Thursday, September 24th.
World woke up to information tsunami. News about death of Wilson Fisk, CEO, founder of one of largest hedge funds, prominent politician and philanthropist, thundered from every outlet. Killed by single precise shot to head from "mysterious sniper." TV channels choked on assumptions, experts built theories, and politicians with somber faces expressed condolences. Judging by news, all country's special services were already hunting this sniper. Yes, in such conditions Blade definitely should not stay here longer than couple days, and even these couple days he should literally dissolve into cityscape. However, I am sure his experience in this is richest. He will not get caught.
I worry much more about myself... So far, everything seems clean. Did not screw up anywhere, Proteus is faceless, mask was in place. Only vulnerable thread is we acted as team with Gwen. If her identity is established, say, by same SHIELD, then they can without much trouble pull this thread and get to me, and through me to Peter. But, hand on heart, this will happen sooner or later anyway. SHIELD could not help but know who Kingpin really was. Perhaps they even sighed with relief. Yes, we probably unleashed new gang war, and much blood will spill on New York streets in coming months for power redistribution, but compared to those global problems Fisk could arrange in future... I think we got off easy.
Fisk's hedge fund also got off easy, by the way. Its shares fell in price by only 23%. Against background of founder and permanent leader's death, this is just nothing. If Tony Stark died tomorrow, Stark Industries shares would crash by at least 90 percent, because entire company rests exclusively on his genius. Here it is obvious Fisk did not pay his people monstrous salaries for nothing. Real financial sharks work in his fund, who managed to keep sinking ship afloat and calm markets. Interesting, what next? Most likely, fund awaits rebranding and elections of new CEO.
However, to hell with Fisk's billions. I need to digest what I already got. Especially since in half hour courier from Lucas should arrive, and will need to do healing potion crafting. True, for this will have to wait for evening again to sneak into university lab... No, enough. At this rate, same Doctor Connors will suspect something. Time to set up my own, full-fledged laboratory. Plan for day: receive package from Lucas and immediately go to Blade's base, address of which he successfully sent me. Let us see what I will have to deal with.
Scrolling through news aggregators, it was difficult to find anything besides sucking Fisk's death from all sides. But couple news items still caught my attention. Reports about mysterious sand meta-human who robbed cash collectors, and of course about Hyperion. This guy actively flew across entire US, appearing in Washington, then in Portland. So far he engaged in routine heroic deeds, taking cats from trees, stopping trains, but in same Austin already managed to thwart bank robbery, neutralizing meta-human who could increase mass and density of his limbs. There was also short news about strange case in jewelry store on Manhattan: water under huge pressure literally washed all valuables from safe. Appearance of Hydro-Man. Relatively minor villain whose name I unfortunately do not remember. Unlike Marko, he was not honored with appearance in films... Well, will take note of another meta's appearance.
In general, it is quite interesting how perception of super-humans is arranged in this world. Concept of "meta-human" is norm for most civilians. And it includes practically anyone who even by centimeter went beyond edge of generally accepted human limits. Incredible accuracy, like Bullseye or Hawkeye? Meta! Masterfully wave arms and legs at level of weak super-soldier? Meta! Have huge forms, green skin and nasty character that makes you crush and break everything? Also meta! You are mutant? Wait-wait-wait, this is already conspiracy theory, buddy, you are just meta!
Yes, government conducted colossal work with public consciousness. Everything that goes beyond normality is perceived by population with... norm? Well, not quite. Much depends on adequacy of meta-human himself. Conditional Spider-Woman or Hyperion are perceived by people more than favorably. But some Hulk, who by the way already managed to mark himself in old news even before my "transmigration," is already threat. But even despite this threat, there are no systemic xenophobic sentiments toward meta-humans. Why? Answer lies in government itself.
