Chapter 40
"So, what do you propose?" Blade asked as soon as we pulled onto the avenue. His voice was even and emotionless, but I saw how intently he peered at the rushing cityscape.
I glanced at the rearview mirror, making sure Gwen, pressed into the back seat, was also fully alert. Her fingers nervously fidgeted with the edge of the mask lying on her knees. Here and now, there was no point in hiding.
"The plan has two stages, but the short version is this: we smoke Fisk out of his hole, and you take him out with a sniper rifle," I began, watching Blade maneuver into the left lane. "Breaking into the Empire State Building, that damn symbol of New York, is suicide. We risk not just attracting the cops' attention, but getting every federal agency on our tail and landing a terrorist label. We don't need that."
"Sounds reasonable," Blade nodded, his eyes flashing momentarily in the cabin's semi-darkness. "A frontal assault is out. Solo sabotage won't work either. It's not my style, and our heroine," he gave a barely perceptible nod toward Gwen, "doesn't have the nerve for this kind of mess."
"Nothing's missing!" an indignant voice immediately called from the back. "I... I can handle it! I'm ready... I can neutralize someone like Fisk!"
"No," I shook my head, trying to make my voice sound firm but not too harsh. "It's not about courage, Gwen. It's about experience. You definitely shouldn't charge at Fisk in his fortress. Obviously, he's guarded by meta-humans, and he himself is far from simple. You already took a serious hit from Shocker, and compared to Kingpin, he's street trash. In short, I'm sorry, but for an operation of this level, you still don't have enough practice."
At this comment, she fell silent. In the mirror, I saw her turn away to the window, her shoulders drooping.
"Okay, we've settled that," Blade brought the conversation back on track. "So how exactly are we going to lure this bastard out? That's the main difficulty. He could lock himself in his office for a week."
"That's why we need two stages," I answered, mentally reviewing the blueprints in my head. "We head to my garage. Within an hour, maybe an hour and a half, I'll assemble a couple of gadgets for our show." I shifted my gaze to Gwen. "And we need you for the most important part. You'll be our eyes. Please, watch the Empire State Building. Make sure Kingpin doesn't escape. If you spot his motorcade or helicopter, follow him immediately, but discreetly. And keep us informed. Your task is to make sure he doesn't leave before we're ready."
After discussing a couple more details, we dropped Gwen off at the nearest high-rise, from where it was more convenient for her to reach downtown. Watching her go, Blade pressed the pedal to the floor, and we raced toward Bay Ridge, toward the house and garage that in this short time had already become something of a home.
"Well then, genius, care to reveal your cards?" Blade asked as soon as the garage gates clanged shut behind us. He crossed his arms on his chest, leaning against the workbench.
After carefully thinking everything through once more and internally nodding to my "brilliant" and hopefully not too overcomplicated plan, I began.
"First, which is also the key stage: completely cut the power to the Empire State Building. Remotely. To pull this off, I'll build a powerful, narrow-beam EMP gun. You'll be the one to fire it. Twice."
"A poor hunter shoots twice," Blade smirked.
"And a good one kills two rabbits with one shot. We've got a whole zoo here. The first target is the antenna complex at the very top of the tower. This isn't just an antenna; it's the most powerful communications hub that broadcasts signals for a good half of the city. You need to hit the base of the mast. One precise pulse, and Fisk is instantly cut off from the outside world. No satellite, cellular, or radio communication. Complete information asphyxiation. He'll be blockaded. The second target is the technical floor. The gun's pulse will be wider; you'll aim at one of the floors between eighty-seven and a hundred and one. The ninety-third floor should do. That's where the main distribution panels, server rooms, and, most importantly, the backup power systems are concentrated. A strike on this nerve center will cause a cascading failure and de-energize the entire building from the inside."
"Hmm, sounds nice," Blade thoughtfully rubbed his chin. "But don't you think that a paranoid like Fisk will just sit tight under guard? He won't care about the lights being out. In the next half hour, his techs will fix everything. And about that complete communications blockade—you might be too optimistic. He surely has some protected landlines. He'll just barricade himself and wait."
"Yes, and that's exactly why the second stage exists," I said, summoning Shocker's glove from my inventory with a mental effort and placing it on the workbench with a dull thud. To scare the hell out of Fisk.
Blade raised an eyebrow in bewilderment.
"With this glove?"
