Constantly injecting combat stimulants? Wasting precious seconds in battle waiting for them to take effect? It was irrational. In a fight, even with a weak meta, this was certain death. I needed to ensure instant access to stimulants without using my hands. There were actually many options. I could place them in gelatin capsules and materialize them from my inventory directly into my mouth. Or I could integrate a full injection mechanism into the suit.
In the first case, I would have to take up precious inventory slots. In the second, I would unnecessarily complicate a suit that already was... not yet Stark's armor, but after a dozen such nights it would be close. Honestly, the solution was simple and obvious: integrate an automated inhalation system into the respiratory part of the mask.
Taking the mask in my hands, I set about the refinement. Into the lower, filtering part, I built sockets for four small, sealed cartridges. It was a sort of revolver with chemical rounds. Each cartridge would be filled with a different drug: the "Absolute Predator" stimulant, a muscle stimulant, NZT, and a potential fast-acting healing potion.
At my mental command, the micro-pump would take a strictly measured dose from the needed cartridge. Then the liquid would enter an ultrasonic nebulizer, a small device with a piezo-ceramic membrane. Vibrating at an ultra-high frequency, the membrane would turn the liquid into a fine aerosol without heating or destroying its chemical structure. This "mist" would be injected directly into the incoming air stream in the respirator. I would only need to take one deep breath to receive an instant and precise dose of the drug directly into my lungs, from where it would immediately enter my bloodstream.
The system wasn't complex, but I spent most of my time on "Synapse" calibration again. I made the mask itself from a light titanium composite in several layers: a first lining from "Proteus," then a softening ballistic layer. The face would be well protected. I also added built-in filters for toxins and gases.
"Central node of the entire technology... practically ready," I muttered enthusiastically, holding the high-tech mask in my hands.
It read my commands, gave orders to the wings and gloves, monitored my body condition, and, when needed, injected the needed stimulant. It had become the brain of the entire suit. And the hood that I would wear over it performed the additional function of camouflage and protection. Well, and style. Where would we be without it?
Scratching my head, I finally engraved a stylized blacksmith's hammer onto the mask. This would be my symbol, the symbol of the "Celestial Forge." The finished mask covered my face from nose to crown. Angular and painted matte black, in darkness it would only reveal itself through red indicator lights and the faint glow of the respirator filters. I covered my eyes with ballistic goggles integrated into the mask.
The mask's modular electronics and redundant sensors meant that serious damage to the primary neuro-interface wouldn't leave me helpless, but I still made a couple of spares just in case. Next, I worked on the suit's wiring, added EMP protection, and strengthened the mask's cybersecurity, though I knew it wouldn't do much good against a hypothetical JARVIS, and I fixed various other flaws, both minor and major.
Overall, only one thing remained: bringing it all together into a cohesive whole. This wasn't bulky armor. The suit turned out sleek, anatomical, almost organic. The base was a form-fitting jumpsuit of dark gray matte fabric. Over it, segmented coal-black 'Proteus' panels traced the lines of my major muscle groups. A deep hood concealed the upper part of my head and the mask, completing the silhouette and creating a predatory, faceless image.
Between my shoulder blades sat the palladium reactor, recessed into an armored platform that also served as the base for the wings. From this platform, thin glowing lines ran throughout the suit like circuit board traces, barely noticeable. They pulsed with dim blue light when the system was under load, revealing the suit's artificial, high-tech nature. The wings themselves looked like two compact, aerodynamic backpacks flanking the reactor when folded. They didn't restrict movement and served as additional protection for my back. Plus the stylish combat gloves, of course.
[Created personal combat platform "Chimera M-1." Complexity: Medium. Received +1200 OP!]
A unified, symbiotic combat system where advanced technologies and modular weapons are integrated into an anatomical suit and controlled directly through a non-invasive neuro-interface.
I liked the description. "Symbiotic." Exactly what I was aiming for. Sure, if I had created all the elements separately, I would have earned more OP, but since they were modules of a unified suit, the system took this into account and held off on awarding the points until the last moment. But even so, the reward was substantial. I really should test the suit and spin the gacha now, but...
"Aaaah-agh..." I let out a yawn like none I'd ever experienced.
The dam burst. The seventy-two-hour limit on the pills had expired, and three days of accumulated fatigue crashed over me like a tsunami. My legs buckled, and my head buzzed. All these tests and operational expenses would have to wait. I'd deal with everything once I had a fresh, clear head.
I left the laboratory and found myself in the empty hub, staggering to the couch where I collapsed immediately. Naturally, before sleep could take me, the giant monitor on the wall flickered to life, and Blade's serious face appeared on the screen. A recorded message.
"So, I'm leaving America," he said, an airfield visible in the background. "The bastards on my tail won't give me a moment's peace. The base isn't compromised, so don't worry. Frank went home, but if anything comes up, he promised to keep in touch. He's also very interested in your creations and ready to pay top dollar. But that's beside the point. You don't owe anyone anything, especially since you've got enough problems of your own."
He fell silent for a second, choosing his words.