Considering how many ethical and not so ethical experiments in attempts to create super-soldiers they conduct, it is not surprising that they periodically succeed. Project Patriot, Isaiah Bradley program, shit from Seagate Prison, this is only what is on everyone's lips and had at least some success. And there is also Red Room, Weapon X, Sentinel project, IGH and Jessica Jones, schemes in Oscorp, HYDRA with their Winter Soldiers, Hand clan with their shinobi who surely wield Chi energy, and dozens if not hundreds of other projects.
In such abundance of spontaneously and purposefully appearing meta-humans, state simply finds it unprofitable to incite hatred. Their strategy is wait-and-see creative. They try to harness this power, study it and ideally put it on stream for themselves. If they manage to create their own army of super-soldiers, and society at same time has negative attitudes toward "super-humans," then this can turn against them. So they act extremely carefully, even toward mutants, hiding them behind convenient and vague term "meta." This is brilliant social engineering: control terminology and you will control consciousness.
Thinking about all this meta-disorder and whether concept of balance even exists in world where relatively not far from each other live agent and spy who can barely be called super Natasha Romanoff and Jean Grey with cosmic horror inside, I did not notice how refrigerated van from Lucas silently pulled up to house. Driver's sharp honk tore me from philosophical trance.
Going outside and signing electronic form, I monitored unloading. Condition of most expensive package in my life was ideal. This goods in form of starter culture of "Moon Jellyfish" cells in cryo-container, half gram of super-rare crystalline lichen from Titan in vacuum flask and other consumables cost me astronomical 700 thousand dollars! Where did such money come from? Naturally, Blade. When you have rich vampire hunter in friends, most financial problems are not problems at all. Especially since I am now officially "one of his" for him, and I create mega-useful things, and there will be even more later. In general, this can be considered kind of venture investment on his part in my genius!
Having received expensive package, I immediately hid most valuable and compact components in inventory. Rest I carefully loaded into car and, without wasting time, headed to Blade's base. To my surprise, it was located relatively close, at Brooklyn Naval Yard.
This was genius. Huge, fenced industrial complex on East River shore. During day work boiled here: dozens of workshops, small productions, warehouses and even several film studios. And at night it practically died out, patrolled only by rare guards. From any side you look, perfect cover. Place where noisy welding work at three in morning or arrival of strange truck would not raise any extra questions from anyone.
I knew that under this shipyard was entire network of old, abandoned bunkers, dry docks, technical tunnels and bomb shelters from Cold War times. Finding and equipping huge, unknown-to-anyone complex there was more than realistic. Which, in fact, Blade did. But what I did not expect was that at entrance to shipyard itself I would be met by quite real booth with bored guard and barrier.
"Name?" he asked lazily as soon as I slowed down at window.
"John Thompson," I answered, hoping Blade had sorted everything out.
"Ah, that is you, that invited engineer-consultant," guard nodded as if he had seen me hundred times. "Here, take this." He handed me electronic pass-badge, pressing barrier-raising button.
After wandering bit through shipyard labyrinths, I finally found right warehouse and parked. Before me appeared unremarkable old brick building with sign "Marine Engineering Solutions." Same inscription was on my badge.
On massive steel door there was no ordinary lock. Instead, inconspicuous code panel. Entering six-digit code sent by Blade, I heard dull click and got inside cluttered warehouse smelling of rust and old oil. Pile of non-working industrial equipment, dusty shelves... Among all this chaos I needed one specific object: massive ship lathe from Cold War era, rusting in far corner and looking like museum exhibit.
Approaching it, I turned one of control levers left 45 degrees with loud screech, then pressed large red "Emergency Stop" button. But instead of stopping anything, low hum of activated hydraulics came from inside. Heavy machine bed, weighing several tons, smoothly moved aside, revealing behind it opening framed by matte steel of freight elevator.
Inside elevator, as I understood, automatic biometrics system was built in. As soon as I entered, doors closed behind me, and cabin without pressing buttons immediately went down. After couple seconds with small jerk elevator stopped. Sliding doors led me straight into main hall of empty Base.
