I walked at a steady pace, sidearm strapped to my tactical belt, space uniforms top half zipped like a hardcore truckers jacket, cigarette between my teeth.
Beside me, Invicta strode in her usual "I'm the apex predator and I f*cking know it" gait, tight black tank top, a pleated skirt that was all combat swagger and zero modesty, thigh high stockings, and paramilitary boots that thudded rhythmically against the deck.
Her hair was tied into a severe bun, but a few strands still danced against her cheek as we walked. She was… frowning. That wasn't normal.
"Three months,"
She muttered under her breath, voice tight with frustration.
"Three months of continuous biometric scans, genetic sequencing, deep tissue logging, neural echo-mapping, hormone cascade tracking… and I still have jack sh*t."
I raised an eyebrow.
"About what?"
She snapped her fingers and projected a hologram between us directly Into my view. It shimmered faintly, my medical profile.
Readouts flickered in the air. Perfect vitals. Stable augmentations. Clean genome. Flawless cybernetic integration.
"You,"
She said, jabbing a finger through the projection.
"Are medically perfect. Your genome? Clean. No mutations, no anomalies. Neural pathways? Standard with slight elevation due to augmentation. No foreign DNA, no cosmic contamination, no genetic tampering, no ancient xeno parasite whispering sweet nothings in your subconscious. And yet..."
She spun on her heel in front of me, eyes narrowed like lasers.
"Your eyes went black, your scleras disappeared like some eldritch horror's wet dream, and you looked even coldblooded than me a f*cking machine and that saying a lot."
I just blew out a puff of smoke and tilted my head.
"Sounds like a Tuesday."
"Drac,"
She growled, her voice almost a purr of irritation.
"This bugs the absolute f*ck out of me. You are a system I understand. And now you're not. You're not breaking. You're not mutating. You're stable, and that makes no sense."
I gave her a half-lazy grin.
"Well, if it makes you feel better, I don't know what the hell happened either."
She clicked her tongue and folded her arms.
"It doesn't. It bugs the sh*t out of me. I don't like not knowing."
We stopped in front of the lab doors.
...
A few minutes earlier
The soft hiss of pressure vents releasing signaled the countdown to chaos. Inside one of the tanks, Julian's eyes snapped open first.
Golden-yellow HUD symbols flickered across his vision. He blinked. Once. Twice. Tried to scream, only for his body to remember the hose jammed down his throat.
He reached up with a hand that felt... wrong. Bigger. Denser. He gripped the tube, yanked, and tore it free with a wet pop and a spatter of fluid. He gasped, then gagged, but somehow kept it down which surprised him quite a lot.
"What the hell..."
Across from him, another tank got drained. Darius. His eyes flew open and immediately locked onto Julian's.
The same disoriented recognition passed between them as he too yanked his oxygen hose free and coughed like a drowned soldier. They pointed at each other.
"Julian?"
"Darius?!"
Then another tank opened up. Airid, eyes wild, blinking rapidly like a rebooting anime protagonist. He sputtered, slapped the glass from the inside, then pulled out his own breathing tube and bellowed.
"WHAT THE F..."
BOOM. Another tank depressurized. Robert sat upright in his tank like a vampire rising from the grave. His face blank. His HUD scrolling. Then he looked down.
"Holy sh*t… I've got abs again?"
The last tank opened with a steam cloud like a damn boss intro. Paul emerged, coughing into his hand before flexing instinctively.
The five of them, stark f*cking naked, dripping in amniotic fluids and nutritional residue, stared at each other in awe. Then simultaneously pointed again.
"You...?!"
"What the hell?!"
"Bro what the f*ck happened to our bodies?!"
All of them looked at each other full of questions only to collectively start posing like idiots in some weird, jacked up tribute to the Mr. Universe competition. Biceps. Triceps. Abs for days. Veins like tree roots.
"DAMN, AIRID!"
"Julian, you're built like a G*dsdamn railgun!"
"Why do I look twenty?!"
"Why do I feel twenty?!"
They flexed harder. Stuck out their chests. One of them tried to do the crab pose and almost fell over.
The male clone medics watched from the sidelines, one of them muttering while nodding In male approval.
