"W-what... is happening?" Gwen's voice was hoarse and cracked. "Where am I? Who are you?"
She jerked, trying to sit up, and immediately doubled over from the pain piercing her side, letting out a muffled hiss.
"I see," the thought flashed as I watched her struggle from the side. "Instincts are working, memory too. Decided to play the slight amnesia card to buy time and gather information. Well, I approve. A smart move."
"Easy, easy," my voice sounded steady, soothing. I took a slow step forward, keeping my hands in view. "Everything's okay. You're safe. My name is John Thompson. And this is my friend, Peter Parker."
I nodded toward Pete, who stood a little further away, peering at her with concern. He was nervously clutching a marker, looking more like a frightened student than a real savior of a superheroine.
"He's a lab assistant here," I added. "We pulled the bullet and bandaged the wound. Your mask is in place; we didn't touch it."
I deliberately said the last sentence, watching for a reaction. And it followed. The lines of her shoulders, tense to the limit, dropped almost imperceptibly. Under the mask, I was sure she exhaled with relief. Control over the situation was slowly returning to her.
"T-thank you..." she forced out, still breathing heavily.
"Don't mention it," I smiled softly, but I didn't intend to back off after a brief thank-you. Time to tighten the screws. "Now, maybe you'll satisfy our curiosity? How did you get here? Out of all the windows in New York, you chose this one. There must be a good reason."
Peter cast a judgmental glance at me. Like, let her come to her senses. Но I ignored him. The secret of her identity was just the tip of the iceberg. I needed to understand the whole picture.
"Intuition led me," she answered with a standard, rehearsed phrase. In her voice, however, there was a note of sincerity, clearly addressed not to me. The gaze through the white lenses of the mask was fixed on Peter. "And it wasn't wrong. Thank you... both of them."
"She flew exactly to him," I realized. "So some level of trust in him already exists, but the unasked question..."
"Well, technically, when you fell in here, breaking the glass and passing out in mid-flight, only Peter was here," I decided to clarify, resolving her internal dilemma about trust. "I was just returning from the restroom. So thank him first of all for your rescue."
Peter coughed embarrassedly.
"But that raises another question," I continued, lowering my voice slightly. "Who did this to you? Your sense is supposed to save you from such mundane things as bullets, isn't it?"
"Not your business!" she snapped, and steel rang in her voice.
I even understood her. In her eyes, we were two civilians accidentally drawn into her war. A war in which she suffered a crushing defeat today, having lost her father before that. Of course, it's not our business. The nuance is that when people in tights fly through the city and then collapse into institute labs to be healed, it becomes everyone's business. Especially mine.
"Perhaps," I agreed easily, taking another step and sitting on the edge of the next table. "But let's look at it from another side. Consider it... debt repayment. We saved your life while keeping your little secret. You, in turn, satisfy our scientific, let's say, curiosity. Admit it, you don't see an ultra-agile city vigilante getting shot like a duck on a hunt every day."
She was silent, breathing heavily. The white lenses of the mask seemed to bore right through me. I saw her fist clench under the thin fabric of the costume. She was weighing the options. Leave now, weak and wounded, or trust and somehow settle the score. Finally, she gave a long, tired sigh.
"His name was Shocker."
And before she could add anything else, I decided to play ahead.
"Let me guess," I rubbed my chin thoughtfully. "A ridiculous quilted suit of yellow-brown color? Vibro-gloves, from whose blow bones resonate like a tuning fork? And, possibly, a light German accent?"
The room froze. The silence was broken only by the humming of the equipment.
"W-where from?.."
Herman Schultz. One of Kingpin's main enforcers. The chain in my head formed instantly: Captain Stacy's death, a daughter mad with grief going off the rails, and Fisk letting an elite dog off the leash to rein in the upstart heroine. Accustomed to street thugs, she turned out to be completely unprepared for a professional. Now the main question: was it for nothing that I just revealed my cards? No. I need leverage. I need potentially established connections with her.
"You were lucky to run into a Kingpin mercenary..." I muttered thoughtfully, tracking her reaction.
"So that bastard really works for the Kingpin!" she exhaled with rage. The hatred in her voice was almost tangible. She hit the lab table next to her hard with her fist and immediately winced with pain, clutching her wounded side. "But how do you know that too?!"
"Yes, John, how?" now Peter was looking at me too. His usual friendliness was replaced by a suspicious squint.
I stood up and walked through the lab.
