Daggett Industries Remote Research Facility - 40 Miles Outside Gotham - 11:47 PM
A lone transport truck approached the facility's security checkpoint with its headlights cutting through the darkness. The compound was isolated, surrounded by a dense forest, far from civilian witnesses, designed for research that Daggett Industries preferred to keep away from public scrutiny and regulatory oversight.
Twelve-foot fences topped with razor wire. Guard towers at each corner, armed security patrolling the perimeter with military precision. Motion sensors, thermal cameras, and automated defense systems that could lockdown the entire compound in seconds if threatened.
Inside the truck, Basil Karlo reviewed his performance one final time, running through the mannerisms and speech patterns he'd studied for weeks. His Quirk, allowed him to perfectly replicate physical appearances, but true impersonation required more than just looking right. It required becoming the person, inhabiting their identity so completely that even people who worked with them daily wouldn't notice the substitution.
His target tonight was Dr. Klint Mophal, Daggett Industries' Chief of Research Development. Mid-fifties, arrogant academic who'd sold out to corporate interests decades ago, distinctive New England accent with traces of his MIT education, posture that suggested both intellectual superiority and physical discomfort from years hunched over laboratory equipment.
Basil had watched every available video of Dr. Mophal, board meetings, conference presentations, even leaked security footage from Daggett headquarters. He'd studied the man's walk, his gestures, the way he adjusted his glasses when annoyed, the subtle tells that would sell the impersonation even to people who knew Klint personally. His acting expertise hadn't disappeared just because his career had burned down.
Next to him sat one of Jaina's duplicates, wearing the heavy tactical armor and carrying an assault rifle The duplicate's face was partially obscured by a helmet with tinted visor, making individual identification impossible. Behind them, hidden in the truck's cargo area, Silver waited in darkness. Her skull-patterned face would draw immediate attention, so the plan kept her concealed unless needed. Six more Jaina duplicates occupied the truck's cargo section with her, all heavily armed in case the plan went sour.
The truck rolled to a stop at the checkpoint. A guard approached the driver's side.
"Identification," the guard said, his tone professional but bored. Night shift at a remote facility where nothing ever happened.
The driver duplicate handed over forged credentials, Dr. Mophal's security clearance, verified through Penguin's extensive network of corruption in US buisness.
The guard studied them, then looked at Basil through the passenger window. "Dr. Mophal? Weren't expecting you tonight."
Basil leaned forward, letting the doctors mannerisms take over completely. "I'm here for Project Sanguine transfer. Director Chen authorized the pickup personally, and I'd rather not spend all night explaining corporate logistics to gate security. You want to call him and interrupt his evening? Be my guest. I'll wait here while you explain to Daggett Industries' Director of Special Projects why you're delaying his orders."
The guard hesitated, clearly caught between protocol and not wanting to anger someone several levels above his authority. Project Sanguine meant nothing to him, the facility had multiple classified research programs, and security personnel were deliberately kept ignorant of details, but the credentials were legitimate, and his attitude matched every report the guard had heard about the man.
"I should verify—" the guard started.
"Then verify," Basil interrupted, channeling Mophal's notorious impatience. "Call Director Chen. Wake him up at midnight. Tell him his Chief of Research Development is standing at your gate because you need to double-check. I'm sure he'll appreciate the thoroughness."
The sarcasm was perfect, cutting enough to make the guard uncomfortable but not aggressive enough to trigger a defensive response.
The guard looked at his partner, who shrugged. Neither of them wanted to escalate this into a situation that would require explanations to superiors.
"Welcome to the facility, Dr." the guard said finally, stepping back and waving them through. "Security will escort you to the main building."
The gate opened, and the truck rolled forward into the compound.
Basil didn't allow himself to relax. The first checkpoint was passed, but the real challenge came inside the facility itself, where people might actually know Dr. Mophal personally, where his impersonation would face genuine scrutiny.
Inside the cargo area, Silver whispered into her comm: "We're in. Phase one complete."
Daggett Industries Research Facility - Interior - 12:03 AM
Basil walked through the corridors with the Jaina duplicate in tactical armor who stayed two steps behind him, playing the role of attentive bodyguard.
