"What is the essence of gravity boots?" Peter asked with genuine curiosity, watching as I reached for one of the old microwaves.
"Well, this is not exactly Stark-level technology, but it is definitely an interesting toy," I answered, beginning to open the casing. "If I am brief, then these boots will allow controlled jumps and short flights at heights up to ten meters. They will be able to completely absorb damage from falling from great height and, what is most amusing, create compressed air cushions from which you can push off. You can literally walk on air, like on an invisible staircase."
The technology, of course, was not the most impressive in my arsenal of ideas, but for a start it was ideal. I was already calculating in my head the problems: the weight of the boots themselves would be about six kilograms, plus a backpack with batteries for another six. Yes, I needed to solve something with power sources in a global sense. But that was for later. Right now I was firmly determined to assemble these terry gravity boots.
"Listen, are you this..." Peter began awkwardly, seeing with what confidence I was gutting the microwave. "Can you... can you explain to me the essence of the process? I want to understand."
"No problem," I nodded. It was even pleasant to act as mentor for a genius. "The fundamental idea is simple. We will be creating under the boot soles a high-frequency electromagnetic field. It ionizes air, temporarily and sharply increasing its density right under us. This creates 'compressed air pockets,' essentially temporary solid platforms from which the boots will push off."
"Aha... the effect is similar to magnetic levitation, but working with air through ionization," Peter immediately found an analog. "It somewhat resembles early ANSA ion engine patents. But, I am repeating my question, how are you going to assemble something like this from this?" he swept his hand over the mountain of junk.
"Magnetrons! And transformers from microwaves!" I proclaimed the obvious thought to me. By Peter's distrustful face I understood that I had not convinced him. "Their coils will induce eddy currents. And fans from vacuum cleaners will add propulsion thrust for directed flight. I just need to use an adapted Lenz formula to calculate the induction force!"
"Wait," Peter frowned. "Air is ionized, it becomes plasma. The classical Lenz formula is not quite suitable here, inductance will behave differently."
"Exactly! That is why it is adapted for ionized medium!" I grinned. "Your textbooks are a starting point, Peter, not a bible. My knowledge combines electromagnetic field for levitation and propulsion for thrust."
"Hmm, it sounds surprisingly... logical. But..."
"Without any 'buts.' Just watch!" I interrupted him. "So, we gut four microwaves, we need their transformers to create a field of approximately 0.4 Tesla. Next, motors and blades from vacuum cleaners and hair dryer. Six lithium-ion batteries from my favorite power drills," I commented while with surgical precision extracting the needed components. "I also need a processor from an old laptop and a couple accelerometers from broken smartphones. This is the brain for smart auto-balancing. And a handful of capacitors from camera flashes for fine-tuning the coils."
Having collected everything necessary, I proceeded to the most delicate moment. I intuitively, guided by the knowledge of a colonist engineer, began tuning the coils, soldering in capacitors. I was not calculating, I was feeling the needed configuration that would make the field pulses create air ionization with density equivalent to 1-2 kg/m³. This was precisely what would allow "pushing off" from air, like from ground. Parker watched my polished movements mesmerized. And I... I myself was in shock. I was not just assembling by intuition, I understood every one of my steps. This Celestial Forge, this symbiosis of my new skills, was changing me at a fundamental level. And I did not know whether to rejoice at this or fear it.
"Next is the modular frame," I continued the lecture, beginning assembly. "Each boot is three independent modules with quick-release clips. Electromagnetic, coils in the sole, filled with epoxy in plastic housing. Propulsion, motors with blades on sides, in housings from PVC pipes. And energy, batteries in the boot tops. With strong impact or fall the modules will simply detach, and not fly apart into pieces."
I secured the coils around iron cores, insulated them with tape and checked resistance with multimeter, about 8 Ohms. Then I installed motors on outer sides of boots, directing air ducts downward. I connected batteries into single circuit that could be worn in backpack, and the processor with accelerometers I soldered directly into housing of one of the boots, writing on laptop the simplest code to increase thrust when detecting sharp fall. This entire construction I attached to a pair of old sneakers with strong velcro. The result was an ugly but functional Frankenstein's monster from the world of high garage technologies.
