Chapter 41
Thursday, September 24th.
The world woke up to an information tsunami. News of Wilson Fisk's death, CEO and founder of one of the largest hedge funds, a prominent politician and philanthropist, thundered from every outlet. He had been killed by a single precise shot to the head from a "mysterious sniper." TV channels choked on assumptions, experts built theories, and politicians with somber faces expressed condolences. Judging by the news, every federal agency in the country was already hunting this sniper. Yes, under these conditions, Blade definitely shouldn't stay here longer than a couple of days, and even during those couple of days, he should literally dissolve into the cityscape. However, I was sure his experience in this was the richest. He wouldn't get caught.
I worried much more about myself... So far, everything seemed clean. I hadn't screwed up anywhere, Proteus was faceless, the mask had been in place. The only vulnerable thread was that we had acted as a team with Gwen. If her identity was established, say, by SHIELD, then they could without much trouble pull that thread and get to me, and through me to Peter. But let's be honest, this would happen sooner or later anyway. SHIELD couldn't help but know who Kingpin really was. Perhaps they even sighed with relief. Yes, we had probably unleashed a new gang war, and much blood would spill on New York streets in the coming months over power redistribution, but compared to those global problems Fisk could have arranged in the future, I think we got off easy.
Fisk's hedge fund also got off easy. Its shares fell by only 23%. Against the background of the founder and permanent leader's death, this was practically nothing. If Tony Stark died tomorrow, Stark Industries shares would crash by at least 90 percent, because the entire company rested exclusively on his genius. It was obvious Fisk hadn't paid his people monstrous salaries for nothing. Real financial sharks worked in his fund, managing to keep the sinking ship afloat and calm the markets. Interesting. What next? Most likely, the fund awaited rebranding and the election of a new CEO.
However, to hell with Fisk's billions. I needed to digest what I already had. Especially since the courier from Lucas should arrive within half an hour, and I would need to get to work on the healing potion. True, for that I'd have to wait for evening again to sneak into the university lab... No, enough. At this rate, Doctor Connors would start to suspect something. It was time to set up my own full-fledged laboratory. The plan for the day: receive the package from Lucas and immediately head to Blade's base, the address of which he had successfully sent me. Let's see what I would have to deal with.
Scrolling through the news aggregators, it was difficult to find anything besides coverage of Fisk's death from every angle. But a couple of news items still caught my attention. Reports about a mysterious sand meta-human robbing cash collectors, and of course, Hyperion. This guy was actively flying across the entire country, appearing in Washington, then in Portland. So far, he'd been doing routine heroic deeds, taking cats from trees, stopping trains. But in Austin, he'd already thwarted a bank robbery, neutralizing a meta-human who could increase the mass and density of his limbs. There was also short news about a strange case in a jewelry store on Manhattan: water under huge pressure had 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 wasn't lucky enough to appear in the films... Well, I would take note of another meta's appearance.
In general, it was interesting how the perception of super-humans worked in this world. The concept of "meta-human" was the norm for most civilians. It included practically anyone who had gone even a centimeter beyond the accepted limits of human ability. Incredible accuracy, like Bullseye or Hawkeye? Meta. Moves arms and legs like a weak super-soldier? Meta. Has a huge frame, green skin, and a nasty character that makes you crush and break everything? Also meta. You're a mutant? Wait, that's already a conspiracy theory, buddy. You're just a meta.
Yes, the government had done colossal work on the public consciousness. Everything that went beyond normal was perceived by the population as... normal? Well, not quite. Much depended on the meta-human's own adequacy. A hypothetical Spider-Woman or Hyperion were perceived by people more than favorably. But someone like the Hulk, who had already made a name for himself in the news even before my "transmigration," was a threat. But even despite this threat, there were no systemic xenophobic sentiments toward meta-humans. Why? The answer lay in the government itself.
Considering how many ethical and not-so-ethical experiments they conducted in attempts to create super-soldiers, it wasn't surprising that they periodically succeeded. Project Patriot, the Isaiah Bradley program, the mess from Seagate Prison, this was only what was on everyone's lips and had at least some success. And there was also the Red Room, Weapon X, the Sentinel project, IGH and Jessica Jones, schemes in Oscorp, HYDRA with their Winter Soldiers, the Hand clan with their shinobi who surely wielded Chi energy, and dozens if not hundreds of other projects.
With so many meta-humans appearing spontaneously and purposefully, the state simply found it unprofitable to incite hatred. Their strategy was wait-and-see creative. They tried to harness this power, study it, and ideally put it on stream for themselves. If they managed to create their own army of super-soldiers, and society at the same time had negative attitudes toward "super-humans," then this could turn against them. So they acted extremely carefully, even toward mutants, hiding them behind the convenient and vague term "meta." This was brilliant social engineering: control the terminology, and you control the consciousness.
