Arriving at the address, I met with Luiza, a nice but clearly tired from the move woman of about forty. She gave me a quick tour of the practically already empty house. Walking through rooms where our steps echoed, I felt not emptiness, but potential. Here in the living room, there will be a sort of rest and planning zone. And this small room will ideally suit as an office. Но the main thing—the garage. Spacious, with a separate exit to the backyard. My future workshop.
Luiza explained that they as a whole family were practically already living in a new house in another state, and they only had to rent out this flat house to close all affairs. Initially they listed it for 3,500 dollars, but there were few calls—for a one-story house, even in a good neighborhood, it was a bit expensive. Therefore this morning they made a strategic decision—lower the price to 3,000. I turned out to be one of the first who called at the new price. Luck smiled on me.
It smiled even more when Luiza, assessing my neat appearance and calm manner of speech, seems to have seen an ideal tenant in me. She didn't need a problem tenant she'd have to watch from another city. She needed someone who would just pay on time and not arrange parties. My legend of an "introverted student" worked one hundred percent. Literally twenty minutes after my arrival on Bay Ridge we were already driving in her car to the notary to sign the contract.
The haste of Luiza's family played into my hands; she departed for her new home that very evening. And I devoted the whole following Tuesday and Wednesday to the move. It was exhausting. First—move out my few but important belongings from the flophouse in Hell's Kitchen. I had to terminate the contract with the previous landlord, who of course did not return my 500 dollars of deposit paid by old John. I took this loss philosophically—this is the price for saying goodbye to my past life.
Then the arrangement began. Carrying boxes, setting up equipment in the garage, buying various household trifles. Constant taxi trips quickly showed me the harsh truth: even my swollen pocket can be emptied if money is spent mindlessly on drivers. I realized it was time to acquire a car. Not only for convenience, but as an important strategic asset.
To my huge surprise, digging through memory I realized that I already had a driver's license. Thanks to John's foster mother, who actively used all social benefits, including free driving lessons for foster children. Another unexpected gift from the past.
Part of Wednesday, besides household chores I devoted to the car search. Analysis of offers on Craigslist, trips to different corners of Brooklyn, inspection of several rusted buckets of bolts. Finally I found what was needed—a 2007 Honda CR-V. Unobtrusive, reliable, spacious enough and, main thing, not attracting extra attention. The ideal "gray" car for my purposes. Only for 7,200 dollars. After a short bargain and inspection I paid on the spot in cash, received a receipt and a document of ownership, and on the same day registered the car under my name at the Brooklyn Department of Transportation, there also paying for insurance for 100 dollars a month.
And so, by the evening of Wednesday, I sat in my own garage, on my own folding chair, next to my own car. I closed the gates, cutting myself off from the outside world, and allowed myself to finally sum up. On hand I have the following cards: a reliable car, a pleasant quiet house with a year's rent, 180 OP on the balance (in rare free minutes I didn't sit idle, but crafted various trifles) and a thick bundle of cash for 25 thousand dollars—I after all sold all the gold ingots, systematically visiting different pawnshops throughout the city.
Life is good. I felt an intoxicating sense of control and safety, which I missed so much. Но for full liberation there remained a couple of steps to take. Tomorrow I'll drop out of the College of Arts. It's not a serious problem, but subconsciously I feel constrained by this formality. And also I should pay off the 2,000 dollars of loan. Close all old accounts to start from a clean slate.
I spent another hour on sorting the garage, organizing my equipment and laying out materials on shelves. This monotonic work was calming and brought satisfaction. With a sense of duty performed I finished 20 OP on small craft from above, bringing the balance to a round two hundred, and went to sleep. The plan for tomorrow was simple and clear. I drop out of college. I finish another 50 OP. And I unlock two recipes from the "Arcanum" set at once: "Muscle Stimulant" and "Protective Field Generator." With my means and resources, I'm sure I can manage the creation of something from these two options and each of them is good in its own way. If more money is needed, I'll assemble or buy a personal smelter for ores right here in the garage. Но that's all tomorrow...
Morning in the new house was different. Quiet. Calm. Sunlight, breaking through the blinds, didn't carry anxiety and the smell of dampness like in the old studio. It promised a productive day. The energy bubbling inside was no longer just youthful maximalism. I felt it almost physically—something warm and dense in my chest, demanding an outlet, thirsting to create. Are these hormones of a young body affecting me like that? Or the notorious systemic Spark of the Creator, about which I practically know nothing yet, is really expanding to eventually become the full-fledged Flame of the Heavenly Smith?
