So, what do we have. One unconscious city heroine bleeding out on the lab floor. One genius under the influence of the Intelligence Potion, frozen in a stupor. And one me, who is starting to seriously suspect I've become some kind of magnet for troubles of a universal scale. "Accidents are not accidental," as a certain old turtle said. And looking at this scene, I was inclined to agree with him.
I walked over to the open window she had fallen through. A quick glance revealed a small but neat filing on the frame, allowing the latch to be easily opened from the outside. Her personal entrance.
"I see," I said briefly into the ringing silence, more to break the stupor than to state anything.
"W-what do you see?!" Peter cried out nervously, and his voice broke. I slowly turned and looked him straight in the eye.
"Peter. You're under the Intelligence Potion. No need to play the fool. You understood everything perfectly. The only question is what we're going to do about it."
He realized that I realized. Whether he knew about her identity before or just guessed—it didn't matter. Both of us, without consulting, decided to do without names, respecting her secret.
"Help! Of course, help!" Peter exclaimed. The stupor passed, replaced by an emergency response mode.
His enhanced brain instantly processed the situation and issued a plan of action. He lunged for one of the cabinets and pulled out a first-aid kit that was much better stocked than standard regulations required. Another proof that this lab was being used not for its direct purpose.
"Fine. I trust you in this matter," I said, stepping back a pace. "But if you need help—I'm here."
I was a complete layman in the matter of gunshot wounds, and now was not the time for learning. I would definitely need to check with Frank if he holds field medicine courses. Now the best solution was to trust Peter. His versatile knowledge, multiplied by the peak efficiency from the Potion, made him the most competent person within a radius of several kilometers.
"Yes, I'm on it..." his voice became calm, cold, and damn concentrated. The first wave of shock passed, and the genius took over. "But first, we need to clean the wound of costume fibers. They're clogged inside and interfering with regeneration."
Taking a sterile scalpel, Peter dropped to his knees. His movements became incredibly precise and economical. He carefully, millimeter by millimeter, cleaned the wound of the fine, blood-soaked threads. Then, evaluating the costume material—some durable, elastic polymer rather than simple spandex—he made a single calculated cross-shaped incision around the bullet hole. Folding back the "petals" of the fabric, he fully opened access to the wound. The picture was grim: a jagged wound from which blood flowed moderately but constantly. The edges were already beginning to close—her regeneration was desperately trying to work, but the bullet inside, like a cursed anchor, hindered the process.
Peter took a bottle of chlorhexidine and poured it liberally over the wound. Gwen groaned quietly, her body jerked, but she didn't regain consciousness.
"John, light. Here," he commanded, not taking his eyes off the wound. I turned on the flashlight on my smartphone and directed the bright beam exactly onto the wound.
Next, Peter began to carefully, with two fingers, palpate the tissues. I saw how his eyebrows twitched while he mentally built a 3D model of the damage. After a few seconds, he nodded to himself.
"Found it. It's lodged under the latissimus dorsi muscle, about three centimeters from the entry point. Fuck..." he grumbled, picking up long anatomical tweezers. "The regeneration has already started to entwine it with fibrous tissue. Just pulling it out means tearing everything to hell." He raised his now icy eyes to me. "Okay, John. There'll be more blood now. Be ready to press here as soon as I say," he pointed to a spot slightly above the wound. "That's the artery."
"Understood," I replied, taking several thick sterile wipes in my free hand.
Peter took a deep breath. His hands froze over the wound, becoming the embodiment of absolute stillness. Then he carefully inserted the tips of the tweezers into the wound canal. I saw how he didn't press, but rather allowed the instrument to find the way itself, bypassing nerves and vessels. Finally, his hand froze. There was a barely audible metallic screech.
"Get ready..." he whispered.
With one smooth, continuous but strong movement, he extracted the foreign object. There was a quiet wet smack, and dark blood gushed from the wound.
"Press!"
I immediately leaned on the wound with all my weight, feeling the hot liquid soaking the wipes. Meanwhile, Peter threw a bloody, slightly deformed bullet into a metal tray.