Thinking about all this meta-human chaos and whether the concept of balance even existed in a world where, relatively close to each other, lived an agent and spy who could barely be called super, like Natasha Romanoff, and Jean Grey with a cosmic horror inside her, I didn't notice how the refrigerated van from Lucas silently pulled up to the house. The driver's sharp honk tore me from my philosophical trance.
Going outside and signing the electronic form, I monitored the unloading. The condition of the most expensive package of my life was ideal. This shipment, in the form of a starter culture of Moon Jellyfish cells in a cryo-container, half a gram of super-rare crystalline lichen from Titan in a vacuum flask, and other consumables, had cost me an astronomical seven hundred thousand dollars. Where had such money come from? Naturally, Blade. When you have a rich vampire hunter as a friend, most financial problems aren't problems at all. Especially since I was now officially one of his people, and I created incredibly useful things, with more to come. In general, this could be considered a kind of venture investment in my genius on his part.
Having received the expensive package, I immediately hid the most valuable and compact components in my 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 Naval Yard.
This was genius. A huge, fenced industrial complex on the East River shore. During the day, work boiled here: dozens of workshops, small productions, warehouses, and even several film studios. And at night, it practically died out, patrolled only by rare guards. From any side you looked, it was perfect cover. A place where noisy welding work at three in the morning or the arrival of a strange truck wouldn't raise any extra questions from anyone.
I knew that under this shipyard was an entire network of old, abandoned bunkers, dry docks, technical tunnels, and bomb shelters from the Cold War. Finding and equipping a huge, unknown-to-anyone complex there was more than realistic. Which, in fact, Blade had done. But what I hadn't expected was that at the entrance to the shipyard itself, I would be met by an actual booth with a bored guard and a barrier.
"Name?" he asked lazily as soon as I slowed down at the window.
"John Thompson," I answered, hoping Blade had sorted everything out.
"Ah, that's you, the invited engineer-consultant," the guard nodded as if he'd seen me a hundred times. "Here, take this." He handed me an electronic pass-badge, pressing the barrier-raising button.
After wandering a bit through the shipyard's labyrinth, I finally found the right warehouse and parked. Before me appeared an unremarkable old brick building with a sign reading "Marine Engineering Solutions." The same inscription was on my badge.
On the massive steel door, there was no ordinary lock. Instead, there was an inconspicuous code panel. Entering the six-digit code sent by Blade, I heard a dull click and got inside the cluttered warehouse smelling of rust and old oil. Piles of non-working industrial equipment, dusty shelves... Among all this chaos, I needed one specific object: a massive ship 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 left 45 degrees with a loud screech, then pressed the large red "Emergency Stop" button. But instead of stopping anything, a low hum of activated hydraulics came from inside. The heavy machine bed, weighing several tons, smoothly moved aside, revealing behind it an opening 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, without pressing any buttons, immediately went down. 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, in the walls of polished concrete, there were three more massive steel doors leading to different compartments. In the middle of the hall stood a large square table on which a digital map of New York was displayed, set with figurines of different colors that were incomprehensible to me. One of the walls was a giant screen on which a cloudy sky was broadcast in real-time in 4K quality. A genius solution to keep from going crazy in this underground kingdom of concrete and steel. I suspected displaying pleasant pictures was far from its only function. Otherwise, the hub was minimalist: a couple of sofas, a small refrigerator, a coffee machine.
Walking through the spacious room, I moved to the first door. It led to the armory. A square room smelling of lubricant and cold steel. On one wall, the entire arsenal: from simple pistols to expensive sniper rifles and grenade launchers. Everything was neatly laid out on mounts. Interesting, would I be able to use this? I would need to clarify. On the second wall were more experimental samples, designed specifically for use against vampires. Already familiar to me: UV grenades, aerosols with concentrated garlic extract, silver shurikens, knives, and even bullets. But the most pleasant surprise waited at the end of the room, on the third wall. A forge. Small but high-tech, with a smelting furnace, hydraulic press, and manipulators for precision work. Obviously, part of the armament Blade forged for himself. Now I could do this too. My inner engineer-creator rejoiced.
Leaving the armory, I headed to the next room. It was twice as spacious as the previous one and practically empty. Except for a powerful industrial exhaust leading to the ventilation system, there was nothing here. Just bare concrete walls and a perfectly flat floor. On one wall, taped with scotch tape, hung an A4 sheet on which Blade's marker had written: "This is the room for your lab. If anything, I'll pay for the equipment. Don't worry."
Excellent. This was even better than a ready-made laboratory. This was a clean slate. Limitless possibilities. I was already mentally placing centrifuges, sequencers, assembly lines, and server racks here. I could and would make this work.