"G*dsdamn, those are some big ass calibers right there…"
Another leaned to his buddy.
"F*ck, I'm feeling under equipped right now."
Meanwhile, the female staff? Openly gawking.
"I could eat that one alive."
"Do you see those obliques? That one's got a pelvic line sharp enough to slice ham."
"Bet one of these could go at It all night"
All while the battlebrothers struck flex after flex, butt n*ked, completely oblivious to the attention they were drawing.
And then, just as Airid hit his third most dramatic pose and Robert tried to bench press Julian... The lab doors hissed open.
And in walked Dracula. Followed by Invicta. Both stopped. Dead silence.
...
MC POV
My face darkened with every second. There they were, five towering, n*ked, genetically revamped slabs of war meat doing synchronized bodybuilder poses like they were on stage at the Mr. Olympocalypse.
Their muscles gleamed under the lab lights, veins bulging like tree roots, surgical scars running across their bodies like war paint and they were absolutely loving it.
Airid had both fists on his hips, chest puffed out like a heroic statue.
Robert was mid bicep flex, grinning like an idiot while Julian hung horizontal in his arms like a makeshift barbell.
Paul was striking a double front pose and growling at a mirror like it owed him money. Darius? That moron was attempting a split.
I stopped at the entrance, facepalm already engaged. Invicta blinked beside me, then tilted her head.
"...Sorry, Drac. I think I might've damaged their brains during surgery."
I sighed.
"No. You didn't. That's just…"
I waved at them like I was gesturing to a g*dsdamn zoo exhibit.
"That's just my boys being boys."
I walked toward them, each step heavier than the last, like I was marching into a personal embarrassment warzone.
"Oih you wana be exhibionist c*nts."
The poses froze. Five pairs of yellow-golden HUD pupiled eyes turned toward me, caught like teenagers who'd just been caught humping the weight rack.
"Enough with the f*cking flexing and get dressed."
Paul blinked.
"What, you don't like the show?"
"Unless you're planning to win hearts and medals by flashing your junks, put some f*cking pants on."
They groaned and shuffled toward the nearest prepared space uniform racks like grumbling schoolboys caught out after curfew.
...
In the heart of the Eastern Bloc's fortified command center, the atmosphere was tense. The east blocks leader, his tie loosened and shirt unbuttoned, stood before a wall of monitors displaying the escalating global crisis.
"How confident are you that our Trojan virus will disable the West's interception systems and ICBMs?"
He asked as he did a general his service full of medals snapped to attention.
"Ninety nine percent, sir."
Hearing this the leader took a long swig from a bottle of high percentage liquor, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and slammed the bottle down.
"Then do it. Launch the Trojan virus and all of our ICBMs."
The president barked like an enraged maddened beast his face bloodred, veins threathening to pop as he did the order cascaded through the chain of command.
"Initiate the Trojan virus and all of our ICBMs"
"Virus... deployed."
Moments later, missile silos across the Eastern Bloc came alive.
"ICBMs primed and ready."
"Awaiting final authorization."
Hearing this the leader entered his code, and the missiles launched, streaking into the sky.
...
Western Strategic Command Center Underground Bunker, undisclosed location.
The tension in the operations room was a living, breathing entity. Dozens of monitors flickered with real time data, satellite imaging, and scrolling threat feeds.
The sirens were deafening, the red lights casting a hellish glow over the personnel racing to stations.
"Incoming... I repeat, incoming. Multiple ICBM launches from Eastern Bloc territory confirmed," Came the voice of the satellite telemetry officer, white knuckled at his console.
The on site commander, General Roth, leaned over the radar display, his face pale and expression grim. His voice, however, was a mix of disbelief and fury.
"My g*d... Those lunatics actually did it. They actually f*cking did it!"
He roared, slamming a hand on the table.
"Status on our interception systems?"
A technician swiveled in his chair, sweat beading on his forehead.
"All green, sir. The Trojan failed. Our antivirus program held. They think we're blind."
General Roth's eyes narrowed.
"Good. Launch our interceptors. Target every inbound warhead. And get me the President. Now."
It didnt take long before the news reached President Caldwell, leader of the Western Bloc, who stood before a wall sized screen that showed the ICBM launch arcs crossing the globe like trails of death.