Scott felt like his stomach had been twisted into knots by an invisible hand.
He collapsed onto the floor, his vision spinning wildly.
The ant that had just walked past him was terrifying up close. The stiff hairs on its six legs looked like rows of sharp spears. Its compound eyes were like countless distorted mirrors, reflecting endless tiny versions of himself—panicked, helpless, screaming.
He wanted to run.
But his legs felt like noodles.
"Press the red button again!" Hank Pym's voice exploded inside the helmet like thunder from a god.
Scott's mind was blank. Acting on instinct, he raised his hand and slapped the glove blindly.
Bzzzz—
The dizzying sensation reversed instantly. His field of vision stretched like a rubber band snapping back.
He crashed onto the wooden floor at full size.
The first thing he did was rip the helmet off and throw it as hard as he could toward the wall.
Clang!
Then he collapsed onto the floor, his throat burning as he gagged violently.
"Get out!" he shouted hoarsely.
When he looked up, he realized two people were standing in his living room.
An elderly man with gray hair.
And a sharp-eyed woman.
When had they come in? He hadn't noticed a thing.
Scott grabbed the Ant-Man suit from the floor and hurled it at the old man like trash.
"Take your junk and get out!"
The old man simply stepped aside and easily avoided it.
Hank Pym.
Beside him, the woman—Hope van Dyne—took a step forward. Her gaze cut across Scott's face like a blade.
"You're not going anywhere, thief."
Scott scrambled to his feet and lunged for the door.
Hope moved once.
One clean grappling move—and Scott was slammed to the floor, his arm twisted behind him.
He felt like his shoulder was about to break.
The woman's strength was terrifying.
---
Several blocks away, inside Levi's workshop.
On a massive holographic screen, a complex three-dimensional atomic structure simulation came to a halt.
"Interesting."
Levi took a sip of coffee while reading the analysis report.
Pym Particles didn't actually shrink objects.
They forced atomic distances to compress through an unknown quantum effect.
This wasn't shrinking.
It was folding microscopic space.
Compared to Levi's current understanding of large-scale spatial laws, this technology was infinitely more precise—and infinitely more dangerous.
As for copying Pym Particles…
He didn't want the blueprints.
Copying technology he didn't fully understand was meaningless to him.
What he wanted was the result—the ability to freely twist one's own dimensional scale.
Which meant the best target wasn't the technology itself.
It was the biological user fully adapted to the particle effect.
"Exactly," Levi murmured.
He tapped the table lightly.
He didn't need to learn how to grow the tree.
He only needed to wait for Scott—the lab rat—to grow the fruit… and then pick it.
Directly copying the technology could cause uncontrolled quantum collapse inside his own body.
But copying Scott, the finished product?
That meant Scott would bear all the risks.
Levi looked at the screen where Hope was pinning Scott to the floor.
He smiled faintly.
"Do your best, future hero."
---
Back in the apartment.
Scott stopped struggling.
He knew he couldn't escape.
"Mr. Scott Lang," Hank Pym finally said calmly, "do you want to spend your life as a thief, going in and out of prison while your daughter is ashamed of you at school?"
Scott froze.
"Or would you rather become the hero she believes you are?"
The word hit him like a needle in the softest part of his heart.
Hero.
Hank bent down and picked up the suit from the floor, brushing the dust off it carefully like it was a treasure.
Then he placed it back in Scott's arms.
"I'm giving you a chance. A chance to stand proudly at Cassie's birthday party and tell her—'Your dad saved the world.'"
Scott stared down at the suit.
Cold metal.
Strange fibers.
His thoughts drifted to Cassie.
Her bright eyes.
The way she looked at him—wanting to get close, but with a hint of distance.
He didn't want to be dragged away by police from her birthday party like a criminal.
"I… what do I have to do?" he asked hoarsely.
Hank Pym's lips curved slightly.
Like a fisherman who had just hooked a big catch.
"First," he said.
"Learn how to use it."
---
The car stopped outside an unremarkable suburban house.
Inside was a completely different world.
In the center of the living room sat a massive glass terrarium.
Thousands of ants bustled inside it, forming a miniature city.
"Your training ground is below," Hank said as he opened the basement door.
The basement was enormous—like an abandoned laboratory filled with strange equipment and pipes.
"Put it on," Hank said.
"Lesson one: control shrinking."
Scott sighed and obediently put on the suit and helmet.
He pressed the red button.
Bzzzz—
This time he was prepared.
He forced himself to stay calm and feel the changes in space around him.
It felt like falling into an invisible vortex.
Everything stretched and twisted.
Seconds later—
he succeeded.
He stood steadily on the floor, now only one centimeter tall.
"Good," Hank's voice boomed through the helmet like thunder.
"Now run from point A to point B."
Hank marked two points on the floor with a laser pointer.
