H2O is not our creed.
Ours is C2H5OH.
A slogan on a chemistry students' dormitory.
*****************************
Walter Mayer.
At last, life began settling down. The struggle with bureaucrats belonged to the past. My tormenting conscience and sense of guilt had calmed as well. Curt fulfilled his promise and began conducting far more complicated—and therefore more interesting—experiments. There was, however, a spoonful of tar in the barrel of honey. Several days after the vampire incident, Spider-Man visited us. His condition was, to put it mildly, poor. Peter had managed to end up on the fangs of the now-deceased Michael and suffered considerable blood loss. Bloodletting had been used since the Middle Ages to stimulate the organism. If one remembered that part of his brain—including bone marrow—had already begun changing...
In short, the blood test showed that matters had become considerably worse than before the first treatment. We had to fill Parker to the ears with narcotics and introduce the 'antibodies' again. At this rate, he would celebrate New Year's with eight limbs. Connors and I told him as much. Judging by Peter's emotional condition, the young man had despaired and no longer expected the story to end well. No. He would not escape me that easily. As one magician of my acquaintance used to say: 'I'll drag you out of Hell and make you live.' Spider's problems had not yet reached the stage requiring my direct intervention, however. Let him continue running around.
According to my cells, Xavier had refused to help him. That had badly shaken the photographer's faith in humanity. Perhaps I really could make Peter into a normal person. His hero complex had become thoroughly irritating. None of that was especially important. Blade's promised master class was far more interesting. The black hunter truly was an excellent swordsman, at least to my inexperienced eye. Training beloved-me in the use of various stabbing and cutting pieces of metal began with an introductory lecture combined with testing my strength and speed.
"Remember, rookie: physical power without good speed and reflexes is more disadvantage than advantage. Learn to restrain your blows and measure the necessary force precisely. Otherwise, you risk jamming your weapon in the floor or wall, which is unpleasant. You have no problem with strength. Put the motorcycle down. Speed and reaction are both very good." Blade examined my carcass thoughtfully. "Fine. Follow me."
We entered a neighboring hall resembling a Japanese dojo. Various examples of edged weapons hung upon the walls, though the selection was specific: knives, daggers, even combat sickles; assorted katana and wakizashi. I saw no European sword or ax, much less anything heavier. Yet what met my eyes was magnificent. Every male contained a weapons maniac—more in some, less in others, but definitely in everyone. Pulling myself away from the spectacle took time.
"Choose."
The hunter's voice returned me from heaven to earth.
"Mm. A difficult choice. I want everything, and more of everything. Incidentally, why are there no European swords or axes?"
What were you listening with? Against vampires, rely on speed rather than strength. By the time you swing one of those monsters and strike..." The hunter grimaced. "You might as well ask why I don't keep clubs and flails. That heavy arsenal was designed for powerful armored targets. Against a fast, lightly equipped opponent, a light and sharp weapon—like a samurai katana or Chinese dao—is far more effective. Dao or sabers are better, but that's a matter of habit. Stop talking and choose."
I walked along the racks. Then my gaze caught THEM. Two blades rested in ordinary three-foot katana scabbards, but something about them was wrong. I approached. Black handles without decoration, wrapped only in simple black cord. The tsuba were unusual for Japanese weapons: broad and massive. The scabbards were black as well, reinforced in several places with iron rings and capped with blued steel. I drew one blade. Another surprise. The standard scabbard contained a blade only twenty-eight inches long. It was broad and weighed as much as an ordinary katana, while its curve was less pronounced.
I was no specialist. Perhaps there were several standards and such a design existed. That was not the important part. The blade itself was black. Not matte black like Ichigo's unforgettable Zangetsu. I could see my reflection clearly, but producing a flash of reflected sunlight would have been difficult. And the weapon had a brother. I already knew what I would choose. Blade appeared beside me. After examining the weapon, the hunter provided the necessary explanation.