They passed scientists who nodded respectfully, security guards who stepped aside deferentially, administrative staff who avoided eye contact. Nobody questioned Dr. Mophal's presence. Basil followed the map on his watch that Penguin had provided—sourced from a corrupted Daggett Industries database administrator who supplemented his income by selling secrets to interested parties. The route led them deeper into the complex, past the legitimate research areas where public projects were conducted, toward the restricted sections where Daggett Industries kept its darkest secrets.
Two more security checkpoints, both passed with Dr. Mophals credentials and attitude. The Jaina duplicate maintained perfect silence, letting Basil's performance carry them forward.
Finally, they reached a reinforced door marked SG-7.
Basil pressed his palm to the biometric scanner, his Clay Quirk extended even to fingerprints as penguins mole provided a copy of them, allowing him to replicate Dr. Webb's exact dermal patterns. The scanner processed, beeped acceptance, and the door unlocked with a heavy mechanical thunk.
The laboratory beyond was smaller than expected, maybe thirty feet by forty, but packed with medical equipment that looked more appropriate for an emergency surgical suite than corporate research. Hospital beds with restraint systems, IV stands, monitoring equipment tracking vital signs, and—most tellingly—a massive refrigeration unit filled with labeled blood bags.
Three scientists worked in the space, all wearing surgical masks and gloves, all clustered around a figure strapped to a modified wheelchair in the room's center.
The figure was a young man, maybe mid-twenties, with dark hair and eyes that showed the kind of exhaustion that came from prolonged captivity. He wore a hospital gown, his arms were covered in needle marks, and his expression was the thousand-yard stare of someone who'd given up hope of rescue.
The scientists looked up as Basil and the Jaina duplicate entered, their expressions showing surprise and immediate professional concern.
"Klint?" The head scientist, an older woman whose name tag read Dr. Sandra Mills, stepped forward, her tone showing both respect and confusion. "We weren't informed you'd be visiting tonight. Is there a problem with Project Sanguine?"
"No problem, Dr. Mills. I'm here to transfer the subject to Daggett headquarters for expanded testing. Director Chen authorized the relocation personally, the subject will be returned within seventy-two hours, pending results from our enhanced analysis protocols."
The three scientists exchanged glances, their body language showing confusion bordering on alarm. Dr. Mills approached closer, lowering her voice slightly.
"with all respect, no one informed me about any transfer. Project Sanguine's protocols require forty-eight hours advance notice for subject relocation, and I haven't received any documentation from Director Chen's office. Are you certain this authorization is current?"
Basil felt the situation beginning to slip, the scientists' professional instincts overriding their deference to authority. He needed to escalate, to push harder, to sell Dr. Mophal's notorious impatience so completely that questioning him felt more dangerous than complying with irregular orders.
"Dr. Mills," Basil said, his tone dropping "I don't appreciate having my time wasted explaining corporate logistics. Director Chen called me personally three hours ago with instructions to retrieve the subject immediately for priority testing. If you have concerns about documentation, you're welcome to interrupt the Director's evening and request clarification. I'll wait here while you explain to him why his Chief of Research Development is being delayed by your sole objections."
He pulled out his phone and offered it to Dr. Mills. "Here, call him, I'm sure he'll appreciate the thoroughness."
The sarcasm was cutting, the implication clear: questioning Mophal meant questioning Chen, and questioning Chen was career suicide for a mid-level researcher.
Dr. Mills hesitated, clearly torn between protocol and self-preservation. The other two scientists looked equally uncertain, wanting guidance but not wanting to be the one who caused problems.
Then a door at the laboratory's rear opened, and another figure entered, a man in his late thirties wearing administrative clothing rather than lab coat. "Dr. Mills," the man said, his tone friendly but carrying authority, "is there a problem?"
Dr. Mills turned toward him with visible relief. "Assistant Director Morrison, Dr. Mophal is here to transfer the subject. But I wasn't informed about any relocation, and protocol requires—"
"The transfer is approved," Morrison interrupted smoothly, his smile not reaching his eyes. "I processed the authorization personally this afternoon. Director Chen's orders, priority order, the subject is prepared for transport and ready for immediate departure."
