He had been the vessel—and somehow, he had managed to overwrite its will.

  The realization was staggering.

  He understood.

  There was no more WAU core. No more cortex chip. Only him.

  Somehow, the organic core had allowed his consciousness to permeate the Ichor completely.

  It had become his body. His vessel. His warform.

  The WAU core, built to merge with structure gel and program it, had instead become the key to Simon’s permanent transformation—a strange accident of biology, AI, and willpower.

  He had sought answers. He had found them.

  Now the Data Spine released him. His form slowly unraveled from its lattice, reforming like liquid metal. The alien shape he had claimed as his own slid back into being.

  Alarms blared through the corridors of Site Noesis as he moved.

  Red lights stuttered across steel walls. Mechanical shutters hissed and slammed into place behind him, trying in vain to contain what they had helped unleash.

  He reached the drone deployment chamber.

  The doors parted with a hiss, as if exhaling their final breath.

  He approached a drone—a sleek, reinforced model, engineered for deep-sea navigation and survival in crushing pressure.

  Without hesitation, his form surged forward, spilling into the machine like mercury kissed by flame.

  It welcomed him. The drone’s systems shuddered, adjusted, then synchronized. Adaptation was instantaneous. It became not a vehicle, but Simon’s body.

  Two massive arms descended from the ceiling, clamping onto the drone. Gears locked. Pistons aligned. With terrifying precision, they guided him into position at the mouth of the deployment tunnel.

  Then—

  The ocean swallowed him.

  Cold blackness enveloped him, immense and silent. Pressure closed around him like the hand of a god.

  He cut low across the seafloor, following the jagged contours of the underwater ridge. Light shimmered above in shattered fragments, refracted through a world of alien gloom.

  Up ahead, chaos bloomed.

  Divers in advanced Haimatsu suits. Spearhead exoshells armed with sonic railguns. Hunter-killer drones like mechanical sharks. All locked in brutal, frantic combat against the automated defenses of Site Noesis.

  Simon had triggered full lockdown before severing himself from the site’s core—and now Noesis fought back like a wounded beast.

  Turrets tracked their prey with baleful red eyes, releasing salvos of smart ammunition that twisted mid-path to find hearts and helmets. Sonic disruptors screamed through the water, distorting reality in trembling pulses. Mines pulsed, then erupted like dying stars, throwing debris and boiling currents through the deep.

  In the distance, something exploded. A mech suit folded in on itself, shredded by turret fire. Cries rippled over burst transmissions—distorted, panicked, human.

  Simon passed through it all like a shadow.

  The sensors pinged and flickered, but nothing locked on. Nothing understood what he was. Not yet.

  He moved, a phantom through storm and war.

  Toward the Spearhead.

  Simon’s drone body descended silently toward the spearhead. With an eerie grace, he slipped into the submersible through the tiniest seams. The machine accepted him with a low chime of activation. A hatch opened at the top, allowing the drone to dock in, and the spearhead roared to life.

  Like a shadow cast through the abyss, he glided back toward the Solipsist hive. When he reformed in the cockpit, his body had returned to its former self—or at least, the familiar shape it once had. The iridescent hues of deep violet, emerald, and oceanic blue faded away, leaving behind the matte black sheen of his armor. The four glowing orb-eyes had retracted; in their place were the familiar dark lenses, soft blue light glowing faintly behind them. His amber core no longer pulsed with chaotic energy but held steady, no longer shifting.

  The spearhead docked smoothly into the hive. Simon stepped out into the dim, organic corridor.

  He made his way through the living passageways toward his room.

  Inside, Jonsy was plugged into the ARK, a thick cable slotted into the port at the back of her neck. Her helmet rested on the floor beside her. Red pulses glimmered softly from her visual sensors, the only sign of activity.

  Simon placed his hand on the ARK.

  Reality shifted.

  He was standing on a beach.

  Golden light bathed the shore. Gentle waves lapped against the sand, and sea birds wheeled lazily overhead. The scent of salt and warmth filled the air. The sky was painted in soft hues of pink and orange, caught in the last stretch of day.

  Jonsy and Amy sat on a wooden bench facing the water. Amy wore a loose sundress the color of coral, her short hair ruffled by the breeze. Jonsy had on a pale blue blouse tucked into high-waisted slacks, an outfit that felt vintage but well-suited to her. They were laughing, talking—a slice of peace in a world that hadn’t known it for years.

  Amy’s smile faltered as she spotted Simon. She stood, her brows furrowing slightly. Jonsy turned and lit up with recognition.

  "Simon! You’re back!" she said, walking quickly toward him and embracing him. Her arms wrapped around him like home.

