"All very well, Prometheus. But your investors are still furious about the negative publicity from that wrestling match," came from Porter C. Powell's broadcast on the screen Prometheus had in his lab.

Promethus only took a quick moment to think before promptly replying.

"I will make them forget all about "Collosus" Rhodes. I just need time, money, and a new human test subject."

That reply just got a scoff from Porter C. Powell and a response that shut him down.

"Not a chance. Even the prisons won't give you test subjects anymore. We're cutting our losses and your funding."

"-You can't do that!" Prometheus quickly interrupted.

"I'm sorry, Prometheus," And those were the last words before Porter C. Powell's broadcast promptly shut off.

Prometheus was basically seething. How could he do this to him? It was ridiculous.

"Fool!"

He had slammed his hand against a row of beakers which just so happened to hold a corrosive that he had made. Bad idea, Prometheus, bad idea. After around minute or two, the lab's alarm for a chemical spill went blaring. The corrosive had, to say the least, already done something to Prometheus.