The laboratory on Saturday afternoon was quiet and deserted. Only the cooling units and ventilation systems hummed. I accepted two cheap vials containing the ingredients synthesized by Peter, counted out, and handed him thirteen hundred-dollar bills. He took them with a mix of relief and shame, quickly tucking them into his backpack pocket.
"So, spill it, what happened?" I asked, sitting on the edge of the laboratory table. I decided to start with this before revealing anything about myself. "We both understand that we're doing... not quite standard things. Trust is a fragile thing. And what I tell you next directly depends on what kind of problems forced you to seek money so urgently. I hope you haven't gotten mixed up with the mob?"
I asked the last question with a light smirk to ease the tension a bit.
"Um... No, no mob!" Peter flinched, a blush creeping up his cheeks. "But... is it really that noticeable that I have problems? I thought... MJ seemed to talk to me as usual..."
"Noticeable isn't the word, Peter. And men, contrary to popular belief, can sometimes be more empathetic than women. I felt something was off in your voice during our phone conversation."
"I figured..." he muttered, looking down. Но fortunately, he didn't shut down. My bluntness, financial help, and readiness for dialogue had done their job. "Anyway, Uncle Ben... he's practically a father to me. Yesterday he was hospitalized urgently. Kidney failure. The treatment bills, even in a state clinic... they're huge. Aunt May and I just can't handle it. She works at a non-profit charity foundation; they pay peanuts. I started working part-time as a photographer for the Daily Bugle; they pay a little, but the work is irregular, and even so, there's still catastrophically not enough money."
Damn... That is a serious problem. I frowned. What the hell? In the classic story, Uncle Ben becomes a victim of a criminal, which launches Peter's heroic path. And here—a disease. Without obvious prerequisites, considering Peter isn't a spider and likely won't be one. Or maybe... this is the catalyst I hadn't even thought of? The disease will worsen, doctors will shrug their shoulders, and a desperate Peter will decide to test the serum from Dr. Connors on his uncle (or on himself to check the cure). It sounds horribly consistent. And I, with my money, have just interfered with this scenario.
"Listen, Peter. We haven't known each other long, but you're in a really serious situation. Are there no close friends who could help? Like Mary Jane? You know her boyfriend is Harry Osborn. The son of Norman Osborn. A billionaire, owner of Oscorp, which owns half the private clinics in this city!"
I saw my words hit him. This wasn't just a mention of wealthy acquaintances. It was a reminder of the chasm between their world and his.
"MJ and Harry... it's complicated there," he looked away, and bitterness sounded in his voice. "They... they won't help. They have their own world—parties, expensive cars, and restaurants... What do they care about a modest under-achiever who just helped them with homework in school?"
That was a revelation. He wasn't just in love with Mary Jane. He felt used by her, yet he didn't turn away, while they turned away from him...
"As for others..." he sighed. "There's a colleague, Gwen Stacy. She's a couple of years older, but already a full-fledged junior assistant to Connors. We get along alright, respect each other's intellect. But that's... not even a friendship. In that regard, even you, over just a couple of our meetings, have become somehow closer to me."
Far too many revelations per square inch of dialogue. Peter wasn't just a shy genius. He was a deeply lonely person. No close friends, no girlfriend, no relatives except a sick uncle and an aunt barely making ends meet. He was being perfectly honest with me, exposing his most vulnerable spots.
Which meant it was time for me to reveal some of my cards as well. His story touched me. But my pragmatic mind saw an opportunity in this too. Now Peter is the ideal candidate for an ally: brilliant, in a desperate situation, and most importantly, grateful.
Time to start recruitment.
"Alright," I began, deciding to strike while the iron was hot. "We'll solve your money problem. It'll be something like a private research grant. In exchange, I'll need your full support in providing, let's say, specific services that only your brilliant brain is capable of."
Peter opened his mouth to speak, and I, anticipating his question, added hastily: "Nothing illegal! No weapons, drugs, or industrial espionage."
"I... I appreciate the offer, John, but despite access to the lab, I'm quite seriously limited," his voice sounded uncertain. "I can't just order any reagents. And with some equipment, like the mass spectrometer, it's forbidden to work without approval from Professor Connors. Perhaps beyond synthesis according to a ready formula, I might not be useful for anything else..."
"At this stage, that's enough for me. But in the future, I'm mainly interested in consultations and help with theory for my projects."
"What kind of projects? To be honest, I still don't understand what specifically you're doing."