"Shinobi-gatana—the weapons of ancient assassins and saboteurs. The blade's thickness and edge strength allowed them to serve as crowbars when someone needed to remove a window carefully. The tsuba is that thick for a reason too. Think of it as a small step when you need a foothold to climb a fence or wall. The scabbard also conceals several tricks." After a pause, he continued. "A trophy from Japan. There was a nest there, and these lay in the local leader's collection. As you can see, the metal is unusual too. Standard shinobi swords were made from mediocre material, but these... these are the work of a true Master. So? Taking them?"
"I am." I would not surrender such beauty willingly for any price.
"Excellent. You owe me one hundred and fifty thousand," the hunter said with satisfaction.
"Uh?"
"What did you expect? We're not a charity. The agreement was that you help with the serum and I train you. There wasn't a word about equipping you with weapons."
The hunter remained perfectly calm.
"Has no one told you greed is bad? The swords cost five times less!"
I objected automatically, though I understood I had nowhere to go. I would take them anyway. Blade clearly understood the same thing.
"If you don't want them, don't buy them."
The extortionist shrugged.
"Do you accept checks?" I admitted defeat.
"Certainly. We also accept cash, credit cards, and jewelry." The hunter bared his teeth happily.
I sighed heavily and wrote the check. No matter. I had truly promised them the serum… but someone would have to pay separately for a cancer cure.
Blade placed the check in his pocket and began demonstrating the basics of working with a blade. One blade, specifically. He admitted he was no good as a dual-wielder. Finding someone who could genuinely handle two swords competently was extremely difficult. The most he could offer was several exercises to 'desynchronize' the actions of my left and right hands.
Thus the days passed. Morning, afternoon, and evening found me an industrious student. I helped Curt with experiments and spent time with Felicia. At night, I either continued developing my 'Nazgûl' skills (my scream now successfully frightened animals and vagrants, or perhaps they simply hurried away from wild noises in dark alleys) or trained with Blade. Absolute memory helped there too. I needed to execute a technique perfectly only once. After that, I could no longer perform it incorrectly. I mastered the foundation in record time.
The only remaining problem was combat experience. I still could not feel completely free in a fight. Winning one training bout in five against an experienced dhampir was nevertheless an excellent result after one week of practice. During that time, we slightly altered the serum and adjusted it to the hunter's organism. I also ordered my cells inside the half-blood to begin gradually converting part of his skin into the same radiation absorber. It would not increase the dhampir's strength significantly. Only a small area would be transformed—just enough to counter the intensifying Thirst. Blade was something of a fanatic, and fanatics were difficult to handle and impossible to trust completely.
After a week of that life, Federico appeared. The Spaniard was unrecognizable. A tanned, cheerful man who looked thirty and radiated satisfaction with life bore no resemblance to the tormented creature tired of the world and himself whom I had met only a week earlier. He arrived at my home while I was absent. The Count therefore spent several hours in Zinaida Prokopyevna's company and succeeded in charming the old woman with his manners and courtesy.
When I returned, she was already trying to kill the vampire by forcing large quantities of pirozhki and sweet rolls into his unfortunate body. The miserable Count was insanely happy to see me. After thanking the housekeeper for caring for my friend, I hurriedly hid with the vampire in my office. I sat behind the desk, invited the Count to take a seat, and began refining our future plans. First, however, we could simply talk.
"I'm glad to see you in good health, my friend. How did you rest?"
"Thank you, my Lord. The past week contained the best moments of my life in two hundred and fifty years."
I grimaced slightly. The elevated style set my teeth on edge. In certain situations it was irreplaceable, but surely one could not speak that way constantly.
"Federico, please call me by name and use the familiar form. All these 'lords' and bows make me uncomfortable. Besides, I can feel it—you haven't spoken that way naturally for a long time, or you wouldn't be so tense."
The vampire relaxed somewhat and adopted more modern speech.
"Yes, I must admit I have hardly spoken to anyone during the past forty years. But you've surprised me again. Many people enjoy being bowed to and called 'Lord.' Morbius was delighted by it."
