Where does creating a material ten years ahead of progress begin? Not with loud declarations, but with quiet, focused work in an equipment-humming garage. We were starting the preparatory phase, creating the "heart" of Proteus, the non-Newtonian fluid.
On a perfectly clean steel table stood two main components: a container with snow-white, almost weightless silicon dioxide nanopowder that seemed it could fly away from one breath, and a canister with polyethylene glycol, viscous and transparent as syrup. All calculations were in my head, and Peter's, on the tablet he held like a conductor holds a score.
"Starting with a test batch," he commanded, and impatient excitement sounded in his voice. "Concentration, forty-five percent nanoparticles by volume. This is the golden mean I derived. More, and we'll get viscous mush. Less, and the fabric won't hold impact. Ready?"
Who was I to not trust his genius? I nodded silently. I consciously took on the entire practical process. I had to create the first version of "Proteus" with my own hands, from start to finish, to absorb every grain of experience and maximize OP. Subsequent batches we'd already put into production.
I carefully measured the needed amount of PEG into a large borosilicate glass container under the homogenizer. Then, under Peter's vigilant control, jeweler's work began. With precision worthy of "Master Watchmaker," I began slowly, gram by gram, introducing nanopowder into the liquid. The mixer purred quietly at low speed, creating a lazy whirlpool.
The work was meditative and required absolute concentration. After five and a half minutes, the last portion of powder dissolved in the viscous liquid.
"And now," Peter said, leaning forward, "the real magic of science begins!"
Following his instructions, I smoothly increased the homogenizer's speed. The low hum grew into a piercing, almost ultrasonic howl, vibrating through boot soles. The mixer attachment became a blurred spot, creating cavitation bubbles. As Peter later explained, they, collapsing with microscopic fury, broke up any nanoparticle clumps, creating the perfect suspension. He observed the process, pressing against the container wall and lighting it with a flashlight, as if peering into the very heart of emerging technology.
"Look!" he shouted right in my ear, overcoming the noise. "The suspension's becoming homogeneous, opalescent! See this milky shimmer? No sediment! Perfect!"
After an hour of exhausting howling, before us stood several liters of milky-white, slightly shimmering liquid. In appearance, thick jelly. But in reality, in this modest substance was enclosed the entire essence of our venture. Time to move on to the fabric's "baptism."
I took in hand a roll of aramid 3D mesh. To the touch the material was resilient, light and porous, high-tech sponge, no less. Cutting it into several large pieces, I carefully rolled the fabric and placed it in the vacuum chamber. Nearby I installed the container with our liquid. The door closed with a dull, hermetic click and I turned on the pump.
A measured hum sounded, and the manometer needle slowly crept down.
"Pumping out all air, to the last atom," Peter commented, not taking his eyes off the instrument. "Every microscopic cavity in the fabric must become a vacuum trap. One single air bubble, and in this place a weak spot forms, a potential breach in protection."
When deep vacuum was achieved in the chamber, I pressed another button. A simple mechanical manipulator smoothly tipped the container. The liquid, meeting no air resistance, rushed onto the fabric in a silent, greedy stream. The vacuum forced the suspension to instantly absorb, filling every pore, every cell of the three-dimensional structure. The fabric remained in this bath for about another hour. Then I slowly equalized the pressure and extracted the impregnated material. The light and airy "sponge" turned into something heavy, glossy, as if dipped in liquid rubber.
The final stage for the fabric itself, heat treatment and lamination. We sent the impregnated material to an industrial oven that occupied a good sixth of the garage. I set the exact temperature and started the polymerization process. As Peter explained, this should permanently "bind" the nanoparticles to the aramid fibers, making the fabric stable.
While the first batch "baked," we, already working as a coordinated team, prepared several more batches of non-Newtonian impregnation. After several hours, after cooling, I extracted the finished material from the oven. Overlaying the thinnest sheet of PTFE membrane on top, I sent this "sandwich" to the thermal press. Hot plates compressed the layers with a hiss, and polyurethane glue under pressure permanently fused the membrane to the base.
At the output we obtained finished "Proteus" material. To the touch it was pliable, like dense sports fabric, but with unusual internal "resilience." The outer layer, matte, slightly rough, waterproof. I placed a scrap on the workbench and lightly pressed with a finger, the fabric bent. Then I sharply poked it with a screwdriver tip. A dry click sounded, as if I'd struck ceramic. My hand felt hard recoil, and the surface bore not a scratch.
Fabric outpacing most analogs had just been created in a Brooklyn garage. And the System didn't keep me waiting.
[Created unique fabric material "Proteus" (Unusual). Technology previously non-existent in the world, unlocked. Received +500 OP!]