"Well, let's reason logically," I started speaking as generally as possible, remembering that her sense could in theory pick up a lie. "Who in this city has enough money, influence, and, most importantly, audacity to hire a meta-human to eliminate another meta? Besides..." I stopped for a moment, choosing my words, and looked first at her, then at Peter. "Sooner or later everyone has to step out of the shadows. And to survive, it is vital to know the key players on this board. Sorry, heroine, but I can't say more. We aren't that close."
I shifted my gaze to Peter.
"And you, Pete, I hope you understood what I mean."
Peter nodded uncertainly, but still. He was always quick on the uptake and immediately caught that all our work of the last few days... it was clearly not for nothing.
"Now let's get back to our mutual friend in the yellow-brown tights," I looked at her again. The pressure worked. She was backed into a corner by my knowledge. "What can you tell us about him? What are his abilities besides the obvious? Why did he use a regular pistol instead of his gloves? And how did you manage to run into one of Kingpin's elite mercenaries anyway?"
She was silent for a while, gathering her thoughts. Her breathing was still shallow, but in her voice when she spoke, there was a hard, angry concentration.
"He's strong. Very. Not just a bodybuilder, but something beyond. And fast," she paused, as if reliving the fight. "But that's not the point. His gloves... they're not just a weapon. He creates shockwaves. Concentrated like a hammer, or radiating in circles that knock everything down within a radius of several meters. He can use them to bounce himself into the air like on a trampoline. Но the worst thing..."
She touched her temple through the mask.
"This hum... vibrations... they drive my sense crazy. It doesn't fall silent but screams. From everywhere. A thousand danger signals at once, and I can't understand where the real threat is. He just deafened my main ace. And then one of his lackeys... just shot at me and hit. I didn't even feel him."
While she spoke, a picture was being drawn in my head. This version of Shocker is a head above the caricatured comic book bank robber. This is a soldier equipped with the latest technology, designed to hunt those like her. And such soldiers serve generals. And the general in this city could only be one, and Gwen was unlucky enough to run into him...
Wilson Fisk.
The name flashed in my mind like the shadow of a leviathan. Founder and owner of Fisk Capital, a hedge fund with a capitalization of 58 billion dollars. Speaker of the city council, aiming for the mayor's seat, and maybe higher. A philanthropist in public, a predator in the shadows. This isn't just a crime boss. This is an entire ecosystem. A damn megalodon, with its own remora sharks circling around. And Shocker, apparently, was one of the toothiest. But far from the only one. Throwing Gwen at Fisk now is like pushing a kitten into a tiger enclosure. She won't even understand what ate her. No. Wilson Fisk's name is taboo. For her. For everyone.
"Hm..." I drawled, sincerely impressed. "You ran into a serious opponent. No wonder you..."
"I didn't lose!" she interrupted fiercely, her mask's white lenses flashing. "I just... underestimated him. This won't happen again."
A heavy silence hung in the lab. Peter shifted his gaze anxiously between me and her. Gwen was trying to calm the tremors of rage and pain. And I... I was solving an equation.
To recruit or not to recruit?
On one hand, such an ally is a jackpot. Strength, speed, unique abilities. Но on the other... she is an unstable asset. The fresh wound from the loss of her father made her predictable in her unpredictability. She is driven by revenge, and that is a poor advisor. Peter is a scalpel. A genius capable of solving the unsolvable, a unique and precise tool. Gwen, however, is now a sledgehammer. Powerful, destructive, but capable of slipping out of hands at any moment and smashing everything around, including us.
Telling her directly "Join us" means scaring her off and exposing yourself as an idiot. Too fast, too suspicious, too ill-timed. No. Soft recruitment is needed. Slow, step-by-step. Becoming a useful resource for her. A weaponsmith. An informant. Showing that Peter and I can give her what she doesn't have—support and information. And when the dependency on the resource is formed, the conversation will go quite differently.
"Herman Schultz," my voice broke the silence.
She flinched; her head jerked sharply in my direction.
"What?"
"The man you're looking for. Most likely, his name is Herman Schultz. German accent, knowledge of engineering, criminal past... everything should in theory match."
"Shocker?.." she immediately caught the essence.
I nodded.
"Listen to me carefully," I leaned forward, trying to make my voice sound as convincing as possible. "If this information is confirmed, you will find him. I'm sure you have your own channels. But I'm asking you, begging you—don't go further. The beast that holds him on a leash will swallow you and not choke. First—contact me. Promise."
