Erick's Point of View
The basement of the Hargrove mansion—now Smith—was like a world apart, an underground labyrinth stretching beneath the vastness of the property like the ancient roots of a centuries-old tree. The air down there was fresh and controlled, filtered by a ventilation system I had installed in the first few days after moving in, eliminating any trace of dampness or mold that might have seeped in over the years of neglect. LED lights hanging from the high ceiling—at least ten meters in some places—illuminated the space with an impersonal white light, highlighting the stone arches that supported the weight of the mansion above. The uneven slabs of polished granite echoed my footsteps, and the faint hum of the servers in the background was like the heartbeat of a sleeping giant. I had spent the last two weeks transforming this place into my permanent headquarters—a necessary upgrade after selling the patents to Wayne Enterprises. The upfront $380 million had been a game-changer, but the royalties that were starting to trickle into my account were the real prize: a steady stream that allowed me to invest without worry. Now, with my family settled in the upper floors, I could focus on what really mattered—Project Gold, the evolution of the elemental, and, of course, strengthening the alliances I was building.
Artemis was beside me, her almond-shaped eyes scanning the space with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism I knew well. She was dressed casually—a light jacket over a fitted t-shirt and jeans that accentuated her athletic curves—but her posture was the same as always: arms crossed, chin raised, as if ready to question everything I said. The city wind didn't reach down there, but the air conditioning created a subtle breeze that lightly ruffled the blonde strands escaping from her ponytail. I had invited her here because… well, because she was part of this now. The clandestine patrols, the rooftop training, those tense moments that went beyond the fight—all of that made her more than a partner. She was someone I trusted, and showing her that was the next step in the "Artemis Protocol," as Natasha called it in my nightly simulations.
"This is the central command center for my operations," I said, gesturing toward the vast main hall. "Everything I do—planning, monitoring, manufacturing—converges here. It's like the brain of the mansion. Before, in the old basement at Crest Hill, it was cramped, makeshift. Here, I have room to expand. Look at that."
I approached a side wall where a thick metal door—reinforced with titanium plates I had personally transmuted—was camouflaged among the stone arches. The control panel beside it was discreet: a numeric keypad embedded in the rock, with a small OLED screen that blinked a green cursor. I typed the sequence—7-3-9-1-4-2-8-5-6-0—my fingers flying over the keys with the precision of someone who had memorized the code weeks ago. The panel emitted a sharp beep, followed by a deep mechanical hum. The internal locks disengaged with a metallic bang—a loud sound, as if metal were grinding its teeth—echoing throughout the basement like a restrained thunderclap. The door opened slowly, revealing an adjacent room illuminated by the cold blue glow of monitors.
Artemis blinked, surprised by the noise, but maintained her composure. "Impressive. It sounds like the entrance to a nuclear bunker. What's in there that needs so much security?"
I went in first, beckoning her to follow. The room was the technological heart of the basement: an expanded command center, with several CPUs lined up in liquid-cooled racks, buzzing like a swarm of mechanical bees. The main monitor was a wall of curved screens—ten 32-inch panels each, forming an immersive semicircle around an ergonomic chair I'd brought from my old house and upgraded with hydraulic shock absorbers. Fiber optic cables snaked across the floor, connecting everything to a central server I'd assembled with components purchased legitimately from industrial suppliers—nothing from the black market, except for the occasional rare connector I'd obtained through legal, but discreet, channels. The air there was cooler, kept at 18°C to optimize machine performance, and the constant hum was almost hypnotic.
"This is my main command terminal," I explained, sitting in the chair and turning to face her. "I've radically upgraded it in the last few weeks. Before, in the old basement, processing power was limited—it relied on recycled components and makeshift overclocks. Now, with the patent money, I've bought cutting-edge hardware: next-generation multi-core processors, terabytes of RAM, dedicated GPUs for complex simulations. I've improved processing power by at least fifty times. I don't even know what I'll be able to do with all this—simulations that used to take days now run in hours, data analyses I never dreamed of processing. It's like having my own personal supercomputer."
She approached, leaning in to look at the screens—one of them displayed real-time performance graphs, ascending curves showing peaks in CPU and GPU usage. "Fifty times? That's insane. What do you need that much power for? To play video games or to hack the Pentagon?"
I chuckled softly, turning my chair to switch off the main monitor. "Neither one nor the other. It's for larger projects—modeling, virtual prototypes, things that require heavy calculations. But come on, I'll show you the rest. The whole basement is my playground now."
