"You don't think Kingpin will decide to hide?" I asked Blade as the roar of the Charger devoured miles of asphalt. "Finding out that someone like you has declared a hunt on him, any sane person would lie low."
"Nah," Blade shrugged, not taking his eyes off the road. "He's an alpha predator. Those don't run or hide. Their strength is in the aura of invincibility. Once they show weakness, their own jackals will sink their teeth into the throat to take the throne. He can't afford to look weak. Not now."
I was of a different opinion. Мои meta-knowledge screamed that this bastard was a slippery and cunning creature, capable of wiggling out of any situation. But I didn't try to convince Blade. In any case, this outing had already more than paid for itself: Shocker's vibration gauntlets in the inventory, strengthened relations with Blade and, strangely enough, with Gwen. Is it even normal that I thought about the loot before those two?
While I was occupied with these thoughts, we pulled up to an unremarkable five-story building on Sixth Avenue. After wandering for a couple of minutes, Blade found a narrow, dark alley and, killing his monster, parked. And the moment we stepped out of the car, a familiar black-and-white figure silently dropped from the fire escape shadow. Of course. Followed us the whole way.
"You killed him!" was the first thing she exhaled, appearing before us. Her gloved finger was pointed at Blade. "Why?! You can't just take other people's lives like that!"
"And why the fuck not?" Blade spread his hands, absolutely not seeing a problem. He walked around her as if she were a tedious obstacle and started examining the walls for an entrance. I followed.
"This is wrong! John, tell him!" she turned what was surely a desperate gaze to me.
"I agree," I started slowly, feeling her pleading look. "With Blade."
"B-but..."
"Gwen, the world didn't lose a 'person,' but a serial killer with children's blood up to his elbows. He was an instrument in the hands of a monster. I think it's no great loss," I replied evenly, wondering: could I do it myself? Would I have the guts? Under NZT, probably yes rather than no...
Blade meanwhile found what he was looking for—an unremarkable steel door for an emergency exit in a dead-end alley. Not suspicious at all.
"We are not judges! And especially not executioners!" Gwen objected heatedly, catching up with us.
"And who are the judges and executioners, Gwen?" I stopped and turned to her. "Corrupt officials in robes? Who decided they are worthy of wearing that title? If we turned Shocker over to the police, his lawyers, bought by Kingpin, would have him out the next day. And he would continue to kill. Are those your praised judges?"
"Talking sense, kid," came Blade's approving grumble from the door.
"But by killing them, what makes us any better?!" her voice trembled. This argument, it seemed, was something very personal to her.
"Everything!" I snapped, feeling this demagoguery start to tire me. "At the very least, we save the lives of all those innocents bastards like Shocker would have killed in the future. Between solving a problem and its temporary palliating, I'll always choose the first."
I walked to the door, touched it, and it vanished. A small corridor sloping down was empty. I let Blade go first, and when Gwen and I followed, I returned the door to its place.
"Please," Gwen asked noticeably more quietly, almost pleadingly, addressing Blade. "At least here... try not to kill anyone."
"No promises," he smirked, not turning around. "Besides, questions are more for your friend. He's a rookie, might not calculate his strength."
We approached the next door—massive, armored, with a pair of cameras under the ceiling. They clearly already knew about us.
"Strength?" Gwen repeated with genuine interest, shifting her gaze from Blade to me.
Instead of an answer, I silently took two autoinjectors out of my inventory. The first, with a muscle stimulant, I injected into my neck with a hiss. The second—with the "Absolute Predator" serum.
The effect came a few seconds later, and it was like a quantum processor was inserted into an old computer. Chemical fire flooded my veins, muscles bulged and filled with power under the suit, my gait became smooth and feline. The whole world narrowed, cutting out the unnecessary. Only threat vectors, movement trajectories, attack angles remained. Combined with the mental clarity from NZT, it was an incredible feeling of omnipotence. I saw the lenses on Gwen's mask widen as she noticed these changes.
"I... will try not to barge ahead blindly," I nodded to her.
I stepped to the second, armored door and touched it. It vanished. At the same second, I stepped back, hiding behind Blade's back and activating the plasma shield. As I expected, they were waiting for us.
The long corridor ahead exploded with fire and roar. Six of Kingpin's mercenaries in full tactical armor opened a hail of fire. The air filled with the whistle of bullets. Several of them mired with a dull hiss, crashing into the semi-transparent sphere of my shield, and then into the suit, having already practically lost all their speed. Covering my face with my hand, I moved forward, staying in the rearguard.
