For the world, he was William Baker. But William Baker, the man who had spent the last five years trying to become better, died today in a sterile room before three indifferent faces. He died when he was denied parole once again.
He sat, clutching a bundle of letters from his ex-wife in his sweaty palms. The letters on the thin paper blurred, but he knew every word by heart. "Keely has gotten worse again...", "The doctors say we need money...", "She keeps asking about you...". His daughter. His little Keely. She had cancer. And the only thing William wanted was to be near her. To hold her hand. To earn, steal, beg—to do anything to pay for her treatment and atone for even a small part of his mistakes.
He had been honest with them. For the first time in his life, he was completely honest with the men in suits. He laid everything out, even showed them those letters. But their verdict was as ruthless as prison steel. "Denied." No explanation given. Three more years. Here. On Ryker's Island, a concrete island-ulcer where he was destined to rot further. But he would only rot metaphorically. His daughter was dying for real.
The moment the parole board judge's gavel hit the table, William Baker vanished. Inside him, Flint Marko woke up once more. A pragmatic, risk-taking, desperate thief for whom the end always justified the means. He was never going to be a good family man. Most likely, he'd have to return to the gang, to go into hiding again. He wouldn't be able to spend much time with Keely. But he could get the money. His stashes... they were still out there, waiting for their hour, and perhaps they would have already gone to help his daughter... if the letters hadn't been read and visitors hadn't been banned...
"It's decided," Marko thought. "Plan: Escape. Tonight."
While the administration was busy kissing the asses of the important commission, they didn't care about another loser. This was his chance. The sewer. A crude, stinking, but most effective path to freedom, the schematic of which he had accidentally glimpsed from a slow-moving worker. Hesitation was just more seconds of his daughter's suffering. He acted.
And, of course, almost everything immediately went to hell.
A guard, young and overly zealous, decided to do an unscheduled round. An empty cell for the "legendary" thief Marko. An urgent radio call to the maintenance block. A negative response. And the wail of a siren, tearing through the night silence.
The escape was discovered only three minutes after Flint was already standing on the banks of the East River, inhaling the foul but intoxicating air of freedom. Sensing the pursuit with his gut, he bolted wherever his eyes led him. Away from the prison. The docks. Rusty containers, lopsided warehouses, the smell of fish and fuel oil. This was the best possible option. Weaving between buildings, he stumbled upon it—a damn huge tank with the nearly faded inscription "Hammer Industries." The ladders leading up were welded solid. It was a sign.
"Pff... Just sand," Flint exhaled, having climbed to the top and looked into the open hatch.
Golden grains glinted invitingly in the moonlight. Ideal. He jumped inside. They definitely wouldn't find him here. Lazy cops would hardly venture up, and if they did—he'd just bury himself in the sand for a few minutes. The hardest part was behind him. He just had to endure. Only twenty-four hours. What are twenty-four hours after five years of hell? The main thing was that it didn't rain.
Evening enveloped the city. Exhaustion was taking its toll. Trusting his sharp prison sleep, Flint closed his eyes, burrowing into the cool sand. Maybe he wouldn't even have to wait the full day. At night, under the cover of darkness, he would get out and start his journey to Keely.
***
Did William know that this wasn't just a tank, but a giant industrial homogenizer? Did he know that its purpose wasn't storage, but mixing sand with radioactive particles for one of dozens of secret projects for Hammer Industries? Did he know that this very night, another tired and lazy worker, sent to start the cycle, wouldn't bother to climb the stairs in his bulky hazmat suit to check the contents? Did he know that the started process would end in a critical failure, leading to a monstrous explosion?
No. A simple street thug knew none of this. He couldn't even imagine that someone would have the audacity and recklessness to experiment with radioactive materials within city limits.
And he also couldn't imagine that this night wouldn't kill him, but change him. Radically and forever.
***
Reed Richards. That name was acid, corroding the soul of Otto Octavius. A genius who succeeded. An idol of millions, smiling from screens, talking about stars, while he, Otto, a true titan of thought, languished in this pathetic laboratory on handouts from Norman Osborn. From the humiliating generosity of a man whose intellect was that of a merchant, not a creator. "Nothing," Otto hissed, looking at his reflection in the polished casing of a manipulator. "You will know my name yet. You will all know it."
His gaze moved to the creation of his life, resting on a stand like four sleeping serpents. His manipulators. Not just machines—it was perfection itself, forged in the furnace of his brilliant mind. A titanium alloy reinforced with carbon fiber—as strong as mythical adamantium and light as a feather. They could withstand a five-ton load, yet possessed the flexibility and precision of a surgeon's fingers. Telescopic, invulnerable to heat and radiation. It was a masterpiece.
Their presentation, just three weeks away, was supposed to change everything. He imagined the faces of those moneybags, those short-sighted investors. They had to understand! The applications for his technology were truly limitless. Managing nuclear reactors without the risk of radiation. Manipulating toxic substances. Jewelry-level repair of satellites in orbit. Surgical operations inaccessible to the human hand. His manipulators were to become the hands and eyes of science, accelerating progress by decades!