  "Yeah," he replied, a small smile curving his lips.

  He had nearly died. No, had died. But now he was back. And that was all that mattered.

  "How was your trip to Site Noesis?" Amy asked.

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  Simon exhaled, then gave a faint shrug. "A lot happened," he said.

  He told them about the infiltration, the security systems, the fights. He left out the part where he had been drained to death and fused with Ichor. That conversation, he would have with Jonsy alone.

  "But it was worth it," Simon continued. "I have what I need to build you a body. You won’t be stuck in the cylinder anymore."

  Amy's smile didn’t return. She looked out over the water.

  "I don’t know if I want to leave this place," she said softly.

  Simon’s expression grew serious.

  "Why?"

  "Because the world outside is shit, Simon," Amy said bluntly. "Jonsy told me where we are. At the bottom of the ocean, near Site Phi. In a hive built by WAU's creatures. The surface is dead. There’s no sun. Everything is either ruined or hostile. I’ve had enough of fighting monsters and scavenging to survive. I prefer this. I know it’s fake, but at least here, I can be at peace."

  Simon looked down. Then he gave a small nod.

  "If that’s what you want, I won’t force it. It’s not a one-time choice. You can decide when you’re ready."

  He turned to Jonsy.

  "How was... the other me?"

  Jonsy smiled gently. "We talked. He’s shaken but he’s okay. I didn’t tell him where we are. I thought you should be the one to do that."

  "Thanks, Jonsy," Simon said quietly.

  "It’s the least I can do."

  Simon gave them both a nod. "Enjoy your time here."

  Then he disappeared.

  He emerged in another simulation.

  A park.

  It was late summer. The air was warm, just enough to make the skin prickle. A soft breeze stirred the trees, and golden leaves danced as they fell. Grass rippled in waves. The sun hung low, casting long shadows and streaks of amber light across the path.

  Simon spotted him—himself.

  Simon Jarrett sat alone on a bench, hunched slightly, staring at the pond beyond. Ducks drifted lazily across the surface.

  Simon walked over and sat down at the opposite end of the bench.

  Talking to yourself should have been easy.

  But the longer he remained silent, the more he felt the gulf between them. The more time passed, the more he had become something else. Something other.

  Simon didn’t know how to start.

  But he knew he had to.

  "I..." Old Simon cleared his throat, voice ragged with memory. "We used to spend a lot of time in this park. Jesse and Ashley. Especially on late summer evenings."

  "Yeah," Simon said, his gaze wandering over the digital trees swaying gently in the golden light. The air was warm but crisp—carrying the scent of cut grass and the distant call of birds. The sunlight filtered through the trees like honey, casting long shadows over the worn path. "Ashley loved the swings. Jesse would push her so high she'd scream like it was the best thing in the world."

  The silence between them was not empty. It was full—of echoes, of loss, of lives lived and left behind.

  Simon looked down. "Did you ever wonder what happened to him?"

  Old Simon nodded slowly. "All the time."

  Simon hesitated, then spoke. "I spoke with his daughter."

  Old Simon blinked, startled. "You did?"

  "Yeah. Her name is Dr. Elsie Faden. Cognitive biomechanics specialist. Published, awarded, respected. Jesse raised a brilliant woman."

  Old Simon's eyes shimmered.

  "I found her name while tracing logs through a site called Prometheus and I called."

  He closed his eyes, remembering. "The line rang. Then a soft voice answered. 'Hello? Who is this?'"

  "I hesitated. Then I said, 'Hi. I’m Simon. I was wondering if you could tell me about your father.'"

  "She went quiet. 'Excuse me?'"

  "I told her we’d known each other. That he used to run the Grimoire. That he was... one of the last good things I remembered."

  Old Simon wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

  "She said her dad had a friend named Simon. He died when he was twenty-six. Brain trauma. That it changed her father. He never stopped missing him."

  "He didn’t," Old Simon whispered.

  Simon nodded. "She said Jesse kept the store going for a while, even after comics went digital. Eventually, he took a custodial job at a local college. Said he liked the quiet. Every time they moved, he brought his comic boxes. Especially one labeled 'Grimoire Ghosts.' She was never allowed to open it."

  Old Simon smiled through the tears. "He carried us with him. All that time."

  "I asked how he passed. She said it was peaceful. Old age. She was there, holding his hand. That same box was in his lap. He looked at it, smiled, and said... 'See you soon, buddy.' Then he was gone."

  The air around them stilled. Even the wind in the trees seemed to hold its breath.

  Old Simon’s voice broke. "I never got to say goodbye."