We left the control room, the metal door slamming shut behind us with another deep bang, and I guided her through the underground labyrinth. The basement was immense—equivalent to a football field, with branches extending beneath the gardens and beyond. Stone archways divided the space into natural "rooms," each with potential I had already mentally mapped out. I started in the east wing: an area with newly installed metal shelves, filled with boxes of electronic components—resistors, capacitors, microchips—all purchased from legitimate suppliers like Digi-Key and Mouser, delivered directly to the mansion by trucks I had scheduled. In the center, a long workbench with precision tools: soldering irons, digital multimeters, oscilloscopes that blinked with residual readings.
"This is where I do the smaller experiments," I explained, pointing to a shelf with semi-assembled prototypes—a palm-sized drone with retractable propellers, a dart launcher with a holographic sight. "Battery, circuits, integrations. Nothing too dangerous, but essential for what comes next."
We turned to the north wing, where the air was cooler thanks to a dedicated cooling system. There, the robotics room opened up like the studio of a mad inventor. The space was vast—about 15 meters by 10, with a ceiling high enough to accommodate larger structures. In the center, a robot skeleton was being assembled: approximately 1.90 meters tall, a rounded metal shell, as if the exterior were wrapped in a soft protective layer, almost like a flexible metal marshmallow. The joints were visible—hydraulic gears, carbon fiber cables snaking like veins—and around it, three giant 3D printers buzzed, spitting out plastic and metal parts layer by layer: an articulated arm here, a circuit board there, a sensor panel over there. The machines were monsters—each the size of an industrial refrigerator, purchased from a German company specializing in rapid prototyping, delivered by air freight, and paid for upfront with the first royalties.
"This is the robotics room," I said, gesturing to the central skeleton. "I'm working on autonomous prototypes—sentinels, assistants, things that can help with patrols or protection. That one in the middle is Project B. It's to protect my sister and the family in general. The rounded design is to absorb impacts—an outer layer of flexible polymer with internal shock absorbers, like a robotic airbag. It can detect threats, neutralize non-lethal intruders, and even entertain the kids with holographic games. The printers are printing the final parts—I bought them new from a European manufacturer. Nothing from the black market, except for a batch of rare sensors that came from a certified supplier in Japan."
Artemis approached, tilting her head to examine the skeleton. "Project B? Like the 'B' in bodyguard? This is... cute, in a weird way. And these printers? They look like they came out of a car factory. How do you manage to assemble all this by yourself?"
I laughed, running my hand over the robot's shell—cold to the touch, but with a smooth finish that promised durability. "Not alone. I design, the machines execute. And look at the walls—diagrams of other robots that I may or may not build someday." I pointed to the magnetic whiteboards fixed to the granite walls: detailed sketches of surveillance drones, combat exoskeletons, even a robot assistant for household chores. "They're ideas. Some viable now, others will need more processing."
We continued the tour, turning into the west wing. There, a smaller door led to a room dedicated to gadgets—the "utility workshop," as I called it. Workbenches piled high with items from my utility belt: prototype smoke grenades with improved chemical formulas, sedative darts with precise dosages for various targets, multi-tools that I had refined with transmuted alloys. "This is where I work on the equipment I use in the field," I explained, picking up a dart and twirling it between my fingers. "Constant improvements—more precision, less weight, greater effectiveness. Nothing revolutionary, but essential for surviving out there."
Artemis picked up a dart, examining its pointed tip. "Are these the ones you use on patrol? They look... lethal, if you will."
"They could be," I admitted, placing it back on the counter. "But I control the dosage. Sedative for henchmen, something stronger for monsters like Amygdala."
The next room was the power room—a thermally insulated area I'd installed the previous week, with reinforced walls to contain potential explosions. Inside, experimental generators hummed softly: a cold fusion prototype (still unstable, but promising), internal solar panels for testing, and a modified Tesla coil I used to simulate electrical loads. "Here I work on clean, powerful energy sources," I said, pointing to the central generator. "To power the entire basement, or even the mansion, without relying on Gotham's electrical grid. It could be used to charge batteries, weapons, or who knows, one day, flying vehicles. Still in the early stages, but the potential is endless."
Artemis crossed her arms, looking around with an expression that mixed admiration and disbelief. "You're a factory of ideas, Erick. All this... you built it all by yourself? With the money from the patents?"
"With the money and what I already had," I replied, leading her to the next section. "But the best is yet to come."
