Viral Latency Chapter 6: Packing The Bags And Getting The Tickets, a Prototype + My Hero Academia/僕のヒーローアカデミア Crossover fanfic

Chapter 6: Packing The Bags/Getting The Tickets

Several Centuries Ago

Preparations for Colonel Rook and Captain Cross amount to reviewing maps and blueprints for the new Japanese base, from one in New York; the construction is handled by a joint operation between a Japanese building company and American overseers. The company is small and largely employs single men seeking to break into the lucrative foreign contract market—of whom most will be dead by the end of the project. Blackwatch is thorough in maintaining secrecy. They know the Japanese government is willing to stomach the sacrifices, having been sold a grand idea: America testing some kind of non-nuclear weapon to defend Japan.

Captain Cross focuses on his own secret efforts: feeling out soldiers for their loyalties. The ones who know him personally or saw the worst fighting listen; the newer dregs hastily recruited in the aftermath of the conflict are…problematic. Blackwatch casualties were bad even with marine sacrifices—mostly because of Mercer—and what D-Codes remain are too indoctrinated. Loyalty was—and is—one of the key requirements of the program.

Regardless, his efforts bear fruit—though Colonel Rook does not realize it, half of the men are under his sole command. Captain Cross has told them enough about Gentek and New York that they have no true love or loyalty left for Blackwatch. To honor his lost team and to differentiate his loyalists, he commissions a patch: the 'Three Kings' silhouetted by a sunset. When Colonel Rooks inquires of it, Captain Cross plays it off; he says his soldiers are paying him homage for his long, storied history in the organization.

He also gives them copies of the book 'The Wiseman'. Very on the nose, but the book reminds his soldiers what is at stake: not just America, but the whole world. He wants his men to understand the bigger picture, what they will be fighting and dying over. Captain Cross leaves the base, wanting to see what they have already fought and died over.

Signs of resilient recovery are abundant in New York: bodegas are alive with civilian and military personnel, food carts with lines half a block strong; people with life in their eyes, laughing and talking loudly; and all saturated with viral detectors. This is what he fought—and fights—for. This is why he helped Alex Mercer. This city deserves to live. And he will make sure calamity never strikes again.

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Alex Mercer looks over the dead drop, commits it to memory, then burns it. After he cleans up the targets, he'll head to Japan himself. Blackwatch understands how he operates; every soldier and scientist will be under constant watch, subject to random—even daily—blood and urine tests. So he'll find another way, make his own entrance. But first—he has a long list of names that need to be crossed out.

During his checklist and grocery shopping adventures, Mercer keeps thinking about how he'll infiltrate the new facility. Security is tight; technically he's never been declared dead, and it's reflected in their operations: the military is keeping a close eye on all flights; viral detectors are becoming more widespread, not just for containment purposes; but some things stay the same—inept bureaucracy. It's something he discovered when he tore through his targets and their pleas, as he hunted down the last remnants of Blackwatch and the bureaucrats enabling future atrocities: passengers are routinely screened, but not the pilots. They can bypass the entire process, and the cockpit is always free of those viral detectors.

The plan is simple: once he finds the right pilot, he'll consume them; not just wearing their skin for a few hours, but for days on end. The irony that he'll be transporting his enemies to their destination isn't lost on him.

Hotaru Bakugo, age 35: his grandmother came with her American husband to the mainland; has family in Japan but never contacted them, especially after getting into the military; no noteworthy actions, average piloting skills, enjoys tinkering with aircraft; survived Mercer's rampage by virtue of not being there, one of the few Blackwatch personnel not in New York; involved in logistics, transporting sensitive Blackwatch personnel and equipment around the boroughs; and not a murderer or remorseless psychopath. Just a simple taximan who joined for the bigger paycheck.

As Alex Mercer sneaks inside a single story house, he sees much of it is bare though the man—Bakugo—has lived there for five years. Sporadic photos of family and acquaintances dot the few shelves. His room, however, has the real look into his personality: framed pictures of different aircraft, shelves with model planes; tacky bedsheets with explosions and more aircraft; a carefully folded American flag above the bed; and a small library of airplane history and technical documents. Then Mercer looks at the sleeping target.

