"Incredible..." Peter muttered, admiring the space filled with equipment. His gaze moved from the vacuum chamber to the heat press. "John, you have a branch of a DARPA lab here, not a garage!"
I smirked. Part of the equipment, not fitting, was waiting for its turn in the living room, hidden from prying eyes by tightly drawn blinds.
"This isn't even close to what I'm aiming for, Peter," I shook my head, wiping the frame of the industrial sewing machine with a rag. "Ideally, a full-fledged R&D lab is needed. A tower of my own, like Stark's. Or at least an underground complex, like Oscorp's. That's where one can really turn up..." I said the last words quieter, almost to myself, thinking of the boundless possibilities. "Though for that, first a couple of tens or even hundreds of millions need to be earned."
Naturally, I imagined this laboratory in all its details: sterile white walls, humming servers with advanced AI assistants like JARVIS, teams of the world's best scientists in protective sterile suits testing futuristic prototypes obtained by me from the Forge. Not just a garage with homemade machines, but a real hub of innovation where that same "Proteus" evolves into something more—maybe into suits with an integrated neural network or even an exoskeleton for superhuman physiology. Но such dreams required not only money but also protection from those who would see them as a threat. I drove away these thoughts, focusing on the present, but Peter decided to dream.
"We'll earn them!" Peter responded unexpectedly warmly. He took a step forward, and that same fire of scientific insight burned in his eyes. "I've been thinking a lot the last few days... A lot. Perhaps these are still echoes of the Potion, but what I've come to..."
"Don't drag it out, Parker; spill it."
"I analyzed all existing analogs of Proteus. Well, everything that's in open access," he made a disclaimer. "And you know what?"
"What?"
"They're junk! Every single one of them!" Peter threw up his hands from the excess of emotion. "Take Hammer Industries. Their armor is multilayered Kevlar with titanium threads. It sounds cool, but in fact, it's just heavy, clumsy bricks with straps! Six and a half kilograms per square meter! The Pentagon is too disgusted to buy it, and I perfectly understand them! Cheap, yes, therefore popular with mercenaries, but it's not technology; it's just more layers!"
He paused to catch his breath and immediately continued, switching to a half-whisper as if sharing a state secret.
"But what the Pentagon isn't disgusted by is Bio-Silk from Oscorp. Genetically modified spider silk reinforced with carbon fibers. Tensile strength five times higher than steel; that's true. And it's lighter—two and a half kilograms per meter. Better already, but still a kilogram heavier than our Proteus! And here's the main question: what's the catch?"
"And what is it?" I played along, already guessing what he was leading to.
"It's wildly expensive! Dozens of times more expensive than Proteus in production! Besides, because of the carbon fibers, it's quite stiff, wears out quickly at the folds, and melts from high temperatures."
"So, to sum up," I put down the rag, fully focusing on his words, "compared to Proteus, it has lower flexibility, no dynamic protection from impacts, and at the same time, it costs as much as a fighter jet wing. Am I understanding correctly?"
"Exactly!" Peter snapped his fingers. "Therefore, it's bought only for special forces, in small batches. Stark had another project with nano-Kevlar and micro-actuators, but it's quite bulky, vulnerable to EMP, and failed. Another interesting idea from the Soviets, namely an aramid composite with woven-in steel microfibers and a special epoxy coating, but the problems are roughly the same: heavy, uncomfortable, doesn't breathe well, and it's also vulnerable to corrosion. And what do we end up with? That the US Army, the most technologically advanced army in the world, and the Soviets, the most militarized country, mostly still run in ordinary Kevlar or Dyneema!"
Peter remembered another example—"Nano-Shield" from Roxxon Corporation. They tried to integrate nanoparticles into fabric for self-repair, but the project stalled due to instability: the material degraded after several hits, and production required rare elements that cost a fortune. In the end, their armor is used only in experimental units, and even then with a bunch of disclaimers.
And the Europeans? Imex has a graphene-based composite that promises super-strength, but in practice, it's brittle at low temperatures and doesn't protect from kinetic hits the way our Proteus does. All these technologies are compromises, while we... We created something solid, universal, and truly in demand.
"So..." an electric discharge of realization ran through my veins.
Peter smiled widely, confirming my guess.
"Yes, John. This is an absolutely new, empty market! The individual protection market, where we are not just competitors—we are innovators ahead of everyone by decades! Clothing and gear are the number one expense item for any army. And no one, not Oscorp, not Stark, was ever able to create a truly convenient, light, cheap, and effective combat uniform!"
I saw it clearly: our corporation, "Proteus Labs" or something of the sort, with contracts from the Pentagon, the UN, even from private security firms. We could not only sell armor but also develop civilian applications—protective clothing for firefighters, rescuers, even for extreme sports. This isn't just a business but a revolution in safety, where every person could feel invincible.