She looked at me with a long, studying gaze. In it, gratitude, surprise, and a non-vanishing suspicion were mixed.
"I... I understand. Thank you!" finally she nodded and began to carefully slide off the table. "This information... you found out that too by studying the 'key players'?"
The gaze from under the mask tried to drill a hole in me, pull out all the secrets.
"We don't pry into your secrets," my tone became cold and firm. "We don't ask who you are under that mask. So be kind enough to show reciprocal tact."
I paused and added, softening slightly:
"Or be prepared for reciprocal favors. Because today I've already done far more for you than I had to."
"Yes, sorry... and... thank you. For everything," there was no trace of aggression left in her voice. Only fatigue and sincere gratitude. "How... how do I contact you?"
I dictated my phone number to her. She nodded, memorizing it. Without saying another word, Gwen walked to the other window, easily opened it and, casting a last glance at us, slid like a shadow into the night darkness of New York.
For some time Peter and I were silent. I looked out the empty window, and he looked at me. I felt his gaze on my back. Heavy, full of questions.
Well. Now it begins...
"John," his voice was quiet, but there was a steel in it I hadn't noticed before. "How do you know all this? And don't give me that 'key players' stuff again. You named his name. You described his equipment as if you had fought him yourself. What is going on?"
I slowly turned, meeting his direct, answer-demanding gaze.
"I explained, Pete. Knowing everything about the pieces on the New York chessboard is the only true survival strategy. Not reacting to threats, but anticipating them. Why do you think we created 'Proteus'? To show it off on Halloween?"
"You... you want to be a hero? Like her?" there was misunderstanding mixed with anxiety in his voice.
I couldn't hold back a short, dry chuckle.
"A hero? No. I just want to be alive. And I want you to be alive. Understand, I won't pass an alley where three thugs have cornered a poor guy if I have the strength and opportunity to intervene. Но to turn it into a lifelong goal? To devote yourself to putting out local fires when the world is ablaze? It's... inefficient. You and I have the opportunity to help humanity on a global, fundamental scale."
"What do you mean?"
"Isn't it obvious?" I spread my hands, surveying our lab—our sanctuary. "With the intellect we can give ourselves, any problem is within our power! Why save one person from a burning building if you can invent a material that doesn't burn at all? Why chase street dealers if you can create a cure for cancer and save millions? Speaking of which... How's our NZT-48? Is the first batch ready?"
Peter froze for a moment, thrown off by the sharp change of topic. Then, as if on autopilot, he nodded.
"Yes..."
He walked over to the synthesizer, opened the calibration chamber, and extracted a small titanium plate with perfectly even rows of tiny, unremarkable white tablets. He carefully removed several and held them out to me on his palm.
"Calculations show the formula is stable. No side effects, in theory... Но, John... Are you sure? We don't fully understand the long-term consequences..."
"Absolutely," I answered without the slightest hesitation, taking one tablet and, without thinking, tossing it into my mouth, washing it down with the remains of cold coffee.
"As you wish..." Peter muttered, and there was a mix of admiration and fear in his voice. "But regarding solving global problems... You said yourself that it would attract unwanted attention. Invent a cure for cancer, and all of 'Big Pharma' will hunt you. Create a new energy source—and oil tycoons, or even entire countries, will want to eliminate you. You want us to be hunted not just by bandits, but by the CIA?"
"Those are problems for the future us," I answered calmly, already feeling a familiar fire flaring up inside. "And we will act smarter. Carefully. Gradually."
The pill started working. The world around me seemed to gain 4K resolution. I saw every dust particle dancing in a beam of light, heard the buzzing of the choke in an old monitor, felt the pressure change in the room from our movements. Thoughts didn't just race—they built themselves into ideal, multi-dimensional structures. The effect was similar to the potion, but about ten percent weaker. And most importantly—no risks. No withdrawals. Thanks to the master-gourmet, my body perceived the stimulant as native. This is... ideal. Especially considering that now there is no dependence on Orchids!
I walked to a large marker board covering almost the entire wall. Took a black marker.
"So..."
My hand flew.
"PROTEUS" VERSION II - TASKS:
1. POWER SUPPLY FOR ELECTRONICS: Current power sources are no good. Need a miniature, self-contained reactor.
2. CAMOUFLAGE: Audio-visual camouflage. Hiding thermal and electronic signatures. (Active metamaterial technology? Illusion projectors?).
