"Why so sour?" was the first thing Blade asked, closing the door of his matte-black Charger with a light thud.
I raised an eyebrow.
"Is it that noticeable?" I was sincerely surprised. My self-control, I thought, was better than Peter's.
Blade huffed, taking a cigarette out of a pack.
"No, you hold the mask well enough. But I'm like, an empath, forgot? I feel when a person is radiating like the whole shitty world just crashed onto his shoulders, and he's trying to hold it up alone without wrinkling his nose at the stench."
"I thought you only sensed lies."
"They're all sides of the same coin, kid," he flicked the lighter, and the tip of the cigarette momentarily illuminated his face in the deepening twilight. "The smell of lies, fear, despair... I've been hunting it my whole life. So what happened? Uncle Blade can settle the issue. For a corresponding fee, of course."
He smirked, revealing perfectly white fangs. All thirty-two, or however many he had.
"What's there to settle," I spread my hands, feeling my feigned calmness fade. "Too much bullshit has happened in the world, and I'm not even talking about myself..."
Evidently, the huge ball of shit and chaos called "Eventfulness" had begun its inexorable descent down the mountain. It rolled, picking up everything: coincidences, patterns, things I knew about, and things I couldn't even fathom. And with every meter, it grew to such a size that at some point this world might simply not be able to take it and collapse. And I didn't want that. I live here, after all. Which meant I had to intervene.
"You talking about Hyperion?" Blade exhaled smoke. "Yeah... A curious specimen. Definitely not from around here."
"Him too," I nodded. During the conversation, we entered my garage. Since Blade's last visit, it had become even more like a mad engineer's lair: a heap of tools, disassembled tech, and something I hadn't even named yet. "But I'm actually glad about him, strangely enough. He might at least partially clean the world of filth. Only the filth will just increase from that, mark my word."
"Fact," Blade nodded, looking around with interest. "The world is long overdue for a reset. All your orders and regulations, power redistributions... nonsense dreamt up by those who consider themselves the elite. Oh, and this is something new."
His gaze stopped on a mannequin in the corner, with Proteus stretched over it. All the electronics had been removed from it for now.
"Proteus," I explained under his interested gaze. "Technological protective fabric. Practically no analogs exist. You can try to hit it. With all your strength."
Blade smirked, cracked his neck, and without hesitating, stepped forward. On his part, it wasn't just a strike, but a calibrated movement honed over years. His knuckles crashed into the mannequin's chest. An ear-piercing crack of breaking plastic rang out, and the mannequin flew to the wall. But the fabric itself remained absolutely unharmed.
"Snaps pistol bullets like nothing," I continued calmly as he examined his knuckles. "Rifle bullets are harder, too much kinetic energy, behind-armor effect is a serious problem. But it's light and breathable."
"How much?" Blade's voice was even, but I saw he had taken the bait.
"Depends on what you offer in return. Didn't you promise some kind of surprise?"
"Yeah, right. A couple secs."
He left the garage and returned a minute later, carrying a small silver case. My heart beat faster in anticipation. A super-rare material? A spellbook? An artifact? One thing was clear—it definitely wasn't money.
"Check it out," Blade placed the case on the workbench. I clicked the locks and opened it.
"And what is this?" I asked with genuine interest. Inside, in neat nests of black velvet, rested six ampoules with liquids of different colors—from dark brown, almost black, to a frighteningly bright scarlet. By consistency, it resembled... blood?
"Blood," Blade confirmed my guess. Noticing my confusion, he continued, pointing at each ampoule. "Six different kinds, mind you. Resurrected—that's when a corpse is raised. Turned—ordinary street scum. Purebloods of the third, second, and first generations—that's the aristocracy. And the real value..." he poked a finger at the scarlet ampoule. "The Blood of a Scion."
Something began to click in my head. Ideas, scraps of theories. Peter is a genetics genius. Vampires, they have a virus? But why do I need their blood? Obviously, Blade sensed my hesitation.
"You're like, smart," he said. "You'll study this sludge. Maybe use it for some recipes. Or maybe you'll find a way to power yourself up. In any case, it's valuable stuff. Especially the Blood of a Scion. They have fewer weaknesses and unique abilities."
"For example?" this already sounded more interesting.
"Well, specifically this—it's the blood of my late old man, Lucas Cross. The freak was a master of brainwashing. Dug around in other people's skulls like his own pocket. Raised me as the ideal vessel for his rebirth. But he didn't get lucky, it didn't work out for the old man."
"Oh..." I trailed off. "So, to summarize, this is the blood of a powerful telepath, and it might contain the key to his abilities?"
"Hell if I know how it works for you eggheads," Blade shrugged. "But yeah, vampirism is a virus. Means it can be dissected. I'll tell you right now: the Brits already tried to replicate the effect without side effects. It didn't work."
