"W-what... is happening?" Gwen's voice was hoarse and cracked. "Where am I? Who are you?"
She jerked, trying to sit up, and immediately doubled over from the pain shooting through her side, letting out a strangled hiss.
"Clear," a thought flashed through my mind while I observed her struggles from the side. "Instincts are working, memory too. She has decided to play the card of slight amnesia to buy time and gather information. Well, I approve. Smart move."
"Easy, easy," my voice sounded even, calming. I took a slow step forward, keeping my hands visible. "Everything is fine. You are safe. My name is John Thompson. And this is my friend, Peter Parker."
I nodded toward Pete, who stood a bit further away, peering at her with concern. He nervously clutched a marker in his hands, looking more like a frightened student than the actual savior of a superheroine.
"He is a lab assistant here," I added. "We pulled out the bullet and bandaged the wound. Your mask is in place, we did not touch it."
I deliberately said the last phrase, observing her reaction. And it followed. The lines of her shoulders, tensed to the limit, barely noticeably lowered. Under the mask, I was certain, she exhaled with relief. Control over the situation was gradually returning to her.
"T-thank you..." she squeezed out, still breathing heavily.
"Do not mention it," I smiled softly, but I was not going to retreat after short thanks. Time to tighten the screws. "And now, maybe you will satisfy our curiosity? How did you get here? Among all the windows of New York you chose exactly this one. There must be a good reason."
Peter threw me a disapproving glance. As if to say, let her come to her senses. But I ignored him. The secret of her identity was only the tip of the iceberg. I needed to understand the whole picture.
"My sense led me," she answered with a standard, rehearsed phrase. In her voice, however, slipped a note of sincerity, addressed clearly not to me. Her gaze through the white mask lenses was directed at Peter. "And it was not wrong. Thank you... both of you."
"She flew exactly to him," I understood. "This means some level of trust in him already exists, but the unasked question..."
"Well, technically, when you tumbled in here, breaking the glass and passing out on the fly, only Peter was here," I decided to clarify, resolving her internal dilemma about trust. "I was just returning from the restroom. So for your rescue, thank him first of all."
Peter coughed in embarrassment.
"But this raises another question," I continued, lowering my voice slightly. "Who worked you over like this? Your sense should save you from such banal things as bullets, should it not?"
"Not your business!" she snapped, and steel rang in her voice.
I even understood her. In her eyes we were two civilians accidentally drawn into her war. A war in which today she suffered crushing defeat, after losing her father before this. Of course, it is not our business. Only the nuance is that when people in tights fly around the city and then fall into institute laboratories to be healed, it becomes everyone's business. Especially mine.
"Perhaps," I agreed easily, taking another step and sitting on the edge of the neighboring table. "But let us look at this from another side. Consider this... repayment of debt. We saved your life, while preserving your little secret. You, in turn, satisfy our scientific, let us say, curiosity. Agree, it is not every day you see how a super-agile city vigilante is shot down like a duck in hunting."
She was silent, breathing heavily. The white mask lenses seemed to drill through me. I saw how under the thin costume fabric her fist clenched. She was weighing options. Leave now, weak and wounded, or trust and at least somehow settle accounts. Finally, she sighed long and tiredly.
"His name was Shocker."
And before she could add anything else, I decided to play ahead.
"Let me guess," I thoughtfully rubbed my chin. "Absurd quilted costume of yellow-brown color? Vibro-gloves, from the strike of which bones resonate like a tuning fork? And, possibly, a light German accent?"
The room froze. The silence was broken only by the hum of equipment.
"H-how?..."
Herman Schultz. One of Kingpin's main enforcers. The chain in my head built up instantly: Captain Stacy's death, the daughter crazed from grief going out of control, and Fisk unleashing the elite dog to rein in the presumptuous heroine. Accustomed to street scum, she was completely unprepared for a professional. Now the main question: did I just reveal my cards for nothing? No. I need leverage. I need potentially built connections with her.
"You were lucky to run into Kingpin's mercenary..." I muttered thoughtfully, tracking her reaction.
"So this bastard really works for Kingpin!" she exhaled with fury. The hatred in her voice was almost tangible. She struck with force with her fist on the laboratory table next to her and immediately grimaced from pain, clutching her wounded side. "But how do you know this too?!"
"Yes, John, how?" Now Peter was also looking at me. His usual friendliness was replaced by suspicious squint.
I stood up, paced around the laboratory.