We held the pressure for several minutes. I saw how fast her accelerated metabolism worked—the blood clotted before our eyes. When the bleeding almost stopped, Peter nodded. I removed the soaked wipes. He washed the wound once more and nodded satisfactorily.
"The canal is clean. Now her body will handle it itself," he said, and human notes of fatigue appeared in his voice again. "Stitches aren't needed here; her regeneration will fuse everything better than any surgeon. The main thing is to protect the wound from infection."
I watched Peter finish his work. Taking several sterile tampons, he tightly but carefully filled the wound canal—as he explained, to prevent the formation of cavities and abscesses. A large absorbent bandage was placed on top. All this was securely fixed with several turns of an elastic bandage around her waist, right over the suit.
"That's it," Peter exhaled, stepping back a pace and wiping sweat from his forehead. A surgeon's professional fatigue after a difficult operation could be heard in his voice. "Now her body can direct all its power to healing, without being distracted by a foreign body and fighting infection."
Gwen was still unconscious, but her breathing had become steady and deep. The worst was over. However, I wasn't sure that with her regeneration "the worst" ever really threatened her, but in any case, I was glad we could help.
"I wonder who did this to her," I muttered, looking at her motionless figure. "According to those rare eyewitness accounts, she's capable of dodging a hail of bullets. Her super-sense is an absolute killer feature."
"Doesn't matter who," Peter answered tiredly, sitting on a chair and covering his face with his hands. "What matters is what to do next. She didn't know there was anyone here besides me. And now... you know."
"Don't sweat it," I walked over and encouragingly but with pressure put my hand on his shoulder. "Like you, I know how to keep secrets. And how she reacts to my presence, we'll find out when she wakes up. She won't sleep forever."
Yes, for her it wasn't a problem. But for us... I felt the invisible flywheel of fate spinning faster and faster, and Peter and I were in the very center of it.
"But still, John, her identity..."
"No 'buts'," I interrupted him. "You're worrying about the wrong thing. She should be worrying less than us right now. Think for yourself: what if she was followed? What if those who shot her are on her trail right now? Professional mercenaries? Other metas? She brought danger right to our lab's doorstep. So stop chewing over the trust issue; let's get back to our project instead. To what will give us the strength to handle such 'surprises'."
"Yes... yes, you're right," Peter muttered, taking a deep breath. Though the Potion dampened emotions, it didn't extinguish them completely, and now his brain, freed from the stress of the operation, was returning to work. "As for the Potion... you decide yourself. There are two main, realistic options."
Yes, things turned out to be a bit more complex with that. Peter, in his super-intellectual insight, proposed two immediate paths and two long-term, currently unattainable ones. I mentally replayed his findings in my head.
Option one: "Catalytic Anchor." Extending the effect. Peter proposed creating a complex polymer "bodyguard" molecule. It would find the Phantasmin in the blood and envelop it, making it "invisible" to destructive enzymes. The result? The effect of the original, 100% potent Potion would be extended from a miserable couple of hours to ten to twelve hours. A whole working day in genius mode. The key drawback—the Ghost Orchid is still necessary. I immediately decided that I would definitely create this version from the four flowers I had left. It would be my personal "divine mode."
Option two: "Phantasmin-Simulacrum." A synthetic analog. Here Peter outdid himself. He was able to decode and recreate the part of the Phantasmin molecule responsible for all the biochemistry: binding with receptors, opening ion channels. This synthetic analog, the "Simulacrum," could be produced from available precursors. Но that very "magic," the quantum vibration of the original, remained beyond understanding. The result—the Potion based on the Simulacrum will work, but its efficiency will be 20-30% lower. Not such a total overclock, not such instant access to memory. Но the main plus outweighed everything: the Ghost Orchid is no longer needed. It will be a completely laboratory product that can be produced in any quantity. Effectively, this is our NZT-48. Albeit with a side effect in the form of a stronger and longer headache, but it's already a real commercial product. A product capable of changing the world.
