Sunday evening. A time when normal people allow themselves to relax before the start of the work week, gathering with family or friends. Но I had long since dropped out of the "normal" category. While I'm resting, some Draugr is sharpening his axe. While I'm sleeping, Thanos is doing another set of bicep curls. Loki is weaving his cunning intrigues, and Galactus, unburdened by morality, is choosing another planet with billions of sentient beings for dinner.
I'd be happy to lie down for a couple of hours—the world definitely won't collapse from that. The problem is that over the last week and a half, a landslide of radical changes has occurred within me, and it's not just about the literal bloodsuckers that scared me half to death. My renewed nineteen-year-old body was literally vibrating with an excess of energy that I desperately wanted to direct somewhere. And my consciousness, remembering an adult's life, demanded that this energy be spent rationally.
Fuel was added to this fire by the Master Clockmaker skill. It granted not just precision of the hands, but a state of flow—the ability to fully concentrate on a task, detaching from the rest of the world. And the cherry on top—a simple but all-encompassing realization: I am in the Marvel world. A world where vampires aren't even the middle link in the food chain. And I have a cheating System capable of molding me into if not a god, then at least a demigod.
The recipe for success was simple: work. Create new artifacts, farm OP, improve myself in all aspects, build connections based on meta-knowledge, which is no less of a cheat than the System itself. Don't slack off. And one day, I'll be able to challenge Thor to arm wrestling on equal terms, explain engineering to Stark, and defeat Thanos with a snap of my fingers.
So now, instead of resting, I sat in my garage-laboratory. My hands moved with fluid, almost hypnotic precision. A scattering of microcircuits, lithium-polymer cells, and induction coils lay on the workbench. I was assembling a custom power bank with a wireless charging function and a built-in low-power EMP emitter—a simple thing based on a guide from the internet, but ideal for honing skills and farming drops of OP. The soldering iron in my hand seemed like an extension of my fingers. The world narrowed down to the gleam of tin and the precise placement of contacts. This was that very "flow," and in such moments, the brain, freed from controlling motor functions, began to live a life of its own.
And, of course, it turned toward girls.
I had diligently chased these thoughts away the last few days, but the hormones of a young body were taking their toll. Nineteen years old—the prime, the peak of biological activity. And I am in a world inhabited by some of the most beautiful, strong, and interesting women ever conceived by the collective mind of men who draw comics.
Gwen Stacy was the first to come to mind. Spider-Gwen. The very girl who, in her spider persona, had so impressed me in the first few days. I didn't get lazy and found her page through Peter's friends. She was objectively flawless. Long golden hair, bright blue eyes, a symmetrical face that belongs on the cover of Vogue. What was she even doing in science? With such looks, she'd be snatched up by any modeling agency in a heartbeat. And even more so, why did she need to risk that beauty and her life for the sake of saving ordinary citizens? Alas, I wasn't yet capable of grasping the philosophy of heroism.
Who else? Of course, the sex symbol of this universe—Natasha Romanoff. Black Widow. A super-spy, a specialist of a narrow profile, raised among other things to seduce and break unhardened and hormonally unstable youths like me. This was already the major leagues; you won't find her on social media. Но who you will find is Jean Grey.
A red-haired beauty of eighteen years, a student at Professor Xavier's private school. She didn't particularly hide her identity, which was surprising. However, Xavier knows best—perhaps this is part of the therapy for one of the strongest and most unstable mutants on the planet, the host of a cosmic power capable of burning stars. She wasn't inferior to Gwen in beauty, but she was a venomous flower whose touch was equivalent to sticking one's head into a lion's mouth.
Emma Frost. Susan Storm. Anna Marie, also known as Rogue. Scarlet Witch. Captain Marvel. Elektra. Mystique. Felicia Hardy, Black Cat. Dozens, if not hundreds of interesting, damn dangerous, and transcendently sexy options. Но this isn't a fanfic where the self-insert is a priori the center of the universe and all the beauties line up. These women have their own lives, their own love interests, their own tragedies and goals. I'll likely never even cross paths with most of them. Но who's to stop me from admiring them purely aesthetically?
Enough self-deception. Of course, I, like any self-respecting man, want more than just to admire. I want to win the best. And though I myself don't amount to much right now, that will soon change. First—the foundation. Strength, resources, safety. And only then, when I can guarantee not just my own life, but the life of a loved one, can I allocate a little time for a personal life.
[Simple electro-mechanical construction "EMP-Powerbank" created. Difficulty: Low. Received +100 OP!]
A device that creates minor EMP interference, while also performing the functions of a compact charging device.
Monotonous work drove away unnecessary thoughts, and the pleasant sound of the system notification finally returned me to a constructive track. Indeed, first the planes, and then the girls. Or, in my case, first—farming OP to protect my ass, and only then—everything else.
