The training room in the basement of the Hargrove complex was a temple dedicated to human achievement—or, in Erick Costa's case, to transcendence beyond it. Walls reinforced with E10 steel plates, the indestructible metal he himself had synthesized, echoed with the constant hum of industrial fans that kept the air cool despite the heat generated by intense workouts. The floor was covered with high-density rubber mats, marked by grooves from repeated impacts, and around it, various equipment: barbells ranging from light weights to loads that would challenge even superhumans, punching bags hanging from chains as thick as wrists, and an area dedicated to sparring with robotic dummies equipped with force sensors. Cool white LED lights illuminated every corner, leaving no shadows to hide in, reflecting Erick's philosophy: total transparency on the path to absolute power.
Erick stood in the center of the room, shirtless, his bare torso displaying a tapestry of muscles sculpted by years of rigorous training and elemental enhancements. His scars—remnants of battles against assassins like Deathstroke and Black Mask's mercenaries—snaked across his tanned skin, mingling with the prominent veins that already pulsed with the latent energy of his fire elemental. He wore only black training pants, loose enough to allow fluid movement but resistant to tearing. With methodical precision, he wrapped white bandages around his hands, tightening them with firm knots that protected his knuckles and wrists. First his left hand: the fabric stretched over the hardened calluses, forming a second skin that would absorb impacts. Then, his right, repeating the ritual with the same Zen-like concentration. Each turn was a reminder of his journey—from a baby reincarnated in a world of gods and monsters to a man who shaped his destiny with iron and fire.
He looked up at the floating hologram of the Doctor—or "Doc," as Erick called him in more casual moments. The projection was a slender figure, wearing an immaculate white virtual lab coat, round glasses atop an intellectual face, with digital gray hair that suggested accumulated wisdom from infinite databases. Doc was the supreme analyst among Erick's AIs: a master of biology, chemistry, and human physiology, capable of simulating medical scenarios with atomic precision.
"How stable were you able to make it?" Erick asked, his voice deep and focused, as he flexed his bandaged fingers.
Doc's hologram turned slightly, the blue pixels flickering as if he were hearing something beyond the audible spectrum. In the corner of the room, the sound of heavy, soft footsteps echoed—Baymax, the inflatable, lethal robot Erick had created to protect his sister Sara, approached with mechanical efficiency. His chubby form, covered by a layer of E10 alloy beneath his soft exterior, carried a silvery metallic briefcase in his right hand. Baymax stopped a meter from Erick, his LED eyes blinking in a friendly pattern, and opened the briefcase with a soft click. Inside, padded with molded foam, lay two items: a sterile, reinforced glass syringe and a sealed vial containing a luminescent blue liquid, which swirled slowly like a miniature nebula.
Doc turned his gaze to Erick, a subtle smile curving his virtual lips.
"Quite stable. I managed to reduce the risks of addiction to acceptable levels, as well as improve some other functions. In vitro tests and simulations in digital models show a dependence rate of less than 5% in compatible users."
Erick approached the briefcase, leaning over to inspect its contents. The air around the bottle seemed charged, as if the blue liquid radiated a subtle energy.
"How long does the effect last?"
"Approximately one hour per dose," Doc replied, projecting a secondary hologram next to the briefcase: a line graph showing peaks of performance and gradual decline. "Of course, you can inject yourself with more of it, but it's not recommended. Overdosing can increase the residual risks of cell mutation or adrenal overload."
Erick carefully picked up the bottle, turning it between his fingers to observe the internal glow.
"So you managed to lower the risk level of addiction without diminishing the beneficial effects it produces?"
Doc adjusted his virtual reality glasses, a gesture that Erick had programmed to humanize the AI.
"More or less. I managed to modify some key parameters. It's not as strong as the original, but it creates a balance across the board. In tests with simulated animals, it resulted in an increase of approximately 700% in durability, strength, and speed. It's a more harmonious version, without the erratic peaks that lead to instability."
Erick nodded, his eyes gleaming with calculated interest.
"Interesting. Let's call this form Venom A."
Without hesitation, he took the syringe from the case, inserted the needle into the vial, and pulled the plunger, extracting all the blue liquid down to the last drop. Baymax watched silently, ready to intervene if anything went wrong—his medical protocol activated. Erick exposed the vein in his left forearm, pressed the needle with surgical precision, and injected the contents. The cold liquid flooded his system, spreading like liquid fire.
Immediately, the veins became visible: starting from the injected arm, thick blue lines pulsed and expanded, running like raging rivers toward his torso, rising up his neck and branching out across his chest. His arm muscles swelled, fibers contracting and expanding in visible waves, as if each cell were being inflated with raw power. His pectoral muscles broadened, becoming even more defined, ribs standing out beneath the stretched skin. Erick grew about ten centimeters taller—bones cracking slightly, lengthening in a symphony of transformation. His legs thickened, quadriceps and calf muscles swelling, veins bulging even under the fabric of his pants. What was once loose now felt uncomfortably tight, seams stretching to their limit, threatening to tear. He flexed his fists, feeling the air crackle with the contained force.