Huge round-walled room serving simultaneously as hub, operations center and living room. Besides elevator doors behind, in walls of polished concrete there were three more massive steel doors leading to different compartments. In middle of hall stood large square table on which digital map of New York was displayed, set with incomprehensible to me figurines of different colors. One of walls was giant screen on which now in 4K quality cloudy sky was broadcast in real time. Genius solution so as not to go crazy in this underground kingdom of concrete and steel. I suspect displaying pleasant-to-eye pictures is far from its only function. Otherwise hub was minimalist: couple sofas, small refrigerator, coffee machine.
Walking through spacious room, I moved to first door. It led to armory. Square room smelling of lubricant and cold steel. On one wall, entire arsenal: from simple pistols to expensive sniper rifles and grenade launchers. Everything neatly laid out on mounts. Interesting, will I be able to use this? Need to clarify. On second wall were already, let us say, more experimental samples, sharpened specifically against vampires. Already familiar to me UV grenades, aerosols with concentrated garlic extract, silver shurikens, knives and even bullets. But most pleasant surprise awaited at end of room, at third wall. Forge! Small but high-tech smelting furnace, hydraulic press and manipulators for precision work. Obviously, part of armament Blade forges for himself. Now I can do this too! My internal engineer-creator rejoiced.
Leaving armory, I headed to next room. It was twice as spacious as previous, and... practically empty. Except for powerful industrial exhaust leading to ventilation system, there was nothing here. Just bare concrete walls and perfectly flat floor. On one wall, taped with scotch tape, hung A4 sheet on which Blade's marker wrote: "This is room for your lab. If anything, will pay for equipment. Do not worry."
Excellent. This was even better than ready laboratory. This was clean slate. Limitless possibilities. I was already mentally placing centrifuges, sequencers, assembly lines and server racks here. Can and must work with this!
Estimating in head preliminary list of everything necessary, I moved to next, last room. Pushing massive door, I felt air change. In size room was comparable to future laboratory, but similarity ended there. Walls here were not concrete but some dull steel alloy covered with scratches. They resembled hide of old, many times beaten beast: deep dents, long grooves from claws, melted spots from energy weapons. Entire room was one large map of fierce battles. Many combat trainers, from robotic manipulators to platform simulating unstable surface, left no doubt: this was training hall. Also known as dojo. Place where Blade honed his deadly skills.
In general, Base was simply gorgeous. Protected, inconspicuous, autonomous and with access to shipyard infrastructure. I could not even dream of something like this. And all it took was risking worthless life several times and being useful. Hah.
So, action plan is emerging. Right now I order first batch of equipment from Lucas, again shamelessly using Blade's credit line. Will start slowly setting up laboratory. In evening, I hope for last time, will sneak into university lab and together with Peter create several doses of healing potions, and maybe will manage to set up lab here. And then... Then only crafting! And need to still manage to create "Proteus" for Blade before his departure. Hmm, by the way, about this... Can I bring Peter here? Would be stupid to keep my main ally and second genius of our emerging team in dark.
Taking out phone, I called Blade.
"Yo, kid? So, how do you like digs?" his voice sounded in receiver, slightly muffled, as if he was speaking on move.
"And you, I see, keep finger on pulse. Motion sensors? Cameras? Where are you, by the way? I thought you would warmly greet me and give tour of your lair."
"I was at home. Sleeping at Base is not very pleasant, sofas are small," street noise was heard in background. "But I specially took such ones so there would be no temptation to nest there. This is workplace, not home."
"Well, base is very good. I, on contrary, have temptation to stay here for days," I grinned, surveying dojo walls marked with training traces.
"Feel at home. And this, by the way, is not my coolest base. In Britain I have whole castle."
"Not surprised for second. Always knew you were playing poor," at this comment Blade smirked crookedly, which was audible even through phone.
"Okay, I am actually calling about something. Have serious question. Can I bring one trusted person to Base? My genius colleague in craft, so to speak. Without him many of my projects will move times slower."
Short pause hung on other end.
"I told you, feel at home. Bring whoever you want. I am more than confident in your sanity. Whether your colleague or Spider-Girl for hookup, ahem... Main thing is she does not turn out to be Black Widow in process."
