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Chapter 92: I Was Planning To Amputate It Anyway
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It was deeply annoying, but it wasn't the agonizing, flesh-withering poison it was for common vampires.
He wiped the dust away. The cut had already closed, leaving no mark. "Immune to silver. Highly resistant to garlic. Let's call it a severe allergy, not anaphylaxis. Noted."
Now for the main event.
"Alice, UV array. Start at 0.1% intensity. Wavelength 280 nanometers. Focus on my palm."
One of his mechanical arms transformed. A small, precise emitter appearing. A low buzz filled the air.
A focused beam of ultraviolet light, invisible to the naked eye, hit his upturned palm.
Adam's eyes narrowed. He felt it; a distinct, crawling itch, a sensation of his skin wanting to recoil.
Like holding his hand too close to a hot stove element, but without the heat. Unpleasant. Annoying. Not debilitating.
"Increase to 1%."
The itch intensified. A faint, healthy redness appeared on his pale skin, like a mild, barely noticeable sunburn.
It was irritating, but far from the blistering, instantaneous combustion he'd witnessed with Dracula's lesser kin.
"Increase to 10%."
Now it felt really uncomfortable. The skin hadn't reddened further as if reaching a limit, and not a wisp of smoke curled up.
It just felt irritating.
He pulled his hand back, shaking it. The faint redness faded before his eyes, the paleness returning.
The smile that spread across his face was one of pure, unadulterated triumph.
It was a weakness, a minor one. But it was a manageable one. He wouldn't burst into flames at dawn.
He could walk in daylight without protection, if he could handle the irritation, nothing he wasn't used to.
He strode to one of the jet's small portholes. The cover was a manual slide.
He took a breath he didn't need and moved it aside.
A brilliant shaft of morning sunlight, clean and golden, speared into the dim cabin. Dust motes danced in its beam like tiny stars.
Adam hesitated not for a second. With the caution of a bomb disposal expert, he extended a single finger into the light.
The sensation was immediate. A deep, resonant itch, far stronger than the focused UV beam.
It was the difference between a laser pointer and a floodlight. Unpleasant, like dipping his finger in acid. But his skin didn't burn. It reddened, not too obvious of a red, but more like a healthy glow from the previously pale, unnatural color.
He pushed his whole hand in. The itch and irritation spread, a grating discomfort that he must admit, he didn't feel like he would get used to.
Then his arm. Finally, steeling himself, he stepped fully into the sunbeam.
He stood there, illuminated, a pale statue in a column of gold. The light washed over his face.
It was weird. A constant, discordant sensation. It felt profoundly wrong, an ontological violation. But he stood. He didn't smoke. He didn't scream. He didn't dissolve.
He started to laugh.
It began as a low chuckle, then built into a full-throated, joyous roar that echoed in the cabin.
He threw his head back, the sunlight falling upon his exposed throat, and laughed at the ceiling, at fate, at the two ancient entities who had tried to cage him.
"Against all odds!" He crowed, stepping back out of the beam, the relief from the constant discomfort almost sweet.
He examined his hand; the healthy redness was already fading. "I did it! I actually, monumentally, succeeded!"
He paced, energy thrumming through him. "Sure, those two ancient mummies, the bloodsucker and the contract-licker, they left their little backhands in the mix. Tried to sour the milk."
He stopped, his mismatched eyes; one grey, one a hidden crimson; gleaming with malicious insight.
"But you know what? The old demon, Mephisto… he was kind enough to give me a push past the finish line. First place, too."
He looked around the empty cabin, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, taunting sing-song.
"I'm not sure if you can hear me in your little sulfur-smelling boardroom, but… thank you. Sincerely."
"We started on such terrible terms, but what you're doing for me… it warms my cold, non-beating heart so much I can't help but want to visit your home. With gifts. You should look forward to it."
[He can walk in sunlight! But how? What happened exactly?]
[Also, how did Mephisto help him achieve it? I don't see it.]