3. PROTECTION (MENTAL): Psions are a real threat. Need a "shield" for the mind. (Electromagnetic field? Psi-blockers based on... what?).
4. PROTECTION (PHYSICAL): The suit doesn't make the operator stronger. Need enhancement. (Mini-servos? Neural interface removing muscle limiters? Injectors?).
The list grew. I covered the board with formulas, diagrams, sketches. I saw ways to solve each problem, saw how one technology hooked onto another, creating a cascade of possibilities. Part of this I could create myself, using "Technological Modernization." Но the most complex, breakthrough things... that's where Peter was needed. His genius under NZT, multiplied by mine.
Too bad that for the next two weeks he'll be busy in this lab during the day. On the other hand, it frees my hands for more... terrestrial matters. I need to farm OP. A lot. Perhaps something will drop from the system that solves the physical weakness problem. Creating "Extremis" in garage conditions, even with Peter, is currently unrealistic. A full research institute is needed.
I put an exclamation point after the last item, tossed the marker, and turned to the stunned Peter. In my eyes, I knew, a cold fire of pure intellect was burning now.
"Well, to work!"
***
The air in the cheap room of a one-day hotel was stale and heavy, smelling of ingrained tobacco smoke, bleach, and cheap hopelessness. Outside the window, the motel's neon sign blinked red obsessively, flooding the room's squalid interior with anxious, pulsing flashes.
On the edge of the sagging bed sat a plump man of about thirty-five. His neat "bowl" haircut and practical green jumpsuit looked out of place here, like an orchid in a landfill. On his face were expensive sunglasses, hiding his eyes but unable to hide the tense fold at his mouth.
Any random observer would have taken him for just an eccentric guest. Right up until the moment their gaze fell on his back.
From there, writhing in time with his heavy breathing, came four metallic tentacles. Flexible, powerful, with predatory three-fingered claws at the ends, they lived a life of their own. One tapped lazily on the dirty carpet, as if beating out an impatient rhythm. Another, the top one, smoothly curved and adjusted the glasses that had slipped down his nose with a delicacy inaccessible to human fingers. They inspired primal dread.
Doctor Otto Octavius, a genius whose name was recently pronounced with awe in scientific circles, died on this cursed evening of September 22nd. In his place remained... just Octopus.
After the explosion of the gamma reactor, the blinding green flash, and the destruction in the lab, he fled shamefully. Abandoned everything. Investors. The few colleagues who, despite his difficult character, respected his mind. He fled from the ruins of his project, from his past, from... himself. From the panic fear of failure, from the refusal to admit mistakes, from his bloated but so fragile ego that cracked along with the reactor's safety glass.
For the first hours, he just wandered through the city under a wide coat hiding his new look. And then, in one of the dirty alleys, came the realization. An insight like a lightning strike.
He is free.
Yes, he no longer had a lab, a reputation, or money. Но at the same time, he had everything. He had them. His manipulators. His greatest creation, which had become his flesh, an extension of his nervous system. With their help, he could take anything he desired. Но what did he desire? Changing the world for the better? Too small, too... cliché. No. He wanted to create. To build. Without restrictions, without ethical committees, without a pathetic, interfering morality.
He needed a new sandbox. A new lab.
A day of wandering, overheard conversations, and several very short but extremely convincing interrogations in dark alleys led him to one name that was pronounced with fear and trembling. To the Kingpin. The shadow king of New York.
And so now Otto sat before an old laptop, looking at the black screen of a video call. The face of the interlocutor was not visible. Only a deep, modulator-processed voice seemed to come from the speakers themselves, filling the entire room.
"And what can you offer me, 'Doctor'?" the voice oozed commanding calm. "Why should I allocate you a lab, resources, and people?"
Yes, he was ready to make a deal with the devil. All for pure, unlimited scientific search.
"Because I am the future," Otto's voice was firm, devoid of doubts. "I can give you what your staff pseudo-geniuses couldn't create in a hundred years. I can multiply your power."
He leaned back slightly, allowing the laptop camera to capture him in full. The tentacles behind his back moved, gracefully and threateningly unfurling like a cobra's hood.
"You see only a prototype," Otto continued, while one of the tentacles picked up a coin from the floor and began to flip it between the claws with incredible speed. "But I can do more. Your street soldiers are cannon fodder. I will give them light combat exoskeletons that will allow one man to punch through a brick wall. Your communication channels are vulnerable. I will create a quantum-entangled network for you—instant, absolutely protected and untraceable. Your crackers pick safes with drills? How cute. I will give them devices generating harmonic resonance that will turn any steel to dust and electronics into useless junk."
