Chapter 37
"Why the long face?" was the first thing Blade asked, closing the door of his matte-black Charger with a quiet click.
I raised an eyebrow.
"Is it that obvious?" I was genuinely surprised. I'd thought my self-control was better than Peter's.
Blade chuckled and pulled a cigarette from the pack.
"Nah, you hold the mask well. But I'm something of an empath, remember? I can feel when someone's radiating like the whole rotten world just crashed down on their shoulders and they're trying to hold it up alone without letting anyone see them strain." He paused. "I thought you only sensed lies."
"It's all sides of the same coin, kid." He flicked the lighter, and the cigarette tip briefly lit up his face in the fading dusk. "The smell of lies, fear, despair. I've been hunting it my whole life. So what happened? Uncle Blade can fix a small problem. For the right price, of course."
He grinned, flashing perfectly white fangs. All thirty-two of them, or however many he had.
"Nothing to fix exactly," I said, feeling the forced calm start to slip. "Just too much going wrong in the world, and I'm not even talking about my own situation."
Honestly, the massive ball of chaos and catastrophe labeled "Eventfulness" had started its slow, unstoppable roll down the mountain. It was picking up everything in its path: coincidences, patterns, things I knew, things I couldn't have imagined. With every meter it grew larger, and at some point the weight of it might be more than this world could hold. I didn't want that. I actually lived here. Which meant sooner or later, I'd have to step in.
"You mean Hyperion?" Blade exhaled smoke. "Yeah. Interesting specimen. That guy is clearly not from this world."
"Him too," I nodded. We had walked into the garage during the conversation. Since Blade's last visit, it had grown to look even more like a mad engineer's lair: heaps of tools, disassembled equipment, and several things I hadn't gotten around to naming yet. "Strangely enough, I'm almost glad about him. He can at least clean some of the filth off the streets. Only the filth will just multiply in response to that, mark my words."
"Facts," Blade said, looking around with interest. "The world has needed a reboot for a long time. All those orders and directives, power plays and redistributions. Nonsense the people who call themselves the elite love to dream about. Oh, and here's something new."
His gaze settled on the mannequin in the corner, where the Proteus suit was stretched out. I'd removed all the electronics from it temporarily.
"Proteus," I explained under his curious stare. "High-tech protective fabric. Practically no equivalent exists anywhere. Go ahead and hit it. Full force."
Blade smirked, cracked his neck, and without any hesitation stepped forward. What he threw wasn't just a punch but a calibrated, years-honed movement. His knuckles slammed into the mannequin's sternum. The deafening crack of shattering plastic rang out, and the mannequin flew into the wall. The fabric itself was completely undamaged.
"Handles pistol rounds no problem," I continued calmly while he examined his knuckles. "Rifle rounds are harder because the kinetic energy is too much and the behind-armor effect is a real issue. But it's light and it breathes."
"How much?" Blade's voice was flat, but I could see he'd taken the bait.
"Depends what you're offering in return. You supposedly brought a surprise?"
"Right, yeah. One sec."
He walked out and came back a minute later carrying a small silver case. My heart picked up speed in anticipation. Ultra-rare material? A spellbook? An artifact? Whatever it was, it definitely wasn't money.
"Take a look," Blade set the case on the workbench. I clicked the latches and opened it.
"What exactly am I looking at?" I asked with genuine curiosity. Inside, resting in neat nests of black velvet, sat six vials of liquid in different colors, ranging from a dark brown that was almost black to a frighteningly bright scarlet. The consistency looked like... blood.
"Blood," Blade confirmed my guess. Noticing my confusion, he continued, pointing at each vial in turn. "Six different types, as a reminder of your options. Revenant is a raised corpse. Turned is ordinary street trash. Purebloods of the third, second, and first generations, those are the aristocracy. And the real prize..." he tapped the scarlet vial. "The blood of a Descendant."
