45
Nelson and Murdock. The law firm sat in the heart of one of Manhattan's most crime-ridden neighborhoods, occupying a small first-floor office in an unassuming five-story building. I swallowed an NZT pill while still in the taxi. The world snapped into crystalline clarity. Street sounds arranged themselves into a synchronized symphony, and colors deepened, growing richer and more vibrant.
I pushed through the door without knocking. A bell above it rang out, sharp and clear, slicing through the tense atmosphere. Inside, I found exactly who I was looking for. Foggy Nelson, a plump, slightly disheveled man in glasses, was gesturing emphatically, arguing with a tall, impeccably groomed man in a perfectly tailored dark burgundy suit. Matt Murdock. He wore glasses too, but his were opaque red, the kind blind men wear. He stood still as stone, seeming to listen not just to his partner, but to the heartbeat of the city itself beyond the window. Excellent. Both of them were here.
The men broke off their argument when they noticed me.
"Matt Murdock and Foggy Nelson, I presume?" I asked, approaching them smoothly. Under the influence of NZT, every movement I made was calculated and precise, devoid of wasted motion.
"Correct, and you are..." Foggy began, curiously looking me over.
"I'm here without an appointment. I have a delicate matter requiring a private consultation, and I confess, I was hoping to get lucky and find you here." Both men frowned slightly. I knew I shouldn't draw this out. "It concerns patenting one of my inventions."
"We don't handle that sort of thing, unfortunately," Foggy replied with a sigh, and I already knew it. "We specialize in criminal law, lawyers for the little guy, so to speak." He spread his hands.
"You are honest lawyers, first and foremost. And that's important," I said, my voice calm but convincing. "I've studied your track record. Incredible perseverance, the ability to find loopholes in the law, and, most importantly, empathy for your clients. I need professionals exactly like you for a consultation. I don't need a patent attorney. I need strategists. Truly, I won't take much of your time. Just let me clarify a few things (naturally not for free) and I'll be on my way."
"What do you think, Matt?" Foggy asked Murdock, who had been silent until now.
The blind lawyer was the unspoken leader of their partnership. He hadn't moved this entire time, but I felt his attention. This wasn't just listening. His head was slightly tilted, and I felt his gaze on me, more piercing than that of any sighted person. He analyzed my pulse, my breathing pattern, the heat radiating from my body. Apparently, what he "saw" pleased him.
"I think we can spare an hour of our time, um..."
"John. John Thompson," I said.
"Yes, Mr. Thompson. What specific questions interest you? As my colleague said, this isn't quite our specialty, but we can advise you on general matters."
"Excellent! Before we get into the bureaucracy, I'd like you to look over a brief description of the technology." I handed Foggy a preprinted sheet with a concise but comprehensive description of "Proteus."
Following their usual practice, he began reading it aloud to Murdock. With each line, his voice grew quieter, tinged with amazement, and his eyes widened. I watched them begin to understand the potential.
"This..." Foggy breathed, finishing.
"Revolution," Matt finished for him. His voice was calm, but there was steel in it.
"Fabric that everyone's going to want!" Foggy jumped up and began pacing around the cramped office. "Light, effective armor for soldiers. That's a multibillion-dollar contract with the Department of Defense. Protection for police officers nationwide. That's connections with police departments. Private military companies. This is a huge market."
"And you haven't even mentioned the aerospace industry yet," Matt added without moving from his desk. "In theory, this material could provide lightweight, inexpensive protection against micrometeoroids for satellites and ship hulls."
"Industrial giants like Stark Industries, Hammer Industries, or Roxxon would kill for this technology!" Foggy continued, his face flushed with excitement. "We're talking billions, not millions. The ballistic protection market is already valued at tens of billions. Your 'Proteus' could capture a significant chunk of it. Just selling a production license or landing an exclusive government contract could bring in hundreds of millions per year. Matt... Matt, we have to take this case. This isn't just a case. This is a kingdom, and he brought us the keys."
Yes... there it was. I saw it in their eyes, amplified by the NZT. In Foggy's dilated pupils flickered not just greed but awe, the look of someone staring at a golden ticket, a chance to break free from the grind where they'd spent their lives languishing in Hell's Kitchen, working small cases for clients who could barely pay. That dedication deserved respect, but it probably wasn't what Foggy actually wanted. Still, everything hinged on Matt. And he wasn't the type to work for money. But the thing was, Proteus could actually save lives. And Matt wouldn't be able to ignore that.
"Exactly," I said, nodding. "Too valuable a technology. That's why I'm here."
"Patent law..." Matt began, his voice calm, as if he were discussing the weather. "The bureaucracy in this area is slow and methodical, Mr. Thompson. To start, you need to file a provisional application. It's a quick and relatively inexpensive step that establishes the priority date. From that moment on, no one else can patent the same technology. This application gives you one year to refine the invention and prepare the main documentation."