Proteus (Unusual): High-tech composite material consisting of aramid 3D matrix impregnated with non-Newtonian fluid based on silicon dioxide nanoparticles. In normal state flexible and elastic (1.5 kg/m²). Upon sharp kinetic impact (strike, shot, cut) instantly transitions to solid-phase state, distributing energy across entire area. Flexible as silk, hard as steel. Fabric that thinks and reacts.
The 500 OP bonus was pleasant, but precisely the formulation "technology previously non-existent in the world" hooked me. A question instantly flashed through my head, tinged with slight offense: "What's wrong with the Absolute Predator Serum?!" This was also a unique development, born of Peter's genius and embodied by my hands. Why didn't the System issue such a generous bonus for it?
I froze, looking at the flickering notification, and my mind feverishly began sorting through options. First, and most probable hypothesis: the serum isn't so unique. Somewhere in secret S.H.I.E.L.D., Hydra or Red Room laboratories, analogs already exist. Maybe with different formulation, but with identical effect. Second hypothesis: our serum is just a refinement of the already existing "Beast Potion." And by System standards, improvement isn't creation from scratch. Logical. And third, the least probable thought: perhaps this function, reward for unique creations, simply unlocked after I first spent 500 OP on gacha. But then the System probably would have warned me about this, to additionally motivate. Right?
"John? Everything alright?" Peter's voice tore me from thoughts.
"Huh? Yes. Just... need to verify on something more serious that it works," I quickly oriented myself, pointing at the fabric.
I took a hammer in hand. The first strike, as with the finger, light, the fabric softly bent. The second strike, sharp and short, with all my strength. A deafening ringing click spread through the garage, as if I'd slammed an anvil with all my might. Vibration pierced my hand, and the fabric bore not a single mark.
"It worked..." Peter exhaled reverently. I only nodded silently, feeling triumph's flame ignite inside.
"Let's go to the range," I commanded, glancing at my watch. It was four PM, by five we'd just arrive, precisely from this time I'd rented the facility. "Need full tests."
"Agreed," Peter nodded, adjusting his glasses. "Need to compile an exact ballistic resistance profile."
We quickly gathered. My weapons I, naturally, left at home, deciding to make do with the range's arsenal. The owner, recommended by Frank, guaranteed complete confidentiality: no cameras, extra people, or attention. Ideal conditions.
Arriving at the location, we placed a piece of "Proteus" on a special stand with ballistic gel behind.
"So, professor," I addressed Peter while loading the pistol, "what's your prognosis for pistol calibers?"
"Extremely high degree of protection. I'd say close to absolute," Peter answered without hesitation, crossing his arms on his chest. "Sounds overconfident. Let's check!"
I raised an Arsenal pistol chambered for the classic 9x19mm cartridge. The roar of five shots merged into one deafening thunder in the enclosed space. We approached the target.
"Hmm, indeed..." I examined the result with surprise. The bullets, turned into shapeless chunks of lead, lay on the floor. They simply bounced off, unable to leave even a scratch on the fabric.
"Of course!" Peter confirmed enthusiastically. "The pistol bullet's low velocity allows the non-Newtonian fluid to react perfectly. Impact energy distributes over a large area. For the wearer this'll be like a powerful sledgehammer blow through a thick book. Painful, bruise guaranteed, possibly a rib crack, but there won't be penetrating injury."
"Good. Even excellent!" I muttered, feeling excitement grow. "What about rifle rounds?" I took an AR-15 in hand. The weapon felt far more serious, heavier and deadlier.
"Careful, John. Rifle bullets are a completely different story," Peter became serious. "They fly 2-3 times faster and are created for penetration. Theoretically, the material should hold, the fluid will have time to react. BUT! These bullets' energy is colossal..."
I didn't listen to the end. Three short, deafening shots struck the ears. This time the bullets also bounced off, but didn't deform, maintaining their shape. There was no penetration! I smirked victoriously.
"Don't celebrate too early!" Parker sharply cooled my ardor. He approached the stand and pointed at the deep dent in the ballistic gel behind the fabric. "See this? Back-face deformation, monstrous. The fabric bent inward several centimeters with unthinkable force. This is guaranteed shattered ribs, ruptured internal organs, severe contusion. Yes, a person in such a suit might possibly survive. Key word, possibly. But they'll be instantly incapacitated and will need urgent hospitalization."
We didn't even experiment with a sniper rifle. It became obvious that its powerful cartridge would simply pierce our protection through and through.
After an hour of various tests, Peter summarized, and I completely agreed:
"So, 'Proteus' is ideal protection from pistols, shotguns and shrapnel. In urban clashes it's invaluable. It gives a chance to survive assault rifle fire, but the price of this survival is severe injuries. Against powerful sniper rifles it's, alas, powerless."
