The transmutation circle glowed against the laboratory floor.
I stood in the center, right hand extended toward two hundred pounds of steel ingots arranged in careful geometric patterns. Prometheus armor 4.0 required exotic alloys—materials that didn't exist naturally but could be created through precise molecular restructuring.
"Circle diameter: fifteen feet," AEGIS reported through speakers. "Material composition: standard steel. Target composition: titanium-tungsten-vibranium hybrid alloy. Estimated transmutation time: forty-seven seconds."
"Beginning now."
Power flowed from my vault through All For One into the transmutation circle. The steel began to shimmer, molecular structure breaking down and reforming according to my will. Scientific Intuition guided the process—showing me exactly which bonds to break, which elements to introduce, how to weave vibranium's energy-absorption properties into conventional metallurgy.
Then something went wrong.
The void marks flared white-hot. Pain exploded up my arm like touching a live wire. The circle expanded violently—fifteen feet to eighteen, twenty, twenty-two. Steel transmuted into something that shouldn't exist, something that bent light around itself and made the air taste like copper and ozone.
Stop. Need to stop. Can't stop. Process running on its own.
My knees buckled. The laboratory tilted sideways. Through the observation window, I could see Yelena sprinting toward the door, but she was moving through molasses while my consciousness fractured into a thousand screaming pieces.
The void marks spread across my chest in real-time—geometric patterns crawling like living things, glowing so bright they shone through my shirt. Reality felt thin here, like paper stretched too far. One more second and I'd tear through.
Hands grabbed my shoulders. Yelena's voice screaming my name. She yanked me backward out of the circle, and the connection snapped.
The world rushed back.
I was on my back on cold concrete. Yelena's face above me, pale and frightened. The transmutation circle still glowing but empty—the steel gone, replaced by a puddle of mercury-silver liquid that was slowly evaporating into nothing.
"Justin!" Yelena slapped my face lightly. "Stay awake. AEGIS, get Palmer here now!"
"Emergency medical alert already transmitted," the AI responded. "Dr. Palmer ETA: four minutes."
I tried to sit up. My arms felt like they'd been dipped in acid.
"Don't move," Yelena ordered. She pulled my shirt up, then cursed in Russian. "Your marks. They're—"
"Everywhere. I know." I could feel them spreading—across my chest, down my abdomen, creeping toward my neck like frost patterns on glass. "Help me up. Can't let Palmer see me on the floor like this."
"You just had a seizure."
"Then help me look like I didn't."
She got me onto a chair just as Christine burst through the door, medical bag in hand.
"What happened?" Christine moved immediately to check my pulse, her fingers cold against my wrist.
"Transmutation accident. Circle expanded beyond control. Duration was—" I looked at AEGIS's display. "Four-point-three seconds."
"Felt like hours," Yelena muttered.
Christine pulled up my shirt before I could stop her. Her expression went carefully blank—the professional mask doctors wore when the diagnosis was terrible.
"Your cellular degradation increased twenty-two percent in less than five minutes." She pressed fingers against the void marks, feeling their heat. "These patterns have spread from your arms and shoulders to cover your entire torso. And they're not stopping."
"They'll stabilize."
"Will they? Because from where I'm standing, you're transforming faster than any projection suggested possible."
I met her eyes. "Then adjust the projections."
"Justin—"
"I need the full truth now. Not the simplified version. Not the strategic deflection." She opened her medical bag, pulled out diagnostic equipment. "What exactly is happening to you?"
I looked at Yelena. She nodded slightly—tell her.
"Exposure to exotic energy source. Call it void energy. It's rewriting my cellular structure at quantum level, transforming me into something that exists partially outside conventional reality." The words felt insufficient. "Originally projected fifty percent threshold before irreversible transformation. Current rate suggests I hit that in four years. Maybe less now."
"Transformation into what?"
"I don't know. Something that might not be me anymore."
Christine was quiet for a long moment, running scans. "Your neural patterns are shifting. Brain activity showing signatures I've never seen in human baseline. Whatever this energy is, it's not just changing your body—it's changing how you think."
"I haven't noticed cognitive differences."
"Would you? If the change is gradual enough, you wouldn't recognize deviation from baseline self." She pulled up comparison scans from six months ago. "Look. Your prefrontal cortex activity has increased thirty-eight percent. Amygdala response patterns have flattened. You're literally processing emotion differently than you were half a year ago."
