51
"You've certainly got an atmosphere here," Natasha commented as she stepped inside. Her gaze, professional yet tinged with feigned curiosity, swept the room. "There's a creative chaos to it. I'd even say it has character."
She was, of course, shamelessly putting on an act. The apartment wasn't merely disorderly. It was the pinnacle of chaos. A graveyard of Chinese takeout containers, the skeletal remains of disassembled gadgets, and a uniform layer of dust coating everything untouched for days. Ever since I'd firmly established myself at Blade's base, this place had become a write-off. It was a compromised safe house that even the laziest dog in the neighborhood probably knew about.
"Thanks. I prefer to call it a 'genius habitat'," I answered with a smile, shrugging as I made my first move in this invisible battle of wits.
"Genius?" She picked up on my game with interest, her gaze casually landing on the outlet where my power supply was plugged in. "May I..."
"Make yourself at home. Tea?"
"I won't say no, but first... Oh, it turned on!" Natasha exclaimed delightedly when her smartphone screen, now connected to the charger, flickered to life. "Perfect. I'll have some while I call a taxi."
Again with this taxi. Sweetheart, your plan is about as subtle as a KV-2's armor. I put the kettle on and returned to my presentation while she pretended to be absorbed in her phone.
"Not genius in the sense of some bookworm who knows Hegelian dialectics from Marxist theory. But genius in the sense of someone capable of creating extraordinary things from ordinary chaos. Like this." I gestured at the mess around me, which now played perfectly into my hands, creating the ideal image of an eccentric inventor.
"Sounds a little too self-assured, but... wait a second." She cut me off, putting the phone to her ear. "Hello? Your driver dropped me off in the middle of nowhere and just left! What do you mean there was a complaint filed against him too? I had NFC payment set up, but my phone died at the worst possible moment!"
For a few more minutes she argued with "customer service," her pauses perfectly calibrated, and authentic indignation in her voice. An excellent performance designed to convince me of the randomness of her visit. But the ending was predictable.
"What do you mean I'm on the blacklist?! You can't just refuse service! What the hell?!" There it was. Now she was completely "legally" stuck here. I prudently kept quiet about the dozen other taxi services available. I wouldn't be surprised if she'd been promptly "banned" from those too. Professionals. What can you do?
"That's unfortunate." I shrugged sympathetically, pouring boiling water into mugs. "By the way, what about your bike? I remember you rode one."
"It broke down." Natasha grimaced, accepting a mug of bagged tea from me. "As they explained at the service center, the electronics died. Apparently the wiring contacts oxidized, or something like that." She took a sip and continued, shifting to a more trusting tone. "Anyway, I'm already late for everything, and a new taxi... forget it. I don't even want to think about it. Since we're having this chance run-in, tell me about Murdock. You were a client of his firm, right?"
Here it was. It had begun.
"Mm? Matt Murdock?" I pretended to be surprised. "But what about discussing my genius?"
"Ha-ha, very funny." She smiled gently. "But so far, the only genius I see is this chaos, and I need a good lawyer right now. I did visit him after our meeting, of course, but another client's opinion interests me just as much. After all, his services aren't cheap, especially for Hell's Kitchen standards..."
"Well, he's honest, meticulous, and very... flexible in thinking." I recalled our conversation, choosing words that sounded flattering without revealing the essence. "He doesn't just know the law. He feels it. He adapts to the client and finds non-standard solutions."
"Excellent. That's exactly what I need." Natasha drawled, her whole demeanor a silent invitation for further questions. I, of course, took the bait.
"What do you need him for, if it's not a secret?"
"Not a secret anymore... In short, black market real estate agents squeezed my grandmother out of her apartment. She sued them, but the case is being actively buried because some damn incompetent idiot is defending her interests. I need to change lawyers urgently. I looked into it, and Murdock seemed like the ideal option. And I don't care that he's blind. I think that might even be a plus."
"A plus?"
"Well, yeah. When you have such a serious problem in your own life, you probably find it easier to empathize with other people's problems. Maybe that's where his heightened sense of justice and high moral principles come from."
"Hmm, I never thought about it that way," I admitted honestly, appreciating the elegance of her phrasing.
"But you should. You're supposedly a genius," she giggled charmingly.
"You know, I just realized I still don't know your name..."
"Natalie. Or Nat, if you prefer."