Something began taking shape in my head. Ideas, fragments of theory. Peter was a genetics genius. Vampires operated through a virus, didn't they? But why would I need their blood? Blade obviously picked up on my confusion.
"You're supposedly smart," he said. "Study this stuff. Maybe work it into some recipes. Or maybe find a way to enhance yourself. Either way, it's valuable. Especially the Descendant blood. They have fewer weaknesses and unique abilities."
"Such as?" That was starting to sound genuinely interesting.
"Well, specifically, this is the blood of my late father, Haag. The freak was a master of brainwashing. He rummaged through other people's minds like they were his own pockets. He raised me to be the perfect vessel for his rebirth. Didn't quite work out for dear old dad."
"Oh," I said slowly. "So to summarize, this is the blood of a powerful telepath, and it might hold the key to his abilities?"
"Hell if I know how it works for you eggheads," Blade shrugged. "But yeah, vampirism is a virus. Means it can be dissected. Fair warning though: the British already tried to reproduce the effect without the side effects. Didn't work."
"Because the secret is probably in your blood," I muttered, studying him. "Speaking of which. Why is there no dhampir blood in the deal?"
Blade grinned again, this time with that cunning, businesslike edge.
"Well, duh. I need to keep my price inflated. It's obvious you'd have to start with something when studying these samples and trying to eliminate the side effects. My blood is the best baseline to compare everything against. So, go ahead. I'm open to offers."
"Before we go any further, I want to understand what I'm actually working with," I crossed my arms and shifted into analyst mode. "What are you actually capable of? Give me your specs. Strength, speed, regeneration. Concrete numbers, not just 'I'm good.'"
Blade appreciated the approach. The corner of his mouth twitched.
"Now that's a different kind of conversation. Alright, egghead, listen up. Speed, I'm no Flash. By the standards of some pureblood bloodsuckers I'm actually on the slower side. I can push under fifty miles per hour on a sprint, but my real edge is endurance. I don't get tired. Period. Strength, roughly half a ton on a bench press. If I get genuinely angry, I can flip a car. Accelerated regeneration, denser muscle structure. Pistol rounds rarely go deeper than a centimeter. Painful and unpleasant but not lethal. I also have some of dad's psychic garbage, but it's defective and I barely use it."
"Not bad," I nodded, processing the information. This was a level well beyond peak human. "And that's your ceiling? No stimulants, no enhancements?"
"Nah," Blade grinned. "That's my base. Walking-around mode."
"Now that's interesting," I leaned forward. "Where there's a base, there's got to be..."
"Advanced mode, yeah. Boss phase two," he smirked. "Enhanced with Chi, a specific mystical energy, and I become dozens of times more dangerous. And if I bring out my beauty..." Blade ran his fingers along the katana handle at his hip with something close to tenderness.
Chi. Right. In this universe, alongside science and magic, there was a third force. Shang-Chi, Iron Fist. Characters who reached cosmic levels through sheer willpower and internal energy. I wanted that.
"Teach me," I said before I could stop myself. "Chi mastery. It'd be way more useful than poking around in blood samples."
Blade laughed. Loudly, genuinely, from the gut.
"Nope. I'd love to, cap, but here's the thing: it doesn't work like that. Mastering Chi takes years. Meditation, concentration, finding harmony with life energy, all that esoteric stuff. And here's the kicker: your genius brain isn't an advantage. It's actually a hindrance. You can't speed up the process. Unless you're a ridiculously talented kid from some lost monastery. And you, trust me, have zero talent for this. You're all wires, chemistry, and calculations. Chi is about spirit. We run on completely different operating systems."
"Damn," I muttered, frustrated. Closing off such an obvious path to power was annoying. "What about the sword? How does it enhance you?"
"My 'Morning Star' is one of a kind. The perfect weapon against vampires and other undead. It bypasses their regeneration, absorbs their essence, and powers me up for a short time afterward. It was built to tear through crowds of those things. It wouldn't suit you. Too willful. You'd need resonance with a weapon like that."
