If in the first days after my reincarnation I seriously doubted the reality of everything happening, now I began to suspect that I'd ended up straight in a circus.
I should start with the fact that I did wake up and found myself in an unfamiliar spacious room that wasn't much different from a hospital ward: a huge number of devices and sensors surrounding my bed constantly emitted suspicious sounds, clearly reacting to the readings of their only patient.
I would have gladly removed the suction cups attached to my arms, chest, and temples if I could detach my hands from the bed, but I was tied down very securely. Perhaps they looked into Chris Russell's medical records and decided to play it safe just in case.
Overall, the first day passed very strangely: since there were no windows in the ward, and the walls of smooth concrete with metal reinforcements looked as if I'd been shoved into a maximum-security cell. I had to improvise, bombarding with questions those who came in about two or three times an hour to adjust the devices.
Need I say that all my questions were blatantly ignored? Moreover, as soon as I got a bit... out of control and decided to unleash a loud tirade consisting of profanities, I got a real electric shock!
Okay, I might be lying here, because it didn't feel much like an electric shock, but it was as if I'd short-circuited, and for another two whole hours, I couldn't utter a word. The demonstrative punishment was enough for me to understand everything and shut up, while continuing to observe all this routine madness.
However, I got some answers the next day when I woke up to a knock on the ward door. Without waiting for a response, the man standing outside in a white coat pushed the door open and entered, followed by eight more such... doctors. At least, mentally I called them doctors, although at least three of those present had visited me yesterday to perform some manipulations with the devices.
"Chris..." the man who entered first spread into a smile. Stopping next to my bed, he placed his hand on my shoulder, ignoring my unsuccessful attempt to pull away. "I think you have a lot of questions, right? We've been monitoring you for twenty-four hours," he looked into the corner of the room where another device stood on a pedestal, "and decided to tell you what's going on after all. Perhaps trust and understanding between us will have a positive effect, lowering your cortisol levels and restoring your calm."
"I'm hungry," I interrupted the doctor, slowly shifting my gaze from him to the people standing behind. Maybe assistants? Scientific specialists? Scientists? Damn, how hard!
"Of course," the doctor nodded, "and we'll fix that very soon too. You see, for some tests, we needed to wait twenty-four hours without food. So, you can call me Dr. Powell; I'm the head of the 'Controlled Evolution' project. What do you know about evolution, Chris?"
"I'm not in the mood," I muttered, not wanting to dive even deeper into this ocean of madness, "what's going to happen to me? Will you harvest my organs? Kill me? Turn me into something unpleasant?"
"You're only concerned about your own fate..." Powell shook his head, making me raise one eyebrow. Of course, I'm concerned about my fate! "You should think not only about yourself, Chris, but also about how you can influence the world. Since I don't want to bore you with a lecture for several hours," he turned for a moment, surveying the assistants, "it's better if I tell you right away that your genome is a combination of several incredibly rare coincidences."
"Am I a mutant?" I asked immediately, without waiting for the end of the explanations. At least that would make sense; after all, Death didn't choose this body for nothing. Or did she?
"No, no, no," Powell chuckled, winking at me, "and that's your uniqueness. You're one step away from the X-gene being activated, but your body blocks it at the most basic level. This genetically programmed mechanism doesn't make you unique; we've had... quite a few subjects with similar parameters, but the efficiency with which your body prevents any genetic manipulations... That's what makes you unique."
"Mmm," I drawled, not knowing how to react properly to such news. Probably, I should admit right away that I didn't understand a thing.
"We're close to creating a universal cure, Chris," Powell adjusted his dull hairstyle. "We're close to the threshold after which genetic programming of humans to heal from any disease will become possible. Years of searches and experiments have ultimately led us to you, the ideal sample of the unique sequence of genetic mutations we need. You're the clay from which we'll mold a medicine for future generations."
The assistants smiled upon hearing this speech, while everything inside me went cold. Becoming a lab rat was something I didn't want at all, and that's putting it mildly.
