Thursday, September 24th.
The world woke up to an information tsunami. The news of the death of Wilson Fisk—CEO and founder of one of the largest hedge funds, a prominent politician, and a philanthropist—thundered from every speaker. Killed by a single precise shot to the head from a "mysterious sniper." Television channels were drowning in speculation, experts built theories, and politicians with somber faces expressed their condolences. Judging by the news, every intelligence agency in the country was already hunting for this sniper. Yes, in such conditions, Blade definitely shouldn't stay here for more than a couple of days, and even those couple of days he should literally dissolve into the city landscape. However, I was sure his experience in this was vast. He wouldn't get caught.
I was much more worried about myself... So far, everything seemed clean. I hadn't messed up anywhere; the Proteus suit was featureless, and the mask had been in place. The only vulnerable thread was that we acted in a team with Gwen. If her identity was established, say, by S.H.I.E.L.D., then they could pull that thread without much trouble and reach me, and through me—Peter. But, in all honesty, this would happen sooner or later anyway. S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn't have been ignorant of who Kingpin really was. Perhaps they even breathed a sigh of relief. Yes, we likely unleashed a new gang war, and much blood would be spilled on the streets of New York in the coming months for the redistribution of power, but compared to the global problems Fisk could have caused in the future... I think we got off easy.
Fisk's hedge fund also got off easy, by the way. Its shares fell in price by only 23%. Against the backdrop of the death of the founder and permanent leader, this was practically nothing. If Tony Stark died tomorrow, Stark Industries shares would collapse by at least 90 percent, because the entire company rests solely on his genius. Here it was evident that Fisk didn't pay his people monstrous salaries for nothing. His fund employed financial sharks who managed to keep the sinking ship afloat and calm the markets. I wonder what's next? Most likely, the fund faces a rebranding and the election of a new CEO.
However, I didn't care about Fisk's billions. I needed to digest what I had already received. Especially since in half an hour, a courier from Lucas was supposed to arrive, and I would need to get down to crafting potions. True, for this I would have to wait for the evening again to sneak into the university lab... No, enough. At this rate, someone like Doctor Connors would suspect something. It was time to set up my own full-fledged laboratory. The plan for the day: I receive the package from Lucas and immediately drive to Blade's base, the address of which he successfully sent to me. Let's see what I have to deal with.
Scrolling through news aggregators, it was difficult to find anything other than the chewing over of Fisk's death from all sides. But a couple of news items still caught my attention. Reports of a mysterious sandy meta-human who robbed armored cars, and, of course, about Hyperion. This guy was actively flying all over the USA, appearing in Washington, then in Portland. So far, he was engaged in routine heroic deeds—saving cats from trees, stopping trains—but in Austin, he had already managed to foil a bank robbery, neutralizing a meta-human who could increase the mass and density of his limbs. There was also a short news item about a strange case in a jewelry store in Manhattan: water under enormous pressure literally washed all the valuables out of the safe. The appearance of Hydro-Man. A relatively minor villain whose name I, unfortunately, didn't remember. Unlike Marko, he didn't merit an appearance in the movies... Well, I'd take note of the appearance of another meta.
In general, it was quite interesting how the perception of superhumans was organized in this world. The concept of "meta-human" was a norm for most civilians. And it included practically anyone who stepped even an inch beyond the accepted human limits. Incredible accuracy, like Bullseye or Hawkeye? Meta! Masterfully swinging your arms and legs at the level of a weak super-soldier? Meta! Having huge forms, green skin, and a foul temper that makes you smash and break everything? Also meta! Are you a mutant? Whoa, hold on, buddy, that's conspiracy theory, you're just a meta!
Yes, the government had done a colossal amount of work with public consciousness. Everything that falls outside the bounds of normality is perceived by the population with... normality? Well, not exactly. Much depends on the adequacy of the meta-human themselves. Someone like Spider-Woman or Hyperion was received by people more than favorably. But someone like the Hulk, who, by the way, had already made his mark in old news even before my "transmigration"—that was a threat. But even despite this threat, there were no systemic xenophobic sentiments toward meta-people. Why? The answer lay with the government itself.