"Well, in short..." I lowered my voice, creating an atmosphere of conspiracy. "Projects related to the creation of bio-boosters. Serious pseudo-combat and combat stimulants. For example, muscle stimulants, or those that accelerate and sharpen combat instincts. Or even..." here I moved to a whisper, "brain doping without side effects."
"That's... something like a new generation of steroids?" Peter frowned.
"It's better!" I replied enthusiastically. "These are products that work in real-time and practically without side effects. Well, except that the combat stimulant has a number of unpleasant moments, but if the formula is improved with your help!.." There it was, the main reason. Without a system skill, I could only blindly follow Blade's recipe and create a potion that would likely just kill my frail body.
"So, you're suggesting I engage in the underground creation of uncertified drugs... For what? Do you sell them?" Steel notes appeared in Peter's voice. "Actually, what am I saying. Of course you sell them, otherwise where would you get this kind of money."
"First of all, not chemical, but..." I faltered. Chemistry involves exact formulas, understanding reactions. And I just followed instructions like a medieval apprentice without delving into the essence... Yes, there it was. "Alchemical. And second, I don't sell them to anyone. This is purely for personal use."
I wisely kept quiet about Blade, especially since it was more of a barter than a sale.
"Alchemy?" Parker raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Are you joking? Alchemy is pseudo-scientific mysticism based on belief in transmutation and the philosopher's stone. What survived and works from it is called 'chemistry'."
"Look," I took the Muscle Stimulant injector out of my pocket. "This is the result. At a full dose, it allows a person to reach practically superhuman indicators for 15-20 minutes. It acts on a cellular level: unstable ozone clusters bind with ATP in the muscles, giving them a 'nitrogen ignition,' while the palladium stabilizer works as a heat sink, preventing cells from burning out."
Peter looked at me as if I were crazy.
"That sounds like total anti-scientific nonsense. 'Unstable ozone clusters'? Ozone is O₃, a powerful oxidizer. It would cause tissue necrosis, not enhancement! 'Nitrogen ignition' is a term from auto mechanics, not biochemistry. And palladium is a platinum-group metal, a catalyst, not a 'heat sink for cells'! Heat is dissipated by blood flow! You've jumbled together terms from three different scientific fields, and none of them work the way you described!"
"Then let's check," I spread my hands. "On any of these mice."
"Why not on yourself? You say it works."
"Well, it'll take one drop for a mouse, but for me—the whole dose. Too precious," I smirked.
"Hah, alright," Peter sighed. "But if you thought you convinced me, you're wrong. I won't believe it until I see it with my own eyes!"
"Peter, you're working with Connors on a regenerative serum that theoretically regrows limbs. Since when does a simple muscle stimulant surprise you so much?"
"First of all, it's not fucking simple!" Peter snapped, taking the injector. He was clearly stung to the quick. "And second, the Connors serum, for all its ambition, is based on understandable principles of interspecies genetics and stem cell stimulation! Not on palladium suddenly deciding to work as a radiator!"
I silently watched as he carefully extracted one drop from the injector and gave it to a laboratory mouse using a pipette.
"Like I said, I can't explain HOW it works. But..." I smiled, noticing the mouse starting to change. "You see that it does work."
The effect was almost instantaneous. The rodent's muscles swelled before our eyes, the definition becoming so clear it looked like a ridiculous Photoshop job. The mouse itself seemed not to notice—it calmly finished its food, only almost falling over a couple of times from the unusual power in its paws. No signs of pain, aggression, or brain abnormalities. After about seven or eight minutes, the muscles began to "shrink" just as quickly, returning to normal. A light, barely noticeable steam rose from the rodent's body.
Peter was silent. He stared at the mouse with wide-open eyes, in which skepticism fought with absolute amazement.
"Alright..." he muttered stunned, coming to his senses. "Now... now I believe that something happened. But I won't believe in the safety until I examine this mouse!"
His disbelief immediately shifted into feverish scientific excitement.
"I need blood samples, right now! Perform biochemical analysis, check for cellular damage, lactate levels, residual elements... My god, what is this stuff?!"
For the next hour, I watched the genius in his natural habitat with genuine interest. Peter darted around the lab like a man possessed. He took blood samples from the mouse, spun them in the centrifuge, analyzed them in the spectrometer, and studied tissue sections under the microscope. He constantly muttered to himself: "No signs of cellular breakdown... Lactate levels normal... Where did the extra biomass go? No one canceled the law of conservation of energy... This is impossible!"
It was fun to watch, but it was already three in the afternoon. I needed to leave soon for the meeting with Lucas.