We arrived at the armory—the most secure of all, with a thick metal door that I had reinforced with extra layers of transmuted titanium. I typed the password into the side panel—a 12-digit sequence I had changed that morning—and the door opened with a deep hum, revealing the interior illuminated by red security lights. Inside, shelves were filled with firearms: modified pistols with integrated silencers, assault rifles with holographic sights, shotguns with non-lethal ammunition that I had customized for greater power. Some were legitimate purchases from certified gunsmiths—nothing from the black market, except for the occasional rare suppressor I had obtained through legal, but discreet, channels. In the center, under a dome of armored glass, two mannequins displayed the uniforms: mine, more polished and refined, with extra layers of protection and integrated circuits; and a replica of hers, adapted with improvements I had worked on over the past few nights.
"This room is for the most... intense tests," I said, gesturing toward the shelves. "Weapons modified for maximum efficiency—greater accuracy, less recoil, customized ammunition. But what really matters are these over there." I pointed to the mannequins. "This is my updated uniform—cleaner, more robust, with improved armor and tech integration. And this... is the second uniform I'm working on for you. It's three times stronger than the previous one—Kevlar reinforced with alloys I created, capable of stopping medium-caliber bullets and withstanding impacts that would knock you down. Not only that, but it has over 300 different uses: integrated sensors for threat detection, encrypted communication, even a camouflage mode that I improved. The gloves and boots are magnetic—I call it 'magnetic grip,' for lack of a better name. They allow you to adhere to different types of surfaces, climbing anything: metal, concrete, glass. Effortlessly, as if you were a human spider."
Artemis approached the dome, her eyes fixed on her uniform. I continued, "And look at this." I pulled a bow from the wall—a prototype I'd built in the last few days, with carbon fiber string and internal variable tension mechanisms. "This bow here is for you. Intelligent: when you pull the string, you feel the minimum force needed—like an extension of your arm. But when you release it, it unleashes at least twice the force of your current bow. More range, more impact, without tiring your muscles. And the arrows..." I opened a box beside me, revealing rows of customized projectiles: 15 new types, from freezing gel arrows to electromagnetic ones that disable electronics, to low-lethality explosives and GPS-enabled tracking arrows. "At least 15 new types that you can use at will. Each one optimized for different scenarios—patrols, team missions, or even solo combat."
She stood there, staring at it all, speechless. I stopped, waiting for her reaction, feeling the elemental pulse a little stronger in my chest, as if I were anxious too.
Artemis's Point of View
I stood there, frozen in the middle of that subterranean room that looked like something out of a science fiction movie, staring at the mannequins inside the glass dome as if they were relics from another world. Erick's uniform—more polished, with smoother lines and a sheen that suggested extra layers of protection—I expected. He was always improving his things, as if the world wasn't good enough without his modifications. But mine? An exact replica of my suit, but... better. Darker, more fitted, with details I didn't even know I needed. And that bow on the wall, gleaming as if forged by gods, and the arrows in the box—perfect rows, each with tips that screamed "state-of-the-art technology." My heart raced, a mixture of disbelief and something warmer, more confused.
"How... how did you do all this?" I asked, my voice coming out lower than I intended, almost a whisper. I approached the dome, touching the cold glass with my fingertips, tracing the outline of the uniform that was mine, but wasn't. "Three times stronger? 300 uses? Gloves and boots that grip any surface? This is... insane. And the bow? Twice as strong, effortlessly? And these arrows... how many hours did you spend on this? Days? Weeks?"
He smiled, that calm and confident smile that irritated and attracted me at the same time, crossing his arms as if he were explaining something as simple as the weather. "It wasn't that long ago. I use what I have here — the tools, the improved processing. The uniform is an evolution of the first one I made for you: more layers of protection, integrated circuits to monitor vitality, detect nearby threats, even a basic self-repair mode for small cuts. The gloves and boots use an adaptable magnetic field — it adjusts to the surface, creating grip on metal, stone, glass, whatever. Imagine climbing a smooth building effortlessly, or clinging to a moving car for a chase. The bow is intelligent: sensors in the string measure your strength and adjust the tension automatically. Pull with minimal effort, release with twice the power. And the arrows... well, I created 15 new types: freezing gel to immobilize, electromagnetic to fry electronics, low-lethality explosives for distraction, tracking arrows with integrated GPS to mark targets, and so on. They adapt to your style — precise, versatile, without wasting ammunition."