  Simon reached over and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Me neither. "

  "I told you that you'd been powered down for two weeks. But in those two weeks... a lot happened."

  Simon’s voice was calm, steady. But every word carried the weight of revelation.

  He began to tell him everything—his ascent back to Upsilon, the encounters with twisted remnants of WAU’s madness, the people he had saved, and the ones he had failed to. He spoke of the four secret sites hidden in the abyss.

  Site Prometheus—a hidden underwater metropolis where life had stubbornly persisted.

  Site Noesis—a sprawling digital vault of human knowledge, a cathedral of memory and machine, housing everything humanity had ever learned or lost.

  Site Oubliette—watched over by Enoa, Carthage’s cold, calculating digital sovereign.

  Site Mirna—a vault of biological samples from every known species—extinct and present and a cloning facility where flesh and memories were molded for the future use of Carthage and Haimatsu.

  Finally, he spoke of his trip to Noesis. Of his death. And of the thing that brought him back.

  When Simon finished, silence took the space between them like a storm that had just passed. The world around them held its breath.

  Old Simon exhaled a whisper. "You've been through a lot."

  Simon gave a small nod, eyes distant. "And somehow... I’m still sane."

  Old Simon looked up at him, trying to smile, but it faltered. "At least you can call yourself Venom now."

  That earned a weak chuckle from both.

  "But the way you merge with machines," Old Simon continued, eyes narrowing, "It reminds me of someone else."

  "Upgrade," Simon said.

  "From Ben 10," they echoed in unison.

  There was a pause. A flicker of levity amidst the heavy air.

  Then Old Simon’s voice softened. "Do you think I could become like you?" he asked. "It sounds... cool. To be able to shapeshift."

  Simon shook his head slowly. "I don’t think that would be a smart move. Ichor is highly mutagenic and unpredictable. I’m still figuring it out myself. Better not risk it."

  Old Simon nodded, the light in his eyes dimming a bit. A quiet disappointment crossed his face, but he said nothing.

  And then the world shifted.

  The warm, quiet park faded away, replaced by the frozen stillness of a city street. Tall buildings towered overhead. Cars hovered mid-motion. Pedestrians were locked in time, faces blurred with digital decay.

  Old Simon looked around, puzzled.

  "Did you forget?" Simon asked gently. "We’re still in a simulation."

  "No. How could I?" Old Simon said. "But... what are you planning to do?"

  Simon turned toward Old Simon, watching the man with a kind of quiet reverence. This version of himself—so familiar and yet distant—sat in awe of the frozen city around them. The digital skyline glowed faintly, casting long, unmoving shadows. Every building, every blurred face was frozen in time.

  "I can change this world," Simon said softly. "I built it. And it can be anything we want."

  Old Simon turned to him, puzzled.

  "You’ve been through so much. You’ve carried memories, pain... fear. But here, you can be free of all that. So tell me—if you could choose... any power, any form... what would you want to be?"

  Old Simon blinked, taken aback. "You mean like a superhero?"

  Simon’s voice was low but filled with warmth. "Yeah. Pick one. Any one."

  Old Simon laughed nervously, scratching the back of his neck. "That’s... that’s a lot of pressure."

  "You’ve earned it."

  The older version of himself looked down at his hands, scarless and steady. "You remember Nightcrawler? From X-Men? The way he moved... that sense of freedom, vanishing in a puff of smoke? I always envied that."

  Simon’s eyes shimmered, and with a thought, the city shifted.

  Smoke curled around Old Simon’s feet. His body shimmered, bending at the edges like vapor in heat. When he exhaled, a faint mist escaped his mouth—charged with something new. Power.

  "Try it," Simon said, smiling.

  Old Simon hesitated, then focused. A shimmer. A snap. And he vanished, reappearing halfway down the street.

  He turned, wide-eyed. "That felt... incredible."

  Simon stepped closer. "That’s not all."

  The skyline flickered again. Old Simon looked up, watching birds in mid-flight, a single leaf tumbling in the air, frozen just above his shoulder.

  "Doctor Manhattan, too?" he whispered.

  Simon nodded.

  Tears welled in Old Simon’s eyes, and he let out a breath that sounded like years of tension unraveling.

  "Why are you doing this for me?" he asked.

  Simon paused, then answered with quiet honesty. "Because I wouldn’t exist without you. And you deserve to feel what it's like to be more than what the world made us."

  The silence between them stretched, no longer heavy, but luminous.

  Old Simon smiled, this time fully. "Then let’s make something out of this place."

  Simon nodded, and together, the two walked down the frozen street. For once, not as halves of a broken soul—but as equals. Whole.

  https://imgur.com/a/TDQCwWp