Marvel Template System:Spectrum

Chris had long thought that all the visions were just a product of his sick mind. All those strange images, sounds that no one else heard, dreams that felt too real and tangible... Chris thought it was just an illness. That the doctors were right. They said it was delusions, illusions, that his mind was simply trying to cope with stress and was overloaded. But he knew! Chris had known from the very beginning that something was wrong. That this was more than just the play of his sick and lonely mind.

But could you blame the doctors who were just doing their job? Could you blame people for measuring his circumstances against their own objective reality?

To them, Chris acted like a madman and looked like a madman. Who in such a situation would assume that Chris Wallace, a little boy, an orphan from the most crime-ridden part of the city, actually had... superpowers?

Especially since it took Chris himself a full nineteen years to realize this... incredible truth. Although, the circumstances under which he found out left much to be desired.

But now...

He could finally face the truth.

Without uncontrollable panic attacks. Without endless self-soothing techniques and self-hypnosis. Just focus...

And finally free from the heavy psychological burden, Chris was able to examine all the details in the smallest nuances. The right words formed in his mind and before his eyes.

**SYNCHRONIZATION [Berserker ???] [Rank: Legendary]: 39.04%**

Synchronization.

In the broadest sense of the word, it's the process of bringing one or more different objects to a single value.

In this case, the first "object" was Chris himself. But the second one raised questions...

**[Berserker ???]**

The question marks clearly indicated that Chris wasn't ready yet. Or that the progress of "synchronization" hadn't reached that stage yet. Same thing, just from a different angle. But who are you, Berserker Questionovich?

And let's not forget that when Chris last tried to "look" closer—when it ended in another panic attack—instead of "Berserker," there were only question marks. So, slowly but surely, his power was beginning to reveal itself.

**[Rank: Legendary]**

This part, however, triggered an almost instinctive recognition.

Rarity, value, call it what you will, but it became clear that this Berserker wasn't just some random nobody.

Anyone who's ever played games would understand that "objects" have their own value. And something told Chris that the Berserker wasn't of the simplest nature. I mean, think about it, who would have an innate ability for eleven extra lives? And "legendary" sounds impressive!

**SYNCHRONIZATION: 39%**

Every percentage point brought him closer to the moment of merging the two objects, that is, Chris and the Berserker.

The first percentage, which he gained when he grabbed the gun and chased after the thugs, unlocked the first "Phantasm," the ability to "reincarnate."

And all the subsequent percentages served as a kind of barrier, overcoming which made Chris stronger.

At first, it was trivial. Enhanced power, but insufficient durability. One punch into a brick wall, and while his hand broke through, it was also broken.

But as soon as Chris lost his mind and charged at his enemies, ignoring the lives draining away and the wounds, the percentages began to rise at a frantic pace.

It was as if the Berserker himself was fully "for" this approach. As if he had finally seen something kindred in Chris, so he put all his effort into making Chris stronger.

Chris still remembers that word that echoed through his consciousness like a gong.

"Resonance."

Apparently, a short-lived process that accelerates synchronization at a certain moment under certain circumstances.

But the effect, oh...

At thirty-nine percent synchronization, Chris Wallace became a veritable killing machine.

Measuring his strength was incredibly difficult. Not because Chris himself had any issues, but because there were no proper "tools" at hand. He could flip cars with ease and even send them into a brief flight. Not that this feat cost him much, but there were no visible signs of fatigue either.

Durability...

This was where the effect of synchronization could be clearly seen. At ten percent, his durability couldn't withstand even a pistol shot. Later, a bullet from a weapon of that caliber would leave an unpleasant wound, but that was it. Although, a shotgun blast quickly put him down... Well, until he died and raised his synchronization percentage again.

It got to the point where endless machine-gun fire felt like tickling. Sure, his body was riddled with small scratches and cuts, but in that state of madness, the discomfort just flew past his consciousness.

The other stats weren't far behind.

Reaction time allowed him to respond to every rustle. Chris knew when an enemy was about to shoot before they even raised their weapon.

Speed kept up.

Coordination, balance, and some innate control over his body allowed Chris to move across rooftops and walls. He had never done parkour before—if ten-meter jumps between buildings could even be called that—but he clearly understood how much force was needed to push off and how much to apply so as not to obliterate the soft and pliable brick.

Just yesterday, Chris wasn't sure if he'd have enough money for tomorrow's lunch, and today he had become a real machine for whom ending a human life was like tearing a sheet of paper.

- Life is so unpredictable... - Chris muttered incoherently under his breath, given that his current condition barely allowed it.

Like a mummy or a burn victim, Chris was wrapped in bandages from head to toe. The numerous wounds from the RPG shot had stopped bleeding, but even his healing factor—turns out he had one!—couldn't heal such extensive damage in just two days. Well, not in two days at least.

And for those two days, he played the role of a helpless mummy on the couch of the ever-beautiful and kind-hearted Jessica Jones.

It's just...

He got kicked out of his apartment.

The late Mr. Kramer—not only his employer but also his landlord—had a few distant relatives who, without even organizing a proper funeral, evicted him to hell. Well, they come to what is now their property and see a poor invalid...

Anyway, Jessica—the greatest and kindest, Chris emphasizes!—who was already helping him with daily tasks, simply took in the young homeless guy. Yes, superpowered, but still a homeless guy.

At some point, it even seemed strange to Chris that Jessica was helping him so selflessly. Let's not forget that she pulled him out of the bay after he was sent flying by a direct hit from an RPG.

- One more time, - Jessica, standing in the doorway, irritably and bluntly addressed their guest. - What's your name?