I was glad the System kept its word: my creations now had a short description. Even if it was extremely laconic, it was already progress. Perhaps in the future, with the growth of the system's capabilities, which I understood grow from the number of spins, the descriptions will become more detailed, revealing hidden potential or unusual synergies. I mechanically, almost on autopilot, assembled three more of the same EMP power banks. The process was honed to perfection: my hands moved by themselves while my mind was free—this simple symphony of craft brought me another 300 points, bringing the balance to 340 OP. Weariness took its toll, and throwing my tools on the workbench, I went to sleep. Tomorrow was circled on my mental calendar with a thick red marker.
Waking up exactly at eight in the morning without an alarm—another plus of a renewed young body—I quickly prepared a breakfast of scrambled eggs and strong coffee. The aroma of the drink filled the kitchen while I settled down with my laptop at the table. Today I couldn't miss one of the most important events, which for the whole world was a breakthrough, but for me—a point of reference, the beginning of a new era. The final presentation of Reed Richards' space expedition.
It was 8:30 on the clock. The timer on the news portal zeroed out, and an image of a huge conference hall packed with journalists appeared on the screen. The camera focused on the podium, behind which stood a man in his thirties. At first glance—a typical "nerd": slightly hunched, in a formal suit, with an intelligent but slightly distracted gaze. Но I wasn't deceived. This man is Reed Richards, the number one intellect on planet Earth. And how often he is forgotten during global threats like Loki or Thanos frankly raised questions. With his brain, many crises would be solved at the embryonic stage.
Behind him, like a support group, stood four others. The camera slowly panned over them, and my brain, based on studied reports, instantly provided data on each. Ben Grimm. A solidly built man, a former military pilot and astronaut. A rock of confidence was felt in his posture. The best pilot, Reed's loyal friend. And a future tragic monster. Johnny Storm. The youngest, only twenty-five. A typical heartthrob handsome guy with a disarming smile, but behind this frivolous appearance was a PhD in physics and a brilliant mechanical engineer. Susan Storm. His older sister, an elegant and beautiful blonde of twenty-seven years. A biochemist, a brilliant scientist. She carried herself with dignity, but worry for the upcoming conference, and maybe the expedition itself, could be read in her eyes. A fifth figure stood a little further away, his face hidden by shadow and the hood of a dark mantle. Intrigue. The main announcement. Но for me, there was no intrigue. I knew with almost one hundred percent certainty who it was.
Meanwhile, Richards began his speech. His voice, calm and perfectly modulated, instantly filled the hall, pinning all attention to himself.
"We stand on the shore of a boundless cosmic ocean," he began, and there was no pathos in his voice, only a statement of fact. "For millennia, humanity has looked at the stars, asking: 'Are we alone in the universe?'. Today we are ready to take the first step to turn this question into an answer."
He pressed a button on a remote, and a slide appeared on the huge screen behind him. An image of a planet shrouded in a blue-green haze.
"The TRAPPIST-1 system. Forty-four light-years from here. A few years ago, our telescopes discovered something incredible there. A planet in the 'Goldilocks zone' possessing an atmosphere with clear signs of biomarkers—methane and oxygen." He paused, letting the audience grasp the scale of the statement. "The goal of our expedition is simple and at the same time grandiose: to confirm or deny the presence of life beyond Earth. We will perform a landing, conduct spectroscopic analysis, map the surface, and collect samples. We will touch a new world."
The next slide demonstrated a spacecraft. Externally, it looked rather ordinary—a futuristic shuttle, nothing more. Но I knew: all the magic was inside. It was here that Richards' genius manifested in all its glory.
"To overcome the colossal distance, our team developed the Starlight Vanguard," Reed continued, and pride sounded in his voice. "Its heart is an experimental engine with a modified warp drive, based on hypothetical space-time compression; its energy is drawn from a reactor stabilizing cosmic rays, which I have studied for decades. This engine will allow us to complete the journey not in hundreds of years, but in a few days."
There it is, I thought. The key element. Cosmic energy, which will become their gift and their curse.
A detailed infographic appeared on the screen.
Engine: Modified warp drive. Uses energy drawn from a reactor stabilizing cosmic rays to create micro-tunnels in space-time (Doctor Richards' adapted Alcubierre concept). Shielding: Hull made of an alloy with unstable molecules, absorbing and dissipating cosmic radiation. Navigation: Quantum computer with AI. Crew: 5 people.
I mentally highlighted the keywords. "Cosmic rays." "Unstable molecules." The formula for catastrophe and the birth of heroes was right in front of me.
"And, of course, such an ambitious mission would be impossible without the best minds on the planet," Reed turned to his team. After introducing Ben, Sue, and Johnny, he turned to the mysterious fifth figure. "Но even our efforts would be insufficient without the financial and intellectual support of our main investor and second scientific lead. A man whose genius is not inferior to the best minds of modern times."