I looked at Peter, then at the motionless Gwen. The choice was obvious. As they say, there are two chairs... and I was going to sit on both. I needed both the exclusive, most powerful version for myself and key allies, and the mass, albeit weakened, version for building my future empire.
As for those other, currently unattainable options... I mentally replayed those options Peter had sketched on the board. They weren't just ideas. They were roadmaps into the future.
The first path—creating a quantum resonator. A device capable of copying the very "soul," the quantum signature of Phantasmin, and recording it on a stable nanostructure. This was the path to full control. To creating the ideal, 100% potent and absolutely safe version of the Potion. Но there was one key and unpleasant nuance: for this, equipment was needed that didn't exist in nature. A hypothetical "quantum spectrometer." Naturally, the moment I learned of this, the ghost of a schematic flared in my head thanks to "Technological Modernization." Unclear, hazy, but it was there. I will be able to assemble something like that. Not now. Not with this junk. Но I will. This path became my long-term scientific goal.
The second option was even crazier. A bio-integrated symbiote-resonator. A harmless protein that you take once, and it permanently embeds itself in your neurons, waiting for activation. A trigger word, a flash of light, even taking an ascorbic acid pill—and for a few hours you turn into a genius. This wasn't just a technology. It was a full-fledged tool for creating superhumans. Но the risks were colossal. The slightest error in the protein sequence—and anaphylactic shock. Wrong integration—and permanent psychosis. It was the path of a god, and gods, as is known, often fall from Olympus.
"And so, right now we have a choice," I interrupted the silence, summarizing for Peter. "Either DURATION—we make the original Potion several times more efficient in time, but remain slaves to the Ghost Orchid. Or INDEPENDENCE—we get an endless source of a slightly less powerful but mass version." I paused and smirked. "And I choose BOTH options."
"Heh," Peter leaned back in his chair, and a relaxed smile appeared on his face for the first time in a long while. "Just as I thought. It's the only logically correct decision. One option—exclusive, for personal use and key tasks. The second—a scalable, strategic asset."
"Exactly. I need updated recipes for both. And we can start creating the first batches of the synthetic Potion today. By the way," I looked at Peter with a sly squint, "can this be realized in a tablet or capsule form factor?"
"Mmm..." Peter thought, tapping his finger on the table. "Yes. Lyophilization of the active substance and pressing with a neutral filler. Possible. The synthesis process will become more complex, take more time."
"Whatever. Make tablets," I cut him off. Liquid in an ampoule is medicine. A tablet... a tablet is potential, a symbol in the spirit of NZT-48.
And while Peter, armed with his genius, set about the calculations for the Simulacrum molecule, I decided I had a small window.
"By the way, when it comes to tests, there's no need to look for mice," I tossed out casually.
"What do you mean?" without looking up from the calculations, Peter asked. "Skipping the animal testing stage is dangerous, John."
"Not for me. My 'metabolism' neutralizes any negative side effects from such things. So I'll be the ideal test subject. Fast and efficient."
I saw Peter freeze for a second, but he didn't argue, only nodding. He already understood I wasn't so simple and accepted it as a given. Meanwhile, I mentally opened the System. It was time to take care of Uncle Ben.
Arcanum recipes. Therapeutics discipline. I immediately ignored something called "Miracle Cure," realizing that to create a true panacea, I would likely need the heart of a star and the tear of a griffin. Fortunately, even without it, there were enough options, and now each had a short, almost poetic description.
"Breath of Reason: For those whose memories have faded or whose spirit is bound by infirmity. Restores lost paths of thought and heals wounds invisible to the eye."
Hm. Alzheimer's? Nerve damage? And "wounds invisible to the eye"—is that about psychosomatics? Too hazy. Not certain it'll help with kidney failure. Next.
After scrolling through the list several times, I stopped at four finalists, each promising a miracle of its own kind.
"Essence of Primal Nature: Returns to the origins, correcting errors laid at birth. Rewrites the distorted blueprint of soul and body, returning it to primal harmony."