[The weaknesses are just… inconveniences!]
[Definitely plot armor.]
["Visit your home with gifts." I think I know what he's thinking and I'm liking it!]
The euphoria of success was tempered by the state of his body. He was caked in dried blood, ash, and battlefield filth.
"God, I need a shower," He stalked into the compact ensuite bathroom. He couldn't help but let out a sigh, "I should get myself a private jet, this thing rocks. A spaceship sounds better, but maybe for the future."
The shower was a revelation. The water felt like divine fucking nectar. He scrubbed away the grime of mortality and battle, watching the dark water swirl down the drain.
His hair, now long and heavy, was a nuisance. He found a pair of shears and, with precise, unhesitating cuts, sheared it back to a manageable, stylish length, combing it back from his forehead.
The look was severe, elegant, and accentuated his now-sharper features.
He dressed in a pristine, three-piece grey suit he'd had stored in the case.
The fit was perfect. From a compartment within one of the mechanical arms, he retrieved a single hazel-colored contact lens.
He slipped it over his crimson right eye, blinking until it settled. Now, both eyes appeared a cool grey and vibrant hazel.
The monster was hidden behind a boardroom facade.
He flexed his hand again, a flicker of disappointment crossing his face. "Still annoyed about the scars," He muttered to himself.
In the shower, he'd experimentally nicked his thigh with a razor. The skin had sealed before the blood could even properly well up, leaving no mark.
His regeneration was automatic, relentless. He couldn't control it. He couldn't choose to scar. The stories were erased.
He also felt the power within him; a coiled chaotic force. It felt like if he moved too quickly, too thoughtlessly, he might accidentally punch through the jet's hull.
His movements were deliberately slow and measured, as he re-acclimated to his body's new parameters.
He'd expected to be a puppet carried by his mechanical arms, but it wasn't that bad. He can control his power, if only a little.
The thirst was a constant, low-grade distraction, a hollow ache in his gut and a metallic taste at the back of his throat, but it was… manageable. For now.
He took a steadying breath he didn't require, and exited the cabin.
Tony Stark was in the main lounge, slumped in a plush leather seat, a glass of expensive bourbon held loosely in his hand.
He wasn't drinking to celebrate. He was drinking to process. His eyes, bloodshot and shadowed, tracked Adam's entrance with the intensity of a man studying a new, volatile element.
"You," Tony said, his voice flat. "Are a complete and utter maniac." He took a sip. "Do you feel anything? About the arm? You look… unconcerned."
Adam took the seat opposite him, the motion fluid and slow. He shrugged his single shoulder.
"I was planning to amputate it anyway. Seemed a waste not to get some tactical use out of it first. And, well," He gestured to his whole body with his remaining hand, "It worked out."
Tony stared. He slowly put his glass down on the table between them. "Run that by me again. You were planning to cut off your own arm."
"For a cybernetic replacement," Adam clarified, as if discussing upgrading a car's transmission.
"I have some truly inspired ideas. A multi-tool, energy projector, integrated computing node. You should look forward to the vision."
"And if I get sentimental, I'm sure there are ways to regrow a limb out there. This world is weird like that."
[I was planning to amputate it anyway... Who says stuff like that?!]
[There are something he does that I really think is just fucking stupid, then he opens his mind and spits some insanity that makes sense, wtf?]
[Now that I think about it, there are many ways to regrow limbs.]
[Tony's face is a masterpiece of "What the actual fuck is my life?"]
[...]
Tony flinched at the insanity. Sorcery, super-science, vampires; it was all colliding in his bourbon-addled mind. "You are… You are certifiable."
He leaned forward, peering at Adam. "And you are a vampire now, right? Can't you just… grow it back?"
Adam raised an eyebrow, a perfectly measured gesture. "No. Even vampires have limits. Though limits are made to be broken, so maybe later. What gave it away, by the way? That I've already turned?"
Tony stared at him, deadpan. "Did getting bitten by Dracula make you dumber? It's obvious..."
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