The figure in the mantle took a step forward and threw back the hood. The hall gasped, and then exploded into applause and camera flashes. Victor von Doom. The crown prince of Latveria. A polymath, a genius in physics and robotics. Damn handsome, with aristocratic features and a piercing gaze. At twenty-five, he held second place in the Forbes "top 30 under 30" global ranking, second only to Tony Stark. He swept the hall with a commanding gaze and smiled slightly. The smile of a predator who knows that the whole world lies at his feet.
I leaned back in my chair. The show had begun. The Fantastic Four and Doctor Doom were ready to go to the stars, toward their fate. And I was the only spectator who knew how this flight would end.
On the screen, Reed Richards gestured broadly toward the image of the Starlight Vanguard.
"The duration of the expedition will not take more than two weeks," his voice sounded confident, almost prophetic. "And who knows, perhaps already in early October, humanity will step into a new era—the era of the explored cosmos!"
The hall erupted in applause. Reed patiently waited for the hum to die down, and his gaze became more serious. Beside him, Victor von Doom stood with an inscrutable expression, as if carved from marble—the ideal image of a genius and an aristocrat. Fucking model looks and transcendent intellect, I thought. Does this world love balance at all? If it's a super-spy or a world-class thief, she's definitely a fashion model. If it's a billionaire genius, he's a charming handsome guy like Stark or Doom. Even for Peter, essentially, it was enough to work out and straighten his posture. Against their background, my own mediocre appearance was a bit demoralizing. However, to hell with these thoughts about the injustice of being. Who am I to complain, having what no one else in this world has?
"And now," Reed said, "we are ready to answer your questions."
A forest of hands shot up. The most intense part began.
"Mr. Richards," the voice of the woman who asked the question from the front row was as sharp as a scalpel. "How do you justify the colossal costs of the mission if the hypothesis about biomarkers turns out to be false?"
The question hit the bullseye. I noticed how for a fraction of a second, a muscle twitched on Reed's inscrutable face. He, unlike Stark, clearly was uncomfortable talking about money. Too much was at stake for this expedition, sponsored by a consortium of corporations and two countries. Но he quickly regained his composure.
"The value of this mission is not measured only by the search for life," he replied calmly. "Even in an 'empty' world, we will obtain priceless data on planetary geology and suitability for future colonization. The technologies themselves created for the Vanguard—the warp drive, protective alloys—are already a revolution that will pay for itself many times over in the future. Consider this not a cost, but an investment in the very future of humanity."
"Next question!" The moderator pointed to a reporter from the other end of the hall. "Why are you risking lives by sending a manned expedition rather than a safer automated probe?"
"Because a probe is just a tool. It follows a program," Reed countered. "And our crew is a team of experts capable of adapting. No algorithm will replace a pilot's intuition, a biochemist's analytical mind, or an engineer's resourcefulness in an unforeseen situation. For a mission of this scale, where the discovery of the century is at stake, we need not machines, but the best minds and hands."
"A question about safety! What if your cosmic ray reactor fails?" someone shouted.
"The reactor has a triple fail-safe system," Reed explained patiently, like a professor to students. "Magnetic limiters, an emergency energy dump system, and a backup thermonuclear source. We conducted fifty full-scale simulations. Not a single failure."
"What are the personal risks for the crew? What if the mission fails?"
"Risk is an integral part of any great achievement," Reed replied, and his gaze for a moment became steely. "Но we did everything to minimize it. The ship is equipped with autonomous return systems, and each crew member underwent a year of training in extreme conditions. In case of failure, the data will still be transmitted to Earth through a quantum communication channel. The knowledge we obtain will not be lost."
And dozens of other questions. Smart and not so smart. Richards parried them with the confidence of an experienced fencer. He had prepared monumentally. For a crazy moment, a stray thought flashed in my head: what if?.. To become part of their crew, get superpowers... Had I been invisible, I might have tried to sneak on board.
Но my mind immediately pulled me back. Too many "BUTs." First, the security system of a world-level genius's ship, which would expose me in an instant. At best, this would lead to the cancellation of the flight, and no one would get their powers. At worst, I'd be considered a spy. Second, and most importantly—there are no guarantees that I'd like my transformation. To get Ben Grimm's fate? To become not a stone monster, but a tentacled one? No, thanks. If it ain't broke, don't fix it. I definitely won't get into this venture, especially since the start is tomorrow. I'll soon have Technological Modernization, and Extremis won't be far off. Soon we'll be living large even without the cosmic lottery.
The presentation ended to another wave of applause. I slammed my laptop shut just as a taxi pulled up to the house. Peter stepped out of it, with a backpack over his shoulders and curiosity in his gaze.
Today's presentation will go down in world history, and tomorrow even more so. Но even so, Parker and I are going to write our own chapter into this history, even if a small one. A chapter dedicated to materials science and the creation of the ideal suit.