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The golden liquid bubbles around me, warm against my green skin, the tubes connected to the implants in my arms humming as they inject the genetic fragment. I'm in the assimilation tank, the reinforced glass cylinder sealed around me, the yellowish light dancing on the walls of the ship's secondary chamber. My eyes are closed—sedated, the robots say, so the process doesn't drive me to rip the tank apart from the pain. But I feel it, even in the haze of unconsciousness, the weight shifting. My body is growing, muscles expanding, bones cracking as they adjust. The DNA of that future Vilgax—the one who nearly died to Ben 10,000, rebuilt by Dr. Animo—is merging with mine, an echo of his tenacity reshaping me.
Before stepping in here, I rolled the points in the Conqueror's Gacha—three times, 30 points total. The system flashed on my visor, golden letters dancing:
**"Genetic Fragment of Classic Future Vilgax. Chrono Alloy Combat Gauntlet. Armor Amplification Module (Mark I)."*
* The fragment vial is already in use, the murky green liquid laced with red streaks now flowing through the tank's probes. The gauntlet waits in the command chamber—dark gray with green veins, like a brutal gym glove, ready to encase my claws. The amplification module is with the robots, who buzz around my classic armor, tweaking it as I change.
They work fast, mechanical claws cutting and welding the red-and-black metal. My armor—my second skin—doesn't fit right anymore. The DNA has made me bigger, broader, my shoulders stretching, my chest swelling with new muscle. The robots extend the chest plates, widen the arms, reinforce the joints with extra metal strips. The visor flickers as they update the systems, the hum of tools blending with the gurgling of the liquid in the tank. I don't see it, but I feel it—the armor's weight shifting, the creak of metal adapting to my new size. The amplification module, that gray plate with green circuits, is already being attached to my right arm, wires sparking as they connect to the implants.
Outside the tank, there's someone. I can't see, sedated as I am, but the ship's sensors told me before I blacked out: Lyra, the Czarnian girl, is standing guard. She's positioned in front of the cylinder, machete in hand, her red eyes fixed on the glass. The robots let her stay there—my orders, maybe, or her volunteering. I don't know. My mind drifts, the sedative pulling me under, but her image lingers: tall, pale, wild black hair spilling over her shoulders, her strong body shaped by the cure I gave them. She watches, and I know it's not just duty—there's something in her eyes, something I saw when she stared at me after I killed Zorak.
The process continues, the golden liquid growing thicker, the heat rising. My muscles swell further, the resilience of that future Vilgax embedding itself in my bones—10, 15% tougher, enough to withstand blows that would've dropped me before. Regeneration comes too, slow, almost lazy—small cuts will close in hours, not minutes, but it's more than I had. My heart beats hard, even under sedation, the sound echoing in the tank like a muffled drum. The robots finish the armor, the metal creaking one last time as they weld the final plates. It's ready—bigger, heavier, the implants humming with the new module, waiting for the moment I step out.
Lyra doesn't move. I can't see her, but the sensors pick it up—machete steady in her right hand, feet planted on the metal floor, her chest rising and falling slightly as she breathes. The other Czarnians are in the triage chamber, testing the new bodies the cure gave them, but she chose to stay here. Why? Admiration, maybe—or curiosity, or something deeper. My sedated mind can't settle on an answer, but the thought of her there, watching, is the last thing clinging to me before silence swallows me whole.
The tank gurgles louder, the robots floating around, lights blinking as they monitor. The process is nearly done. When I wake, I'll be more—bigger, stronger, with the adjusted armor and the gauntlet waiting to cover my claws. And Lyra will be there, her red eyes staring at me, as always. The empire grows, and so do I.
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I'm in the triage chamber, my old machete still in hand, its worn metal scratched and marked from cutting mutant beasts and scrap. The air inside is clean, fresh, free of the dry smell of dust and death I've breathed since I was born. The other sixteen Czarnians are around me, scattered across the gleaming metal room, their red eyes shining with something I've never seen in them—real life. Vilgax's cure worked, just as he promised. I see it in their bodies, in the faces that can't believe what they feel. Krag, the old man who could barely walk, now stands tall, broad-shouldered, his black hair falling in waves, laughing loudly as he punches the air. Tira, who lost her arm years ago, swings both new arms, her skin smooth and strong, her eyes brimming with tears. My mother—my mother!—is beside me, her hair glossy black like mine, her thin frame now robust, her red eyes clear again. She hugs me, the tattered cloth forgotten on the floor, and whispers: "It's like the legends, Lyra. How we were."
