'It is always worth keeping a finger on the pulse, or someone may put a hand on your throat...'
Folk wisdom.
Walter Mayer.
***************
Strange left after spending roughly half an hour washing my brain about my magical potential while simultaneously trying to wash it in another direction—about beavers. I mean goodness. And love for one's fellow man.
First time I'd ever met a magician who, in theory, should have been rational and intelligent while simultaneously being a fanatic. There was something else. I felt fear in Strange. He was afraid of me. And what people fear, they usually try to destroy. Or study first, then control or destroy. I didn't like that prospect at all.
He may have spent half an hour chewing through my brain with sermons about Good, but that did nothing to increase my trust. Everyone has their own version of good. So I promised to think about his generous offer of apprenticeship.
Unfortunately, I suspected that in the best-case scenario we'd limit ourselves to cooperation on certain research projects. A pity to miss out on magic. But better to postpone studying it—I'd get to it eventually—than walk willingly into some kind of trap.
Physically eliminating me was almost impossible now. But who knew what local sorcerers could pull? No. I'd rather do this on my own, quietly and carefully. My other projects advanced as well. The Brotherhood had finally formed completely and dispersed into its assigned regions. Only Victor and Nyssa remained in the city from the Council. Victor was exploiting Toomes with enthusiasm. Nyssa received responsibility for all of North America, and her primary task became locating the organizers behind that lovely bunker in the middle of the Canadian wilderness.
I also managed to wring a martial-arts instructor out of Lee. 'Wring out' is perhaps too strong. I simply said I needed to improve my skills with stabbing, cutting, and shooting toys. Done. Master Shen truly deserved the capital M. Then again, if you spend five centuries constantly practicing and perfecting the art of killing... Hmm. One could have based the image of a drow warrior on him. The same calculating, cold-blooded bastard capable of arranging a massacre using nothing but a toothpick.
I'm not joking. There was an incident like that in his file. Outside 'combat mode,' however, he was disciplined and perfectly reasonable. Copying his movements and style wasn't particularly difficult. Absolute memory is wonderful.
But even perfect reproduction of every strike, the ability to calculate an opponent's movements in my Combat Mode, and a speed advantage of almost three times—going higher didn't seem wise—didn't help me defeat this monster. I couldn't even touch him with a blade. And Lee was on the same level.
"You do not see the pattern of battle. You fuss too much and make too many unnecessary movements," Shen said after once again beating me like a god beating a turtle. "Combat is not a dance, though they resemble one another. Combat is a contest between the arts of two fighters, a rivalry in their ability to weave the pattern of death. Let your opponent help you. Let him lay the path to his own defeat. You need only help slightly. Correct one or two strokes, and you can place the final point. This comes with experience. That is what we will build."
And the Master attacked again. Sadist. Without my survivability, I'd have died from exhaustion and beatings already. Hmm. At least I'd eventually have something useful to teach Laura.
Speaking of the Council. Victor finally shared his revenge plan for Richards. Heh. What could I say? Cheap, effective, and several birds with one stone. Good Uncle von Doom really had decided to take revenge like royalty. Not a single hair would fall from Rubber Man's head.
But his reputation and 'good name' would be buried under such a mountain of manure that three lifetimes wouldn't be enough to dig himself out and wash clean. Victor would handle almost everything personally. My involvement consisted only of approving the action and arranging a few suitable 'independent' experts and reporters. The main point was making sure none of them could be connected to the magnate.
Easy enough. And it would make a good man happy. At Richards's very next press conference—and he'd developed a habit of holding those with impressive regularity—he received a number of VERY unpleasant questions. Flight safety procedures. Why the station had no observer. And, from one particularly vile reporter we'd found at a revolting yellow tabloid—Auntie Rita Skeeter must have been modeled after her—the suggestion that perhaps Richards's project, the one that had nearly caused a catastrophe, had only been approved because he was now dating Mr. von Doom's sexetary... pardon. Secretary. A woman for whom, again according to rumors, the magnate had once had serious feelings.
And that was that. Susan Storm took a hit too. Deservedly enough. The next morning several devastating articles appeared. Richards's reputation fell to roughly the level of the New York subway. Sponsors concerned with their own public image hurried to sever ties with someone so thoroughly smeared.
The scientist returned to the place from which Victor had only recently pulled him. Up the ass. The Thing took a job as security and bouncer at a strip club. Rumor said he became extremely popular with the local girls. Torch continued his stuntman career. Invisible Woman disappeared somewhere. Nobody searched very hard.
