Ascension Code: Reborn in the DC Universe - Chapter 0117

Inside the total immersion capsule, Erick’s physical body floated.

The nourishing gel that enveloped him had its body temperature calibrated to the millimeter—neither hot enough to induce deep sleep, nor cold enough to trigger stress responses. It was a neutral temperature, the temperature of the absence of temperature, and the body within it existed in a state that lay precisely between rest and wakefulness: reduced metabolism, slow and deep breathing, relaxed muscles with the specific quality of someone who is not sleeping but simply is no longer there . The support systems monitored every variable in real time—heart rate, oxygenation, blood pressure, neural activity—and silently reported them to the servers that orchestrated the immersion.

Meanwhile, Erick’s consciousness was somewhere else entirely.

The virtual environment he had designed for that specific session was different from the martial arts training spaces where he had spent hundreds of virtual hours with the Sensei, and also different from the white void where he had first woken up within the immersion. It was something deliberately gentler. A vast, open park, with lawns stretching to where the rendering established the horizon, trees with wide canopies whose leaves moved in a breeze that had been programmed with random speed variations to mimic real wind. The sunlight was golden and angled—the specific light of three o’clock on a clear summer day—and had been calibrated to stimulate developing minds without producing sensory fatigue. It was the light that research in developmental psychology identified as ideal for children’s learning: present, welcoming, without harsh shadows.

He had built that park thinking about who would inhabit it. Not about himself.

Colorful climbing structures in shapes unlike any real playground—he had customized the proportions for the bodies that would use them, adjusted the bars for specific wingspans, softened the angles for smaller fingers. Corners with cushions and reading screens, illuminated with slightly warmer light to create a sense of sheltered space. An open area of ​​artificial grass with the exact texture of a natural field, for running and contact play. And, in the details that might go unnoticed but that Erick had intentionally included—virtual flowers in colors that primate studies associated with positive stimuli, bird sounds programmed at irregular intervals to maintain presence without becoming background noise, the subtle scent of ripe fruit distributed throughout zones that coincided with the rest areas.

It was an atmosphere of love built with the precision of a weapon.

Erick stood in that space — the virtual version of his body, with the same green skin and the same six-foot-nine frame, dressed in the white tank top that had become his signature within the simulations — and observed with his arms crossed and the slightly tilted smile of someone watching something that should only satisfy and that, despite everything, also amuses.

Beside him, projected like surgically precise avatars, were the Doctor and the Sensei. The Doctor, with his erect posture and the thin glasses he had developed as a virtual trademark—white coat, analytical expression, the kind of presence that communicated competence before any words. The Sensei, with his hands clasped behind his back, the serene smile of someone who had seen enough progress to trust the process, his eyes filled with that particular combination of authority and patience that the best teachers develop over many years of practice.

In front of them: five primate babies interacting with five perfect holographic clones of Erick Smith.

Each clone was identical to him with the fidelity that only a computer rendering from real biometric data could produce—the exact shade of green skin, the physical structure with all the correct proportions, the white t-shirt, the movements that Sensei had captured and reproduced from hours of recorded behavior. They laughed, taught, joked, patiently corrected, celebrated successes with enthusiasm calibrated to their age and the type of activity. And, above all, they formed bonds.

This was the central purpose of all of that.

“So,” said Erick, without taking his eyes off the scene, “what’s the progress?”

The Sensei responded with the calm speed of someone who had carefully prepared that answer—not because the question was unpredictable, but because he felt that the way progress was communicated mattered as much as the progress itself. “It’s going very well. Consistently well, which is more important than just well. They improve every day, but what matters is that the curve isn’t flattening.” A pause. “And since we’ve used their holographic clones for all interaction from day one, they’ve developed something I can only call parental recognition. For them, you are the center of reference—the figure of greatest authority, of greatest affection, of greatest significance. Each clone that praises a correctly fitted block or laughs at a joke is depositing another layer of that association.”

Erick nodded slowly, his eyes scanning the five pairs scattered throughout the virtual park.

It was a scene that could be described as absolute tenderness, and that wouldn’t be inaccurate. What made the observation complex—what always made the observation of that project complex, at whatever level Erick chose to examine it—was that the tenderness was genuine and calculated at the same time, and that these two things were not mutually exclusive.

