Chapter 28
"Incredible..." Peter murmured, gazing around the equipment-packed space with undisguised admiration.
His eyes jumped from the vacuum chamber to the thermal press.
"John, this isn't a garage — this is a DARPA satellite lab."
I smirked.
Part of the equipment that hadn't fit was waiting its turn in the living room, hidden from any curious eyes by tightly drawn blinds.
"This isn't even close to what I'm actually aiming for, Peter," I said, shaking my head as I wiped down the industrial sewing machine with a rag.
"Ideally I'd want a full-scale R&D facility. My own tower, like Stark's. Or at minimum an underground complex like OsCorp's. Somewhere I could really spread out..." I let the last part trail off, almost to myself, lost for a moment in the scale of what that would mean.
"Though to get there, I'd first need to earn a few dozen million. Maybe a few hundred."
Naturally my mind sketched the whole thing out in detail: sterile white walls, servers humming with advanced AI assistants like Jarvis, teams of the world's best scientists in clean-room gear, testing futuristic prototypes pulled straight from the Forge.
Not a converted garage with homemade equipment — a real innovation hub where Proteus would evolve into something far beyond a suit, maybe something with integrated neural networks, maybe a full exoskeleton engineered for superhuman physiology.
But dreams like that needed more than money.
They needed protection from the people who would look at them and see a threat.
I pushed the thoughts aside and brought my focus back to the present.
Peter, meanwhile, had decided to dream out loud.
"We'll earn it!" he said, and there was genuine warmth in his voice.
He stepped forward, eyes lit with that particular fire of scientific excitement.
"I've been thinking a lot the past few days. A whole lot. It might still be the Elixir's afterglow, but what I've come to..."
"Don't drag it out, Parker. Spill it."
"I analyzed every existing Proteus analog. Everything available in open-access sources," he added.
"And do you know what I found?"
"What?"
"They're all garbage!" Peter threw his hands up with the kind of emotion that only comes from genuine scientific outrage.
"Every single one! Take Hammer Industries. Their armor — multilayer Kevlar with titanium threading. Sounds impressive, but in reality it's just heavy, unwieldy plating with straps. Six and a half kilograms per square meter. The Pentagon doesn't want to touch it, and honestly, I understand completely. Cheap, sure — which is why it's popular with mercenaries — but that's not technology, that's just piling on more layers."
He paused to catch his breath, then immediately continued, dropping to a half-whisper as if sharing classified information.
"But what the Pentagon does want is OsCorp's Bio-Silk. Genetically modified spider silk reinforced with carbon fiber. Tensile strength five times that of steel — that's real. And lighter, at two and a half kilograms per meter. Better, certainly. But still a full kilogram heavier than our Proteus. And here's the critical question: what's the catch?"
"What is it?" I played along, already seeing where this was headed.
"It's astronomically expensive to produce. Many times the cost of Proteus. And because of the carbon fiber content, it's quite stiff — it wears at the bends quickly and melts under high heat."
"So to sum it up," I set down the rag and gave him my full attention, "compared to Proteus, it has lower flexibility, no dynamic impact protection, and the production cost of a fighter jet wing panel. Am I reading that right?"
"Exactly!" Peter snapped his fingers.
"Which is why it's only procured for special forces, in small batches. Stark also had a nanokevlar-and-microactuator project — but it was too bulky, EMP-vulnerable, and ultimately failed. The Soviets have an interesting approach too: an aramid composite woven with steel microfibers and a special epoxy coating. But same problems: heavy, uncomfortable, poor breathability, and on top of that it's vulnerable to corrosion. And when you add it all up? The US Army — the most technologically advanced military on the planet — and the Soviets — the most militarized country in the world — are still mostly equipping their people with standard Kevlar or Dyneema."
Peter brought up another example: Roxxon Corporation's Nano-Shield.
They'd tried integrating nanoparticles into a fabric matrix for self-healing properties, but the project had stalled out due to instability — the material degraded after repeated impacts, and production required rare elements at ruinous cost.
The end result was an experimental-only product deployed in limited units, burdened with a long list of operational caveats.
And the Europeans?
Aimex had a graphene-based composite that promised extraordinary strength — but in practice it turned brittle at low temperatures and offered poor protection against kinetic impacts.
All of these were compromises.
But what we had built was something whole.
Universal.
And genuinely in demand.
"So..." An electric charge of realization ran through me.
Peter smiled broadly, confirming what I was already thinking.
"Yes, John. This is a completely new, wide-open market. A personal protection market where we aren't just better competitors — we're innovators who are decades ahead of everyone else. Clothing and equipment are the single largest line item in any military budget. And nobody — not OsCorp, not Stark — has managed to create a combat uniform that is genuinely lightweight, comfortable, affordable, and effective all at the same time."
I could see it clearly: our company — Proteus Labs, or something like it — with contracts from the Pentagon, the UN, private security firms worldwide.
