The atmosphere had changed significantly.
Long ropes of webbing hung off the ceiling beams nearly three stories high. Two gigantic masterminds sat on either side of the stage at the back of the hall, their massive pink bodies appeared like brains that escaped from enormous skulls.
Tendrils stretched from their folds and into the network surrounding the throne room. All along the walls, Scions stood guard. Each with the face and gray flesh of a Variant, but the burning intelligence of human beings behind their golden, reptilian eyes.
Azrael ascended the steps to the stage, adjusted his black cloak, and took his seat at a throne made from the red vines of the organic webbing. Within the throne, a few humans were cocooned and imprisoned in the crimson tendrils, their low moans muffled by vines snaking through their mouths. Those insolent animals were now batteries for his network.
It was all a fitting reminder that he alone was the greatest achievement of nature and science, a being who would literally and figuratively sit atop all these mortals. He created and altered life. Death was just one of his instruments.
Yes, this place had once been a place of learning, the pinnacle of humanity’s innovation.
The labs within this facility had housed the development of some of humanity’s greatest achievements—and weapons.
Now he had created the greatest one. It was only right that this place served as the capitol to the New Gods.
He curled his clawed fingers around the armrest of his throne and surveyed the room. All the chairs that had once been lined in neat rows were covered by vines. The loud, gasping breathing of the masterminds filled the place, and their rotten stench swirled amid the odor of the vines.
A skinny silhouette appeared at the entrance to the throne room. One of the human faithful.
“Enter,” Azrael said.
Murphy, an old doctor wearing a white coat walked forward with a slight hunch. His fingers were crooked and knotted in arthritis, but still he dropped to one knee when he reached the throne. “Prophet, I’m sorry to disturb you, but I have news about the Northeast Operation.”
Azrael grunted in disgust at the memory of what had happened. The Northeast Operation was supposed to have ended the war by launching the nuke from Mount Katahdin. But the former leader of the infamous Team Ghost and some other heinous traitors had managed to destroy the base and sabotage the weapon.
“Speak,” said Azrael.
“Our Scion scouts discovered a survivor at Mount Katahdin after the heretics sabotaged the base. He was barely alive when the airlift brought him here, but I managed to save him.”
“Save him?”
“Yes,” Murphy said, his eyes finally rising to meet Azrael’s. “And I made him better. Really, I had no choice. His human body was too damaged.”
“Did you give him my latest version of VX-102?”
“Yes, Prophet.”
“Good. I want to see how well the new formula reacts to the human genome.”
Murphy nodded and backed up slowly, never rising above his hunching bow until he had left the throne room.
While Azrael was pleased with the old man’s work, there was another who was responsible for this failure in the Northeast Operation whose work he had been less fond of.
“Bring me the general,” Azrael rumbled, his words echoing in the vast chamber.
The masterminds both quivered, their fingers twitching and curling, sending signals through the communication network.
Minutes later the general squeezed through the main entrance, bowing like the old man had. His cloak flowed behind him, and he kept his crocodile-snout aimed toward the ground. The bulging muscles along his arms rippled against his flesh, and his massive claws scraped the floor with every step.
“Prophet…” the Alpha Variant said, his voice coming out in a choking rasp.
He was a prime specimen of unrestrained evolution and adaptation, thanks to the impact of VX-99 on his body. His physique was that of a powerful predator, and his aggression on the battlefield had no match. But he was also a glaring example of why Azrael had worked so hard to better blend human intelligence with the body-altering epigenetic changes in the original bioweapons that had warped humanity.
This creature had too many faults. He could barely choke out his own words, and now Azrael feared the general’s mind wasn’t as developed and intelligent as he’d once thought.
Azrael had trusted this beast with a mission that he realized now was only truly suited for one of the New Gods. One of his creations. Azrael stood from his throne and stepped down the short stairs from the stage to the floor where the general knelt.
“You,” Azrael said, drawing closer.
The general, still towering above Azrael even as he knelt, flinched. “It was—”
“You ran like a scared rat,” Azrael interrupted, keeping his voice calm. “You should have stayed and fought to the death like a wolf.”
The general kept his head bowed. “I’m sorry—”
Azrael snapped his fingers, summoning red tendrils along the floor that rose like cobras. The vines snapped around the general’s wrists and legs. They pulled him into the air until he was suspended three meters off the ground.
“The Allied States should already be ashes and President Ringgold should be dead,” Azrael said. He let out a snort. “For nearly a decade, I’ve been patient, living in the shadows while creating this new world and now I have to wait longer…” He looked at one of the masterminds controlling the tendrils. “Tighter.”
The webbing pulled harder on the general, and the monstrous variant groaned, his bones snapping, popping out of their joints.
“You failed, despite all evidence that you should have succeeded,” Azrael said. “You defied every probability analysis I ran. It’s as though you intended to lose. You sicken me.”
Azrael looked at the other mastermind and made a simple waving gesture with his claws.
Red tendrils wormed into the general’s mouth and nostril, squirming through his body like parasitic worms. His agonized scream was muffled by the vines stretching down his throat.
Azrael
