The training room pulsed with the residual energy of Venom A coursing through Erick Costa's veins. The air was thick with sweat and ozone, the floor marked by the fresh grooves of dragged weights and repeated impacts. Erick, still transformed by the drug—hypertrophied muscles, veins bulging like steel cables, height increased by ten centimeters—breathed deeply, feeling the raw power throbbing in every fiber of his being. His eyes, sharp as blades, scanned the room: bars bent under impossible loads, dumbbells scattered like relics from a pre-superhuman era, and Doc's hologram hovering in the corner, monitoring vital data in real time. The serum's internal clock ticked—about forty minutes remaining before the decline—and Erick didn't intend to waste a second. He had surpassed the initial limits of strength, but he needed more data. I needed to know exactly where Venom A positioned him on the threat spectrum of the DC universe: against metahumans like Mammoth, or even against heavyweights like Blockbuster.
The strength tests had been impressive, but inconclusive. Erick had stacked every available plate in the complex—reinforced E10 alloys, custom weights forged in his own furnaces—reaching a total of 2,200 tons in a modified deadlift. The bar, a monstrous cylindrical piece of indestructible metal, groaned under the pressure, but Erick lifted it with a fluidity that unsettled him. His back and trapezius muscles swelled like living mountains, veins pulsing rapidly as he held the weight aloft for a full ten seconds. "This isn't the limit," he murmured to himself, lowering the load with a thud that shook the ground. He felt—a visceral intuition, amplified by the fire elemental that coexisted at his core—that he could handle more. Much more. The Venom A wasn't just an amplifier; He was a catalyst that rewrote the rules of human physiology, transforming tendons into titanium cables and bones into synthetic adamantium structures. But without equipment to test further, he had to improvise. He flexed his wrists, the white bandages crackling slightly, and moved on to the next protocol: speed.
Erick positioned himself on the indoor running track—a 100-meter-long track coated with high-friction rubber and embedded sensors that measured accelerations in milliseconds. In his base form, without the serum, he was fast: years of mixed martial arts training, combined with the elemental boost, allowed him sprints that rivaled enhanced Olympic athletes. But Venom A prioritized strength and endurance, not pure agility. He shot off from the starting point, legs pumping like hydraulic pistons, the air cut by a deep hiss. Doc's hologram registered: a sustained top speed of 45 km/h, a modest 20% increase over his base 35-38 km/h. "A little faster," Erick conceded, stopping at the end of the track without gasping. His leg muscles throbbed efficiently, the veins still bulging, absorbing oxygen like hyperactive sponges. It wasn't Kid Flash's flash, nor Superman's supersonic speed, but it was enough to impress in hand-to-hand combat. The serum reinforced the initial burst—acceleration from 0 to 45 km/h in 1.2 seconds—but the focus was on endurance, not evasion. He repeated the sprint three times, varying his stances: one with pumping arms, another in a low running style to simulate urban chases. The results were consistent: marginal gain in speed, but without perceptible fatigue. "Strength and endurance are the core," he thought. "Speed is a bonus."
Moving on to jump tests, Erick headed to the vertical area: an elevated platform with laser markings projected onto the ceiling, measuring height in centimeter increments. He crouched, concentrating the force in his legs—quadriceps and glutes contracting like overloaded springs—and exploded upward. The air whistled around him as he ascended, arms extended for balance, veins in his neck visibly pulsing. Peak: 15 meters high, touching the reinforced ceiling with his fingertips before descending in a controlled fall. The landing was flawless—knees flexing to absorb the impact, without trembling or pain. The ground cracked slightly beneath his feet, a web of fissures spreading like miniature veins. "Useful," murmured Erick, repeating the jump with variations: one with a 180-degree rotation in the air, simulating an aerial evasion; another with lateral momentum to cover a horizontal distance of 20 meters. Each time, Venom A proved its versatility: the increased muscle density allowed for explosive propulsion, while the bone and ligament resilience ensured structural integrity. In Gotham, this meant leaping from rooftops to ambush enemies, or escaping explosions like those of the Joker. He mentally calculated: in combat, such a leap could take down drones or reach snipers in tall buildings. Satisfied, he moved on to endurance.