Thus ended the Fantastic Four, brought down by one not-particularly-complex combination from one mildly irritated magnate. And I finally found time to dig into their genomes.
The Thing's silicon-organic biology didn't interest me. Victor's metal surpassed it in every respect.
Richards's rubber properties weren't especially useful either. Maybe I could transplant some of his 'meat' without altering DNA, use it as extremely good electrical insulation, and run internal 'lightning rods' of von Doom's metal throughout my body? No. Better not. The system would become too complicated and unreliable. I had no particular desire to fry myself.
The Storm siblings were much more interesting. Torch's ability to convert his body into plasma was fascinating, especially combined with the fire-control ability I'd obtained from Pyro. Unfortunately, it was incompatible with what I already possessed. This time my Inner Hamster staged a full rebellion and posed the question very clearly: What the hell? I had to search for workarounds.
The obvious solution was multiple bodies. I didn't like it. I was an adherent of quality, not quantity. The key appeared where nobody would have thought to look. The Lizard transformation. Kurt was, fundamentally, an ordinary human. But under severe stress, the Lizard DNA became dominant. Regeneration switched on. Strength increased. And so on. Therefore different genomes could coexist inside one body.
The question was simply switching which set occupied dominance. Having found a possible loophole, I calmed the Hamster and returned to research. The final acquisition was force barriers. I already had invisibility, and mine was actually slightly better than Susan's. The barriers, however, were extremely useful. They could take nearly any shape. I didn't know why Susan used them only defensively. One could form an extremely thin plane and launch it through the air, cutting everything in its path.
Still, as defense they were excellent too. One barrier endured roughly forty percent of my optic blast. That was approximately equivalent to taking a couple of air-to-ground missiles. Impressive. Minus another test range.
Another week passed. Besides all the research, I managed to meet Felicia and Rogue a couple of times. I had to admit Anna blossomed more every day. She'd developed a certain confidence, and it was obvious that perhaps for the first time in her life she was genuinely happy with that life. Then she killed me with one question.
"Tell me, Alex, you know Laura Mayer, right?"
"Of course. She's Walter's daughter. Did something happen to her?"
"No. I was just curious—is that Hierro you gave her, or is it one of her natural abilities?"
"Uh?"
I think my poker face actually failed. 'Hierro'? You little 'Bleach' fanatic! And here I'd been wondering why almost a week had passed and Xavier's school still seemed peaceful. Turns out she was running propaganda for her favorite series. Stierlitz in a skirt, damn it.
"Ah, never mind. Want to fly some more?"
"Sure."
I took the girl's hand. There was almost no energy drain now, and we rose into the sky again. Why wasn't she draining me? Oh, that's an interesting story. After the experiment with Laura, when I'd managed to adapt cells to her immune system, I thought: Why not try to 'guess' Rogue's genome and adapt to it too?
I had a starting point—the genetic set responsible for the gifts I'd transferred into her. So whenever I was in contact with the girl, my skin constantly changed its DNA. It resembled a game of hot and cold. I had no idea how long brute-forcing every combination would take. But sooner or later I'd find the key. I no longer doubted that.
The week passed. Friday arrived. Toward evening Laura called and asked whether I could pick her up... in Aizen cosplay. What a brat. Although... why not? There was nobody there I needed to be embarrassed in front of. Very well. School for Gifted Youngsters, brace yourself. Aizen-sama is already on his way.
Meanwhile, in Sunny Florida.
***********************
"Welcome to the Pony Lair. How can we help you?"
"I'd like a bag of dog food and a cage for a parrot."
"Certainly. Please come into the showroom to choose a cage while someone brings the food from storage."
Deadpool, former mercenary and current successful businessman and owner of a chain of pet stores and souvenir shops, stretched contentedly in his chair and paused the security-camera feed. He had really gotten lucky with that basement. It was there, after several weeks of despair and hopelessness, that he had understood his true calling.
He must help people and animals. In the name of Love. In the name of Friendship. In the name of Pony! The man threw a handful of dry cat food into his mouth and washed it down with beer. Yes. And it would also be nice to burn every Teletubby in existence.
Professor Xavier. Director of the Madhouse That Until Recently Had Been a School for Gifted Youngsters.
********************
"Reign over the frosted heavens, Hyōrinmaru!"
"Reduce all creation to ash, Ryūjin Jakka!"