I listened to internal sensations. They were specific, but definitely positive. It was an itch in the fingertips, a desire to take tools and turn a heap of materials into something new. This internal fire could push me to various achievements, great and not so much. Deciding not to clutter my head with philosophical questions, I had breakfast and settled with the laptop, planning the next steps in the field of craft. Simultaneously I waited out the morning traffic jams of New York, and only when the traffic lightened up a bit, I got into my Honda and drove to the College.
Before me stood a simple, though tedious task: officially burn bridges. Submit an application for withdrawal, fill out a form for withdrawal from the loan program, listen to a mandatory consultation where they'll explain to me with a tired look what I've already Googled anyway. And then—settlement. A semester here cost 4,500 dollars, a year—9,000. More expensive than my car. John just finished a full year, so exactly this amount, plus charges of 300-500 dollars for these half a month, I was to return. Fortunately, the terms of the soft loan were mild: no interest, and payments could start after half a year over ten years. I, naturally, didn't intend to delay. I'll set up auto-pay and forget about this debt like a bad dream.
Arriving at the College I on jet thrust started going around the administration offices. All this bureaucratic red tape took about an hour. Every signature put on papers felt like a click of scissors, cutting off another thread connecting me to John's life. Finally, I was given official confirmation. I was no longer listed as a student of this College. True, I didn't stop being a credit slave, but those are details, hah.
Satisfied, I headed for the exit. In my head plans were already swarming: stop by the hardware store, buy everything in full and for the whole day go into a craft ecstasy. Но my plans were not destined to come true so easily. Right towards me, along the sun-drenched corridor, she walked. A familiar shock of red hair in the crowd of students was like a bright flash—Mary Jane Watson herself.
Next to her walked a guy who was her complete opposite (and I'm not just talking about gender, hah). Thin, slightly slouching, he was made of sharp angles and nervous energy, and behind the glasses in a round frame a look was hidden, accustomed to book pages, not to people's faces. A green sweater, worn jeans... No offense to the guy, but he was an archetypal representative of the nerd faction, just a standard specimen.
And all would be well. I wasn't going to change the route or start a conversation. The girl noticed me and gave an welcoming nod with a light smile. I nodded back, trying to keep an impenetrable expression. We passed each other. I already took a couple of steps, immersed in my thoughts about upcoming craft, when an snatch of their conversation reached my ears. One word. More precisely one name, spoken by her, made me freeze on the spot.
"—...There's really nothing complicated, Peter, with your brains you'll fix this spotlight in no time—"
What she said next, I missed. My hearing caught on one single word, and the entire rest of the world simply ceased to exist.
The name. Peter.
My brain, at that moment urgently starting to work in accelerated mode, instantly sifted through gigabytes of meta-knowledge. Peter. In the company of Mary Jane... Thin. Nerd. Glasses... The puzzle came together with a deafening, silent flash.
Peter Parker.
I looked at the back of this slouching guy and tried to correlate his image with the legend. There was no confidence, no hidden strength, not even a hint of the witty hero he was to become. Only awkward youth. That's what the lack of a radioactive spider bite does to people...
The question is different. What should I undertake? And is it worth undertaking anything at all? Reasons for intervention? At least two, and both are weighty.
First—Peter Parker is a goddamn Genius. One of the smartest people of this world. I don't know how brilliant this specific version of him is, but it can be easily understood from the conversation.
Second—his tragic future. His alter-ego the Lizard, which is almost inevitable in those variations of the universe where Gwen-Spider exists. I'm not a hero, but... Is it possible to prevent the appearance of one of the fairly dangerous monsters of New York while still at the origin stage?
Wait, stop. No haste. Let's think it over once more. Coldly and in order.
Asset: Genius. What importance does it have specifically for me? I'm not a genius, not even close. I'm a practitioner with access to potentially incredible technologies. Но I don't always understand the fundamental principles lying at their core. Parker is a bridge. He's not just a resource. He's a force multiplier. A living supercomputer, capable of taking my blueprints from the Forge—artifacts from other realities, violating the laws of physics—and finding a way to make them work here, in my garage, with the help of a soldering iron and parts from a radio market. He'll be able to explain the biochemistry of the Muscle Stimulant to me, optimize the mechanism for the Protective Field Generator, help with programming. This isn't just accelerating OP farm. This is a quantum leap in the quality and speed of my development. Peter Parker is one of the few universal geniuses, and ignoring such an asset when he is literally at arm's length would be a criminal stupidity.
Passive: Lizard. And on the other side of the scale—his monstrous alter-ego. I, to be honest, little care about moral dilemmas and the path of Gwen's development as a hero. I care about risk analysis. Is this tragedy as important for Gwen as, say, her father's death? Judging by how Peter now follows Mary Jane as a shadow, preparing to fulfill her request, they unlikely have a close relationship with Gwen now. Most likely, his act will be dictated by envy towards the superheroine (if he already knows about her alter-ego) and a desire to prove something to the world. A classic. A weakness on which one can and should play. To prevent his transformation means to eliminate a future threat and, possibly, gain his loyalty.