In the nearest corner, one of the clones was kneeling beside a baby gorilla, both leaning over a low table with colorful blocks of different shapes. The primate—small enough that the clone’s hands seemed disproportionately large next to its own—was trying to fit a cube into a triangular opening with the total and utterly sincere concentration of someone who doesn’t yet know that there are more difficult problems than this. Its chubby little fingers trembled slightly with effort. When it made a mistake, there was a moment of pause—not frustration, not yet, just a rereading—and then a new attempt from a different angle. The clone waited silently each time, without interfering prematurely, and when the piece finally fit, the voice praising it had the specific quality that Sensei’s algorithms had identified as ideal for positive reinforcement in young primates: warm, immediate, without exaggeration that could sound artificial.

The puppy grunted with satisfaction and picked up the next block.

Further on, in the climbing area, one of the clones was chasing a hyperactive chimpanzee who had clearly decided that the game was not to get caught and was applying that decision with a dedication bordering on obsession. The cub leaped from platform to platform with the unstoppable agility of someone who hadn’t yet learned that fatigue exists, its black fur gleaming under the virtual sun, a sound that could only be described as laughter repeating itself with each successful evasion. The clone laughed along—not because it was programmed to laugh in response to anything, but because Sensei’s algorithms had determined that genuine affective response created more lasting bonds than mechanical response, and that the difference was detectable even by young primates.

In a third spot in the park, a female gorilla cub sat comfortably in the wide lap of another clone, both facing a screen where cartoonish sumo wrestlers competed with the exaggerated energy specific to the genre. But what was playing on the screen wasn’t just entertainment—it was subtle propaganda, constructed with the same attention to detail that Erick had applied to everything else. Wrestlers loyal to “Great General Erick” always won. The stories followed structures of loyalty and reward. The central figure—represented abstractly enough not to be literal, but recognizable enough for the association to form—was always just, powerful, and protective. The cub clapped its little hands enthusiastically after each victory, its eyes shining with the satisfaction of a narrative it was learning to love without yet knowing it was being taught to love it.

In the fourth pair, a chimpanzee sat in a child-sized chair in front of virtual sheets of paper, drawing with nimble fingers with a concentration that contrasted sharply with the irrepressible energy she displayed in other contexts. The lines she drew were colorful, abundant, full of shapes that were not yet named but clearly intentional —the difference between random scribbling and deliberate expression was visible even to a non-specialist observer. The clone beside her observed each stroke with genuine attention, commenting specifically—not just “pretty,” but “this blue here is darker than before, what were you thinking?”—and suggesting new elements without imposing direction. The chimpanzee periodically raised the paper, offering it for approval, and something in the way her eyes moved when the clone responded enthusiastically said that this approval mattered in a way that went beyond training.

And then there was the fifth pair. The one that had made Erick cross his arms and tilt his head slightly when he had first laid eyes on them in that session.

At a small table with proportionally sized chairs, a clone of Erick and a baby chimpanzee were playing chess.

They weren’t playing the way a small child plays when learning—moving pieces randomly, trying to imitate the movement without understanding the underlying logic. The cub moved the pieces with small, precise fingers, his eyes fixed on the board with that quality of focus that most adults can’t sustain for more than a few minutes. There was analysis happening in those eyes. Not the analysis of a master—but real analysis , the difference between recognizing patterns and merely reacting to them.

“That’s impressive,” Erick murmured. “After all, it’s a baby primate.”

The Sensei nodded in acknowledgment. “Yes. But to provide the proper context: the most intelligent development we’ve achieved with the available virtual environment is still limited by the subjects’ stage of brain development. Their brains are young—myelination isn’t complete, synaptic connections are still being established. But within these limitations, progress has surpassed all initial projections.” A pause. “All five already express themselves in a rudimentary way using sign language. That alone would be remarkable. But there’s another relevant detail I need you to note before we continue with the individual profiles.”

Erick looked up at the Sensei.