"With vibrations! We'll create the illusion of a structural threat to the building, but without actually harming it. I'll calibrate this glove. Instead of short, powerful pulses, it'll generate a constant, low-amplitude infrasonic vibration, around fifteen to twenty hertz. Our Spider-Girl will plant this thing in the basement complex. The entire building will fill with a growing, maddening hum. A hum you can't hide from behind a dozen guards. It'll be an effect on the subconscious, on primal fear."
"Do vibrations actually work like that?" The skepticism in his voice lessened, but suspicion remained. "I thought concrete dampens that stuff perfectly."
"True, a simple vibration sent through concrete dies out after a couple of meters. You can't fool physics," I gave a predatory smile. "But we won't be affecting the concrete box. We'll affect the building's skeleton itself. Its steel framework! A skyscraper is a complex metal structure wrapped in concrete and glass. And steel is a perfect conductor for vibrations. All Gwen needs to do is find one of the central load-bearing columns in the framework, chip off some concrete or fireproofing, and attach the activated glove. From that moment, the entire tower becomes one giant tuning fork humming at an infrasonic frequency!"
Blade was silent for several seconds, processing the information. Then a wide, almost insane grin spread across his face.
"Holy shit... A standing ovation for your engineering genius!" He slapped me on the shoulder so hard I barely stayed on my feet. "So while the whole tower is de-energized, cut off from the world, and vibrating like a Japanese sex toy, Fisk will have to evacuate urgently. But the elevators won't work... Will a guy that big even manage that many flights of stairs?"
"That's the thing—he won't. And he knows it," I winked. "Someone like Fisk, with his paranoia and resources, would have definitely prepared for such a scenario. A hundred percent, he has a personal elevator powered by an autonomous, isolated system. And I wouldn't be surprised if its control cable is armored fiber optic that doesn't care about any EMP. That elevator will be his only path to salvation. And our window of opportunity."
"Got it. The plan is awesome, just like your watch!" Blade nodded, his gaze becoming hard and focused. "A little overcomplicated, of course, but the alternative is becoming a persona non grata in all fifty states. So go ahead, conjure. Use your crafting magic or whatever you call it. The clock is ticking."
Nodding, I set to work. My brain, turned into an ultra-precise quantum computer, had already broken the entire process down into thousands of parallel tasks, and my hands began moving before I could give them a conscious command. Blade silently moved the vise aside and cleared the workbench, becoming a silent assistant in my insane act of creation.
First, the frame and body. Simple enough. Snatching a small but sturdy frame from an old server rack—the skeleton of a long-deceased IT dinosaur—from the pile of junk dumped in the corner, I made the angle grinder squeal. A couple of precise cuts, several clicks of the rivet gun, and the output was a crude, angular base resembling the skeleton of a futuristic rifle from the darkest cyberpunk dreams. Yes, it wouldn't look pretty. It would be an ugly but deadly bastard of engineering thought.
The power source would, naturally, be the Palladium reactor. Only it could deliver the pulse of monstrous power we needed. Disconnecting it from the plasma barrier system, I inserted it with a dull, pleasant click into a specially prepared socket in place of the stock, connecting the cold-to-touch cables to the main converter. The reactor responded with an even, barely audible hum. The monster's heart began beating.
Now, the accumulators. The main thing in an EMP device is the instantaneous, almost unthinkable release of huge energy. I took the ten most powerful high-voltage capacitors that were previously part of my Marx generator and began the most painstaking part of the work: soldering. The acrid smell of rosin hit my nose. A spark, the hiss of solder that spread over the contacts like liquid silver. My fingers worked with inhuman speed and precision, and in ten minutes, before me lay a battery capable of lighting up a small city block for one short moment, and in the next, extinguishing those lights forever.
Next, the emitter. Five magnetrons, ruthlessly ripped from microwaves, I mounted on a titanium plate in a honeycomb pattern. But the main magic was elsewhere. The most complex part was the phasing circuit. On a breadboard, I assembled a complex chain of timers and high-speed thyristors. This plain board was the brain and conductor. It would make the magnetrons fire not in a chaotic chorus but as a coordinated orchestra, with a calibrated delay in nanoseconds. My brain had already calculated the needed intervals to create a perfect cone of constructive interference. I installed the entire structure in the center of a parabolic reflector from an old satellite dish, giving it the appearance of a deadly flower. Naturally, I didn't think about any modularity or elegance. The only thing that mattered was the Palladium Reactor, the most valuable part, easily detached.
