Deep beneath the derelict aquarium lair—deeper than even the city’s schematics acknowledged—a world was being built.

Or perhaps… unbuilt.

The sublevels echoed with the hum of reactors cobbled together from stolen tech, ancient blueprints, and science that no ethical board had ever approved. Machines pulsed, vats hissed, and a single whiteboard had the words scrawled in Deathjoke’s manic handwriting:

“Plan #1000: Break Everything Beautiful.”

And yet, he laughed.

“Smiley, do you see it?” Deathjoke waved his gloved hand toward a hulking, half-completed exosuit. It had the jawbone of a sperm whale, vertebrae fused with forged alloys, and a power core powered by rogue antimatter reactions. “We give it wings, shark fins, or napalm-firing clown noses?”

Smiley didn’t answer at first. He was staring at the genetic vaults—thick containers filled with green gel, each one housing a mutated embryonic horror: spliced blood from abyssal trenches, marrow from extinct beasts, genes whispering secrets to whoever dared listen.

“I sequenced the last of the Deep Howler DNA,” he said finally. “The creature that drove an entire ocean ecosystem extinct. It sings in ultrasonic pulses. Shatters skulls. You’ll like it.”

“Of course I’ll like it, boy! We’ll mix it with saber-tooth tigers and prehistoric hornets. Call it the ‘Howler Bee-lzebub’!”

But then Smiley looked at him.

Really looked.

Past the mirth, through the cracked grin, into the soul wrapped in bells and jokes and twisted dreams.

“Professor,” he said, “you could destroy the world. Easily.”

Deathjoke blinked.

“You’ve built bombs that burrow into tectonic plates and yawn continents apart.”

“Armor that can rip apart hero task forces like paper.”

“Genetic serums that turn humans into gods—or monsters.”

“You're not a joke, Professor. You’re the smartest being alive. You could take on the world’s top ten heroes in a single fight… and win.”

Deathjoke turned, slow.

And for a moment—just a moment—he stopped smiling.

Then he walked over to the giant glass window where the trench lights blinked like alien eyes.

“Smiley,” he said softly, “I’ve danced on a string of razors made of power for years.”

“I’ve stared into the abyss—and painted it with punchlines.”

“Do you know what I learned?”

He spread his arms to the lab. The bones. The bombs. The creatures that should not exist.

“Power… real power… is boring.”

He turned back to Smiley, eyes dark, yet alight.

“The moment I push that button to end the world… there’s no more laughter.”

“No more rage from Hybrid. No more gasping headlines. No more scientists scoffing. No more candy-colored chaos in a world of grayscale laws.”

“Destruction is so… final.”

“But laughter…”
“…laughter is infinite.”

Smiley said nothing. The gears of morality had long rusted in him. But there was admiration in his voice when he asked:

“So why do you play the fool, when you could be the king?”

Deathjoke smiled again—this time not with his lips, but with a kind of sorrow.

“Because kings grow old, Smiley.”

“They are hated. Betrayed. Replaced.”

“But the fool? The jester? The clown?”

“He lives forever in every scream and giggle.”

Then he leaned closer and whispered:

“And chaos… isn’t chaos… if everyone’s dead.”

The Last Door

In the deepest corner of the lab, they opened a steel vault—behind which were twelve capsules glowing with genetic fluid, each labeled with one of the Twelve Forbidden Strains, species wiped from existence by gods themselves.

Deathjoke traced a finger down the nameplate of one:

“Godworm DNA – Helix Type. Eyes = 108. Mind = Void.”

Smiley looked at the swirling contents.

“What’s the plan?”

“We almost use it,” Deathjoke replied. “We nearly awaken the apocalypse.”

He gave a twinkle-eyed grin.

“Then we build a balloon that sneezes confetti at the Prime Minister. Trust me—it’s funnier.”

Elsewhere…

In her HQ, Hybrid stood before a board covered in red lines, maps, anomalies, seismic readings.

Her eyes narrowed.

“They’re planning something worse than usual…”

She turned away from the map and opened a locked drawer.

Inside was a syringe with three gene codes she’d sworn never to activate at once.

“Let’s hope they’re still joking…”