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Chapter 3 – Source of Knowledge rescript
After demonstrating the superiority of the older sister — that being me — and the younger one learning his place in an "educational" manner, Alice left the interior of the book and ordered The Book of Truth to launch the copy to some random location in the world. The feeling of a job well done should have been comforting. It wasn't.
She decided to rest, to curl up in some corner and simply let time pass.
But she couldn't.
Boredom was a physical presence, an uncomfortable weight that nestled in her chest and refused to leave. Everything seemed insipid, devoid of color and flavor. The city pulsed outside, millions of lives intertwining in an endless dance of chaos and routine, and yet... nothing interested her.
For some reason, everything is boring me. The only thing that satisfied me for a while was my phone, but after a few hours, I had already seen everything that appeared on the screen. Every app, every setting, every hidden file. So I got bored and simply absorbed the phone and, as a consequence, all the knowledge stored inside it. But even then, I wasn't satisfied.
Alice sighed, a soft sound that echoed in the silence of the empty room. Her fingers drummed against her own thigh, a nervous gesture that betrayed her restlessness.
Is it really that hard to satisfy a body that craves infinite knowledge?
A pause. Her lips curved into a bitter smile.
I already know the answer.
The next thought came like a cold wave, crawling along the edges of her consciousness:
Wait... if I absorb the Mind Stone or the Darkhold, which contains infinite knowledge about black magic from the entire Marvel universe, it still wouldn't work. Infinity plus infinity is still infinity.
She stared at the ceiling, her eyes lost in nonexistent patterns.
Maybe if I erase this universe, some multiversal god will care. After all, in the Marvel universe, there are infinite universes. One less won't make a difference... will it?
The thought hung in the air like toxic smoke.
Did I really just think that? Even in alternate universes, there are universal gods. But as soon as I become a universal goddess, I'll be very happy to "know" everything the Marvel universe doesn't show.
Although Alice didn't notice, her body smiled involuntarily. It was a smile that didn't belong to Akira — thin, elongated, predatory. Her pupils became dull, like fogged windows to nowhere. The skin on her right cheek split open in a precise cut, forming the shape of a butterfly. The edges of the wound didn't bleed; they simply existed, as if they had always been there, dormant.
But the moment she realized what she had said — what she had thought — the butterfly-shaped skin on her cheek vanished miraculously, as if it had never existed. The edges sealed themselves without leaving a scar. Her pupils returned to normal, reclaiming the human gleam that Akira still clung to preserving.
A shiver ran down her spine.
This body really is slowly making me more like Alice. Not just in my thoughts, but it's also influencing the way I act. The way I speak, the way I move, the way I... feel.
She took a deep breath, the air filling her lungs with a strange familiarity — as if even the act of breathing belonged to someone else.
Alright, I'll think about that later. Now I need to recap the information I absorbed from my phone. From what I've seen so far, everything is the same as in the movies, but the only thing that makes me think this is an alternate universe is that there's a camp called Crystal Lake, which is very famous as the main setting of Friday the 13th. How is that possible?
Akira's mind — still clinging to the pop culture references he so loved — latched onto this information like a castaway to a piece of driftwood.
I want to "know." So, one way or another, I'm going to that camp. After all, who doesn't like Jason? And I also want to know how he works and how, in this universe, he is immortal. Just thinking about it gives me a "hunger."
The word "hunger" reverberated in her mind with a different weight. It wasn't the hunger for food, for warm ramen on a cold night. It was something deeper, more primal. A hunger that couldn't be sated by anything this world could offer — except knowledge.
But how about I go see my favorite Marvel universe character: Tony Stark? If I remember correctly, there are two days left until he escapes from captivity. But how do I find the location of the base?
An idea sprouted. Simple. Direct. Terrible.
Obadiah Stane.
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Alice jumped out the window in a grotesque way.
Her body launched itself into the void without hesitation, the night wind of New York whistling in her ears. But instead of falling, something happened. The skin on her back began to stretch, yielding like rubber under tension. The sound of bones breaking and rearranging echoed — dry, wet cracks that bounced between the buildings. It was a sound that should have caused agony, but Alice felt only a strange satisfaction, like someone stretching after a long sleep.
Suddenly, a butterfly wing emerged from Alice's back.
It was immense, translucent, with veins that pulsed in shades of deep purple and blue. The membrane captured the city's light and refracted it into hypnotic patterns. With a single beat, she propelled herself through the air, flying toward Stark Industries.
The wind cut across her face as she glided between the skyscrapers. Far below, people continued their insignificant lives, oblivious to the creature soaring above their rooftops. Alice felt a twinge of... something. Disdain? No. Just indifference.
She knew Obadiah Stane would be there. The man was a shadow of Tony Stark, a parasite that fed on others' brilliance while conspiring in the shadows. Pathetic. But useful.
