The voice mimicry had been a simple, almost whimsical application of his abilities. By channeling audio signals through his Network Interface Protocol and replicating them with precise Energy Control over his vocal cords and the surrounding air, he could achieve near-perfect sonic duplication.
The signal degradation was negligible to human ears—a 99.9% fidelity rate. Yet, he knew it was a surface-level trick.
A being like Daredevil, who perceived the world in a tapestry of heartbeat, breath, and microscopic muscle tension, would detect the artifice. The sound would be flawless, but the soul behind it—the unique, chaotic biological symphony—would be absent. It was a good reminder: his powers were formidable tools, but not infallible art.
"Here we are," Aaron announced, stopping before a storefront with a faded sign depicting a stylized beetle. The display window was dusty, housing a few pinned specimens under glass.
Kate peered up, her nose wrinkling.
"Bug store? You're into... bugs?" The distaste in her voice was palpable, edged with childhood revulsion.
(call me Buggy D. Clown)
Aaron glanced down, a faint smile on his lips. "It seems entomology isn't your passion. I'll just be a minute. You can wait out here."
Kate shifted, conflicted. The thought of creepy-crawlies was bad, but the memory of recent kidnapping attempts was worse. "I'll... I'll come in. But you have to go first. And no spiders near me!"
Aaron chuckled softly, then raised a hand, giving a subtle wave toward a café across the street. Almost immediately, a powerfully built woman in a dark pantsuit detached herself from a shadowed doorway and strode over. Her posture was professional, her gaze sharp behind tinted glasses.
"She'll keep you company at the café," Aaron said to Kate, then addressed the bodyguard. "The principal requires supervision for approximately fifteen minutes. The establishment we passed—'The Grind'—will suffice."
The woman gave a curt, efficient nod, though a flicker of professional curiosity crossed her stern features. "Mr. Aaron. If I may ask, how did you make me? I maintained a standard two-hundred-foot perimeter and non-threatening loiter posture."
"Your earpiece emits a very distinct carrier wave," Aaron replied flatly, not bothering to elaborate that his senses could also pick out her heartbeat and the specific scent of her gun oil from the crowd. "And your 'casual' stance has the tensile readiness of a coiled spring. It's obvious."
The bodyguard's lips tightened, a mixture of chagrin and heightened respect. She'd also been the one quietly relaying status updates to Eleanor Bishop, a fact Aaron's signal interception had easily confirmed. Eleanor believed the attack was corporate sabotage—a rival security firm trying to embarrass Bishop Security. Aaron filed the information away; corporate wars were a trivial background hum compared to the symphony of potential he was about to conduct.
With a final nod to a reluctantly compliant Kate, Aaron pushed open the door to the insect emporium. A bell jingled, announcing his entry into a world of preserved specimens, humid terrariums, and the faint, earthy scent of chitin and peat.
"Hello! Welcome, welcome!" A middle-aged man with unruly hair and glasses perched on his forehead scrambled from behind a cluttered counter. His enthusiasm was tinged with the desperation of poor cash flow. "Looking for anything specific? We have some lovely Madagascar hissing cockroaches, just molted, very docile..."
Aaron cut through the sales pitch, his voice calm and deliberate. "I need a procurement list. Specimens, alive preferably. Tiger beetles, specific species of bats, tardigrades, Elysia chlorotica sea slugs, various urchins, Hercules beetles, diabolical ironclad beetles, mantis shrimp, planarians..."
The shopkeeper's face cycled through expressions—initial delight at a serious inquiry, then confusion, then dawning suspicion.
"Whoa, hold on, friend. This is a specialty shop, not the Bio-Containment wing at Columbia University. Half those things are marine! And the ironclad beetle? That's a regulated specimen. The permits alone..."
Aaron didn't argue. He simply reached into an inner pocket of his jacket and withdrew a thick band of hundred-dollar bills, placing it on the glass counter with a soft thump. The pristine stack was conspicuously non-bank wrapped.
The shopkeeper's eyes locked onto the money, his lecture on import regulations dying in his throat. "Well... I mean, some of the more common Coleoptera, I might have in the back... private collection, you understand..."
A second, identical stack joined the first.
"Now do you have them?"
The man swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Sir, even if I don't have it in stock, I have... connections. People who can source unusual biologicals. Discreetly."
Aaron gave a single, satisfied nod. He snapped his fingers—a purely theatrical gesture. The man's smartphone buzzed in his pocket. "The full list and specifications are in the email I just sent you. Secure everything you can locally, immediately. The rest, procure with utmost speed. Financial constraints are not a factor."
He found a worn stool and sat, as if settling in for a long negotiation, and produced three more stacks of cash, arranging them neatly on the counter. "Your efficiency bonus is proportional to your speed and completeness."