Otto cast a spiteful glance at his experimental gamma reactor. Its assembly would have taken half as much time had he been more confident in his own creation back then.
And the manipulators themselves were just the tip of the iceberg! The neural interface! A revolutionary technology allowing them to be controlled by thought, like one's own limbs. He had created it. Alone. Without the help of corporations or government grants. So why?! Why was he still locked in this pathetic, self-made laboratory?! Why was his name, the name of a world-class scientist, always mentioned in a humiliating comparison to that bastard Richards, to that walking wallet Norman, to that daddy's boy and rich brat Stark?!
No... He was a Genius. And Richards, returning from his cosmic odyssey, would bring fame, new discoveries, and tens of billions in investment. And what would be left for him? Otto Octavius with his "tentacles"? He would become a footnote in history, a forgotten eccentric. That thought was unbearable. It was like physical pain.
"No. That won't happen."
Looking at his creations, Otto suddenly understood. The true potential of his technology could only be demonstrated by its creator. Personally. He needed to move the presentation up. To hold it before Richards' triumphant return. But how? How to make those fat cats come running at his first beck and call? The answer was obvious. He would become a living demonstration himself. He would show them not just a machine, but a new man. A creator-man.
Without hesitating for another second, he took a miniature neural interface chip. Cold metal touched his neck as he attached it to his spine. Thousands of tests and simulations. The process was tuned to perfection. He put the mounting mechanism on his torso, and the four titanium limbs came to life, smoothly rising behind his back. He made a few trial movements: one hand served him a glass of water with perfect smoothness, another opened and closed a laptop lid. He felt them as his own. It was a divine sensation.
All that remained was to film a short video and send it to the investors with an ultimate invitation. "Come tomorrow, or miss the chance to touch the future." Yes, September 23rd would be the day of his triumph.
Directing the camera at himself, he moved toward the bedroom to change into a more presentable suit. He had to walk through the entire laboratory. All of it, cluttered with equipment, cables, and crates of tools. His new dimensions... his genius in the heat of inspiration hadn't considered such a trifle as the width of the doorway...
"FUCK!"
That was the last coherent thought that flashed through his head. One of the hands, moving instinctively to maintain balance, hooked an equipment rack. A chain reaction. The crash of falling metal. And that damn experimental gamma reactor, which he had so carelessly knocked, tilted and flew toward the floor... straight onto the sharp claw of another manipulator, which subconsciously reacted to catch the reactor.
There was a sickening screech of a punctured casing. For a moment, silence reigned. And then the laboratory was flooded with an unbearable, emerald radiance, and Otto Octavius's world exploded.
***
Francis Freeman hated delegating important tasks. Subordinates were tools—blunt, but obedient. However, sometimes an apparently simple job required a personal presence. It required a scalpel, not a hammer. Like now.
He sat at the bar with the ironic name "Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Girls" and had been waiting for half an hour. The air was thick, saturated with the smell of cheap beer, sweat, and notes of despair. Francis looked around the shabby room with disgust. He was a stranger here—an expensive suit in a pile of dirty laundry. But his goal was worth submerging into this filth for a time.
Wade Wilson. A former special forces soldier, though there are no "formers" in their business. Iraq, Afghanistan. A sniper, a master of sabotage and hand-to-hand combat. After the army—one of the best mercenaries on the market, with a track record that would make an ordinary person's hair stand on end. An incredibly valuable asset. An ideal candidate for the Program.
Francis's thoughts flowed smoothly to his brainchild. "Weapon X." A secret project started in Canada back in the 80s. Creating super-soldiers with regeneration. Thirty years later, the echoes of this program still stirred the minds of the powers that be. Alas, truly successful specimens were few and far between, and he, Francis, was one of them. Therefore, they decided to rethink the approach. To come from a different, more twisted side. Cancer cells.
Francis wasn't a scientist. He didn't care where the biomass for regeneration came from. The eggheads assured him it would work. That was enough. It remained only to find the ideal test subject. After a series of failed specimens that turned into whimpering lumps of flesh, the selection criteria became extremely strict.
First, the presence of cancer at a late, incurable stage. Second, an unbreakable will. The "turning" process was hell, and only a hardened subject could withstand it. And third, the most important—internal consent. Not words. The candidate had to desperately, animalistically want to live. A spark had to burn in him, and the survival mechanism had to work at the limit.
The bar door creaked. Wade entered. He was swaying, but held himself confidently, like a man for whom this state was the norm.
"Mr. Wilson?" Francis's voice sounded steady and cold.
Wade ignored him, flopping onto the next stool.
"Jacky, old man, who is this blondie in your daddy's suit hanging around here?" Wade asked the bartender loudly, nodding carelessly toward Francis. The bartender, an elderly man with a scar across his cheek, only shrugged as he poured the whiskey.