The extended run test was crucial—not just speed, but sustainability under maximum stress. Erick returned to the track, setting up a continuous loop with Doc monitoring heart rate, blood lactate, and muscle oxygenation. At his baseline, he maintained 35 km/h for 62 seconds before fatigue set in. With Venom A, he accelerated to 42 km/h, legs moving in a rhythmic blur, arms synchronized for aerodynamic efficiency. The stopwatch ticked: one minute, two, three… four full minutes of maximum sprint without perceptible decline. His heart pounded, but steady—180 bpm, no arrhythmia. Veins carried enriched oxygen, muscles recycled ATP with superhuman efficiency. "Massive increase in explosive output," he observed, finally stopping with a smile. The serum extended the performance window, transforming sprints into short marathons, ideal for prolonged chases or extended battles against villains like Killer Croc. He sensed the synergistic fire element: internal flames warming tissues for accelerated recovery, complementing Venom A. With twenty minutes remaining on the serum's timer, it was time for practical application: combat.
"Doc, call Baymax B11," Erick ordered, his voice echoing in the vast room. The hologram nodded, sending an encrypted signal. Seconds later, hydraulic doors hissed, revealing the robot: Baymax B11, an evolution of the original line—inflatable on the outside for camouflage, but now equipped with an outer armor custom-designed by Erick. The armor was a masterpiece: composite alloy plates (not E10, but a titanium-ceramic variant with kinetic shock absorbers), adding 150 kilograms to the base weight of 150 kg, totaling 300 kilograms of gross mass. Broad shoulders, armored torso with flexible joints, reinforced legs for stability. Optical sensors glowed red, and hydraulic actuators hummed in readiness. The armor allowed Baymax to utilize 100% of his programmed strength—fists capable of piercing concrete, burst speeds of 30 km/h, and combat protocols based on synthesized martial arts data from the Justice League. "Sparring mode: maximum strength, no holding back," Erick commanded. Baymax confirmed in a synthetic voice: "Affirmative, boss. Initiating test protocol."
They positioned themselves in the central ring—the same one where Erick trained with Artemis, a 6x6 meter square with elastic ropes and reinforced matting. Erick, shirtless, bandages on his hands and feet (he had quickly wrapped them around his ankles for traction), flexed his muscles, the Venom A making his skin stretch like taut leather. Baymax, imposing in his dark gray armor with metallic reflections, adopted a modified boxing stance: fists raised, legs spaced for balance. The air between them crackled with tension—man against machine, enhanced flesh against lethal engineering.
Erick moved first, exploding with amplified speed. His feet propelled him forward in a blur, his right fist clenching into a devastating straight punch to Baymax's armored "belly." The impact echoed like a cracked bell—metal crumpling slightly, actuators groaning under the force. Baymax, weighing 300 kilograms, was hurled backward like a giant rag doll, flying 10 meters beyond the ring ropes, colliding with the opposite wall with a thud that sent dust plummeting from the ceiling. Armor plates creaked, but the robot stabilized, sensors recalibrating. Erick looked at his own hand, thin smoke rising from the bandages—the fire elemental had manifested involuntarily, adding heat to the blow. "I didn't expect that," he admitted, a wild grin forming. Ignoring the now irrelevant ring, he leaped—legs propelling him 5 meters into the air in a graceful arc—aiming to crush Baymax with a downward stomp.
Baymax, evasion protocols activated, rolled to the side with surprising agility for his mass. Erick's foot struck the empty ground, creating a crater 50 centimeters in diameter, cracks spreading like spiderwebs. Fragments of concrete flew, and the impact sent shockwaves that made the lights flicker. Erick laughed, the guttural sound echoing. "Let's see how much this yields," he said, straightening up. "Come on, attack me with everything you've got."
