Chapter 41
Thursday, September 24th.
The world woke to a tsunami of information. News of the death of Wilson Fisk, CEO and founder of one of the largest hedge funds, a prominent politician, and a philanthropist, thundered from every outlet. He had been killed by a single, precise shot to the head from a "mysterious sniper." TV channels drowned in speculation, experts built theories, and politicians with somber faces expressed condolences. According to the news, every federal agency in the country was already hunting this sniper. Under these conditions, Blade definitely shouldn't stay here longer than a couple of days, and even during those few days, he should blend right into the cityscape. However, I was sure his experience in this area was the most extensive. He wouldn't get caught.
I was much more worried about myself. So far, everything seemed clean. I hadn't screwed up anywhere; Proteus was faceless, and 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 pull that thread without much trouble 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 with the global problems Fisk could have caused in the future, I think we got off relatively easily.
Fisk's hedge fund also got off easy. Its shares fell by only 23%. Given the death of the founder and permanent leader, 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 faced rebranding and the election of a new CEO.
To hell with Fisk's billions. I needed to digest what I already had. Especially since the courier from Lucas would arrive within half an hour, and I'd need to start on the healing potion. Though for that, I'd have to wait until 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 he'd sent me. Let's see what I'd 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 transports, and, of course, Hyperion. This guy was crisscrossing the entire country, appearing in Washington, then in Portland. So far, he'd been doing routine heroic deeds, rescuing cats from trees and stopping trains. But in Austin, he'd already thwarted a bank robbery, taking out a meta-human who could increase the mass and density of his limbs. There was also brief news about a strange case in a jewelry store in Manhattan: water under high pressure had literally washed all the valuables out of the safe. It was the appearance of Hydro-Man. A relatively minor villain whose name I couldn't remember offhand. Unlike Marko, he hadn't been lucky enough to appear in the movies... Well, I'd make note of another meta's appearance.
Overall, it was interesting how the perception of superhumans 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. Move your arms and legs with the strength of a weak super-soldier? Meta. Have a huge frame, green skin, and a nasty temperament that makes you crush and break everything? Also meta. You're a mutant? Wait, that's just a conspiracy theory, buddy. You're just a meta.
Yes, the government had put colossal effort into shaping public consciousness. Anything that went beyond the norm was perceived by the population as... normal? Well, not quite. Much depended on the meta-human's own behavior. A hypothetical Spider-Woman or Hyperion was viewed favorably by the public. But someone like the Hulk, who had already made headlines even before my 'transmigration,' was viewed as a threat. But even so, there were no widespread xenophobic sentiments toward meta-humans. Why? The answer lay with the government itself.
Given how many ethical and not-so-ethical experiments they'd conducted trying to create super-soldiers, it wasn't surprising that they occasionally succeeded. Project Patriot, the Isaiah Bradley program, the mess at Seagate Prison, these were just the projects people actually knew about, the ones that had achieved at least some success. Then there was the Red Room, Weapon X, the Sentinel project, IGH and Jessica Jones, schemes at Oscorp, HYDRA with their Winter Soldiers, the Hand clan with their chi-wielding shinobi, and dozens if not hundreds of other projects.
With so many meta-humans appearing both spontaneously and by design, the state simply found it unprofitable to incite hatred. Their strategy was a calculated wait-and-see approach. They tried to harness this power, study it, and ideally streamline it for their own use. If they managed to create their own army of super-soldiers while society harbored negative attitudes toward 'super-humans,' it could backfire on them. So they acted extremely carefully, even toward mutants, hiding them behind the convenient, vague term 'meta.' This was brilliant social engineering: control the terminology, and you control the consciousness.
Lost in thought about all this meta-human chaos, wondering whether balance even existed in a world where Natasha Romanoff, a spy barely qualifying as superhuman, lived relatively close to Jean Grey with her cosmic horror, I didn't notice the refrigerated van from Lucas pull up to the house. The driver's sharp honk snapped me out of my philosophical trance.
I went outside, signed the electronic form, and monitored the unloading. The condition of the most expensive delivery of my life was ideal. This shipment, consisting 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 on his payroll, creating incredibly useful things with more to come. This was essentially a venture capital investment in my genius on his part.
After receiving the expensive shipment, I immediately stashed the most valuable and compact components in my inventory. I carefully loaded the rest into the car and, without wasting time, headed to Blade's base. To my surprise, it was located relatively nearby, at the Brooklyn Naval Yard.
This was genius. A huge, fenced-in industrial complex on the East River shore. During the day, the place was a hive of activity: dozens of workshops, small production facilities, warehouses, and even several film studios. At night, it practically died down, patrolled only by the occasional guard. From every angle, 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 eyebrows.
I knew that beneath this shipyard lay an entire network of old, abandoned bunkers, dry docks, technical tunnels, and Cold War-era bomb shelters. Finding and equipping a massive secret complex there was more than realistic. That was exactly what Blade had done. But what I hadn't expected was an actual guard booth with a bored attendant and a barrier at the entrance to the shipyard itself.
