Transfusion 5.1
I walked across the well-kept, neatly trimmed lawn and studied the large building ahead of me with genuine curiosity. Light-brown walls, wide windows — behind them, a constant flow of young people in motion, and the occasional older instructor moving at a slower pace. Even from a first glance, it was clear that the people inside couldn't exactly be called ordinary.
The main building had been designed in that particular brand of "modern" style where a structure looks like a stack of large square blocks pressed together and held in place by sheer optimism. Though, in fairness, it worked reasonably well. What caught the eye most was the university's sign — a deep blue emblem, bold against the facade — depicting crossed lightning bolts, seven stars, and two silhouettes, a hero and a superheroine, standing astride the entire world.
My gaze drifted to the large statues positioned at the main entrance, and I recognized every figure they depicted. The Soldier Boy stood at the front of the group, head raised, eyes forward, his iconic triangular shield held firmly in both hands. A short distance from him stood the Patriot in his signature pose — hands on hips, chin tilted upward as if daring the horizon to impress him.
Every significant hero had been rendered along the campus's avenue of glory. Marathon, the Deep, the Scarlet Countess, Maeve, and many, many others whose names had already been written into history. Dozens of statues lined the entrance to the building, and I'll admit — it was impressive. It created exactly the atmosphere of grandeur it was designed to create.
"So, what do you think of our humble home?" came a cheerful, relentlessly upbeat voice from beside me — the girl assigned to give me a personal tour of the campus. Despite all her performed enthusiasm, I wasn't particularly stirred by any of it. My mind was somewhere else.
"It's fine…" I answered, without really hearing myself.
It was somehow difficult to fully process the fact that I was casually walking through the Godolkin campus — not as some ordinary applicant who had spent years dreaming of getting into the most famous superhero university in the world, but as the golden calf everyone around me was competing to attract.
A year and a half had passed since Vought collided with the greatest crisis in its history. The moment we handed over everything we had gathered — the information, the witnesses, the samples of the formula — to the government, Victoria had unleashed a full-scale war on the corporation, and the results had been striking.
Titans of that scale don't fall overnight, of course, and even the full pressure of the United States government wasn't sufficient to destroy them once and for all. But the damage was still colossal. To begin with, the public disclosure that every superhero was artificially created — that Vought had been injecting children with an unknown, untested substance for decades — produced an enormous wave of public outrage.
Part of the anger and indignation spilled over toward the government as well, since the obvious question arose of how the state had failed to notice any of this. But the blow to Vought was far heavier: mass strikes, protests in virtually every state and across much of the world, and — most critically — a cascade of broken contracts with companies that had been partners for years. Corporations don't particularly care about the opinions or the lives of ordinary people, but when the losses hit the bottom line, that's when it becomes catastrophic.
There were two primary revenue streams tied to the heroes — protection agreements with cities, and merchandise sales to fans. The consumer boycott was merely unpleasant. But when cities and entire states began terminating the contracts through which they had essentially been "purchasing" superhero services to clean crime off their streets, Vought lost hundreds of millions, if not billions, in income almost instantaneously.
Then there was the question of how many television channels and public figures refused to let their brands remain associated with vivisectionist scientists and test-tube mutants. There were no moral calculations involved — other corporations simply didn't want to damage their own reputations and lose potential customers along the way.
In the span of a single night, heroes went from a universal source of admiration to something strange and vaguely uncomfortable. They didn't lose their popularity entirely, and many had even managed to turn the moment to their advantage — releasing tearful accounts of how their parents had forced them into heroism against their will, how their abilities had been pushed to develop without regard for the physical toll. People lapped that kind of story up. But it was also clear that the superhero brand would never again reach the heights it had once known.
Before, when the source of their powers remained mysterious, the dominant theory had been one of direct divine intervention in the life of a "holy nation." Now all the mysticism had evaporated, leaving behind a hard and unflattering reality. Perhaps for the first time, people were genuinely looking at those they had worshipped the day before and seeing ordinary mortals staring back.
Vought was never a corporation of pure evil — it was a company staffed by ordinary people who had ordinary thoughts and ordinary opinions. And as central as the heroes appeared to be to the company's identity, that was only one side of the ledger. The moment it became public knowledge that they had been conducting unauthorized medical experiments on human beings for decades, the majority of the specialists responsible for developing new compounds simply resigned.
That amounted to roughly a hundred scientists and doctors — which sounds manageable in the abstract, but the impact was devastating. People with that level of experience and depth of knowledge can't simply be found on the street, and there is fierce competition for every single one of them. Some left for genuinely moral and ethical reasons. But from what I understood, the majority simply migrated to competing firms — they didn't want to taint their professional reputations any further. In scientific circles, reputation can matter far more than the research itself.
Ezekiel's church, for instance — from what I'd heard — had lost two-thirds of its congregation and more than eighty percent of its donors. I hadn't been in frequent contact with the preacher himself, but judging by how often he called Margo and offered whatever terms she wanted in exchange for my becoming the public face of his organization, things were not going well for him.
Accepting that offer, if I'm being honest, would only mean losing income and damaging my own standing. Because while Vought had sunk, I had risen to a level I had previously only theorized about — or, in more candid moments, simply dreamed of. Since my series had been cancelled after the second season due to the sweeping cuts triggered by the collapse in the company's stock value, I had considerably more time to dedicate to more "private" pursuits.
