The first thing that existed was not light, but its perfect, sterile imitation.
It fell from a long, rectangular panel set into the ceiling, a cool, unwavering luminescence that bleached all color into shades of monochrome grey. There were no shadows in this room; the light was too evenly distributed for that. It was a place without secrets, without corners to hide in. The air hummed with a low, sub-audible frequency, the sound of machinery breathing just behind the walls.
Two children sat on the floor, their backs against a smooth, featureless wall. They were small, perhaps three or four years old, mirror images of Aryan perfection. Their hair was the color of winter wheat, their eyes the precise shade of a summer sky replicated in high-grade polymer. They wore identical, plain grey smocks, devoid of buttons, zippers, or ornamentation. The only distinguishing marks were the stark black numbers stenciled on their chests.
001. The boy. His small hands were resting on his knees, fingers splayed. He was staring at a single, minuscule scuff mark on the otherwise pristine floor tiles, a tiny flaw in the infinite beige plane.
002. The girl. She mirrored his posture exactly, but her gaze was fixed on the light panel above, her pupils contracted to pinpricks against the glare. Her lips were slightly parted, as if on the verge of forming a word that never quite arrived.
They did not speak. Speech was not a function that had been activated. They observed. They processed. They waited for input.
The boy, 001, traced the scuff mark with his eyes, calculating its irregular shape. It was an anomaly. Anomalies were to be noted, cataloged, and assessed for risk. His internal processing was a silent stream of data: Dimension: 2.3 millimeters at its widest point. Composition: likely abraded polymer from footwear. Origin: unknown. Threat level: negligible.
His gaze shifted minutely to the girl, 002. Her biometrics, visible to him as a faint, translucent overlay in his perception—a function he did not question—were stable. Heart rate: 68 bpm. Respiration: 12 breaths per minute. Core temperature: 37.0 degrees Celsius. She was functional. Optimal.
Minutes bled into each other, measured only by the silent, internal chronometers they both possessed. Then, the input changed.
It was not a sound so much as a physical phenomenon. A deep, concussive THUMP that vibrated through the floor, through the walls, through the very marrow of their small bones. The hum of the machinery stuttered, and the perfect light flickered—a terrifying, impossible event that lasted 0.7 seconds.
001's systems registered a spike in adrenaline. Threat assessment protocols flooded his consciousness. Origin: External. Force: Extreme. Probability of structural failure: calculating…
A klaxon began to blare, a harsh, red sound that scraped against the sterile silence. Crimson emergency lights strobed in the corners of the room, painting their pale faces in alternating washes of white and bloody red. The sound of distant, muffled shouts filtered through the walls, followed by the unmistakable, percussive crack of high-energy weapons fire.
002 finally broke her gaze from the ceiling, looking at 001. Her blue eyes were wide, not with fear as an organic child might express, but with a kind of systems overload. Her data stream was a chaotic jumble of conflicting environmental readings.
The door to the room—a seamless part of the wall they had never seen open—hissed violently and slid into the ceiling.
Smoke, acrid and thick with the scent of ozone and burnt metal, billowed into the room, making them both blink against the irritation. Standing in the threshold, silhouetted by the chaotic, flashing lights of the corridor beyond, was a figure of immense, terrifying solidity.
It was a man encased in full combat body armor, matte black and angular, designed for function and intimidation. A heavy, military-grade assault rifle was held at the ready in his gloved hands. His face was completely obscured by a sealed helmet, the visor a blank, dark pane that reflected the strobing red lights and their two small, still forms. He was a giant, a golem of war carved from shadow and violence.
The soldier's helmeted head scanned the room, the weapon tracking with his gaze. It settled on them. He took a step inside, his armored boots crunching on a piece of fallen ceiling plaster. He raised his left hand, fingers curling in a 'come here' gesture. The motion was sharp, efficient, devoid of warmth.
001 felt a directive override his threat-assessment loops. A primary command: Obey Authority Figure. Follow.
He opened his mouth. His vocal synthesizer, rarely used, clicked softly in his throat. He intended to say, "Designation 001, awaiting orders." It was the only phrase he had been programmed to vocalize.