"Because the secret is likely in your blood," I muttered thoughtfully, looking at him. "Speaking of which. Why isn't there any dhampir blood in the deal?"
Blade smirked again, this time slyly, professionally.
"Well, duh! I gotta drive up my price. It's clear as day that you'll need something to start from in studying these sludges and getting rid of the side effects. And my blood is the best option for that. A baseline sample to compare everything with. So... come on, I'm open to offers."
"Before we continue, I want to understand what I'm dealing with," I crossed my arms over my chest, switching to analyst mode. "What are you actually capable of? Your specs. Strength, speed, regeneration. I need concrete numbers, not abstract 'I'm cool'."
Blade appreciated my approach. The corner of his mouth twitched in a semblance of a smile.
"Now that's a different conversation. Okay, egghead, listen. Speed... I'm not the Flash, by the standards of some pureblood bloodsuckers—I'm even slow. I can push nearly fifty miles per hour on a dash, but the main trump card is endurance. I don't get tired. At all. Strength... well, about half a ton on the bench press. If I get really mad, I can flip a compact car. Regeneration is accelerated, muscle structure is denser. Pistol bullets rarely go deeper than a centimeter—it hurts, it's unpleasant, but not lethal. There's also some mental junk from the old man, but it's flawed, I barely use it."
"Not bad," I nodded, quickly processing the information. This was a level significantly exceeding the peak of human capabilities. "And is that your limit? Without stimulants and all that?"
"No," Blade smirked. "That's my base form. Strolling mode."
"Now that's interesting," I leaned forward. "Where there's a base, there must be a..."
"Advanced one, yeah. Boss Phase 2," he chuckled. "Under a boost from Chi, special mystical energy, I become dozens of times more dangerous. And if I pull out my beauty..." Blade stroked the hilt of the katana at his hip with almost intimate tenderness.
Chi. Exactly. In this universe, besides science and magic, there was this third force. Shang-Chi, Iron Fist... characters who reached cosmic levels on pure willpower and internal energy. I want it!
"Teach me," I blurted out. "The mastery of Chi. It would be way more useful than digging around in some blood."
Blade laughed. Loudly, from the heart.
"No-pе. I'd be glad to, Cap, but the thing is, it doesn't work that way. To master Chi, you need years. Meditation, concentration, finding harmony with life energy and other esoteric crap. And here your brilliant brain isn't an advantage. Rather, a hindrance. You can't speed up the process. Unless, of course, you're a mega-fucking-talented Asian boy from a lost monastery. And in you, believe me, there's zero talent for this. You're all like—wires, chemistry, and calculations. And Chi is about the spirit. We have different operating systems."
"Fuck," I swore in frustration. Closing such an obvious path to power was disappointing. "What about the sword? How does it empower you?"
"Oh, my 'Morning Star' is unique. The ideal weapon against vampires and other undead. Ignores their regeneration, absorbs essence, strengthening me for a short term. It's built for charging into a crowd of monsters. It wouldn't suit you. Too stubborn. You need... resonance with such artifacts."
"Resonance?"
"Well, yeah. To be on the same wave, you dig? Like, you know Captain Britain, right?"
"Yes," I nodded, remembering the leader of the British team Excalibur I had read a couple of articles about.
"So, their name isn't pulled out of thin air. Excalibur is a real existing sword. An artifact that gives its wielder flight, super strength, invulnerability, and other perks from the superhero set. Captain Britain became who he is precisely thanks to that iron."
"But? There's obviously a catch."
"Yeah. That same resonance. A powerful artifact like Excalibur won't choose just anyone. The criteria are whoa. Roughly: you must be a descendant of King Arthur, righteous, kind, fair, but also power-hungry and able to lead people. Such uniques are rare. So it turns out the Captain perfectly matched the super-blade's character."
"But to find out if you match the artifact, you have to find it first? Can I somehow..."
"Stop," Blade interrupted me. "There are very few such toys, and each one is tracked by the powers that be. You could spend your whole life chasing them only to find out in the end that not one will obey you. It's worse than a lottery. And the risks are higher—some artifacts can simply drive you mad."
"Mmm, unpleasant..." I rubbed the bridge of my nose. "Turns out the only working option is to study vampire blood. And yours, of course."
"Of course," a satisfied Blade nodded. "Easy paths often lead to the ass. So, thought of anything interesting you can offer for my precious blood?"
"Yeah," I took a small white pill out of my pocket and handed it to him. "The Intelligence Potion has now officially become 'NZT-48.' Reproducible in a lab, without any rare orchids. The effect is weaker than the original by about 25-30 percent, there are small side effects like headaches and comedowns, but your physiology should handle it. And most importantly—mass production. Sound interesting enough?"
Blade's eyes lit up with predatory fire. He understood the potential.