I turned on the boots. A quiet, low-frequency hum sounded, and I felt how the sneaker soles slightly lifted from the garage concrete floor. Rise of 5-10 centimeters. The coils were working. A light click of the toggle, and fans on sides with quiet whistle added thrust, stabilizing the sneakers in air. The basic function was working. Now began the art.
Calibration. It took a good three hours. Three hours of absolute, meditative concentration. For Peter this must have looked like shamanism. I sat on the floor, surrounded by wires, holding in one hand a multimeter and with the other slowly turning trimming resistors. I was not just comparing numbers with the formula F_induction = I²μ₀A/(2d²), I was listening to the hum of coils, feeling the slightest changes in vibration, seeking that very ideal resonance. I tuned accelerometers by repeatedly dropping boots from different heights and tracking speed of their reaction. This was work not of scientist, but of master tuning an unprecedented musical instrument.
The output was a real miracle of garage thought. Bulky, ugly sneakers with add-ons, capable of:
Flying from 15 to 30 seconds at height up to 10 meters. Detecting free fall and activating propulsors, reducing speed by 90%. A fall from ten meters would feel like a jump from one. Creating pulsed "platforms" from ionized air, allowing up to five "steps" through air.
I added a pair of mini-fans from an old laptop for cooling batteries in the backpack and, spurred by the "Risk of Disassembly" skill, once more checked each connection for strength and modularity. Everything was ready. And the System did not keep itself waiting.
[Created electro-mechanical construction "Diamagnetic Propulsors". Complexity: Normal. Received +200 OP!]
Modular device for short-term flight, softening falls and creating air cushions, using dynamic induction of eddy currents in ionized air.
And again without reward for uniqueness. Well, I was not surprised. Somewhere in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s secret hangars or in Stark's personal workshop there were surely gathering dust far more elegant prototypes. In any case, 200 OP was 200 OP. The balance of 700 points already pleased the eye.
"Time for tests," I said, putting on the boots and throwing on my back the backpack with batteries.
We went out to the back yard. The territory was not completely private, but a quick glance around confirmed absence of onlookers. First thing I, without long thinking, climbed onto the low garage roof.
"Do you trust your work?" Peter asked from below with nervous grin.
"I trust my calculations," I answered and stepped into emptiness.
For a fraction of a second there was free fall, chill in stomach. And then the accelerometers triggered. Fans roared, and the fall sharply slowed. I landed on my feet with the softness of a cat.
"Hmm, indeed, very 'soft' landing," I stated, ignoring the internal voice grumbling about danger. "The sensation is like legs are immersing into something dense, like into jelly."
Next were several steps through air. Under my feet flashed and died barely noticeable rings of ionized air, creating solid support where there was none. And on remaining charge, a short fifteen-second flight above the yard. Success. The prototype had right to life.
"Cool!" Peter's eyes burned with delight. "This is like maglev for legs! Though in real combat conditions it is, of course, problematic to use."
"I agree," I nodded, unfastening the bulky construction. "These are 'Gravity Boots-1.' Crude, raw and energy-consuming. I need to reduce dimensions, find normal power source, improve materials... And all this work is for you. Today's you, under Potion of Intellect. I also have a number of ideas for modernization. We will bring them to mind. Well, naturally after work on the main project with Potion."
"Then... shall we go? The laboratory should already be empty," Peter asked impatiently when we entered the house.
"Yes," I tossed him the Honda keys. "Get in for now. I will quickly change into something cleaner, and we are on our way."
Quickly changing work clothes to clean jeans and T-shirt, I threw into the car trunk a box with all kinds of electronic junk, excellent cover if I suddenly needed to "accidentally" take from inventory something rare. The entire road to the institute Peter could no longer sit still. He was fountaining ideas, drawing something in notebook, his brain was already tuning to the upcoming, truly monumental task.
