The hum of the lab was the first thing he noticed.
Not loud. Not mechanical. More like the low, steady exhale of something alive—breathing because he had given it lungs.
Ethan stood in the threshold for a moment, absorbing it. His lab—his real lab—glowed with cool white light reflected off stainless steel counters, glass containment pods, and the polish of machines he had smuggled and assembled piece by piece.
None of this could have happened so soon without the contribution of Norman and his money. Ethan chuckled, "He must be happy from the grave to see me put his money and underworld connections to such good use."
He tapped his phone.
"N.E.A.R.," he said softly.
A warm female voice replied from the overhead speakers, "Good afternoon, Ethan. All systems online. Biometric locks are active. Security grid is at full functionality. Would you like to begin initialization protocols?"
A smile tugged at his mouth.
This was his domain.
His cathedral of science.
The place he would remake himself.
"Yes," he murmured. "Start the cycle."
Beams of ultraviolet light flickered along the ceiling, confirming sterility. Panels slid open in the walls, exposing diagnostic screens, fabrication arms, and racks of specialized tools. Every surface responded to him—not to a passcode, not to a clearance level—to him specifically.
The biometric locks he installed weren't keyed to fingerprints or retina scans. Those could be forged. No—this lab opened only to the genetic signature of one person. His DNA. His blood. His presence.
Anyone else would get an electric shock strong enough to stop a heart.
He'd tested it.
The results were promising.
There was something oddly comforting about that.
A reminder that this place—this entire sanctuary—answered only to him.
The lab smelled like new circuitry, sterile tile, and the faint ozone of freshly installed power lines.
The lab wasn't large, not compared to Stark's or Pym's, but it was dense. Every inch of the room was designed for efficiency: reinforced counters, modular equipment, holographic interfaces projected from panels in the ceiling, and two separate clean rooms sealed by transparent polymer doors.
The heart of it all, though, was the central dais—where the Genesis Cradle would eventually stand. The spot looked strangely empty right now, like a throne waiting for a monarch.
Ethan walked to the central workstation, placed two canisters onto the reinforced counter. Both hissed as their vacuum seals released.
One held Roughhouse's blood—thick, dark, potent. The blood of an Asgardian berserker.
The other held the refined Goblin Serum sample he'd obtained from Norman Osborn's attempt to gas the city.
One toxic and the other a miracle. Two paths of evolution.
Two opportunities.
He stared at them for a long moment, calculating the thousands of ways this could go wrong.
And then the thousands of ways it could go right.
"So many projects," he murmured. "And only six and a half weeks until the Exemplars."
He said it casually, but the weight of the deadline thrummed in his chest. The clock was already ticking.
Of course, from his experience things usually went wrong. But that was what Sage, Forge, and Domino's powers were for, each a different kind of insurance. Sage's mind made him a walking supercomputer able to run multiple simulations in his mind. Forge's gift gave him supernatural intuition and creativity. Domino's luck… well, it nudged the universe into playing along.
He turned to the wall console and tapped the screen awake. The lab lights brightened automatically. Holographic menus blossomed above the workstations.
N.E.A.R. spoke again, her tone still developing, "Would you like to run a full systems check?"
"Yes. Full diagnostics. Cross-reference with last night's calibration set. I don't want any mishaps or surprises later on."
"Running it now."
The lights flickered—barely noticeable—and the hum of hidden machinery vibrated through the floor. It felt like standing inside a living creature, one that breathed through cables and drank through circuits.
A few lines of code scrolled across the screen.
Everything was functioning as intended.
'Good.'
He turned to the workstation and pulled up four holographic windows.
Project 1: Genesis Cradle
The artificial womb—his first major device. A chamber capable of stabilizing biological restructuring while the subject remained either unconscious or conscious. A rebirth engine.
Its design was done.
But now he needed to build it.
Project 2: Genesis Cradle (Symbiote Variant)
This one had to house living matter far more temperamental than any human embryo. A symbiote would require nutrient-rich suspension fluid to grow. He also planned to add psionic dampeners and a steady magnetic resonance field to keep it docile while he worked on reworking its biology.
He already knew how to do it.
Forge's intuition gave the instructions and insight without being asked.
Project 3: Super Soldier Serum (Kane Variant)
Not Erskine's serum.
Not Osborn's diseased imitation.
Something new and optimized:
Erskine's design + vita-rays
combined with
Asgardian physiology from Roughhouse's blood.
Enhanced strength, durability, regeneration, possible connection to the All-Speak and the magical cosmic force that Asgardian natural have.
This one was tricky. The variables were volatile.
But Ethan thrived in the volatile.
He glanced over at the design of the Vita-Ray integrated Genesis Cradle.
A machine Erskine could maybe have built if he'd had Sage's encyclopedic memory, Forge's godlike creativity, a teenager's complete disregard for ethics, and his Meta-knowledge of the Marvel Universe.
Project 4: Machine Cells
The upgraded Techno-Organic Virus.
No infection.
No takeover.
No hive-mind assimilation.
A coexistence model.
A second immune system made of bio-mechanical intelligence, capable of:
— rewriting cellular structure
— repairing DNA
— adapting under stress
— evolving alongside the host
— assimilate both organic and metallic material
— allow the user technopathy
— resist hive minds and mental intrusions
Another boon to this was that with enough machine cells, they could mimic both the structure of nanobots and liquid metal.