"That's fucking interesting!" he exclaimed. "Fifty such pills, a suit of your fabric, and a full set of blood, including mine, will move into your brilliant hands!"
"Ten pills, ten Predator serums, ten muscle stimulants, and a suit," I started bargaining.
"Forty pills, a suit, and twenty stimulants each!"
"Fifteen pills, ten serums, ten stimulants, and a suit."
"Man, give me at least thirty pills! The rest—to hell with it!"
"Deal!" I agreed, inwardly rejoicing. NZT pills were the easiest component to produce. "I'll take the measurements for the suit now, sketch out an approximate design. Everything will be ready in a couple of days, you can pick it up over the weekend. Но I'd like to get the blood now."
"No problem," Blade agreed easily. "A deal's a deal."
The next few minutes passed in business-like bustle. I quickly took the measurements from this big guy, who turned out to be surprisingly patient. Regarding the design, he was brief: "Make it so it's practical, functional, and not shameful to walk the streets, not just through vampire guts." Noted. Draining several dozen milliliters of his anomalous blood into a sterile syringe, Blade handed it to me. The deal was sealed.
"By the way," he started, already standing by the car. His hand froze on the door handle. "Go to Frank's?"
"Yeah," I nodded. "An excellent specialist. A real pro."
"Don't know what's with him? I've been calling him all day—silence. I'll probably drive over to his place now, check."
Something unpleasant twisted inside me. A bad premonition began to roll in like a slow icy wave. Did I not make it in time? Did Fisk already...
"Um... no, I don't know," I answered, trying not to let my voice tremble. "But I have a shitty premonition for some reason. Mind if I go with you?"
Blade cast a long look at me and nodded silently.
"Jump in."
Throwing on a light windbreaker, I climbed into the front passenger seat. The Charger's engine roared, and we tore into the night toward the unknown. "I hope Frank is just training another loser and doesn't hear the phone," flashed through my mind, but I didn't believe it myself.
Okay. Calm down. I have about twenty minutes of travel. Time to spin the gacha.
I closed my eyes, concentrating. Opening the system window, I clicked on "Heavenly Forge." 550 OP was deducted from the balance. A description appeared before my eyes...
[Received information packet (Common) – Non-Mage Technology: Primary Principles.] [Unlocking the information packet costs 400 OP.]
[This packet provides access not just to knowledge, but to a fundamental understanding of the laws of the physical universe up to the Graduate level. This is the full "source code" of reality, from basic Newtonian mechanics to the elegant complexity of string theory; from the simplest chemical reactions to the mysteries of genetic engineering and materials science.]
[The value of the packet is not in passive data storage, but in their active synergy. While working on a project, your mind begins to build conceptual bridges between seemingly unrelated areas. The principle of quantum entanglement might suggest a solution for creating a secure communication network. Knowledge of biochemical catalyst processes will prompt an idea for a new, more effective regeneration potion. The process of creation becomes intuitive; you begin not just to assemble, but to "compose" technologies, finding elegant and unconventional solutions based on the deepest laws of nature.]
Worthy. More than. This isn't just new knowledge, it's a new way of thinking. A foundation that will make any of my creations an order of magnitude more perfect. If I weren't set on two spins, I would unlock it without hesitation. But the excitement took over. The skill can wait. Second attempt!
[Received information packet (Common) – Individual Armament: XCOM Philosophy.] [Unlocking the information packet costs 200 OP.]
[This packet instills in you the philosophy of ultimate efficiency through personalization. Its key principle is not a gram extra, not a single wasted second, not a single redundant component. It is the art of creating things that are not just tools, but an extension of the user's will and body.]
[You intuitively understand the laws of ergonomics, creating weapons and gadgets that lie perfectly in the hand without causing fatigue. You think in categories of minimalism, cutting off everything unnecessary that increases weight, reduces reliability, or complicates use. Whether it's armor, a weapon, or a scientific instrument, every curve, every material, every component will serve one goal—maximum efficiency with minimum cost. Your creations become compact, lethal, and intuitively clear, like a scalpel in a surgeon's hands.]
Also extremely useful, especially considering the suit I'll need to sew for Blade, but... "common" items again. A sting of disappointment stirred inside, but I immediately crushed it. It's okay. The darkest night is before the dawn. I'm like that miner from the meme who turned back centimeters from a cluster of diamonds. The main thing is not to give up.
"Something's not right here," Blade muttered when we stopped in front of Frank's gun shop.
His words pulled me from my thoughts. I looked around. The street was unnaturally quiet. No cars, no passersby. The streetlights seemed dim and sickly.
"Doesn't smell like blood," Blade continued, getting out of the car, "but there's a scent of something bad hanging in the air. Professional work."
