How does the creation of a material ten years ahead of progress begin? Not with loud statements, but with quiet, concentrated work in a garage humming with equipment. We were starting the preparatory phase—the creation of the "heart" of Proteus, the non-Newtonian fluid.
On an ideally clean steel table stood two main components: a container with snow-white, almost weightless silicon dioxide nanopowder that seemed like it could fly away from a single breath, and a canister of polyethylene glycol, viscous and transparent as syrup. All the calculations were in my head, and Peter's were on the tablet he held in his hands like a conductor's score.
"We start with a test batch," he commanded, and impatient excitement was heard in his voice. "Concentration—forty-five percent nanoparticles by volume. This is the golden mean I derived. More—and we get a viscous porridge. Less—and the fabric won't hold a hit. Ready?"
Who was I not to trust his genius? I nodded silently. I took the entire practical process upon myself deliberately. I had to create the first version of Proteus with my own hands, from beginning to end, to absorb every bit of experience and maximize OP. Subsequent batches we'd already put on a stream.
I carefully measured the right amount of PEG into a large borosilicate glass container under the homogenizer. Then, under Peter's watchful control, the jewel-like work began. With precision worthy of the Master Clockmaker, I began to slowly, gram by gram, introduce the nanopowder into the liquid. The mixer hummed quietly at low speeds, creating a lazy whirlpool.
The work was meditative and required absolute concentration. After five and a half minutes, the last portion of powder dissolved in the viscous liquid.
"And now," Peter said, leaning forward, "the real magic of science begins!"
According to his instructions, I smoothly increased the homogenizer speed. The low hum turned into a piercing, almost ultrasonic wail, vibrating through the soles of my boots. The mixer nozzle turned into a blurred spot, creating cavitation bubbles. As Peter later explained to me, as they collapsed with microscopic fury, they broke up any lumps of nanoparticles, creating an ideal suspension. He watched the process, leaning against the wall of the container and illuminating it with a flashlight, as if looking into the very heart of the born technology.
"Look!" he shouted right into my ear, over the noise. "The suspension is becoming homogeneous, opalescent! See this milky shimmer? No sediment! Ideal!"
After an exhausting hour of wailing, several liters of milky-white, slightly shimmering liquid stood before us. It looked like thick kissel. Но in fact, in this modest substance was the whole essence of our venture. It was time to move on to the "baptism" of the fabric.
I picked up the roll of aramid 3D mesh. To the touch, the material was resilient, light, and porous—a high-tech sponge, nothing else. Having cut it into several large pieces, I carefully rolled the fabric and placed it in the vacuum chamber. I placed the container with our liquid next to it. The door closed with a dull, hermetic click, and I turned on the pump.
A steady hum sounded, and the pressure gauge needle slowly moved down.
"We pump out all the air, down to the last atom," Peter commented, not taking his eyes off the device. "Every microscopic cavity in the fabric must become a vacuum trap. A single air bubble—and a weak spot will form in this place, a potential breach in the defense."
When deep vacuum was achieved in the chamber, I pressed another button. A simple mechanical manipulator smoothly tipped the container. The liquid, meeting no air resistance, collapsed onto the fabric in a silent, greedy stream. The vacuum forced the suspension to instantly soak in, filling every pore, every cell of the three-dimensional structure. The fabric remained in this bath for about another hour. Then I slowly equalized the pressure and extracted the soaked material. The light and airy "sponge" had turned into something heavy and glossy, as if it had been dipped in liquid rubber.
The final stage for the fabric itself was heat treatment and lamination. We sent the soaked material to the industrial oven, which occupied a good sixth of the garage. I set the precise temperature and started the polymerization process. As Peter explained, this was to firmly "bond" the nanoparticles with the aramid fibers, making the fabric stable.
While the first batch was "baking," we, working already as a smooth team, prepared several more portions of non-Newtonian impregnation. After several hours, after cooling, I extracted the finished material from the oven. Placing a thin sheet of PTFE membrane on top, I sent this "sandwich" to the heat press. The hot plates squeezed the layers with a hiss, and the polyurethane glue under pressure permanently fused the membrane with the base.
At the output, we got the finished Proteus material. To the touch, it was plastic, like dense sports fabric, but with an unusual internal "resilience." The outer layer was matte, slightly rough, and waterproof. I placed a scrap on the workbench and lightly pressed with a finger—the fabric bent. Then I sharply poked it with the tip of a screwdriver. A dry click sounded, as if I had hit ceramics. My hand felt a hard recoil, and not a single scratch remained on the surface.
The fabric, ahead of most analogs, had just been created in a Brooklyn garage. And the System didn't keep me waiting.
[Unique fabric material "Proteus" (Uncommon) created. Technology previously non-existent in the world unlocked. Received +500 OP!]