"I'm not 'many people,' and I'm not as vulnerable to flattery as Michael. But let's not discuss him. I promised you an interesting life, so listen. According to a competent source, the world stands at the threshold of war—not against some country or organization. No, it is worse. You know about so-called mutants?"
The Count nodded.
"They have been chosen—or soon will be chosen—as the enemies of the entire human race. But mutants are far from defenseless. Believe me, they possess means to answer. The result will be a third world war or something similar. You understand there will be no victors. I also dislike the prospect of a renewed Holy Inquisition burning everyone who differs from humans."
The words 'Holy Inquisition' produced a magical effect upon the Count. His eyes acquired a predatory gleam, and bloodlust became palpable in the air. Hm. I needed to reproduce that effect. No screaming, yet the pressure of his 'ki' was impressive—or whatever the technique was called.
"What must be done?"
It seemed the inquisitors had injured the vampire badly in their time. His voice contained tremendous desire for action.
"First, calm down," I said, cooling his enthusiasm slightly. "Then we must build our own organization. We need people, resources, and connections. The two of us cannot encompass the entire world. Someone is very subtly inflaming conflict between mutants and humans. We must discover who—and more importantly, why. There is no shortage of work. But first, people. Do you still have connections with sane vampires whose sense of grandeur hasn't displaced their brains?"
The aristocrat thought.
"I may be able to contact several of my kind from the old school. What can I offer in exchange for joining us?"
"The same thing you received: enhanced abilities, protection from sunlight, relief from the Thirst, and a voice on the council I hope we can create. But let them know that accepting my offer means no return, and the final word will remain mine. No democracy."
I added coldness at the end.
"Do not worry, my Lord. My generation still remembers duty, honor, and oaths. When do I begin?"
"Yesterday. And one more thing."
I handed the vampire one of the nearly indestructible phones.
"My number is stored inside. If any trouble occurs, contact me."
"Gathering everyone will require approximately one or two months."
The Count bowed and left the office.
"Good luck, my friend," followed him in farewell.
If Federico succeeded, I would possess the core of a future organization on a very impressive scale. And if one remembered that my cells sat inside Silvermane... It seemed I truly could become a gray cardinal behind the throne. But what would I do afterward? It was too early to divide the treasure of an undestroyed dragon. First, I had to await the Count's return.
The following morning, the newspapers exploded. Every headline was more pompous than the last, but all reduced to one claim: Spider-Man had robbed the recently opened 'Pirate's Treasure' jewelry exhibition. It was an interesting display. Pearls, precious stones, and old gold doubloons had been scattered artistically among aquariums containing fish and models of sunken ships. Hm.
Either Peter had finally become enraged with the city and decided to collect the compensation owed to him (not a chance) or he had once again appeared in the wrong place at the wrong time. Had canon contained anything similar? No. I could not remember. Very well. I would watch Spider for a while. If someone had framed him, he would dig through the earth with his nose to find the culprit.
Nothing interesting happened until evening. Parker attended several lectures at the university. Was he earning a second degree? Then he went on a date with Mary Jane. The young woman was attractive enough, but redheads were not my preference, and she remained far behind Felicia. If Parker were not so kind and naïve in certain matters, I would have called her a prepared 'reserve option.' The trouble began during the date.
Someone called the young woman. She quickly abandoned Peter and ran toward the park. Spider put on his red-and-blue costume and followed the object of his passion. In the park, the student met a chestnut-haired young man with a bodybuilder's physique. Damn. Did everyone here consume steroids? Blade, Brock, Flash Thompson—and Kingpin did not even bear mentioning. A fellow could develop an inferiority complex.
Hm. The young man looked extremely determined. Oh. What an interesting pearl necklace. Could it be part of the same 'Pirate's Treasure'? And there was our hero. He attacked the bodybuilder—and landed in a puddle. Literally. The muscular man simply collapsed into liquid, allowing Spider to pass through him, then reformed and struck our hero with a powerful stream of water. Ow. That must have hurt. It could have killed an ordinary human.