"Name?" he asked lazily as soon as I pulled up to the window.
"John Thompson," I answered, hoping Blade had sorted everything out.
"Ah, that's you, the invited engineer-consultant," the guard said, nodding as if he'd seen me a hundred times. "Here, take this." He handed me an electronic pass badge, then hit the button to raise the barrier.
After wandering around for a bit through the shipyard's labyrinth, I finally found the right warehouse and parked. Before me stood an unremarkable old brick building with a sign reading "Marine Engineering Solutions." The same inscription was on my badge.
The massive steel door had no ordinary lock. Instead, there was an inconspicuous code panel. After entering the six-digit code Blade had sent me, I heard a dull click and stepped inside the cluttered warehouse, which smelled of rust and old oil. Piles of broken-down industrial equipment and dusty shelves filled the space. Somewhere in this chaos, I needed to find 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 forty-five degrees to the left with a loud screech of metal, 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 an opening framed by the matte steel of a freight elevator.
I realized an automatic biometric system was built into the elevator. As soon as I entered, the doors closed behind me, and the cabin immediately descended without me pressing any buttons. After a couple of seconds, the elevator stopped with a slight jolt. The sliding doors opened directly into the main hall of the empty base.
The huge, circular room served as a hub, operations center, and living room all at once. Behind me were the elevator doors set into walls of polished concrete, plus three more massive steel doors leading to different compartments. In the middle of the hall stood a large square table displaying a digital map of New York, dotted with colorful figurines that meant nothing to me. One wall featured a giant screen streaming a cloudy sky in real-time 4K. It was a brilliant way to keep from going crazy in this underground kingdom of concrete and steel. I suspected that displaying pleasant images was far from its only function. Aside from that, the hub was minimalist: a couple of sofas, a small refrigerator, and a coffee machine.
I crossed the spacious room and stopped at the first door. It led to the armory. It was a square room smelling of oil and cold steel. One wall held the entire arsenal: from simple pistols to high-end sniper rifles and grenade launchers, all neatly arranged on mounts. Interesting. Would I actually be able to use any of this? I'd need to check. The second wall featured more experimental weapons designed specifically for use against vampires. I'd already recognized some: UV grenades, aerosol cans of concentrated garlic extract, silver shurikens, knives, and even bullets. But the best surprise waited for me at the far end of the room, on the third wall. There was a forge. It was small but high-tech, complete with a smelting furnace, hydraulic press, and precision manipulators. Obviously, Blade used this to forge some of his own gear. Now I could do the same. My inner engineer rejoiced.
Leaving the armory, I headed to the next room. It was twice the size of the previous one and practically empty. Aside from a heavy-duty exhaust vent leading into the ventilation system, there was nothing here. It had just bare concrete walls and a perfectly flat floor. On one wall, held up with tape, hung a sheet of paper with a note written in Blade's hand: "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 arranging centrifuges, sequencers, assembly lines, and server racks here. I could and would make this work.
After estimating the preliminary list of everything I'd need, I moved to the next and last room. Pushing the massive door open, I felt the air change. It was roughly the same size as the future laboratory, but that's where the similarities ended. The walls here weren't concrete, but a dull steel alloy covered in scratches. They looked like the hide of a battle-scarred beast: deep dents, long grooves from claws, scorch marks from energy weapons. The whole room was a map of fierce battles. Various pieces of combat training equipment, from robotic manipulators to platforms simulating unstable terrain, made it clear: this was a training hall. A dojo. The place where Blade honed his deadly skills.
Overall, the base was simply gorgeous. It was protected, inconspicuous, autonomous, and had access to the shipyard's infrastructure. I couldn't have dreamed of something like this. And all it took was risking my worthless life a few times and proving useful. Hah.
So, an action plan was taking shape. Right now, I'd order the first batch of equipment from Lucas, shamelessly using Blade's credit line again. I'd start setting up the laboratory slowly. In the evening, I hoped to sneak into the university lab one last time. Together with Peter, we'd create several doses of healing potions, and maybe even get the lab here operational. And then... Then it would be nothing but crafting. I also needed to create the "Proteus" suit for Blade before his departure. Hmm, speaking of which... Could I bring Peter here? It would be stupid to keep my main ally and the second genius of our fledgling team in the dark.
I took out my phone and called Blade.
"Yo, kid? So, how do you like the digs?" His voice came through slightly muffled, like he was 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 give me a warm welcome and a tour of your lair."
"I was at home. Sleeping at the base isn't pleasant; those sofas are tiny." Street noise filled the background. "But I specifically chose small ones so there would be no temptation to crash there. This is a workplace, not a home."
"Well, the base is pretty nice. Actually, I was tempted to stay here for days." I grinned, surveying the dojo walls marked with scuff marks from training.
