2 First Steps

I hate stairs and unclean people! Why? For the simple reason that in my "black puddle" form, in addition to sight, I also had a sense of touch, greatly mixed with taste receptors or something that replaced them for me. I mentioned before that the basement was quite filthy, didn't I? Well, it was! And even though I tried to somehow disable these taste receptors and other tactile-olfactory torture components, it turned out in complete accordance with the state of the space surrounding me — half-assed! And let's not even get started on how I crawled up the stairs; I could write a whole book about it (or rather, about those epithets that I desperately wanted to shout out to the world and all those bastards who let their dwellings reach such a state). Oh, how I wanted to kill! How selflessly and sincerely I hated all living beings with a cold, rational hatred, backed by the factual basis revealed to me in sensations!

But everything eventually comes to an end, and so did this damn ascent. And there I was, seeing the light of the new world for the first time. The world greeted me with the view from the exit into some shed near the church with that very bell tower, a light drizzle, slush, and absolute silence. I don't understand, where is the sound of the wind, the roar of the highway, or even the sound of the rain, for that matter?

After the bell concert up there, did the Symbiote go deaf or something? The thought seemed, to say the least, absurd, but I had no explanation for the absence of sounds. Deciding to leave this question for another time, I focused on accomplishing the first item of my world domination plan, which was acquiring a host body. In the cartoon, the living black suit stumbled upon Eddie Brock quite by chance, simply oozing into the bell tower where he happened to be a few minutes before the tragedy, bound by stress and not very sentimental towards Peter Parker. But there's no need to annoyingly mess with a guy whose life is already shitty, especially when he's going through a rough patch in every sense of the word. If you think about it, Brock was lucky that he was only webbed up, which naturally disintegrates in a couple of hours, rather than having his neck snapped. However, in my newly acquired memories, the Symbiote didn't ooze into the bell tower from the inside, but rather crawled along the external wall, and there were no Eddie Brocks in the vicinity anymore. Well, personally, I didn't care — for starters, any random individual would do.

Fortunately, luck was on my side — the mentioned individual was heading towards me. Judging by his appearance, he was a typical tramp seeking shelter from the bad weather in the church, or maybe even in my little basement. As I watched the figure approaching, I pondered. It seems that serious changes have occurred in my psyche — I wasn't at all bothered by the fact that I was essentially going to devour a sentient being, a kin of which I myself had recently been. I was more interested in the question of how exactly to do it. Knowledge about Venom's methods of enslaving humans didn't rush to the surface of my consciousness; there was only a strangely confident feeling that it was possible. The memories and knowledge of the Symbiote were strange indeed. How to explain its certainty that it could completely suppress the host, while still vividly remembering how it failed to crush Parker? And not really... not really trying. I remembered my attempts to stay in control of the body, to not let myself be torn apart even when the toll of the bell struck my body. But to dominate someone's personality in a different way... no way. Damn, why didn't I find an instruction manual for operating Symbiotes next to me when I woke up?!

Meanwhile, the vagrant successfully stumbled his way to the entrance of the basement and managed to step right on me. My body instinctively reacted—thin tendrils shot out from the puddle and wrapped around the poor soul, forming a black cocoon. I could feel my body infiltrating his nervous system, merging with his muscles, modifying tissues, while simultaneously imprinting a copy of his genetic code. The sounds of rain struck my ears, the odor of filth irritated my sense of smell, and my body felt dirty and intensely itchy. Oh, the material I had acquired was of low quality, and the host's shell was severely damaged and would only function for another six months.

Hold on... What the hell? My thoughts seemed to split—I was disoriented by the return of the ability to hear and smell the world around me (and there were quite pungent smells), while something within me executed a long-established algorithm, merging with this man and conducting an analysis of his condition and capabilities. I wasn't given a chance to ponder—it was just a minute ago that this drunkard stood on the edge of a precipice (metaphorically, as he was standing near the descent into the basement), but now he took a big step forward... and clumsily tumbled down the stairs, with each step painfully rattling our ribs. And it hurt! Definitely, as soon as I become the ruler of the world, my first order will be to replace these damn stairs with... hmm, even ramps will do! Self-cleaning magical ramps! If I'm in a cartoon world, such things should be possible!

The further I went, the worse it got. I had a burning desire to drink and smoke. My dirty hand reached into an equally dirty pocket and pulled out a worn-out flask, to which I eagerly attached myself. Some foul liquid rushed into my mouth, utterly repulsive in taste, but it was alcoholic, and that was all that mattered to me.

"Heh, I'm a lucky guy... Fell from such a height and didn't even scratch myself! Today is definitely my day. If only I could find something to eat, it would be perfect," a hoarse, tobacco-ridden voice echoed in the basement's silence.

Well, well... It turns out that when your thoughts are intertwined with the emotions and desires of the host, it's not entirely harmless. Who's subduing whom here with such tricks?! Alright, something needs to be done about this, but what and, most importantly, how? I still couldn't control the body, and all I could do was... engage in a detailed study of the acquired movable property?