He wants to know this man before he murders him in cold blood, before he becomes him. All of his targets make the world better with their passing. Enough sins to fill a church twice over. Mercer can fancy himself an avenger: a revenant sent to punish evil. But all he sees here is a baby-faced pilot snoring softly; the closest thing Blackwatch has to an innocent man according to all of his meticulous records and memories. Hell, Bakugo's room is a testament to his undying love for all things aviation.

Alex feels heavy. Standing in this dark room, he looks at his hands: the hands that worked in science for decades; the hands that smashed vials of virus in a petulant and defiant last stand; the hands that tore apart man and machine. He's tired of killing, of adding to the chorus of the damned in his body. Every cell vibrates with the memories of the dead. Every closed eyelid creates a visage of the human lives he never had nor never would—the mosaic of New York and beyond. Thousands of years worth of lifetimes; every flavor of emotions and life experience.

Alex wishes there is a better way: that fucking Blackwatch will just stop. But they will not—and he can't afford to either.

He looks at Bakugo. Mercer thinks of hundreds of ways to kill him—but remembers he is more than just a man: the power he holds can create better things. Harkening back to his experiments after he saved the city, he manipulates the viral mechanisms in himself. His body is a natural living furnace for evolution and change.

Alex creates an organic spray solution in his hands, then creates thin holes along his fingers. Using makeshift internal muscles, he slowly spritzes the chemicals around Bakugo's body and face. As the liquid seeps into the skin and mouth, a smile begins to grow on the face of Mercer's victim.

Blacklight, Redlight, it's all the culmination of Blackwatch's work, however awful its origins are; perhaps even the endpoint to Human evolution itself. Here, he utilizes the awe-inspiring power of genetics and evolution to give the man he is about to kill the best damn dream of his life. Mercer stimulates the parts of the brain where the happiest and most impactful memories reside. Bakugo's body is overdosing on all of the feel-good chemicals it can safely produce. The viral vectors in the chemicals adapt to the victim's body, creating a unique, one-of-a-kind singular experience.

It is beautiful.

Had Hotaru Bakugo lived to see the morning sun, he would have never forgotten this night. It would have changed him on a fundamental level.

But Mercer needs him: needs his skin, his memories, his credentials. The work isn't done yet; the score isn't settled, the danger to Humanity not over. Alex hopes this is one of the last sacrifices he'll have to make to the altar of peace. Mercer fashions an arm into a needle conventional engineering can never create: biology always has ways of surpassing mechanical ingenuity. Alex aims it at the brainstem—pushes quickly—and impales his brain.

In his experiments with consuming others, Mercer had found he didn't have to go fast: with experience and sufficient time, a slow consumption can be painless for himself and others. Subsuming memories slowly removes the pain and disorientation aspect, keeping a person alive while eating them—like many insects and animals do to their prey. But his victim here never has the taint of fear and the dread of death. Hotaru Bakugo simply falls into a pleasant, endless dream.

It is the least Mercer can do for him.

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Alex Mercer's favorite haunt is Ragland's hospital. Not many of the staff are left between trying to leave the city or dying during the outbreak. It makes it easier to sneak in to visit one of the few long term patients left: Dana, still the same, unchanging. The rise and fall of her chest gives him hope; the quiet footsteps and smell of the military uniform gives away his guest: Captain Cross.

The list is not yet crossed out. The last dead drop only contained a simple message: a request for one final meeting in America, between enemies turned allies.

"Is her condition…the same?" Captain Cross says. His voice, unexpectedly, is full of sincere sympathy. He and Mercer have talked more than once about the loved ones once present in their lives.

Alex doesn't turn his head, eyes remaining on Dana. Says: "There's no sign of any virus—it's like it's gone dormant. Ragland keeps a good eye on her, but there's only so much one man can do." He turns fully to face Cross. "That's why I've been developing my abilities—trying to find the fix myself I guess." Now morose: "What the hell is the point of all this power? How does ripping apart a tank or knocking a helicopter out of the sky help—help Dana?"

Alex is angry. He says, "How does consuming others help the world? Murder begetting more murder—always. My—the virus'—powers don't lend themselves to any good future, do they?" The last words exit in a yell. Mercer keeps himself in check by sheer willpower.