"A year?!" I stared at the lawyers in shock. "A year just to prepare the paperwork?"
"This is only the first step," Matt said, grinning. "The most difficult stage is preparing and filing a complete, non-provisional application. At that point, you need to draft a highly detailed description of the technology, along with drawings, diagrams, and, most importantly, the claims, a legally precise text that defines exactly what the patent protects. It's incredibly delicate work. One wrong word, and you've got a loophole big enough to drive a truck through in your patent."
"So if I file a provisional application and then immediately file a complete one as soon as it's accepted?" I asked, thinking it sounded perfectly reasonable.
"Imagine a mountain of paperwork the height of this building," Foggy cut in with a shrug. "Your application is one sheet somewhere at the bottom. Patent examiners will spend several years studying it, comparing it with existing patents, asking questions, demanding clarifications. It's standard bureaucratic delay. They won't touch your application until its turn comes."
"So the entire process from filing the complete application to receiving the patent takes..."
"Two to five years," Matt cut me off.
"Too long..." I shook my head. "It's strange. This is one of those developments where the earlier they enter use, the better for everyone involved. Isn't the potential obvious? There must be ways to speed up the process."
"They exist," Matt confirmed, holding up three fingers. "Option one: the official route. The expedited examination program. Pay the patent office about five thousand dollars, and the review period drops to twelve months."
Still too long.
Path two: political lobbying. If you decide to work with the government, a hypothetical Pentagon general or an influential senator can 'ask' the office to review your application on national security grounds as a priority. That can cut the timeline down to six months. But that kind of 'request' always comes with strings attached.
"And there's a third option?" I asked, intrigued. Six months was still a long time.
"Yeah. Bringing an industrial giant on board. It's the fastest route, but also the riskiest," Matt said, his voice growing serious. "If you show the tech to a hypothetical Stark and propose a partnership, his lawyers, the best in the world, can prepare a bulletproof application and use the corporation's influence to push it through all the channels in three to four months. The downside is you'll have to share control and profits. And that's if you're lucky enough not to 'accidentally' fall out of a window in your new penthouse."
"Shit," I said. "What if I create my own company? Would that help speed things up? Hypothetically, I create a company, register the patent under it, then it gets bought out entirely. My goal is to get as much money as possible in the shortest amount of time."
"Hmm..." Matt paused for a moment. "Mr. Thompson, creating a company isn't a shortcut. It's a critical requirement. A hypothetical US Army isn't going to sign a billion-dollar contract with some guy in a garage. They deal with legal entities. Having a registered company is the basic price of entry for the big leagues. Everything we discussed earlier assumed you'd either have one or would form one."
"Oh, and you're right to think about selling the whole thing!" Foggy perked up. "It's much simpler and cleaner to sell the entire company that holds the patent than to sell the patent itself as a separate asset. That eliminates a ton of tax and legal headaches."
Months... years... it would still take time. And time was a luxury I couldn't afford. In a world where some new alien or divine threat could be lurking around every corner, or another genius psychopath might appear, I needed to move like a bullet.
"If I bypass the bureaucracy and go straight to the major players? Show them the tech directly and name my price?" I asked, my NZT-boosted brain feverishly calculating the options.
"Minimum one month for negotiations and verification. Maximum... three hundred million," Matt answered without hesitation. But I don't think I need to tell you how risky that is. You could easily be eliminated, and the technology stolen.
Only three hundred million... plus the risks. No. I needed to find workarounds. Or make them come to me. And arrive with offers, not weapons.
"I need to think..." I said. I'd ask you to do the same. But for now, a preliminary patent application should be enough to establish the priority date.
I didn't mention that the keywords alone would immediately flag the application with everyone from the Pentagon to Stark Industries. That was exactly what I needed, after all.
Foggy and Matt nodded professionally and got to work. The procedure was simple. We described the what without revealing the secrets of the how. For Proteus, we listed the general principle: the fabric consisted of an aramid 3D matrix and a non-Newtonian fluid with silicon dioxide nanoparticles. We detailed how the fabric transitioned from flexible to solid under kinetic impact.
But I naturally kept the key points, the secret sauce so to speak, to myself:
The exact formula for the polymer stabilizer that kept the nanoparticles suspended. The precise size, shape, and surface treatment method of the nanoparticles. The specific temperature, pressure, and holding time for the vacuum impregnation of the matrix.
The application was detailed enough for lawyers to recognize it as describing the invention, but it lacked several critical variables. It was like a detailed treasure map without the key to the chest. Any corporation that got their hands on it would spend years in R&D trying to reverse-engineer those variables. Meanwhile, I already had a working product.