Considering how many ethical and not-so-ethical experiments they conducted in attempts to create super-soldiers, it was no surprise that they periodically succeeded. Project Patriot, Isaiah Bradley's program, the crap from Seagate Prison—these were only the ones that were well-known and had at least some success. And then there's the Red Room, Weapon X, Project Sentinel, IGH and Jessica Jones, the dealings at Oscorp, HYDRA with their Winter Soldiers, the Hand clan with their shinobi who surely master Chi energy, and dozens, if not hundreds of other projects.
With such an abundance of spontaneously and purposefully appearing meta-people, it was simply not profitable for the state to incite hatred. Their strategy was wait-and-see and constructive. They tried to harness this power, study it, and ideally put it into mass production for themselves. If they managed to create their own army of super-soldiers while negative sentiments toward "superhumans" reigned in society, it could backfire on them. So they acted extremely cautiously, even toward mutants, hiding them behind the convenient and vague term "meta." This was brilliant social engineering: manage the terminology, and you will manage the consciousness.
Thinking about all this meta-mess and whether the concept of balance even exists in a world where Natasha Romanoff, an agent and spy who can only loosely be called "super," and Jean Grey, with cosmic cosmic horror inside her, live relatively close to each other, I didn't notice a refrigerated van from Lucas quietly pull up to the house. The sharp honk of the driver snapped me out of my philosophical trance.
Going outside and signing the electronic form, I monitored the unloading. The condition of the most expensive package in my life was perfect. This stuff, in the form of a starter culture of Moon Jellyfish cells in a cryo-container, half a gram of ultra-rare crystalline lichen from Titan in a vacuum flask, and other consumables, cost me an astronomical 700,000 dollars! Where did such money come from? Naturally, Blade. When you have a wealthy vampire hunter as a friend, most financial problems aren't problems at all. Especially since I was now officially "one of them" for him, and I created mega-useful things, and there would be even more later. In short, this could be considered a kind of venture investment on his part in my genius!
Accepting the expensive package, I immediately hid the most valuable and compact components in the inventory. The rest I carefully loaded into the car and, without wasting time, headed to Blade's base. To my surprise, it was located relatively close, at the Brooklyn Navy Yard.
It was brilliant. A huge, fenced industrial complex on the shore of the East River. During the day, work hummed here: dozens of workshops, small productions, warehouses, and even several film studios. And at night, it practically died out, patrolled only by occasional guards. From any angle, it was an ideal cover. A place where noisy welding work at three in the morning or the arrival of a strange truck would not raise unnecessary questions.
I knew that under this shipyard lay an entire network of old, abandoned bunkers, dry docks, technical tunnels, and Cold War-era bomb shelters. Finding and equipping a huge, unknown complex there was more than realistic. Which, in fact, was what Blade had done. But what I didn't expect was that at the entrance to the shipyard itself, I would be met by a real booth with a bored guard and a barrier.
"Name?" he asked lazily as soon as I slowed down at the window.
"John Thompson," I replied, hoping Blade had settled everything.
"Ah, it's you, that invited engineer-consultant," the guard nodded as if he had seen me a hundred times. "Here, take this." He handed me an electronic ID badge, pressing a button to raise the barrier.
After wandering a bit through the labyrinths of the shipyard, I finally found the right warehouse and parked. Before me stood an unremarkable old brick building with a sign that read "Marine Engineering Solutions." My badge bore the same inscription.
There was no ordinary lock on the massive steel door. Instead, there was an inconspicuous keypad. Entering the six-digit code sent by Blade, I heard a dull click and entered a cluttered, rust-and-old-oil-smelling warehouse. A bunch of non-working industrial equipment, dusty shelves... Among all this chaos, I needed one specific object: a massive naval lathe from the Cold War era, rusting in a far corner and looking like a museum exhibit.
Approaching it, I turned one of the control levers 45 degrees to the left with a loud screech and then pressed a large red "Emergency Stop" button. But instead of stopping anything, a low hum of activated hydraulics came from within. The heavy bed of the machine, weighing several tons, smoothly moved aside, revealing an opening in the wall framed by the matte steel of a freight elevator.
Inside the elevator, as I understood, an automatic biometrics system was built in. As soon as I entered, the doors closed behind me, and the cabin immediately went down without pressing any buttons. After a couple of seconds, with a small jerk, the elevator stopped. The sliding doors led me straight into the main hall of the empty Base.