We wouldn't just sell armor; we'd develop civilian applications too: protective gear for firefighters, rescue workers, extreme sports athletes.
This wasn't just a business — it was a revolution in personal safety, one where ordinary people could feel protected.
Billions.
Not just money — an entire empire.
The cleanest, most legitimate path out of the shadows.
Access to the best labs, the best minds, the ability to build and create at industrial scale without limit or apology.
The thought was so staggering it took my breath away for a moment.
It was a dream.
I let myself sit with that picture for exactly a few seconds.
Then cold reality came crashing down like an ice water bucket, because visibility like that wouldn't just attract clients.
It would attract predators.
"Unfortunately, reality doesn't work quite that way," I said, shaking my head, and the flat tone of my voice knocked the enthusiasm off Peter's face in an instant.
"What do you mean?"
"Here's the thing, Peter." I looked him straight in the eye.
"In this world, being right doesn't protect you. Having a brilliant idea doesn't protect you. What protects you is being stronger than the people who want what you have."
"That's barbaric!" he said, genuinely affronted.
"We're past that. I'm not saying there aren't corporate games, or espionage... but what does raw force have to do with any of this?"
"Everything, when we're talking about people who can demolish a city block on their own or stand toe-to-toe with a fully equipped special forces unit," I said quietly.
The images that flashed through my mind were not pleasant ones.
A Kingpin who heard about Proteus wouldn't send lawyers with an acquisition offer.
He'd send a crew to have a conversation, and if the conversation didn't go his way, we'd end up under the foundations of another construction project in Hell's Kitchen.
Then there was Hydra — the snake that had threaded itself through every corner of society, which couldn't possibly ignore a technology capable of reshuffling the balance of power.
There was Hammer and OsCorp, both willing to play as dirty as it took.
Organizations like the Ten Rings, the Hellfire Club, the Hand — all of them would love to outfit their people in something that stopped more than just blades.
For all of them, Proteus wasn't just a source of billions in revenue.
It was a mass-producible technology capable of turning their infantry into elite units overnight.
Mercenaries in our armor would be far more dangerous than Hammer's drones.
And what about the suits of the Goblin, Octopus, Scorpion, Vulture, Shocker?
I thought about S.H.I.E.L.D., too — always working from the shadows, watching every technological breakthrough with close attention.
If they decided Proteus was a threat to the existing balance, they'd either recruit us or quietly neutralize us, disguised as an accident.
And then there were the mutant threats, the alien possibilities — the Brotherhood, the Skrulls if they existed in this version of things.
Our armor could become a weapon in the wrong hands in ways that would keep me awake at night.
No.
Showing our cards too early was like waving a red flag at a charging bull.
Peter didn't need to know all of this yet.
The history I'd already kept from him was enough — piling on new secrets would only generate new questions.
"Think about it this way, Peter," I said carefully, choosing my words.
"It's military strength that lets the USA hold its position at the top of the world order. The three biggest tech players — Stark, Hammer, OsCorp — are all deeply tied to military contracts. The strength of certain units and certain individuals is what's kept some countries from collapsing entirely into chaos. And it's personal strength that lets people like Spider-Woman or the Devil of Hell's Kitchen operate at all."
"In what sense?" Peter looked genuinely puzzled.
"Heroism isn't illegal. We have freedom, right..."
"Freedom is a convenient word until we're talking about someone who can demolish a city block with their bare hands or single-handedly outmatch an elite spec-ops unit in full gear," I said with a bitter smile.
"People like that are too valuable a resource. Certain parties can't afford to just leave them alone. But because of what those individuals can do, the recruitment process tends to be subtle. Quiet. They're permitted to operate as long as they don't cross the wrong line. Everything that happens in this world — especially in a city like New York — happens with someone's invisible permission."
I trailed off, sensing that I'd made the point in a somewhat roundabout way.
But Peter was sharper than most, and he picked up the thread despite the loose ends.
He frowned, working through the idea carefully.
"So," he said slowly, as though testing a new and unsettling thought, "we — having no personal power and no connections to people who do — are essentially easy prey for anyone with the muscle to reach us. And right now, almost everyone is stronger than us."
"Exactly right," I confirmed, keeping my voice level.
"We can't afford to put Proteus on display yet. The billions are real — I'm not dismissing that — but right now, that kind of money would cause us far more harm than good."
We talked it through a bit longer and landed in the same place: if we patented anything for commercial gain, it had to be something less militarized.
And definitely nothing this far ahead of its time.
"Alright, Proteus is settled for now. Today we make the first samples and go test them tonight — I've already booked a closed range for the evening," I said, shifting gears decisively.
"But first: tell me about Phantasmin. Where are you with that?"
Peter immediately winced as if he'd bitten into something sour.
"Same problem as the muscle stimulator — I have no idea how it actually works," he muttered.