"Well, let us reason logically," I began speaking as generally as possible, remembering that her sense in theory could catch lies. "Who in this city has enough money, influence and, most importantly, audacity to hire a meta-human to eliminate another meta? Besides..." I fell silent for a moment, choosing words, and looked first at her, then at Peter. "Sooner or later everyone has to come out of the shadows. And to survive, it is vitally necessary to know the key players on this board. Sorry, heroine, but I cannot say more. We are not that close."
I shifted my gaze to Peter.
"And you, Pete, I hope you understood what I am talking about."
Peter nodded uncertainly but still. He was always perceptive and immediately caught that all our work of recent days... It was clearly not for nothing.
"And now let us return to our mutual acquaintance in yellow-brown tights," I looked at her again. The pressure worked. She was cornered by my knowledge. "What can you tell about him? What are his abilities, besides the obvious? Why did he use an ordinary pistol and not his gloves? And how did you manage to encounter one of Kingpin's elite mercenaries at all?"
She was silent, gathering her thoughts. Her breathing was still intermittent, but in her voice, when she spoke, appeared hard, angry concentration.
"He is strong. Very. Not just a muscle-head, but something beyond. And fast," she paused, as if reliving the fight anew. "But that is not the point. His gloves... they are not just weapons. He creates shock waves. Concentrated, like a hammer, or spreading in circles that knock down everything within radius of several meters. He can use them to throw himself into the air, like on a trampoline. But the worst thing..."
She touched her temple through the mask.
"This hum... vibrations... they drive my sense crazy. It does not fall silent but screams. From everywhere. A thousand danger signals at once, and I cannot understand where the real threat is. He simply stunned my main trump card. And then one of his minions... just shot at me and hit. I did not even feel him."
While she was speaking, a picture was forming in my head. This version of Shocker was head and shoulders above the caricature comic book robber. This was a soldier equipped with the latest technology, designed for hunting those like her. And such soldiers serve generals. And the general in this city could be only one, and Gwen was unlucky to run into him...
Wilson Fisk.
The name flashed through consciousness like a leviathan's shadow. Founder and owner of "Fisk Capital," a hedge fund with capitalization of 58 billion dollars. Speaker of city council, aiming for the mayor's chair, and maybe higher. Philanthropist in public, predator in shadow. This was not just a criminal boss. This was an entire ecosystem. A damn megalodon around which circled its remora sharks. And Shocker, judging by everything, was one of the most toothy. But far from the only one. Throwing Gwen at Fisk now would be like pushing a kitten into a tiger enclosure. She would not even understand what devoured her. No. Wilson Fisk's name was taboo. For her. For everyone.
"Yeah..." I drawled, genuinely impressed. "You encountered a serious opponent. No wonder that you..."
"I did not lose!" she furiously interrupted, flashing the white mask lenses. "I just... underestimated him. This will not happen again."
Heavy silence hung in the laboratory. Peter anxiously shifted his gaze from me to her. Gwen was trying to suppress the trembling of rage and pain. And I... I was solving an equation.
To recruit or not to recruit?
On one hand, such an ally was a jackpot. Strength, speed, unique abilities. But on the other... she was an unstable asset. Fresh wound from father's loss made her predictable in her unpredictability. She was driven by revenge, and that was a bad advisor. Peter was a scalpel. A genius capable of solving the unsolvable, a unique and precise tool. Gwen right now was a sledgehammer. Powerful, destructive, but capable at any moment of breaking free from hands and smashing everything around, including us.
To tell her directly: "Join us" would mean to spook her and make myself look like an idiot. Too fast, too suspicious, too untimely. No. I needed soft recruitment. Slow, step-by-step. Become a useful resource for her. Weaponsmith. Informant. Show that Peter and I can give her what she does not have, support and information. And when dependence on resource forms, the conversation will go completely differently.
"Herman Schultz," my voice tore the silence.
She flinched, her head jerked sharply in my direction.
"What?"
"The person you are looking for. Most likely, his name is Herman Schultz. German accent, knowledge in engineering, criminal past... everything in theory should converge."
"Shocker?..." she instantly caught the essence.
I nodded.
"Listen to me carefully," I leaned forward, trying to make my voice sound as convincing as possible. "If this information is confirmed, you will find him. I am sure you have your channels. But I am asking you, begging you, do not go further. The creature that keeps him on a leash will swallow you and not choke. First, contact me. Promise."