"Resonance?"
"Yeah. You'd have to be on the same wavelength, get it? Like, you know Captain Britain, right?"
"Yes," I nodded, recalling what I'd read about the leader of the British team Excalibur.
"Well, the name isn't just a brand. Excalibur is a real, existing sword. An artifact that gives its bearer flight, super strength, invulnerability, the whole superhero package. Captain Britain became who he is specifically because of that sword."
"But there's a catch. There's obviously a catch."
"Yeah. That resonance again. A powerful artifact like Excalibur won't just choose anyone. The criteria are enormous. Roughly speaking, you need to be a descendant of King Arthur, righteous, kind, just, but also ambitious and capable of leading people. That specific combination is rare. Captain Britain happened to match the sword perfectly."
"But to know whether you'd match an artifact, you'd have to find it first. Is there any way to..."
"Hold up," Blade cut me off. "There are very few objects like that, and each one is on the radar of the powers that be. You could spend your entire life chasing them and find out in the end that none of them will have you. It's worse than a lottery. And the risks are higher too. Some artifacts can simply drive you insane."
"Yeah, that's not ideal," I rubbed the bridge of my nose. "So the only real path forward is researching the vampire blood. And yours, naturally."
"Naturally," Blade agreed with a satisfied nod. "Easy paths tend to lead somewhere you don't want to go. So, have you decided what you can offer for my precious blood?"
"Yeah," I pulled a small white tablet from my pocket and held it out to him. "The Intellect Potion has officially become NZT-48. Fully reproducible in a lab, no rare orchids required. The effect is about 25 to 30 percent weaker than the original and comes with minor side effects like headaches and withdrawal, but your physiology should handle that fine. And most importantly, it can be mass-produced. Interesting enough?"
Blade's eyes lit up with a predatory gleam. He understood the potential immediately.
"Yeah, this is absolutely crazy interesting!" he said. "Fifty of those tablets, a suit made from your fabric, and the full blood set including mine goes into your genius hands!"
"Ten tablets, ten Predator serums, ten muscle stimulators, and the suit," I started the negotiation.
"Forty tablets, the suit, and twenty of each stimulator!"
"Fifteen tablets, ten serums, ten stimulators, and the suit."
"Come on, kid, at least thirty tablets! Everything else, fine!"
"Deal!" I agreed, privately delighted. NZT tablets were the easiest component to produce. "I'll take your measurements for the suit now and sketch out an approximate design. Everything will be ready in a couple of days, you can pick it up on the weekend. But I'd like to receive the blood samples today."
"Yeah, no problem," Blade agreed easily. "A deal's a deal."
The next couple of minutes were all business. I took the big man's measurements quickly, and he turned out to be surprisingly patient about it. On the design question he was brief: "Make it practical, functional, and not embarrassing to wear on the street, not just through vampire guts." Noted. After drawing several dozen milliliters of his anomalous blood into a sterile syringe, Blade handed it over. The deal was done.
"By the way," he said, already standing by the car. His hand paused on the door handle. "Have you heard from Frank lately?"
"Yeah," I nodded. "Excellent specialist. A true pro."
"Something's off. I've been calling him all day and getting nothing but silence. I'm probably going to swing by and check on him now."
Something lurched unpleasantly in my chest. A bad feeling began rolling in like an icy wave. Had I been too late? Had Fisk already moved?
"I, uh, haven't heard anything," I answered, trying to keep my voice steady. "But I've got a bad feeling about it. Mind if I come with you?"
Blade gave me a long look and nodded without a word.
"Get in."
I threw on a light windbreaker and climbed into the passenger seat. The Charger's engine roared, and we shot off into the night toward something I was already dreading. "I hope Frank's just training some rookie and left his phone across the room," flashed through my head, but I didn't believe it even as I thought it.
Alright. Calm down. Twenty minutes of travel time. Time to spin the gacha.