Having finished with the document, Foggy uploaded it to the patent office's online system. After a few seconds, an official notification with the application number and priority date arrived in my inbox. Done. The flag was set. Whoever needed to know had been alerted, but they couldn't see my whole hand. Technically, I had a year to decide what to do next, and all this time my intellectual property would be under basic but reliable protection. However, I definitely wouldn't need a year. The countdown would be measured in weeks, if not days.
I thanked the men, took their business cards, and shook their hands.
"Welcome to the big leagues, Mr. Thompson," Matt said with a barely perceptible smile.
I called a taxi and left the office. Before I could put my smartphone in my pocket, it vibrated. It was Gwen.
"I agree..." was the first thing she said. Her voice sounded quiet but firm. She meant joining our team.
"Excellent. Where shall we have the wedding then?" I couldn't resist the stupid joke to cut the tension.
"You..." Indignation mixed with something else crept into her voice.
"I know. Handsome, smart, and unbearable," I said with a smile. "But seriously, this isn't a conversation to have over the phone. I appreciate your decision. Can you drive to the university now? Peter mentioned you're there."
On the other end of the line, silence stretched for several seconds.
"Yes. I'm in the laboratory. I'll wait."
I ended the call and stepped from the building's porch onto the sidewalk, momentarily blinded by the bright daylight.
The world on NZT was a kaleidoscope of overwhelming information, and at the last second my brain isolated a key anomaly from the stream: a pretty blonde with shoulder-length curly hair walking toward me had twisted her heel unnaturally and was falling right toward me.
Her trajectory was flawless. My brain, spurred by NZT, fired off the command before conscious thought could catch up. Step forward, pivot, arms out to intercept. I caught her around the waist, steadied her, and immediately stepped back.
But my hands had already catalogued the data. The density of her muscle fibers and the steel of her abs beneath the thin fabric. This wasn't just the body of a trained woman. This was a weapon.
"Oh, thank you so much!" She flashed a charming smile, smoothing her hair. "It's rare to meet a gentleman willing to lend a strong hand to a fragile girl these days. I'm Helen, by the way. And you?"
This was wonderful, of course. A beautiful woman had literally fallen into my arms. But my brain had already finished its analysis.
Hypothesis: An agent.
Motive one: The patent. Probability: Low. Too soon.
Motive two: The murder of the fake Fisk. Probability: High.
Affiliation: SHIELD? CIA? FBI?
Goal: First contact, assessment, possibly recruitment.
All these thoughts flashed through my head in less than a second. My face didn't twitch.
"John. John Thompson," I said, calculating my options. But then, whether fortunate or not, a heavy motorcycle pulled up nearby with a low rumble. A girl in a black leather suit and helmet.
"Is this the Nelson and Murdock law office?" she asked me. Her voice, distorted by the helmet, was even and professional.
"Yes," I nodded.
The girl on the bike removed her helmet, and at that moment, my brain didn't just freeze. It experienced a cascading failure: all my previous theories instantly collapsed, immediately shifting to a terrifying revelation. Shoulder-length red curls. Piercing green eyes. Suspiciously perfect timing. And once again, I was the center of attention, even though it would have been easier for her to approach the other girl.
If it weren't for the hair color, I would have thought they were sisters. They were sisters. Sisters from the Red Room project. Natasha Romanoff and Yelena Belova. Two Black Widows now working for different agencies—SHIELD and the CIA. And their assignment, judging by the fact that they hadn't just followed but had initiated active interaction, was much more serious than just "testing the waters."
I noticed Yelena's face tense when Natasha removed her helmet. Natasha, in turn, didn't so much as raise an eyebrow, obviously recognizing her sister and instantly assessing the situation. The two best spies in the world, sent after me, had accidentally collided on the assignment.
The absurdity of it all was too much. I couldn't hold back. I burst out laughing. Not hysterically, but sincerely, from the heart. Yes, by all rights, I should have been worried and afraid. But screw the extra stress. If they wanted to remove me, they would have done it long ago. And since they were playing games, I could allow myself a little fun too.
"Do I have something funny on my face?" Natasha asked, tilting her head to the side with a charming smile. Her voice was like velvet with notes of steel.
"Heh, no, no." I exhaled, raising my hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Just remembered a joke." Noticing the interest in their eyes, clearly feigned, I pulled the first one that came to mind, adapting it. "Eric loved to joke, and when his friend was run over by a train, at the funeral he congratulated him on moving..."
For a long moment, silence hung over the street. Then Natasha burst out laughing, loud and infectious. The woman knew what she was doing. "These damn feminine charms..."
"Oh, my taxi!" A car pulled up beside us. My salvation.
Without saying goodbye, I quickly opened the door and got into the back seat, leaving the two best spies in the world alone with their cockroaches and their failed first contact.
"Let's go," I said to the driver.
The car pulled away. In the rearview mirror, I saw how the two women, who were so similar they could be sisters, looked at each other. And I... I needed to think very, very carefully.
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