By six thirty in the evening we parked at the impressive building of the university science building. Evening light painted it in golden tones. I looked at Peter, then at the building. The coming hours would determine if not everything, then very much. In this world there were gods, monsters and aliens. But true power capable of changing reality always began with one thing.
Intellect. Brains. Genius. This was the foundation. This was the base. And today we were going to crack its code.
Fool. Fool. Fool!
This was officially the worst day of her life. The funeral organized by her father's colleagues left a taste of bile in her mouth. She stood under drizzling rain, looking at the lacquered coffin lid, and saw around not mourners but hyenas in expensive suits. Faces full of false sympathy. Handshakes sticky from bribes. She knew that the investigation of Captain George Stacy's death would be slowed down. Would be closed as "accident in line of duty." And from this realization the bitterness of loss became almost unbearable.
Now she was alone. Completely alone. And all because of last night. Because of her damned secret. On another patrol she had to reveal herself to him. He looked at her, at his daughter in a stupid costume, and in his eyes there was neither fear nor condemnation. Only infinite fatherly worry. "We will talk at home, Gwen," he said. But he never returned home.
She wanted to cry. And she cried, mixing tears with cold rain drops. To hell with stereotypes that heroes should be strong. She was not a hero. Her father was a hero. A real, honest policeman who refused blood money and was killed for it.
Kingpin.
The name that now echoed in her head like a funeral bell. The freak who imagined himself king of New York. She did not know his identity, but it did not matter. What mattered was that his empire, built on bones, drugs and slavery, took from her the last relative. Now his bandits, his lackeys, his degenerates were her target number one.
She understood. Now she understood everything. Patriot, Angel, Blazer, Demolisher... Dozens of heroes who flashed on New York's horizon, who disappeared as suddenly as they appeared. Some of them were strong, very strong. And even if Kingpin possibly was not the direct culprit of each one's disappearance, the fact itself spoke for itself. In London three hero teams operated. In New York, only one meta-loner. Her. This city was a cemetery for those who wore masks.
But when mind is drowned by thirst for revenge, body acts on autopilot. As soon as twilight thickened on the streets, she put on her costume. The mask hid tear-stained eyes but could not hide rage. She flew into the city not to patrol. She flew to hunt.
All dark backyards. All dubious companies. She was a hurricane sweeping through the criminal bottom. She was looking for a lead, beating information out of every bastard who wore gang "colors." This time she did not restrain herself. She heard crunch of bones under her fists and felt nothing but dull satisfaction. She needed answers. And she got them. Only not those she expected.
"Well, why can you not sit at home, bug?" the mocking, arrogant voice made her wince. From the alley shadow stepped a man in bulky orange costume, with futuristic gloves on hands. "Is it absolutely necessary to seek adventures on your appetizing butt?" this sounded ridiculously absurd with his caricature German accent.
Oh, this was definitely a meta. He moved with speed and strength exceeding human. And his gloves... On any other day she would have snarked. Would have laughed at his accent, stupid outfit and absurd nickname. He probably called himself something like "Vibrator." But not now.
Now she felt maximally terrible. One attack from his gloves, an invisible wave of compressed air, struck the wall next to her. She was thrown back, disorienting her for a moment. And what was most terrible, her spider-sense, her main trump card, beat in agony, stunned and weakened. One of his minions took advantage of this. Several shots. One of them found target. Sharp, burning pain pierced left side.
Stunned, bleeding, she shamefully retreated, hiding on roof of a low building. The meta-bastard freely walked around the alley below, pouring mockery on her, trying to get her riled and force her to reveal her location. She needed to run. But thirst for information, desire to learn more, turned out stronger than self-preservation instinct. And this became her next mistake this damned evening.
"The Kingpin's lackey dares lecture me?" she shouted, and her voice trembled from pain and rage. "Vibrator, is everything alright with your head at all?"
Fuck.