I closed my eyes and concentrated. I opened the system window and tapped "Forge of Creation." 550 OP was deducted from my balance. A description appeared before my eyes.
[Received information package (Common) — Technology of Non-Mages: Primary Principles.] [Unlocking this information package costs 400 OP.]
[This package provides access not merely to knowledge, but to a fundamental understanding of the physical laws of the universe up to a graduate level. This is the complete "source code" of reality, from basic Newtonian mechanics to the elegant complexity of string theory, from the simplest chemical reactions to the secrets of genetic engineering and materials science.]
[The package's value lies not in passive data storage, but in the active synergy between those fields. While working on a project, your mind will begin building conceptual bridges between seemingly unrelated areas. The principle of quantum entanglement may suggest a solution for building a secured communications network. Knowledge of biochemical catalyst processes will push you toward a more efficient regeneration potion. The creative process becomes intuitive. You begin not just assembling but composing technologies, finding elegant and non-obvious solutions rooted in the deepest laws of nature.]
Worthy. More than worthy. This wasn't just new knowledge, it was a new way of thinking. A foundation that would make everything I built an order of magnitude more refined. If I hadn't been dead set on two spins, I'd have unlocked it without hesitation. But the excitement had taken over. The skill could wait. Second attempt.
[Received information package (Common) — Individual Armament: XCOM Philosophy.] [Unlocking this information package costs 200 OP.]
[This package instills in you the philosophy of absolute efficiency through personalization. Its core principle: not a gram too much, not a second wasted, not one redundant component. This is the art of building things that are not just tools but extensions of the user's will and body.]
[You will intuitively grasp the laws of ergonomics, creating weapons and gadgets that fit the hand perfectly without causing fatigue. You think in terms of minimalism, stripping away everything that adds weight, reduces reliability, or complicates use. Whether it's armor, a weapon, or a scientific device, every curve, every material, every component will serve one purpose: maximum efficiency at minimum cost. Your creations will be compact, deadly, and intuitively natural to use, like a scalpel in a surgeon's hands.]
Also extremely useful, especially given the suit I'd need to build for Blade. But again, two Common items. Disappointment flickered, but I crushed it immediately. Nothing to it. The darkest point of the night comes just before dawn. I was like that miner from the meme who turned back one centimeter from a diamond vein. The main thing was not to quit.
"Something's off here," Blade muttered as we rolled to a stop in front of Frank's gun shop.
His words pulled me out of my thoughts. I looked around. The street was unnaturally quiet. No cars, no pedestrians. The streetlight seemed dim and sickly.
"No smell of blood," Blade continued, stepping out of the car. "But there's something foul in the air. Professional work."
Frank's shop should have been closed, but the heavy front door was slightly ajar. Inside, not a soul. Everything in perfect order. And emptiness. The counters, the display cases, the walls where even the replica weapons used to hang, all of it was stripped bare, clean as a hospital room. We moved to the warehouse. Same picture. Empty shelves. Not a single shell casing on the floor, no trace of a struggle. As if Frank and his entire arsenal had simply evaporated.
"Someone robbed Frank?" Blade's voice rang with restrained fury and disbelief. "I absolutely do not believe this. Robbing Frank is like stealing a tank from a military base single-handedly."
The bad feeling hardened into cold certainty. Something total and irreversible had just happened.
"Alright, he's not going to like this," Blade growled, turning around. "But let's go to his house. Right now."
Frank's place in Queens, a two-story family townhouse a couple of miles from his shop, was no longer a home. It was a blackened corpse of a building, cordoned off with fluttering yellow tape. Nobody around except a couple of patrol officers lazily walking the perimeter, and the air was thick with the smell of cold ash.
The sight was devastating. It looked as though the house had first been blown apart from the inside, and then whatever remained had been crushed by some enormous force. This wasn't a random fire or a gas leak. This was deliberate. Angry, methodical, and designed to send a message. The work of a meta-human. Judging by the nature of the destruction, I was nearly certain it was Shocker's signature. And the complete absence of rubberneckers and journalists told me it had all happened long ago. Ten to twelve hours ago. During the night of September 22nd to 23rd. That cursed number again.
