The gurgling of the golden liquid fades, the heat dissipating as the assimilation tank emits a low beep, almost like a mechanical sigh. My eyes open slowly, the internal visor of my mask flickering to life with green lines cutting through the sedative's haze. The liquid drains, sliding down my arms and legs, dripping onto the chamber floor with a wet sound that echoes in the silence. I take a deep breath, the ship's filtered air filling my lungs, and I feel it—the new weight, the raw strength coursing through my muscles. The genetic fragment from that future Vilgax, the one who faced Ben 10,000 and was rebuilt by Animo, has done its job. I'm not him—not yet—but I'm more. Taller, broader, tougher.
The robots hover around me, their claws humming as they detach the tubes from the implants in my arms. The tank's glass rises with a hydraulic hiss, and I step forward, the metal floor trembling under my boots—or rather, my bare feet, now larger, my natural claws scraping the ground with a dry rasp. My body has grown—about 20 centimeters taller, shoulders like tectonic plates, a chest swollen like a fortress wall. My dark green skin glistens wetly, the tendrils wriggling with renewed vigor, and I flex my arms, feeling the new resilience, as if I could withstand a blow that would've dropped me before. The regeneration is there too—slow, almost sluggish, but real. A shallow cut I made before entering is already closing, the skin knitting together in minutes.
"Sir, assimilation completed," a robot says, floating toward me with its monotonous metallic voice. "Armor adjusted and ready." I glance at the table beside me, where my classic armor—now not so classic—waits. The robots did impeccable work while I was sedated. The red-and-black metal has been widened, the chest plates stretched to fit my new size, the arms reinforced with extra strips of dark steel. The forearm implants hum, larger and thicker, and the **Armor Amplification Module (Mark I)** is attached to my right arm—a gray plate with green circuits, pulsing with contained energy. The mask's visor glows red, bigger now, adjusted for my expanded head. It's the classic Vilgax, but larger, more brutal, a version that screams "conqueror" just to look at.
I walk toward it, the floor shuddering with each step, and the robots assist me in putting it on. The chest piece locks into place with a heavy click, the cold metal pressing against my skin, the arm implants connecting with a hum I feel in my bones. My legs slide into the reinforced boots, the foot claws scraping the interior, and the visor slides over my face, the system booting up with a flash of data in the corner of my eyes—**"Integrity: 100%. Power enhanced."** I breathe, the mask's filtered air mingling with the scent of hot metal, and raise my arms, testing the weight. Heavy, but perfect—an armor that reflects who I am now.
Then I see the gauntlets. On the table beside the armor lies the second gacha prize: the **Chrono Alloy Combat Gauntlets**. Dark gray with glowing green veins pulsing like blood vessels, they look like gym gloves—simple, functional, but radiating brute force. I pick one up with my right hand, the metal light yet firm, and slide it on. The openings at the fingertips let my natural claws protrude, the alloy molding around them like a second skin. With a thought—a neural command I feel more than think—the retractable claws extend with a sharp click, 20 centimeters of chrono blades overlaying mine, sharp enough to cut flesh or light metal. I clench my fist, the claws retracting with another click, and slip the second gauntlet onto my left hand, the process repeating. They're part of me now—an extension of my body, ready to tear through anything in my path.
Lyra is there, in front of the tank, the high-tech machete in her hand, her red eyes wide as she stares at me. She stood guard—I don't know why, but I see it in her tense shoulders, her firm stance, that it was her choice. "You," I say, my deep voice amplified by the armor, echoing through the chamber. She doesn't blink, her wild black hair spilling over her shoulders, her strong body shaped by the cure I gave her. "Good work." She nods, short and sharp, but her eyes don't waver—admiration, maybe, or something more. I don't linger to find out now.
I stride to the command throne, the floor creaking under my newfound weight, the armor humming with each movement. The robots float behind me, and I sit, the throne's metal groaning as I settle in. The visor projects a holographic screen—the star map, Czarnia spinning slowly in the corner. "Change the course," I order, drumming the gauntlet's fingers on the throne's arm, the metallic clinks echoing. "Destination: Earth." A robot flashes a green light, the ship's engines roaring as the course adjusts, the dead planet shrinking in the window behind me.
"It must be late summer down there by now," I murmur, the visor glowing as I think. Ben—the kid with the Omnitrix—must be wrapping up his stupid vacation, cruising around in that trailer with his grandpa and cousin. The end of the classic series' first season, where I show up behind him, the original Vilgax teaching the kid what real fear feels like. Only now it's me—bigger, stronger, with gauntlets that slice and armor that crushes. "Let's make it happen," I say, my voice low, almost a growl. "Time to end the hero's vacation."
The Czarnians are in the other chambers—cured, armed, ready to follow. Lyra stays close, machete in hand, a silent shadow. The ship roars, slicing through space, Earth growing on the holographic horizon. I flex the gauntlets, the retractable claws glinting green, and feel the weight of what's ahead. Ben doesn't know what's waiting for him—and I can't wait to show him.
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