Finally, I simply connected it all together. The reactor powers the capacitors, those emit a deafening, growing whine as they charge in a couple of seconds, and then all the accumulated might, at my signal, goes to the phasing circuit, which releases it to the magnetrons. The EMP gun, looking like a garbage weapon from a post-apocalyptic film, was ready. The main thing was, it worked, and the system confirmed it.
[Created simple electro-mechanical construct "EMP Gun." Complexity: Low. Received +100 OP!]
Device creating powerful directed EMP interference.
"Looks like crap," Blade honestly admitted, walking around my creation. "Will it at least not explode in my hands?"
"It's effective. Given the limited time, assembling something better would be difficult," I answered, shrugging and tossing the gun into my inventory. "As for explosions... just aim in the right direction. Now I'll calibrate the glove, and let's go."
Here, everything was an order of magnitude simpler. Not creating something from scratch, but rather a "surgical intervention." Carefully opening the glove's body with a diamond cutter, I discovered inside an intricate weave of microscopic wire veins, nerve clusters of boards, and miniature capacitors. My brain instantly analyzed the circuit. My goal was to bypass the combat system. There it was, the main power cable going to the combat energy accumulators. Click of the wire cutters. Done, the weapon glove was dead. Now I could proceed to modification. I soldered into the circuit running from the internal battery to the vibration emitters the step-down modulator I'd assembled on my knee. A simple circuit with a potentiometer for power regulation and a frequency generator chip.
Turning on the glove, I made sure there was no usual loud hum. But the workbench under it began trembling finely, and a barely perceptible vibration went through the floor. Taking out my smartphone and downloading the first available spectrum analyzer app, I brought it closer. A clear peak appeared on screen.
"What the..." Blade frowned, slightly shaking his head, as if trying to get rid of an unpleasant sensation in his ears.
I silently turned the screwdriver on the trimmer resistor on my board. The peak on the screen crawled left and stopped at the mark of 18.5 Hz. Perfect infrasound. In the garage, it instantly became uncomfortable. The air seemed to thicken; a slight nausea and an oppressive feeling of inexplicable anxiety appeared. The tuning was complete.
For the final touch, I screwed several powerful neodymium magnets, ripped from old hard drives, to the back of the glove. I added a simple timer with a self-destruct mechanism—a small charge of plastid, enough to turn the circuit into melted slag. I brought a simple activation toggle switch outside. Now Gwen could reliably magnetize the glove to a steel beam, and after half an hour, it would simply pop softly, destroying all possible evidence to hell.
"Done!" I exhaled, leaning back in my chair.
Two unique devices, assembled in an hour and change. I never would have thought I was capable of such a thing. Or no—when pressed, internal reserves activate, and I prove to myself, quite literally on my ass, that all limitations are only in the head.
"Let's go," Blade nodded shortly.
Settling into his black Charger, we again flew onto the streets and rushed toward Manhattan. There wasn't a single signal from Gwen, which meant our target was still inside his tower of steel and glass.
The roof of the "230 Fifth Avenue" building at such a late hour was empty. The fashionable rooftop bar had long closed, and only the wind drove napkins and leaves across the huge open terrace. This place became our meeting point. Gwen was already waiting for us, a small figure in her suit against the background of the giant, cloud-piercing spire of the Empire State Building.
I silently handed her the modified glove.
"The magnets are powerful; they'll stick to bare steel permanently. Look for a load-bearing column in the basement or on a technical floor, as deep as possible. Flip the toggle and leave. Don't play hero. Remember, you're a ghost. In, job done, out. You have five minutes for everything."
She nodded decisively. In her eyes, under the mask, was a mixture of nervousness and steel determination. Taking the glove, she without unnecessary words darted to the roof edge and, gracefully vaulting over the parapet, disappeared into the night. Blade and I remained alone under the cold Manhattan sky. The five-minute countdown started.
Our observation post on the building roof, located approximately 350-400 meters from the Empire State, was ideal. From here, we had a direct, unobstructed view of the skyscraper's southern facade, which now represented a black, cloud-piercing spire. The shooting angle was comfortable enough to hit both the technical floors and the antenna complex crowning the tower. The night was our ally.