Ethan rubbed the back of his neck. "I'll be very busy."
The understatement of the century.
Ethan activated a holographic display. The Genesis Cradle appeared in midair—soft blue lines outlining its elegant frame. It rotated slowly, revealing layers: the nutrient matrix, the stabilization coils, the Vita-Ray emitter nodes.
"The Vita-rays will need perfect alignment," he muttered. "If distribution isn't uniform, the serum collapses. And I refuse to die or go insane."
He swiped the projection, zooming into the stabilization chamber. A warm sphere of energy pulsed at the center.
"This is the part that makes or breaks it," he said quietly. "DNA isn't clay. It doesn't reshape willingly. It needs guidance. Meaning I need to read and code the subject's DNA and RNA to the most minute detail. Another issue is that the brain recoding the subject's DNA would affect the subject's mind, and they might not be the same as the one who entered the chamber."
Guidance—and protection.
'A DNA-stabilization engine would be essential, a shield woven from controlled radiation and microfield oscillation—gentle enough not to fry my cells, strong enough to prevent mutation drift during integration. The calibration would have to be precise for each subject, as tolerance is different for every person.'
Without it?
He'd end up like the countless failures who tried to recreate Erskine's miracle.
Ethan dimmed the projection and turned to the secondary clean room.
The second Genesis Cradle—the one intended for the symbiote—would have to be even more complex than the previous chamber. Not because the construction was difficult, but because it needed to nurture a symbiote as if it were inside a human body.
He smoothed his palm over the transparent barrier.
"You're going to be a real challenge," he murmured. "But worth it in the end."
Inside him, the tiny dormant symbiote fragment stirred faintly before becoming dormant; it seemed like it was close to forming a unique identity soon.
He would create the nutrient solution.
Then it would need to be extracted carefully.
Safely merged together with Machine Cells. Once it's biology adapts the cells, they would function like a second nervous system. Once that happened, Ethan could fuse it with a liquid metal made from Machine Cells, transforming it into a carbon silicon hybrid creature.
And then he would watch it grow.
Ethan didn't realize he was smiling until the reflection on the glass smiled back.
The Machine Cells display pinged behind him.
The schematic hovered above a workstation, a web of metallic-blue threads—more alive in simulation than any virus had the right to be. He approached, hands tucked into his pockets.
Machine Cells were elegant in the fact that they could not only form machines like liquid metal and nanobots once programmed, but also merge with organic material.
The ability to control technology was a power that Ethan was fascinated by, but he'd rather avoid wasting a power slot. That was why he wanted the Techno Organic Virus. The true beauty of these cells could only be shown when both Ethan and the symbiote were infused with the cells.
The Machine Cells were living, and once bonded, the host would transform into basically a new life form. Even if they had children, they would inherit machine cells from the parent. Those with the cell could share knowledge and communicate along a path web, meaning if a symbiote were separate from it host they could still communicate. This also meant any symbiote born from the merged symbiote would be free of Knull's control of the Klyntar hive mind.
"Once I finalize the growth catalyst, I can start forming the first prototypes."
N.E.A.R. chimed in gently, "Preliminary nutrient solution simulation parameters are calculated. Would you like to review?"
"Later," he said. "Keep running the program, I'll check the data before leaving. Right, I need to prioritize the serum and the cradle. When the Exemplars hit, I need to be ready to profit."
He walked back to the main console and sat down. His fingers drummed rhythmically against the metal surface.
He could feel the weight of the next six and a half weeks pressing on him. Each project—massive on its own—competed for attention.
Any one of these could define a scientist's entire life's work.
He intended to finish all of them before mid-November.
Absurd?
Yes.
Impossible?
Maybe for most.
But he didn't have the luxury of failure.
He turned to his desk and picked up the new phone.
Ethan powered on the Isaac Maddox interface. The color scheme changed instantly—silver and white, elegant, understated. The menus reconfigured themselves.
"N.E.A.R., open encrypted channel Maddox-Hughes."
"Opening channel. Authenticate."
He gave the password, leaned forward, and let the facial scanner take in his features.
The connection snapped open.
He typed:
Isaac Maddox:
I will soon have you take Dr. Sara McKinney to the Essex biotech lab. She will be in charge of the facility. I will also send you a contract, so after the tour, have her sign it.
Robert responded quickly—Robert always did.
Robert Hughes:
Yes, sir, Mr. Maddox, I understand. I will await your instructions for Cybertek Systems and Metro-General.
I am also working to acquire more properties for the I.M.A.G.I.N.E project. I should reach your quota in three months if that's okay.
Ethan nodded slowly, the faintest hum of satisfaction warming his chest.
'Everything is exactly on schedule. I should also probably have Robert furnish a few of the shelters he's purchased to make a few emergency shelters. I can keep the kids safe until the program starts when New York is hit. That way, I don't waste resources and build a good image as Issac.'
He closed the interface and set the phone down beside the Genesis Cradle sketches. The soft glow of the schematics reflected in his eyes.
"Time to start," he murmured because tonight marked the beginning.