Flexmaster, Flex - Corrupted

This is a corrupted dream, tainted by a denizen of Leng. For the truth, see Flexmaster, Flex - Pure.
As the haze fades from your vision, you find yourself panning over a man's shoulder. He's sprinting down an ill-kept street, looking back every now and then to reveal a terrified expression, lit only by the flickering lights of the Spike, the slums of Absalom Station. The man turns suddenly, darting down a service corridor, and the tip of a white lab coat peaks out of a black jacket. There's a jumping cut, and you see in front of the man. He's holding a clear plastic pod, full of some kind of viscous fluid - with a baby Chad inside. The man looks down to check on the Barathu, and thus misses the debris at his feet, and trips. The plastic case shatters under his weight. The baby is squashed. Fluid oozes out of the man's fists as he screams, looks back the way he came, and sprints away - leaving his mess behind. For a moment, the camera hovers on that tiny form, its weak lungs still heaving, gleaming sickly in the streetlights. And then a thin, long shadow covers the babe. An old woman's voice can be heard in the background.
???: "Now, now, little one. I've got you."
We fade, moving forward in time. The camera rotates around a small apartment in the Spike, where an ancient Halfling woman is sewing a banner. On it, in big sports font, reads: Flexmaster. There's a knock at the door, and the woman waddles over to answer. It's a Barathu, a big one, covered in spines and glowing with a faint energy. A Confluence Agent. It pushes itself inside, much to the grandmother's protest.
???: "I've told you once and a thousand times, the boy will not go with you."
Agent: "Things have changed, Phillis. We’re not asking anymore."
The grandmother scowls, an expression that devolves into something murderous.
Phillis: "I've saved up everything for that boy. When I'm gone, he'll be richer than any House. He doesn't want you, and he won't need you."
Agent: "As we said. Things have changed. We need him."
Phillis pauses under the Barathu's gaze, only for a moment, and then pulls a laser pistol from under her apron, and unloads a full clip into the Barathu's center mass. It wheezes once, and then flattens to the ground. Looking at the clock, she sighs. In a sped-up version of the dream, you see Phillis cutting the body to pieces, and then running it down the garbage disposal, piece by piece. As the sun begins to set, a younger Chad comes through the door.
Chad: “Graham Cracker! What’s for dinner?”
The elderly woman quickly washes out the last of the sink, turns to her boy, and smiles.
Phillis: “Whatever you want, Marshmallow. You just tell me, and I’ll make it.”
You see a flash of memories, many of which you already know. Chad the gamer, Flexmaster, posted on every holoboard in the Eye. Sponsorship deals, commercials - fame. Everything Phillis had ever wanted for him. But notably, Chad is alone. There is no one at his side, and at times, the Barathu looks pained. Then disaster. A career ruined. His gaming license revoked. With no money to his name, and hunger in his belly, Chad turns to crime.
A distortion warps the lense, and red and blue flashes cover everything. Police officers yell commands at Chad, not much younger than he is now, standing over the body of a middle-aged man in his night robe. And then the dream shatters.