"Feel at home. And this, by the way, isn't my coolest base. In Britain, I have a whole castle."
"Not surprised. Always knew you were playing at being poor." At this comment, Blade smirked, a reaction I could hear in his voice 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 the craft, so to speak. Without him, many of my projects will progress much slower."
A short pause followed on the other end.
"I told you, feel at home. Bring whoever you want. I'm confident in your judgment. 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 the comment.
"Yeah, yeah, I saw how you're 'not that close.'" Blade chuckled, a reaction I could hear in his voice even through the phone. "Kid, she clung to you every chance she got. I may be half-vampire, but I'm not blind. Actually, being half-vampire means I see more than you think, especially because 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 with the plan and hid behind your backs!" I blurted out, genuinely puzzled.
"Always knew you were playing at being poor," Blade threw back my earlier jab. "You gave her what no one else could: the chance to finally resolve that gestalt. That'll be stronger than any shot. Anyway, I gave you permission to use the base. At the very least, stay in touch."
"Yeah, got it. Just don't leave the US before I finish your suit. And yes, I'll send you that report soon, working off the cost of all the lab equipment," I reminded Blade before hanging up.
"Impatiently waiting," he said, and disconnected.
Apparently I'd decided on a plan and gotten authorization. I could start implementing it. I dialed the number again.
"Hello, Lucas? Yeah, 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. 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 heavily fortified locations 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 cycled silently in endless procession: 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, the man she had been pressing Jeffrey about so insistently and stupidly. 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. It turned out that he was the architect of the entire plan. A manipulator whose abilities apparently included technology and spatial powers beyond the ordinary. Fisk had already given him a code name: "Space."
What should he do now? The impulse, animalistic 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 people he trusted, and preserve his hedge fund's capitalization.
People... Otto Octavius's genius would now work for him completely, paying 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 emerging into the light. This newly appeared Sandman and Hydro-Man. Instead of petty jewelry store robberies, they could get not only money but also status and 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 believed that, he would grow stronger. Much stronger.
Perhaps it was time to accelerate his training. Old blood called for new techniques.
"Master Davos, attend me," he said quietly and curtly, activating the white intercom on his massive oak desk.
His voice, not raised but full of absolute power, fell 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. It was a minor thing. Just 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 all appearances, she was about twenty-three. Blonde with shoulder-length curly hair and brown eyes clouded by an alcoholic haze. Dressed 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 caused by her mistakes, the rift 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 written her out of their lives? Wouldn't it 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, right on schedule, her work phone vibrated. An electronic squeal cutting through the silence.
"Yelena, there's work," came a commanding female voice through the receiver, stating a fact that brooked no objection.
"I seem to be... on vacation, Valentina," answered Yelena Belova, one of the Black Widows and now a CIA meta-operative, slurring her words.
"I'm tired of reminding you, Yelena, but you don't get vacations. You never will. You're on a lifetime contract."
"Damn..." Belova exhaled. "Who am I killing, torturing, blowing up, or kidnapping 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."
"Tch... I've already forgotten how to do this, bitch!" She took a long pull straight from the bottle.
"Black Widows don't forget things like that," Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, CIA director, replied coldly. "It's like riding a bicycle."
"At least tell me he's not some fat old creep."
"He isn't fat. And judging by the reports, he moves briskly, so don't assume he's old. The case file has 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 SHIELD uniform, form-fitting but practical, didn't restrict her movement. "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 said curtly, his piercing gaze fixed on one of his best operatives. "But his empire is holding together surprisingly well, and the company hasn't collapsed. I suspect this is staged."
"And? Where are you going with this?" She leaned against the table. "Want me to find this boar and confirm he's still grunting?"
"No, Natasha. Others will handle that. Much more interesting are the people who killed, or who they think they killed, the real Fisk." Fury gestured, sliding the tablet across the desk to her.
She caught it, her eyes scanning the screen.
"Yeah, I see a walking garlic warehouse completely off his leash," she said, looking up at Fury. A mischievous spark flashed in her eyes before she sobered again. "So... an idealistic brat in tights and an unknown meta with some kind of spatial ability. A black box."
"It's the last one that interests us."
"Oh, so it's profile work, then." A barely noticeable, predatory smile touched her lips.
"Yes, Natasha. Work your profile."
"And if... recruitment doesn't work?" There wasn't a shadow of doubt in her voice that seduction would fail. Natasha Romanoff, one of the best Black Widows in the history of the Red Room, was absolutely confident in her abilities. The question was purely technical, specific to the recruitment itself.
Fury leaned forward, his gaze boring into hers.
"Make it work. SHIELD needs that kind of personnel. He's an asset, not a target."
"Understood," she said, nodding as she returned the tablet. "I'll need the full case file before I start."
"Go," Fury said, waving her off. The moment she left, he pressed the intercom button. "Agent Coulson, come to my office."
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