Blade and Gwen were ahead, and in their case, it wasn't a fight. It was a slaughter.
Blade turned into a blurred spot, and he wasn't even running—he was sliding between bullet tracers, closing the distance with inhuman speed. The first mercenary didn't even have time to scream—Blade ripped the rifle out of his hands and broke his jaw with a buttstock strike. The second received a kick to the knee, which bent the wrong way with a disgusting crack.
Gwen was his ideal complement. She soared to the ceiling, and from there a sticky rain of webbing poured. Rifles were ripped from hands, mercenaries' legs became tangled, one was simply cocooned to the wall. Fifteen seconds. That's exactly how much it took them to neutralize all six. And judging by the groans, all were still alive. Excellent.
Thus we advanced deep into the base, which went lower and lower underground. Blade went in the vanguard, using his mental junk, as he put it, to sense ambushes in advance. He was a super-fast, super-strong, and super-tough battering ram. Gwen fluttered around him like a lethal moth, disarming and immobilizing enemies with her webbing. Despite Gwen's request, a couple of poor souls still got unlucky—Blade, evidently used to hitting vampires with full force, didn't calculate the strike, and necks simply cracked. The mercenaries, for all their armament, were too fragile compared to bloodsuckers.
Another nuance—Blade didn't pull his katana, working exclusively with his hands and feet, shrouded in a barely noticeable Chi aura that I couldn't help but notice under such a quantity of doping.
Finally, we came out into a huge room resembling a hangar. Ahead, behind barricades, a dozen armed-to-the-teeth bastards awaited us. And in the center, towering over them, stood a three-meter figure in massive, futuristic gray armor with a huge horn on the helmet. Rhino.
"Ooo," Blade's fangs gleamed in the dim light. "Finally something interesting."
"Take care of the small fry," my voice under the stimulants sounded lower and more confident. "I'll take the big guy."
I stepped forward, realizing I needed that armor. How many technologies, how many rare alloys and electronics were in it! It was literally millions of dollars, and all I needed was one touch.
Fortunately, both Blade and Gwen understood everything without words. They rushed in different directions, beginning the planned annihilation of the cannon fodder. And Rhino, justifying his name, enraged by my arrogance, rushed at me. The floor trembled under his feet. For such a bulk, he moved incredibly fast.
I stood in place. My mind, accelerated to the limit, saw everything as if in slow motion. I saw the servos in his legs tension, his center of gravity shift, his single visor-eye focus on me.
A second before the collision, I deactivated the plasma shield. Thanks to accelerated reaction, I didn't just jump aside—I made a smooth, calibrated step, letting the multi-ton bulk pass me. At the moment his side drew level with me, I lightly touched the armor.
It vanished.
A two-meter, buff meathead in a simple black jumpsuit, stripped of his armor, continued his flight by inertia. He slammed his head into the steel door frame behind me at great speed. A sickening wet crack rang out. The body collapsed onto the floor. I think I heard his neck break. I hope I was imagining it.
I reactivated the shield and, satisfied with the obtained loot, turned around. Blade and Gwen were already finishing the clearing. Jeffrey Weacle's office was visible ahead. How ironic—this gut-like base, leading only down, became a mousetrap for its own residents.
"Good one," Blade tossed to me, wiping blood from his knuckles. "We probably would have been picking at that tin can for a long time."
"Well, I have to be of some use," I answered with a half-smile. "Not all the glory goes to you monsters."
"Yeah..." Gwen grumbled, tying up the last mercenary. "Look who's talking about monstrosity..."
Jeffrey Weacle, a short man in an expensive suit with a prominent jaw that he twisted in a grimace of hatred, hid behind the backs of the last handful of mercenaries. He evidently already understood that this game was lost, but desperately clung to the illusion of control.
"The building is cordoned off by Kingpin's people anyway! You're dead!" he shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at us. "Fire!"
Twenty seconds later, it was all over. For his people, of course. They were swept away by a vortex of black leather and black-and-white spandex. When the dust settled, Blade was already standing over Weacle, whose face had turned from defiant to a mask of terror. The hunter didn't even touch him, just looked into his eyes, and the corporate arrogance flew off Fisk's lieutenant like husk. He looked at Blade entranced, ready to lay everything out.