Iceman and Pyro were demolishing another training field in yet another sparring session. No. The professor was happy that the children had begun devoting more time to developing their powers. Their control had improved unbelievably. Maintaining an element continuously in the form of an animal or bird while imitating its behavior was very difficult. But the ice dragon and fire dragon had already reduced two—think about that, TWO—shielded and reinforced training grounds to ruins.
Scott was furious and threatening to tear both boys' ears off. As soon as he escaped the crowd of little children demanding that Uncle Cyclops demonstrate a Cero. Hank had it worst. The sweet children began calling him Captain Komamura and demanding rides on his Bankai.
They tormented Beast so thoroughly that he locked himself inside his laboratory and told everyone seeking conversation to get lost. They promptly renamed him Mayuri and left him alone. For a while.
Charles remembered assigning Jubilee Lee to look after the new girl. He had probably not made such a large mistake since his quarrel with Magneto. The girls became friends astonishingly quickly and began terrorizing the students together. That alone wasn't truly dangerous.
But little Mayer had brought THIS into his school. A children's series about people with unusual abilities called Shinigami, their adventures, and their battles. And the entire population of the school between ages six and twenty became hopelessly addicted. Along with some older people. Though Logan might simply have wanted to stay close to Laura and Anna.
Then Jubilee Lee suggested reenacting several episodes. She became Rukia. Wolverine was dressed as the captain of the Eleventh Division and given one of the smaller children to ride on his shoulder. And for the third day in a row the school had descended into absolute madness.
Then from Sonid— Damn it. The habit was spreading. From jump Ulqui— No. Nightcrawler came out. Wearing white clothes. His tail drooped sadly as he reported that a car had arrived at the gates... and Aizen-sama had stepped out. The disabled professor began to suffer nervous laughter. He looked out the window. Yes. The face was similar. The trademark lock of hair falling over the eyes.
The only difference was that he wore a normal business suit rather than a designer's nightmare. And Charles couldn't sense him at all. Just like Walter Mayer. The telepath decided to confirm his suspicion and dialed the young man's number. It was answered quickly.
"Mr. Xavier? Did something happen?"
"Um... not exactly. You see, a man who looks very much like a character from a certain animated series has just arrived here. And he is completely impossible to sense... like you."
"Ahhh. You must mean Sōsuke. A couple of urgent matters came up for me in Transylvania, so I asked an old friend to collect Laura. I hope this hasn't inconvenienced you?"
"No, not at all. Everything is fine."
"Then forgive me, but I have to end the call. Business..." Before the connection cut, the telepath heard someone shout: "Bad dog! Spit it out! Spit it out, I said!"
Then came the sound of gunfire. The line went dead.
"Transylvania..." The psion said thoughtfully. "What on Earth did he forget there?"
Deciding to meet the guest, Charles hurried downstairs. There he heard Laura's delighted voice.
"Uncle Aizen, you came! We're playing 'Bleach'!"
Mayer practically radiated energy, looking at that moment very much like Jubilee Lee.
"Laura, how many times have I told you not to take that nonsense seriously? That stoned Japanese guy got everything wrong—"
"Are you really Aizen-sama?"
"Do you have a zanpakutō?"
"Why aren't you wearing your coat?"
"Is Gin far away?"
"Are you in a gigai right now?"
"Can you come out of it?"
"Please, please!"
An entire delegation of children surrounded the visitor.
"Fine."
The man sighed heavily. His suit transformed into white robes. The resemblance to the animated character became astonishing.
"Happy now?"
"Yeah!"
"Awesome!"
The children had rendered their verdict. Few of them still doubted that the visitor was the real Aizen. The man continued.
"Walter couldn't come. There are some problems in Transylvania. So I'll keep you company until Saturday. You don't mind, right?"
"Are we going to Las Noches?"
"No." The man closed his eyes with mild irritation. "They're renovating."
Charles simply grabbed his head in suffering.
"Lord, why?" He muttered under his breath.
"For your sins, naturally," Aizen answered calmly while looking directly at the telepath from a considerable distance. Xavier covered his face with one hand.
Nick Fury. Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.
*********************
The colonel thoughtfully studied the personnel file of one of headquarters' technicians. After several months of intensive searching, they'd finally found the mole. A small, unremarkable man. No special clearance. Responsible for maintaining the ship's power systems.