No. I can think about this later too. They are leaving. The window of opportunity is closing every second. The first step in any strategy is data collection. I need to talk to him. Assess him. Understand who is before me—a future Nobel laureate, a future monster or just an oppressed yesterday's teenager.
Yes, that's the simplest and most obvious option. From the results of this conversation I'll dance.
They almost already disappeared around the corner of the corridor. The chance was leaving. I had to act immediately.
"Hey, MJ, wait!" I called out, trying to make the voice sound maximally unconstrained.
They stopped. Mary Jane turned, and on her face a surprise flashed, replaced by friendliness. "I here caught an snippet about some spotlight... What kind of catastrophe happened?" I approached closer, intentionally using the word "catastrophe" to play on her light theatricality.
It worked. The girl threw her hands up, and in her voice tragic notes appeared.
"Oh, it's just a horror! On one of the rehearsal stages the main spotlight broke! And the official electrician needs to leave an application, wait three days... you know this bureaucracy! And we with the girls have a performance in a small theater already tomorrow, we vitally need to conduct the final rehearsal today!" she paused and with pride nodded towards her companion. "Fortunately, having agreed with the department, I was able to attract an independent expert from outside!"
I moved the gaze to Peter, who under this title shrank even more and looked as if he wants to merge with the wall.
"Expert, then?" I allowed myself a light smirk, extending a hand to Parker. "And he'll surely handle it? By him it's felt that he's more of a theorist, than a practitioner."
"More than handle it!" Mary Jane immediately stepped in for him, while Peter awkwardly shook my hand. "Peter is the smartest of all I know!"
"And this smartest of people can...—" I made it seem like I'm feverishly sifting through options in the head, although in fact I chose the test beforehand, "Assemble a Marx generator, for example?"
Mary Jane questioningly looked at the guy, obviously, not having a slightest idea what I'm talking about. But Peter changed. Until this moment he looked like Mary Jane's shadow, lost and awkward. But at the words "Marx generator" something clicked. He straightened up, the gaze behind the glasses focused on me, and in it a spark of live, professional interest flashed.
"In middle school I dabbled," his voice, until then quiet, acquired slightly more confident notes. "True, getting identical high-voltage capacitors is quite a task... I had to assemble them myself from foil and plastic bottles."
"Hmm, respected," I nodded, portraying a light surprise, although inside I exulted. Test passed. "And where do you actually work, if not a secret? Or study?"
"I study at New York University. Faculty of Biochemistry, Department of Genetic Engineering," he awkwardly scratched his carelessly ruffled head. "Simultaneously I work part-time."
Bingo. Such coincidences don't happen. Но I needed a final shot.
"It's not where by chance Doctor Curt Connors works?"
Now Parker's eyes truly surprisedly widened.
"There. I even assist him a little. For now part-time, but... it's a sin to complain. Getting, albeit limited, access to a laboratory of such level and to truly priceless knowledge is an incredible luck."
Jackpot.
"Boys, maybe, enough whispering about your science?" Mary Jane interrupted our nascent dialogue, picturesquely putting hands on hips. "We, as it were, the spotlight won't fix itself."
"Yes, perhaps, it's time for us," Peter guiltily agreed.
I realized that the chance should not be missed. "Can you give your number, please?" I addressed directly to him. "Having in contacts the smartest person according to Mary Jane Watson is anyway better than not having."
A light blush touched Peter's cheeks, but he nodded.
"Em, yes, no problem, write it down."
Having written down the number, I said goodbye and left the College in even more elevated mood, than after dropping out. I not just got rid of unnecessary obligations, I acquired a key asset.
Sitting in my Honda, I turned onto the avenue, feeling like the master of the situation. The world was full of opportunities. Но the euphoria didn't last long. Due to lack of driving experience in this body, on this car and considering the specifics of American traffic laws, I like yesterday, was extremely concentrated on the road. And exactly this concentration allowed me to notice something unpleasant.
In the rearview mirror for several blocks already a black SUV loomed. Toyota Land Cruiser, tinted to zero. I turned right, onto a less busy street. A second's delay—and the "Cruiser" followed me. A cold trickle of sweat ran down the back. Another turn. It's still there. This was no longer a coincidence.
"Fuck," I hissed through teeth, clutched the steering wheel. "I hope it's just paranoia, and the route of this coffin on wheels, to every, even random turn, just coincides with mine—"