Peter rolled his black truck into the abandoned railway lair, the engine's low rumble echoing off the concrete walls as he eased it to a stop beside the flatbed where he'd stashed his bike. The garage door rattled shut behind him, sealing out the snowy Queens night, the chill seeping through the cracks in a faint, icy draft. Inside, the lair glowed under harsh fluorescent lights, casting stark shadows across the oil-stained floor and the steel shelves lining the walls. The air hung heavy with a mix of damp earth and faint chemical tang, a cavernous space untouched by time his fortress, his base. He stepped out, Shadow suit still snug against his skin black Kevlar armor gleaming dull, helmet tucked under his arm, revealing a face flushed with a mix of exhaustion and anticipation from the day.
This is it, he thought to himself. Vera came through equipment's here, and now it's time to set it all up and get this show rolling.
He moved to the truck's flatbed, where the crates from Vera sat stacked wooden, scarred, each one a promise of power. The haul was heavy, DNA sequencer, polymerase chain reaction machine, centrifuge, bioprinter, and more. An arsenal of science equipments, he'd paid half a million for, cash well spent. He grabbed the first crate, muscles straining under the weight as he hauled it down and carried it to the center of the lair, where his main computer sat waiting. The computer was a beast, cobbled together from scavenged parts, its tower humming low on a steel table, wires snaking out like veins, screens flickering with a green glow. It's the heart of this place, he thought. Everything's tying into this, got to make it seamless.
Step one was clearing space. Peter shoved aside a clutter of old tools, wrenches, screwdrivers, a rusty wrench he'd meant to toss, pushing them to a corner shelf with a clatter. He swept the table's surface with his arm, dust puffing into the air, then wiped it down with a rag from his pocket, leaving a clean slate.
Gotta keep this tight, he thought. No mess, no mistakes. this is precision work. He pried open the first crate, wood splintering under his grip, revealing the DNA sequencer. A sleek, silver box, compact but heavy, its digital display dark and waiting. He lifted it out, feeling the cold metal against his palms, and set it on the left side of the table, nudging it into place beside the computer tower. Perfect spot, close enough to link, he thought.
Next came the polymerase chain reaction machine. PCR for short a squat, sturdy unit with a steel casing, built to amplify DNA samples fast and clean. He hauled it from its crate, grunting as he maneuvered it to the table's center, its weight thudding solid against the steel surface. He adjusted it slightly, aligning it with the sequencer, then stepped back to eye the setup. These two are the backbone, he thought. Sequencer reads the code, PCR multiplies it step one to cracking what's in those blood samples.
The centrifuge was heavier. Peter wrestled it out of the third crate, his forearms flexing as he carried it across the lair. It was a brute, designed to spin samples at high speed, separating components with ruthless efficiency. He set it on the right side of the table, its bulk anchoring the setup, then wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. This thing's a beast, he thought. Going to need it to pull apart the DNA, get me what I need pure and simple.
The bioprinter came last, a sleek, intricate machine, taller than the others, its frame gleaming with a promise of creation. Peter lifted it carefully, wood shavings falling from the crate as he placed it beside the centrifuge, its nozzles and ports catching the light. This is the real game-changer, he thought to himself. Print tissue, tweak genes, once I figure this out, I'm rewriting the rules. He stepped back, surveying the lineup sequencer, PCR, centrifuge, bioprinter all in place, a scientist's dream ready to wake up.
Now for the connections. Peter grabbed a spool of cables from a shelf, thick, black, coiled tight and crouched beside the computer tower. He popped open its side panel, revealing a tangle of wires and ports, and fished out a USB hub he'd rigged weeks ago. Gotta link 'em all to the main brain, he thought. Keep it clean and control everything from one spot. He plugged the sequencer first, ran a cable from its back port to the hub, securing it with a twist. The PCR followed, another cable snaked out, clicked into place. The centrifuge took a power line and a data cord and Peter routed them under the table, taping them down with a strip from his pocket to keep them neat. The bioprinter needed three, power, data, and a control line he threaded them through, fingers deft as he locked each one in.
He stood and powered up the computer fans whirred loud, screens blinked to life. He typed fast booted a custom program he'd coded, a patchwork of scripts to sync the gear. The sequencer hummed display lit green, ready. The PCR beeped self-check complete. The centrifuge spun low test cycle smooth. The bioprinter clicked nozzles primed. Everything's talking to the main system now, he thought, a grin spreading wide. This is perfect better than I hoped.
Peter leaned back against the table, arms crossed, the Shadow suit's weight grounding him as he took it all in. The lair felt alive equipment buzzed soft, lights cast long shadows, the cold air tingled with possibility. I'm set up now, he thought. Vera's haul's gold DNA samples are waiting, and once I crack 'em, I'm boosting everything speed, strength, senses. Kingpin's reeling from the harbor this is my edge. He walked to a locked cabinet, pulled out the case of blood samples Spider-Men's DNA, stolen from Green Goblin and set it beside the sequencer. Soon as I figure these out, I'm untouchable, he thought, his pulse quickening. Great day's turning into a great night let's see what I can build.