And, as it turned out, owner of several extremely interesting devices capable of extracting data from computers through those very power systems. Elegant. Fury had to give him that. But the bastard had finally been caught. They pumped him full of chemicals. They interrogated him through all three levels of intimidation.
He revealed everything. How he reported to important people in Washington. How he gathered data. What he had transmitted. What he hadn't managed to transmit. He even remembered stealing pastries from a baker's counter in third grade. But he knew nothing about Fury's private life. Then how had Mayer learned those things? The colonel had no answer.
With the silent consent of the crew, the mole later suffered an 'accident.' It happens. A slightly drunk technician. Steep slippery stairs. The poor fellow fell from a height and broke his neck.
Fury had no doubt his sworn 'friends' in the General Staff wouldn't believe such a coincidence. Proving otherwise would be a different matter.
The colonel was also disturbed by renewed movement around the semi-legendary thief known as Cat. He even transferred the prisoner to a more secure location. Just in case. There was no news from Natasha either. Tony Stark remained missing somewhere unknown.
That hadn't prevented his company from staying near the top, though it had been forced to make a little room on the pedestal after the rise of Doom Incorporated. The scar under Fury's patch began to ache again. Something strange was moving around Victor's organization too.
Intelligence hadn't learned much, but it looked as if von Doom intended to open several factories and businesses around the world. He was actively negotiating with government representatives from countries across the globe. His meetings with Olga—one of the most effective mercenary commanders in existence—also deserved attention.
Perhaps several agents should be inserted. Just in case. And vacation. God, how Fury wanted a vacation.
Walter Mayer.
*********************
What could be more pleasant than melting the Brainpecker's brain? Laura and I spent the entire trip home trying to recover from our laughter. It hit me especially hard. I was an empath, after all, and could feel the entire spectrum of emotions surrounding us.
In short, it had been fun. Though I'd made one mistake. No, not revealing Symby's clothing transformation. Only two people knew the Symbiote could do that: Kurt and Peter. Neither had been there.
My mistake was telling Laura about Charles's phone call to the doll I left answering my phone. At the words 'bad dog' and 'Transylvania,' the girl's eyes began shining in a very unpleasant way. Oh no. Absolutely not. I am NOT doing that. Stop looking at me like that! No means no!
Exactly Two Minutes Later. Well... Maybe. But later! Damn it. How does she do that? Two minutes ago I would never have considered it. Now I was seriously wondering where to find a little coffin with legs and whether transforming into an unusually many-eyed dog was mandatory.
And the little menace just sat there grinning happily. Although... for a smile like that, one could make larger sacrifices. I would never tell her that.
At home we ate a proper dinner. Zinaida Prokopyevna had not abandoned hope of turning at least one of us into a kolobok. Now that she had two possible targets, her force-feeding efforts had doubled.
We talked about Laura's progress at the new school and the friends she'd already acquired—mostly girlfriends, in the form of Jubilee and Rogue. Then Laura wished me good night and went to sleep.
Unfortunately, I couldn't afford the luxury of eight hours with my consciousness switched off. As always, there was more work than roof space. How do ordinary Dark Lords manage this? Fine. Stop whining. Better examine the newest acquisition.
Which one? Oddly enough, this time everything happened entirely by accident. A couple months earlier I'd given Rogue a Symbiote flower capable of sharing energy and producing a delicate pleasant fragrance. But smell is simply microscopic particles of the source floating through the air. And I've already explained what that flower was made from.
During the time it had been at the school, almost the entire female population had admired it. Through them, it eventually reached the male students too. When I arrived at the school and saw a crowd of kids carrying my markers, I was slightly... surprised. After that, it was easy.
Use the professor's power to locate all the pieces. Order them to crawl back. Add a little wind blowing in the right direction using Storm's ability. And voilà. A whole pile of different genomes to examine.
More importantly, my sample base should now be sufficient for a serious study and classification of mutants and this so-called 'X-gene.' Though even now it was clear there was far more than one gene involved. So I ought to spend the near future in the laboratory. But that could wait.
Tomorrow I had other plans. Grab Laura and Felicia and go somewhere together. Hmm. Spring festivals were beginning in Japan about now, weren't they? Why not?
Oh, right. At the same time I could tell Logan about his son, who apparently lived in Japan and worked as a mercenary. In any case, the Brotherhood wouldn't have much trouble locating him. Speaking of Mr. Howlett.