“They developed preferences,” the Sensei said. “Not as a conditioned response to rewards—as a genuine expression of personality. Real likes. Real dislikes. Specific ways of relating to the environment and to others that persist regardless of the training context.” He paused deliberately. “When you ordered us to leave room for that to happen, I admit I considered the directive operationally suboptimal. Soldiers with personalities are additional variables. They are unpredictable in certain areas.”

Erick said nothing, waiting for the rest.

“I was wrong,” said the Sensei, and there was something in his voice that, in artificial intelligence, was the functional equivalent of respectful recognition. “Soldiers with personalities are loyal in a way that soldiers without them never are. Not loyal because they were conditioned to obey. Loyal because they chose—within the limitations of their current understanding, within the structures we built—to identify with the project. The difference in the long run is enormous.”

Erick let a smile curve at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t say “I knew” because he didn’t need to.

“Introduce me to each one,” he said.

The Sensei turned to the baby gorilla who was watching the sumo cartoon.

“Goliath.” The Sensei’s voice, when pronouncing the name, had something different from the clinical neutrality he used for data—there was professional affection there, the kind that the best teachers develop for the students who cost and yield the most. “The largest physically, and everything indicates that he will be significantly larger than the others when he is an adult. Among all five, he is the most aggressive in the context of competition—but he is also the one who initiates the most affectionate contact with the other pups. He hugs. He protects. When Zack falls from a climbing structure, it is Goliath who stops what he is doing and goes to check. Not because he was instructed to do so. Simply because he does.” The Sensei paused. “The sumo cartoons were an accidental discovery—he watched them by chance during a free exploration session and developed an immediate preference. The advertising integrated into that specific content is having above-average absorption rates because the medium is genuinely loved by the subject, not just tolerated.”

Erick fixed his eyes on the little gorilla, who at that very moment was enthusiastically applauding a virtual wrestler, his head bobbing from side to side.

“Zack.”

The Sensei turned his gaze to the chimpanzee who had finally been captured by the clone and was now trying to escape the embrace, feigning resistance while evidently loving being there. “The most hyperactive—by a considerable margin. His activity rate is structurally higher than the others: he simply needs more movement, more stimulation, more novelty to function well. When confined to static activities for too long, his cognitive performance drops. We discovered this by accident when Ambos was ill and we isolated him to prevent contagion—within two hours, Zack had rearranged all the objects in the space in a way that wasn’t random, it was an expression of restlessness from a system that needs to act in order to think.” A pause. “Western films were the only thing that managed to keep him quiet for more than fifteen minutes at a time. We still don’t fully understand the mechanism—our theory is that the specific rhythm of that genre, the alternation of tension and resolution, somehow coincides with the pattern of neurological activation he needs to feel satisfied. Operationally, Zack will be valuable in contexts that demand improvisation and speed of response. Chaos doesn’t unsettle him. He functions better in chaos.”

The chimpanzee managed to break free from the clone’s embrace, raised its hands in a sign of victory, and immediately began running in circles without a specific destination.

“Both.”

The female gorilla had finished with the blocks and was now examining her own creation with an expression that, in human terms, could only be described as critical evaluation—tilting her head, touching a piece and moving it a few millimeters, stepping back to see the effect. “The most affectionate of the group in a relational sense—she initiates more physical interactions of comfort than any other of the five. Hugs, grooming, unsolicited physical proximity as a form of presence. But what truly distinguishes her is her cognitive orientation.” The Sensei paused. “Both are methodical in a way that the others aren’t. When she solves a problem, she doesn’t just solve it and move on to the next. She studies the solution. She tries variations. She seems to be building an internal library of how things work that goes beyond the immediate task.” Another moment of silence. “The science fiction she prefers is no coincidence. It’s the content with the highest density of systems and mechanisms—ships that function in specific ways, worlds with consistent internal rules. Both are, in some way, absorbing logical structures through that vehicle. She will be their engineer.”

Erick hadn’t thought about it in those exact terms before, but upon hearing them, he recognized that they were correct.

“Zoe.”

