He thought of calling himself “The Alchemist”, but eventually gave up on the idea. It was more than a bit ridiculous and, to be honest, very pretentious. His mentor had been the true Alchemist. A respected senior professor of the Miskatonic University on the field of biochemistry, no one ever suspected the elderly, quirky Englishman of being capable of conducting the gruesome experiments he did, or of breaching the limits of what man was not meant to know for his own personal gain. No one but he, and that earned him a strange sort of affection from the old man – “We’re kindred souls, my dear lad, and we must stick together. The world is out to get us!”.
They were the talk of the university for a long time. The wizened, charismatic professor and the brilliant but socially awkward boy genius, sticking together like father and son. They scoffed at the idea. They doubted the father-son quality time the university gossip imagine would include synthesizing an elixir for sexual potency from the blood of a regenerative mutant or distilling actual liquid fear from a terrorized victim.
But they had bonded, in fact, more than each would care to admit. More than what he would care to admit, at least. He’d been surprised upon discovering old man made him the sole inheritor of all his riches (Of which he had many, never having any morals about exploring his talents for all it was worth, and exploring all what his talent was worth to live in luxury) and, more importantly, of his research notes, after he passed away. He allowed himself a time to grieve for the only genuine affection he ever knew, surprised at his own reaction, but the time for that was over. Now, he had to carry on with the Alchemist legacy of implacable research, amoral profit and outrageous self-indulgence. And he had what he needed right here, in the golden liquid glowing softly inside three transparent vials.
His mentor called it Love Potion N.10, as some sort of reference to an old favorite song of his, but it was more than that, way more than that. A combination of psychotropic drugs, hormones and weird looking substances from outer space (He’d never asked the professor how he managed to get his hands on that) designed to completely wipe out a person’s sense of independence and self worth and replace it with uncontrollable devotion to whoever put his genes on her first. The perfect mind control drug.
Unnecessary to say, that was the explanation for the string of co-eds always following the old professor around like a pack or horny puppies. Everyone pretended to turn a blind eye to that, but it was hard to ignore the way even graduate former students would come back to hang at the old man’s every word, or turn over all their earnings to fund his lavish lifestyle – Or the way most of them tragically lost <nobr>their lives</nobr> as soon as he passed away. He was genuinely sad for that.
Also unnecessary to say, that was his biggest point of contention with his former teacher-turned-foster-parent. They had possibly the most effective weapon of the world at their hands. Why stop at young stupid college <nobr>students</nobr> when they could have the world? But the professor lacked ambition, and was more than a little too cautious. “Why should we care about the world, dear Jonathan? We can the lives we always wanted right here, without anyone to bother us. Don’t get too ahead of yourself now, lad. We are not invincible. Attract too much attention, and you lose everything. Take that from me.”
The life the professor wanted, perhaps. The life he wanted was out there, bigger than that. Not mansions on the Miskatonic River islands, but the palaces of royalty. Not the prestige due to a great scientist, but the reverence due to a king. Not the vapid bimbos from middle class families of the USA, but the most powerful meta-human and bitches of the world as his love slaves.
“Ah.” The old man used to say. “There it is. Forget it son, for your own good. They’re too well-protected. You would just ruin your life for a piece of pussy that’s not that much better than what we have here.”
“How do you know?” He used to retort “You never tasted them! You’re too afraid!”
Looking back, it was more than a bit harsh of him, but the professor never seemed to mind. “Experience will teach you”, he would say, and move on to his business.
He’d never been trusted with Love Potion n.10 before (tough he would make use of its benefits once it was administered, of course), and briefly wondered what had possessed the man to do it on his deathbed. Maybe he didn’t care about consequences anymore since he was out of their reach? Or maybe he just wanted his foster son to make his own way on the world. Honestly, he didn’t know. Only that now he had the means to do what he always wanted to do, to be what he always wanted to be. He’d prove the old man wrong. He’d make the old man proud.
Of course, his conquest had to be carefully planned. It was possible, but the professor hadn’t been completely wrong – it would be dangerous. And he had only three vials of the potion (He had never learnt to do it, and even for his mentor apparently it was a soul consuming work). He couldn’t simply brainwash every big leaguer in the world and be done with it. Not with drugs, at least.
Three vials. Three telepaths. The rest would follow as it should.
Transferring the content of one of the vials to a syringe, he moved confidently to the table at the center of his lab. He had to burn through most of her inheritance, and call in all of his favors from contacts in the underworld for this chance. In the end, it had taken the Silver Sable mercenary company to do what was necessary, and he had been left only with this single farmhouse of the outskirts of Dunwich, but it would be worth the pain. She would help take back all he had sacrificed, and more.
“Hello, my dear. Ready to meet your new God?”
A/N: Got a little carried away with the background, I’m sorry. Next chapter should be more exciting to read, promise.