48
Constantly injecting combat stimulants? Wasting precious seconds in battle waiting for them to take effect? It was irrational. In a fight, even with a weak meta, this was certain death. I needed to ensure instant access to stimulants without using my hands. There were many options, actually. I could place them in gelatin capsules and materialize them from my inventory directly into my mouth. Or I could integrate a full injection mechanism into the suit.
In the first case, I would have to clog precious inventory slots. In the second, I would unnecessarily overcomplicate a suit that already was... not yet Stark's armor, but after a dozen such nights would be close. In general, the solution was simple and obvious: integrate an automated inhalation system into the respiratory part of the mask.
Taking the mask in my hands, I set about the refinement. Into the lower, filtering part, I built sockets for four small, sealed cartridges. A sort of revolver with chemical rounds. Each cartridge would be filled with a different drug: the "Absolute Predator" stimulant, a muscle stimulant, NZT, and a potential fast-acting healing potion.
At my mental command, the micro-pump would take a strictly measured dose from the needed cartridge. Then the liquid would enter an ultrasonic nebulizer, a small device with a piezo-ceramic membrane. Vibrating at an ultra-high frequency, the membrane would turn the liquid into a fine aerosol without heating or destroying its chemical structure. This "mist" would be injected directly into the incoming air stream in the respirator. I would only need to take one deep breath to receive an instant and precise dose of the drug directly into my lungs, from where it would immediately enter my bloodstream.
The system was not complex, but most of the time, I again spent on "Synapse" calibration. The mask itself, I made from a light titanium composite in several layers: a first lining from "Proteus," then a softening ballistic layer. The face would be well protected. I also added built-in filters for toxins and gases.
"Central node of the entire technology... practically ready," I muttered enthusiastically, holding the high-tech mask in my hands.
It read my commands, gave orders to the wings and gloves, monitored my body condition, and, when necessary, injected the needed stimulant. It had become the brain of the entire suit. And the hood that I would wear over it performed the additional function of camouflage and protection. Well, and style. Where would we be without it?
Scratching my head, I ultimately engraved a stylized blacksmith hammer along the entire mask. This would be my symbol. The symbol of "Celestial Forge." The final mask covered the entire part of my face from nose to crown. Angular, painted in matte black, in the darkness it would only give itself away by the red indicator lights and the faint glow of the respirator filters. My eyes, I covered with ballistic goggles connected to the mask.
Despite the fact that the electronic construction of the mask was modular and most sensors complemented each other, meaning serious damage to the complete neuro-interface, which was the key technology, would not deprive me of it, I still made a couple of spare masks, purely just in case. Next, I worked on the suit's wiring, EMP protection, and strengthened the mask's cybersecurity, though I understood that in the case of a hypothetical JARVIS, this would help me little, and I improved other minor and not-so-minor shortcomings and flaws.
Overall, the small matter remained: combine everything into a single image. This was not bulky armor. The suit turned out thin, anatomical, almost organic. The base was a form-fitting jumpsuit from dark gray matte fabric. Over it, segmented, coal-black "Proteus" panels repeated the lines of the main muscle groups. The silhouette was completed by a deep hood concealing the upper part of the head and mask, creating a predatory, faceless image.
On my back, between my shoulder blades, was the palladium reactor recessed into an armored platform, which in turn served as the base for the wings. From this platform, throughout the suit, extended barely noticeable, thin glowing line-contours, like traces on a circuit board. They pulsed with dim blue light when the system was under load, revealing the suit's artificial, high-tech nature. The wings themselves, in a folded state, looked like two compact, aerodynamic backpacks on the sides of the reactor. They did not interfere with movements and served as additional protection for my back. Well, and the stylish combat gloves, of course.
[Created personal combat platform "Chimera M-1." Complexity: Medium. Received +1200 OP!]
A unified, symbiotic combat system where advanced technologies and modular weapons are integrated into an anatomical suit and controlled directly through a non-invasive neuro-interface.
The description pleased me. "Symbiotic." Exactly what I was aiming for. Sure, if I had created all the elements separately, I would have earned more OP, but since they were modules of a unified suit, the system took this into account and held off on accrual until the last moment. But even so, the reward was very worthy. I really should test the suit and spin the gacha now, but...
"Aaaah-agh..." I yawned as I had never yawned in my life.
The dam burst. The seventy-two-hour limit of the pills was exhausted, and the fatigue accumulated over three days crashed on me like a tsunami. My legs buckled, and my head buzzed. All these tests and OP spending would have to be postponed. I would deal with this on a fresh, alert head.
Leaving the laboratory and finding myself in the empty hub, I staggered to the couch and immediately collapsed on it. True, before going to the kingdom of Morpheus, the giant monitor on the wall came alive, and on it appeared the serious face of Blade. A recorded message.
"So, I'm leaving America," he said, some airfield visible in the background. "The bastards on my tail give me no rest at all. The base isn't compromised, so don't worry. Frank went to his place, but if anything, he promised to keep in touch. He's also very interested in your creations and ready to pay as much as possible. But that's by the way. You don't owe anyone anything, especially since you have enough problems of your own."