"In short, I won't drag this out. Thanks for everything, John. For the stimulants, for the cool suit, for helping when you had no obligation to. Even though I paid you, in my opinion that money's bullshit. The best payment comes through deeds. So contact me. Stay in touch. Later."
The screen went dark, leaving me in the silence and semi-darkness of the hub. It was a shame he had to leave the country. He was one of the few people I could call a friend.
Eric, Peter, Gwen... possibly Frank? But with him, I wasn't entirely sure. I was afraid to imagine what he was going through now that he'd awakened. He had become an extremely unstable element, a force of nature that could strike in any direction.
Okay, I'd factored in Eric's information. I could sleep now. Almost three days of nonstop work had done its damage. Granted, neither Gwen nor Peter had shown up at the base during that time, or maybe I was just so deep in the zone that I hadn't noticed. But in that state, I was more likely to screw something up. I could only hope they were being careful. And that the intelligence services were, too. They were adults, after all.
After turning a few more thoughts over in my mind, I finally passed out. I didn't drift off; I passed out, like someone had flipped a switch.
The awakening was wrong. It was not from a blaring alarm or a nightmare. It crept up like a fever, slowly seeping into my body and poisoning my sleep from within.
First came the smell. Cutting through the familiar, sterile scent of the hub, all ozone from humming servers and cold dust, something foreign intruded. An expensive perfume: a sharp, suffocating aroma of white flowers and bitter almond. Underneath it, the warmth of tan leather and something oily, metallic, like a freshly cleaned rifle. That scent was alive, real, and had absolutely no business being here.
Then my ears caught the anomaly. The familiar hum of the ventilation dulled. And over it, a rustle. Fabric sliding against fabric. And breathing. Someone else's, which made it all the more disturbing. My brain, still foggy with sleep, went on high alert. Someone else was in the hub.
My eyelids were heavy as lead... But I didn't need to open them to feel it. A gaze. Piercing, assessing, like a scalpel dissecting me on the couch. The air suddenly grew thicker. My heart did a somersault and began hammering in my throat, pumping pure, icy adrenaline through my veins.
With difficulty, I pried my eyes open and saw her.
The room was drowning in blue twilight from the wall display. In that ghostly light, like a statue carved from shadow, stood a woman in a black, tight-fitting suit. The material, some hybrid of rubber and dense fabric, clung to her so tightly that every muscle showed. Narrow waist, wide, sharply curved hips, high breasts. Her gaze fixed on me, and in her brown eyes, catching the blue reflections, dangerous sparks danced. Despite her light hair, this wasn't Gwen.
"Natasha always goes on about her 'assets,'" she said, her voice low and hoarse, with a barely perceptible Russian accent that sounded strange and arousing. "So I decided to see this treasure myself. Up close."
Yelena Belova. Natasha's sister. What the hell was she doing here? And what assets?
Instead of an answer, she began a slow, hypnotic walk toward me, moving like a predator. Her hips swayed with each unhurried step, and the sight left me breathless. I tried to jerk upright but failed. My body, exhausted from three days of crafting without sleep, refused to cooperate. My muscles felt like cotton. I could only watch.
She stopped, looming over me. The blue light outlined her high cheekbones, full lips, light curly hair.
"There's something enticing about a genius hiding from everyone," she said, her voice dripping with mockery and a hint of vicious jealousy. "But my sister loves to play with her toys, and break them psychologically. I think you need to play with them for real. Until they break physically."
She crouched down. The cold of a tactical glove touched my cheek, hot from sleep. Her fingers traced my jaw, then moved down to my neck. The contrast sent an electric jolt through my body, and beneath my jeans, something traitorously grew heavy. She noticed. The corner of her mouth twitched, predatory.
"Natasha would talk to you for hours. Play her little games. Boring," she whispered, leaning so close that her breath, smelling of cherry liqueur, brushed my lips. "Psychology takes too long. Physics is much more convincing."
Her lips didn't just touch; they pressed against mine. This wasn't a kiss; it was a claim of ownership. Demanding, rough, taking without asking. My mouth filled with the taste of cherries and her lipstick. My hands, driven by instincts as old as time itself, settled on her waist, fingers digging into her firm hips. A low, guttural moan escaped her lips, and she leaned forward, pressing me back against the couch, stealing my breath and my will.
She pulled away as abruptly as she'd attacked, leaving me breathless. A victorious smirk played across her lips.
"See? Simple and effective."
She pulled off her gloves in one smooth movement and tossed them to the floor. Cool fingers traced over my chest, undoing my shirt buttons.
"Power," a low voice rasped against my stomach. "That's what turns you on. When someone else decides for you. When they take away your choice."
Her touches held no tenderness; they were demanding and precise, each movement asserting her dominance. A cold palm slipped beneath the waistband of my jeans, and the world narrowed to this sensation: dominating, subjugating, leaving no room for choice. The dry click of the zipper sounded like a verdict. She was going to prove her point in practice. Her hot breath grazed the skin of my stomach, and I gasped as she made me forget everything except her will. She didn't ask. She took. And the only thing I could do was submit, feeling control slip away and my body burned beneath her touch. I buried my fingers in her hair, ready to surrender, but she immediately pulled back.