A huge round-walled room serving simultaneously as a hub, operations center, and living room. Besides the elevator doors behind me, there were three more massive steel doors in the polished concrete walls leading to different sections. In the middle of the hall stood a large square table with a digital map of New York displayed on it, covered with mysterious figures of different colors. One of the walls was a giant screen that was currently broadcasting a real-time 4K-quality view of the cloudy sky. A brilliant solution to avoid going crazy in this underground realm of concrete and steel. I suspect that showing pleasing images is far from its only function. Otherwise, the hub was minimalistic: a couple of sofas, a small refrigerator, a coffee machine.
Walking through the spacious room, I moved toward the first door. It led to the armory. A square room smelling of lubricant and cold steel. On one wall was an entire arsenal: from simple pistols to expensive sniper rifles and grenade launchers. Everything was neatly laid out on mounts. I wonder if I'll be allowed to use this? I'll have to clarify. On the second wall were already, let's say, more experimental specimens, sharpened specifically against vampires. The UV grenades already familiar to me, aerosols with concentrated garlic extract, silver shurikens, knives, and even bullets. But the pleasantest surprise awaited at the end of the room, by the third wall—the Forge! A small but high-tech smelting furnace, a hydraulic press, and manipulators for precision work. Obviously, Blade forges some of the weaponry himself. Now I could do it too! My inner engineer-creator rejoiced.
Leaving the armory, I headed to the next room. It was about twice the size of the previous one and... practically empty. With the exception of a powerful industrial exhaust hood leading to the ventilation system, there was nothing here. Just bare concrete walls and an ideally flat floor. On one of the walls, taped with duct tape, hung an A4 sheet on which Blade's marker had written: "This room is for your lab. If anything, I'll pay for the equipment. Don't worry."
Excellent. This was even better than a finished laboratory. It was a blank slate. Boundless possibilities. I was already mentally placing centrifuges, sequencers, assembly lines, and server racks here. This was something to work with!
Estimating a preliminary list of everything necessary in my head, I moved to the next and last room. Pushing the massive door, I felt the air change. In size, the room was comparable to the future laboratory, but that's where the similarity ended. The walls here were not made of concrete, but of some dull steel alloy riddled with scratches. They looked like the hide of an old beast that had been beaten many times: deep dents, long furrows from claws, melted spots from energy weapons. The entire room was one big map of brutal battles. Many combat simulators—from robotic manipulators to a platform simulating an unstable surface—left no doubt: this was a training hall. It was the Dojo. The place where Blade honed his deadly skills.
Overall, the Base was simply magnificent. Protected, unnoticeable, autonomous, and with access to the shipyard's infrastructure. I couldn't even dream of something like this. And all it took was risking my worthless life a few times and being useful. Ha.
So, the plan of action was taking shape. Right now, I order the first batch of equipment from Lucas, again shamelessly using Blade's credit line. I'll slowly start setting up the laboratory. In the evening, hopefully for the last time, I'll sneak into the university lab and, together with Peter, create several doses of potions, and maybe I'll have time to set up the lab here as well. And then... Then only crafting! And I still need to find time to create the Proteus for Blade before his departure. Hmm, by the way, about that... Is it possible to bring Peter here? It would be foolish to keep my main ally and the second genius of our emerging team in the dark.
Taking out my phone, I dialed Blade.
"Yo, kid? So, how do you like the digs?" came his voice through the receiver, slightly muffled as if he were speaking on the go.
"You're keeping your finger on the pulse, I see. Motion sensors? Cameras? Where are you, by the way? I thought you'd welcome me warmly and give me a tour of your lair."
"I was at my place. Sleeping at the Base isn't very pleasant; the sofas are small," the noise of the street was heard in the background. "But I took those on purpose so there'd be no temptation to nest there. It's a workplace, not a home."
"Well, the base is very good. On the contrary, I have a temptation to stay here for days," I chuckled, looking at the traces of training on the walls of the dojo.
"Make yourself at home. And that's not my coolest base, by the way. I have a whole castle in Britain."
"Not surprised for a second. I always knew you were playing humble," at this remark of mine, Blade gave a wry chuckle, which was audible even over the phone.
"Anyway, the reason I'm calling. There's a serious question. Can I bring one trusted person to the Base? My brilliant colleague in the trade, so to speak. Without him, many of my projects will move times slower."
A short pause hung on the other end of the line.
"I said, make yourself at home. Bring whoever you want. I'm more than confident in your sanity. Whether it's your colleague or the Spider-Girl for a hookup, ahem... Just make sure she doesn't turn out to be a Black Widow in the process."