When she reached the building, she hovered in front of the top-floor window. Through the reinforced glass, she could see Obadiah sitting in a leather armchair, a glass of whiskey in his hand, his face lit only by the pale glow of a laptop. He looked relaxed, confident. A predator in his territory.
How ironic, Alice thought. He has no idea that he's the prey here.
She flew toward the glass at high speed. The impact was brutal.
The reinforced glass window — designed to withstand bullets, explosions, even attacks from small missiles — exploded into thousands of shards. The sound was deafening, a crash that made the floor tremble. The fragments danced in the air like a rain of diamonds, reflecting the room's light in countless glittering points.
Obadiah Stane leaped from his chair, the whiskey flying from his hand and shattering on the marble floor. His wide eyes scanned the room, trying to process what had happened. The reinforced glass destroyed. The location of that room — the highest floor of the building, inaccessible to anyone without authorization. The state-of-the-art security systems, silent as graves.
This was impossible.
When the dust settled, a figure could be seen standing among the wreckage.
A little girl.
She was smiling.
Obadiah felt something cold slither down his spine. It wasn't fear — not yet. It was a primal intuition, the instinct of prey that recognizes a predator before reason even comprehends the danger. In his heart, he was certain of one thing: that little girl was a mutant. She had to be. A genetic aberration with powers beyond comprehension.
He lifted his chin, resorting to the arrogance he had cultivated for decades. His voice came out steady, authoritative:
— What do you want in my domain?
Alice tilted her head to the side, a curiously childlike gesture. Her eyes gleamed with a light that was anything but innocent. When she spoke, her tone was almost playful, like a child proposing a prank:
— I want your soul.
A shiver ran through Obadiah's body.
The words hung in the air like a sentence. He processed them slowly, syllable by syllable, like someone reading their own tombstone. The root of fear sprouted inside him — not the rational fear of a businessman facing a threat, but the primal terror of a creature before something absolutely superior.
He looked at the little girl again. And saw something grotesque.
Blood began to pour from her eyes.
It wasn't normal bleeding. The red liquid ran in thick rivulets, but instead of dripping to the floor, it began to move as if it had a life of its own. The blood crawled across her pale face, down her neck, spreading over her shoulders and arms. In seconds, it began to cover the entire little girl, enveloping her in a crimson cocoon that pulsed like an exposed heart.
Then she began to contort.
In a grotesque way.
The bones beneath the skin moved like broken gears, cracking and rearranging. The human silhouette distorted, elongated, assumed impossible proportions. Obadiah could see the ribs pressing against the skin, the fingers growing into claws, the spine curving at angles that shouldn't exist.
He tried to move his body.
Nothing.
His legs were paralyzed. His arms wouldn't respond. It was as if an invisible force held him in place, a marionette with its strings cut.
Run, his mind screamed. Run, you idiot!
But his body wouldn't obey.
He looked at that grotesque creature — which no longer resembled a little girl at all — and felt an instinctive fear. It wasn't the fear that can be rationalized, that can be faced with courage or strategy. It was the fear of prey when the predator has already caught it. The fear of someone who knows there is no escape.
He tried to run again.
Suddenly, his body obeyed.
Obadiah didn't question it. He just acted. He ran to the doorknob, his trembling fingers struggling to turn the cold metal. The door opened with a click, and he threw himself out of the room, into the corridor lit by fluorescent lights.
— HELP! SOMEONE! ANYONE! — his screams echoed off the empty walls.
But no one answered.
He ran down the corridor, his expensive leather shoes sliding on the polished floor. He passed meeting rooms, offices, cubicles. All empty. There wasn't a single security guard, a single employee, a single living soul. It was as if all the workers had vanished from existence, swallowed by the silence.
Desperation tightened his throat.
Then he heard something.
A sound coming from the corridor behind him. Something moving. Dragging itself. The walls groaned under the weight of something immense. The sound grew, approached, filled every corner of the corridor like a tide of horrors.
Obadiah froze. His heart pounded against his ribs with such force that it seemed to want to escape his chest.
Then, suddenly, the sound stopped.
Absolute silence.
In the void, a voice echoed — a child's voice, sweet, almost affectionate:
— Don't you want to play with me too, Obadiah? I'll propose a game. Here's how it works: if you manage to reach the exit, you win. If you don't, you lose. So I'm going to count to ten.
A pause. The voice became a whisper.
— Ten.
When he heard that, Obadiah bolted toward the elevator. His fingers pressed the button repeatedly, desperately. Nothing. The panel remained dark, dead. For some reason, the elevator wasn't working.
He looked to the side.
The emergency stairs.
The metal door gleamed under the dim light, like a beacon of hope. He ran toward it, his lungs burning.
— Seven.
The voice echoed again, closer this time.
Obadiah pushed the stairwell door open and hurled himself down the steps, stumbling, nearly falling with each stride. The sound of his own footsteps echoed through the stairwell, multiplied by the concrete acoustics.