After briefly instructing Blade on using the EMP gun, I pointed my finger at two key points on the building's dark silhouette. In this regard, I trusted his superhuman accuracy more than any targeting system. Finishing, I stepped back a couple of meters, giving him space. My phone vibrated shortly. Gwen was already in position and waiting for the signal, waiting for the power to go out so she could install her "gift."
Blade flipped the toggle on the EMP gun's body to charging mode. The gun responded with a high electronic hum, similar to the sound of charging an old photo flash, only a thousand times more powerful and piercing. This sound seemed to make the air itself vibrate. Blade stood motionless, like a granite statue, holding the ugly weapon as if it were an extension of his hands. After three agonizingly long seconds, the simple light indicator changed color from alarming red to confident green. Shot. He pressed the large button protected by a guard on the handle. All the energy accumulated in the capacitor battery instantly discharged to the phasing grid of the magnetrons.
For me, as an outside observer, it looked surreal. At the moment of the shot, the air around the gun barrel ionized for a fraction of a second, creating a short, absolutely silent flash of pale violet glow, similar to light from a short circuit or a weak aurora borealis. Immediately after the flash, a wave-like distortion passed toward the tower, like haze over heated asphalt. This was the visible front of the EMP wave propagation. No cinematic electric spheres or flying lightning bolts. Just a quiet flash, slight spatial distortion, and in a second... The first shot hit the spire precisely.
Another three seconds of charging. Again, the piercing whine and green flash of the indicator. Second shot, aimed lower. And then the effect became truly tangible. The Empire State Building, one of the world civilization's symbols, blinked and went out. As if someone had turned off a giant switch. Against the background of the glowing city landscape, a black hole appeared—a void that swallowed the entire skyscraper.
"So, we have about two to three minutes," I said shortly, handing Blade my Remington 700 sniper rifle. He silently accepted it, and I hid the cooling EMP gun in my inventory.
The calculations in my head raced at simulation speed. Fisk's penthouse is on the 80-85 floors, approximately 320-330 meters from the ground. The speed of his personal, protected elevator is about 6-7 meters per second. The pure descent time will take about 50 seconds. Add the distribution of vibration through the steel framework, growing panic, guard commotion, time to the elevator and from it to the exit. Everything converged. From the South service exit, Fisk should appear very soon.
About a minute and a half later, Gwen's figure landed on the roof next to us absolutely silently. She said nothing, just stared at Blade, who was already lying on the roof edge, pressed into the optical scope. The Remington has an effective firing range of up to 1000 meters. From a ballistics standpoint, the rifle had more than a twofold margin in power and accuracy, since the distance to the target was only 380-400 meters. But the main problem was not distance. The main problem was the wind.
New York is an "urban canyon." The wind, hitting skyscraper facades, creates the most complex, treacherous eddies—ascending and descending currents. Invisible rivers of air. A bullet, flying these 400 meters, could cross several such zones where the wind blows in different directions with different strengths. Even for a shooter of Blade's level, who thanks to his superhuman senses could literally feel these currents with his skin, making a precise correction was a task on the edge of art and luck. But I believed in him.
The waiting stretched our nerves. And then, two minutes after the lights went out, a black armored SUV pulled up to the service exit. Another thirty seconds later, the service doors swung open, and from there the first several bodyguards spilled out, quickly looking around. Another five seconds passed, and surrounded by a tight ring of security, Fisk's bulky, massive figure appeared in the doorway.
The world seemed to narrow to the picture in the scope. A deep, calm exhale from Blade. Smooth pressure on the trigger.
A sharp, dry crack of a shot tore the night's silence. A moment later, a barely audible dull slap reached us. The bullet easily pierced the skull, and the huge figure of one of the city's most dangerous bastards, far from immortal as it turned out, collapsed onto the asphalt like a sack of bones. A clean, perfect, inevitable shot.
"Pack up!" I called out.
Blade silently rose, returned the rifle to me, which I immediately hid in my inventory, and without hesitation simply stepped off the roof edge, disappearing into the darkness. I caught Gwen by the waist; she released a web line, and we flew down, feeling the wild gusts of wind and the dizzying flight. A couple of minutes later, we were already racing in Blade's Charger through the New York streets, away from the extinguished giant, dissolving into the endless stream of lights.
"Awesome. Brother is avenged!" was the first thing Blade said when the garage gates clanged shut behind us. He slammed his palm on the dusty workbench with force, raising a cloud of steel shavings into the air. The tension of the night finally released, replaced by grim satisfaction. "True, obviously, they won't leave me alone after this shit. After all, I killed Wilson Fisk first, not Kingpin. One bastard less, but for the system, I'm a murderer of a public figure. So I need to get out."