We returned home when evening already stood outside. The air was filled with the smell of cooled asphalt and night coolness, seemingly rest time, but for us work was only beginning. Fatigue after the range evaporated, replaced by anticipation. First we, like on a conveyor, ran through the entire cycle, impregnation, vacuum, heat treatment, several more batches of fabric. The process was monotonous, and while hands worked on autopilot, my brain again began analyzing the System.
For creating the fabric itself, besides the first uniqueness bonus, OP was no longer awarded. On one hand, this was strange. On the other... quite logical. Fabric is material, raw material. But a suit from it is already a finished product with clear functionality. This made me think. What about, for example, Tony Stark's arc reactor? Will the System consider its creation a full achievement, or is an energy source just a component that must power something? Seemingly simple logic, but it makes you ask uncomfortable questions about this "game's" rules.
"Listen, Peter, where did you learn to sew so well?" I asked when we finally proceeded to design and pattern-making. He clearly was in his element, easily sketching designs and thinking through cuts.
Peter tore himself from the notebook for a second, and a slightly embarrassed expression appeared on his face.
"Ah, this... I think I mentioned my aunt works at a charitable foundation. They help the homeless. Clothes are often donated there, and many items come in bad condition, torn, with defects. So I've been helping Aunt May almost since childhood. I'd hem something, or conversely, cut something into patches. And from obtained fabric I'd sew something for myself. We didn't really have money..." he awkwardly scratched the back of his head.
"No kidding, that's worthy of respect," I answered seriously. In this moment I seemed to begin understanding where this guy's core came from, and where his "heroic" legs and desire to create grew from.
Periodically conversing, we agreed on the design. No skin-tight spandex. Only practicality and tactical minimalism: jacket with anatomical cut and hood, cargo pants with reinforced knees, gloves. Ergonomics above all. And then the most difficult part began. I took special scissors with carbide coating. Regular steel would simply slide on aramid. With a loud, dry crunch I began cutting fabric according to Peter's patterns. The "Master Watchmaker" skill was invaluable here: every movement calculated to the millimeter, not a single extra cut.
Threading aramid thread into the industrial machine and installing a titanium needle, I pressed the pedal. The first few stitches went smoothly, but as soon as I slightly increased speed... CRACK! A sharp sound like a gunshot made us both flinch. The needle shattered to pieces.
"I warned you..." Peter exhaled, pointing at the fabric. "Can't sew fast. The needle strikes the material, the fluid locally hardens, and the needle meets resistance, as if trying to pierce a steel plate."
The solution was obvious and agonizing. Sew at the minimum possible speed. And our nine-hour odyssey began. I, fully immersing in "flow" state, led the fabric under the presser foot. The machine issued a slow, meditative rhythm: THUD... pause... THUD... pause... One seam took tens of minutes. Peter helped, feeding and directing the heavy, unwieldy material. We worked in complete silence, broken only by this rhythm and rare whisper when we needed to turn a part. My hands, Master Watchmaker's hands, didn't tremble, and patience seemed limitless. I wasn't just sewing. I was assembling the suit as I'd assemble a Swiss watch mechanism.
After almost nine hours of painstaking, exhausting work, when dawn already glimmered outside the window, the main sewing was finished. The last touch remained. Using a small hand thermal press I began gluing each seam from the inside with special sealing tape. This was the final push at the end of strength. And now, when the last centimeter of tape was welded, I leaned back against the chair. Done.
On a mannequin in the garage's center stood our creation. Matte-black, utilitarian, it looked simultaneously simple and incredibly menacing. And in this moment of quiet triumph, a notification flashed before my eyes.
[Created semi-combat suit "Proteus". Complexity: Normal. Received +300 OP!]
Suit "Proteus" (Unusual): Tactical set from "Proteus" fabric. Provides highest protection from cold weapons and pistol calibers, while maintaining flexibility and comfort. Reduces damage from intermediate calibers, but doesn't negate back-face trauma. Waterproof, heat-resistant, doesn't restrict movement.
300 OP! I wanted to jump up and shout victoriously, but had no strength. It was six AM, and Peter and I barely stayed on our feet. "I'll celebrate when I wake up," I decided.
Laying the thoroughly sleepy Peter on the living room couch, I myself collapsed on the bed, falling into heavy, leaden sleep. But proper rest didn't happen. Around ten AM a foreign voice tore me from Morpheus's realm. Opening my eyes, I understood it was Peter, he feverishly rushed around the living room, talking excitedly to someone on the phone.
"...no, MJ, he's definitely not one of those people who makes such important decisions rashly!"
So much for good morning. Seemed problems decided not to wait for us to sleep it off.