But the sound never came.
---
Now
Adam's eyes snapped open.
The sterile light, the smoke, the armored giant—it all shattered into the familiar, soft gloom of his enormous bedroom. For a single, disorienting second, the two realities superimposed: the terrifying soldier over the intricate damask patterns of the ceiling above his four-poster bed.
His heart was a jackhammer against his ribs, a frantic, organic drumbeat chasing away the ghost of the dream. He lay perfectly still, his body tense, every sense straining. The only sound was the soft whisper of climate-controlled air flowing from a vent and the distant, gentle rustle of leaves from outside.
He was not in that room. He was here. In the mansion.
He exhaled, a long, controlled breath that hissed through his teeth. The adrenaline surge began to recede, channeled and compartmentalized by a will that had been rigorously trained. He sat up, the silk sheets pooling around his waist. The bed was vast, an acre of mattress that could comfortably sleep five, and he was a single island in the center.
The dream again, he thought, the words crisp and clear in his mind. Always the same. The light. The numbers. The door.
He was no longer that small, helpless child in a smock. He swung his legs out of bed, his bare feet sinking into the thick, pile of the obsidian-black rug. He was seven, maybe eight years old—the exact date of his genesis was a piece of data Luther had deemed unnecessary—but he was built like a child athlete several years his senior. His frame was broad at the shoulder, lean and muscular, a testament to a brutal and unwavering physical regimen. He ran a hand through his shock of blond hair, now darker, more honey-colored than the platinum of his dream, and looked towards the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Dawn was bleeding across the sky, painting the clouds in shades of rose and violet. His room offered a panoramic view of the world below. The mansion was perched atop a solitary, towering hill, a fortress of glass, steel, and stone overlooking the sprawling, waking metropolis of Metropolis. The skyscrapers looked like children's blocks from this height, and the distant glint of the river was a snake of molten silver. It was a view designed to instill a sense of power, of ownership. All you survey. Luther's unspoken lesson in everything.
He was not that child. He was Adam. That was the name Luther had given him. It was sufficient.
He walked to the window, the cool polished concrete floor a contrast to the rug. He placed his palm against the chilled, triple-paned glass. The city was silent from here, the chaos and life reduced to a beautiful, sterile diorama. He could see the distinct, spear-like shape of the LexCorp Tower piercing the skyline, a monument to the man who owned him, this mansion, and arguably, the city itself.
A sharp, precise knock echoed from the heavy oak door of his room. It was 06:00. Exactly.
"Enter," he said, his voice calm, devoid of the sleep it had just left. It was a voice that commanded, a trait Luther had encouraged.
The door opened and a woman in a immaculate black and white maid's uniform stepped in. Her name was Eliza. She was in her fifties, her hair pulled back in a severe bun, her posture ramrod straight. Her eyes, a faded grey, never held warmth, only a kind of weary efficiency.
"Master Adam," she said, her voice as crisp as her uniform. "Mr. Luther requests your presence in his study. At your earliest convenience." The phrase was a formality. A request from Luther was a summons, and 'earliest convenience' meant immediately.
Adam turned from the window. "Thank you, Eliza. Inform him I will be there shortly."
She gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod and withdrew, closing the door without another sound.
The routine was a anchor. Adam moved to his walk-in closet, a space larger than the room of his dreams. His clothes were arranged by color and function. He bypassed the casual wear, the training gear, and selected a pair of dark, tailored trousers and a high-collared black shirt made from a sophisticated bio-synthetic weave that was both incredibly comfortable and offered a degree of protection against ballistics and energy dispersal. The clothes of a prince in a gilded cage, prepared for the outside world. He dressed with an economy of motion, each movement precise, wasted energy.
Splashing water on his face in the adjoining bathroom, he studied his reflection. Handsome. That's what the few staff who dared speak to him said. Strong jaw, clear blue eyes, symmetrical features. A perfect product. He saw the ghost of 001 in that face, but it was buried under layers of conditioning, training, and purpose. He was not a number. He was an investment.