The word only managed to slip in her thoughts. The mentioned bastard, attracted by her bravado, grinned. He crouched, and his gloves struck the asphalt. Deafening roar sounded. The sound wave turned into reactive thrust. A moment before he was on ground. And now he already stood on roof, several meters from her, towering over her wounded body. Under the mask he was surely smirking maliciously.
"I am Shocker," his voice sounded like a death sentence. "However, corpses do not need this information."
This time she roughly knew what to expect. Overcoming fiery pain in her side, she rushed to the side at the very moment when Shocker again struck the roof. The vibration wave passed centimeters from her, making concrete under her feet go into cracks. Not giving him time to recover, she released two web streams, thickly coating his futuristic gloves.
But this gave her only a couple seconds of respite. A low-frequency hum sounded, and the web, vibrating at frantic speed, simply crumbled into dust. Shocker attacked again, this time with short, whipping pulses, trying to predict trajectory of her movements, herding her like an animal. Because of the wound her dodges were clumsy, slow. After half a minute of these deadly dances one of the pulses still grazed her tangentially.
The world turned into jelly. Legs buckled, deafening ringing sounded in ears. Again this nauseating disorientation. Gathering remnants of will in fist, she pushed off from edge and jumped onto roof of neighboring building. Shocker, without hurrying, moved after her.
She understood. In her current state she could not beat answers out of him, she would not last a minute against him. She needed to run. Retreat. Live to take revenge another time. Releasing web, she flew upward. Higher. Even higher. Manhattan was a forest of skyscrapers. The bastard, fortunately, fell behind, not wanting to show himself at such height. But pursuit was replaced by another, more terrible problem. Consciousness... it began to fade.
Blood loss. Daytime stress from father's death and subsequent funeral. Evening fights with bandits. All this mixed into one poisonous cocktail that even her enhanced body could not withstand. Dark spots floated before eyes. "Need shelter. Need to heal. Couple hours, and I will be fine." But she would not reach home in Brooklyn. Would black out right in flight and smear across asphalt.
Hospital? No, even worse. Since she received powers, hospitals became forbidden zone for her. Risk of exposure was too great. Taxi? Subway? Wounded girl in blood after doctors, cops would immediately notice. Former colleagues of father. They would start asking questions. Not an option.
Only one place remained. Last haven. Institute laboratory. There was first-aid kit that she shamelessly replenished after each raid. At this time there was guaranteed no one there. And there was her personal, familiar to smallest detail window with filed latch. Besides, it was only one block of flight. She should manage.
Gathering will in fist, she rushed with last strength toward institute. Buildings blurred into blurred stripes. The science building window, her goal, pulsed in consciousness as single point of salvation. And here she was at it. But something was wrong. Light burned in window. And at the same moment her spider-sense howled. Not about danger. About witnesses. "Someone is there!"
A moment later she saw familiar skinny figure enthusiastically scribbling formulas on laboratory board. Peter Parker. Her colleague. Smart, quiet guy who, as she long suspected, uncovered her secret. Her sense always behaved strangely near him, it did not scream about threat but rather... unobtrusively squeaked. But he was silent. Did not tell anyone. With him... it was possible to deal. And she had no choice anyway. Roofs and backyards in her condition were death sentence.
She clumsily, without a gram of her usual spider grace, pried the latch and literally tumbled inside. Her legs no longer held her. The last thing she saw before the world finally went dark was Peter's shocked face turning to the noise. And then, saving darkness.
——————
Literally ten seconds later John returned to laboratory. He swept gaze over frozen scene. On floor, in pool of own blood, lay unconscious black-and-white body of city heroine. Over her, with marker in hand and expression of absolute stupor on face, froze Peter Parker, whose intellect enhanced by Potion obviously malfunctioned, encountering such flagrant violation of all laws of probability.
John only wearily chuckled, rubbing bridge of nose.
"Yeah. I should have stepped away to bathroom for a couple minutes, as September twenty-second again reminds of its existence..."