"Impressive," Erick murmured, his voice deeper, echoing with a new resonance. He looked at Doc. "Compared to the original, how much do you think I am?"
Doc designed another hologram: a side-by-side comparison of graphics, with red curves for the original Venom and blue for the modified version.
"The original improves the host's body by about 10 times—strength, stamina, speed, everything multiplied by ten. The problem is the degree of addiction and the damage caused to the body: liver overload, neural erosion, psychological dependence that leads to madness. Few people have a genetic makeup compatible with this drug; Bane is a rare exception, thanks to induced mutations and chronic adaptations. The one I modified allows for a high level of compatibility with your body—optimized for your unique physiology, with the fire element acting as a stabilizer. However, it has a low dose of physical results, reducing the improvement to 700% to 800%, leaving you five or six times stronger than at your base level. Thanks to this, I managed to lower the degree of addiction even further: there is still a small chance, but nothing too worrying—estimated at 2-3% with moderate use. I also increased the duration of the effect to one hour, unlike the original, which has a much shorter time, often dropping to 10-20 minutes at standard doses."
Erick grinned, a predatory gesture that revealed teeth sharpened by adrenaline.
"Great. Let's test it."
He headed to the weight room, the floor trembling slightly under his heavier steps. First, the bench press: he lay on the reinforced bench, picking up the barbell loaded with his normal weight—300 kilos, which previously required concentrated effort. Now, he lifted it as if it were a stick, repeating reps without any perceptible resistance. His muscles pulsed, veins dancing beneath his skin. He stood up, adding plates: 500 kilos. Still nothing—like pushing air. At 700 kilos, the barbell bent slightly, but for Erick, it was like lifting a sheet of paper. He chuckled softly, the sound reverberating in the room.
Not satisfied, he moved on to a larger bar, fixed to the wall with hydraulic supports—a custom-made piece for extreme testing. He added weights: 1000, 1200, 1500 kilos. Lying on the bench? Useless now; the bench creaked under his increased weight. Instead, he squatted, gripped the bar with his bandaged hands, and lifted into a straight deadlift. The bar rose with gigantic ease, back and leg muscles working in perfect harmony, without trembling. "Is this real?" he murmured, lowering and adding more plates, bringing the total to 2000 kilos. He knew the bar only held up thanks to E10 metal—an indestructible alloy, dense as lead, but flexible enough not to break.
Once again, he squatted and stood up: the 2,000 kilos rose as if they were nothing, air escaping his lungs in a satisfied grunt. He lowered the bar with control, the impact echoing like muffled thunder.
"How does the poison work?" Erick asked, turning to Doc, sweat beginning to bead on his expanded skin.
Doc expanded the hologram, projecting an animated 3D model of the human body: muscles, bones, nervous and circulatory systems highlighted in vivid colors. "The original Venom, developed in clandestine laboratories in Santa Prisca—a mixture of synthetic anabolic steroids, mutagenic growth hormones, and neurostimulant compounds derived from tropical snake venoms—acts on multiple biochemical levels. First, on the endocrine system: it floods the body with testosterone analogs and IGF-1 (insulin-like growth factor), forcing muscle cells to hypertrophy at accelerated rates. Myofibrils—the contractile units of muscles—multiply, increasing the density of actin and myosin, which allows for more powerful contractions. In simple terms, each muscle fiber becomes like a reinforced steel cable, capable of generating ten times greater force.
At the neural level, Venom hyperstimulates alpha motor neurons, lowering the recruitment threshold: this means that more motor units are activated simultaneously, eliminating natural inhibitions such as the Golgi reflex, which prevents muscle tears. This is why users like Bane can ignore human limits—the brain ignores signals of fatigue and pain, replacing them with adrenergic euphoria. But this comes at a cost: synaptic overload leads to neurotoxicity, damaging axons and causing chronic tremors or psychosis.
In the circulatory system, the compound increases the production of erythrocytes (red blood cells), improving oxygen transport—similar to doping EPO, but amplified. Veins dilate to accommodate the increased blood flow, which explains the vascular swelling you are experiencing. Bones thicken via osteoblastic stimulation, preventing fractures under extreme stress, and the skin gains elasticity to support muscle expansion without tearing.
The modified version, Venom A, refines this: I reduced the volatile mutagenic components, replacing them with nanotechnology-based stabilizers—particles that bind to androgen receptors reversibly, preventing permanent dependence. The increase is more balanced: 500-600% instead of 1000%, but without the spikes that cause organ collapse. The extended duration comes from a slow-release matrix, where the compound is encapsulated in liposomes that gradually degrade. Risks of addiction are reduced because I avoided direct binding to dopaminergic receptors in the nucleus accumbens—the brain's reward center. In short, it's strength without the chaos: controlled power, adapted to your already elementally enhanced body, making you a sustainable war machine.
Erick nodded, absorbing every detail, his muscles still throbbing with Venom coursing through his veins. The test had barely begun, but the potential was clear: in a universe of Kryptonians and Lanterns, this was another step towards the absolute.
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