He fell silent for a second, choosing his words.
"In short, I won't drag it out. Thank you for everything, John. For the stimulants, for the cool suit, for the help where you weren't obliged to help. Even though I paid with money, but in my opinion, that's bullshit. The best payment happens through deeds. So contact me. Stay in touch. Later."
The screen went dark, leaving me in the silence and semi-darkness of the hub. Well, it was a pity he'd still left the country. He was one of the few people I could call a friend.
Eric, Peter, Gwen... possibly Frank? But here, I wasn't entirely sure. I was afraid to imagine how he was being torn apart now after awakening. Now he was rather an extremely unstable element, a force of nature that could strike in any direction.
Okay, I had taken Eric's information into account. I could sleep now. Almost three days of work without breaks had played their shitty role. True, neither Gwen nor Peter had appeared at the base during this time, or perhaps I was just so immersed in the process that I didn't notice. But in such a state, I was more likely to think up something inadequate. I would hope for their prudence. And for the prudence of the intelligence services. Adults, after all.
Spinning various thoughts in my head a bit more, I finally passed out. I didn't fall asleep but passed out, as if someone had turned off a switch.
The awakening was wrong. Not from an alarm's scream and not from a nightmare. It crept up like a fever, slowly penetrating my body and poisoning the sleep from within.
First came the smell. Through the familiar, sterile aroma of the hub—ozone from humming servers and cold dust—something foreign broke through. An expensive perfume: a sharp, suffocating aroma of white flowers and bitter almond. And under it, the warmth of tanned leather and something oily-metallic, like a rifle after cleaning. This smell was alive, real, and had absolutely no place here.
Then hearing caught the anomaly. The familiar hum of the ventilation became duller. And over it, a rustle. The sliding of fabric on fabric. And breathing. Someone else's, even, only more eerie because of it. My brain, still viscous from sleep, sounded the alarm. Someone else was in the hub.
My eyelids, heavy as lead... But there was no need to open them to feel it. A gaze. Piercing, assessing, like a scalpel dissecting me on the couch. The air sharply became denser. My heart did a somersault and began pounding somewhere in my throat, pumping pure, icy adrenaline through my veins.
With difficulty, unsticking my eyes, I saw her.
The room was drowning in blue twilight from the wall display. And in this ghostly light, like a statue carved from shadow, stood a female figure in a black, tight-fitting suit. The material, resembling rubber and dense fabric, hugged her so that every muscle was visible. Narrow waist, wide, steep hips, high breasts. Her gaze was fixed on me, and in her brown eyes catching the blue reflections, dangerous sparks danced. Despite her light hair, this was not Gwen.
"Natasha always chatters about her 'assets,'" her voice was low, with hoarseness and a barely perceptible Russian accent that sounded strange and arousing. "So I decided to see this treasure myself. Up close."
Yelena Belova. Natasha's sister. What the hell was she doing here? And what assets?
Instead of a coherent answer came the slow, hypnotic walk of a predator in my direction. Her hips swayed in rhythm with unhurried steps, and this sight took my breath away. The attempt to jerk to sit up failed. My body, betrayed by three days of vigil over crafting, refused to obey. My muscles felt like cotton. I could only watch.
She stopped, looming over me. The blue light outlined her high cheekbones, full lips, light curly hair.
"Genius hiding from everyone... there is something enticing in that," her voice rang with mockery and some evil jealousy. "But my sister loves to play with her toys, break them psychologically. I think you need to play with them for real. Until they break physically."
She squatted down. The cold of a tactical glove touched my cheek, hot from sleep. Her fingers ran along my jaw, descended to my neck. From this contrast, an electric discharge ran through my body, and under my jeans, something treacherously grew heavy. She noticed. The corner of her lips trembled predatorily.
"Natasha would talk to you for hours. Would play her games. Boring," she whispered, leaning so close that her breath with the smell of cherry liqueur touched my lips. "Psychology is long. Physics is much more convincing."
Her lips did not touch—they pressed into mine. This was not a kiss but a statement of rights. Demanding, rough, taking without asking. In my mouth was the taste of cherry, her lipstick. My hands, driven by an instinct ancient as the world, themselves lay on her waist, fingers dug into her firm hips. A low, guttural moan broke from her lips, and she leaned forward, pressing me into the couch, depriving me of air and will.
She pulled away as abruptly as she attacked, leaving me breathing heavily. On her lips played a victorious smirk.
"See? Simple and effective."
In one smooth movement, her gloves were pulled off and thrown on the floor. Cool fingers ran over my chest, unbuttoning my shirt buttons.
"Power," a low voice rasped at my abs. "That is what turns you on. When they decide for you. When they take away choice."
Her touches were devoid of tenderness; they were demanding and precise, each movement asserting her superiority. A cold palm dove under the waistband of my jeans, and the world narrowed to this sensation—dominating, subjugating, leaving no choice. The dry click of the zipper sounded like a verdict. She was going to prove her words in practice. Her hot breath touched the skin of my stomach, and I exhaled tightly when she made me forget about everything except her will. She did not ask. She took. And the only thing I could do was submit, feeling control slip away and my body burn under her pressure. I clutched my fingers in her light hair, ready to surrender, but she immediately pulled away.