While the human fire hose focused on Peter, I formed one of my fragments into an imitation paper airplane and launched it, then merged with the trees again. The little airplane reached its target and struck the sprinkler's back. He should have joined the fire department instead of robbing aquariums. He would have been priceless. The fragment unfolded and began dissolving quietly into the creature's body, releasing my cells. Absorbed in fighting Spider, the man never noticed.
I carefully began examining his structure. Incredible. Peter and Hydro-Man—as I named the sprinkler—had long since left the park, while I remained hanging from a tree and processing the results. The adversary consisted of completely ordinary water—the same substance flowing from every faucet in the city. Yet somehow, in a manner unknown to science, that water 'remembered' Hydro-Man's personality. There was no guarantee the personality matched that of Mary Jane's former boyfriend, as I understood from fragments of their argument. The mechanism simulating a body was a masterpiece. Imagine ordinary water taking the shape of liver cells and calmly beginning to perform their functions.
My mind struggled to accept such a possibility. But it was possible. The proof had recently attempted to drown Parker. I could almost believe water might imitate a living organism. How Hydro-Man controlled water that had not originally belonged to his body, however... I struck my head against the nearest tree trunk. I did not understand. Worse, I could not reproduce it. I had obtained DNA, but it was the DNA of an entirely ordinary human—reflected in water. Fine. I would attempt to extract something else. Perhaps I would succeed. I approached one of the puddles remaining after the battle and collected water containing the dissolved genetic code. At this rate, I would soon evict Curt from his own laboratory.
Whistling a cheerful tune, I headed home. After all, I could perform the simplest experiments there. I was my own laboratory.
******************
Professor Xavier's School.
Nothing that evening suggested disaster. The teachers Logan and Hank had gone on another walk through the nighttime city. Storm, Cyclops, and Jean had been forced to answer an emergency call from a neighboring city. Either a major terrorist attack or an ordinary accident had occurred, but their immediate help was required. Professor Xavier accompanied Cyclops. The accident looked suspicious, and a telepath might be needed to gather evidence. Jean still lacked experience and might not manage alone.
Then the sirens howled. People in black suits stormed through shattered doors and windows. Panic spread everywhere. Some students attempted resistance. A few even succeeded. Most received a stun-gun blast or a paralyzing dart. Only a handful escaped—those with overwhelming destructive power, such as the student who simply incinerated an approaching squad, or abilities useful for concealment and flight. Thirty students were captured and taken in an unknown direction.
By the time the senior X-Men returned in response to the emergency call, everything was over. Charles was stunned. His students. His successors. Those who had trusted him and placed their hopes in him. The Professor addressed his X-Men.
"Friends... today, we suffered a terrible blow. Terrible, but not fatal. We will rebuild the school. First, however, we will recover our kidnapped friends and family. Cyclops!"
"Here!"
"Contact our informants. They may do whatever is necessary, but they must find those responsible. Storm, you will manage public relations. Prevent journalists from learning what happened. Jean, you and I will go to Cerebro. We will attempt to locate our unknown brother and the missing children."
"Logan! I don't see Hank among us, and he isn't responding. Find him."
After assigning work to his subordinates, Charles went toward the Cerebro building. If only he felt as confident as he appeared before his students. There was a great deal of work and, as always, too little time.
**************
Silvermane.
The old man rubbed his hands with satisfaction. The miles of nerves ruined by dealing with that madman Stryker had been worth the result. Together with the mercenary's blood and the little vampire's sample, he possessed exactly thirty-three tubes. Imagine—an entire century of life.
There was disturbing news too. Kingpin appeared to be building a small mutant army. According to the assault team's report, even one gifted individual could destroy a platoon of soldiers wearing the newest armor. Hm. Perhaps the creature that had offered youth in exchange for blood could solve his problem with Fisk. But what would it demand in return? First, he needed to make contact. What had the creature said? Go onto a rooftop with the blood and wait? The old man took a small refrigerated case and walked toward his private elevator with a groan. This would be the most important night of his life.