"Tear of the Divine Guardian: Finds the corruption that nests in the very essence of the flesh. Separates the healthy from the sick, granting purity through ruthless eradication."
"Living Blood: A substance that teaches the flesh to forget wounds. Closes even the deepest cuts and burns, granting life force in exchange for what was lost."
"Elixir of Ashes and Dawn: Reverses the flow of time within the vessel. That which has withered shall be reborn, and that which has failed shall know its dawn."
I mentally returned once more to the list of four recipes burning in my mind. Four paths, four miracles. The choice had to be made now.
"Essence of Primal Nature." Returning to origins, rewriting DNA. It sounded like playing god, and I, for all my cynicism, wasn't yet ready to cross that line. Too many unknowns, the risk of turning the patient into a puddle of amorphous protoplasm was too great, even though it was supposed to be a system-approved and adapted recipe. Dismissed. "Living Blood." Ideal for the battlefield. Closing a wound, restoring strength. I'd give a lot for a few doses for myself or for Blade. Но for Uncle Ben, whose illness was not a wound but a slow withering, it was useless. Dismissed.
Two finalists remained. "Tear of the Divine Guardian"—a high-precision weapon against "corruption," in theory the ideal remedy for cancer. And "Elixir of Ashes and Dawn"—a total update, promising to revive what "withered" and "failed." After brief reflection, I realized the choice was obvious. The "Tear" was a scalpel. The "Elixir" was a full reconstruction. Why treat one disease if the whole system can be updated?
"Here goes nothing. 'Elixir of Ashes and Dawn.' Unlock."
Minus 200 OP was deducted from the balance. This time the information entered my brain not as a fiery stream, but as a thin, icy needle of pain. A second-long spasm, and there it was. Knowledge. Incredible, beautiful in its cruel elegance knowledge. Phew. I had made absolutely the right choice.
It wasn't a medicine. It was a biological "full reboot" program. A single-phase, self-regulating elixir that conducted a complete audit and restoration of the organism over twenty-four hours. Its entire essence unfolded in my brain:
1. Targeted Apoptosis (Cleansing): Once in the body, the elixir searches for and marks all "incorrect" cells—cancerous, mutated, infected, old. Then it launches a program of clean, controlled self-destruction in them. No inflammation, no harm to healthy neighbors. Ideal cleaning.
2. Stimulated Regeneration (Rebirth): Simultaneously, the elixir activates dormant stem cells, forcing them to replace the destroyed "trash" with new, ideal copies at a frantic speed.
The whole process for the patient took exactly twenty-four hours. The first hours—light heat and tingling. And then began what gave the potion its name. Ashes: the hardest phase, lasting 10-12 hours. Intensive restructuring. Strong weakness, fever, body aches like with severe flu. That was the price. The price of a total update, which any sane person would pay without hesitation. Dawn: the final 5-6 hours. The fever subsides. The body completes regeneration. Weakness is replaced by a surge of strength and a feeling of incredible lightness and "purity." Old scars fade, chronic pains disappear. The patient wakes up literally born anew.
I surveyed the lab. Bioreactor, sonicator, centrifuge, chromatograph, cryo-chamber... Yes, all the necessary equipment was here. Peter will handle it. Especially considering the recipe, though complex, didn't require anything beyond reason. With the exception of one component, which the System designated as "meteoric iron with a high content of rare-earth isotopes." Well, I hope Lucas has a lead on cosmic junk suppliers too.
A wild thought flashed through my head. How much would some dying billionaire be ready to shell out for such a potion? After all, it doesn't just treat. It grants new youth. It didn't regrow limbs, alas, but rolling back biological age by a decade or two—quite possible. Damn, not what I should be thinking about. I need to brief Peter on the details. Perhaps he can improve the process.
At that moment, Gwen's body, lying motionless on the lab table, jerked. A quiet, muffled groan sounded. I froze. Even Peter, immersed in his scientific research, looked up from the equipment and was immediately by her side.