"I hope now you realize the importance of everything happening, Chris?" Dr. Powell smiled, but I closed my eyes, as I had no particular desire to respond. Certainly not after all that nonsense he just tried to drum into me. "In any case," he sighed, interpreting the silence of the mentally unstable teenager in his own way, "right now, not much depends on you. We can't guarantee success, but we'll work on it. If it works out, then... you'll be the one thanks to whom medicine will make an incredible leap. Just think about it, huh?! Just a month ago, your existence threatened to go unnoticed by the universe, and now you're our probable springboard into the future!"
Slightly opening one eye, I noticed how the assistants standing next to the doctor began nodding haphazardly, trying to suck up to the one overseeing the "Controlled Evolution" program, but Powell was clearly waiting for a response from me personally. Well, fuck him; I wasn't feeling any particular enthusiasm yet.
"We'll start preparing him for the first round of injections right after his body's condition stabilizes. Are the input data for the serum ready?" he turned to the specialists accompanying him.
"No, sir; the analyses from the hospital aren't detailed enough," one of the assistants shook his head. "Yesterday, we only took some external readings, but for results and further calculations, we need to wait a few more days."
I would have gladly bitten off that asshole's pinky finger if given the chance, because it was him who shocked me yesterday while conducting some of his stupid tests. I wouldn't say it was very painful, but the resentment for two hours of forced muteness had already firmly settled somewhere inside.
"Good, then we'll return to secondary factors since the timeline allows," Powell nodded, "focus on studying immune compatibility. Check all possible allergic hyperreactions to the serum components, including probable substitutes. If we can identify at least one deviation, we'll go back to genome sequencing. In the end, he still is the most suitable subject in all the years of research, far surpassing all other candidates, so we'll just eliminate the most noticeable deviations."
Having listened to all these orders and obsequious responses with a stone face and the look of a complete idiot, I waited until the ward emptied, after which I closed my eyes and could finally relax.
I'm a subject, just... wonderful.
I'm a subject in the secret "Controlled Evolution" program existing somewhere in the bowels of Oscorp Corporation. Not that I'd gotten used to it in just a day and a half—no, I was just tired of being surprised by what was happening around me.
Starting from the world I'd ended up in and the subsequent death of Peter Parker (honestly, I felt some involvement in that), everything had turned into some kind of circus with a single spectator. It would be fine if they didn't require the spectator to participate in some unattractive acts.
As you can understand, after Powell's visit, they continued to ignore me and my questions. However, by the third day, I decided there wasn't really anything to complain about. They removed the devices from the ward, at the same time freeing my hands and head from the sturdy straps that tied them to the high-tech bed.
They brought a TV on a special stand into the ward, gave me the remote, and then fed me. Actually, the feeding was something I definitely couldn't complain about: four meals a day, calculated for a normal person—beautiful! In addition, each time I asked for seconds, and each time I got an extra portion of the unchanging dessert, some dry but overall tasty brownie with nut inclusions.
I had to forget about escape on the first day, but there was nothing surprising in that. After all, the starting conditions for an isekai protagonist here were made as uncomfortable as possible, leaving me only to dream of freedom beyond the concrete walls.
Abbé Faria planned to escape from the Château d'If by digging a tunnel, right? Nevertheless, he had worthless but still tools, as well as freedom of movement within the prison cell. Even if we set aside all the features of the "research complex" where I found myself (and I knew nothing about its location), I still couldn't move. No one canceled the broken spine and legs bound with special tourniquets, so I couldn't dig a tunnel even if I really wanted to. The walls of metal and concrete, however, weren't very encouraging regardless of my personal well-being.
All that remained was to hope for the best, eat four times a day, each time persuading the silent center employees for an extra portion of dessert, and flip through the available TV channels. Actually, the last point told me everything I needed to know.
