Extra Basket-Chapter 104 - 91: Syndicate Arc (14)

After That Day at Site E...

The stench still clung to him.

No matter how many showers he took, how many layers he wore—Charles couldn’t wash away the sterile cold of Site E. The quiet hum of the IV drips. The soft, muffled sobs of shackled children. The machine-like blinking of dull, empty eyes. It echoed in his skull.

He needed clarity. Or maybe absolution. So he went to the only person he still called a friend.

Eddie Carter’s Home — 4:12 PM

The late afternoon sun poured golden warmth into Eddie’s home. Hardwood floors gleamed. Trophy cases lined the hallway decades of glory preserved behind glass. Photographs of championships, framed jerseys, smiling kids. There was a rhythm here. A peace.

The afternoon sun filtered gently through the windows of Eddie Carter’s house, casting long golden rays across polished hardwood floors and framed photos of championships and smiling sons. The air smelled faintly of pinewood and cologne, a warm, clean scent that contrasted deeply with the cold, chemical stench of Site E, still clinging to Charles’s coat.

Eddie poured two glasses of bourbon and handed one to his old friend. "Still got a taste for this stuff, Charlie?" he said with that same lazy grin he used to flash on the court after draining a step-back three.

Charles chuckled softly and accepted the glass, careful not to let his fingers tremble. "Some things never change."

They sat on the patio, watching the yard where two boys dribbled and shot at a hoop nailed above the garage. One was lean and sharp-featured, with movements that mirrored Eddie’s old form so precisely it was eerie.

"That one’s Jalen," Eddie said proudly. "You’ve seen him. Kid’s a damn highlight reel."

Charles nodded. "Yeah, he’s got your fire."

Then the younger boy came jogging over—taller for his age, smoother somehow. His eyes were sharp, curious. Not as flashy as Jalen, but something about his presence made Charles sit up a bit straighter.

Eddie gestured with his glass. "Oh, Charles... looks like you haven’t met my younger son, Caleb."

Charles raised an eyebrow, surprised. "You have another son?"

Eddie laughed heartily. "Hah! See? You’ve been so caught up in your principal duties, you forgot I’ve got more than one kid! Yeah, this is Caleb. Quiet killer, this one. Not as flashy as Jalen—but just as dangerous like his brother"

Charles leaned forward, offering his hand. Caleb shook it firmly, politely, but his eyes stayed locked on Charles’s—analyzing, reading.

"I see..." Charles said, smiling faintly. "Another prodigy, huh?"

Eddie beamed. "They inherited everything, man. My speed. My shot. My court vision. Watching them play... it’s like looking in a mirror." He laughed again, a deep, genuine sound. "These kids are gonna dominate. Just like we used to."

Charles stared out at the two boys now, dribbling and taking turns pulling up for threes.

"Just like us back then," he said quietly, sipping the bourbon. His lips curled into a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

"Yeah..." he said again, almost to himself. "Just like us back then."

But in his mind, the thought twisted:

Another monster is born, huh?

They sat in silence for a few moments longer, until Jalen yelled, "Hey Dad, watch this!" and launched a deep three. It hit the backboard and dropped through clean.

Eddie whooped, standing up and clapping. "That’s what I’m talking about!"

Charles remained seated, his eyes narrowing slightly.

He then stood quietly and brushed off his coat. "I should get going. Still have some notes to write up."

Eddie grinned and clapped him on the back. "Always working. But hey—come by more often. These boys could use more old-school wisdom. And maybe you could use a little sunlight, huh?"

Charles smiled weakly. "Yeah. Maybe."

...

After that day

The sterile air of Site E was always suffocating, a constant reminder of the cold, mechanical world Charles had willingly chosen to immerse himself in. The airlock hissed as he stepped inside, the sound of metal sliding against metal signaling his return to the heart of the project. The flickering fluorescent lights above bathed the hallways in an almost eerie glow, casting long shadows on the polished, antiseptic floors. The scent of chemicals, disinfectants, and blood—ever-present—lingered in the air.

Charles walked with purposeful steps, his ID clipped to his coat, the small beep of the security scanner almost routine now. He moved past the observation windows, where scientists hunched over their keyboards, typing away, their focus unbroken by his presence. The walls seemed to close in on him, as though the very lab itself resented the human element—the lives that had been shattered in the pursuit of perfection.