I blinked, trying to process it all. My brain was spinning like an uncontrolled arrow. He did all this... for me? For me? The uniform, the bow, the arrows—it wasn't just a random upgrade. It was personalized. He thought about my fighting style, my weaknesses, the things I complained about during patrols. "Oh, my bow gets tired after hours," I'd say, and he solved it. "I need arrows that don't kill, but immobilize," and there they were. He spent hours—days, maybe?—creating all this, while I trained alone on the roof, thinking he was just "busy." Wow, how smart he is. Not just clever; he's a true genius. Building all this alone, in the basement of a mansion he bought with patents he invented out of thin air? He sees the world as a puzzle only he knows how to put together. And me? Am I part of this now? He did this thinking of me, of making me better, safer. My chest tightened—a warmth rising from my stomach, a mixture of gratitude and something deeper, more dangerous. He cares. Truly. But… why? We're patrol partners, friends, maybe more. But this? This is an investment. It's as if he's equipping me for a war that only he sees coming.
"Erick... this is... I don't know what to say," I murmured, turning to him, feeling a blush rise up my cheeks which I tried to disguise with a sarcastic laugh. "You did all this for me? Like, the uniform, the bow, the arrows... you thought of everything. I complain about something on patrol, and you fix it like it's nothing. How... intelligent you are. No, more than that. You're a mad genius. Building all this by yourself, in the middle of a basement that looks like a treasure cave? I can barely keep my bow in tune, and you create a personalized arsenal. Why? Why invest so much in me?"
He blinked, surprised by the direct question, but kept smiling. "Because you deserve it. We're a team, Artemis. You helped me improve—you trained me, you showed me weaknesses I didn't see. That's the least I can do. And... well, I like seeing you at the top of your game. More confident, more lethal. Makes sense, right?"
It made sense. It made perfect sense. But deep down, I felt a growing dilemma: he did all this for me, for me. He cares more than he lets on. And me? Do I feel the same? That tension during training, the lingering glances, the accidental touches that didn't seem so accidental... it was becoming something bigger. I looked at him there, disheveled as always, but with eyes that shone with an intelligence that took my breath away. Yes, he did this for me. And I... I wanted more.
Erick's Point of View
Her reaction caught me by surprise—her eyes wide, a subtle blush on her cheeks, her voice low and almost vulnerable. Artemis wasn't the type to be easily impressed; she was sharp-tongued, independent, always ready with a joke to defuse the moment. But there, in front of the glass dome, she seemed… touched. As if I had touched something deep within her. I smiled inwardly—the Artemis Protocol was working better than I expected. Natasha had simulated this: "Show value to her. Create a sense of positive emotional debt." And there it was, working.
"Yes, I made it for you," I replied, keeping the tone casual but with a touch of sincerity that I knew she would pick up on. "You're part of this now. Patrols, missions—you helped me survive out there. The new uniform is just the beginning. We'll test it tomorrow if you want. But for now, let's continue the tour. There's more."
I led her out of the weapons room, locking the door with another quickly typed code. The basement was a labyrinth, but I knew every corner—I'd mapped everything out in the first week, installing motion sensors and cameras in strategic locations. We turned to the south wing, where the air was drier thanks to an industrial dehumidifier I'd bought from a civil engineering firm. There, a room dedicated to vehicles—still empty, but with ramps leading to underground exits to the garden. "Here I plan to store customized vehicles," I explained. "Motorcycles, maybe an armored car. Nothing ready yet, but the space is prepared."
Artemis nodded, still processing what she had seen. "You think of everything, don't you? As if the world were going to end tomorrow and you already had the bunker ready."
"In Gotham, prevention is best," I chuckled, leading her to the final wing—the surgical capsule and transmutation circle. The room was isolated, with double doors for containment. I entered the code and stepped inside. The circle on the floor—enlarged to 6 meters in diameter, engraved with molten silver runes—glowed faintly under the UV lights I'd installed to activate it. Beside it, the capsule—the metal cylinder with sensors and IV tubes—waited like a high-tech cocoon. "This is where I do the most... advanced things. The circle is for experiments with materials—transformations, syntheses. The capsule is for recovery and analysis. It's where I sleep now—it optimizes time."
She approached the circle, touching a rune with her finger. "Is this... mystical? Like, alchemy? You didn't tell me you dabbled in this."
I smiled. "Surprises. It's part of what keeps me ahead. But it's safe — I'm in control."
We finished the tour there, returning to the main hall. I sat in the terminal's ergonomic chair, turning to face it. "So? What did you think of my 'world'?"
She leaned against the counter, crossing her arms, but with a genuine smile on her lips. "Incredible, Erick. You really are a genius. But... why show me all this? Confidence?"
"Trust," I confirmed. "And partnership. You're part of this now. We're going to conquer Gotham—and beyond."
The elemental pulsed, warm and approving. The future was taking shape—and she was a key piece of it.
Read the chapters in advance: patreon.com/cw/pararaio