First of all, they still hadn't caught the Hulk, despite the rampage he caused in Harlem. Twenty-nine dead and thirteen injured, by the way. Honestly, this news upset me a lot. And it's not even that the green asshole killed the parents of this body's previous owner, but that some individuals were once again above the law.
Not that I was complaining, especially considering my own past, but it was a bit обидно to realize that Peter Parker's killer was wandering somewhere out there, free, while Parker and his uncle and aunt were feeding worms in closed coffins.
In general, Spider-Man's death really bothered me. I can't say I was some fan of superheroes, but... Spider-Man always appealed to some bright feelings, gave hope for the better, taught that with great power comes great responsibility, and his death seemed to tear a piece out of the living flesh of this world, leaving New Yorkers at the mercy of evil forces.
Evil forces, however, weren't visible on the horizon yet, but I was carefully following the news! Of course, Tony Stark's speech, in which he promised to present special weapons in the near future, led me to the obvious thought that the Avengers didn't exist here at all yet.
Actually, no one exists here; even mutants are only mentioned in the context of some conflicts, threats from Magneto, and a school for gifted teenagers. Charles Xavier, who appeared in one of the broadcasts, looked much younger than the actor who played him in the old movies. Of course, I felt like an idiot trying to compare reality and movies from another reality, but... nowhere to go; I didn't have much more entertainment.
You know what I did in my past life when I wasn't buried in work? Nothing! I rested, re-st-ed! It's just that the peculiarity of my past life was almost constant busyness, so I could rest extremely rarely. Probably, it was naive to stick to the saying "you'll rest after death," but I tried to take everything possible from the second chance, even if my ceiling was food and a big-screen TV.
All this made me think again that I might have jinxed myself when I appealed to luck in my past life. Could I have inadvertently declared that I consider myself lucky and thereby spoiled my karma? I suppose yes.
These thoughts became even brighter on the eighth day, when the next morning was marred by the first injection of what Powell called the "preparatory serum."
"Chris!" The ward door opened, and I lazily pressed the TV off button, setting the remote aside. This voice had become repulsive to me six days ago, when Dr. Powell first decided to come to my ward to meet me personally. "It seems we have good news!"
"Cool," I sighed, using the electronic remote to change the position of the technological bed, which allowed me to raise my head without straining my neck.
"Your readings are simply phenomenal!" Powell continued to broadcast, ignoring the lack of enthusiasm on my part.
Indifference turned to anxiety as soon as two "assistants" followed the doctor into the ward, one of whom was pushing a small table on which a whole array of various medical instruments was assembled. Damn, all this looked very, very bad.
"Since we can't immediately inject you with the final formula based only on primary studies," Powell continued, "we need to check your body's reaction to preliminary compositions. Starting with the one we used in some past... experiments. Of course, we've modified it so that no undesirable reactions occur, but... I still recommend remembering the side effects."
"Side effects?" I echoed.
My mouth went dry as I watched the doctor select a large opaque syringe from the metal tray and then attach a strange multilayered needle to it. I wanted to close my eyes, but instead, I continued to watch intently as he prepared the first "dose."
"Migraine, elevated temperature, heartburn, increased sweating..." Powell began listing, but waved his hand and smiled, turning to me. "Don't worry; we'll be nearby to prevent serious consequences. Gregory, first phase."
I don't know what he meant by first phase, but at that very moment, both assistants snapped out of their contemplation, approached me, and despite my obvious resistance, strapped my arms with belts, thereby depriving me of the scraps of mobility I had. The TV remote flew off the thin blanket, landing on the floor with a ringing sound, while the doctor approached me with the prepared syringe for injection.
"Don't worry, Chris."
I gritted my teeth, wishing more than anything in the world for my right hand to miraculously free itself and allow me to drive this sadist's Adam's apple into his throat, but... miracles don't happen in the world, even if we're talking about the Marvel universe.
The injection turned out to be relatively painless, despite the huge syringe filled with liquid, from whose needle a noticeable mark remained on my shoulder. Overall, there was no effect at all for the first minute, but then...