Baymax obeyed, actuators humming in overdrive. He lunged forward in a brutal charge, his right fist clenching into an overhand punch loaded with 2 tons of hydraulic force. Erick raised his guard—forearms crossed in an X—receiving the blow in the center. The impact was like a jackhammer: Erick slid 3 meters backward, his feet leaving furrows in the mat, but without falling. The pain was minimal—like a truck slap, cushioned by the resistance of Venom A. Veins in his arms pulsed, absorbing and dissipating the energy. "Well... with everything," Erick repeated, intentionally lowering his guard, inviting the assault.
Baymax didn't hesitate, launching a combo programmed for maximum lethality: a quick straight punch to the face, his fist cutting through the air like a bullet. Erick let it land—jaw grinding, a trickle of blood running down his lip—but barely moved. Then, a left hook to the stomach, metal colliding with steel abs; Erick grunted, feeling the impact reverberate through his organs, but the serum regenerated tissues in real time. A right hook rising to the chin—Erick tilted his head slightly, the blow grazing, but still strong enough to make stars dance in his vision. A left uppercut, ascending like a rocket; it landed squarely on the chest, lifting Erick off the ground by an inch. Baymax followed with a hammer blow: bringing both hands together above his head and descending like a forge hammer on the crown of Erick's skull. The thud was deafening—skull vibrating, but intact thanks to amplified bone density. Erick stumbled a step, but smiled through the blood.
The robot didn't stop: another straight to the nose, a cross to the temple, a hook to the liver. Erick absorbed each one, his body swaying like a living punching bag, veins gleaming with the effort. A double uppercut—left and right in sequence—followed by a hydraulic knee to the abdomen. Erick coughed, feeling his ribs flex but not break. Baymax spun into a low roundhouse kick, aiming to sweep the legs; Erick jumped over him, countering with a downward elbow that crushed the robot's left shoulder. Plates creaked, sparks flying from exposed joints. "More," demanded Erick, his voice hoarse. Baymax responded with a barrage: alternating punches at high speed—jab, jab, cross, hook, upper—each one loaded with mechanical precision. Erick blocked some, letting others land to test limits: a hook to the kidney sent excruciating pain, but the elemental healed in seconds.
The climax came with Baymax charging a final straight punch: his arm retracting like a spring, then exploding forward with all its hydraulic power. It hit Erick squarely in the face—nose bleeding, cheek swelling—throwing him 10 meters back. Erick rolled on the ground, controlling the spin to minimize damage, and stood up in a fluid motion, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. "Impressive," he said, gasping for the first time. "My resilience is something else. I'm not invincible, but... hard to break."
Not satisfied, Erick counterattacked, testing his offensive limits. He zigzagged forward, feinting a high punch to land a low kick on Baymax's leg—metal bending, the robot staggering. An uppercut from Erick lifted Baymax off the ground a meter, followed by a hook that spun the mechanical head 90 degrees. Baymax retaliated with a claw—armored fingers attempting to grab the neck—but Erick dodged, counter-striking with a knee to the torso that cracked a central plate. They traded blows for minutes: Erick punching with brute force, creating deep dents; Baymax responding with precise combos, forcing Erick to block. A spinning kick from Erick shattered the armor on the robot's left arm, actuators exploding in sparks; Baymax countered with a headbutt that opened a gash on Erick's forehead.
Gasping for breath, sweat mixed with dripping blood, Erick finally retreated. Venom A was declining—muscles shrinking slightly—but the damage to Baymax was evident: armor dented in multiple places, a chest plate broken, joints creaking. The robot, though not E10, was resilient—an alloy designed to withstand bullets and explosions—but under Erick's assault, it looked like scrap metal. "Impressive," Erick repeated, wiping away the sweat. "This is impressive. Now I understand why Bane gets addicted. And my form isn't even that efficient." He gave a tired but triumphant smile, feeling the power drain away, but the knowledge remain. "One more step."
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