Chapter 33
"What is the essence of gravity boots?" Peter asked with genuine curiosity, watching as I reached for one of the old microwaves.
"Well, this is not exactly Stark-level technology, but it is definitely an interesting toy," I answered, beginning to open the casing.
"To put it briefly, these boots will allow controlled jumps and short flights at heights of up to ten meters. They will be able to completely absorb the impact from falling from a great height and, most amusingly, create compressed air cushions that you can push off from. You can literally walk on air, like on an invisible staircase."
The technology was not the most impressive in my arsenal of ideas, but for a starting point it was ideal.
I was already calculating the problems in my head: the boots themselves would weigh around six kilograms, plus a backpack with batteries for another six.
I needed to solve the power source issue on a broader scale.
But that was for later.
Right now I was firmly set on assembling these gravity boots.
"Listen, are you really..." Peter began awkwardly, watching with what confidence I gutted the microwave.
"Can you... can you walk me through the process? I want to understand."
"No problem," I nodded.
It was actually pleasant to play mentor to a genius.
"The core idea is simple. We will be creating a high-frequency electromagnetic field under the boot soles. It ionizes the air, temporarily and sharply increasing its density right beneath us. This creates what I call 'compressed air pockets,' essentially temporary solid platforms that the boots push off from."
"Aha... the effect is similar to magnetic levitation, but working with air through ionization," Peter immediately found an analogy.
"It somewhat resembles early ANSA ion engine patents. But, I will repeat my question: how are you going to assemble something like this from all of this?" He swept his hand over the mountain of junk.
"Magnetrons! And transformers from microwaves!" I announced what was, to me, an obvious solution.
From Peter's skeptical expression I could tell I had not convinced him.
"Their coils will induce eddy currents. And fans from vacuum cleaners will add propulsion thrust for directed flight. I just need to use an adapted Lenz formula to calculate the induction force!"
"Wait," Peter frowned.
"If the air is ionized, it becomes plasma. The classical Lenz formula does not quite apply there. Inductance will behave differently."
"Exactly! That is why it is adapted for an ionized medium!" I grinned.
"Textbooks are a starting point, Peter, not a bible. My approach combines an electromagnetic field for levitation and propulsion for thrust."
"Hmm, it sounds surprisingly... logical. But..."
"No buts. Just watch!" I interrupted him.
"So, we gut four microwaves. We need their transformers to create a field of approximately 0.4 Tesla. Next, motors and blades from vacuum cleaners and a hair dryer. Six lithium-ion batteries from my favorite power drills," I narrated while extracting the necessary components with surgical precision.
"I also need a processor from an old laptop and a couple of accelerometers from broken smartphones. That is the brain for smart auto-balancing. And a handful of capacitors from camera flashes for fine-tuning the coils."
Once I had everything I needed, I moved to the most delicate part of the process.
Working on instinct, guided by the knowledge of a colonist engineer, I began tuning the coils and soldering in capacitors.
I was not calculating so much as feeling my way toward the right configuration, the one that would make the field pulses create air ionization with a density equivalent to 1 to 2 kg/m³.
That was precisely what would allow pushing off from air as though it were solid ground.
Parker watched my movements, mesmerized.
And I... I was in shock at myself.
I was not just assembling by feel.
I understood every step I was taking.
This Celestial Forge, this symbiosis of my new skills, was changing me at a fundamental level.
And I did not know whether to welcome it or fear it.
"Next is the modular frame," I continued, beginning the actual assembly.
"Each boot consists of three independent modules with quick-release clips. The electromagnetic module houses the coils in the sole, encased in epoxy inside a plastic housing. The propulsion module has motors with blades on the sides, housed in PVC pipe sections. And the energy module holds the batteries in the boot tops. On a hard impact or fall, the modules will simply detach rather than fly apart into pieces."
I secured the coils around iron cores, insulated them with tape, and checked resistance with a multimeter, reading around 8 Ohms.
Then I mounted the motors on the outer sides of the boots, directing the air ducts downward.
I wired the batteries into a single circuit housed in a backpack, and soldered the processor and accelerometers directly into the housing of one boot, writing a simple piece of code on my laptop to increase thrust when a sharp fall was detected.