She looked at me with long, studying gaze. In it mixed gratitude, surprise and persisting suspicion.
"I... I understood. Thank you!" she finally nodded and began carefully sliding off the table. "This information... you also learned it by studying 'key players'?"
The gaze from under the mask was trying to drill a hole in me, pull out all secrets.
"We are not prying into your secrets," my tone became cold and firm. "We are not asking who you are under this mask. So be so kind as to show reciprocal tact."
I held a pause and added, softening slightly:
"Or be ready for reciprocal favors. Because today I already did much more for you than I was obliged to."
"Yes, sorry... and... thank you. For everything," there was not a trace of aggression left in her voice. Only fatigue and sincere gratitude. "How... how to contact you?"
I dictated my phone number to her. She nodded, memorizing. Without saying another word, Gwen approached another window, easily opened it and, throwing a last glance at us, slipped like a shadow into the night darkness of New York.
For some time Peter and I were silent. I looked at the empty window, and he looked at me. I felt his gaze on my back. Heavy, full of questions.
Well then. Now it begins...
"John," his voice was quiet, but in it was felt steel that I had not noticed before. "How do you know all this? And do not tell me again about 'key players.' You named his name. You described his equipment as if you yourself fought with him. What is happening?"
I slowly turned, meeting his direct, demanding answers gaze.
"I already explained, Pete. Knowing everything about the figures on New York's chessboard is the only correct survival strategy. Not react to threats but anticipate them. Do you think what we created 'Proteus' for? To show off in it at Halloween?"
"You... you want to be a hero? Like her?" in his voice sounded incomprehension mixed with alarm.
I did not restrain a short, dry laugh.
"A hero? No. I just want to be alive. And I want you to be alive. Understand, I will not pass by an alley where three thugs cornered a poor soul if I have strength and opportunity to intervene. But turn this into life's goal? Dedicate myself to extinguishing local fires when the world is engulfed in flames? This is... inefficient. You and I have opportunity to help humanity on global, fundamental scale."
"What do you mean?"
"Is it not obvious?" I spread my hands, sweeping my gaze over our laboratory, our sanctuary. "With the intellect we can give ourselves, any problem is within our reach! Why save one person from a burning building if you can invent material that does not burn in principle? Why chase after street dealers if you can create cure for cancer and save millions? By the way, about this... What about our NZT-48? Is the first batch ready?"
Peter froze for a moment, thrown off by the sharp change of topic. Then, as if on autopilot, nodded.
"Yes..."
He approached the synthesizer, opened the calibration chamber and extracted from there a small titanium plate with perfectly even rows of tiny, unremarkable white tablets. He carefully took out several pieces and held them out to me on his palm.
"The calculations show that the formula is stable. No side effects, in theory... But, John... Are you sure? We do not fully understand the long-term consequences..."
"Absolutely," I answered without the slightest hesitation, taking one tablet and, without thinking, tossing it in my mouth, washing it down with the remains of cooled coffee.
"As you wish..." Peter muttered, and in his voice was heard a mixture of admiration and fear. "But about solving global problems... You yourself said this will attract unwanted attention. If you invent cure for cancer, all 'Big Pharma' will declare hunt on you. Create new energy source and oil magnates, or even entire countries, will want to eliminate you. Do you want not only bandits but also CIA hunting us?"
"These are problems for us from the future," I answered calmly, already feeling how familiar fire ignited inside. "And we will act smarter. Carefully. Gradually."
The tablet began to work. The world around me seemed to acquire 4K resolution. I saw every speck of dust dancing in the light beam, heard the buzz of the throttle in the old monitor, felt how pressure in the room changed from our movements. Thoughts not just raced, they lined up into ideal, multidimensional structures. The effect was similar to the potion, but about ten percent weaker. And most importantly, no risks. No rollbacks. Thanks to the master gourmand, my body perceived the stimulant as native. This was... ideal. Especially considering that now there was no dependence on Orchids!
I approached the large marker board occupying almost the entire wall. I took a black marker.
"So..."
My hand flew.
"PROTEUS" VERSION II - TASKS:
POWER SUPPLY FOR ELECTRONICS: Current power sources are no good. Need miniature, self-sufficient reactor.
CAMOUFLAGE: Audio-visual camouflage. Hiding thermal and electronic signature. (Active metamaterials technology? Illusion projectors?).