Their guest wasn't from around here. That much was clear at first glance.

Short, fit, around forty. Dressed to the nines in a sharp suit, neat, and painfully polite and harmless. A true gentleman at first glance, the kind you wouldn't expect to see in Harlem.

- Phil Coulson, - the man smiled easily and disarmingly, pulling out his ID and handing it to Jessica. - FBI.

At these words, the mummy pretending to be dead, named Chris, buried his head deeper into the couch. Since the apartment was small, Chris could see the guest and hear his words.

FBI. Federal Bureau of Investigation.

In the US, there were two law enforcement agencies that had... broader authority, so to speak. Surely many have seen movies where fat and sloppy cops standing around a crime scene shut up as soon as serious men in black suits show up and flash their badges. Well... the FBI and CIA were those "serious men."

- And what do you want? - Jessica's expression didn't change, though Chris was trying to breathe as little as possible. Because FBI attention meant that his "rampage" had caught the interest of serious people, not the usual indifferent ghetto cops.

- I'd just like to ask a few simple, non-intrusive questions to Mr. Wallace and you, - Phil Coulson was a tough nut. He didn't show that Jessica's forced rudeness bothered him. On the contrary, against Phil's politeness, Jessica looked like a complete thug. But Jessica was used to not giving a damn about conventions, so her current stance didn't bother her.

- I didn't see shit, - Jessica still didn't let the agent inside, standing like a mountain in the doorway. - Didn't hear shit. Don't know you. Go f...

- Ahem, ahem... - Phil coughed. - But according to my information, Mr. Wallace worked at the late Mr. Kramer's store...

- You've got outdated info, or someone fed you a load of crap. Got any documents to prove it?

Of course, there were no documents! Half the jobs in Harlem were off the books. And Jessica had already asked Chris about it—he hadn't officially worked anywhere.

- According to eyewitnesses...

- According to eyewitnesses, you can make up anything... - Jessica yawned, unimpressed. - Around here, every dog's seen aliens, unicorns, and Captain America in the flesh. So, should we believe everyone now?

- But I just wanted to ask a few questions...

- We live in the freest country in the world! - Jessica proudly lifted her chin. - And I have the right not only to remain silent but also to tell you to go f...

- Got it, - Phil immediately raised his hand, cutting Jessica off mid-sentence. - Well, sorry for the trouble...

Watching the agent leave, Jessica closed the door and turned to Chris, who was lying on the couch. Her expression was no longer so confident.

- Damn it, Chris! Couldn't you have used your brain for even a pathetic, tiny second?! - Jessica grabbed her head. - The damn feds are gonna dig, and you're screwed!

- It's fine... - His words didn't match how he really felt. Dealing with law enforcement was the last thing he wanted. - Listen, I actually have an idea! We can buy some time!

- And what's that idea? - Jessica snorted skeptically but changed her expression as soon as she heard it. - Listen, this might actually work! He won't come within a hundred meters of us!

- I was kinda joking...

- Get your ass up! We don't have much time!...

---

- Yes, Mr. Fury, - Phil Coulson started the car, holding the phone to his ear. - The suspect, to put it mildly, has no desire to cooperate... Yes... Understood...

And just as Phil pressed the gas pedal, he had to yank the handbrake. Because as soon as the car moved, a man wrapped in bandages from head to toe appeared in front of him and "collided" with the hood.

- Mr. Fury, I'll call you back, I've got a situation here! - Phil quickly jumped out of the car and leaned over the groaning body. - Why did you jump in front of the car?! Do you underst...

- DAMN FEDS! - Jessica, standing two meters away from the "victim," aimed her phone camera at them and screamed at the top of her lungs. - They've lost their minds! Good people, in broad daylight, MURDER! Help!

Phil was so stunned by the audacity that he just froze in place. He wasn't angry at the situation, he was just... baffled by what was happening.

Meanwhile, Jessica, using all her untapped acting potential, continued:

- Is this how the FBI operates, you desk jockey?! Want to finish off a downed man?! That won't fly in our neighborhood!

Stunned, Phil didn't notice how the "victim," opening one eye, reached for his hand and...

Grabbed it in an iron grip, pressing it to his own neck.

- Cough-cough-cough... - Chris, opening his eyes wider, began to convulse in "death throes," as dramatically as possible "losing air." - H-help...

Meanwhile, the first "eyewitness," Jessica, wasn't in a hurry to help the "dying" man, but instead screamed even louder for the whole street to hear, not forgetting to aim the camera at the stunned Phil, whose hand was "choking" Chris.

- MURDER! A-a-a-a! This is tyranny! Real tyranny from power-drunk feds!...

---

- Jessica, - Chris, standing next to her, watched the departing car with a skeptical look. - Are you sure this will work? I was kinda joking...

- Chris, don't overestimate dumb feds, - she rolled her eyes, counting the money in her hand. - They're just people with the same problems. No one, especially with our legal system, wants to get involved in something like this...

- But...

- Chris, just trust your sis Jessica, - she smirked smugly. - They're not some "all-powerful" spies, just pumped-up cops. They'll just drop it. And you drop it... Just accept reality. Cops are dumb, that's all.

- Well... - Chris took a deep breath, not feeling as confident as Jessica looked. - Okay...

---

- Maria, did the data come in?

- Yes, sir, Mr. Fury, - the girl at the computer reported dutifully. - Ninety-nine percent match. It's our guy...

The dark-skinned man with an eye patch thoughtfully looked at the numerous images of the destruction in Harlem.

- Christopher Wallace...