Empty IV bags hung from hooks, their once-life-giving contents long drained. Charts covered in red ink, stamped with "FAILURE" and "RETEST," lined the walls—constant reminders of the many attempts that had come before. The failure rate was higher than Charles had hoped. But he was used to it. The price of genius was blood. And he had more than enough blood to spare.

He finally reached the Containment Room.

The heavy door slid open with a soft, metallic groan, and Charles entered. Inside, the five glass tubes stood like grim sentinels, filled with a sickly green liquid that bubbled faintly around the twisted, contorted forms of the children. Their bodies were broken—small, shackled, and chained. Their spines were fused with metal, the wires of their neural interfaces snaking up into their skulls. Some twitched erratically, others lay still, their eyes empty and unblinking. The smell of antiseptic and the faint scent of decaying flesh mixed in the air, a visceral reminder of the cost of progress.

Charles stood before Subject 03, his supposed "breakthrough." The child’s body was curled unnaturally, as though the muscles had been stretched and bent into painful positions. A soft murmur escaped the child’s lips—fragments of play calls, broken and disconnected, barely coherent.

"Left screen... pop out... baseline cut..."

Charles clenched his fists tightly, his nails digging into the fabric of his gloves. He stared at the twitching child, frustration gnawing at him. The experiments had never been what he had hoped for. The children weren’t more than tools—empty vessels that could mimic the movements he had programmed, but lacked the natural rhythm, the soul, that made a true player. The deep, innate understanding of the game that made someone like Jalen Carter a prodigy.

"Still not enough," Charles muttered to himself, turning his attention to the screen. The data blinked in front of him, mocking him with its mediocrity.

Neural response: 48%.

Physical agility: 72%.

Basketball IQ: 32%.

"Goddamn it!" Charles shouted, his fist slamming into the console. The screen buzzed, flickering, distorting momentarily before snapping back to normal.

He stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, trying to steady himself. But the words kept repeating in his mind: Jalen Carter would dismantle this one in a quarter. He’s too clean. Too instinctive. There’s nothing here that matches that boy’s natural rhythm.

Charles moved to Subject 04 next. The child’s vitals were slightly better, more promising in some aspects: better stamina, a faster reaction speed. But still, nothing close to the fluidity of a true athlete. Nothing that could compete with Jalen Carter, or the monstrous talent Eddie had passed down to his sons.

Charles felt the gnawing emptiness in his chest. He had nothing that could match that raw talent. The pills from Greg Tarrow, the experiments—none of it was enough. Not yet.

The lights in the room flickered, dimming suddenly, casting the shadows of the containment tubes across the floor.

Charles straightened, his instincts going on high alert. The soft hum of the door sliding open behind him reached his ears. He turned, his heart rate picking up as he saw the figure stepping into the room.

Draped in a long black coat, the figure’s face was obscured by a white sheep mask, the hollow eyes of the mask staring at Charles with eerie detachment. The voice that emerged was metallic, cold.

"The first prototype of your work..." The figure’s voice echoed in the sterile space. "Is it complete?"

Charles froze. He hadn’t heard that voice in over a year, and when he did, it was never a request—it was always a command, one that demanded results. He knew that voice too well.

He straightened his coat, hiding the tremor in his hands. "No. Not yet. It’s... progressing slower than expected."

The sheep mask tilted slightly, as if studying him. "Then your progress is insufficient. The higher council is watching. Their patience is thin. We invested in your vision, Charles. We gave you the pills of Greg Tarrow and also the resources of Site E."

Charles’s eyes narrowed. His jaw tightened. "I promised this will be a masterpiece. More than Greg. It’ll be worth the wait. I’m close."

The sheep mask’s eyes seemed to narrow, though the mask remained unmoving. "You better be right, Charles," it said in a voice that held an edge of cold finality. "Because I don’t want to see someone like Greg Tarrow die again."

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Charles knew what the figure was implying—Greg had been a tool to them, a means to an end. His death, a result of his own experiments and failures, had been a bitter reminder of what happened when things went wrong

.