The tentacle squeezed the coin, turning it into a shapeless lump of metal.
"And now imagine a squadron of combat drones created in my image and likeness. Silent, deadly, controlled by a single operator. Loyal. Efficient. This is just one of many creations I can create for you. In exchange for a small trifle—a place to work."
Otto was confident in himself. Such an asset, such a genius—Kingpin couldn't refuse. And he didn't miscalculate. A silence hung in the speakers for a few seconds, and then the voice said:
"Sounds... interesting. The address will be sent. I'm waiting."
The call cut off.
Otto Octavius closed the laptop. For some time he sat motionless, looking into the darkness. Then a slow, victorious smile touched his lips. He clenched his fist. The tentacles behind his back tensed in unison, scraping the floor.
The old world rejected him. Well then. He will build a new one on its bones. And his genius will finally soar over this wretched city.
***
The soft click of the closing laptop lid was the only sound that broke the oppressive silence of the penthouse.
Rising from his massive, throne-like chair, Wilson Fisk moved to the panoramic window. His movements were smooth and calculated—the slow, predatory grace of a huge beast confident in its strength. His colossal figure, dressed in a flawless, custom-made suit, was reflected in the glass—a dark monolith against the backdrop of the city lights.
Below, at his feet, lay New York. Not a city—his kingdom. A carpet of caught stars and dark arteries of streets. Looking at this living, breathing creation, Fisk couldn't hold back a shadow of a smile. Who would have thought. A bullied orphan street urchin, whom peers mocked as a fatso, was now looking at the world from a height inaccessible even to their wildest dreams.
He liked these moments. Moments of absolute control and silence, when he could mentally return to the filth and humiliation of the past. Not out of masochism, no. Every memory, every scar was a brick in the foundation of his empire. What didn't kill him became his weapon. He was grateful to his past for who he had become, and therefore valued the present with a fierce, possessive love.
And he didn't tolerate anyone who dared to encroach on his property.
A discrete ring of the work phone cut the silence, pulling him out of philosophical reflections. The display showed the name of one of his few trusted assistants—one of those to whom he delegated the routine, keeping only the strategy for himself.
"Speak, Jeffrey."
"Mr. Fisk," the voice on the phone was steady, professional, but Fisk caught notes of tension in it. "A problem has arisen with the neutralization operation. The Spider-Woman was able to escape the Shocker. We lost her."
Fisk winced slightly. Spider-Woman. A small annoying nuisance, an upstart in a black-and-white tights, to whom he hadn't paid attention until now. Но recently she had crossed the line. An incomprehensible, sudden vigor. Fisk despised heroes. All those smug bastards in masks, always poking their noses into matters that didn't concern them. He methodically and ruthlessly weeded them out of his city, and so far he had had no misfires. He wouldn't with this suicide either.
"Find her," Fisk's voice was quiet, but all the more weighty for it. "She will make a mistake somewhere. Establish her identity. I need her name. I need the names of her family, friends, everyone dear to her. And then show her and the whole city what happens to those who stand in my way. I want her example to go into the history books too."
"Understood. One more question. Frank Castle. He refused your offer again."
Here Fisk winced harder. Frank Castle. A former Marine, the best tactical and weapons specialist he had ever seen. An incredibly valuable asset. Fisk offered him the post of head of his security service. A generous salary, limitless resources, power. Но this stubborn fool preferred to rot in his gun shop in Queens, playing the righteous man.
His existence was a living reminder that he, Wilson Fisk, was not omnipotent. That there are things he cannot buy or intimidate. That there are people he is unable to control. It was unpleasant. And when Fisk felt unpleasant, he made sure others felt very unpleasant.
He was silent for a few seconds, looking at his reflection in the dark glass.
"Eliminate him," he finally said, and the word sounded like a sentence. "But first... break him. Psychologically. Physically. I want him to understand before he dies that his refusal was a mistake."
He paused, remembering the non-triviality of the task and the recent failure.
"And send the Shocker with the boys. Let him work off his failure."
"Understood, Mr. Fisk. Assembling a team," Jeffrey replied, after which the call ended.
Silence returned to the penthouse. Yes, tonight blood will be spilled. And never mind the blood of people who could be called innocent. Но Fisk didn't care. In this world there is only one law: the strong devour the weak. And Kings... Kings do not have the right to appear weak. Never.