Billions. Not just money—an entire empire. The simplest and, importantly, legal opportunity to step out of the shadows. Build the best labs, hire the best minds, create on an industrial scale without being limited by anyone or anything. This thought was so overwhelming that for a moment my breath hitched. This was a dream.
I allowed myself to enjoy this picture of the future for only a few seconds, and then harsh reality collapsed on me like an icy shower, for such visibility would attract not only clients but predators.
"Unfortunately, in reality, everything is a little different," I shook my head, and my voice sounded cold and sober, instantly knocking all the enthusiasm out of Peter.
"What do you mean?"
"You see, Peter," I looked him straight in the eye. "In this world, the one with the brilliant idea or a patent for it isn't right. The one who is stronger is right."
"That's barbarism!" he protested sincerely. "We outgrew that long ago. I'm not arguing; there are corporate games, espionage... but what does brute force have to do with it?"
"Oh, Peter, how wrong you are..." flashed in my head while I listened to his naive but so understandable indignations. Мой inner world for a second was filled with grim images. A conditional Kingpin, having heard of our technology, wouldn't send lawyers with an offer to buy. He'd send a team of thugs to "convince" us to work for him, and in case of refusal—he'd bury us without hesitation somewhere under the foundations of another construction site in Hell's Kitchen.
And then there is also the whisper of HYDRA, a serpent that has penetrated all spheres of society, which simply cannot ignore a technology capable of changing the balance of power. There are Hammer and Oscorp, playing their games dirty, even very dirty. There are murky organizations like the Ten Rings, the Hellfire Club, or the damn shinobi from The Hand, who are clearly not averse to equipping themselves with something that will withstand not only cold weapons but something more serious.
For all of them, Proteus isn't just billions in profit. It's a mass, easily reproducible technology capable of turning their infantry into elite squads. Mercenaries in our armor would be much scarier than Hammer's drones. And the suits of the Goblin, Octopus, Scorpion, or some Vulture with Shocker? I also thought about S.H.I.E.L.D., that shadow behind the scenes, which is surely actively monitoring any breakthroughs in technology. If they decide that Proteus threatens the balance, we'll either be recruited or neutralized quietly under the guise of an "accident." And what about mutants or alien threats? Our armor could become the key in the hands of the Brotherhood or even the Skrulls, if they exist in this version.
No, revealing cards too early is like waving a red rag in front of a bull. Peter doesn't need to know all this yet. I haven't explained the old secrets yet, and new ones will only generate extra questions.
"Think for yourself, Peter," I began cautiously, choosing my words. "It's military force that allows the US to hold a leading position in the world. The three largest tech giants—Stark, Hammer, Oscorp—they are all closely linked with army contracts. It's the strength of special units and separate individuals that kept some countries from falling apart into chaos. And it's strength that allows loners like Spider-Woman or the Devil of Hell's Kitchen to engage in their activities."
"In what sense?" Peter was sincerely surprised. "Is heroism forbidden? We supposedly have freedom..."
"Freedom is an illusion when it comes to people capable of single-handedly leveling a block or standing against an elite special unit in full gear," I smirked bitterly. "Such individuals are too valuable a resource. Certain circles simply cannot help but pay attention to them. Но because of their personal strength, recruitment happens as softly and imperceptibly as possible. Let's just say they are allowed to act as long as they don't cross the line. Everything in this world, and especially in a city like New York, happens with someone's unseen permission."
I fell silent, feeling that I had explained everything somewhat confusingly. Но fortunately, Peter didn't bear the title of Genius for nothing even in my eyes, and he caught the general meaning. He frowned, deep in thought.
"So," he began slowly, as if probing a new, frightening idea. "We... not possessing personal strength or connections with those who possess it... become a tasty morsel for anyone who is stronger? And almost everyone is stronger than us right now?"
"Hit the nail on the head," I confirmed grimly. "We can't show off Proteus at our current stage. Billions certainly beckon, but right now there would be more harm than good from such money."
We discussed this topic a bit more and concluded that if we were to patent something for the sake of money, it should be something less... militarized. And definitely not so far ahead of its time.
"Alright, clear on Proteus. Today we'll create the first samples and go test them; I've already rented a closed range for the evening," I decisively changed the subject. "Better tell me, how are things with Phantasmin? Any success?"
Peter immediately grimaced as if he'd eaten a lemon.
"As in the case of the muscle stimulant, I have no idea how this thing works," he grumbled irritably. "The molecular structure of Phantasmin violates a few fundamental laws of chemistry. It basically shouldn't exist. It's unstable, but in the body, it somehow keeps its shape. Copying it is impossible. Но..."