Then he heard something crawling.
Not behind him.
Above him.
He looked up.
And saw.
A grotesque monster was running along the walls of the stairwell, gliding like a spider, its elongated limbs finding purchase on impossible surfaces. The creature had no defined face — only a mass of twisted flesh and glowing letters that pulsed beneath translucent skin. And it was almost catching up to him.
Fear exploded into pure adrenaline.
Obadiah ran as he had never run in his entire life. His feet barely touched the steps. He leaped entire flights, gripping the handrails to keep from plummeting. But with each moment, the creature's footsteps grew louder, closer, hungrier.
Finally, he reached the exit floor.
The emergency door was there, just a few meters away. The red light of the "EXIT" sign shone like a promise of salvation. He reached for the handle, his fingers brushing the cold metal—
Something jumped onto his back.
The impact was brutal. Obadiah fell face-first onto the floor, his chin slamming against the concrete with a dry crack. The weight on top of him was immense, crushing. He tried to struggle, but his body no longer responded. His limbs were numb, useless, as if they had been disconnected from his brain.
The childlike voice whispered in his ear, warm and sweet like venom:
— Game over. You lost the game, Obadiah.
For some reason, a shiver ran through Obadiah's entire body. Every nerve, every cell, every fragment of his existence trembled in anticipated agony. He wanted to scream, but his throat was locked.
The creature lowered its head — or whatever passed for a head — close to Obadiah's motionless body. He felt the icy breath against his nape. Then the mouth opened, revealing rows of teeth that were more letters than bone.
The first bite came to his abdomen.
The teeth tore through flesh and ripped away a chunk. The pain was beyond anything Obadiah had ever experienced. It wasn't just physical — it was as if part of his essence was being shredded, page by page.
The second bite came to the side of his face.
He felt his cheek being torn off, his jaw exposed to the cold air. Half of his face simply... vanished. Yet, for some inexplicable reason, he remained conscious. Alive. Feeling.
— Aaaaaah! Please, kill me! Why am I not dead?!
His voice came out distorted, bubbling, escaping through what remained of his mouth.
For some inexplicable reason, Obadiah not only didn't die but remained conscious. Every bite, every piece torn away, every fiber of his being being converted into letters and absorbed — he felt everything. And no matter how much the creature devoured, he remained there, trapped in a body that no longer existed.
Finally, my suffering will end, Obadiah thought, when only half of his head remained. One eye. Part of the brain exposed. And still, he thought.
But as if fate were playing a trick on him, when Alice devoured the last piece — the final fragment of consciousness that remained — he simply returned to the moment Alice had entered through the window.
The shattering of the glass.
The little girl smiling.
The blood pouring.
All over again.
Understanding nothing, his body instinctively ran to the doorknob. But this time, the door didn't open like the other time. The handle spun uselessly, locked. He pulled, strained, screamed. Nothing.
And then everything happened the same as before.
The chase. The terror. The bites. The pain.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Until his mind went insane.
But every time he went insane, strange letters emerged from his body — glowing, silver, dancing in the air like fireflies — and brought his mind back to normal. Back to full consciousness. Back to torment.
Obadiah didn't know, but there was something he was unaware of...
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I have to thank Obadiah, Alice thought, watching the cycle repeat in a remote corner of her perception.
She was back in her normal body, sitting on the ledge of some random building, her legs swinging over the void. The night wind played with her pale hair. Her eyes gleamed with quiet satisfaction.
Besides giving me the information about where Tony Stark is being held captive, he also gave me a stockpile of information that will last for a while.
What Obadiah didn't know — what his repeatedly restored mind could never comprehend — was that, as soon as Alice entered the room, she immediately transformed him into knowledge. But instead of absorbing everything at once, she converted him into a knowledge factory that would run for a while.
Every cycle of terror, every repetition of the chase, every bite and every scream — it all generated more information. New angles of his psyche being explored. New fears being catalogued. New memories being extracted.
Alice made a point of tearing a page from her own body to place Obadiah inside it. It was a special page, isolated from the rest, where time flowed differently and the rules of reality were as malleable as clay. Inside, she could squeeze every last drop of knowledge from him, making him experience all the worst possible sensations.
Pain. Fear. Despair. Madness. And then, back to the beginning.
He deserved it, Alice thought, without a shred of guilt. He sold Tony Stark to terrorists. Tried to kill him to take over the company. Caused the deaths of innocents. If there's anyone who deserves this, it's him.
A smile bloomed on her lips. This time, it wasn't the involuntary, predatory smile from before. It was the satisfied smile of Akira, the otaku who finally understood the appeal of a well-written villain.
But now... I have a date with Tony Stark.
She stood up, stretching like a cat in the sun. The butterfly wing on her back unfurled again, capturing the moonlight.
Let's see if the man of iron is as charming in person as he is in the movies.
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To be continued...
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Thanks for reading this far 👊 😄 👍
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