When Tony left, Guinevere walked to the second floor and stood outside Victor's room. She gently opened the door and looked at the still-sleeping form of her son. She could tell he was exhausted. He had been kidnapped for two weeks.
Tears welled in her eyes as she watched her boy. She slowly entered the room and quietly approached him, staring down at him. She gently brushed his face, leaned in, and gave him a soft kiss on the head.
"I love you, mon bebe," she whispered.
She looked at him for a few more moments and then left, gently closing the door behind her.
She stood outside his door, and now and then throughout the night, she'd peek her head in and look at him. There he was, breathing gently. She liked watching him breathe. When he was little, he had trouble breathing. She always worried about him. Every moment she could, she was checking on him.
After some time, when he was about four or five years old, his breathing issues disappeared, and she finally felt confident leaving him alone. She eventually stopped checking on him every night. But now, after his traumatic experience, she couldn't bear to leave him.
A couple of hours before he woke up, Guinevere started getting her day going. She cleaned up, did some housework, and still, every now and then, popped her head in to check. The boy was tired. It was already noon, and he still hadn't come downstairs. She had long ago made a luscious, savory Slovenian breakfast, but he was just too exhausted. Maybe she'd make it another day, when she knew he'd be up early enough to enjoy it.
It wasn't until around 6:00 in the evening that Victor finally came downstairs. He still had bags under his eyes, but he looked much more relaxed.
"Come and sit at the table, mon bebe," she said. "I'll have some food warmed up for you very quickly."
He didn't say anything—just sluggishly pulled out a chair and sat in it. He wasn't his typical self. He wasn't cleaned up, primed, or dressed to the nines like usual. He was still wearing his pajamas. That was almost unheard of for her little gentleman. It only made it clearer how tired he was—and perhaps that two weeks in captivity had shaken even his habits.
While waiting for his mother to prepare his meal, he gently laid his head down on the tabletop and fell asleep.
Nearly an hour later, he was awoken by her soft voice.
"Mon bebe," she said, "your breakfast is ready, my darling."
She gently caressed his cheek. It was still soft, and she played lightly with his hair until he stirred awake. His eyes opened, and he looked up to see the kind eyes of his mother smiling sweetly down at him.
"Oh, Victor. I'm so happy you're home," she said. "I was so worried about you. You have no idea."
"I'm sorry, Mother," he whispered, grabbing her hand and caressing it. "I'm glad I'm home too. I missed you the most."
His mother bent down and hugged him for a long time. After a while, she let go and ruffled his hair—but quickly smoothed it back, knowing he didn't like that. He didn't seem to mind this time.
"My darling, I have some very good news for you," she said.
"Oh? What's that?" Victor didn't seem especially interested in the conversation—he was focused on devouring his dinner, and his mind was still processing other thoughts.
"I talked to Tony last night," she said.
Victor gave her a weary look. "And what did you two talk about?"
She nonchalantly pulled up a chair beside him and sat down gracefully.
"We talked about your little lab idea," she said with a gentle smile. "Turns out, Tony was very interested in getting you everything you need."
Victor narrowed his eyes. "So… what's the catch?"
He knew his biological father well enough. There was always a catch.
She chuckled. "He asked that you stop calling him 'Mr. Stark' and start calling him Tony."
Victor's eyes widened. "That's it? That's all he asked for?"
She laughed. "Yes, that's all. He said he couldn't stand his son calling him Mr. Stark all the time. So he insisted you call him Tony—at the very least."
"But I call him Mr. Stark because he's older than me," Victor said, puzzled. "He deserves respect."
"Oh, mon bebe, you're still having trouble understanding this world."
"I suppose," Victor murmured.
"You're way too absorbed in strict policies of etiquette and interaction," she said. "Of course, Tony would misunderstand you. But it's not so bad. It's not much of a price to pay. You would've done it if he'd just asked anyway."
Victor grinned sheepishly. "Yes… I suppose I got this for quite the bargain."
"So now," she said brightly, "will you be able to begin your creations?"
"Yes, Mother. Now I can finally start."
She paused and looked at him. "It was so hard for me at first to accept that you were the original, the real Dr. Victor Frankenstein. Do you remember when you revealed this to me?" she asked.
"I do. What was I, five? Maybe six?"
"You were five," she said. "I was so concerned. I wondered about your sanity. But over the years, you proved it wasn't just a child's fantasy."
"And now," he said softly, "I'll finally be able to realize my dreams. Out of everyone, Mother, I could keep this secret from the rest of the world… but not from you. You're my mother in this lifetime, and you deserve my absolute trust."
Her eyes twinkled, a little wet at the edges. She smiled and brushed his cheek.
"You'll always be my little one," she said. "Even if we're practically the same age." She laughed softly.
"I have the memory of my past life, Mother… but I'm still a new person. I'm still your son. I feel young on the inside—I just have a more tempered mind, that's all."
Victor went back to eating his dinner, and Guinevere began cleaning up. She hummed a little tune. She loved her son deeply; that much was clear. But there was a little madness in her, too. Once she realized the greatness of who her child was, his dreams became her dreams. She would let no one come between him and his purpose.
After the meal, Victor hugged his mother and returned to his room to lie down. He was still tired. But now that he knew the lab was on the way, he had work to do. Plans to make. His frantic desire to begin awakened him. His previous drowsiness was replaced with a will of fire.
Tony said he'd take care of everything—and with as much guilt as the man must have, Victor suspected there would be surprises, maybe even gifts he hadn't anticipated.
He sat at his desk, pulled out paper, quill, and ink, and whispered, "System."
"Yes, Dr. Frankenstein?" an ethereal voice responded from the void.
No one else could hear it. That privilege was Victor's alone—not even his mother could hear the System's voice. He could call it silently if he wanted, but he preferred to speak out loud.
"It looks like, very shortly, I'll be able to complete my first mission."
"That's good news," the System replied.
"It's very good news. My first mission… to create my perfect monster."
"And what makes it perfect?" the System asked.
Victor leaned back. "I've thought long and hard. I understand now… I don't want to fear my creation, like the last one. I realize now—if I had shown it kindness instead of fear, things might have turned out differently."
"So you intend to create something, and hope you'll get along with?"
"Of course not. That would be foolish. I need more assurance than that. If I am not to fear the monster, then I must build it differently."
Victor was determined. This time, things would be different.
He wasn't trying to upend nature. He wasn't trying to save a loved one. No… this time, he would build an army. He would become the Monster Maker. He would save this world. That was the true goal of the System.
And once he did, he would move on to the stars!
He opened his mission tab. It read: "Create your perfect monster."
He remembered those days—two centuries ago. He had once created a monster, it was a test in his aim to master life and death. He wanted to resurrect his mother. Instead, a horrifying creature of strength, brilliance… and hatred was born. It became a philosopher, a poet… but it despised how it had been treated. That hatred turned it into a killer—his brother, his best friend, his bride, his dreams—destroyed.
He had chased the creature to the ends of the earth. Mary Shelley had written that it chose to destroy itself after its maker died. Whether true or not, Victor knew: it had potential for good. But his own fears ruined it.
Not this time.
This time, he would embrace his creation. Like a son.
If the first had been his Adam, then this one… this one would be his second Adam.
He would call him Noah.
Noah the Gray.
And he would bear the name Frankenstein.