45
Nelson and Murdock. The law firm, located in the heart of one of Manhattan's most crime-ridden districts, occupied a small office on the first floor of a simple five-story building. Still inside the taxi, I swallowed an NZT pill. The world instantly acquired crystalline clarity: street sounds formed into an ordered symphony, and colors became deeper and richer.
I pushed the door without knocking. The ring of bells above it sounded a clear, distinct note, cutting through the tense atmosphere. Inside, I found exactly whom I sought. A plump, slightly disheveled man in glasses, Foggy Nelson, gesticulated, arguing about something with a tall, neatly trimmed man in a perfect dark burgundy suit. Matt Murdock. He also wore glasses, but impenetrably red glasses for a blind man. He stood motionless as a rock and seemed to listen not only to his partner but to the beating heart of the city itself outside the window. Excellent, both in place.
Noticing me, the men stopped their argument.
"Matt Murdock and Foggy Nelson, I presume?" I asked, smoothly approaching them. Under NZT's effect, every one of my movements was calculated and devoid of fuss.
"Correct, and you are..." Foggy began, curiously looking me over.
"I am here without an appointment. I have a very delicate question requiring personal consultation, and I confess, I hoped for the luck to find you in place." Both men frowned slightly. I understood that I shouldn't drag this out further. "The question concerns patenting one of my inventions."
"We do not work with such things, unfortunately," Foggy answered with a sigh, and I knew this. "We primarily specialize in criminal law. Lawyers for the 'little' guy, so to speak." He spread his hands.
"You are primarily honest lawyers. And that's important," my voice sounded calm but convincing. "I've studied your track record. Incredible perseverance, the ability to find loopholes in the law, and, most importantly, empathy for the client. I need exactly such professionals for consultation. I don't need a patent attorney. I need strategists. Truly, I won't take much of your time. Just enlighten me on a number of aspects, naturally not for free, and I will leave you."
"What do you think, Matt?" Foggy addressed Murdock, who had been silent until this moment.
The blind lawyer was the unspoken leader of their tandem. All this time, he hadn't moved, but I felt his attention. This wasn't just listening. His head was slightly tilted, and I felt his gaze on me, more piercing than any sighted person's. He analyzed my pulse, my breathing rhythm, the heat emanating from my body. Apparently, what he "saw" pleased him.
"I think we can spare an hour of our time, um..."
"John. John Thompson," I introduced myself.
"Yes, Mr. Thompson. What specific questions interest you? As my colleague said, this isn't quite our specialty, but on general questions, we can enlighten you."
"Excellent! Before we proceed to a discussion of the bureaucratic side, I would like you to study a brief description of the technology." I handed Foggy a pre-printed sheet with a concise but comprehensive description of "Proteus."
He, already by practiced routine, began reading it to Murdock. With each line he read, his voice became quieter and more amazed, and his eyes bulged. I saw how they began to understand the potential.
"This..." Foggy exhaled in shock, finishing reading.
"Revolution," Matt finished for him. His voice was calm, but steel notes were heard in it.
"Fabric that everyone will be interested in!" Foggy jumped up and began pacing circles around the cramped office. "Light and effective armor for soldiers. This is a multi-billion dollar contract with the Department of Defense. Protection for police officers across the entire country. This is connections with police departments. Private military companies. This is a huge market."
"And you haven't even mentioned the aerospace industry yet," Matt added, not changing position. "In theory, this material could become light and cheap protection against micrometeoroids for satellites and ship hulls."
"Industrial giants like Stark Industries, Hammer Industries, or Roxxon will choke for this technology!" Foggy continued, his face flushed with excitement. "We're talking not about millions but billions of dollars. The ballistic protection market is already estimated at tens of billions. Your 'Proteus' can capture a significant part of it. Just selling a production license or an exclusive contract with the government can bring in hundreds of millions per year. Matt... Matt, we must take this case. This isn't just a case. This is a kingdom, and he brought us the keys to it."
Yes... there it was. I saw it in their eyes, amplified by NZT's effect. In Foggy's dilated pupils flickered not just greed but rather amazement at the sight of a "golden ticket," a chance to break out of the routine where they'd spent their entire lives languishing in Hell's Kitchen, working with small, often insolvent clientele. This was certainly worthy of respect, but unlikely what Foggy really wanted. However, everything depended on Matt. And he wasn't one who worked for money. But the nuance was that "Proteus" could really save lives. And Matt would hardly be able to ignore this aspect.
"Exactly," I nodded. "Too valuable a technology. That's why I'm here."
"Patent law..." Matt began, his voice calm, as if he was discussing the weather. "The bureaucracy in this area is slow and methodical, Mr. Thompson. To start, you need to file a provisional application. This is a quick and relatively cheap step; it fixes the priority date. From this moment on, no one else can patent the same technology. This application gives you one year to refine the invention and prepare the main documentation."
"A year?!" I stared at the lawyers in shock. "A year to prepare papers?"