The robots came after the cure, buzzing with trays of food—strange stuff, hard bars that look like stone but melt in your mouth, salty and sweet at the same time. There's water too, clean, without the taste of rust, in metal cups they handed us. I take one, the cold liquid sliding down my throat, and almost choke from how good it is. The others eat fast, the younger ones—the hunters like Jek—devouring everything, the teenagers laughing as they lick their fingers. The robots led us to another room after, with hot water pouring from holes in the ceiling—showers, they called them. I stand still, the heat washing away the dust and sweat from my skin, my black hair sticking to my back. When we come out, they give us new clothes—dark gray fabrics, tough but light, covering the body without tearing easily. My mother runs her hand over the sleeve, her eyes wide. "I've never had anything like this," she murmurs.
Then came the weapons. The robots floated toward us, carrying metal boxes that opened with a click. New machetes, reinforced clubs, things that glow and hum. Jek grabs a club with a tip that sparks, laughing like a kid. Krag takes a long machete, twice the size of my old one, testing its weight. A robot stops in front of me, its claw holding something different—a high-tech machete, the black handle pulsing with green lines, the blade thin but gleaming, like it could cut stone. I take it, the weight light in my hand, and run my finger along the edge—sharp, but it doesn't cut me, as if it knows who I am. "For you," the robot says, its metallic voice echoing. I look at my old machete on the floor, all scratched up, and tuck the new one into my waist, the cool handle against my skin.
That's when I overheard the robots talking among themselves, a low hum I caught out of the corner of my ear. "The master is going to the assimilation tank. Sedated. Incapacitated for a while." My chest tightened, the new machete suddenly feeling heavy. Vilgax—the master, the one who killed Zorak, the one who cured us—incapacitated? I saw what he did, the way he broke Zorak like it was nothing, the way he looked at me before entering the ship. He's strong, stronger than anyone, but sedated for hours? What if something happened? The others are busy, laughing over the food and weapons, their new bodies making them dizzy with joy, but I don't trust luck. He gave us all this—cure, food, a future. I wasn't going to leave him there, alone, with no one to watch over him.
"I'll stand guard," I say, my voice coming out firm before I even think it through. The robot flashes a green light, doesn't ask anything, and leads me to the secondary chamber. Now I'm here, in front of the tank, the high-tech machete in my right hand, my feet planted on the metal floor. The glass cylinder glows, the golden liquid inside bubbling, and Vilgax is there—sedated, eyes closed, his body floating in the yellowish light. The robots buzz around, working on his armor on a nearby table, widening the red-and-black metal, welding new plates. He's changing—I can see it even though he's so still.
His body grows, slowly but noticeably. His shoulders, already broad, widen even more, his chest swelling with new muscle, his arms thickening like tree trunks. His dark green skin shines in the liquid, the tendrils twitching slightly, even under sedation. He's bigger—not by much, maybe a handspan taller, a bit more bulk—but enough to make the tank look small. The robots cut and weld the armor, the hiss of tools mixing with the gurgling of the liquid, and I see them attach a gray plate to his right arm—something that glows and hums, like it'll give him even more strength. Mytelegraph.co.uk My heart beats fast, the machete steady in my hand, but I don't move. He's… imposing, even like this, still, quiet. I could leave, join the others, but I stay. He gave us the cure, pulled us from that dead planet. I owe him this—protecting him, like he protected us.
The others are happy, cured, with food and weapons, but I look at him in the tank, his body growing, and I feel that heat in my chest again—the same thing I felt when he killed Zorak, when he looked at me. I don't know what it is, but I know I won't let anything happen to him while I'm here. The high-tech machete glows in my hand, and I stand guard, my red eyes fixed on the glass.
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