Frank's shop should have been closed, but the heavy front door was slightly ajar. Inside—not a soul. Perfect order. And... emptiness. The counters, showcases, walls where imitation but real-looking weapons used to hang—everything was virginally clean. We went to the warehouse. Same picture. Empty shelves. Not a single casing on the floor, no signs of struggle. It was as if Frank and his entire arsenal had simply vanished.
"Frank got robbed?" Blade's voice rang with restrained rage and disbelief. "I fucking don't believe it! Robbing him—is like dragging a tank from a military base alone!"
My bad premonition was replaced by icy certainty. Total, irreversible disaster had just happened.
"Okay, he doesn't like this, of course," Blade growled, turning around. "But let's get to his house. Right now."
Frank's house in Queens, a two-story family townhouse just a couple of miles from his shop, was no longer a home. It was now the blackened corpse of a building, cordoned off by yellow tape fluttering in the wind. Not a soul around, just a couple of patrolmen lazily walking near the fence, and the smell of a cold ashen site hung in the air.
The sight was horrific. As if the house was first blown up from the inside, and then what remained was crushed by a giant press. This wasn't an accidental fire or a gas explosion. This was work. Evil, methodical, exemplary work. The work of a meta-human. And judging by the nature of the destruction, I'm almost certain it's Shocker's signature. And the absence of a crowd of onlookers and journalists said it all happened a long time ago. Ten to twelve hours ago. The night of September 22nd to 23rd. Again that cursed number.
"Officer," Blade lowered the window, and his voice sounded deceptively friendly, almost fawning. "Be so kind as to satisfy the curiosity of a law-abiding citizen. What happened here?"
That voice gave me goosebumps. There was no threat in it, but there was... depth. A strange, insidious resonance that seemed to bypass the ears and penetrate straight into the brain.
The face of one of the cops smoothed out, his gaze became empty.
"The brutal murder of the Castle family," he said monotonically, as if reading a report. "With the subsequent bombing of the house to hide evidence."
"Murder? They were... all killed?" I saw Blade grip the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white.
"Yes, sir," the second one joined in, his eyes also covered by a film. "Wife, son, daughter—all dead. On the bodies, besides burns, multiple signs of torture were found. The father, Frank Castle, was taken to the hospital. Critical condition, doctors give no forecasts."
Blade was silent. The silence in the car became heavy as lead.
"Thank you, gentlemen," his voice became even deeper, even more insistent. "Be so kind as to tell me where I can get ALL the details of this case?"
The suggestion in his voice became almost tangible. I felt a chill run down the back of my neck. And he called this "flawed junk"? While Blade extracted information from the cops, I fell into a quagmire of self-reproach.
Where did I mess up?
Turns out, everywhere. Gwen's father is dead. Check. Otto Octavius became the Octopus. Check. Frank Castle's family brutally tortured and killed by Kingpin's people, and he himself, miraculously surviving, is guaranteed to become the Punisher. Check. Unclear business with the Osborns. Check. And those were just the fires I was going to put out once I became stronger. But I didn't make it. I delayed. Found more important matters, more interesting projects than some drones for 24/7 surveillance of Frank's house...
All that's left is to mess up with Uncle Ben. So that Peter finally loses it, mixes himself a nuclear cocktail of Connors' serum and my stimulants, washes it all down with OZ serum synthesized from Gwen's blood from the napkin he never threw away, and turns into a monster. No. Enough. The package from Lucas arrives tomorrow. I go to Peter, we create the "Elixir of Ash and Dawn," and immediately pour it into Uncle Ben. To keep him from harm. And maybe grab a portion for Frank? Но... how did he then recover from severe injuries and get on his path independently? Maybe it just took months or years, and now, by curing him, I will only accelerate the appearance of the Punisher?
The thoughts were disgusting, cold, pragmatic.
"...at the police station on 82nd Street, ask for Officer Shellby, he's handling the case," the cop's lifeless voice reached me.
"With that, I take my leave," Blade nodded. "Consider that this conversation never happened."
"What conversation, sir?" the cop blinked innocently, watching us go with a vacant gaze.
We drove away. The silence in the car was broken only by the roar of the engine.
"So, kid," Blade's voice was hoarse from restrained rage. "You with me or what?"
Or what. I desperately didn't want to get into this. But I already was in. Through my inaction. Through my cowardice. I could at least for the sake of decency participate... in vengeance? Should I tell him about Fisk? About Kingpin? Cut through all the middlemen and point straight to the top of the food chain? But how do I know this? And will Blade have enough strength to survive a fight with a leviathan? Fuck... It's complicated.
I turned to him. Instead of answering his question, I looked him straight in the eyes and said quietly but clearly:
"Most likely, Shocker worked there, and first let's stop at my place."
To hell with it, let happen what may. Popping an NZT pill, I began building a semblance of a plan of action for this night, thankfully Blade turned toward Brooklyn, but the questions... Oh, how many of them were in his eyes.