"This is only the first step," Matt grinned. "The most difficult stage is preparing and filing a complete, non-provisional application. Here you already need to compose the most detailed description of the technology, drawings, diagrams, and, most importantly, the 'invention formula,' a legally verified text that defines exactly what is protected by the patent. This is incredibly delicate work. One wrong word, and a loophole the size of a truck will remain in your patent."
"So if I file a provisional application and, as soon as it's accepted, immediately file a complete one?" I asked a question that seemed quite reasonable to me.
"Imagine a mountain of papers the height of this building," Foggy answered instead of Matt with a shrug. "Your application is one sheet somewhere at the foot. The patent office experts will spend several years studying it, comparing it with existing patents, asking questions, demanding clarifications. This is standard bureaucratic dragging. They won't touch your application until its turn comes."
"So the entire process from complete application to receiving patent takes..." "From two to five years," Matt cut me off.
"Too long..." I shook my head. "What's strange is this is one of those developments where the earlier they enter use, the better for all parties. Isn't its potential obvious? There must be ways to speed up the process."
"They exist," Matt confirmed, raising three fingers. "Path one: official. The expedited examination program. Pay the patent office about five thousand dollars, and the term for reviewing your application is reduced to twelve months."
"Still too long."
"Path two: political. Lobbying. If you decide to work with the government, then a hypothetical general from the Pentagon or an influential senator can 'ask' the office to review the application concerning national security on a priority basis. This can reduce the term to six months. But such a 'request' always comes packaged with unspoken obligations."
"And a third option exists?" I asked with interest. Six months was still a long term.
"Yes. Attracting an industrial giant to your side. It's the fastest but also the riskiest path," Matt's tone became a warning. "If you show the technology to a hypothetical Stark and propose a partnership, his lawyers, the best in the world, will be able to prepare a perfect application and, using the corporation's influence, 'push' it through all instances in three to four months. The downside... you'll have to share control and profit. And that's if you're lucky and you don't 'accidentally' fall out of the window of your newly acquired penthouse."
"Shit," I delivered my verdict. "And if I create my own company? Will that help speed up the process? Well, hypothetically, I create a company, register the patent to it, then it's simply bought out entirely. My goal is to get as much money as possible in the shortest time possible."
"Mmm..." Matt thought for a moment. "Mr. Thompson, creating a company isn't an acceleration method. It's a critically important requirement. A hypothetical US Army won't conclude a billion-dollar contract with a 'guy from the garage.' They do business with legal entities. Having a registered company is a basic requirement for entering the big leagues. Everything we said earlier was implied, taking into account that you have or will have a company."
"Yes, by the way, you're thinking correctly about the sale!" Foggy perked up. "It's much simpler and cleaner to sell the whole company that owns the patent than the patent itself as a separate asset. This eliminates a bunch of tax and legal complexities."
Months... years... this would still take time. And time for me was an unaffordable luxury. In a world where a new alien or divine threat might wait around the corner, or another genius psychopath, I needed to act with the speed of a bullet.
"If I go directly to the players from the big leagues, ignoring this slow bureaucracy? Directly show them the technology and set the price tag?" I asked, my NZT-boosted brain feverishly calculating options.
"A minimum of a month for negotiations and technology verification. A maximum... three hundred million," Matt answered without hesitation. "But I think I don't need to say how risky this is? You can simply be eliminated, and the technology taken."
Only three hundred million... plus risks. No. I needed to look for workarounds. Or make them find me themselves. And come with an offer, not with weapons.
"I need to think..." I said. "And from your side, I ask the same. But for a start, a preliminary patent application is probably enough. To fix the priority date."
The fact that this application, by its keywords, would be immediately tracked by everyone who cared, from the Pentagon to Stark Industries, I prudently kept silent about. This was exactly what I needed, after all.
Nodding professionally, Foggy and Matt proceeded with the processing. The procedure was simple. We described the "WHAT" but did not reveal all the secrets of the "HOW." For "Proteus," we indicated the general principle: the fabric consisted of an aramid 3D matrix and a non-Newtonian fluid with silicon dioxide nanoparticles. We described in detail how the fabric transitioned from a flexible state to a solid one under kinetic impact.
But the key points, so to speak, the "secret sauce," I naturally did not reveal:
No exact formula of the polymer stabilizer that keeps the nanoparticles in a suspended state. No exact size, shape, or surface treatment method of the nanoparticles. No exact temperature, pressure, or holding time during the vacuum impregnation of the matrix.
As a result, the application turned out detailed enough for the lawyers to recognize it as "describing the invention," but it lacked several critically important variables. It was like a detailed treasure map without the key to the chest. Any corporation, gaining access to this text, would spend years on R&D trying to select these variables. And I already had a ready, working product.