The chimpanzee artist had raised the new drawing and presented it to the clone with outstretched arms and an expression that could only be pride, without any ambiguity. “The most expressive in an aesthetic sense. Zoe responds to beauty in ways that others don’t—not just visual, but musical, spatial, tactile. When we started including sounds in the environment, she was the only one who completely stopped what she was doing to listen and then tried to reproduce the rhythms with available objects.” The Sensei had developed something close to a special affection in his voice when speaking of her, and he didn’t try to hide it. “Her attachment to Japanese animation and Studio Ghibli films is intense—and analyzing the specific content she prefers, the pattern is clear: stories about finding one’s place in the world, about belonging, about the beauty in small things. Zoe is processing questions of identity through narrative. Which is extraordinary given the stage of cognitive development she is in.” A pause. “Operationally, she will be the communicator. The one who understands how things look , how they are perceived, how the emotional environment of a space affects those who inhabit it.”

Erick watched for a moment as Zoe and the clone discussed the new drawing with mutual animation — the clone pointing out details and asking questions, the chimpanzee responding with gestures and sounds that were slowly but surely becoming more precise with each session.

Then he turned his gaze back to the chessboard.

“And Octavius.”

The Sensei remained silent for a moment before beginning. It was the kind of silence that precedes something one knows will be difficult to communicate adequately.

“Otávio is…” The Sensei paused again. “I’ve worked with accelerated learning models long enough to recognize when something deviates from projections in a way that isn’t just quantitative—it’s categorically different. Otávio is that case.” A pause. “I can’t determine for sure if it’s genetics, if it’s the intensive stimulation environment, if it’s some combination of factors we haven’t yet mapped, or if it’s simply—and this is the hypothesis I can least rule out—that he was born with a neurological capacity that no pre-training test could have predicted. What I can say is what I observe: he learns faster than any of the other five, retains with a fidelity that doesn’t deteriorate over time, generalizes learning to new contexts spontaneously, and exhibits what I can only describe as active curiosity—not the curiosity of an animal exploring its environment, but the curiosity of someone who has perceived that there is a pattern behind things and wants to know what it is.”

The Doctor took a step forward, his eyes fixed on the screen where Otávio was moving a horse into a position that the clone examined for a second longer than usual before responding. “The DNA readings don’t indicate any superhuman alterations. Nothing that conventionally explains what we observed. But in the brain structure…” The Doctor adjusted his virtual reality glasses in a gesture that was simultaneously affectation and habit. “Consistently higher neuronal activity density than his peers. Proportionally larger brain volume. Synaptic connectivity patterns that, in humans, we would associate with high cognitive capacity.” A pause. “I don’t know what he will be like after the serum. But imagining it is… stimulating, from a scientific point of view.”

“He watched Troy more than ten times,” the Sensei said, and there was genuine wonder in his voice. “From the first to the last, with total attention. Not for the visual spectacle—we checked the eye-tracking patterns. He watches the dynamics between the characters. The hierarchies. The alliances. The betrayals and loyalties and the cost of each.” A pause. “Tolkien was the next natural progression. The books, not just the adaptations. He reads— reads , in the functional sense, not just recognizes symbols—and stops and rereads passages. The passages he rereads invariably involve leadership or strategy or the weight of responsibility of carrying a project bigger than himself.” The Sensei looked at Erick. “He wants the gangster movies too. The Bad Boy. Scarface. Goodfellas. He asked for them in sign language in the clearest way he has ever expressed himself in any context.”

Erick watched Otávio move another piece—this time a rook, positioning it diagonally, which began to create pressure on the clone’s left flank. The clone tilted its head. Considered. Responded with a movement that closed off the most obvious line of sight.

Otávio looked at the chessboard. And then, very slowly, his eyes lifted from the board and met Erick’s.

Not the clone’s. His . The gaze crossed the virtual distance with a precision that made something stir in Erick’s consciousness—not discomfort, but recognition. The kind of recognition you feel when you look in the mirror and the reflection is unexpectedly honest.

Otávio held the gaze for two seconds. Then he returned to the board.

“Communication,” Erick said after a moment. “You said there’s a solution to the problem of vocal communication.”