"Um, well, we're not actually that close," I scratched the back of my head, somewhat taken aback by such a turn.
"Yeah, yeah, I saw how you're 'not that close,'" Blade snorted. "Kid, she pressed against you every chance she got. I may be a half-vampire, but I'm not blind; although it's more likely because I'm a half-vampire that I see more than you think, especially since I'm an empath. And don't forget: you helped avenge her father's death. That's a huge emotional anchor, you know. Girls don't forget that kind of thing."
"But you performed practically all the work! Well, and she took the risk! I just came up with the plan and hid behind your backs!" I blurted out, genuinely bewildered.
"I always knew you were playing humble," Blade returned my own jab. "You gave her what no one else could—the opportunity to close the loop. That's more powerful than any shot. Well, anyway, I've given you the green light to use the Base. Talk later."
"Yeah, I got it. Just try not to leave the US before I make your suit. And yes, I'll soon send you a report on how I'll work off all the purchased lab equipment," I reminded Blade before ending the call.
"Looking forward to it," he tossed out and hung up.
That was it. I seemed to have settled on the plans and received the authorizations. I could start putting them into execution. I dialed the number again.
"Hello, Lucas? Yes, it's me again. Get out the biggest order form you have."
***
Shocker. Rhino. Jeffrey. Vulture. Bullseye. Tombstone.
Names, like hammer blows on an anvil, echoed in the absolute silence of the bunker. Assets. Written off. In one night, his empire had been practically bled white. The most valuable of those remaining—Chameleon—had performed his work flawlessly, fatally well. For the entire world, Wilson Fisk, philanthropist and businessman, had died by the hand of a sniper. But this was only a tactical trick in a lost battle. It didn't change the essence: he, Wilson Fisk, had lost. And he had lost on all fronts.
He sat in one of the most protected places in New York, deep underground, where there was neither day nor night. The only source of light was the cold screen of a laptop, on which files—the digital autopsy of his defeat—succeeded each other in a silent dance. All video recordings from street cameras. All intercepted audio communications. All available information on Blade and the less available information on the girl in the spider costume.
Her identity, however, was no longer in doubt. Gwen Stacy. Daughter of police captain George Stacy, whom she had so persistently and foolishly questioned Jeffrey about, who had proven useful even before his death. Too obvious, almost amateurish attachment.
The third. The most mysterious. A subject about whom practically nothing was known, except for his frightening effectiveness. So far, it appeared that he was the architect of the entire plan. A manipulator whose abilities apparently lay in the field of technology and spatial abilities beyond the ordinary. Fisk had already given him a codename—"Space."
What should he do now? An impulse, animal and fierce, demanded blood. Arrange a hunt for Gwen Stacy. Hire the best meta-mercenaries, and within a couple of hours, her head would be brought to him on a silver platter. But... Blade. And "Space." They wouldn't just leave it at that. Revenge is a dish for fools who do not know how to wait.
There remains only one option. To lie low. And become stronger.
Now that public activity could be forgotten, at least for a while, he could entirely and completely devote himself to his true shadow empire. The money was there—thanks to the fact that he managed to intervene timely through trusted persons and maintain the capitalization of his hedge fund.
People... Otto Octavius's genius would now work for him without reserve, working off every penny invested in him. But this was not enough. More meta-people needed to be hired. He would have to increase salaries, not skimp on the most interesting characters that crawl out into the light. The same newly emerged Sandman. And Hydro-Man. Instead of robbing jewelry stores on a small scale, they could receive not only money, but status. Protection. From the law, from bureaucracy, from intelligence agencies that would surely take an interest in such anomalies. They must be intercepted before they do something stupid. Taken under the wing. Under control.
The Spider-Girl and Space... Let them believe he is dead. Let them celebrate their imaginary victory. While they believe so, he will be becoming stronger. Much stronger.
Perhaps it's time to speed up the training. The old blood demanded new techniques.
"Master Davos, to me," he said briefly and quietly, activating the white intercom standing on his massive oak desk.
His voice, not raised but full of absolute power, dissolved without an echo in the sterile air of the bunker.
The Spider-Girl was already on his list; her identity was known. The identity of "Space" was already being studied by his best analysts. It was a small matter now. To be a little patient. Predators know how to wait.