I attached the whole construction to a pair of old sneakers with heavy-duty velcro.
The result was an ugly but functional Frankenstein's monster born from garage-level high technology.
I switched the boots on.
A quiet, low-frequency hum sounded, and I felt the sneaker soles lift slightly off the concrete floor.
Five to ten centimeters.
The coils were working.
A light flick of the toggle, and the fans on the sides added thrust with a quiet whistle, stabilizing the sneakers in the air.
The basic function was working.
Now came the real work.
Calibration.
It took a solid three hours.
Three hours of absolute, meditative concentration.
To Peter, it must have looked like shamanism.
I sat on the floor surrounded by wires, holding a multimeter in one hand while slowly turning trimming resistors with the other.
I was not just comparing numbers against the formula F_induction = I²μ₀A/(2d²).
I was listening to the hum of the coils, feeling the slightest changes in vibration, searching for that ideal resonance.
I tuned the accelerometers by repeatedly dropping the boots from different heights and tracking how quickly they responded.
This was not the work of a scientist.
It was the work of a craftsman tuning an instrument unlike any other.
The result was a genuine feat of garage engineering.
Bulky, ugly sneakers bristling with add-ons that could:
Fly for fifteen to thirty seconds at heights of up to ten meters.
Detect free fall and activate the propulsors, reducing impact speed by ninety percent.
A fall from ten meters would feel like a jump from one.
Generate pulsed platforms from ionized air, allowing up to five steps through open air.
I added a pair of mini-fans from an old laptop to cool the batteries in the backpack and, nudged by the "Risk of Disassembly" skill, went over every connection one more time to check for strength and modularity.
Everything was ready.
The System did not keep me waiting.
[Created electro-mechanical construction "Diamagnetic Propulsors". Complexity: Normal. Received +200 OP!]
Modular device for short-term flight, fall-softening, and the creation of air cushions, using dynamic induction of eddy currents in ionized air.
Again, no bonus for uniqueness.
Not surprising.
Somewhere in a S.H.I.E.L.D. hangar or tucked in a corner of Stark's workshop, there were almost certainly far more elegant prototypes gathering dust.
In any case, 200 OP was 200 OP.
The balance sitting at 700 points was a satisfying sight.
"Time for a test run," I said, pulling on the boots and shouldering the battery pack.
We headed out to the back yard.
The area was not completely private, but a quick look around confirmed no onlookers.
Without overthinking it, I climbed onto the low garage roof.
"Do you trust your work?" Peter called up from below with a nervous grin.
"I trust my calculations," I answered, and stepped off into the air.
For a fraction of a second there was free fall, a cold lurch in my stomach.
Then the accelerometers triggered.
The fans roared, and the descent snapped from a drop to a drift.
I landed on my feet with the softness of a cat.
"Well. 'Soft landing' is right," I said, ignoring the internal voice grumbling about the danger.
"The sensation is like your legs are sinking into something dense. Like jelly."
Next came several steps through the air.
Barely visible rings of ionized air flared and died beneath my feet, forming solid support where there was none.
And then, on the remaining charge, a short fifteen-second flight above the yard.
Success.
The prototype had earned the right to exist.
"That is incredible!" Peter's eyes lit up with excitement.
"It is like maglev for legs! Though in actual combat it would be pretty hard to use."
"Agreed," I nodded, unfastening the bulky rig.
"These are Gravity Boots Mark One. Crude, raw, and power-hungry. I need to shrink the size, find a proper power source, improve the materials... and all of that work is for you. The version of you under the Potion of Intellect. I have a number of ideas for upgrades too. We will refine them together. But naturally, after we finish the main Potion project."
"Then... should we go? The lab should be empty by now," Peter asked impatiently as we came back inside.
"Yes," I tossed him the Honda keys.
"Go ahead and get in. I will change into something cleaner and we will head out."
I quickly swapped my work clothes for clean jeans and a t-shirt, then tossed a box of assorted electronic scrap into the car trunk.
It made a convincing cover story in case I needed to produce something rare from my inventory unexpectedly.
The whole drive to the institute, Peter could not sit still.