Essentially every week of mine was already scheduled half a year in advance — at minimum two meetings per week with various wealthy individuals, assessing their health, treating rare conditions, or assisting during surgical procedures. And for every hour of my time, the compensation was genuinely substantial.
I wasn't a billionaire yet. But the number in my account had six zeros, and the digit standing in front of them was not a one.
It would have been more, but I had no intention of hoarding wealth like a dragon and spent it in considerable quantities, setting aside roughly a third. A portion went to buying my parents a proper house — along with the car Paul had wanted for years. I was fairly confident Vought had been compensating them well enough for raising me, but I still wanted to do something for the people who had gotten me out of Red River. That alone was worth a great deal.
And I was certain Paul, at least, had no idea what he'd been part of. Philosophers are considerably harder to convince to participate in something morally questionable, even when the financial incentive is substantial. Over the years I had developed a reasonable understanding of his character, and I could say with confidence — he wanted nothing but the best for me. Indira was a different matter entirely.
In all honesty, I had never fully understood what they actually wanted from me. When I was first placed with the foster family, I had assumed the Vought handlers would fill me with their ideology and attempt to fashion me into a puppet who would heal whoever they pointed me at…
Which, when I thought about it, was more or less what had happened — but the details changed everything. Rather than instilling notions of superiority and parading me through a constant circuit of events for young supers, they had encouraged my attempts to live as an ordinary person. And from what I could observe, all they had genuinely wanted was for me to become a decent human being. They gave me everything within their power to give and made sure a promising young super didn't wander down a path he couldn't come back from.
Maybe they had simply ignored Vought's instructions and quietly sabotaged their own reports. Or perhaps it was all part of some intricate, carefully calibrated plan — designed to confuse me and exploit my weaknesses at the right moment.
I also hadn't forgotten about my little sister. The "adventures" of that particular couple had eventually produced little Lily, who was nearly old enough to start talking. She wasn't blood, but I still spent a considerable amount of time watching her to make sure she didn't get into anything dangerous or destructive.
I had set aside a portion of my money immediately into a savings fund she could access at eighteen. Whether she used it for higher education or to start a business — fifty thousand wouldn't go to waste.
The bulk of my income went to charitable causes. I no longer had the time to work directly with animals at the shelter, but I had no intention of walking away from it. Instead, I had become its primary donor, and from my last conversation with Bob, it sounded like a full animal clinic was going to open in our town soon. When I gave money to him, I at least knew it would be put to real use.
Other portions of my income went to charitable organizations supporting orphans and those who couldn't afford medical insurance. It wasn't an enormous amount in absolute terms, but it was enough to save someone's life with some regularity, or to ensure that life would be a decent one. That justified every dollar spent.
Beyond work, I hadn't neglected my studies. Classes become remarkably easy when you personally know the professors and happened to warn the department chair about a developing liver condition in time. The fact that I had invested several hundred thousand into the institution's development didn't hurt either — mostly toward the new equipment the Professor had been requesting for years, though supporting a genuinely good place of learning is always worthwhile on its own terms.
And it truly was a good place of learning. I had graduated just two months ago, but the final exams and the thesis defense had been a real test even for me. I had taken a few weeks to prepare, but when it was done, I could say with genuine satisfaction that I was now a Doctor of Philosophy and held a Bachelor's degree in Physiology.
And the moment I walked out of the university for the last time, instead of thoughts about celebrating, what came to me were questions about what to do next.
The plan to complete my education — done. Building connections in high society and accumulating a substantial fortune — done. Helping bring accountability to the people responsible for everything that happened in the shelter — consider it largely accomplished.
There were still entire crowds of the guilty who had never faced consequences. But I understood clearly enough that punishing every single one of them was impossible. No one had kept a list, and hunting them all down would only produce more victims. I had decided, therefore, to occupy myself with something more constructive and continue my education. My next choice, though, was considerably less conventional.
Godolkin, to put it mildly, was not a typical university. Even amid the greatest crisis in Vought's history, their resources remained essentially boundless, and the hero brand ranked second only to the world's major religions in terms of cultural reach. Having connections in that sphere, then, could only be useful.
I had also never stopped thinking about the further development of my ability, and the broader study of the superhuman phenomenon itself. In the year and a half that had passed, I had made breakthroughs in a number of areas — but I was equally certain that most of what was possible still lay ahead of me. And Godolkin was the single place on earth where supers were most densely concentrated. The potential subjects for research here were essentially inexhaustible.
While I had been turning all of this over in my head, we had managed to cover and examine most of the campus. My guide had kept up a steady stream of commentary, though by the end of it, her tone had dropped noticeably. When she finished her latest speech — designed, clearly, to motivate a prospective student to sign on — she came to an awkward stop and looked at me.
"So, um… what do you think of our university? Please — be completely honest!" She had started the sentence with her usual brightness, but somewhere toward the end of it she seemed to deflate slightly, clearly reading my somewhat absent reaction as a sign that she had done something wrong and failed to make a good impression.
That realization made me exhale softly and let a small smile come through. I looked over the campus one more time, let my gaze pass across the statues of the heroes, and then turned back to her and answered with what was, for once, entirely genuine enthusiasm.
"It's outstanding. Only tell me — when would it be possible to meet with Mr. Brink? I have an enormous number of questions for that particular genius."
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