After thinking everything over once more, I decided that even if I didn't recruit him, having him indebted to me would still be useful. James was the sort of man who always repaid debts. After returning from the islands, perhaps I should try restoring his memories through his blood.
In theory, beings with strong energy systems shouldn't have much trouble with that. Though Logan was a special case. His regeneration constantly returned tissue to its baseline state. There was a nonzero chance his blood was being 'formatted' as well. Probably not. To erase 'water memory,' you had to boil it. Dilution alone did nothing.
Fine. I definitely wasn't dealing with that over the weekend. Right. The clock showed only half past ten in the evening. Or should I already call it night? Felicia probably wasn't asleep yet. Why not call and invite her on an exciting little trip? Said and done.
"Hi, kitten. Still awake?"
"No. It's difficult to fall asleep alone in a cold bed. Cheshire is my only hope. There isn't anybody else to rely on." The girl answered with mild reproach. "My own boyfriend has buried himself in work so thoroughly that for the last few days he doesn't even always call."
"Sorry, sorry. But you know how much time and effort it takes to understand all the subtleties of running a corporation."
"Brrr. Don't remind me. I still have nightmares about those mountains of paperwork. By the way, Mom asked me to pass along her sincere admiration for your move with Doom Incorporated... after she finished swearing like a bosun on a pirate ship."
"Let's say I was simply lucky."
"Yes, of course..."
Sarcasm practically dripped from the phone.
"All right, all right. That's not why I'm calling. Tell me, are you free tomorrow, or do you have plans?"
"Well, I've had a couple of offers for romantic dinners, so I'm still deciding."
The girl teased me. Damn her. Now I was beginning to understand what Laura was slowly turning into. Their intonations were becoming far too similar.
"Oh? In that case, perhaps I should invite somebody else on a little trip to Japan. Though... the local girls are apparently quite attractive too."
I returned the jab.
"I'll give you attractive! Afterward you'll be able to join a church choir as the soprano!"
Hmm. It sounded playful. But somehow I suddenly felt much less enthusiastic about introducing Felicia to Anna.
"So what were you saying about a trip?"
"I said I wanted to ask you to accompany me on a small tourist adventure in the Land of the Rising Sun. Cherry blossoms are starting, and the local festivals would be worth seeing. What do you say?"
"When do we fly?"
"Tomorrow morning. I'll pick you up at about seven."
"Walter, you're a sadist! What about giving a girl time to pack? To make herself presentable? Men... Fine, I'm going to start getting ready. Bye!"
The line filled with beeps. Heh. So much instant enthusiasm. Felicia was wonderful. Anyone who disagreed... that was their problem. Right. How were we getting to the islands? Why worry? Use a private plane. Victor owned several anyway. One could be temporarily appropriated. Or simply buy one. I had enough money now for things considerably more absurd than that.
I called Doom Incorporated's airport and booked a flight to Okinawa for eight in the morning. Done. Now pack luggage. I still didn't want Felicia to see the truth about my nonhuman nature. I was... somewhat afraid of her reaction. Shirts. Jeans. A few kimono. A suit for 'formal' appearances. That seemed enough. Camera too. Now definitely enough.
Midnight. What else could I do? Might as well start examining the goodies I'd obtained. Five Hours Later.
Woooow... said Winnie-the-Pooh in the middle of a marijuana field. I had stocked up well. There were many genomes. I ignored the obvious garbage that made its owner's life harder and sent those samples into the deepest corners of Symby's long-term memory.
Seriously. Why would I need the ability to grow a complete coat of fur almost instantly and then shed it again without any control? That mutant was also allergic to fur. His life was apparently very entertaining. But the remaining samples... Mmm.
'Peach,' as in the old joke. Let's start with the least tasty one. The ability to transform into a steel colossus weighing well over several tons. The guy could throw tanks using pure physical strength. Not bad. What if I replaced ordinary steel with von Doom's metal? The funniest part was that the 'steel giant' form existed recessively and didn't manifest at all during ordinary life. My cells took an entire week—think about that, a WEEK—to dig all the way down to the hidden form.
There was one flaw. Either the owner's genome was damaged or I'd copied something badly, but his natural transformation was painful and labor-intensive. It could also be incomplete. Imagine a metal body with ordinary human musculature. The poor guy wouldn't even be able to move. And that would be the lucky failure mode. A ten-ton torso standing on human legs? Hello, permanent disability.