"Phantasmin's molecular structure breaks several fundamental laws of chemistry. It shouldn't exist. It's unstable, and yet somehow it holds form inside the body. Replicating that is impossible. But..."
"But?" I leaned forward.
"...we can try approaching it from a different angle. Several different angles, actually. I've sketched out three hypotheses. I can't test any of them without the Elixir, but purely on paper, they hold up."
Peter moved to a small whiteboard mounted on the garage wall and started drawing formulas quickly.
"Hypothesis one: direct approach. Neuro-catalyst synthesis. We can't recreate Phantasmin itself, but I might be able to isolate its active functional groups — the molecular 'hooks' it uses to interact with neurons. Theoretically, under the Elixir, I could design a completely new, stable alkaloid that mimics those groups. If it works, this would be pure chemistry we could produce right here in this garage."
He paused and looked at me.
"Sounds clean, right? But there's a catch the size of a warehouse. Even with the Elixir, this would be extraordinarily complex. Without understanding the 'impossible' component that stabilizes the original, my synthetic analog could turn out to be outright toxic, a weak dummy that does nothing, or simply nonfunctional. The Elixir will help find the path — but walking it could take years. This isn't a sprint, John. It's a marathon. Stark's quantum computers would struggle with something like this."
After walking through that idea further, Peter moved to the second hypothesis — and it made me mentally whistle.
The idea of solving the problem not through chemistry but through physics fit perfectly with my future Technological Modernization skill.
A device that used an external field to tune the brain to its peak operating frequency.
Pure, elegant science fiction — no alchemy, full control, absolute safety.
I could almost feel the future skill resonating with the idea, my hands already itching to start building something.
But as Peter launched into the details — the need for sub-atomic focusing precision, the complexity of the field gradient calculations — my enthusiasm cooled.
I understood that Technological Modernization was a brilliant craftsman's tool, but it wouldn't make me a brilliant theorist.
Without a blueprint, without the fundamental scientific foundation that only Peter could supply, my skill would most likely hit a wall.
We'd figure that out as things developed.
The third hypothesis made me sit forward and give it my full attention, as if my life depended on understanding every word.
A symbiotic stabilizer agent.
Not an attempt to copy the miracle — just to extend its life.
Create a kind of molecular bodyguard for Phantasmin's unstable structure.
Stretch the effect from a few measly hours to dozens of hours — maybe even days.
Of all three approaches, this one looked the most immediately achievable.
But it came with its own pitfalls: another fiendishly complex substance to design, and unpredictable side effects lurking around every corner.
I looked at Parker and felt something like genuine shock.
A single day had passed, and he hadn't just analyzed an "impossible" compound — he'd mapped out three completely different approaches to reproducing it.
He wasn't just talking.
He had a notebook full of formulas and diagrams that meant nothing to me beyond the raw impression of their density and complexity, and the awe that came with it.
In that moment, Peter Parker grew by several orders of magnitude in my estimation.
Betting on him was the best investment I had made in my new life.
Now the main thing was keeping him close.
An unpleasant image of Norman Osborn flashed through my mind — predatory smile, impossibly generous contract offer, the kind that brilliant young men found impossible to refuse.
I'd need to get ahead of that.
Though in fairness, Peter wasn't that kind of person.
In our short time together, I'd understood one fundamental thing: money was just a tool to him — a means of solving problems, the way it had been with his uncle.
His real addiction was the work itself.
The learning, the building, the satisfaction of cracking something that wasn't supposed to be solvable.
Chemistry, physics, materials science — he didn't care which.
What he wanted was to throw his brilliant mind at the hardest available problem.
And the best bait for a mind like that wasn't a stack of cash.
It was an endless frontier of new, genuinely challenging questions and unlimited resources to pursue them.
That, I could give him.
"Peter, do you realize what you've just done?" I interrupted his technical explanation, and I didn't have to fake the enthusiasm in my voice.
"You came up with all three of these without the Elixir. Now imagine what happens when you get to analyze each one under it. Find the flaws, see the shortcuts, refine them, make them real. We're talking about a revolution."
Peter thought for a moment, then scratched the back of his head with his usual slightly awkward smile.
"Well... to be honest, under the Elixir I'll probably just come up with a fourth idea that's even more unhinged than any of these," he said.
"That's also entirely possible," I agreed, smiling back.
"Either way, I hear you. After Proteus, we dig into this properly. But projects like this aren't a school club. Full immersion required. What about your classes and your work — how flexible are you actually?"
"That part's easy," he waved a hand.
"I know most of my courses better than the professors already, so they don't notice the occasional absence. Dr. Connors cares about results, not hours logged. And the Daily Bugle — I have zero obligations there worth mentioning."
"Perfect." I clapped my hands together, and the sound rang through the garage like a starting gun.
We looked at each other — a young, already somewhat world-weary strategist with too much meta-knowledge and a brilliant, idealism-fueled scientist.
The partnership was sealed.
"Then let's not waste another minute. Time to get to work."
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