"I decide when," she breathed, licking her swollen lips.
She stood. The zipper on her suit hissed down. In one movement, she straddled me, pressing her whole body against mine, beginning a slow, taunting rhythm.
"Beg," she growled. "Say you want me."
Just then, the heavy elevator doors opened soundlessly.
"Is this all you're capable of, little sister? Brute force. How predictable."
We froze. Natasha stood in the doorway, illuminated by the soft light from the elevator. She wore a simple tank top and jeans, her red hair loose. She looked relaxed, but her gaze was sharp as a blade.
"You're like a plank," she said lazily, drawing closer. "This calls for flexibility. Watch and learn."
She sat on the other side. Yelena hissed angrily but didn't budge. Natasha took my hand and placed it on her breast. Beneath the thin fabric of her tank top, her heart beat steady and strong; her skin hot. Her other hand slid over my chest, her fingers warm and gentle, but each touch struck like an electric shock. Then Natasha sank down smoothly, kneeling before the couch.
"Decided to copy me?" Yelena smirked.
"No," Natasha answered, not taking her green eyes off me. "I decided to show you how it's done."
And she showed me. It was completely different. Not rough pressure, but the art of seduction. Movements slow, teasing, promising and withholding simultaneously. She didn't take by force. She made you want, made you beg for more, driving you to frenzy with a mere hint. Yelena hissed with jealousy and anger above me, her hips moving faster, trying to draw my attention back to her.
Natasha pulled away and gave her sister a cold look, then turned to me.
"She takes. I seduce. The difference is fundamental."
Furiously, Yelena pushed her sister away. A sharp, burning movement, and I was already inside her, filling her. Hot, tight, demanding. She cried out and moved furiously, and I couldn't help but moan. But Natasha wasn't about to let her sister dominate. Her hands, her lips, immediately found me, adding their own distinct note to this madness, a slow, viscous poison of pleasure. Two different but equally intense sensations at once. I was ready to explode.
With a violent surge of primal rage, I pushed Natasha away and, grabbing Yelena by the hips, flipped her over, taking control of the rhythm myself. Natasha immediately pressed against me from behind, her hand guiding my movements, her lips finding my neck, biting and leaving wet traces.
Yelena came first, screaming loudly as she dug her nails into my back. Her hot, pulsing spasms shattered what remained of my self-control.
Without giving me time to recover, Natasha pushed her sister aside and straddled me herself. She moved slowly, sinuously, her hips tracing circles, and it was exquisitely sweet. Yelena, still trembling, crawled up and pressed her mouth to Natasha's breast. A quiet moan escaped Natasha's lips as she threw her head back.
Then everything dissolved into a chaos of sweaty bodies, ragged breathing, and the thick scent of intimacy. They changed places, used my body as a battlefield for their rivalry. I was both weapon and prize. At some point, I was behind Natasha, feeling Yelena caress her from the front, their moans merging into one. I lost track of time and myself until the world shattered into a million incandescent fragments.
When everything ended, I lay exhausted, and they lay on either side of me. The hub hummed, the screen blinked.
Yelena smirked, lazily kissing her sister on the shoulder.
"I told you my way is better. Straightforward."
Natasha smiled. Her hand slowly stroked the lower part of my stomach, and I felt how my body, despite all logic and complete exhaustion, again responded to her caress.
"We are both good, little sister. And he..." Her gaze, directed at me, no longer held any playfulness. Only a pure, icy sense of ownership. "He is ours."
Ours... Ours. OURS!
The word struck my consciousness like a hammer on an anvil. Black Widows hunting for me... Unexpected penetration of a base that practically no one knew existed... Natasha in civilian clothes... My own stupidity and mental fog... Inventory, stimulants, weapons... Had I really allowed myself to relax so much?
With a supreme effort of will, I forced my eyes open. Back to reality.
The warm female bodies vanished. In their place was the cold, slightly sticky leatherette of the couch. The scent of sex and perfume gave way to the sterile smell of ozone from the servers. Instead of moans and breathing, there was only the monotonous, low hum of ventilation. I was alone.
"Fucking hell..." slipped out in a hoarse whisper. "Note to self: after prolonged abstinence and lack of rest, erotic dreams become way too realistic."
There was also the minor inconvenience of a nocturnal emission. And judging by the state of my jeans, more than once. Though... in fairness, compared to actually being devoured by two super-spy seductresses, I'd gotten off easy. On the other hand, I actually wanted to make contact with Natasha. Interesting. How was I supposed to look her in the eye during negotiations?
I sat up, shaking my head, and looked at the wall screen. What was on the agenda?
Tuesday, September 29.
I'd dropped off the grid for almost four days, completely cut off from the world. I hoped they hadn't written me off. I needed to go home and check the situation. In theory, the intelligence services had marinated long enough; the patent bait should have been swallowed by them. But first... First, I needed to regain control.
Suit tests. And gacha. And also eating...
//=================//