"I decide when," she exhaled, licking her swollen lips.
She stood. The zipper on her suit hissed down. In one movement, she straddled me, pressing with her whole body, beginning a slow, taunting motion.
"Beg," her voice growled. "Say you want me."
At this moment, the heavy elevator doors opened soundlessly.
"Is this all you are capable of, little sister? Brute force. How predictable."
We froze. In the doorway, illuminated by the soft light from the cabin, stood Natasha. In a simple tank top and jeans, with loose red hair. She looked relaxed, but her gaze was sharper than a blade.
"You are like a plank," she said lazily, approaching closer. "And here, flexibility is needed. Watch and learn."
She sat on the other side. Yelena hissed angrily but did not get off me. Natasha's hand took mine and placed it on her breast. Under the thin fabric of the tank top, her heart beat evenly, and her skin was hot. Her other hand slid over my chest; her fingers were warm and gentle, but each touch struck like an electric shock. Then Natasha smoothly lowered herself, kneeling before the couch.
"Decided to repeat after me?" Yelena smirked.
"No," Natasha answered, not taking her green eyes off me. "I decided to show how it is done properly."
And she showed. It was completely different. Not rough pressure but the art of seduction. Movements slow, teasing, promising and taking away simultaneously. She did not take by force—she made you desire, beg for more, driving you to frenzy with a mere hint. Yelena above hissed from jealousy and anger, her hips began moving faster, trying to pull attention to herself.
Natasha pulled away, measured her sister with a cold look, then looked at me.
"She takes. I seduce. The difference is fundamental."
In rage, Yelena pushed her sister away. A sharp, burning movement—and I was already in her, inside her. Hot, tight, demanding. She cried out and began moving furiously, making me moan. But Natasha did not allow her to dominate. Her hands, her lips immediately found me, adding to this madness their own, different tonality—slow, viscous poison of pleasure. Two different but equally strong sensations attacking simultaneously. I was ready to explode.
With a jerk full of primal rage, I pushed Natasha away and, grabbing Yelena by the hips, flipped her, setting the rhythm myself. Natasha immediately pressed against me from behind, her palm helped my movements, and her lips found my neck, biting and leaving wet traces.
Yelena came first, with a loud scream digging her nails into my back. Her hot, pulsing spasms squeezed out the remains of my self-control.
Without giving me time to recover, Natasha pushed her sister away and straddled me herself. She moved slowly, plastically, her hips described circles, and this was exquisitely sweet. Yelena, still trembling, crawled up and put her mouth to Natasha's breast. A quiet moan broke from Natasha's lips when she threw her head back.
Further, everything mixed into a chaos of sweaty bodies, ragged breathing, and the thick smell of intimacy. They changed places, used my body as a battlefield for their rivalry. I was both weapon and prize. At some point, I was behind Natasha, feeling Yelena caress her in front, their moans merged into one. I lost count of time and myself until the world shattered into a million incandescent fragments.
When everything ended, I lay exhausted, and they lay on either side of me. The hub hummed, the screen blinked.
Yelena smirked, lazily kissing her sister on the shoulder.
"I told you my way is better. Straightforward."
Natasha smiled. Her hand slowly stroked the lower part of my stomach, and I felt how my body, despite all logic and complete exhaustion, again responded to her caress.
"We are both good, little sister. And he..." Her gaze directed at me no longer contained a game. Only a pure, icy sense of ownership. "He is ours."
Ours... Ours. OURS!
The word struck my consciousness like a hammer on an anvil. Black Widows hunting for me... Unexpected penetration to the base that practically no one knew about... Natasha in civilian clothes... My own stupidity and cotton-like thoughts... Inventory, stimulants, weapons... Did I really allow myself to relax so much?
With overwhelming mental effort, I forced myself to open my eyes. In reality.
Warm female bodies disappeared. They were replaced by the cold, slightly sticky leatherette of the couch. The smell of sex and perfume changed to the sterile smell of ozone from the servers. Instead of moans and breathing, the monotonous, low hum of ventilation. I was alone.
"Fucking hell..." escaped in a hoarse whisper. "Need to record: after prolonged abstinence and lack of rest, erotic dreams become damn realistic."
A minor unpleasantness was also that I had a nocturnal emission. And judging by the state of my jeans, several times. Though... in fairness, compared to actually being devoured by two super-spy seductresses, I got off easy. On the other hand, I actually wanted to make contact with the same Natasha. Interesting, how would I now look her in the eyes at negotiations?
I sat up, shaking my head, and looked at the wall screen. What did we have on the agenda now?
Tuesday, September 29.
I had disappeared from the information field for almost four days, being completely cut off from the world. I hoped they hadn't lost me. I needed to go home, check the situation. In theory, the intelligence services had already marinated enough; the bait in the form of the patent should have been swallowed by them. But first... First, I needed to regain control.
Suit tests. And gacha. And also eat...
//==============//