Charles’s fists clenched, and he tried to ignore the tightening in his chest. "I won’t fail," he said, more to himself than to the figure in front of him. "This will be the last failure. I promise."

The sheep mask nodded once, almost imperceptibly, and then turned on its heel, the sound of its footsteps echoing in the sterile corridor as it left the room.

Charles remained standing there for a long moment, the weight of the words sinking in. The council’s pressure. The death of Greg. The looming failure of the children in the containment tubes.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, the thought of Jalen Carter of Caleb Carter lingered. A reminder of what he was up against.

But there was no turning back now. He had to create the ultimate weapon. The prototype that would rival them all. He couldn’t afford to fail again.

Not when everything depended on it.

.....

(Now, after days of being a madman trying to create the perfect evolution)

The laboratory hummed with a mechanical, sterile precision, the lights overhead harsh and unforgiving. Charles stood at the observation window, watching the latest prototype through the reinforced glass.

This one was different. The others had shown promise at first but ultimately succumbed to the unpredictable nature of human biology. Their instincts, their will, were too strong. Too... human. But this one this child was different. His eyes were blank, the whites glowing faintly under the dim lights. His pupils, gone. His mind, hollow. No thoughts. No emotions. Just obedience.

Charles had finally cracked it. The formula for absolute control. Freeman’s work had taken them to the edge of humanity, erasing all the unnecessary complexities, the weaknesses. The mind was blank. The body was a vessel. Nothing left but raw, unyielding power that could be directed, redirected, honed into whatever Charles needed. A soldier. A weapon.

"Subject 45," Charles muttered under his breath, looking at the child’s slumped form. The child stood still, hands clasped together in front of him, a perfect, mechanical replica of what Charles had always envisioned: a being devoid of free will. A creation of pure efficiency. Nothing but a tool.

"Ready for testing," Charles said aloud, his voice tinged with a cold satisfaction. He flipped a switch on his console, sending a current of electricity through the child’s body. There was no reaction—no gasp, no twitch, no resistance. The child’s head jerked slightly at the surge, but the blank expression remained. No pain. No fear. Just nothing.

Charles’s fingers hovered over the control panel. The child had been designed for more than just physical prowess. His speed, strength, agility all superior to any human he’d encountered. But it was the mind the lack of a mind that made him so dangerous. The child was a blank slate, but it was Charles who held the pen.

With a final deep breath, Charles spoke. "Execute Phase 1."

Immediately, Subject 45 moved. His limbs twitched and jerked as his body followed the commands Charles had inserted into his neural system. The child sprinted across the room with quick speed, launching himself at a row of dummies set up for target practice. With each motion, Charles could feel his control, his dominance over the being. The child’s movements were smooth, precise, without hesitation. There was no question. No deviation from the plan.

The child tore through the dummies with mechanical efficiency, knocking them down one after the other. Charles watched, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. This was it. This was the culmination of years of research. The perfect weapon. A mindless, obedient soldier who would obey his every command.

The problem of free will had been eliminated.

Charles’s hand twitched with the thought of unleashing the child on the outside world. There were tests left to run, modifications to make. But the potential was limitless. No more failures. No more unpredictability. He could mold this one to be anything, anyone.

But a whisper of doubt lingered. It wasn’t about the child it was about him. He could control this creation, but he’d never be able to control the consequences.

"Phase 2," Charles murmured, staring at the blank face of the child. A rush of dark excitement surged through him. "Initiate."

Without a moment’s hesitation, the child moved to the next task. It was time to test what Charles had hoped for all along: complete and utter dominance over the mind. If the child could survive this Charles would know that he was ready.

A command flashed across the panel. "Target acquisition." The child’s eyes glowed faintly, but no emotion, no human spark flickered within them. The child moved toward a target on the far end of the room, its movements almost too perfect to be real.

And in that moment, as the child aimed and shot with deadly precision, Charles knew, he had done it. He had created the ultimate weapon.

But deep down, a familiar unease gnawed at him. Could he keep this control forever? What would happen when the child began to grow? Could the same mindless obedience be maintained?

The test was still far from over.

And yet... it wasn’t just the child that worried Charles. It was the very idea that in trying to perfect a weapon he might have created something far darker than he had ever intended.

To be continue