"Um, well we are not that close at all," I scratched back of head, somewhat thrown off by such turn.
"Yeah-yeah, I saw how you are 'not that close,'" Blade chuckled. "Kid, she clung to you at every opportunity. I may be half-vampire, but not blind, though rather precisely because I am half-vampire I see more than you think, especially since I am empath. And do not forget: you helped avenge her father's death. This is, you know, huge emotional anchor. Girls do not forget such things."
"But you did practically all work! Well and she risked! I just came up with plan and hid behind your backs!" I blurted out, genuinely puzzled.
"Always knew you were playing poor," Blade returned my own jab. "You gave her what no one else could give, opportunity to close gestalt. This will be stronger than any shot. Well, anyway, I gave you permission to use Base. If anything, in touch."
"Yeah, got it. Just try not to leave US before I make you suit. And yes, I will soon send you report with which I will work off all purchased lab equipment," I reminded Blade before ending call.
"Waiting impatiently," he threw and disconnected.
Done. Seems I decided on plans, got authorizations. Can start implementing them. I dialed number again.
"Hello, Lucas? Yes, it is me again. Get out biggest order form you have."
Shocker. Rhino. Jeffrey. Vulture. Bullseye. Tombstone.
Names, like hammer blows on anvil, echoed in absolute silence of bunker. Assets. Written off. In one night his empire was practically bled dry. Most valuable of remaining, Chameleon, performed his work flawlessly, lethally well. For entire world Wilson Fisk, philanthropist and businessman, died at sniper's hand. But this was merely tactical ploy in lost battle. Essence did not change: he, Wilson Fisk, lost. Moreover, lost on all fronts.
He sat in one of most protected places in New York, deep underground, where there was neither day nor night. Only source of light was cold laptop screen on which files silently replaced each other in dance: digital autopsy of his defeat. All recordings from street cameras. All intercepted audio communications. All available information on Blade and less available on girl in spider suit.
Her identity, however, no longer subject to doubt. Gwen Stacy. Daughter of police captain George Stacy, about whom she so insistently and stupidly questioned Jeffrey, who even before his death proved useful. Too obvious, almost amateurish attachment.
Third. Most mysterious. Subject about whom practically nothing was known except his frightening efficiency. So far it turned out that he was architect of entire plan. Manipulator whose abilities apparently lay in field of technologies and spatial abilities beyond ordinary. Fisk already gave him code name, "Space."
What should he undertake now? Impulse, animal and furious, demanded blood. Arrange hunt for Gwen Stacy. Hire best meta-mercenaries, and within couple hours her head would be brought to him on platter. But... Blade. And "Space." They would not leave this just like that. Revenge is dish for fools who do not know how to wait.
Only one option remains. Lie low. And become stronger.
Now, when about public activity can forget, at least for time, he could entirely and completely devote himself to his true shadow empire. Money was available, thanks to fact he managed to intervene timely through trusted persons and preserve his hedge fund's capitalization.
People... Otto Octavius's genius would now work for him without remainder, working off every penny invested in him. But this is not enough. Need to hire more meta-humans. Will have to raise salaries, not skimp on most interesting characters crawling into light. Same newly appeared Sandman. And Hydro-Man. Instead of petty robbing jewelry stores, they can get not only money but status. Protection. From law, from bureaucracy, from special services that will definitely be interested in such anomalies. Need to intercept them before they do stupid things. Take under wing. Under control.
Spider-Girl and Space... Let them think he is dead. Let them celebrate their imaginary victory. While they think so, he will become stronger. Much stronger.
Perhaps time to accelerate training. Old blood demanded new techniques.
"Master Davos, to me," he said shortly and quietly, activating white intercom standing on his massive oak desk.
His voice, not raised but full of absolute power, dissolved without echo in sterile air of bunker.
Spider-Girl is already on his list, her identity known. Identity of "Space" is already being studied by his best analysts. Matter is small. Endure little. Predators know how to wait.