"John Thompson," I smiled. "A shame it's not Wick, of course, but it's still a solid surname. And as for my genius, like I said, it's more of a technical, applied kind. To put it simply, I'm an engineer."
"Oh, an engineer? I heard they earn a lot!" Playfulness colored her voice. "I immediately picture these serious men in glasses, with rough stubble and bags under their eyes, smelling of coffee and rosin. And you, you know, don't really fit that image."
"Well, I work for myself," I grinned. "Garage Cooperative LLC, you could say. But don't be fooled. With my talents, I wouldn't just settle for being a lead engineer at, say, Stark Industries. I'd have Stark himself biting his nails nervously. Why be a cog in someone else's machine, even the best one, if you can build your own spaceship?"
"Stark Industries, nothing less than... Straight from rags to riches, huh?" she said in a deliberately incredulous tone, carefully probing my reaction. "Somehow that's too... uh..." She made a vague gesture with her hand, as if searching for the right word.
"Too arrogant?" I readily prompted her.
"Probably. It's just that you talk as if you've already invented something great, but... your name isn't in the same league as Stark, whom you, by your own words, are ready to eclipse."
"Heh. You said it yourself: I don't fit the image." I leaned forward conspiratorially, lowering my voice. "I'm still too young. I've got my whole life ahead of me. But... I've already filed a patent on revolutionary technology. A real game-changer across multiple industries. Actually, I hired Murdock to iron out the details."
"Revolutionary technology?" Genuine professional interest flashed in her eyes, skillfully disguised as feminine curiosity. "Something like artificial intelligence that tells the darkest jokes?" She giggled quietly, easing the tension and drawing me out. A pro. What could you say.
"Ha. So far, I'm only thinking about AI. But this... it's just a trifle. Merely lightweight, cheap-to-produce armored fabric that can stop pistol rounds cold."
"Merely?!" Her amazement, though part of the performance, looked absolutely sincere. "I'm no specialist, of course, but..."
"Exactly. There's nothing else like it on the market. Everything that exists is either impractical, ridiculously expensive, or terribly overcomplicated."
"I heard something about Kevlar..."
"Kevlar is a reliable stone axe. And Proteus," I declared proudly, "is a laser scalpel. It's a whole new philosophy of lightweight protection. And you know what's most interesting?"
"What?" I could practically feel her breathing quicken. She had taken the bait.
"This is only the tip of the iceberg. A small part of my true capabilities!"
"Pfft, come on! Show-off!" She waved it off playfully, but I could see she'd taken the bait.
"No, I'm serious!" I jumped up with feigned enthusiasm. "Wait a couple of minutes. I'll run to the garage right now and bring something that will blow your mind. This will be the coolest thing you've ever seen!"
She just nodded in bewilderment, and I left.
In the garage, I made a show of rattling tools for several minutes, simulating vigorous activity. At some point, I felt it. A short, dry crackle in the air, and every hair on my body stood on end from the static charge. The lights flickered for a moment, then came back on. A weak EMP pulse. Natasha was clearing the airwaves, burning out any CIA bugs so that what I showed her would reach only her and her department. Well, well. S.H.I.E.LD. was my priority anyway, so let her play. I was supposedly a free citizen, and if they decided to come after me, I could definitely hold my own now.
Dropping the act, I mentally opened my inventory. The Chimera complied, clothing my body, and I returned to the house, appearing before Natasha in all my grand, futuristic magnificence.
I saw it. Despite all her professionalism and iron endurance, her eyelid twitched almost imperceptibly. A micro‑expression of pure shock, which she buried instantly, pulling her face back into a mask of light mockery.
"And what's this? One of those costumes that nerds craft for their cosplay gatherings?" she inquired, lazily looking me over.
"First, I prefer the term 'geek,' and second," my voice from the helmet sounded slightly muffled and distorted, "This isn't cosplay. This is a full-fledged combat platform capable of replacing a hundred professional soldiers on the battlefield. Roughly speaking, in this suit I'm a full-fledged superhero. I can easily go toe-to-toe with Spider-Woman, for example."
I was still holding back, of course. Remembering how easily Shocker had taken her down, I suspected I could handle her even without stimulators. My build, especially considering the Iron Blood, was far more balanced and lethal.
I took a step toward the kitchen table, looming over the seated Natasha in my full combat regalia. My NZT-enhanced brain registered everything. I saw her deltoids tense under the thin fabric of her sweater. I saw her center of gravity shift imperceptibly to a more stable position, ready for a lunge or evasion. I noticed a single bead of sweat sparkling on her neck in the lamplight. She was ready for battle, for betrayal, for any eventuality. And still, she kept playing the sweet, naive girl.
