Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia – June 15, 2016
The camera of the mind's eye drifts over the O.X.E. Research Facility, a massive fortress of glass and steel piercing the humid Malaysian night. Floodlights cast a sterile white glow over the compound's perimeter, the letters O.X.E.—a name whispered only in the hushed halls of governments and military forces—blazoned across the front.
Inside, the faint hum of cold fluorescent lights follows the steady rhythm of two men's boots echoing through a pristine corridor. Their movements are measured, their postures rigid. They wear identical black tactical uniforms, their bodies armoured at the joints, helmets concealing their faces. On their chests, the gleaming O.X.E. emblem stands out—a symbol of the organization's hidden power.
A squad of armed personnel shadows them, their rifles held tight, eyes sharp and alert. The air is thick with a sense of military discipline and well-kept secrets.
The pair reaches the end of the hallway, then turns sharply to the left. They stop before a reinforced steel door marked with a single, chilling designation: PROJECT: VARIABLE.
One of the men, a gloved hand moving with practiced efficiency, punches a code into the keypad. A soft hiss signals the disengagement of the locks, and mechanical bolts slide back with a low thud. The door groans open, spilling a pale, ethereal light into the corridor.
Without a word or even a glance at each other, they step inside.
The heavy steel door sealed shut behind them, the soft hiss of its locks a final note of separation from the outside world.
Inside, the chamber was vast and eerily silent. Rows of dormant machines stood like skeletal giants, their screens dark and lifeless. Wires, thick and black, coiled like sleeping serpents across the floor. The air was sterile, carrying the faint, clean scent of metal and sterilized chemicals—a place that felt as if it had been abandoned only a moment ago.
But in the very centre of the room... something was alive.
Suspended within a cylindrical pod of reinforced glass, a young man floated motionless. He couldn't have been more than twenty-one. His long, blond hair drifted lazily in the viscous, pale-blue liquid, each strand curling like a thread of gold beneath the cold, humming light.
His features were sculpted into an unnatural perfection. High cheekbones, a jawline carved with precision, and lips set in a faint, unreadable curve. He was beautiful in a way that was unsettling—regal, flawless, and almost alien. He seemed less a man and more an experiment in human perfection.
Electrodes clung to his temples and chest, their cords disappearing into the base of the pod. Tiny streams of bubbles escaped his lips with each shallow, measured breath. His eyes, closed tightly against the world, concealed whatever truth lay within.
The two men stopped, their boots silent now on the polished floor. They instinctively lowered their voices, though no one else was present to hear. The silence of the room pressed in on them, broken only by the low thrum of the pod's life support systems.
One of them finally spoke, his voice hushed, almost reverent.
"Project Variable," he said, the name a whisper of a promise.
The two guards stood in uneasy silence, the low hum of the pod filling the sterile room. Finally, one of them, his breath fogging the inside of his helmet, reached up and unclasped it. With a soft hiss of released pressure, he pulled it off, revealing a sweat-slicked face. He exhaled heavily.
"I swear," he muttered, wiping his brow, "I feel suffocated in this damn uniform. I can't even breathe properly."
The second guard gave a short, dry chuckle. "You're not the only one." He unclipped his own helmet, tucking it under his arm. His tone shifted, becoming quieter as his eyes flicked toward the pod. "Do you… know what this is?"
The first guard glanced at the suspended figure, a flicker of unease in his gaze. "Yeah," he said after a moment, his voice low. "I know."
The second guard leaned closer, lowering his voice as if the walls themselves had ears. "Tell me," he said, his eyes returning to the pod. "Do you know the Avengers?"
The first guard frowned. "Of course, I know them. Those American superheroes—" he gestured vaguely with his helmet. "—they fought each other not too long ago. Civil War. It was all over the news." He nodded toward the figure floating in the liquid. "But what does this have to do with them?"
The other guard's lips curled into a faint, knowing smile. "Be patient," he murmured. "I'll explain."
The second guard's gaze settled on the young man in the pod, his voice dropping to a near-whisper.
"You know, right? This facility… they've been trying to recreate the Super-Soldier Serum. Like Captain America."
The first guard let out a dry, bitter laugh. "Yeah, I know. But these people…" he gestured at the empty machines and the silent room. "…they always fail. We've seen it ourselves." His tone darkened, his eyes narrowing. "How many times have we hauled the bodies out? All those… mistakes. Always disposed of before anyone outside even notices."
The second guard nodded slowly, his jaw tightening. "Yes," he said softly. "Always."
For a moment, silence returned, broken only by the soft, rhythmic hiss of the pod's systems. Both men stared at the figure suspended in liquid perfection, the weight of their words hanging heavy in the air.