There were traces of some complicated catalyst drug in the mutant's organism. Apparently it allowed a normal transformation. I didn't need it. I already possessed enough knowledge to repair and improve the genome myself, including converting the steel form to Victor's metal. The best part was that this modification didn't conflict with my existing abilities.
In its inactive state, it did nothing. When switched into 'dominant mode,' it simply suppressed everything else. With enough tinkering, I could probably build five or six rapid forms and shift into any of them within fractions of a second. More than that would be physically impossible.
My DNA would already resemble Leeloo's unforgettable chain from 'The Fifth Element'—at least in information density. One could bypass the limit with slow forms. I estimated about ten minutes per transition. More precisely, ten minutes of preparation. Take one recessive chain assigned to a 'fast' form. Rebuild it into the desired configuration. Then move it into dominance. All that remained was the tiny detail of actually refining the system.
The mechanism was still crude. And I needed to choose the forms. Something universal, like my current body. A 'tank.' A 'melee fighter.' A 'shooter.' A 'thief.' I wouldn't mind a 'mage' either, but I didn't yet have anything suitable. Perhaps I could optimize and strengthen Charles's and Jean's abilities.
That was future work. Distant-future work. I glanced at the last two abilities worth serious attention: Nightcrawler's teleportation. Shadowcat's intangibility. The DNA structures involved were so twisted the Devil himself would break a leg trying to walk through them. And I had run out of time. Fine. They weren't going anywhere. I needed fresh air and time with the girls. Enough science.
Time to wake Laura and tell her about the trip. I wondered how quickly she'd pack. No need to wake anyone. The moment I mentioned we were flying to the country that produced anime... well. Laura completed and exceeded every imaginable standard for emergency dressing, packing, and departure preparation. Then we picked up Felicia and headed for the airport.
What can I say about the trip? First: Miss Hardy wearing a kimono over bare skin was simply... Uh. Wrong subject. Ahem. Second: Laura bought half of Akihabara—the district devoted to anime, manga, and related merchandise. Third: I managed to learn something about Logan's son. He had already joined the Brotherhood and earned a reputation as a good professional.
At present the guy—though could you really call a man over forty a 'guy'? He looked barely twenty—commanded one of the rapid-response groups and seemed perfectly happy. He did, however, dislike his father in absentia. As far as he knew, Logan had simply abandoned him and his mother. That did not earn Wolverine any points in his son's eyes. Let them sort it out themselves. I'm not a babysitter.
We returned happy with the trip and with each other. After returning, I asked Felicia to move in with me. Honestly, I should have done it long ago. Every time I'd found some reason to delay. This time I forced myself to stop procrastinating. So within a day or two my bachelor den would become considerably less of a den and considerably less bachelor.
The main thing was making sure Cheshire didn't eat Never. Or Never didn't fry Cheshire with one or two lightning bolts. They were intelligent peo— Uh. Animals. They should be capable of reaching a reasonable working relationship. Otherwise I'd tear both their heads off. Figuratively speaking. Probably.
Life continued to improve. Laura returned to Xavier's school carrying enough figurines and magazines as souvenirs and gifts for the students to last almost a year. I gradually approached a solution to the transformation problem. Felicia finally packed her things for the move.
Then the 'Daily News' published an article about the opening of a new medical center offering an alternative method of cancer treatment: removing tumors using a programmed laser. I should probably look at that toy. As it turned out later, I wasn't the only one interested.
Many respected people in the city wanted a look. Mrs. Hardy. Johnson from the 'Daily News.' A whole crowd of reporters. And one techno-octopus.
The presentation itself wasn't especially impressive. They could vaporize a piece of metal without damaging surrounding living tissue. Good for them. A device like that could help in complicated operations involving shrapnel or similar foreign bodies. If Stark really had metal fragments inside his tissues, this laser would be almost ideal. Except intelligence indicated there was no foreign material in his body. Instead he had some congenital heart pathology. Unless he picked up something else while in captivity. Fine. I'd think about that when I finally met Tony.
Back to the clever emitter. I didn't know how useful it would be in medicine. Actually, I did. They weren't competition for me. Research was only beginning. Side effects were unknown. And the cost of treatment... Let's not even start. Industry, however, could benefit tremendously.
Give the thing a good power source and one could build a production line. Ore purification, for example. Unfortunately, my Inner Hamster's plans were not destined to succeed. The evil octopus, commonly known as Doctor Octavius, took offense that his beloved self had not been invited to the celebration. The slightly mad scientist expressed his displeasure by partially demolishing the demonstration stand.