"Sounds too good to be true." Her voice remained light, but I caught the steel in it. "I may not be a genius, but I won't believe such a thing can be built in an ordinary garage. The power of a hundred soldiers, hah. So you're a kind of Garage Hyperion?"
Instead of answering, I silently raised my hand in its armored gauntlet. A low, barely audible hum emanated from my fingers. I pressed one finger to the tabletop. An ordinary table made of chipboard. I gave a simple mental command. The vibration began at an infrasonic frequency and peaked in fractions of a second. There was no roar, no impact. The tabletop simply ceased to exist. It soundlessly turned to dust, a cloud of fine wood powder that slowly settled on the floor. My mug and Natasha's mug fell to the floor with a dull thud.
"And that's just the most primitive attack mode," I shrugged. "There's also defensive, tactical, and body-stimulating modes. But I don't want to demonstrate them in the apartment. I still have to live here, you know."
Her gaze darted from my figure to the cloud of dust at our feet, then to the four table legs standing forlornly, and back to me. The mask of skepticism cracked, and she moved to the next stage of the protocol. Admiration.
"This is... just... wow!" she breathed, her eyes widening. "God, John, this is the coolest thing I've ever seen! And I'm a fan of both Spider-Woman and Hyperion, by the way! Such power... achieved through intelligence alone... I've always admired two kinds of people: the smart ones, and those who back up their words."
Whoa, easy there. You're laying it on a bit thick. Did you get so nervous you skipped a few steps in the recruitment manual? Or do you think I'm just standing here in this pompous suit, soaking up my own awesomeness? Well, not that I'm entirely immune to it, of course, but still, this is too abrupt.
"Well, you finally realize what a handsome devil I am!" my modulated voice rumbled. "And you know what's most amusing?"
"Oh no, no, noooo... Not this again... Please tell me you're joking?" Predicting what was coming, Natasha groaned theatrically, covering her face with her hands.
"Not a chance! The most amusing part is that this is only my calling card!" I began pacing around the room, gesturing emphatically, which looked both utterly comical and grandiose in full armor. Time to raise the stakes. "Combat stimulators that enhance physical capabilities and reaction speed several times over, without a single side effect! A compact energy source, a 'pocket sun,' capable of powering all of New York for a year! And..."
I fell silent and stepped closer. My voice dropped to a whisper inside the helmet, creating an intimate, conspiratorial atmosphere. This move was designed for her alone. And the fewer ears to hear it, the better.
"A serum. A formula capable of curing practically everything. Cancer at any stage. Any wounds that don't require limb regeneration. Organ failure... Infertility."
There it was. Her mask didn't just crack. It shattered, exposing something deeply personal and painful for an unguarded moment. She flinched, taking a sharp, barely noticeable breath, and her emerald eyes lost focus for an instant. I'd scored a hit.
Time to end this farce. The twilight outside had already deepened into night.
"But we've been sitting too long." I made my voice loud and cheerful again, jarring her from her stupor. "I need to attend to my genius affairs, and then get some sleep. And you, it seems to me, shouldn't stay the night, considering we just met."
I took her elbow gently but firmly. She didn't resist, moving as if in a dream. As we walked, I plucked her smartphone from the charger and pressed it into her hand, then opened the front door.
"Well, Nat. I hope you enjoyed visiting a modest genius."
"That's an understatement..." she muttered in bewilderment, and without even properly saying goodbye, she stepped out into the street and hurried away.
I closed the door, drew the curtains, and deactivated the suit, sending it to my inventory. Done. The bait was swallowed. Let her pass the information up the chain and receive further instructions. If S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't contact me with a serious offer by tomorrow, I'd be deeply disappointed in them. And I'd have to figure things out on my own.
For now, it was worth finding out what was up with Peter. I hadn't heard a peep from him.
In the office, which was drowning in semidarkness, it smelled of expensive wood, leather, and power. Before the shameful incident that had forever changed his essence, Otto Octavius had never imagined that one day he would come to respect brute force this much. Yes, he admitted it: the gamma irradiation didn't just fuse four titanium manipulators to his body; it rewrote his personality. He had always respected intellect, though he believed that men like Richards had simply been lucky enough to be born with a silver spoon in their mouths. He respected Norman Osborn's business acumen, though he considered him a rare bastard. But strength? What use was it when humanity had invented a million ways to nullify it?