"The boss usually spends most of his time in his penthouse, in the Empire State Building," he spoke with a flat, lifeless voice. "But there are also a number of especially protected bases and his country estate..."
"Stop, stop, stop! What the hell, the Empire State?!" Gwen unexpectedly cut in. Her voice trembled from a sudden, terrible realization. "Fisk Capital rents all the top floors there! Or... fuck, are you serious?!"
"Yeah," I stepped up to her, realizing that hiding the information further was pointless. "Kingpin is Wilson Fisk."
"And you knew?! Knew and didn't tell me?!" she turned abruptly to me, her voice ringing with hurt and a sense of betrayal. "What was the point of this whole farce with invading the base then? Why not attack Fisk directly? He's a public figure, plenty of opportunities!"
"That's exactly why we didn't tell you," Blade answered grimly, not taking his eyes off Weacle. "Don't be stupid, girl, and think hard. You're suggesting we barge through the front entrance into a fortress guarded by hundreds of people and dozens of metas just because you know the owner's name? We came down here for a map of that fortress. For information on strengths, weaknesses, schedule. To step into the flame not empty-handed, but with a fire extinguisher."
"And also this base is a good stress test of our abilities and cooperation possibilities," I added.
"Right, the kid is talking sense," Blade nodded. "He might have beaten up fewer people, but did it beautifully. Now don't interfere."
But Gwen wouldn't settle. She stepped toward Weacle.
"Police Captain George Stacy. His death. What do you know?"
"Eliminated," Jeffrey reported flatly, as if about a clerical error. "By an ordinary street thug, for refusing to cooperate. He was the only non-corrupt captain in the Brooklyn precinct. Spoiled the statistics. An inefficient element."
I saw Gwen clench her fists until her knuckles turned white, her shoulders tremble. I stepped to her and placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it slightly. She flinched but, fortunately, didn't snap. Blade meanwhile continued the interrogation, extracting everything from Weacle: details on the Frank Castle case, the names of other lieutenants and a list of Kingpin's active metas, his connections, contacts, supply schedule... The whole interrogation took no more than seven minutes. When the flow of information ran dry, Blade, without saying a word, simply turned Weacle's head at an unnatural angle. A quiet crack rang out. Tellingly, this time Gwen said nothing. She only turned away, gritting her teeth.
We silently moved up to the exit.
"Freaks ahead. Many," Blade grimly informed us when we approached the last door leading to the alley.
Nodding, I again took autoinjectors from my inventory and injected myself with another dose. The feeling of being a mini-Bane was strange but effective. The plasma shield again enveloped me in a semi-transparent cocoon. Damn, it's so good when you don't have to worry about a power source.
"And here they are. The stars of our stormy night."
The moment we stepped out of the base, the alley came alive. The clicks of dozens of rifles being taken off safety merged into one solid sound. We found ourselves at gunpoint. The mercenaries standing before us were equipped an order of magnitude better than those left lying at the base—expensive armor, modified weapons. And just behind them stood a trio.
The first—a man in a black, skin-tight suit with a white target pattern on the mask. He was lazily flipping a couple of combat knives in his hand, and it was he who delivered the "welcome" speech. Bullseye. My memory, spurred by NZT, helpfully provided the dossier. Never misses. Ever.
The second—a two-meter hulk with a practically square face and ash-gray, stone-like skin. He was dressed in an ideally fitting three-piece black suit. Tombstone. A classic, practically invulnerable meta-"tank."
The third was a man in a futuristic, light exoskeleton with mechanical wings behind his back, folded for now. Some kind of energy blasters were fixed to his hands instead of gloves. Vulture.
Three non-weak metas, several dozen elite fighters. The party was in full swing. Only Blade didn't look even slightly frightened. He stood relaxed, with a slight smirk, and this calmness passed to us as well.
But one of the elite three, Bullseye, looking more closely at our figures, suddenly stopped juggling knives. His gaze fixed on Blade. His face under the mask twisted in a frightened, recognizing grimace.
"Blade? What the fuck is he doing here?!" Bullseye shrieked, his showy bravado instantly vanishing, replaced by panic. "No one warned me about something like this!"
"Fire," Tombstone said concisely, as if giving a command to a voice assistant. His massive gray hand lay on Bullseye's shoulder, keeping him from bolting.