PROTECTION (MENTAL): Psykers are a real threat. Need "screen" for mind. (Electromagnetic field? Psi-blockers based on... what?).
PROTECTION (PHYSICAL): Suit does not make operator stronger. Need enhancement. (Mini-servos? Neurointerface removing muscle limiters? Injectors,).
FARM OP: This I noted only in mind.
The list grew. I was filling the board with formulas, diagrams, sketches. I saw solution paths for each problem, saw how one technology latched onto another, creating a cascade of possibilities. Part of this I could create myself, using "Technological Modernization." But the most complex, breakthrough things... here Peter was needed. His genius under NZT, multiplied by mine.
It was a pity that the next two weeks he would be busy during the day in this laboratory. On the other hand, this freed my hands for more... down-to-earth matters. I needed to farm OP. A lot. Perhaps from the system would drop something that would solve the problem of physical weakness. Creating "Extremis" in garage conditions, even with Peter, was still unrealistic. I needed a full-fledged research institute.
I put an exclamation mark after the last point, threw down the marker and turned to stunned Peter. In my eyes, I knew, now burned cold fire of pure intellect.
"Well, to work!"
The air in the cheap motel room was stale and heavy, smelling of ingrained tobacco smoke, chlorine and cheap hopelessness. Outside the window the motel's neon sign insistently blinked red, flooding the miserable room furnishings with alarming, pulsating flashes.
On the edge of the rumpled bed sat a somewhat plump man of about thirty-five. His neat bowl haircut and practical green coveralls looked alien here, like an orchid at a dump. On his face were expensive sunglasses hiding eyes but unable to conceal the tense fold at his mouth.
Any casual observer would consider him just an eccentric guest. Exactly until the gaze fell on his back.
From there, writhing in rhythm with his heavy breathing, emerged four metal tentacles. Flexible, powerful, with predatory three-fingered claws at the ends, they lived their own life. One lazily tapped on the dirty carpet, as if beating out an impatient rhythm. Another, the topmost, smoothly curved and adjusted the glasses sliding down his nose with delicacy unavailable to human fingers. They inspired primordial awe.
Doctor Otto Octavius, the genius whose name until recently was pronounced with bated breath in scientific circles, on this cursed evening of September 22 died. In his place remained... just Octopus.
After the gamma reactor explosion, the blinding green flash and devastation in the laboratory, he shamefully fled. Abandoned everything. Investors. The few colleagues who, despite his difficult character, respected his mind. He fled from the ruins of his project, from his past, from... himself. From panicked fear of failure, from unwillingness to acknowledge mistakes, from his inflated but so fragile ego that cracked along with the reactor's protective glass.
The first hours he just wandered through the city under a wide coat hiding his new appearance. And then, in one of the dirty alleys, came realization. Enlightenment like a lightning strike.
He was free.
Yes, he no longer had laboratory, reputation or money. But simultaneously with this he had everything. He had them. His manipulators. His greatest creation that became his flesh, extension of his nervous system. With their help he could take everything he desired. But what did he desire? Change the world for better? Too small, too... banal. No. He wanted to create. To build. Without limitations, without ethics committees, without pitiful, interfering morality.
He needed a new sandbox. A new laboratory.
A day of wandering, overheard conversations and several very short but extremely convincing interrogations in dark alleys led him to one name that was pronounced with fear and awe. Kingpin. The shadow king of New York.
And now Otto sat before an old laptop, looking at the black video call screen. The interlocutor's face was not visible. Only a deep voice processed by modulator seemed to emanate from the speakers themselves, filling the entire room.
"And what can you offer me, 'Doctor'?" the voice oozed authoritative calm. "Why should I allocate to you laboratory, resources and people?"
Yes, he was ready to make a deal with the devil. All for pure, unlimited scientific pursuit.
"Because I am the future," Otto's voice was firm, devoid of doubt. "I can give you what your staff pseudo-geniuses cannot create even in hundred years. I can multiply your power many times."
He leaned back slightly, allowing the laptop camera to capture him completely. The tentacles behind his back came into motion, gracefully and threateningly spreading out like a cobra's hood.
"You see only prototype," Otto continued, and one of the tentacles picked up a coin from the floor and began tossing it between claws with incredible speed. "But I can do more. Your street soldiers are cannon fodder. I will give them light combat exoskeletons that will allow one person to punch through a brick wall. Your communication channels are vulnerable. I will create for you quantum-entangled network, instant, absolutely protected and untraceable. Your burglars pick safes with drills? How cute. I will give them devices generating harmonic resonance that will turn any steel into dust and electronics into useless junk."