He was firing off ideas, sketching in his notebook, his brain already tuning itself to the enormous task ahead.
By six-thirty in the evening we pulled up to the impressive university science building.
The evening light painted it in golden tones.
I looked at Peter, then at the building.
The hours ahead would determine everything, or close to it.
In this world there were gods, monsters, and aliens.
But the one true force capable of changing reality always started with the same thing.
Intellect.
Brains.
Genius.
That was the foundation.
That was the base.
And tonight we were going to crack its code.
Fool.
Fool.
Fool.
This was officially the worst day of her life.
The funeral, organized by her father's colleagues, left a taste of bile in her mouth.
She stood under a drizzling rain, staring at the lacquered coffin lid, and saw nothing around her but hyenas in expensive suits.
Faces full of false sympathy.
Handshakes slick from bribes.
She knew the investigation into Captain George Stacy's death would be slowed down.
Closed as an accident in the line of duty.
And knowing that made the bitterness of her grief almost unbearable.
Now she was alone.
Completely alone.
And all because of last night.
Because of her secret.
On another patrol she had to reveal herself to him.
He had looked at her, at his daughter in a ridiculous costume, and his eyes held neither fear nor condemnation.
Only infinite fatherly worry.
"We will talk at home, Gwen," he had said.
But he never made it home.
She wanted to cry.
So she did, mixing her tears with the cold drops of rain.
To hell with the idea that heroes had to be strong.
She was not a hero.
Her father was the hero.
A real, honest cop who refused dirty money and was killed for it.
Kingpin.
The name echoed in her head like a funeral bell.
The monster who fancied himself king of New York.
She did not know his identity, but it did not matter.
What mattered was that his empire, built on bones, drugs, and slavery, had taken from her the last person she had left.
Now his thugs, his lackeys, and his degenerates were her number one target.
She understood now.
She understood everything.
Patriot, Angel, Blazer, Demolisher...
Dozens of heroes who had flashed across New York's skyline and vanished just as suddenly as they had appeared.
Some of them were strong, very strong.
And even if Kingpin was not directly responsible for each disappearance, the pattern spoke for itself.
In London, three hero teams operated.
In New York, only one lone meta.
Her.
This city was a graveyard for anyone who wore a mask.
But when the mind is drowned in the thirst for revenge, the body runs on autopilot.
As soon as twilight settled over the streets, she pulled on her costume.
The mask hid her tear-swollen eyes but could not hide her rage.
She flew into the city not to patrol.
She flew to hunt.
Every dark alley.
Every shady gathering.
She swept through the criminal underworld like a hurricane.
She was looking for a lead, beating information out of every thug who wore gang colors.
This time she did not hold back.
She heard bones crunch beneath her fists and felt nothing but a dull satisfaction.
She needed answers.
And she got them.
Just not the ones she expected.
"Why can you not just stay home, bug?" The mocking, arrogant voice made her flinch.
A man in a bulky orange costume stepped out of the alley's shadow, futuristic gloves on both hands.
"You absolutely have to go looking for trouble with that cute little backside of yours?" The words landed with a ridiculous effect thanks to his thick German accent.
This was definitely a meta.
He moved with speed and strength that far exceeded anything human.
And those gloves.
On any other day she would have traded barbs with him.
Laughed at his accent, his stupid outfit, his absurd supervillain name.
He probably called himself something like "Vibrator."
But not tonight.
Tonight she felt as bad as she ever had.
One shot from his gloves, an invisible wave of compressed air, slammed into the wall right next to her.
The impact sent her stumbling, disoriented.
And worst of all, her spider-sense, her greatest advantage, screamed in agony, stunned and overwhelmed.
One of his minions took advantage of the gap.
Several shots.
One of them found its mark.
Sharp, burning pain tore through her left side.
Stunned and bleeding, she made an undignified retreat, pulling herself onto the roof of a low building.
The meta-bastard prowled the alley below, pouring mockery on her, trying to goad her into revealing her position.
She knew she needed to run.
But the hunger for information, the need to know more, turned out to be stronger than her survival instinct.
That turned out to be her next mistake of this damned evening.
"Kingpin's errand boy is lecturing me?" she shouted, her voice trembling with pain and fury.
