The safe haven stood battered but unbowed, its walls patched with Steve-crafted stone and Iron Man's alloys, the moat's fire a low simmer. Bill sat in the bunker's workshop, hands trembling as he shaped a new turret arrow—Four Arms' strength lingering in his muscles, a dull ache from the last fight. Clara cooked nearby, her steady presence a balm, while Lily sketched turret designs, her glow soft but constant. The comics' memories—Tony Stark's burnout, Wolverine's scars—whispered of costs, and Bill felt them now, templates piling up like weights on his soul.He'd mastered them—Iron Man's tech, Steve's crafting, SCP-173's speed, SCP-096's rage, Four Arms' might—but each shift left echoes. His skin prickled with SCP-173's stone texture, his vision flickered with Iron Man's HUD even when off, and Four Arms' bulk made his joints creak. Physically, he was fraying—muscles strained from Tetramand power, lungs tight from SCP-096's howls. Mentally, the lines blurred—Steve's calm clashed with SCP-096's fury, Iron Man's logic wrestling Four Arms' instinct.Clara noticed, setting a plate of bread beside him. "You're pushing too hard, Bill. You barely sleep."He forced a smile, Four Arms' deep timbre slipping into his voice. "Gotta keep us safe. Trask, the antidote—they're not stopping."Lily looked up, worried. "Dad, you're… different. Bigger, sometimes. Are you okay?"The system chimed:
"Host emotional state: Strained. Template integration: Stable but taxing. Physical status: Fatigue, minor cellular stress. Recommendation: Rest, recalibrate.""I'm fine, kiddo," he lied, rubbing his neck—SCP-173's snap still echoed there. "Just adjusting."But he wasn't. Nightmares mixed comics' horrors—Phoenix burning, Sentinels stomping—with SCP-096's wails and Four Arms' roars. He'd wake, heart pounding, seeing Clara and Lily in danger, templates surging unbidden—SCP-173 freezing him mid-step, Four Arms cracking the bedframe. Emotionally, he teetered—love for his family anchored him, but fear of losing control gnawed.Clara sat, her hand on his. "You're not a machine, Bill. Even Tony Stark rested."He chuckled, Iron Man's wit surfacing. "Tony had a suit. I've got… this." He gestured to himself—red patches from Four Arms fading, stone flecks from SCP-173 flaking off.Lily hugged him, glow warm. "We need you, not the templates."The words hit—comics' heroes fell when they forgot why they fought. "You're right," he said, voice softening. "I'll ease up. For you."But easing up wasn't an option—not yet. The radio crackled—Beast: "Bill, Trask's convoy's moving your way. Heavy artillery, antidote drones. Brace yourselves."Bill stood, templates simmering—strain or not, he'd protect them.