"Hell if I know. Seems like he was waiting for you. Probably wants to throw some work your way."
"Tell him I don't take orders from unverified blondies. Especially without a middleman," Wade drained his glass in one gulp and slammed it on the counter. "Again."
"He doesn't..." Jack began, addressing Francis.
Francis interrupted him, not even turning his head. His voice cut through the air like glass.
"I heard everything. Wade Wilson. A hopelessly cancer-ridden bastard with metastases in your liver, lungs, and, judging by your humor, your brain. Tell me, do you want to live? Or are you ready to kick the bucket in a month, leaving behind only a fart-stained spot in this bar and debts?"
He knew how to talk to people like Wade. He was one of them himself, albeit in the past... The silence that hung at the counter was more eloquent than any words. Wade slowly turned his head. The fish had bitten.
"Jacky, did I mishear?" Wade caricaturedly cleaned his ear with a finger, but his gaze became sharp and attentive. "Today is Tuesday, not Thursday. Usually, there are fewer psychos on the horizon."
"Well, some psychos flew into space today," Jack remarked philosophically, wiping a glass. "Others are offering cures for the incurable. Quite in the spirit of a Tuesday. On Thursday, the level of absurdity is just higher."
Wade chuckled, but his gaze didn't leave Francis. All the playfulness stripped away, leaving only a hard, evaluating mask.
"And then what?" he finally addressed Francis directly. "Let's assume... I want to live."
***
"As Gagarin said, POEHALI!" the voice of Reed Richards, full of boyish delight and genius confidence, rang out across the whole world.
And the ship took off.
First—a deafening roar, which for the crowd was just noise, but for Marcus Milton—a symphony. He didn't hear a crash, but the thunderous heartbeat of an engine. He didn't see fire, but the controlled rage of a miniature sun, tearing the chains of Earth's gravity. The metal shuttle, aimed at infinity, carried five brave fools to conquer space. A space that, contrary to their wildest dreams, was not empty. It was inhabited, it was alive, and it was ruthless.
A figure detached from the crowd of enthusiastic journalists. A buff, wiry blond man in glasses and an inexpensive suit. The badge read: "Marcus Milton, NYC News journalist." A mask. An ideal mask he had worn for two decades now. Marcus's concentrated face would have seemed like ordinary professionalism to any outside observer. Just like hundreds of other people with their heads tilted back to the sky. Humanity was entering a new era. Everyone was excited. And he alone knew the terrible truth.
There are far more threats in space than on Earth.
The soaring ship momentarily blocked the sun, and the shadow covering Marcus awakened a memory. A memory of another sky, crimson, torn apart by the silent scream of a dying planet. Eterna. His home world. Destroyed by one of those threats. Galactus. A name that still echoed icily in his soul. An entity of incredible power, whose hunger was absolute. His race, technologically ahead of humanity by millennia, couldn't withstand him. They burned up trying to protect their world.
His parents, the last of the last, put the energy of their own lives into an experimental portal. He still remembered the warmth of their hands on his shoulders, the desperate love in their eyes, and the last word that sounded not as a voice, but as a thought: "Live." And the seven-year-old boy was thrown into this world, onto Earth. Here he was found and adopted by a kind family of farmers from Kansas. Here he lived as an ordinary man, which he never was and could never be.
He was an Eternal. The last son of Eterna. Under the light of this yellow sun, his cells sang with power. He was thousands of times stronger, hundreds of times faster than any human. He knew how to fly. His skin was practically invulnerable. His sight pierced walls, his hearing caught whispers from kilometers away. Such as him here were called simply and concisely—"meta." And their fate, as he had noticed, was unenviable.
Noble personalities trying to become heroes quickly and mysteriously vanished. Those who succumbed to the temptation of power became villains and burned out even faster. Being different in this world was a curse. And until today, Marcus hadn't stood out. But he admired. He admired the courage of the Spider-Woman, soaring over the night streets. He read with interest stories about old British and Soviet superheroes. Heroism was in his blood, the heritage of a race of protectors. And now... it was time.
This launch was not just a scientific breakthrough. It was the shot of a starting pistol. Humanity was taking its first, childishly naive step into the cosmic era. And very soon it would learn that it was not alone. They would be lucky if the first they met were the Kree or the Korbinities. But more likely, the world awaited a series of catastrophes spawned by this step.
And this world, like never before, would need a symbol.
A symbol that even in the face of universal horror, there is hope. A symbol that in the face of chaos, unity is possible. A symbol of indestructible Strength that would stand in their defense.
Marcus Milton lowered his gaze. The notebook fell from his weakened fingers to the ground, forgotten and unneeded. The mask no longer mattered. His gaze, no longer that of a journalist but a guardian, was fixed on the sky, where the fiery point of the ship had disappeared.
It was time. Time for Hyperion to step out of the shadows.