"Get out where?" I asked in confusion. I somehow had not considered this option. This was... well, this was Blade. A top-tier superhuman, for all practical purposes. He seemed to have nothing to fear.
"Doesn't matter where, the main thing is out of the country," he shrugged, but there was not a drop of indifference in his eyes. "Unlike you, I showed my face. They know me. And now coming after me won't be bandits, but people in strict suits with federal badges. So as soon as you heal Frank, I'll have a heart-to-heart with him, and goodbye, America."
"Sad, of course," I exhaled. The realization hit my gut: now I couldn't count on Blade's help, support, and connections in New York. We had lost our main power asset.
"Don't worry, kid," he pushed me on the shoulder in a friendly way. "Even being outside the US, I'll help with what I can. You're like a brother to me now, understand? So reach out on any issue; you have my contacts." He shifted his gaze to Gwen, who had been silent until now. "And you, Spider-Girl, don't drift either. You're partially one of mine now too. Glad you didn't lecture me about how 'we shouldn't stoop to their level' and all that other blah-blah-blah."
"He... deserved it," Gwen admitted reluctantly but firmly, her eyes on the floor. This was a huge admission for her, and we both understood it.
"By the way, about help," I immediately seized the opportunity, addressing Blade. "I need a new place to work. Some large, hidden space where I can set up a full-fledged base. The garage has become too small and inconvenient for my projects."
Blade grinned.
"You're quick. You can use my base in New York. It's an underground complex, big enough for your toys. I'll send you the address and add you to the security system. My home is your home. Inside, there's lots of cool stuff: an armory, a gym... You'll love it, trust me."
"Whoa... Thanks!" I thanked him sincerely. This was a royal gift.
"Thank you. Right... well, and you know... we should stick together," he winked. "Okay, I'm off. Get in touch when you've made the healing potion. I'll infiltrate the hospital myself and give Frank the drink."
"Okay," I nodded.
We exchanged a firm handshake, and he left. Only Gwen and I remained in the garage. She slowly pulled off her mask, revealing a tired, pale but still pretty face with traces of dirt on her cheek.
"Thank you..." she said quietly. "That you helped avenge my father. And... that you helped me look at my methods differently. After all... Yes. Some problems really need radical solutions. In short, I don't even know how to thank you..."
"The best thanks would be if you return to Connors' lab and bring Peter back to me," I answered with a soft smile, pleased that this night had brought so many fruits. "And... become part of our team!"
She raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Team?"
"Yeah," I nodded, understanding this night had brought too many dividends to stop at what we'd achieved. "Not heroes in shining tights, but not villains either. Just people who want to change this world for the better but don't yet know exactly how. You saw what I'm capable of. Peter is capable of no less, and in some aspects even more! With the support of a strong meta like you, any problem will be within our reach. And, as Blade said, right... we need to stick together. What do you think?"
"This... is really unexpected. And pleasant," she bit her lip, considering my words. "I... I'll think about it. Preliminarily, I'm more likely to agree than not. It's just... so much has piled up. I need to digest all of this."
"I'm not rushing you. You can give me your answer at any time that's convenient for you."
Throwing a grateful look at me and pulling her mask back on, Gwen, as quietly as she had appeared on the roof, left my garage. Well, here I was alone.
Finally, this crazy night had ended. Crazy and incredibly profitable. Truly, the greater the risks, the higher the reward. What next? My thoughts, no longer spurred by NZT action, flowed slower, but the plan was clear. Create the potions of Ash and Dawn, heal Uncle Ben and Frank. Hardcore crafting and studying the technologies obtained from Fisk, possibly already in the new, spacious laboratory. Farm OP and become stronger.
I am so weak. And tonight made that painfully clear. My brains, my gadgets... all of it would be useless if Blade had missed. And never mind that this whole mess was his idea—I agreed to go along with it myself. If not for him, I would hardly have survived this mess.
The night arc with Fisk was over. The NZT's action had long worn off, leaving a resonating fatigue in my head. On the cameras, I seemingly hadn't shown my face anywhere. My relationship with Gwen had reached a new level. I could sleep now. The morning would be busy: Lucas should be delivering all the necessary ingredients for the healing potion. It was time to rest.