an eyebrow. "Then what are you? Human? Humans don't drink blood or control it. Don't live centuries, don't have superhuman strength or speed. We thought we'd purged all mutants, but you survived. Or rather, you were a mutant before we arrived."
He stepped closer, eyes blazing with scientific zeal.
"Are you an Eternal? But we know all Eternals. We were sent here in the exact number needed for the mission. No extras. So, not an Eternal."
"Then what is he?" Gilgamesh crossed his arms. "A puzzle to solve."
I tried to stand again. This time, I managed to rise to my knees, though the world still swayed.
"What's isolation?" I asked, recalling a snippet of their talk.
Phastos's face lit up with a predatory smile, full of anticipation.
"Ah, isolation!" He clapped like a child with a new toy. "Sadly, Arishem forbade killing you. Too valuable a specimen. A mutant surviving the total gene pool purge. A unique case, immune to the virus. Not exactly thrilling, but it'll do. Study you, dissect you, understand your structure, then toss your remains as a failed experiment—that we can do. It's permitted."
Cold ran down my spine. Not the physical cold I'd felt earlier, but a deeper chill, piercing my core.
"See," Phastos paced around me, "we Eternals are created for specific purposes. Each has a role, a function. Ikaris—protector, Sersi—matter transmuter, Ajak—leader. Me? I'm the researcher, the creator, the one who unravels the universe's mysteries."
He stopped before me, crouching until our faces were level.
"And you, dear specimen, are the most fascinating mystery I've encountered in millennia."
His eyes burned with the fire I'd seen in scientists, alchemists—those willing to sacrifice anything for knowledge. The most dangerous obsession.
"Let's start simple," Phastos drew a small object from his belt, like a dagger but made of the same strange material as the walls. "Let's test your regeneration."
He raised his hand to strike, but I rolled aside. The dagger clanged against the floor where my arm had been.
"Oh, excellent!" Phastos beamed. "Reflexes intact. Good—passive subjects don't give the full picture."
I tried to stand, but Gilgamesh pinned me down with one hand. His strength was absolute, undeniable. I was too weak to resist.
"Don't squirm," he said, almost friendly. "The sooner Phastos finishes his experiments, the sooner we decide what to do with you."
Phastos raised the dagger and slashed my left arm without warning. Pain flared like fire, my blood—usually under my control—spilled onto the floor.
"Interesting," he murmured, studying the wound. "Blood's red, composition seems human, but the energy signature… unusual."
He produced a small vial and collected some blood. The liquid glowed faintly red inside.
"Fascinating!" Phastos exclaimed. "Your blood retains energy properties outside the body. That explains your control."
The wound on my arm closed slowly—not as fast as usual. Something here hindered my regeneration.
"Healing rate—about a hundred times human," Phastos muttered, taking notes. "Even better than Eternals. Curious."
He made another cut, deeper. Then another. And another. Each time observing, measuring, recording. Pain surged in waves, but I clenched my teeth, refusing to let him hear my groans.
"Pain receptors function normally," he commented. "But pain tolerance far exceeds human. Likely an adaptation."
He swapped the dagger for a needle-like tool, pricking my skin to test sensitivity. Then came a device like small pincers, pinching, twisting, testing tissue elasticity.
"Muscle tissue denser than human, but not like Eternals," he continued. "Bones stronger, but not metallic. Skin thicker, but not armored."
His experiments grew more intricate. He tested my reaction to chemicals, dripping them onto open wounds. Some burned like acid, others caused numbness or spasms.
"Toxin resistance high, but not absolute," he noted. "Nervous system responds to stimuli, but with delay."
Then came a device combining a needle and hammer. Without warning, he drove it into my shoulder.
The pain was unbearable—not just physical, but an energy surge piercing every nerve, every cell. I couldn't hold back a scream.
"Excellent!" Phastos exclaimed. "Strong reaction to cosmic energy. Your body perceives it as hostile."
He repeated the process—arms, legs, back, stomach. Each jab brought hellish pain that lingered even after the device was removed.
"Adaptation limited," he muttered, disappointed. "No immunity to cosmic energy. Pity, that would've been interesting."
Next came strength tests. Phastos bent my fingers, testing their breaking point. Twisted my arms, checking joint limits. Pressed my ribs, measuring their fracture threshold.
