In an immense sterile white chamber deep within the bowels of Arkham Asylum—reimagined and warped in the Absolute Universe—the walls bore fresh claw marks like war trophies. Floors and ceilings were scarred in frantic, uneven patterns, testament to a creature still grappling with its own monstrous potential. Ragged webs, crusted with drying blood, draped the corners in clumsy, amateurish sheets—spun by hands that had only recently learned to weave destruction.
The reinforced blast door cycled open with a hydraulic groan. Bane stepped through, a titan of the Absolute Universe: every muscle hypertrophied to grotesque proportions, skin stretched taut over veins thick as cables. The iconic green Venom tube snaked from his armored backpack rig straight into the base of his skull—constant, merciless drip-feed of the super-steroid that had long ago turned him from man into living siege engine. No mercy. No off-switch. Just endless chemical fury.
"Out," he rasped, voice a low landslide. "More tests."
The thing inside launched forward like a cannon shell—gray-furred horror, mandibles clacking, claws extended. Bane's massive hand snapped shut mid-leap, clamping throat and torso in an unbreakable vise. The creature thrashed, slashing uselessly against armored plates.
"They told me the Venom dose hit you harder than projected," Bane continued, already dragging his catch toward the exit. "Your mutation was dying—recessive, necrotic, barely clinging to life. The steroid shocked it awake. Forced the spider gene to the surface. Brought you back… twisted."
The creature snarled, limbs jerking in futile rage, but Bane hauled it into the shadowed corridors without breaking stride.
…
In an adjacent isolation cell—reinforced glass smeared with old restraints—a small, familiar figure huddled fetal on the cold floor. ACE stared blankly at the barrier. Beyond it, white-coated technicians (or what passed for them in this Darkseid-ruled hell) hammered tools against her flickering telekinetic wall. It held. Barely.
"You were my daughter once?" a voice purred from the shadowed alcove.
ACE didn't turn. "He cried for you. A lot."
"Yes… the grief must have been exquisite." Servos whirred behind the voice—methodical assembly of something massive and armored.
"Well then. Time to see my petite *araignée spéciale*~"
French accent, dripping mockery. High heels clicked away into darkness.
ACE watched the silhouette vanish.
"Don't lose control… Father," she whispered. The barrier wavered; overuse was burning her from the inside.
…
Deep in Arkham's sub-level bio-dome—an artificial ecosystem twisted by Absolute Universe science: towering hydroponic trees under blood-red emergency lighting, mist thick with engineered spores, motion trackers blinking like predator eyes—the entity labeled "Aranha" swung branch to branch with lethal instinct. Thick gray fur coated a humanoid frame; mandibles protruded from a deformed jaw; claws gouged synthetic bark. Tatters of red-and-blue fabric still clung like grave rags.
{Test Log: Experiment 2.7.7.9 alias Aranha. Acceptable performance in feral state.}
Speakers droned overhead, cold and clinical.
Aranha froze inverted on a trunk, compound eyes sweeping. Premonitions flooded in: wind shifts, spore clouds, hidden pulses. The chemically forced awakening of his mutant gene had sharpened instinct to near-prophetic edge.
"Got you!"
A distorted, feminine voice—rich with plant-life menace.
Aranha vaulted. Webs erupted from maw and wrists—thick, barbed strands snaring a grotesque amalgam: clay, vines, fungal mass shaped like a woman, green skin shimmering with chlorophyll rage.
Poison Ivy—Absolute version—coalesced fully from the soil, vines whipping like living serpents.
"Grrrrrr."
Aranha swung deeper—momentum surging—until her microscopic spores slipped past defenses, invading lungs. Speed bled. Joints seized. He crashed into damp earth like a marionette with severed strings.
"You fight like an animal," Ivy purred, towering over him, vines curling around his limbs. "But your mind is too slow now. Missed my dispersal completely."
"Now… let's feed the green with what's left of you."
Tendrils tightened, preparing to break him down into nutrient slurry.
Then—
"Don't blink~"
A grenade lance streaked from the treeline and detonated against Ivy's mass. Plant-flesh exploded in wet green bursts; she recoiled, already regenerating at terrifying speed.
A slender woman in a white lab coat advanced through the smoke—robotic arm gleaming, posture languid and lethal.
"Hands off. This one's already claimed~"
Delia's voice purred, calm and deadly.
Ivy snarled, vines retracting as she melted back into the soil.
Through Aranha's vision: everything burned uniform crimson—rage-filtered, chaotic. Thought had collapsed to five brutal impulses: hunt, kill, protect, *her*, survive.
"Easy… I'm here. Right here, Jin… I came back, darling…"
Delia's words sliced through the haze like clean light. Crystal. Anchor.
A rough hiss escaped his throat. Beneath chemical scars and forced mutation, the core of Jin… relaxed.
Happy.
…
Back in the primary medical bay, There was a special medical team there treating the Arkham experiments, working with Jin's mutated body; heavy cutting equipment normally used only on Bane was being used on him to open He then undergoes a process of Venom injections to keep the regenerative factor constantly functioning. Monitors beeped in steady rhythm.
Delia watched from the observation window. Calm mask over a storm: fear, fierce joy, protective fury.
"You said a name," Bane rumbled, materializing behind her like a living eclipse.
"He's my boyfriend."
"Young meat, huh?"
"Go fuck yourself, Bane."
Real venom in her tone. She exhaled sharply, slipping a small metal collar from her pocket—taken from the Aranha form. A tether. A vow.
Turning to leave, she felt it: one eye cracking open on the table. Jin's gaze locked on her—fierce, protective, impossibly alive. Something the transformation should have erased… but hadn't.
Only for her.
"…You'll wear that mask in the end," she murmured. She walked out without looking back.
Bane lingered, studying the patient with cold curiosity. Doctors protested as he gripped Jin's head—firm, unyielding.
"You'll become what I became… only better."
Ignoring the frantic warnings, he dragged Jin—limp, barely conscious—through Arkham's labyrinthine corridors to a cavernous sub-level vault.
At the center loomed a massive cylindrical tank: raw, unprocessed Venom biomass churning inside. Thick green fluid, the same super-steroid that fueled Bane, stored here in bulk for Darkseid's endless augmentation experiments across the Absolute Universe.
Bane didn't hesitate. A quick slash across Jin's forearm—blood welled dark. Droplets struck the surface.
The green liquid reacted violently. Color shifted in violent waves: sickly emerald to deep, angry crimson as mutant DNA interfaced with the steroid matrix, amplifying, rewriting, accelerating.
"Come on… time to grow."
Without ceremony, Bane hurled Jin into the vat.
Jin didn't fight. Something deep inside whispered through the chemical haze: Fall. No fear. It will make us stronger. To protect her. To take care of them.
The crimson fluid swallowed him. Chemical tendrils pierced, flooded, rebuilt. Muscle hypertrophied. Bones densified. Nerves burned with new aggression pathways.