Having finished with the document, Foggy uploaded it to the patent office's online system. After a few seconds, an official notification with the application number and the priority date came to the email. Done. The flag was set. Whoever needed it had gotten the alarm signal, but they couldn't see all my cards. Formally, I had a year to decide what to do next, and all this time, my intellectual property would be under basic but reliable protection. However, I definitely wouldn't need a year. The count would go by weeks, if not days.
Thanking the men and taking their business cards, I shook their hands.
"Welcome to the big leagues, Mr. Thompson," Matt said with a barely noticeable smile.
I called a taxi and left the office. I hadn't yet put my smartphone in my pocket when it vibrated. Gwen.
"I agree..." was the first thing she said. Her voice sounded quiet but firm. She meant joining our team.
"Excellent. Where shall we have the wedding then?" I couldn't resist the stupid joke to dilute the slight tension.
"You..." indignation mixed with something else was heard in her voice.
"I know. Handsome, smart, and unbearable," I smiled. "But seriously, this isn't a phone conversation. I appreciate your decision. Can you drive to the university now? Peter said you seem to be there."
On the other end of the line, silence hung for several seconds.
"Yes. I'm in the laboratory. Waiting then."
Ending the call and stepping from the building's porch onto the sidewalk, I momentarily went blind from the bright daylight. The world under NZT was a kaleidoscope of excessive information, and at the last moment, my brain isolated a key anomaly from this stream: a pretty blonde with shoulder-length curly hair, walking toward me, had unnaturally twisted her heel and began clumsily falling directly in my direction.
Her trajectory was flawless. My brain, spurred by NZT, gave the command before it managed to process it. Step forward, body turned, arms moved to intercept. I carefully caught the girl by the waist, stabilized her, and immediately removed my hands.
But my palms had already transmitted information. The density of her muscle fibers. The hardness of her abdominal press under the thin fabric of her dress. This was the body not just of a trained girl. This was a body-weapon.
"Oh, thank you so much!" she showered me with thanks with a charming smile, straightening her hair. "It's rare these days to meet a man ready to extend his strong helping hands and save a fragile girl. I'm Helen, by the way. And you?"
This was all, of course, wonderful. A beauty had fallen into my arms herself. But my brain had already finished its analysis.
Hypothesis: An agent.
Motive one: The patent. Probability: Low, too little time had passed.
Motive two: The murder of the fake Fisk. Probability: High.
Affiliation: SHIELD? CIA? FBI?
Goal: First contact, assessment, possibly recruitment.
All these thoughts flashed through my head in less than a second. In reality, my face didn't flinch.
"John. John Thompson," I introduced myself, calculating options for further dialogue. But fortunately, or unfortunately, at this moment, a powerful motorcycle stopped nearby with a quiet rumble. A girl in a black leather suit and helmet.
"Is this the Nelson and Murdock law firm here?" she addressed me. Her voice, distorted by the helmet, was even and professional.
"Yes," I nodded.
The girl on the bike removed her helmet, and at this moment, my brain didn't just freeze. It experienced a cascading failure of all previous hypotheses, which immediately changed to a terrifying revelation. Red curly hair to her shoulders. Piercing green eyes. Suspiciously timely. And again, I was the object of attention, although seemingly the girl would find it easier to address another girl.
If not for the hair color, I would have thought they were sisters. They were sisters. Sisters from the Red Room project. Natasha Romanoff and Yelena Belova. Two Black Widows working for different agencies: SHIELD and the CIA. And their assignment, judging by the fact that they hadn't just followed but had gone for active interaction, was much more serious than just "feeling out the ground."
I noticed how Yelena's face tensed when Natasha removed her helmet. Natasha, in turn, didn't raise an eyebrow, obviously recognizing her sister and instantly assessing the situation. The two best spies in the world, sent for my soul, had accidentally bumped heads on the assignment.
From the absurdity of the situation, I couldn't hold back. I laughed. Not hysterically, but sincerely, from the heart. Yes, by rights, I should have been worried and afraid. But screw the extra stress. If they wanted to remove me, they would have done it long ago. And since they were playing games, I could also allow myself a little fun.
"Do I have something funny on my face?" Natasha asked, charmingly tilting her head sideways. Her voice was like velvet but with notes of steel.
"Kh, no-no," exhaling, I raised my hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Just remembered a joke." Noticing the interest in their eyes, albeit obviously feigned, I pulled the first one that came to mind from my memory, adapting it. "Eric loved to joke very much, and when his friend was run over by a train, at the friend's funeral, he congratulated him on moving..."
For several moments, silence reigned on the street. And then Natasha laughed loudly and infectiously. Professionally. These damn feminine charms...
"Oh, my taxi!" A car pulled up to us. My salvation.
Without saying goodbye, I quickly opened the door and sat in the back seat, leaving the two best spies in the world alone with their cockroaches and their failed first contact.
"Let's go," I said to the driver.
The car moved. In the rearview mirror, I saw how the two women, so similar they could be sisters, looked at each other. And I... I needed to think very, very carefully.
//==============//