The tentacle squeezed the coin, turning it into shapeless lump of metal.
"And now imagine squad of combat drones created in my image and likeness. Silent, lethal, controlled by one operator. Loyal. Efficient. This is only one of many creations I can create for you. In exchange for mere trifle, a place to work."
Otto was confident in himself. Such an asset, such a genius, Kingpin could not refuse. And he was not wrong. In the speakers for several seconds hung silence, and then the voice pronounced:
"Sounds... interesting. They will send address. I wait."
The call ended.
Otto Octavius closed the laptop. For some time he sat motionless, staring into darkness. Then his lips touched a slow, victorious smile. He clenched his fist. The tentacles behind his back tensed in unison, scraping on the floor.
The old world rejected him. Well then. He would build a new one on its bones. And his genius would finally soar above this insignificant city.
The soft click of the closing laptop lid was the only sound that disturbed the oppressive silence of the penthouse.
Rising from his massive throne-like chair, Wilson Fisk moved to the panoramic window. His movements were smooth and calibrated, the unhurried, predatory grace of a huge beast confident in its strength. In the glass reflected his colossal figure clothed in impeccable custom-tailored suit, a dark monolith against the scattering of city lights.
Below, at his feet, lay New York. Not a city, his kingdom. A carpet of captured stars and dark arteries of streets. Looking at this living, breathing creation, Fisk could not restrain a shadow of smile. Who would have thought. The bullied orphan street urchin whom peers teased as fat slob, now gazed upon the world from height inaccessible even to their boldest dreams.
He liked these moments. Moments of absolute control and silence, when it was possible to mentally return to the dirt and humiliation of the past. Not from masochism, no. Each memory, each scar was a brick in the foundation of his empire. What did not kill him became his weapon. He was grateful to his past for who he became, and therefore with fierce, possessive love valued the present.
And he did not tolerate anyone who dared encroach on his property.
A discreet ringtone of work phone cut the silence, tearing him from philosophical reflections. On the display appeared the name of one of his few trusted assistants, one of those on whom he delegated routine, leaving himself only strategy.
"Speak, Jeffrey."
"Mr. Fisk," the voice in the phone was even, businesslike, but Fisk caught in it notes of tension. "A problem arose with the neutralization operation. Spider-Woman managed to get away from Shocker. We lost her."
Fisk slightly frowned. Spider-Woman. Small irritating nuisance, upstart in black-and-white tights, to whom until now he did not pay attention. But recently she crossed the line. Incomprehensible, sudden vigor. Fisk despised heroes. All these smug bastards in masks, eternally sticking their nose into affairs that do not concern them. He methodically and ruthlessly exterminated them from his city, and until now he had no misfires. There would not be with this suicide either.
"Search," Fisk's voice was quiet, but from this only more weighty. "She will make mistake somewhere. Establish her identity. I need her name. I need names of her relatives, friends, everyone who is dear to her. And then show her and the entire city what happens to those who stand in my way. I want her example to also enter history textbooks."
"Accepted. One more question. Frank Castle. He again refused your offer."
Here Fisk frowned harder. Frank Castle. Former marine, best specialist in tactics and weapons he had ever seen. Incredibly valuable asset. Fisk offered him the post of head of his security service. Generous salary, unlimited resources, power. But this stubborn fool preferred to rot in his gun shop in Queens, playing righteous man.
His existence was a living reminder that he, Wilson Fisk, was not omnipotent. That there were things he could not buy or intimidate. That there were people he was not capable of controlling. This was unpleasant. And when Fisk became unpleasant, he made it so that others became very unpleasant.
He was silent for several seconds, looking at his reflection in the dark glass.
"Eliminate," he finally pronounced, and the word sounded like a sentence. "But first... break. Psychologically. Physically. I want him to understand before death that his refusal was a mistake."
He paused, remembering the non-triviality of the task and recent failure.
"And send Shocker with the guys. Let him work off his failure."
"Accepted, Mr. Fisk. I am assembling team," Jeffrey answered, after which the call ended.
Silence returned to the penthouse. Yes, this night blood would spill. And he did not care that it was blood of people who could be called innocent. But Fisk did not care. In this world there is only one law: the strong devour the weak. And Kings... Kings have no right to seem weak. Never.