"Peter," I called out to him softly. "Accept it. You won't find anything. This stimulant works without side effects. I know this for an absolute fact."
"Impossible!" He spun around to face me, clutching a printout with some graphs. "It's simply physically, thermodynamically impossible! Muscle mass doesn't come from nowhere and doesn't go nowhere, dissipating as steam! Listen, can you give me the full formula?" Then Peter stopped himself, realizing how it sounded. "Um... I swear I won't reveal it to anyone and won't use it. This is... purely to satisfy my scientific hunger! I must understand the mechanism!"
"Hah, I understand," I smirked. "And while you were darting around, I already sketched it out for you. Though, it's not a formula, but rather... a recipe. Here."
I handed him a piece of paper. Peter greedily devoured it with his eyes, and his face began to change rapidly, going through all the stages from bewilderment to despair.
"No... Nonsense... What nonsense..." He clutched his head. "This isn't chemistry, it's a set of shamanic rituals! Titanium mesh as a catalyst for testosterone? Colloidal palladium in the role of... what, a cellular heat sink?! Maybe through quantum fluctuations, a certain sequence of molecules creates a local disturbance of reality? To negate the observer effect, everything happens inside the muscle tissues? No... Quantum mechanics launched on testosterone and created in a garage... Fuck..."
The last word was spoken with such an intonation of hopelessness that I felt a sting of conscience for a moment. I had collided the young scientist with something that broke his worldview. On the other hand, it's time he got used to it, because there's more to come.
"Want to try creating it?" I suggested. "You have the equipment. You can synthesize the testosterone. I have the rest of the ingredients with me, in a box in the car (actually they were in the inventory)."
"Yes! Of course, I'll try! Right now!" His despair instantly turned into determination. For his brilliant brain, this simple recipe was like instructions for assembling a stool. Но the effect... it was like assembling a stool capable of withstanding a meteor strike.
I went to the car and pulled serum albumin and colloidal palladium "out of the box." Peter, having received the ingredients, set to work. Even the Master Clockmaker inside me admitted: the kid worked with incredible clarity and pedantry. Every movement was precise, not a single extra second wasted.
In less than half an hour, he had a finished injector in his hands. He tested it on another laboratory rat. The effect was identical. Peter watched silently as the rodent's muscles swelled and then returned to normal. After that, he slowly sat down at the laboratory table and put his head in his hands.
"Fuck..."
"Agreed," I confirmed weightily. "And you haven't even seen the Intellect Potion yet."
Before he could ask anything, I continued: "But that's the next level. Right now, I have a specific task for you."
I handed him another sheet on which I had detailed the "Beast Potion" recipe. For a few minutes, Peter studied it in silence, and there was clearly no silence in his head.
"I see..." he finally said. "Activator, syn-epinephrine complex. A classic catecholamine storm. It overloads beta-adrenoreceptors. Hence the side effects you described: tachycardia, risk of arrhythmia, hypertensive crisis. This isn't a stimulant; it's a sledgehammer strike to the nervous system."
"You're a genius, you know best," I agreed. "I need you to remove these side effects. Create a clean product that can be ideally used in conjunction with the Muscle Stimulant."
"This... this is a job for more than one month, John!" he exclaimed. "I need to model the active components, calculate hundreds of analogs for the stabilizer, conduct simulations, synthesize dozens of options for tests! This is a whole dissertation, not a task for a Saturday!"
"Stop, stop, stop!" I stopped his flow of scientific speech. "We'll manage today. Have you forgotten what I said? You haven't seen and, especially, felt the effect of the Intellect Potion yet. Believe me, it won't just add IQ points to you. It accelerates synaptic connections, sharpens intuition, and allows you to see all possible solutions simultaneously. Those months of research you're talking about... you'll conduct them in your head in a couple of hours."
I saw that he doubted. But he had already witnessed the impossible. After a short reflection, he nodded.
"But if nothing comes of it..."
"It will," I said confidently. "I'm going to the supplier now for the rare ingredients. When I return, everything will be at your disposal. Under the intellect buff."
The dialogue was over. Time was approaching five, and I left for the meeting. I was also curious to see how much more brilliant Peter would become. And was I making a mistake by involving him in this?
Alright, away with doubts. Ideally, we'll need to not just make the stimulants compatible, but combine them both into one drug. In an even more ideal scenario... somehow permanently fix the effect of the Intellect Potion, or at least a weakened version of it, so as not to overload the processor. Hm, another set of tasks for my new brilliant partner.