"Vibrator, are you out of your mind?"
The word came a beat too late.
The bastard, drawn out by her bravado, grinned.
He crouched, and his gloves struck the asphalt.
A deafening crack split the air.
The shockwave converted into raw thrust.
One moment he was on the ground.
The next he stood on the roof, several meters away, looming over her wounded body.
He was almost certainly smirking under that mask.
"I am Shocker," his voice landed like a death sentence.
"Corpses do not need that information."
This time she had a rough idea of what to expect.
Fighting through the burning pain in her side, she threw herself sideways at the exact moment Shocker hammered the roof.
The vibration wave passed centimeters from her, spiderwebbing the concrete beneath her feet.
Without giving him time to recover, she launched two web streams, coating his gloves in a thick layer.
That bought her only a few seconds.
A low-frequency hum built, and the web, vibrating at a frantic frequency, simply crumbled to dust.
Shocker pressed forward, firing short, whipping pulses now, trying to predict her movements and herd her like an animal.
The wound made her dodges clumsy and slow.
After half a minute of those deadly exchanges, one pulse clipped her at an angle.
The world turned to jelly.
Her legs buckled.
A deafening ring filled her ears.
The nauseating disorientation was back.
Pulling together every scrap of will she had left, she pushed off the edge and leaped onto the roof of the neighboring building.
Shocker followed without any urgency.
She knew she could not win this fight.
Not in the shape she was in.
She could not beat answers out of him, and she would not last another minute against him.
She needed to run.
To retreat.
To survive and come back another time.
She shot a web upward and swung.
Higher.
Even higher.
Manhattan was a forest of skyscrapers.
The bastard, thankfully, fell back, unwilling to follow her that far up.
But pursuit gave way to a different, more terrifying problem.
Consciousness was starting to slip.
Blood loss.
The daytime grief of her father's funeral.
The evening brawls with street criminals.
All of it had mixed into one poisonous cocktail that even her enhanced body could not absorb.
Dark spots swam across her vision.
She needed shelter.
She needed to heal.
A couple of hours and she would be fine.
But she would not make it back to Brooklyn.
She would black out mid-flight and smear across the pavement.
A hospital?
No, even worse.
Since her powers had come in, hospitals had become a forbidden zone.
The risk of exposure was too great.
A taxi?
The subway?
A bleeding girl in costume would get noticed the moment she stepped foot near a doctor or cop.
Her father's former colleagues would start asking questions.
Not an option.
Only one place was left.
Her last safe haven.
The institute lab.
There was a first-aid kit there that she had shamelessly restocked after every raid.
At this hour it would be empty.
And there was her personal window with the filed latch she knew by touch.
On top of that, it was only one block away.
She could make it.
Drawing on what was left of her strength, she drove herself toward the institute.
The buildings around her blurred into streaks.
The science building window, her destination, pulsed in her consciousness as the single fixed point of salvation.
And then she was at it.
But something was wrong.
The light was on inside.
Her spider-sense fired at the same moment.
Not a danger signal.
A witness alert.
A moment later she spotted the familiar, lanky figure of Peter Parker standing at the lab whiteboard, enthusiastically filling it with formulas.
Her colleague.
The smart, quiet guy who she had long suspected knew her secret.
Her sense always behaved strangely around him.
It never screamed danger, it just quietly... hummed.
But he had kept quiet.
Had not told anyone.
She could deal with him.
And she had no choice left anyway.
Staying on the rooftops in her condition was a death sentence.
She pried the latch open clumsily, without a trace of her usual grace, and tumbled inside.
Her legs had nothing left to give.
The last thing she saw before the world went dark was Peter's shocked face spinning toward the noise.
And then, the merciful dark.
Literally ten seconds later, John walked back into the lab.
He swept his gaze across the frozen scene.
On the floor, lying in a spreading pool of her own blood, was the unconscious black-and-white figure of the city's resident heroine.
Standing over her, marker still in hand, face locked in absolute stupor, was Peter Parker.
The Potion of Intellect had apparently malfunctioned when confronted with this particular violation of probability.
John let out a tired chuckle and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"Right. I step away for two minutes, and September twenty-second decides to remind me it exists."
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