"Skeleton five times stronger than human," he stated as my index finger snapped. "But far from Eternal durability."
Pain was constant now. Every part of me ached, pulsed, screamed. Worse was the realization of my utter helplessness. I, the hunter, the predator, was now bound like a lab rat. Monsters.
"Now for the fun part," Phastos said, producing a palm-sized device studded with fine needles and glowing crystals. "Let's test your vaunted blood control."
He pressed it to my neck. Needles pierced my skin, finding major vessels. I felt something invade my bloodstream—not liquid, but aggressive, alien energy.
"Try controlling your blood," Phastos ordered.
I tried. Focused as I had thousands of times, willing my blood to obey. But instead of control—chaos. My blood surged erratically, defying my will, even flowing backward, causing dizziness and nausea.
"The device disrupts neural connections between brain and bloodstream," Phastos explained proudly. "Your ability relies on bioelectric activity, which we can interrupt with the right frequency. Fascinating mutation."
It was humiliating. The ability I prided myself on, that made me unique, was vulnerable to a simple device.
"Now let's amplify the signal," Phastos muttered, adjusting the device.
Pain exploded in my head like lightning. Every vessel burned. My blood thrashed, as if trying to burst through my skin. I arched, fists clenched, nails digging into my palms.
"Critical threshold," Phastos noted, monitoring readings. "A bit more, and the circulatory system would collapse."
He removed the device, and the pain slowly ebbed. I lay gasping, sweat mixing with blood on my skin.
"Enough for today," Gilgamesh said. "Arishem wants a full report, and a dead subject won't do."
"Pity," Phastos sighed, packing his tools. "I was just starting to explore his abilities' interaction with energy fields. So many unanswered questions."
He crouched beside me, like a doctor at a patient's bedside.
"Don't fret," he said almost kindly. "We'll continue tomorrow. I've got plenty of experiments lined up—direct cosmic energy exposure, various radiations, maybe altering your blood's molecular structure."
His eyes danced with the madness of a scientist willing to destroy worlds for answers.
"Sleep well," he added, standing. "You'll need your strength."
They headed for the exit. Gilgamesh paused at the threshold.
"Oh, and don't bother escaping. This cell was designed for your kind. Walls infused with cosmic energy, air laced with regeneration inhibitors. You'll weaken by the hour until you're no stronger than a human."
"And humans," Phastos added with a smirk, "die here in days."
The door closed with a dull thud. I was alone in this chamber, built for my torment.
Pain pulsed in every cell. Wounds healed slowly, sluggishly. I felt my strength draining, like air from a balloon.
But worse was the realization this was only the beginning. Phastos wasn't a sadist in the usual sense—he was a scientist. And for a scientist, nothing was more valuable than a unique specimen.
He'd dissect me, study every reaction, every ability. Methodically, patiently, with scientific precision. And when he'd gleaned all he wanted, satisfied his curiosity, I'd be discarded like used material.
I closed my eyes, trying to gather my thoughts. There had to be a way out. There was always a way out. In centuries, I'd never been in a hopeless situation.
But now, lying on this cursed cell's cold floor, feeling my strength fade, I felt something close to despair for the first time in ages.
Tomorrow, Phastos would return. And the day after. And every day until nothing remained of me but notes in his records.
Unless I found a way out first.
Darkness crept into my consciousness again. I didn't resist. In unconsciousness, there was no pain, no humiliation, no fear of tomorrow.
My last thought before oblivion was a vow. If I escaped—and I would—Phastos would be the first to pay for these torments. His death would be slow, agonizing, mirroring his experiments on me.
That promise warmed me more than any flame, and I sank into darkness with a smile on my battered face.
Time ceased to exist.
Days blurred into an endless agony with no beginning or end, only pain. Constant, ever-changing, but always present. It became my companion, my calendar, my clock.
Phastos came regularly. Sometimes alone, sometimes with other Eternals. Sersi tested how my flesh reacted to her transmutation, turning skin to stone, metal, wood. Sprite conjured illusions to see how my mind handled distorted reality. Druig tried to breach my thoughts but hit a barrier, enraging him.
"His mind's shielded," he said. "Like it's wrapped in metal."