Oh yes... any neurosurgeon would give their soul for the opportunity to work through the Symbiote. Bioscanners, microscopes, diagnostic systems—modest as it may seem, the black slime included all of that and much more. And the "interface" couldn't be more user-friendly—whenever I wanted to learn about, let's say, the host's liver, I would instantly receive not only a comprehensive answer about its function, structure, and condition, but also several options for improvements and optimizations. And if I had a desire, there was even a possibility to implement my own ideas, although I vaguely understood that last part and decided not to experiment with it for now. I also attempted to understand the structure of the Symbiote itself, but there I faced a complete failure—either I lacked the knowledge to properly formulate my inquiry, or it wasn't designed to analyze itself. Either way, the result was the same—I learned nothing, how disappointing.

However, I managed to dig up a wealth of information about the vagrant. Essentially, I knew everything about him—his identity, how he lived, his current physical condition, and perhaps most importantly, information about the world I had ended up in. This world was highly intriguing and held great value in terms of gathering genetic information—mutants were almost a norm here, rumors circulated about vampires and werewolves in the city, and the local inhabitants of the lower social strata were afraid to venture into certain areas, fearing they might become participants in clandestine experiments conducted by the powerful of this world. In short, a very interesting little world, although conditions in other countries might be different, but the host wasn't interested in geopolitics or the general state of the world (yeah, why would that be interesting?).

While I was engrossed in self-reflection (literally), my unwashed friend settled down on a pile of filth in the corner of the basement and blissfully snored, already in his tenth dream (according to brain activity, only the eighth!).

Hmm, I think it might work... no, it must work! I had been observing my host's sleep for several hours when a very interesting thought occurred to me. I could control the sleeping body (I experimented a bit while studying the acquired corpse), so why not try to keep the host in a constant state of sleep? It would be good for him, and it wouldn't bother me. Yeah, saying it was much easier than doing it. Yes, I could extract information from him, manipulate his organs, but there were limits to what I could do (for now, hopefully), try assembling the word "happiness" from the cubes 'O,' 'P,' 'A,' 'J,' or performing heart surgery with just a spoon and a "Medicine for Dummies" guide, and you'll understand the challenges I faced. But the problem needed a solution—I had no plans to be an appendage to a fallen tramp and save him from cirrhosis. Therefore, no matter how cumbersome or frustrating it was, I needed to effectively detach his consciousness from controlling the body. Of course, it was easier said than done, but doing nothing and waiting for him to wake up would yield no results. So, with a spoon or an ax, we had to give it a try. Hopefully, he wouldn't perish in the process because I had no desire to crawl up the stairs in puddle form again, only to crawl under the rain in search of a new victim... I really didn't want that.

Three hours later.

Yes! I did it! I succeeded (let's skip how many attempts it took and how many times the unfortunate Symbiote had to pull the host back from the brink due to the clumsiness of his "intruding" consciousness)!

"Sweet dreams, tramp. Sleep tight," the man on the stinking bed muttered, cringing slightly at the sound of his own voice—hoarse and smoke-ridden.

Half the task was done. Now I had my own body, which was simply wonderful, but I absolutely disliked its appearance. However, for a being capable of rapidly healing the host's injuries, modifying his genetic structure, and even growing additional organs, changing appearance posed no problem... nor did growing proper clothing. It was easy to extract the necessary information from the memories I acquired.

After retrieving a piece of soap from the pockets of tattered clothes (it lay there next to a coil of rope, which gave me certain ideas), I stripped off all the clothes and proceeded to wash myself under the still-dripping rain.

Brrrr... The cold rain paled in comparison to a hot shower, but I managed to wash myself. And now, let's focus on the body. A height of 6'5" was quite satisfactory, approximately matching my previous body, but everything else... Well, during my work, the automatically triggered part of the Symbiote—the instincts, I suppose—likely generated models of bodies for me to choose from, which could be molded from the acquired sample with minimal losses. I just had to select one and deal with the face. The old, worn-out appearance didn't appeal to me at all, so the matrix of changes needed adjustment to something younger and healthier. It's strange why the Symbiote hadn't done something similar before. Although the more I try to understand what it is, the more I come to the conclusion that it's some kind of clever biological weapon from an unknown race. Some aspects of its behavior resemble a precise algorithm that repeats itself. Finally, sensing that my face had completed its transformation, I grew pants and boots for myself. They consisted of my own Symbiote cells, but in such a form and configuration, they had no issues with taste receptors, naturally and easily disabling all unnecessary sensations, just like a reflex. Which brought me back to thoughts of the unnatural nature of the Symbiote. I genuinely tried to achieve the same result while climbing the stairs. I tried with all my heart. However, it was in vain. But here... I didn't even contemplate how I did it. Or rather, the cells did it themselves. Through the same automatic mechanism that helped me study the body. And it was clearly abnormal.

Nevertheless, this was clearly not the moment to complain—literally licking the ground with every step was not exactly what I desired from life. In short, it worked—and it was wonderful. But to understand exactly what had been achieved, I peered into the nearest puddle. The reflection pleased me and strongly reminded me of someone else, but there was still something missing. With a slight smirk, I changed the pigmentation of the skin just below my left shoulder—and now it was perfect. Completing the look with the growth of a black turtleneck and a matching heavy coat, I took a deep breath and took the first step, now fully in control of my new body in this new world. The first item on the agenda was accomplished, and it was done rather quickly, which couldn't help but bring me joy.