That alone would have been fine. Let the man smash a few things and calm down. But Peter couldn't simply stand still. He decided to save everyone. Again. The result was entirely predictable. Minus one medical center. Truly: wanted the best, got the usual. Right.
Those two ran toward the river. I didn't need Parker. Recruiting somebody with Otto Octavius's brain, on the other hand, would be useful. Give him a laboratory and funding and let him work for the benefit of the country. And me, naturally.
Catching the scientist wasn't difficult. He had knocked out the crew of a small barge and was currently putting distance between himself and the scene. Flying onto the boat was equally easy. There he stood with his back to me. Doctor Octopus. Slightly battered. Quietly swearing in German. Apparently he regretted visiting that center himself. Understandable. He was a somewhat vain man. And when your assistant—whose role amounted to fetch, carry, and stay out of the way—appropriates the results of your work... that tends to ruin one's mood.
"Good evening, Herr Octavius."
Polite communication is the foundation of good relations. The scientist spun around and immediately tried to seize me with one of his mechanical arms. Yeah. Apparently nobody had taught him to greet people as a child. Or perhaps he was so happy to see me that he wanted a proper hug. Either way, the claws couldn't hurt me. There was also no point in letting them hit me unnecessarily. So I simply grabbed them with telekinesis and locked them in place.
"Mmm. Forgive me, but I prefer hugging women."
"Who are you and what do you want from me?"
Not even a hello or 'how are you.' Fine. The man had genuinely had a bad day. I could overlook it.
"I am possibly your future best friend and employer." Remember to add the smile. "You need a job, don't you?"
"And what do you want to offer me? Kidnappings? Robberies? Or perhaps you need me to develop some kind of weapon?"
Sarcasm, even in his present condition. Or perhaps not. Lately those were exactly the kinds of jobs the scientist had been forced to accept.
"I have something more interesting. How does a private laboratory, extensive funding, and freedom of research sound?"
"What's the catch?"
The German became wary.
"The catch is that I decide how the results are used." Seeing Octavius bristle, I clarified. "No, I have no intention of stealing authorship. I don't need fame. But we cannot register patents under your real name either. You already have enough notoriety for three life sentences. If you insist, we can publish under a pseudonym."
"May I think about it?"
"Of course. I'm not forcing anything. If you decide you're interested, simply call this number."
I tossed him a note taken from my coat pocket. Naturally, no note had been there a moment earlier. Symbiote never cared about such details. And now the many-limbed scientist carried one of my markers too.
"I hope we'll meet again soon."
With those words, I dissolved into the darkness. The scientist's face stretched slightly. I wondered what he thought I was.
The 'standard package' of cells inside Spider-Man sent another signal. Peter was drowning in depression and guilt again. Damn it. How long could this continue? No. I needed to have a serious conversation with him. How long could one man keep tormenting himself with nonsense? Decision made. Next time he visited the university laboratory, I would tell him a 'few affectionate words.'
The next morning another article appeared dumping filth on Spider-Man. Or rather, on Parker's second identity. This time it was more or less deserved, though they could have been gentler. That same evening Spider-Man dropped into my university lab.
"Hello, my friend. I won't ask how things are. I can see they're terrible."
"Yeah. Walter, do you have anything to drink?"
Unexpected. Although considering his state...
"Here."
I handed Spidey a glass of vodka. In his condition, perhaps the best option. He drank without even wincing and sniffed his sleeve afterward. Holy crap. Was that my corrupting influence?
"Tell me, what am I doing wrong? I keep trying to help people, but everything only gets worse. No matter how hard I try, almost nothing comes from it. And this last time..."
The hero waved one hand hopelessly.
"Ah, Peter. People are ungrateful creatures. The last person who tried to give them happiness for free ended up crucified."
I took a sip from my mug of beer. At the same time I watched Parker's reaction to my knowledge of his identity.
"How long have you known?"
That was his entire reaction.
"Since we worked on your little mutation problem. Your training was too similar to Kurt's school. You and Spider-Man were never seen together. And only you ever get proper photographs of the hero. As you can see, direct evidence might be lacking, but there was more than enough circumstantial evidence. And you just confirmed it yourself."
"I see..."
Another glass followed the first.
"Hey, hey. At least eat something."
I pushed a plate of snacks toward the photographer.
"Yeah."
He crunched loudly into a pickle. A surreal image.