He left his room and entered the hallway, a vast gallery of modern art and minimalism. The walls were a stark white, adorned with expensive, confusing paintings that consisted of single slashes of color on vast canvases. The floor was polished to a mirror shine, reflecting the soft glow of recessed lighting. His footsteps were silent on the runner that ran the hall's length. The air smelled of lemon polish and money.
He knew the path to Luther's study by heart. Down the main hall, left at the nine-foot marble statue of some obscure Greek Titan being overthrown, right at the second corridor, and it was the last door on the left. A fortress within a fortress.
He reached the heavy, dark wood door. It was closed. He could hear the low murmur of voices from within. Two. Luther's, a dry, calculating baritone, and another, a warmer, gravelly rumble he recognized instantly. A flicker of something—anticipation?—went through him. He did not knock. He turned the cold, brass handle and walked in.
Luther's study was a testament to controlled power. One entire wall was glass, offering the same breathtaking, domineering view of Metropolis. The others were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes that looked untouched. A large, minimalist desk of polished steel and ebony dominated the room, its surface holding only a state-of-the-art computer terminal and a single, sealed document folder.
Lex Luthor stood by the window, his back to the room, holding a crystal tumbler of amber liquid. He was wearing a exquisitely tailored navy suit that cost more than most cars. Even from behind, he radiated an aura of absolute control.
The other man sat in a low-slung leather armchair. He was large, with the thick neck and powerful build of a retired heavyweight boxer. His hair was steel grey, cut short, and his face was a roadmap of old scars and weathered skin. He wore a simple black tactical sweater and trousers. This was Master Wilson. Slade Wilson.
Luther didn't turn. "I often wonder," he said, his voice dripping with theatrical disappointment, "if, in my efforts to provide you with everything, I neglected the foundational pillars of basic respect. Such as knocking."
Adam stopped in the center of the room, his hands loose at his sides. "I could hear you speaking from the hall. The auditory data confirmed your state was not private. The action of knocking would have been a redundant formality."
Luther finally turned. His face was sharp, intelligent, and utterly devoid of paternal warmth. A faint smile played on his lips, but it didn't reach his cold blue eyes. "Always with the logic. A machine's answer." He took a sip of his drink. "Sometimes, Adam, formalities are the glue that holds society's facade together. Remember that."
His gaze then shifted past Adam, and his expression shifted minutely, the mock irritation fading into genuine business. "But I see your disregard for protocol does not extend to all guests."
Adam turned his head to face the man in the chair. "Master Wilson. I was not aware you were back from Santa Prisca."
Slade Wilson's single eye—the other was covered by a black patch—crinkled at the corner. His mouth quirked into something that wasn't quite a smile. "The situation there was… resolved. Efficiently. It's good to see you, Adam. You've grown. Luther's feeding you his protein shakes, I see." His voice was like gravel grinding together, but there was a note of something akin to approval in it.
"The baseline physical development is on schedule," Adam stated, though he felt a pulse of satisfaction at the comment from Wilson. Luther was his creator, his owner. But Wilson… Wilson was different. Wilson was the whetstone against which his skills were sharpened.
"I'm sure it is," Luthor said, moving to stand behind his desk. He set the tumbler down. "Shall we move to the matter at hand? We all have busy schedules."
Wilson gave a slight nod, his single eye fixed on Adam, assessing, as always.
Luthor steepled his fingers. "Adam, tomorrow you will accompany me into the city. There is a charity gala at the Metropolis Museum of Modern Art. We will arrive together. I will introduce you, publicly, as my son and heir."
Adam processed this. It was a new variable. "Acknowledged. What is the strategic purpose of this introduction? To create a public-facing proxy for your operations?"
"Perceptive," Luthor said, though he sounded bored. "Yes, a facade. But a useful one. Your primary function, however, remains elsewhere. Once the pleasantries are concluded, you will be relocated to Washington DC. There is a facility there, a research laboratory under the LexCorp banner, that specializes in biomedical modification and advanced weapons prototyping. You will be its nominal director."
"Nominal," Adam repeated.