Cross eyes him strangely. Mercer wants to punch him. "So you're dealing with the same issues regular humans do." Alex blinks, anger falling to melancholy. Those aren't words he ever expected to come out of the captain's mouth; he's a military man through and through. "Strip away everything: power, names, origin. And you end up asking the big question everyone asks—what do I do with the talents I have? Some people spend their entire lives trying to figure it out."

"Then what's our end goal? Do we just keep killing until they get the bright idea to stop?" Alex laughs sharply. "What is our long term goal? Hell, what's my long term goal? As far I know, I'm immortal—in every way that matters. What comes after this?" Mercer is as low as he's ever been. Before, there were always tasks, short term crises to stave off emotional introspection. Now, he was beset by too much time and not enough action.

Captain Cross says, "As far as I know from Blackwatch briefings, you always wanted to leave a mark; it didn't matter what kind of mark: good or bad. A legacy, get yourself into some sort of medical textbook. Obviously—you did. Not just in the way you wanted to.

"The impact you leave should always be a net positive—in its addition or removal. You're not the man you were before Penn Station. You have the right and opportunity to change where your life goes from here—you deserve it." The kind words hit Alex hard. Captain Cross sounds like he knows what he's saying.

With the memories Alex has from soldiers, there was always a sergeant, a captain, someone who took broken down soldiers and brought them back up. For better or worse, part of him is one of Captain Cross'. Even before he became something…less and more than human, no one but his sister has ever said anything like that: everyone always wanted something from him. The Mercer before Penn Station ignored the rumors he was a sociopath; he knew the truth: he shut the world out, and took whatever he wanted from it. It was the only way he survived, in foster care or with an alcoholic mother. It was always him and Dana against the world.

"…Sometimes I feel like a hive mind rather than a person," Alex Mercer says. Admitting it feels like pulling teeth and fingernails. But Cross paid him a kindness; he seeks to return it with raw honesty: "For the thousands I've consumed, from infected or not, they were all unique. Bright stars. Always the heroes of their story—and all met tragedy at my hands.

"That's the curse I possess: taking someone's life and memories and seeing exactly who they were, how they felt; I alone carry the weight of their dreams, their traumas, their burdens. No one can speak for them like I can. You want to know how dense I am, inside? All the biomass I've accumulated—every step cracks the pavement if I'm not careful. Every leap creates a crater. But what's up here?" Mercer shifts a finger into a claw, and points it to his head. Says with weariness: "It's far heavier up here."

Mercer takes a breath he doesn't need. Facsimiles of organs that do nothing but give false assurances to Alex Mercer that he is still a human being. At least Cross keeps his captain's silence, letting 'his' soldier empty all of his worries to him.

"I can't forget them: they are as fundamental to me as Alex Mercer the scientist was. They're embedded in a hive mind of one. I am a legion of damned souls. Thousands of minds at my disposal, every skill and language imaginable." As he speaks, he gets louder, pacing faster; he moves like a tiger on the prowl, stalking his past.

"I don't want their sacrifices to go in vain—no matter who they were or what they did. Even Blackwatch. Something good has to come from this." At that, he deflates. All the manic, tense energy exists at once. "How many orphans will I make with the list you've given me? How many unwanted memories will I gain? Consuming so many people—I understand them better than I know myself.

"Am I a shadow, taking on the form of others—rather than my own? Am I going to end up addicted to the memories of those I consume, lost in people I've taken?" Cross stares at him, resolutely.

Once hated enemies, now trusted allies. It's perplexing how life puts the strangest people in the most unlikely of circumstances. Captain Cross says, confidentally: "It was you who gave me a different path—to find the evidence to turn against Blackwatch. It was you, Dr. Alexander J. Mercer, who stopped Greene. It was you who saved the city from a scared madman's last gambit." The captain continues, pushing through any words or half-aborted gestures from Mercer.

"No one will ever know. No one will ever believe us. You. Me. Ragland. And my select men. We are the only ones who know the real truth—and that's enough for me. Our work was always in the shadows. We didn't come here to be recognized. We came here to do the right damn thing." Captain Cross' eyes are full of silver, soldier steel. He speaks as though every word is an immutable fact. Uncontested by any moral being. Mercer feels the words fill him with determination.

Alex Mercer clasps arms with Captain Robert Cross. "I promise we'll never stop, Cross. No matter what stands before us. To the bitter end."