The shopkeeper's eyes widened, reflecting the greenish hue of the bills. A major score. This dingy hobby had finally paid off. Visions of debt dissolution and maybe even a vacation danced in his head.
"Right! Of course! One moment!" He all but tripped over himself fetching Aaron a glass of water before vanishing into a back room. Sounds of clattering glass and fervent rummaging followed.
He returned minutes later, carefully carrying several transparent containers. His demeanor was now one of reverent avarice.
"My... prized specimens. Some aren't for public sale, but for a fellow connoisseur..." He gestured to the containers.
Aaron leaned forward. Inside were several large beetles: two diabolical ironclads, their dark, interlocking plates resembling miniature armored tanks; three gleaming Hercules beetles; and a variety of other robust scarabs. There were also several spiders in separate enclosures, including a large, hairy tarantula, and a few scorpions under UV light, their exoskeletons glowing faintly.
"Sir, the value of these, especially the ironclads, is quite—"
"Ten thousand," Aaron stated, pushing one of the stacks forward. "For this initial batch."
The man nodded so vigorously his glasses slipped. "More than fair! Generous, sir!"
"Now, for the remainder of the list," Aaron continued, his voice dropping to a low, compelling register. "Prioritize speed. Alive is preferred, but preserved specimens are acceptable if necessary. Minimum three of each species. I reiterate: money is irrelevant. I am on a deadline. Understood?"
"Understood perfectly, sir! The client's wish is my command!" The shopkeeper was practically bowing. He would have sold his own grandmother for this commission.
Aaron stood, gathering the containers into a large carrying case the man provided. He didn't offer explanations. In the ecosystem of New York's underground markets, cash was the only lingua franca that mattered. The man would assume Aaron was some eccentric billionaire, a private researcher, or a biotech startup's procurement agent. The "why" was irrelevant; the "how much" was everything.
With a final nod, Aaron hefted the case—its weight meaningless to his enhanced strength—and exited the shop. He scanned the street with his Enhanced Optical Resolution, identifying the blind spots in the public surveillance camera coverage. A quick mental command via Network Interface Protocol looped the feed on the relevant camera, creating a ten-second stutter in the digital record.
In the created window of anonymity, he raised his right palm. The Primal Furnace's singularity seemed to stir, its darkness deepening. He placed his hand against the side of the carrying case. There was no sound, no flashy effect. The entire case, and its living, crawling contents, simply vanished, consumed into the void between his hand's lines.
A cascade of information, richer and more complex than before, flooded his system. It wasn't just light this time, but streams of data that felt organic, carrying blueprints for structural integrity, chemical communication, environmental resilience, and specialized biological functions.
[Acquisition Complete. Synthesizing Biological Concepts…]
[Structural Reinforcement Matrix: Integrates the ultra-dense, interlocking plate morphology of the diabolical ironclad beetle. Dermal and skeletal durability increased by 400%. Provides extreme resistance to penetration and crushing force.]**
[Extreme Pressure Adaptation: Derived from mantis shrimp and deep-sea urchin biomechanics. Enables cellular and muscular structures to withstand and exert tremendous localized pressure. Enhances striking force potential.]**
[Environmental Resilience: Synthesizes tardigrade cryptobiosis and planarian regeneration. Grants dramatically increased tolerance to extreme temperatures, radiation, vacuum, and physical trauma. Initiates passive, accelerated cellular regeneration for non-lethal damage.]**
[Biochemical Perception: Integrates arthropod and arachnid chemoreception. Expands pheromonal analysis to include complex venom signatures, neurotoxins, and a wider spectrum of environmental chemical traces.]**
[Specialized Motility: Incorporates principles of arthropod locomotion. Enhances climbing adhesion, burrowing capability, and underwater propulsion efficiency.]**
The upgrades were profound. Aaron felt his body settling into a new state of immutable solidity. His skin didn't just feel tough; it felt like a biological composite armor. A sense of deep, embedded resilience hummed within his cells. He was no longer just strong; he was durable. He could likely stand in the path of oncoming traffic and emerge unscathed.
He flexed his hand, marveling at the invisible transformation. "The capabilities are cosmic, but the delivery system is decidedly… manual," he mused internally, glancing at his palm.
A flicker of dry, meta-cognitive response echoed from the Furnace. [The interface is limited by the host's current conceptual and biological bandwidth. Enhancement is iterative.]
"Right. My fault for not being a god yet," Aaron thought wryly, looking up at the sky. Unnoticed by him during his focused assimilation, the weather had turned.
Heavy, bruise-purple clouds had rolled in, swallowing the sun. The air grew thick and still, charged with a strange, metallic tension. In the distance, a faint rumble, too deep and resonant to be ordinary thunder, rolled across the city. High above, a dark speck—a bird, perhaps a plane—wheeled against the turbulent sky, its solitary cry swallowed by the sudden, oppressive silence.