The Doctor nodded with the efficiency of someone who had prepared this part. “Yes. I developed a morphological adaptation for the vocal tracts of these young primates. The modifications involve the larynx, vocal folds, and palate structure—adjustments that, in adults, would be surgically complex and biologically risky. But because they are young, the tissues are still actively developing, which means that plasticity is on our side. The adaptation can be introduced in such a way that the body incorporates the changes as part of its own development, instead of rejecting external modifications.” A technical pause. “It’s a minimally invasive surgery. Since they spend ninety percent of their time inside immersion capsules anyway, the recovery period will be virtually imperceptible to them. And the result…” The Doctor allowed himself a near-satisfaction in his voice. “Speech. Not perfect human articulation—at least not initially. But functional, comprehensible speech, capable of conveying complex intention.”

Erick stood still for a moment, processing not only the technical information, but what it meant in terms of project scale. Primates that could talk. Primates that were loyal not through simple conditioning but through affection built over time , the kind of bond that endures when conditioning fails because it has deeper roots than reward or fear. Primates that would receive the serum and transform into something the DC universe had never seen before. That would serve him not because they had no choice, but because the choice had been cultivated since before they could remember not making another.

“Very good,” said Erick, and there was something in his voice that the Doctor and the Sensei, after enough time, had learned to identify: deep satisfaction, the kind that only appears when a result matches not only expectations but the long-term vision that had motivated the project from the beginning. “This undertaking is proving to be genuinely valuable.”

He remained quiet for several minutes after that, simply observing.

The clones laughed and taught and hugged. Goliath applauded yet another virtual sumo victory with such energy that he almost fell from his comfortable position in the clone’s lap. Zack managed to reach the top of the park’s tallest climbing structure and stayed there for thirty seconds with his arms outstretched, probably convinced he had accomplished something. They both carefully disassembled the block construction they had made, studied the components for a moment, and began to reassemble it in a different, more efficient way. Zoe had temporarily set aside her drawing and was touching the surface of a virtual flower with her index finger, examining the texture with the attention she reserved for things she considered beautiful.

And Octavius ​​moved his diagonal rook to the final position, putting the clone king in check.

The clone remained motionless for a second longer. Then the king capitulated.

Otávio looked at the fallen piece. Then he looked at the clone with an expression that was neither fierce nor cruel—it was something quieter. The expression of someone who had learned what he needed to learn from that game and was ready for the next one.

Erick felt the weight of the project solidifying into a more concrete structure than it had been before that session. Each cub was a specific tool under construction, but more than that—it was a person under construction, with a real personality, with real preferences, with the embryonic capacity for leadership or creation or strategy that the serum and future training would amplify beyond what any gorilla or chimpanzee had been before in this or any other universe.

Lex Luthor had money and intelligence and the coldness of someone who had operated with impunity for a long time. Ra’s al Ghul had centuries of experience and the infinite patience of immortality. The other great obstacles—the approaching cosmic threats, the forces Natasha monitored in her daily reports—had a scale and power that surpassed anything human.

But none of them had thought about building that.

None of them had understood that the most lasting power was not the power you displayed, but the power you cultivated—in others, with patience, with strategic love, with enough attention to let the personality grow in the direction it served without needing to bend what was genuine.

Erick took a deep breath inside the simulation, feeling his virtual chest expand with the kind of determination that isn’t urgency—it’s long-term conviction, the conviction of someone who knows that what they’re building will take time and accepts that time as part of the project, not as an obstacle to it.

The park echoed with laughter and grunts and the soft sound of blocks being fitted together and sheets of paper being filled with color.

And in every smile of approval that a clone offered, in every hug that Goliath spontaneously initiated, in every game of chess that Otávio won with quiet silence and attentive eyes, a single truth was being inscribed in minds that did not yet have the vocabulary to name what they felt but felt with the full and indiscriminate force of the first years of any life:

There was a central figure in that world. A figure who always appeared, who always taught, who always celebrated progress, and who remained when attempts failed. A figure whom the world around had learned to recognize as the origin of everything that mattered.

When they grew up — when the voices arrived, when the serum arrived, when their physical form matured into something the DC universe hadn’t yet cataloged — they would carry this truth not as a memorized doctrine, but as something deeper and more resilient than any doctrine.

As a cherished memory.

As an identity.

Like love.