In sterile whiteness of tiled bathroom, leaning back against cold bathtub, sat dead-drunk girl. By appearance she was about twenty-three. Blonde with shoulder-length curly hair and brown eyes whose gaze was now clouded by alcoholic haze. Sitting in ordinary home clothes and clutching to chest unfinished bottle of vodka, she, as usually happened during short breaks between missions, thought. Or rather, obsessed.
Mistakes of youth... ironic, considering that girl, despite young face, was practically forty years old. Bitter cocktail of memories: deaths of innocent civilians allowed by her mistake, split with father and sister, faces of those she betrayed and those who betrayed her. She had hundreds of reasons for this self-torture. And, as always, such pastime ended with same thought: why does she even live? For what? To be CIA's attack dog? Hope for restoration of relations with those who long ago crossed her out of their lives? Would it not be better to end everything? Quickly. One bullet to head... She may be meta-human, but relatively weak. Will not even hurt. But this endless soul pain will stop...
And as if sensing peak of her emotional fall, at this moment, as if on schedule, her work phone vibrated. Electronic squeal cutting silence.
"Yelena, there is work," on other side of receiver sounded female commanding voice, stating fact that did not tolerate objections.
"I seem to be... on vacation, Valentina," answered Yelena Belova, one of Black Widows and now CIA meta-operative, with slurred tongue.
"I am tired of reminding you, Yelena, but you have no and will not have vacations. You are on lifetime contract."
"Damn..." Belova exhaled. "Who to kill, torture, blow up, kidnap this time? Another excursion to meat grinder?"
"This time you will have more delicate work. According to your long-forgotten profile: tracking, seduction and recruitment."
"Kha-a... I already, bitch, forgot how to do this!" she took big gulp straight from bottle.
"Black Widows do not forget such things," Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, CIA director, objected logically and coldly. "It is like riding bicycle."
"Hope he is at least not fat old creep."
"Not fat. And judging by reports, moves very briskly, so do not think he is old. Case details already sent to your terminal. Begin immediately."
"And if... I cannot seduce and recruit him? What then?"
"Liquidate," Valentina said dryly and ended call, leaving Yelena alone with cold tiles and new order that only postponed old thoughts.
"What this time, Nick?" statuesque red-haired beauty whose green eyes sparkled in semi-darkness of operations center addressed one-eyed man sitting at steel table. Her dark, form-fitting but practical SHIELD operative suit did not restrict movements. "I hope you tore me from Latveria for really good reason. I almost managed to pull from one bureaucrat something interesting about pretty boy Doom."
"Fisk is dead," SHIELD director Nicholas Fury summarized shortly, not taking his piercing gaze from one of best operatives. "But his empire surprisingly holds in check, and company did not collapse. I suspect this is staging."
"And? Where are you leading?" she gracefully leaned on table. "Want me to find this boar and confirm he still grunts?"
"No, Natasha, others will handle that. Much more interesting are those who 'killed,' as they probably think, real Fisk," Fury with finger gesture sent tablet with case to Natasha.
She took device, her eyes quickly ran over lines.
"Yeah, I see walking garlic warehouse completely unbridled," she looked at Fury, and mischievous spark flashed in her eyes, after which she became serious again. "So... Idealistic snotty girl in tights and... unknown meta with unclear spatial-type ability. Black box."
"Exactly last one interests us."
"Oh, profile work, then," barely noticeable, predatory smile appeared on her lips.
"Yes, Natasha. Work according to your profile."
"And if... recruitment does not work?" there was not shadow of doubt in her voice that seducing target would not work. Natasha Romanoff, one of best Black Widows in entire history of Red Room, was absolutely confident in her charm. Question was purely technical and concerned specifically recruitment.
Fury leaned forward, his gaze boring into her.
"Make it work. SHIELD needs such personnel. He is asset, not target."
"Accepted," she nodded, returning tablet. "Waiting for all case details and begin."
"Go," Fury waved her off, and as soon as she left, pressed intercom button. "Agent Coulson, come to my office."