Proteus (Uncommon): A high-tech composite material consisting of an aramid 3D matrix impregnated with a non-Newtonian fluid based on silicon dioxide nanoparticles. In its normal state, it is flexible and elastic (1.5 kg/m²). Upon sudden kinetic impact (hit, shot, cut), it instantly transforms into a solid-phase state, distributing energy across the entire area. Flexible as silk, hard as steel. Fabric that thinks and reacts.
The 500 OP bonus was pleasant, but specifically the phrasing "technology previously non-existent in the world" caught me. An off-center question, with a hint of slight offense, instantly flashed in my head: "What's wrong with the Ultimate Predator Serum?!". That was also a unique development, born of Peter's genius and embodied by my hands. Why didn't the System issue such a generous bonus for it?
I froze, looking at the flickering notification, and my mind feverishly began to sort through options. The first and most likely hypothesis: the serum is not that unique. Somewhere in the secret labs of S.H.I.E.L.D., HYDRA, or the Red Room, analogs already exist. Maybe with a different recipe, but with an identical effect. Second hypothesis: our serum is only a modification of the already existing "Beast Potion." And by the System's standards, an improvement is not creation from scratch. Logical. And a third, most unlikely thought: perhaps this function—reward for unique creations—simply unlocked after I first spent 500 OP on the gacha. Но then the System would likely have warned me about this to additionally motivate me. Right?
"John? Is everything alright?" Peter's voice pulled me out of my thoughts.
"Huh? Yes. Just... need to make sure on something more serious that it works," I quickly oriented myself, pointing at the fabric.
I picked up a hammer. The first blow, as in the case with the finger, was light—the fabric softly bent. The second blow, sharp and short, with all my strength. A deafening, ringing click echoed through the garage, as if I'd hit an anvil with all my might. Vibration pierced my hand, and not a single trace remained on the fabric.
"It worked..." Peter exhaled reverently. I only nodded silently, feeling a flame of triumph flare up inside.
"We're going to the range," I commanded, glancing at the clock. It was four in the afternoon; by five we'd just make it—it was from this time that I had rented the site. "We need full tests."
"Agreed," Peter nodded, adjusting his glasses. "Need to draw up an exact ballistic resistance profile."
We quickly got ready. I naturally left my own weapons at home, deciding to use the range's arsenal. The owner, recommended by Frank, guaranteed full confidentiality: no cameras, extra people, or attention. Ideal conditions.
Arriving at the place, we placed a piece of Proteus on a special stand with ballistic gel behind it.
"So, Professor," I addressed Peter while loading a pistol, "what is your prediction for pistol calibers?"
"Extremely high degree of protection. I'd say close to absolute," Peter replied without hesitation, crossing his arms over his chest. "Sounds confident. Let's check!"
I raised an Arsenal pistol chambered in the classic 9x19mm. The roar of five shots merged into one deafening howl in the closed room. We approached the target.
"Hm, indeed..." I examined the result with surprise. The bullets, having turned into shapeless pieces of lead, were lying on the floor. They simply bounced off, failing to leave even a scratch on the fabric.
"Of course!" Peter confirmed with enthusiasm. "The low speed of a pistol bullet allows the non-Newtonian fluid to react perfectly. The impact energy is distributed over a large area. For the wearer, it will be like a powerful blow from a sledgehammer through a thick book. It'll hurt, a bruise is guaranteed, maybe a cracked rib, but there won't be a penetrating wound."
"Good. Even excellent!" I muttered, feeling the thrill grow. "And what about rifle rounds?" I picked up the AR-15. The weapon felt much more serious, heavier, and deadlier in my hands.
"Be careful, John. Rifle bullets are a whole different story," Peter turned serious. "They fly 2-3 times faster and are created for penetration. Theoretically, the material should hold; the fluid will have time to react. BUT! The energy of these bullets is colossal..."
I didn't finish listening. Three short, deafening shots hit the ears. This time the bullets also bounced off, but now they hadn't deformed, keeping their shape. No penetration! I smirked victorively.
"Don't celebrate too early!" Parker cut me off sharply. He approached the stand and pointed to a deep dent in the ballistic gel behind the fabric. "See this? The back-face deformation is monstrous. The fabric bent inward several centimeters with unthinkable force. This is guaranteed shattered ribs, internal organ rupture, severe concussion. Yes, a person in such a suit might survive. The keyword is 'might'. Но he will be instantly incapacitated and in need of urgent hospitalization."
We didn't even experiment with the sniper rifle. It became obvious that its powerful round would simply zip right through our protection.
After an hour of various tests, Peter summed up, and I fully agreed with him:
"So, Proteus is the ideal protection against pistols, shotguns, and shrapnel. In urban clashes, it is priceless. It gives a chance to survive under fire from assault rifles, but the price of this survival is severe trauma. Against powerful sniper rifles, it is, alas, powerless."