"Interesting," Phastos muttered, taking notes. "Natural defense against mental intrusion. Evolutionary advantage or mutation byproduct?"
They spoke of me in the third person, even when I was conscious. I'd long ceased being a person to them—just a specimen, a puzzle to solve.
Makkari tested my reflexes, striking at supersonic speed and measuring reaction times. Thena probed my resistance to her psionic attacks. Even good-natured Gilgamesh joined, methodically breaking my bones to observe regeneration.
Only Ikaris didn't touch me.
Each day—if days existed here—my condition worsened. The cosmic energy in the walls slowly poisoned me. Airborne inhibitors slowed my healing. My strength slipped away like sand through fingers.
But the blood… Gilgamesh's blood was still in me. It had to help. It must.
The worst wasn't the physical torment. It was that I began to adapt. Pain became normal, agony routine. I nearly stopped resisting, accepting their actions passively.
Nearly.
Deep within, at my core, a small spark of rage burned. Not vengeance—my strength for that was gone. Just raw, primal anger at being reduced to this pitiful state.
That spark kept me from breaking. When pain became unbearable, I clung to it like a drowning man to a straw.
"Research results are sufficient," Ajak said one day, entering with the other Eternals. "Arishem has reviewed the reports and made a decision."
Phastos looked disappointed.
"But we haven't finished studying his abilities' interaction with dark matter," he protested. "And his mutation's origin remains unanswered."
"Enough," Ajak said coldly. "We've gathered all necessary data. Further experiments are unwarranted."
She approached me. I lay on the floor, barely alive, utterly drained. Every movement was a monumental effort.
"You're an interesting specimen," she said, looking at me without sympathy. "But useless. Mutants are gone from Earth and will stay gone. Your abilities are unique but hold no value for our mission."
She turned to the others.
"Prepare the disposal container. Standard protocol for biological waste."
Biological waste. After a year of torment, countless experiments, I was just trash to be discarded.
They brought a coffin-like metal box, lined with a strange, faintly glowing material.
"The container's designed for such cases," Phastos said with professional pride. "Walls infused with concentrated cosmic energy. Any Deviant or mutant inside will slowly dissolve at the molecular level."
"How long will it take?" Ajak asked.
"For a typical Deviant, a few days. For this specimen, given his resilience, perhaps weeks."
Weeks of slow death in a confined space, dissolved alive by cosmic energy. Monsters.
Gilgamesh and Ikaris lifted me into the container. For a moment, I thought I saw sympathy in Ikaris's eyes. Hah, a lifeless thing showing pity. I was delirious. The metal was cold, its energy burning my skin.
"Goodbye, interesting specimen," Phastos said, leaning over the container. "Thanks for the data. It'll be invaluable for future research."
The lid began to close. The last thing I saw was the Eternals' faces, devoid of compassion. I was never a living being to them—just an object of study.
The lid slammed shut with a metallic clang. Darkness enveloped me, absolute and impenetrable. The air inside would've sustained a human for minutes. But I wasn't human, even in this state.
I felt movement. The container was carried, set down, carried again. Sounds were muffled—voices, mechanical hums, something like engines.
Time crawled. The cosmic energy burned my skin, poisoned my lungs, tainted my blood. I felt my body breaking down. But the process was slow, excruciating.
Phastos was right—my resilience turned quick death into prolonged agony.
Suddenly, I felt acceleration, then weightlessness. The container was airborne. Seconds stretched like hours, then—a jarring impact.
Water. I'd landed in water.
The container sank deeper. I heard water pressing the metal walls, creaking under the pressure. Gilgamesh's memories told me the material was built for space travel, able to withstand ocean depths.
They'd thrown me into the ocean. Like garbage. Like used material no longer needed.
My coffin descended into the abyss, and I lay inside, slowly dying from cosmic energy. How long would it take? Weeks? Months? Years?
The spark of rage flared brighter. Not now. Not like this. I wouldn't die here, in this metal tomb, like a lab rat.
I would survive. At any cost.
And when I escaped—and I would—each would pay for what they'd done. Phastos first. His death would be as slow and torturous as his experiments.
That vow warmed me in the cold dark of the ocean's depths, and I clenched my fists, ready for another fight for survival. Gilgamesh's blood would aid me.
I'd return.