"But?" I leaned forward, holding my breath.
"...but one can try to approach from the other side. Or rather, from three. I sketched out a few hypotheses. Without the Potion, I won't realize them, but purely theoretically... they are possible."
Peter approached a small board on the garage wall and began to quickly draw formulas.
"The first hypothesis is the direct approach. Synthesis of a neuro-catalyst. We can't recreate Phantasmin, but I can try to isolate its active functional groups—those 'tentacles' of the molecule with which it clings to neurons. Theoretically, under the Potion, I can design a completely new, stable alkaloid that will mimic these groups. If it works, it'll be pure chemistry that we can brew right here."
He paused and looked at me.
"Sounds simple, right? Но there's a fly in the ointment the size of a barrel. Even under the Potion, this is incredibly difficult. Without understanding that 'magical' component that stabilizes the original, my synthetic analog might turn out to be a toxic poison, a weak dud, or not work at all. The Potion will help find the way, but walking it might take years. This isn't a sprint, John. It's a marathon. Even Stark's quantum computers won't handle something like this..."
Having explained this idea a bit more, Peter eventually moved to the next one.
And his second hypothesis made me mentally whistle. The idea to solve the problem not with chemistry but with physics fit perfectly with my future Technological Modernization skill. To create a device that tunes the brain to a peak frequency of work with an external field... That sounded like pure, elegant science fiction. No alchemy, full control, absolute safety. I almost felt the future skill responding to this idea, how my hands itched to start assembling something so refined. Но as Peter, gesturing excitedly, began to go into details about the necessity of sub-atomic focusing precision and the complexity of field gradient calculations, my enthusiasm waned. I realized that Technological Modernization is a tool of a brilliant master, but it won't make me a brilliant theorist. Without blueprints, without the fundamental scientific base that only Peter could provide, my skill would likely be useless, but we'll see as we go.
As for the third hypothesis... it made me concentrate as if my life depended on it. I leaned forward, forgetting everything else. A symbiotic stabilizer agent. Not to try to copy the miracle, but simply to extend its life. To create a "bodyguard" for the unstable Phantasmin molecule. Extend the effect from a miserable couple of hours to dozens of hours, and maybe days. Of all three options, this path to long-term enhancement looked the most realistic. Но here too were pitfalls: creating another incredibly complex substance and unpredictable side effects.
I looked at Parker, and honestly, I was in shock. Only a day had passed, and he had not just analyzed an "impossible" substance but developed three cardinally different approaches to its reproduction. He wasn't just talking and drawing something on the board—he showed me his notebook filled with formulas and diagrams, from which I understood absolutely nothing, but their very complexity inspired awe. At that moment, Peter Parker grew in my eyes by several more orders of magnitude. The bet on him was the truest investment in my new life. Now the main thing was to keep him close. A nasty image of Norman Osborn, smiling hungrily and offering this brilliant youth a contract he couldn't refuse, flashed in my head. I definitely need to act preemptively.
Although, in fairness, Peter was not one of those. During our short acquaintance, I understood the main thing: money for him is only a tool for solving problems, like the one that happened with his uncle. The real drug for him is the process itself. Cognition, creation, solving insoluble problems. Biochemistry, physics, materials science—he didn't care what to immerse his brilliant brain in. And the best bait for such a person is not a stack of green papers, but an endless horizon of new, exciting challenges and unlimited resources to solve them. And I could give him that.
"Peter, do you realize what you've done?" I interrupted his technical explanations, and my voice sounded sincerely encouraged. "All this you came up with without the Potion. And now imagine what will happen when you can analyze each of these ideas under it. Find the flaws, see the short paths, improve and embody them in reality! We're talking about a revolution!"
Peter thought for a second and then awkwardly scratched the back of his head.
"Well... most likely, under the Potion, I'll just come up with a fourth, even more insane idea that I'd never think of in a normal state," he smiled his usual slightly crooked smile.
"That's also not excluded," I agreed, smirking. "In any case, I understood you. After Proteus, we'll get right into this. Но such projects are not a school club. This will require full immersion. What do you have, by the way, with the university and work? Just that all this might drag on."
"Oh, that's simple," he waved it off. "In the institute, I know most subjects better than the professors, so they close their eyes to rare absences. I work for Doctor Connors without a fixed schedule; results are important to him, not hours sat. Well, and about the Daily Bugle, I don't even need to mention that; I have no obligations there."
"Excellent!" I clapped my hands, and the sound echoed through the garage, marking the start of a new stage. We looked at each other—a young but already hardened by cynicism self-proclaimed strategist and ideologue, and a brilliant, idealistic scientist. The partnership was sealed. "Then we won't drag it out. Let's get to work!"