Estimating the preliminary list of everything I would need, 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 the similarity ended there. The walls here were not concrete but some dull steel alloy covered with scratches. They resembled the hide of an old, many-times-beaten beast: deep dents, long grooves from claws, melted spots from energy weapons. The entire room was one large map of fierce battles. Many combat trainers, from robotic manipulators to platforms simulating unstable surfaces, left no doubt: this was a training hall. Also known as a dojo. The place where Blade honed his deadly skills.
In general, the base was simply gorgeous. Protected, inconspicuous, 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. Hah.
So, an action plan was emerging. Right now, I would order the first batch of equipment from Lucas, again shamelessly using Blade's credit line. I would start setting up the laboratory slowly. In the evening, I hoped, for the last time, I would sneak into the university lab and, together with Peter, create several doses of healing potions, and maybe manage to set up the lab here. And then... Then only crafting. I also needed to create the "Proteus" suit for Blade before his departure. Hmm, by the way, about that... Could I bring Peter here? It would be stupid to keep my main ally and the second genius of our emerging team in the dark.
Taking out my phone, I called Blade.
"Yo, kid? So, how do you like the digs?" his voice sounded in the receiver, slightly muffled, as if he was speaking on the move.
"And you, I see, keep your finger on the pulse. Motion sensors? Cameras? Where are you, by the way? I thought you'd warmly greet me and give me a tour of your lair."
"I was at home. Sleeping at the base isn't very pleasant; the sofas are small," street noise was heard in the background. "But I specifically chose small ones so there would be no temptation to nest there. This is a workplace, not a home."
"Well, the base is very good. On the contrary, I was tempted to stay here for days," I grinned, surveying the dojo walls marked with training traces.
"Feel at home. And this, by the way, is not my coolest base. In Britain, I have a whole castle."
"Not surprised. Always knew you were playing poor," at this comment, Blade smirked crookedly, a reaction I could hear even through the phone.
"Okay, I'm actually calling about something. I have a serious question. Can I bring one trusted person to the base? My genius colleague in craft, so to speak. Without him, many of my projects will move much slower."
A short pause hung on the other end.
"I told you, feel at home. Bring whoever you want. I'm more than confident in your sanity. Whether it's your colleague or Spider-Girl for a hookup, ahem... The main thing is she doesn't turn out to be a Black Widow in the process."
"Um, well, we're not that close at all," I scratched the back of my head, somewhat thrown off by such a turn.
"Yeah, yeah, I saw how you're 'not that close,'" Blade chuckled. "Kid, she clung to you at every chance. I may be half-vampire, but I'm not blind. Actually, precisely because I'm half-vampire, I see more than you think, especially since I'm an empath. And don't forget: you helped avenge her father's death. This is, you know, a huge emotional anchor. Girls don't forget things like that."
"But you did practically all the work! And she took the risks! I just came up with the plan and hid behind your backs!" I blurted out, genuinely puzzled.
"Always knew you were playing poor," Blade returned my own jab. "You gave her what no one else could: the opportunity to close that gestalt. This will be stronger than any shot. Well, anyway, I gave you permission to use the base. If anything, stay in touch."
"Yeah, got it. Just try not to leave the US before I make your suit. And yes, I'll send you a report soon, working off the cost of all the lab equipment," I reminded Blade before ending the call.
"Waiting impatiently," he said and disconnected.
It seemed I had decided on a plan and gotten authorization. I could start implementing it. I dialed the number again.
"Hello, Lucas? Yes, it's me again. Get out your biggest order form."
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 dry. The most valuable of those remaining, Chameleon, had performed his work flawlessly and lethally well. To the entire world, Wilson Fisk, philanthropist and businessman, had died at a sniper's hand. But this was merely a tactical ploy in a lost battle. The essence hadn't changed: he, Wilson Fisk, had lost. More than that, 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 laptop screen on which files silently replaced each other in a dance: a digital autopsy of his defeat. All recordings from street cameras. All intercepted audio communications. All available information on Blade and the less available information on the girl in the spider suit.
Her identity, however, was no longer in doubt. Gwen Stacy. Daughter of police captain George Stacy, about whom she had so insistently and stupidly questioned Jeffrey, who had proved useful even before his death. Too obvious, an almost amateurish attachment.
Third. The most mysterious. The subject about whom practically nothing was known except his frightening efficiency. So far, it had turned out 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 code name: "Space."
What should he do now? The impulse, animal and furious, 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 platter. But... Blade. And "Space." They wouldn't let this go. Revenge was a dish best served cold, and he knew how to wait.
Only one option remained: lie low and become stronger.
Now that he could forget about public activity, at least for a time, he could devote himself entirely and completely to his true shadow empire. Money was available, thanks to the fact that he had managed to intervene in time through trusted persons and preserve his hedge fund's capitalization.
