First Intergalactic Emperor: Starting With The Ancient Goddess

”I’ll help. That’s why I came. But I can’t do it alone. I don’t know how to make it clean, how to make it permanent. You’re the doctor— the scientist. You will know how to make someone pay, properly.”

The words seemed to fuel John. His shoulders squared, and a strange, fierce joy flickered across his features—an ugly, very human thing that comes when pain turns to purpose. ”I have just the thing,” he said, voice tight with something like triumph. ”Wait here.”

He strode from the room and left the door ajar. Xavier watched the portrait of Leonardo as the old man’s footsteps faded into the outer hall. He lowered himself back into the chair, fingers drumming a quiet rhythm on the armrest.

Xavier slipped the buds into his ears and tapped the line to Angel. ”How much longer?” he asked in a whisper.

Angel’s reply came in his ear like a whisper, efficient and sharp. ”Sixty-nine percent. You need to stall for a few more minutes. Don’t cut the transfer or alarms will flag. Hold it steady.”

Xavier let the words settle. Sixty-nine. Not long. Not short. Enough time for John to return, and maybe enough time for whatever they were stealing to finish copying. He stood and smoothed his shirt, keeping his face calm.

The elevator chimed. John came back pushing a small trolley. On it sat a dull metal box—no bigger than a toolbox—and beside it an icy container sweating in the warm air, its lid sealed tight. The two items looked clinical and cold, like instruments meant for an operating theater and a morgue at once.

John set the trolley down with a careful hand, eyes bright with dreadful purpose. ”This will do.” He tapped the metal box as if it were a promise. ”And that,” he nodded toward the icy canister, ”will keep things... preserved until they’re ready.”

Xavier felt the last of his calm fold into a hard line.

John set the trolley down and snapped the metal box open. The syringe sat inside like jewelry — clear glass, a blue liquid catching the light. It looked wrong and precious at the same time.

”What is that?” Xavier asked.

John lifted the syringe, fingers steady. ”It’s called a sedative, in the clinics. But not the kind you hand out for a fever.” He didn’t smile. ”When people get heavy cyberware, when machines and flesh don’t sit right together, some brains—rare cases—flip. They go violent, reckless. Regular drugs do nothing. This was made to calm those cases, to pull the mind back from the edge.”

Xavier watched him, curious. He was learning, and it felt like reading a book with the pages burned at the edges.

John’s tone sharpened. ”The thing is—this stuff comes from an alien toxin. Altered, purified, used in tiny, controlled doses, it quiets the mind. But in normal bodies, or if used wrong, it does the opposite. The immune system freaks out. Organs fail one after another. It burns from the inside. People die slowly and ugly.”

”If it’s that deadly, could it work without the syringe? Like, if someone drank it?” Xavier asked with a curious look on his face.

John closed the box and glanced at the icy canister. ”No. The compound needs to hit the blood directly to trigger the cascade. The gut breaks most of it down. Swallowing it won’t do the same, not in any reliable way. That’s why clinics use a controlled form and why it’s handled under tight rules.”

Xavier let that sit a second, the words moving through him. He looked at John, then at the syringe, then at the cold box beside it.

”Injection’s what makes it work,” John said, flat. ”That’s the nature of this toxin. It’s not a medicine, it’s a poison. It’s science and danger wrapped in a needle.”

Xavier’s eyes lingered on the syringe like he was sizing up a weapon. Then he leaned back in the chair and said, ”I’ll need more of those. At least a dozen.”

John snapped at him right away. ”Are you out of your mind? These aren’t some pills you can buy at the corner store. They’re rare, they cost a fortune, and every dose is accounted for.”

Xavier smirked, unbothered by the man’s outrage. ”And yet, here I am, doing you a favor. Helping you get your revenge. But let’s be real, John. I don’t even know where Maxmillian is. Let’s say I find him—how the hell do I get close enough to put a needle in him? You think he’s just going to sit there, smile, and let me jab him? I’ll need more. Because I could miss, fail, or not even get the chance the first few times. And if I screw it up, we’re done. You’ll never get your justice.”

John froze, his jaw tight. He thought about it, weighing it against the burning rage Xavier had just cracked open inside him.

Xavier leaned forward, voice sharper, pressing where it hurt. ”What’s the matter, doc? You don’t want revenge bad enough? Or maybe Dominic was right to think of you as a fool, after all. Maybe you’re too scared to pay the price to see Maxmillian rot.”

John’s fists clenched. He glared at Xavier, chest rising and falling hard. ”Fine. I’ll arrange it. It won’t be easy, but it’ll be done soon.”

In Xavier’s ear, Angel’s voice came through the buds: Transfer at eighty percent. Needs more time.

Xavier hid the flicker of relief. He pushed on, keeping the act flawless. ”Alright. Let’s say I pull it off. What happens after? You think the cops won’t sniff around? You think they won’t trace this back to me? I’ve already tasted prison once. Not going back. Not for anyone.”

John shook his head. ”You don’t need to worry. One concentrated dose... that’s the end of him. His body will melt into nothing but goo. No face, no bones, no trace left to identify. Even if the detectives come sniffing, there’ll be nothing to point back at you.”

Xavier tapped the arm of his chair, playing it smooth but sharp. ”And how do I even find him in the first place? This city’s too damn big. For all we know, he might’ve skipped out already, maybe even left the planet.”

John leaned closer, fire burning in his eyes now. ”That’s not your concern. I’ll find him. When I do, you just make sure you put the needle in.”

Xavier gave him the faintest nod, though in his head, he already knew Maxmillian was hiding like a rat in Ethan’s penthouse. But he wasn’t about to share that.

Angel’s voice whispered again, sharper this time. Transfer stuck at eighty-seven percent. Stall a little longer.

Xavier masked his irritation, leaned back, and kept the act rolling, every word buying him the minutes he needed.