He moved to the wheelchair where the captive man sat, checking the restraints with professional efficiency. "Subject vitals are stable, blood reserves have been replenished to acceptable levels, and all relevant documentation has been prepared for headquarters review."
Dr. Mills' expression showed confusion giving way to professional resignation. "I should have been told—"
Dr. Mills' resistance collapsed. "Nevermind sir. If you processed the authorization, Assistant Director, then obviously everything is in order."
"Obviously," Morrison agreed, his bland smile returning. He gestured to the wheelchair. "Klint, the subject is ready for transport. My apologies for the delay. Dr. Mills is understandably cautious given Project Sanguine's sensitivity."
Basil nodded, maintaining Dr. Mophals impatient demeanor. "Excellent. Let's not waste any more time."
The Jaina duplicate moved forward and took control of the wheelchair, her movements professional and efficient. The captive man, the asset they'd come to steal, looked up at them with confused hope, clearly not understanding what was happening but recognizing that his circumstances were changing.
They left the laboratory, Morrison walking with them toward the exit while Dr. Mills and her team watched with expressions that mixed relief and lingering uncertainty.
In the corridor outside, Morrison maintained his professional escort role until they'd passed beyond the security checkpoint and entered a section with no active surveillance. Then his demeanor shifted slightly, his bland corporate smile taking on an edge that suggested something much darker underneath.
"That was closer than I'd like," Morrison said quietly, his voice losing its administrative polish and revealing something more streetwise. "Mills is paranoid about protocol. Almost blew the whole operation."
"But you handled it," Basil said. "Penguin said you were reliable."
"Penguin pays better than this job," Morrison confirmed. He glanced at the wheelchair and its occupant. "Daggett's been farming this guy's healing blood for six months, no small-time villains could pay for this intel or do this job, who are you guys anyway?."
"That's not your concern," the Jaina duplicate said, her voice flat and professional.
Basil said nothing, letting the silence answer.
Morrison led them toward a service elevator that would take them to the ground floor and parking area.
Morrison shrugged. "Whatever. Your business is your business, and my business is collecting the rest of my payment and getting the fuck out of this company before anyone realizes what happened im set for retirement now."
They reached the service elevator and descended in silence. When the doors opened on the ground floor, Morrison gestured toward the loading area where their truck waited.
"There's your ride, good luck with whatever you're planning."
He turned and walked away without waiting for response, heading not toward the administrative areas but toward a maintenance corridor that led to Director Chen's office—where the actual Director was currently tied up and gagged, having been ambushed by his own Assistant Director hours ago.
Morrison hummed to himself as he walked, anticipating the contents of Director Chen's personal safe an extra gift for his early retirement.
Behind him, Basil, the Jaina duplicate, and their stolen asset made their way to the truck.
Inside the Transport Truck - 12:34 AM
The captive man's terror had been building since they'd left the laboratory, his confusion giving way to growing panic as he realized he was being taken somewhere unknown by people whose identities he couldn't verify.
He was strapped to the wheelchair, unable to move his arms or legs, his body weakened by months of blood extraction and medical experimentation. But his mind was still sharp enough to recognize that something was very, very wrong.
His name was David Robinson and until six months ago, he'd been living a completely normal life in rural South Carolina. He'd worked at a hardware store, lived in a small apartment, dated occasionally, and spent weekends fishing. Unremarkable, forgettable, the kind of existence that most people would consider boring.
Then one night, he'd been closing the hardware store when someone had grabbed him from behind. A cloth over his face, chemicals that made consciousness slip away, and then... nothing.
When he'd woken up, he was in a laboratory. Surrounded by people in masks and medical equipment and refrigeration units full of bags labeled with his name.
They'd explained it to him eventually, his Quirk, produced blood with remarkable healing and regenerative properties, something his family always tried to hide not wanting to draw attention to David or their small town life. When his blood was transfused into others, it could accelerate recovery from injuries, and even regenerate others if enough was applied.
Daggett Industries had somehow found him, kidnapped him, and turned him into a renewable medical resource. They'd kept him alive, kept him healthy enough to produce blood regularly, and used him like a laboratory animal for their own profit.
Six months of this. Six months of needles and blood bags and growing despair.