***
In the sterile whiteness of a tiled bathroom, leaning her back against a cold bathtub, sat a girl who was dead drunk. She looked to be about twenty-three. A blonde with shoulder-length curly hair and brown eyes, whose gaze was now clouded by an alcoholic haze. Sitting in ordinary home clothes and clutching a half-finished bottle of vodka to her chest, she was thinking, as was usually the case during short breaks between missions. Or rather, she was obsessing.
The mistakes of youth... ironic, considering the girl, despite her young face, was practically forty years old. A bitter cocktail of memories: deaths of innocent civilians caused by her mistake; the rift with her father and sister; the faces of those she betrayed and those who betrayed her. She had a hundred reasons for this self-torture. And, as always, such a pastime ended with the same thought: why was she living at all? For what? To be a CIA attack dog? To hope for a restoration of relations with those who had long ago crossed her out of their lives? Wouldn't it be better to end it all? Quickly. One bullet to the head... Although she was a meta-human, she was relatively weak. It wouldn't even hurt. But this endless mental pain would stop...
And as if sensing the peak of her emotional fall, at that moment, as if on schedule, her work phone vibrated. An electronic screech cutting through the silence.
"Yelena, there's a job," a female authoritative voice sounded on the other side of the receiver, stating a fact that brooked no objection.
"I'm supposed to be on... vacation, Valentina," Yelena Belova, one of the Black Widows and now a CIA meta-operative, answered with a slurred tongue.
"I'm tired of reminding you, Yelena, but you don't and won't have vacations. You're on a lifetime contract."
"Fuck..." Belova exhaled. "Who to kill, torture, blow up, or kidnap this time? Another excursion into the meat grinder?"
"This time you face a more delicate job. According to your long-forgotten profile: tracking, seduction, and recruitment."
"Ha... I already forgot, damn it, how it's done!" she took a big swig directly from the bottle.
"Black Widows don't forget such things," Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, the director of the CIA, countered logically and coldly. "It's like riding a bicycle."
"I hope he's at least not a fat old freak."
"Not fat. And, judging by the reports, he moves very briskly, so I don't think he's old. Details of the case have already been sent to your terminal. Proceed immediately."
"And what if... I can't seduce and recruit him? What then?"
"Liquidate," Valentina said dryly and ended the call, leaving Yelena alone with the cold tiles and a new order that only postponed the old thoughts.
***
"What this time, Nick?" a stately red-haired beauty, whose green eyes sparkled in the dimness of the operations center, addressed a one-eyed man sitting at a steel table. Her dark, tight-fitting but practical S.H.I.E.L.D. operative suit did not restrict her movements. "I hope you pulled me out of Latveria for a truly compelling reason. I almost managed to get something interesting out of one bureaucrat about that pretty boy Doom."
"Fisk is dead," summarized the director of S.H.I.E.L.D., Nick Fury, briefly, not taking his piercing gaze off one of his best operatives. "But his empire is surprisingly staying in line, and the company hasn't collapsed. I suspect it's a setup."
"And? What are you getting at?" she leaned gracefully on the table. "You want me to find this hog and confirm he's still oinking?"
"No, Natasha, others will deal with that without you. Much more interesting are those who 'killed,' as they likely believe, the real Fisk," Fury flicked a finger to send a tablet with the case to Natasha.
She took the device, her eyes quickly scanning the lines.
"Ah, I see the walking garlic warehouse has really cut loose," she looked at Fury, and a mischievous spark flashed in her eyes before she became serious again. "Right... An idealistic brat in a leotard and... an unknown meta with unclear spatial-type ability. A black box."
"It's the latter who interests us."
"Oh, work according to profile, then," a barely noticeable, predatory smile appeared on her lips.
"Yes, Natasha. Work according to your profile."
"And what if... I don't manage to recruit him?" there wasn't even a shadow of doubt in her voice that she wouldn't be able to seduce the target. Natasha Romanoff, one of the best Black Widows in the entire history of the Red Room, was absolutely confident in her charm. The question was purely technical and concerned recruitment specifically.
Fury leaned forward, his gaze boring into her.
"Make sure you succeed. S.H.I.E.L.D. needs such talent. He is an asset, not a target."
"Understood," she nodded, returning the tablet. "Waiting for all the details of the case and starting."
"Go," Fury dismissed her, and as soon as she left, he pressed a button on the intercom. "Agent Coulson, come into my office."