"Excuse me, officers," Blade lowered his window, and his voice came out deceptively warm, almost silky. "Be kind enough to satisfy the curiosity of a concerned citizen. What happened here?"
The sound of that voice sent a chill across my skin. There was no threat in it, but there was something else. A strange, insinuating resonance that seemed to bypass the ears entirely and go straight into the brain.
The face of one of the officers smoothed over. His gaze went empty.
"Brutal murder of the Castle family," he said in a flat, monotone voice, as if reciting a report. "Followed by demolition of the residence to conceal evidence."
"A murder. They were all..." I watched Blade grip the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles went white.
"Yes, sir," the second officer joined in, his eyes glazed over the same way. "Wife, son, daughter, all deceased. In addition to burns, the bodies showed multiple signs of torture. The father, Frank Castle, was transported to the hospital. His condition is critical. The doctors are offering no prognosis."
Blade said nothing. The silence inside the car became heavy as lead.
"Thank you, gentlemen," his voice dropped even lower, even more insistent. "Would you be so kind as to tell me where I can obtain all the details of this case?"
The suggestion in his voice was almost tangible by now. I could feel the chill running down the back of my neck, and this was what he called "defective garbage?" While Blade extracted information from the officers, I sank into a swamp of self-recrimination.
Where had I gone wrong?
Everywhere, apparently. Gwen's father was dead. Check. Otto Octavius had become Doctor Octopus. Check. Frank Castle's family had been brutally tortured and killed by Kingpin's people, and Frank himself, having somehow survived, was now on a guaranteed path to becoming the Punisher. Check. The inexplicable Osborn situation. Check. And these were only the fires I'd planned to put out once I was stronger. I hadn't been strong enough. I'd put it off. I'd found more important things to work on, more interesting projects, rather than setting up some drones for round-the-clock surveillance of Frank's house.
At this rate, all I had left to do was let something happen to Uncle Ben. Then Peter would finally lose his mind, mix himself some nuclear cocktail from Connors' serum and my stimulators, wash it down with OZ serum synthesized from a napkin of Gwen's blood he'd never thrown away, and turn into something monstrous. No. Enough of that. Tomorrow, Lucas's package would arrive. I'd go to Peter, we'd cook the Elixir of Ash and Dawn, and I'd inject it into Uncle Ben immediately. Just as a precaution. And maybe set some aside for Frank? But then how would he recover from his injuries on his own terms and find his own path? Maybe it had taken him months, or even years, and curing him now would only accelerate the Punisher's arrival?
The thoughts were cold, calculating, and disgusting.
"...at the 82nd Street precinct, ask for Officer Shelby, he's the one running the case," the officer's flat voice reached me.
"I appreciate your time," Blade said. "Consider this conversation forgotten."
"What conversation, sir?" the cop blinked, watching us go with empty eyes.
We drove away. The only sound in the car was the engine.
"So what's it going to be, kid," Blade said, his voice rough with barely restrained fury. "Are you with me or not?"
Or not. I desperately didn't want to get tangled up in this. But I was already tangled up in it. By my inaction. By my cowardice. The least I could do for the sake of basic decency was participate. In what, vengeance? Should I tell him about Fisk? About Kingpin? Cut through all the intermediaries and point him straight at the top of the food chain? But then how would I explain how I knew? And did Blade even have what it would take to survive a direct confrontation with a leviathan? This was complicated.
I turned to him. Instead of answering his question, I looked him straight in the eye and said quietly but clearly:
"Shocker was probably the one who did this. And we should stop by my place first."
Screw it. Come what may. I popped an NZT tablet and started building something resembling an action plan for the night ahead. Fortunately, Blade was already turning toward Brooklyn, but the questions in his eyes. Oh, there were plenty of those.
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