We returned to the house when it was already evening. The air was filled with the smell of cooled asphalt and night cool; it seemed time for rest, but for us, the work was only beginning. The fatigue after the range evaporated, replaced by anticipation. First, as if on a conveyor, we ran several more batches of fabric through the entire cycle—impregnation, vacuum, heat treatment. The process was monotonous, and while hands worked on autopilot, my brain again began to analyze the System.
For the creation of the fabric itself, apart from the first uniqueness bonus, OP were no longer credited. On the one hand, it was strange. On the other... quite logical. Fabric is a material, a raw material. Но a suit made of it is already a finished product with a clear functionality. This made me think. And what about, for example, Tony Stark's arc reactor? Will the System consider its creation a full achievement, or is an energy source only a component that must power something? It seems like simple logic, yet it makes me ask uncomfortable questions about the rules of this "game."
"Listen, Peter, where did you learn to sew like that?" I asked when we finally began the design and pattern making. He was clearly in his element, easily sketching designs and thinking through the cut.
Peter looked up from his notebook for a second, and a slightly embarrassed expression appeared on his face.
"Oh, that... I think I mentioned my aunt works for a charity foundation. They help the homeless. Clothes are often donated there, and many things come in bad condition—torn, with defects. So I've been helping Aunt May since I was a kid. I'd sew something up, or, on the contrary, cut something up for scraps. And from the resulting fabric, I'd sew something for myself. There wasn't much money..." he awkwardly scratched the back of his head.
"No joke, that's worthy of respect," I replied seriously. At that moment, I seemed to start understanding where the core was in this guy, and where his "heroic" legs and desire to create grew from.
Periodically talking, we agreed on the design. No skin-tight spandex. Only practicality and tactical minimalism: a jacket with an anatomical cut and hood, cargo pants with reinforced knees, gloves. Ergonomics at the forefront. And then the most difficult part began. I took special carbide-coated scissors. Ordinary steel would simply slide over the aramid. With a loud, dry crunch, I began to cut the fabric according to Peter's patterns. The Master Clockmaker skill was priceless here: every movement was calibrated to the millimeter; not a single extra cut.
Having threaded the aramid thread into the industrial machine and installed a titanium needle, I pressed the pedal. The first few stitches went smoothly, but as soon as I increased the speed a bit... CRACK! A sharp sound like a gunshot made us both flinch. The needle shattered to pieces.
"I warned you..." Peter exhaled, pointing to the fabric. "You can't sew fast. The needle hits the material, the fluid locally hardens, and the needle meets resistance as if trying to punch through a steel plate."
The solution was obvious and agonizing. Sew at the minimum possible speed. And our nine-hour odyssey began. I, fully immersed in the "flow" state, led the fabric under the foot. The machine made a slow, meditative rhythm: TUCK... pause... TUCK... pause... Tens of minutes went to one seam. Peter helped, feeding and guiding the heavy, stubborn material. We worked in total silence, broken only by this rhythm and rare whispers when it was necessary to turn a piece. My hands, the hands of the Master Clockmaker, did not tremble, and my patience seemed infinite. I wasn't just sewing. I was assembling a suit as I would assemble the mechanism of a Swiss watch.
After almost nine hours of painstaking, exhausting work, when dawn was already breaking outside, the main sewing was finished. The last touch remained. With a small manual heat press, I set about taping every seam from the inside with a special sealing tape. This was a final push at the end of my strength. And so, when the last centimeter of tape was welded, I leaned back in my chair. Done.
On a mannequin in the center of the garage stood our creation. Matte black and utilitarian, it looked both simple and incredibly formidable. And at that moment of quiet triumph, a notification flashed before my eyes.
[Semi-combat suit "Proteus" created. Difficulty: Normal. Received +300 OP!]
Proteus Suit (Uncommon): A tactical set made of Proteus fabric. Provides the highest protection against cold weapons and pistol calibers while maintaining flexibility and comfort. Reduces damage from intermediate calibers but does not negate back-face trauma. Waterproof, heat-resistant, does not restrict movement.
300 OP! I wanted to jump up and shout victoriously, but there was no strength. It was six in the morning, and Peter and I were barely holding our feet. I'll celebrate when I wake up, I decided.
After laying the completely sleepy Peter on the sofa in the living room, I myself collapsed onto the bed, falling into a heavy, leaden sleep. Но I didn't manage to rest properly. At about ten in the morning, I was pulled from Morpheus's embrace by a stranger's voice. Opening my eyes, I realized it was Peter—he was feverishly pacing the living room, talking excitedly to someone on the phone.
"...no, MJ, he's definitely not one of those people who makes such important decisions rashly!"
So much for a good morning. It looks like problems decided not to wait until we slept off.