"The scientists will run their projects. Your purpose is to oversee, to manage security, and most importantly, to ensure the facility's existence remains off the radar of a few… overly curious parties."
"The Justice League," Adam said. It was not a question.
Luthor's face tightened almost imperceptibly. "Them. And their little junior partners. They've become increasingly adept at locating and disrupting my operations. Their Kryptonian bloodhound in particular has a irritating habit of hearing things he shouldn't." He picked up the sealed folder and held it out. "This contains your new identity, security clearances, and the full schematics of the Washington facility. Memorize it. Then destroy it."
Adam stepped forward and took the folder. The paper was thick, expensive. "Understood. What is the acceptable threshold of force should the facility's security be compromised?"
Wilson answered, his voice a low rumble. "Avoid a direct confrontation. Your value isn't in a public fight. Scuttle the lab, erase the data, and extract. The project is more important than the place."
"Precisely," Luthor said. "Your training should make you more than capable of handling any mundane incursions. But if a cape shows up, you disappear. Is that clear?"
"Perfectly," Adam said.
"Good. I will depart for DC within the hour to finalize the arrangements. Your public debut is in forty-eight hours. A car will take you to the airport this afternoon." Luthor dismissed him with a wave of his hand. "Do not be late."
Adam nodded. He turned to leave, his mind already parsing the new data, building timelines and contingency plans. As he passed Wilson's chair, he paused and gave the man a slight, almost imperceptible nod. Wilson returned it with a faint gleam in his single eye.
Adam left the study, closing the door softly behind him. The moment the latch clicked, he heard a faint, high-pitched hum from within the room, a sound he knew well. An invisible forcefield had engaged, enveloping the study in a bubble of perfect silence, blocking even superhuman hearing.
Alone in the hallway, he didn't move. He stood there, the folder in his hand, and listened to the absolute nothingness coming from the room. He knew what they were discussing. He had heard the term before, in snippets of conversation he was never meant to hear.
Project Chimera.
---
Back in the study, Luthor watched the energy field's shimmer die down on his perimeter sensor display.
"He's ready, Lex," Wilson said, helping himself to the decanter on the sideboard. "More than ready. The physical and cognitive enhancements are stable. His combat programming is exceptional. He's the perfect instrument."
"He is an asset," Luthor corrected, his voice cold. "One of many. But Chimera is different. It's the culmination. The meta-gene research from that island, combined with the cloning stability we achieved with him…" He gestured vaguely in the direction Adam had gone. "001 was a proof of concept. A versatile, powerful, but ultimately straightforward template. Chimera… Chimera will be a masterpiece. A living weapon with power theft and replication abilities. It will be able to sample the DNA of any meta-human and not just mimic their power, but own it, refine it, make it its own."
"Ambitious," Wilson grunted. "And the boy? He's the key. His unique biological stability is the only thing that makes the Chimera host viable, isn't it?"
"He is the lock," Luthor said, a true, hungry smile finally gracing his features. "And the key. His body is the template. His compliance is the guarantee. Once Chimera is complete and the host is viable, Adam's purpose will evolve. He will be the handler. The keeper of the ultimate weapon. And the Justice League will finally learn what it means to play against a man who holds all the cards."
Outside the door, Adam finally moved away. He had heard nothing. But he didn't need to. He understood his role. He was a tool, a sophisticated and cherished one, but a tool nonetheless. For now, that was enough. It was his function.
He returned to his room. The vast, luxurious space felt different now. It was a launching pad. He packed a single, large duffel bag with efficient, practiced motions. The clothes, the folder, a few other items of tactical necessity. He did not pack mementos. There were none.
Two hours later, he walked out of the mansion's front entrance. The air outside was clean and sharp. A sleek, black helicopter sat waiting on the private landing pad, its rotors beginning to turn with a rising whine that shattered the hilltop's silence.
He did not look back at the mansion. He ducked under the spinning rotors and climbed into the cabin. The door slid shut, muffling the world. The helicopter lifted smoothly, banking away from the gilded cage.
As he relaxed his mind and entered a new slumber.
[END OF CHAPTER]