I don't know how my skull didn't split from this headache. I would have screamed if I could open my mouth, but the pain was so unbearable that all I could do was twitch every time someone inside my head swung and hit my skull with a sledgehammer.
I was thrown from hot to cold while the doctor continued to stand nearby and smile. Every few minutes, the headache receded, and I could hear his speech again. He was delighted that everything was going according to predictions. So that's what your predictions are like, huh?
Heat, cold, headache. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. The side effects finally weakened only by evening, when only I remained in the ward. No one bothered to pick up the fallen remote, so I lay like that all night, unable to sleep because of the still lingering headache.
The next day, the situation repeated, and even the side effects were identical. This time, Powell seemed even more cheerful than before. Every stifled cry of mine delighted him, making him turn again to some devices with which they checked my condition. Fortunately, on the second day, it let go much earlier, allowing me to eat heartily and fall asleep, compensating for the lack of sleep from the previous day.
On the third day, they let me rest, but on the fourth, they returned with another version of the preliminary formula, after which I lay for almost a day with my tongue hanging out. It felt like I'd been pumped with some tranquilizer, but everything was spoiled by the unrelenting constant itch, which nearly drove me insane, since my arms and head were again tied to the bed.
It seems my "vacation" ended much faster than I expected.
Okay, I'm ready to admit it.
I'm a loser. Okay, I admitted it, hear me?! I'm a loser! Satisfied?
Does this count as a blow to karma or not yet? Can I cancel the consequences of the previous jinx?
Talking to myself won't lead to anything good, but I'm pretty tired already from staring at white walls and all these unpleasant procedures, from which I'll soon develop a nervous tic. I'll be lucky if I can at least preserve my sanity, although such meaningful conversations with myself are a sure sign that loss of reason is not far off.
Still, it's worth mentioning that in my personal classification, there are several subtypes of losers.
You're probably familiar with the first one—the one from whose hands everything falls. Such a person attracts attention at first, but over time, the people around him just get tired of how pathetic he is. Uninteresting life, boring job where he's bullied all his life, family, children—he can even live to a ripe old age. The key sign that he was a loser will be the silence at the funeral: neither his children nor his wife, who has already found a replacement, will be able to say anything specific about him. Good husband, good father, thanks everyone, disperse.
You know, the classic loser, whose main problem was and remains a lack of ambition. If he found even a drop of courage and aspiration in himself, everything could have been different.
The second subtype is the fun loser. The very person who tries to attract attention to himself, but his actions don't cause admiration, only make people wrinkle their noses and turn away. I knew one like that: he tattooed a lip print from a prostitute who kissed him on his cheek, then showed up at the brothel with that "gift" on his face and a ring in his pocket. Such people have ambitions, but they work in the wrong direction. Most likely, the reason is a lack of brains, and nothing can be done about that.
And the third subtype is the victim of circumstances. This includes smart, brave, honest, kind, forgiving, strong people with big warm hearts who become losers not by their own will, but due to specific circumstances that a person cannot cope with.
In case you're wondering, that's me right now.
Of course, my intelligence is quite conditional, I never suffered from an excess of bravery, all my life I lied to everyone, including myself, and instead of a heart, I have a hole, but... otherwise, I'm really kind (at least, I want to believe that) and absolutely a victim of force majeure circumstances.
As soon as I heard that the experiments with preliminary versions were finished, I exhaled. However, I did so in vain, because right after that, Powell with his characteristic smile informed me that the final composition was already prepared for injection, and only a few days remained until the end of the experiment.
Refusing to answer the question about what would happen to me after the "end of the experiment," he left the ward, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Dying a second time, and for the benefit of a multibillion-dollar corporation, was something I didn't want at all. The problem was that I couldn't do anything about it. Damn! If Death had thrown me into this world just a day earlier, so I could avoid the trip to Harlem...
However, history doesn't tolerate the subjunctive mood. A few days? Not so much, but... I still decided to hope for the best, even though I knew that hope is a dangerous thing.