Hell broke loose.
I immediately ducked back into the dark corridor opening, leaving the cleanup of the mooks to my more experienced colleagues. Instincts screamed—hide, you're the weakest link here. But I was naive to think no one would pay attention to me. A sharp "ding" and a flash of blue light half a meter from my face made me recoil. A knife that ricocheted off the wall and mired in my plasma barrier fell to the concrete floor with a ring. I became a personal target for the idiot who never misses.
Well. If I can't stand against someone like Bullseye, then what more serious threats can be discussed? Under the deafening roar of shooting outside, I went deeper into the base. Out of the corner of my eye, through the opening, I saw a black figure in a target suit move after me. Being bait is a lousy role, but right now it was the most sensible tactical move.
A dry shot rang out from behind, different from the automatic bursts. A bullet from a modified rifle pierced the air and slammed into my side with a dull impact. The plasma barrier flickered, absorbing most of the energy, Proteus under it distributed the rest, but a sharp, burning pain still pierced my body. There would be a nasty bruise. Fortunately, I had already passed the short corridor. Abruptly stopping at the doorway, without a door, I deactivated the barrier and, taking a UV grenade and a garlic grenade from my inventory, threw them onto the corridor floor in Bullseye's path.
A second. A flash of light comparable to a welding machine momentarily illuminated the corridor, followed by an acrid cloud of garlic dust filling it. That moment of disorientation was enough for me. I returned the door from the inventory. That same, massive, armored one. Only I returned it not quite into the opening, but a dozen centimeters further and at an angle, so that after a light push with my hand it would crash down exactly onto the place where the blinded and disoriented Bullseye should have leaped out.
No, there was also a plan to try to shoot him, but the non-zero chance that he would react to the sound and blindly throw a knife at my head or fire a rifle didn't suit me. A door—both a barrier and an unexpected weapon. And it weighs three hundred kilograms, no less...
He didn't die, of course things aren't that simple. But when most of your body is pinned by a steel mass, you can't fight normally. Main thing was his head was sticking out from under the door's edge. I calmly walked up, stood on the steel sheet, materializing a Glock in my hand. Restraining myself from a stupid desire to utter some pretentious catchphrase, I just silently fired. Right into the center of the white target on his mask. The hunter became the prey. My head was crystal clear, no regret or other emotions from essentially my first kill (Rhino doesn't count, that guy killed himself).
I stepped out of the corridor. The sounds of shots on the street had quieted. A dismal picture of slaughter lay before me. Dozens of maimed and knocked-out Fisk thugs lay across the whole alley. Vulture lay unconscious in the corner, his limbs bent at unnatural angles. Next to him—Tombstone's beheaded body. The upper part of his head was ideally sliced off with one strike. Blade did pull his katana after all. To the side, doubled over, Gwen was vomiting her dinner.
I silently walked up to Vulture and, touching him, expropriated his exoskeleton with wings and blasters into the inventory. Today is definitely the most generous night of my life. Being friends with Blade turned out to be very profitable.
"Nice," Blade greeted me, wiping the katana blade on one of the mercenaries' vests. "Had no doubt in you. Even had to hold back the spider-girl so she wouldn't rush to save your ass."
"If I died at the hand of someone like that, I'd be resurrected to die again from shame," I smirked.
"Ha, yeah, Bullseye was a piece of work," Blade nodded. "Had to cross paths with him once. He only survived this long purely because he habitually killed those weaker than him."
"Sooner or later that tactic would fail," I shrugged. "Which is exactly what happened. What's next?"
"First we get out of here," Blade started, and Gwen, drawn by the conversation and having already gathered herself, approached us. "And then... hell if I know, honestly. Storming the Empire State Building is the worst of the options. In the eyes of ordinary people, we'll instantly become terrorists. Come on, offer ideas while the night hasn't ended."
"Hmm, smoking Fisk out of the penthouse?" I muttered thoughtfully. "With the help of our heroine, it won't be hard to pull that off."
"Oh, sounds like the start of a fucking plan; it would have been better if you started with something like 'Look what I can do'," Blade smirked. "I'm all ears."
"Me too," Gwen said grimly. Over these couple of hours, she had seen enough shit and blood to last her all the months of patrolling the city.
"Let's get in the car first," I nodded, thinking through the details. "I'll tell you there. On paper it looks more than feasible. And main thing—relatively simple."