People... Otto Octavius's genius would now work for him without remainder, working off every penny invested in him. But this wasn't enough. He needed to hire more meta-humans. He would have to raise salaries, not skimp on the most interesting characters crawling into the light. The same newly appeared Sandman. And Hydro-Man. Instead of petty jewelry store robberies, they could get not only money but status. Protection. From the law, from bureaucracy, from special services that would definitely be interested in such anomalies. He needed to intercept them before they did anything stupid. Take them under his wing. Under control.
Spider-Girl and Space... Let them think he was dead. Let them celebrate their imaginary victory. While they thought so, he would become stronger. Much stronger.
Perhaps it was time to accelerate his training. Old blood demanded new techniques.
"Master Davos, to me," he said shortly and quietly, activating the white intercom standing on his massive oak desk.
His voice, not raised but full of absolute power, dissolved without echo in the sterile air of the bunker.
Spider-Girl was already on his list, her identity known. The identity of "Space" was already being studied by his best analysts. The matter was small. A little patience. Predators knew how to wait.
In the sterile whiteness of the tiled bathroom, leaning back against the cold bathtub, sat a dead-drunk girl. By appearance, she was about twenty-three. 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 an unfinished bottle of vodka to her chest, she did what she usually did during short breaks between missions: she thought. Or rather, she obsessed.
The mistakes of youth... ironic, considering that the girl, despite her young face, was practically forty years old. A bitter cocktail of memories: deaths of innocent civilians allowed by her mistake, the split with her father and sister, the faces of those she had betrayed and those who had betrayed her. She had hundreds of reasons for this self-torture. And, as always, such pastime ended with the same thought: why did she even live? For what? To be the CIA's attack dog? To hope for the restoration of relations with those who had long ago crossed her out of their lives? Would it not be better to end everything? Quickly. One bullet to the head... She might be a meta-human, but relatively weak. It wouldn't even hurt. But this endless pain in her soul would stop...
And as if sensing the peak of her emotional fall, at this moment, as if on schedule, her work phone vibrated. An electronic squeal cutting through the silence.
"Yelena, there's work," on the other side of the receiver sounded a female commanding voice, stating a fact that did not tolerate objections.
"I seem to be... on vacation, Valentina," answered Yelena Belova, one of the Black Widows and now a CIA meta-operative, with a slurred tongue.
"I'm tired of reminding you, Yelena, but you have no and will not have vacations. You're on a lifetime contract."
"Damn..." Belova exhaled. "Who do I kill, torture, blow up, kidnap this time? Another trip to the meat grinder?"
"This time you'll have more delicate work. According to your long-forgotten profile: tracking, seduction, and recruitment."
"Kh... I've already forgotten how to do this, bitch!" She took a big gulp straight from the bottle.
"Black Widows don't forget things like that," Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, CIA director, objected logically and coldly. "It's like riding a bicycle."
"Hope he's at least not some fat old creep."
"Not fat. And judging by the reports, he moves very briskly, so don't think he's old. Case details have been sent to your terminal. Begin immediately."
"And 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 is it this time, Nick?" A statuesque red-haired beauty whose green eyes sparkled in the semi-darkness of the operations center addressed the one-eyed man sitting at a steel table. Her dark, form-fitting but practical SHIELD operative suit did not restrict her movements. "I hope you pulled me out of Latveria for a really good reason. I almost managed to get something interesting out of a bureaucrat about pretty boy Doom."
"Fisk is dead," SHIELD director Nicholas Fury summarized shortly, not taking his piercing gaze from one of his best operatives. "But his empire was surprisingly holding in check, and the company hadn't collapsed. I suspect this is a staging."
"And? Where are you leading?" She gracefully leaned on the table. "Want me to find this boar and confirm he's still grunting?"
"No, Natasha, others will handle that. Much more interesting are those who killed, as they probably think, the real Fisk," Fury said, gesturing with his finger to send the tablet with the case to Natasha.
She took the device, her eyes quickly running over the lines.
"Yeah, I see a walking garlic warehouse completely off the leash," she looked at Fury, and a mischievous spark flashed in her eyes, after which she became serious again. "So... an idealistic snotty girl in tights and an unknown meta with an unclear spatial-type ability. A black box."
"Exactly the last one interests us."
"Oh, profile work, then," a barely noticeable, predatory smile appeared on her lips.
"Yes, Natasha. Work according to your profile."
"And if... recruitment doesn't work?" There wasn't a shadow of doubt in her voice that seducing the target would fail. 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 specifically the recruitment.
Fury leaned forward, his gaze boring into hers.
"Make it work. SHIELD needs such personnel. He's an asset, not a target."
"Accepted," she nodded, returning the tablet. "Waiting for all case details before I begin."
"Go," Fury waved her off, and as soon as she left, pressed the intercom button. "Agent Coulson, come to my office."