Normally two meters apart.
But to Scott, it looked like an endless marathon.
He started running.
Air was no longer empty—it pressed against him like water.
Each step felt like wading through a waist-deep current.
By the time he reached the finish point, his lungs felt like they would explode.
"Thirty seconds," Hank said flatly.
"Too slow. A proper Ant-Man needs three seconds. Again."
Scott didn't even have time to catch his breath before turning around and running back.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Eventually he returned to normal size and ripped off the helmet.
He collapsed onto the floor, soaked in sweat like he had been pulled out of a swimming pool.
Hope handed him a bottle of water, her expression still full of undisguised skepticism.
"I told you. He's not good enough. He's just a thief."
"But he has what we need," Hank said quietly while watching Scott gasp for air.
"He has the mind to break rules… and the heart that wants to be a hero. That matters more than anything."
---
The next few days were pure hell.
Scott learned to leap over pencils while shrunken and climb upright books like skyscrapers.
Hank even dropped him into a bathtub to train balance against water currents.
Once, Scott fell onto a half-eaten slice of pizza and got trapped in melted cheese.
A passing cockroach nearly ate him for dinner.
Eventually Hank revealed the real mission:
Infiltrate Pym Technologies and steal back the Yellowjacket suit from Hank's former student—Darren Cross.
"He weaponized my Pym Particles," Hank said bitterly. "He plans to sell them to Hydra. If he succeeds, the world is finished."
"Why don't you do it yourself?" Scott asked.
"I'm old," Hank said, staring at his hands. "Every use of Pym Particles damages my body. And Cross designed his security specifically to stop me."
Scott pointed at Hope.
"What about her?"
Hank's voice dropped.
"She can't go. I won't… lose her too."
Scott didn't ask further.
He could tell there was history there.
---
"Communication," Hank said through the helmet.
"That's the key to control. Ants are your allies—not your slaves."
Scott was losing his mind.
He stood shrunken inside the massive terrarium.
Ants crawled everywhere around him.
Each one the size of a car.
The helmet translated pheromones and antenna vibrations into crackling signals in his mind.
Fragments flooded his brain:
Hunger. Danger. Carry. Queen. Mate. Food.
It was deafening.
Hank's task was simple:
Command one worker ant to move a sugar cube from point A to point B.
Scott had failed seventeen times.
He focused and sent a clear command.
"Pick up the sugar."
The ant twitched its antennae… then walked around him and left.
"It's not listening!" Scott complained.
"Because your command is stupid," Hank said coldly.
"You have to give it a reason."
Scott took a deep breath and tried again.
This time he didn't give an order.
He constructed a complex signal like Hank taught him—mixing pheromone cues.
Food.
Safety of the nest.
The queen's command.
And a safe path he imagined.
The miracle happened.
The ant stopped.
Its antennae twitched excitedly.
Then it walked to the sugar cube, gripped it with its mandibles, and followed Scott's mental path to the target leaf.
"Excellent," Hank said, genuine approval in his voice.
"Dad," Hope said suddenly. "Let him try Anthony."
Hank hesitated.
"…Alright."
"Scott. Advanced lesson. Connect with Anthony."
"Anthony?"
"An ant," Hank explained. "I fitted it with mechanical wings. It's your mount."
A giant flying ant descended from the top of the terrarium.
Its wings shimmered metallic under the light.
Scott swallowed.
It looked like a living attack helicopter.
He sent a signal.
Take me flying.
Anthony tilted its head.
Then suddenly buzzed away… landing on a distant branch to groom its wings.
"Does it think I'm stupid too?" Scott groaned.
"No," Hank said, barely suppressing laughter.
"It thinks you're too heavy."
---
"Dad! We have a problem!"
Hope suddenly looked tense.
"Darren Cross moved up the product launch!"
Hank hurried to the computer.
On the screen, Darren Cross stood proudly before a glass display case full of investors.
Inside was a menacing yellow-and-black armored suit.
The Yellowjacket.
"He succeeded…" Hank said bitterly.
"He turned my life's work into a weapon."
"The launch is tomorrow night," Hope said pale.
"We're out of time. Scott isn't ready."
"He has to be!" Hank turned sharply toward the terrarium.
"Scott! Listen carefully! The plan moved up! You only get one chance. Tonight—you must learn to fly!"
Scott's heart sank.
He looked at Anthony grooming its wings… then at the Yellowjacket suit on the screen.
This wasn't training anymore.
This was real.
He took a deep breath and focused completely on Anthony.
This time his signal was different.
Urgency.
Danger.
The queen's command.
And something else—
A quiet, desperate desire to see his daughter again.
Anthony felt the powerful signal.
It stopped grooming its wings.
Slowly turned its head.
Across dozens of meters, its massive compound eyes locked onto Scott.
For several seconds—
neither moved.
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