That explains why decisions feel easier lately. Why sacrificing pieces for strategic advantage doesn't bother me like it should.
"Can you stop it?" Yelena asked.
"No," Christine and I said simultaneously.
"But we can manage it," I continued. "Develop protocols. Limit exposure. Slow the progression."
"How?"
I looked at AEGIS. "Analysis. What caused the acceleration?"
"Transmutation session exceeded recommended power output by factor of 2.3. Duration was within parameters but intensity was not. Additionally, this represents your fourth major power usage this week—regeneration healing during sparring, gravity manipulation training, All For One extraction test, and now transmutation. Cumulative strain on void-touched biology created cascade effect."
"So we need usage limits."
"Correct. Recommendation: transmutation limited to ten-minute sessions maximum with twenty-four-hour cooldown periods. Power usage rotation prevents single ability overload. No more than two major power applications per forty-eight hours."
Christine added: "Physical grounding. Pain resets neural pathways—controlled minor injuries might help anchor your consciousness in conventional reality instead of drifting toward void state."
"You want me to hurt myself regularly?"
"I want you to use mild controlled pain as neurological reset. Small cuts, minor burns, anything that triggers survival response without causing serious damage." She pulled out her tablet, sketching protocols. "Also meditation. If your consciousness is shifting, we need techniques to maintain core identity. Buddhist practices, Stoic exercises, anything that reinforces sense of self."
"That's surprisingly metaphysical for a medical doctor."
"That's me adapting to impossible patient with impossible condition." She finished the protocol outline. "This gives you approximately point-five percent monthly corruption rate instead of exponential spikes. Still hits fifty percent in three to four years, but predictably."
I studied the protocol. Strict limitations. Forced discipline. Acceptance that I couldn't use powers as freely as before.
"I can work with this," I said.
"You have to work with this. Next uncontrolled spike could kill you or trigger transformation prematurely." Christine packed her equipment. "Also, I want weekly check-ins. No exceptions. Miss one appointment and I'm putting you in medical observation whether you like it or not."
"Deal."
She left, still radiating disapproval but at least working with me instead of against me.
Yelena stayed behind, arms crossed. "You scared the shit out of me."
"Sorry."
"Don't apologize. Just don't die." She gestured at my chest where void marks pulsed faintly through fabric. "These are getting visible. Soon you won't be able to hide them."
"I know."
"What happens when enemies notice? When HYDRA or AIM or whoever realizes you're deteriorating?"
"Then I deal with that when it happens. Priority one is staying functional long enough to handle approaching crises."
"You mean long enough to save everyone while sacrificing yourself."
"Perspective."
She shook her head. "You're going to burn out trying to be Atlas."
"Someone has to hold up the sky."
"Maybe. But Atlas could ask for help instead of pretending he's fine while his shoulders break."
I didn't have an answer for that.
Late that night, I sat alone reviewing the new protocols.
Ten-minute transmutation sessions. Twenty-four-hour cooldowns. Power rotation. Controlled pain as grounding. Meditation as identity anchor. Weekly medical check-ins.
Manageable. Restrictive. Necessary.
The void marks glowed faintly in the dark office. Eleven percent corruption now. Three to four years until transformation. And so many threats still waiting.
"Sir," AEGIS said quietly. "Dr. Palmer requested I ask you something before she left. She didn't want to pressure you directly."
"What?"
"If void corruption reaches forty percent—eight-tenths of projected threshold—will you cease power usage regardless of strategic necessity?"
I thought about that. Forty percent meant eighteen months to transformation. Meant being so close to the edge that one crisis could push me over.
"Tell Christine I promise to stop at forty percent."
"Sir, your physiological responses indicate deception. You do not intend to keep that promise."
"No. But she needs to hear it anyway."
"You will sacrifice yourself if circumstances demand."
"Yes."
"That course of action contradicts organizational stability objectives."
"I know. But some things matter more than organizational stability."
"Such as?"
"Keeping people alive. Even if it costs me everything."
AEGIS was silent for a moment. Then: "Understood. I will continue supporting operations while documenting concerns about your self-destructive tendencies."
"Appreciate it."
I closed the protocols and pulled up Red Room operational plans. Eight facilities. Forty Widows. Three months until coordinated strikes. And me, deteriorating steadily while preparing to save them.
The void marks pulsed steadily—eleven percent and holding.
For now.
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