How wrong he had been. Strength was multifaceted. The monolithic figure now sitting behind the black wood desk opposite him was living proof. Otto felt it instinctively. Despite mechanical limbs capable of crushing concrete, despite a physiology strengthened by irradiation, he was no match for this mountain of muscle and indomitable will. Wilson Fisk. The Kingpin. Not only had he outplayed death, but he had also become Otto's new employer.
The scientist remained in a state of shock and awe. How Fisk had pulled off his own "death," how he had held onto the teetering throne of the criminal underworld and, in record time, not only returned but multiplied his former power. All of it commanded Otto's reluctant admiration. New, far more formidable metahumans were on his staff. And projects. Projects that Fisk had entrusted to him personally, Otto Octavius, to oversee, appreciating his genius. He had placed him in charge of the entire scientific department of his empire, generously funding the most absurd and ambitious ideas.
"What about Project Resurrection?" The Kingpin's low, rumbling voice tore through the silence as soon as Otto sat down in the chair.
"The ideal candidate for the Rhino has been found." Otto immediately began his report. "Alexei Sytsevich. A former Russian mafia enforcer who screwed up. An incredibly tough guy, a real bull. His physiology should withstand the bio-implant integration and complete fusion with the new armor version."
"Shocker?"
"Primitive vibration technology." Otto waved his hand dismissively. "I could equip all your cannon fodder with these gloves. Though they consume an immeasurable amount of energy. The problem of a compact power source is paramount."
"I don't need everyone. Select only those whose bodies can withstand the recoil. Schultz was a weak meta, and he could handle it." Fisk's tone was even.
Ah, that's it. That explains everything. Otto thoughtfully scratched his bald head. Yes, mitigating the vibrations' penetrating effects on the wearer's body is extremely difficult.
"Vulture?"
"A useless, bulky, impractical waste of resources," Octavius grumbled. "It demands massive investment for zero output." "Flight? So what?" "There are dozens of more elegant, efficient ways to move through the air. Better not to fly at all. Look, Spider-Woman manages perfectly well with her webbing." He grimaced. "I prudently shut down that project."
Fisk was silent for some time, his heavy gaze inscrutable. Finally, he nodded once.
"Good. What about the Chameleon? Is Beck working out? He's your assignment."
"He prefers to be called Mysterio," Otto grimaced. "And yes, his holograms... they're quite entertaining." "They're capable of completely replacing the Chameleon in infiltration and disinformation operations." "But Beck himself is an unbearable, arrogant asshole." "He's more like a failed theater actor with delusions of grandeur than an actual engineer."
"The main thing is that he's a useful tool. Control him. Now, to the main point. I sent you data on the Proteus fabric. Can you recreate an analog?"
"Mmm..." Otto hesitated. "In theory, yes. But I'm already running too many projects. And Proteus looks like something that will require months of fundamental research. Besides, we agreed we'd strengthen our rank-and-file fighters with vampirism? I'm in the active phase of virus research right now!"
Then Fisk's impenetrable face cracked for the first time. He grimaced with displeasure.
"Project Vampire is dead. Too many variables, too messy. Shut down everything connected to it. Focus on Proteus. I need this technology."
"I... I'll think about what can be done..."
"No. Not you. All of you will think." After these words, the office door opened, and a bald man in his fifties entered the room with small, mincing steps. He looked like a living caricature of a scientist with round glasses and a lab coat. "Phineas Mason. In certain circles, he's known as the Tinkerer. He's your new partner."
"But... I already have one unbalanced psycho with delusions of grandeur to deal with!" Otto exclaimed indignantly, referring to Beck.
"I don't care." Fisk cut him off. In that moment, the air in the office grew thick and heavy. The absolute power radiating from the Kingpin pressed him into his chair. "Within a month, my fighters will be wearing the best protective fabric in the world. That's an order."
Even Otto was affected. All his scientific swagger evaporated under the pressure. He bowed his head in silence, then wordlessly rose and hurried from the office. The Tinkerer, trembling, scurried after him.
Left alone, Fisk allowed himself a thin, predatory smile. His power... it was growing. Not just his personal power. His entire empire was becoming stronger. Perhaps he should have organized his fake assassination much earlier. Death was the ultimate tool for business restructuring. And now, his real business was thriving.
//=================//