The first guard shifted uncomfortably, his eyes never leaving the young man floating in the pod. "So the scientists kept failing… but then they thought—" he hesitated, as if speaking the words aloud was dangerous, "—what if they combined the Avengers? Not just the serum, but their very bloodlines. The strength of a god like Thor… the mind of Tony Stark…"
The second guard swallowed hard, nodding grimly. "And they created this boy. Injected him with a perfected strain of the serum. But the project failed. At least, that's what they said."
His voice dropped to almost nothing. "This body shouldn't be alive. By all logic, he should have been another corpse. But here he is. Breathing. Floating. Unconscious."
The first guard tightened his grip on his helmet. "I heard the order myself. He'll never wake up. We're to dispose of him… cremate the body, erase the evidence."
The words hung heavy in the sterile air. Both men stared at the serene figure in the pod—too perfect, too alive, and far too dangerous to simply be called a failure.
The guards exchanged a long look, a moment of shared understanding. Shock gave way to a grim kind of relief. At least their orders were clear now. No questions, no hesitation. Just procedure.
The first guard slipped his helmet back on, the hiss of the seal a sharp sound in the quiet chamber. The second followed suit, his voice filtered and firm once the mask was in place.
"All right," he said, authority creeping back into his tone. "You—go bring the stretcher. I'll start draining the pod."
The first guard nodded and moved quickly toward the back of the room, his footsteps echoing in the sudden silence. The second turned to face the pod, his gloved hand moving to the control panel as if he were simply flipping a switch.
The second guard pressed a sequence of keys on the console. With a low hiss, hidden valves opened, and the viscous blue gel began to drain from the pod. The liquid slithered downward in thick streams, gurgling into unseen channels as the young man's body descended inch by inch.
His long blond hair, dark with moisture, clung to his face, his unnaturally perfect features now fully exposed under the sterile white light. Droplets of the fluid slid down his jawline like cold tears.
The chamber was silent, save for the soft hum of machinery and the steady rush of liquid leaving the pod.
Moments later, the heavy door creaked open again. The first guard returned, pushing a wheeled stretcher ahead of him. He guided it to the base of the pod and locked the wheels with a practiced snap.
"I'm here," he said, his voice muffled through the helmet. He took his position beside his partner, both men now standing over the glass chamber, the stretcher waiting below like an altar.
The body lowered further, almost free from the draining gel.
At last, the final streams of gel drained away, leaving the pod empty. The glass walls hissed as they retracted, releasing the body into the open air for the first time.
The two guards moved in quickly, working with a cold efficiency. Together, they lifted the young man's limp form from the restraints, his damp hair hanging like strands of molten gold across his pale features.
Even lifeless, he looked more statue than human—sculpted perfection, unsettling in its stillness. His skin was cool to the touch, unnaturally so, and yet… there was a faint rhythm beneath it. A pulse. Something neither man dared acknowledge, not even to himself.
They lowered him onto the stretcher, locking the straps across his chest and arms. The wheels squeaked faintly as they began to push, their boots echoing against the sterile tiles.
Step by step, they guided the stretcher through the corridor, the path marked by clinical signs and cold fluorescent lights. Their destination: the cremation chamber, where failures of Project Variable were erased without a trace.
Neither spoke. Neither looked at the boy again. For them, it was just another body. Another disposal.
The corridor stretched long and sterile, their footsteps echoing against the polished tiles. Neither guard spoke as they pushed the stretcher forward, the body strapped tight upon it, golden hair spilling lifelessly over the sides.
With every turn, the silence pressed heavier, broken only by the faint squeak of the wheels.
Finally, they reached a junction. To the right, a reinforced steel door stood waiting, its surface blackened from heat and stamped with a simple designation in stark white lettering: CREMATORIUM.
The second guard exhaled, his breath fogging the inside of his mask. "We're here," he muttered.
Together, they turned the stretcher and guided it toward the door. The lock disengaged with a metallic click, and the heavy panel slid open, revealing the chamber beyond.
The air that spilled out was hotter, thicker—carrying with it the faint, acrid scent of ash.
The heavy door slid shut behind them with a resonant clang, sealing the two men and the stretcher inside.
The crematorium was a stark, utilitarian chamber — metal walls scorched from years of use, the air heavy with heat and the faint, acrid tang of burnt residue. At the far end, a massive furnace loomed, its hatch like the gaping maw of some mechanical beast, faint orange light flickering from within.
The guards wheeled the stretcher into the center of the room, the wheels groaning against the steel floor. The young man's body lay motionless, pale skin gleaming under the harsh light, golden hair plastered against his temples.
The second guard straightened, squaring his shoulders. His voice came low but firm through the helmet.
"Start the preparations. You handle the machine," he ordered. "I'll take care of the body."
The first guard gave a curt nod and moved toward the control panel beside the furnace, the hum of dormant systems waiting at his fingertips. The second guard remained at the stretcher, gloved hands tightening on the restraints, ready to lift the body toward the flames the end.