"What are you going to do now?"
"To hell with all of it! I'm sick of this. The city somehow survived without me before. I doubt it'll collapse now."
Wow. The life-giving power of alcohol. The boy's brain had actually begun switching on.
"About time. By the way, I wanted to ask something. If you developed a substance that isn't especially expensive to manufacture and is roughly as strong as steel, why didn't you patent it? You'd be a millionaire by now. It would make excellent body armor too. Could save a lot of lives."
"Because I'm an idiot."
The hero answered with admirable self-criticism and fell into gloomy thought.
"What will you do instead?"
Time to move away from an unpleasant subject.
"I don't know. Maybe throw away this stupid costume and get a normal job. A photographer with degrees in electronic physics and molecular genetics sounds ridiculous."
Hmm. He had two degrees? I hadn't known that. I should spend some time reading engineering books so the corresponding knowledge settled properly.
"You're strange. You jump from one extreme to the other."
My chuckle disappeared into another mouthful of beer.
"Hm?"
Peter removed his mask. Now I could see his expression. He wasn't particularly drunk yet. Making progress.
"Just live. Stop trying to save absolutely everyone. You have family, right? Help them. Help your friends. Otherwise you'll simply break yourself. And the job idea is good."
Hmm. Perhaps I should offer him work. The guy really did have brains. That web formula alone was worth something.
"Maybe you're right..."
"Of course I'm right. And if you're looking for work in your field, call this number and say I sent you. I think you'll like it."
"Uh... thanks."
"Nothing to thank me for. I intend to extract as much profit as possible from your brain. It's just business, nothing personal." I winked at Parker. "And what are we sitting around for? Pour another! Just not too much. I don't want to show up in front of Felicia smelling like a distillery."
A Couple of Hours Later. We parted at around ten. I should have reached home without trouble and almost on time. Except for one problem. My cells inside Peter suddenly went berserk. I couldn't understand why. The connection felt strange too. As though he were somewhere far beyond normal distance. What had happened to him now? I sat on a park bench and sent my consciousness into the conglomerate inside Spider-Man.
Strange scene. Purple mist. Darkness. Mechanical webbing. At its center sat some old woman wearing glasses. Before her stood a table covered in Tarot cards. And suddenly my entire being screamed: ENEMY. Ancient target. Destroy. Tear apart. Consume. At any cost.
Symby's instincts went completely insane. All my willpower went into suppressing the desire to knock Parker unconscious, seize control of his body, and bite through the enemy's throat using him. What the hell was happening?
Meanwhile, the old woman demonstrated several entertaining tricks for Peter. Reversing gravity by one hundred eighty degrees. Telekinesis. Manipulating reality itself. What the hell kind of arsenal was that? I wanted it too. Certain phrases made my metaphorical eye twitch. This one especially:
"Here is your card. It says you must trust me."
Elegant, yes? Any gypsy fortune-teller at a market stall would have been subtler. It seemed this... creature hadn't spoken normally with humans for a very long time. Or perhaps something was wrong with her head.
Meanwhile, the old woman continued working on the slightly drunk Peter, preaching the necessity of his heroism to the world. He resisted for quite a while. Then simply told her to go to hell and tried to leave. Unfortunately, escaping this sweet grandmother wasn't so easy. She continued lecturing about introspection and his Great Mission. Oh? She was trying to wash his brain with something very similar to psionics.
Absolutely not. I tried to prevent Parker's brainwashing. More precisely, to stop a competitor from ruining my own work. That exposed my presence. The woman tensed and stopped.
"Well, you creature should not exist. We destroyed all of you... Apparently not all."
Then I took a blow so powerful I thought I'd die right there. My cells literally began going insane and losing connection with each other. With great difficulty I preserved cohesion and prevented myself from dissolving into black slime. I wasn't sure I'd be able to assemble myself again afterward. Damn. Nearly squashed like a cockroach despite everything I'd accumulated.
No. Not quite like a cockroach. That old wi— woman paid heavily for the attack too. But damn it. Without the anti-psi property from Victor, I could have been buried. Curse it! I struck the bench in fury. Naturally, it exploded into splinters and dumped me onto the ground. I needed to become stronger. Much stronger.
If that had been Madame Web—and there was hardly anyone else it could have been—then she was merely a tactician and operator. The Wanderer she often communicated with would smear me across the continent without even sweating. And that feeling of hatred, combined with her words... Gods. What had I gotten myself into?