"What's the deal with gravity boots?" Peter asked with genuine curiosity, watching as I reached for one of the old microwaves.
"Well, it's not exactly Stark-level technology, but definitely an interesting toy," I replied, starting to crack the casing. "In short, these boots will allow for controlled jumps and short flights up to ten meters. They'll be able to completely negate fall damage from a great height and, what's most fun, create compacted air cushions that you can push off of. Literally walking on air, like an invisible ladder."
The technology, of course, isn't the most impressive in my arsenal of ideas, but for a start—it's ideal. I was already calculating the problems in my head: the weight of the boots themselves would be about six kilograms, plus a backpack with batteries for another six. Yes, something needs to be done about the power sources in a global sense. Но that's for later. Now I was firmly intent on assembling these fancy gravity boots.
"Listen, are you..." Peter began awkwardly, seeing the confidence with which I was gutting the microwave. "Can you... can you explain the essence of the process to me? I want to understand."
"No problem," I nodded. It was even pleasant to act as a mentor to a genius. "The fundamental idea is simple. We will create a high-frequency electromagnetic field under the soles of the boots. It ionizes the air, temporarily and sharply increasing its density right under us. This creates 'compacted air pockets'—essentially, temporary solid platforms that the boots will push off of."
"Right... an effect similar to magnetic levitation, but working with air through ionization," Peter immediately found an analog. "Reminds me of early ANSA ion engine patents. Но, I repeat my question, how are you going to assemble something like that from this?" He gestured to the pile of junk.
"Magnetrons! And transformers from microwaves!" I uttered an obvious thought for me. From Peter's incredulous face, I realized I hadn't convinced him. "Their coils will induce eddy currents. And fans from vacuum cleaners will add propulsive thrust for directed flight. One only needs to use an adapted Lenz's law to calculate the induction force!"
"Wait," Peter frowned. "The air is ionized; it becomes plasma. Classical Lenz's law doesn't quite fit here; the inductance will behave differently."
"Exactly! That's why it's adapted for an ionized environment!" I chuckled. "Your textbooks are a starting point, Peter, not a bible. My knowledge combines an electromagnetic field for levitation and propulsion for thrust."
"Hm, sounds surprisingly... logical. But..."
"No 'buts.' Just watch!" I interrupted him. "So, we gut four microwaves; we need their transformers to create a field of about 0.4 Tesla. Next, motors and blades from vacuum cleaners and a hair dryer. Six lithium-ion batteries from my favorite cordless drills," I commented, simultaneously extracting the necessary components with surgical precision. "We also need a processor from an old laptop and a pair of accelerometers from broken smartphones. That's the brain for smart auto-balancing. And a handful of capacitors from camera flashes for fine-tuning the coils."
Having gathered everything necessary, I proceeded to the most delicate moment. I began to tune the coils intuitively, guided by the knowledge of the colonial engineer, soldering in the capacitors. I wasn't calculating; I felt the necessary configuration that would make the field pulses create air ionization with a density equivalent to 1-2 kg/m³. That's what would allow "pushing off" the air as if it were the ground. Parker watched my polished movements in fascination. And I... I was in shock myself. I wasn't just assembling by whim; I understood every step. This Heavenly Forge, this symbiosis of my new skills, was changing me at a fundamental level. And I didn't know whether to be happy about it or afraid.
"Next—a modular frame," I continued the lecture, starting the assembly. "Each boot is three independent modules with quick-release clips. Electromagnetic—coils in the sole, cast in epoxy in a plastic casing. Propulsive—motors with blades on the sides, in PVC pipe housings. And energetic—batteries in the bootlegs. In a strong impact or fall, the modules will just unclip rather than shattering into pieces."
I fixed the coils around iron cores, insulated them with tape, and checked the resistance with a multimeter—about 8 ohms. Then I installed the motors on the outer sides of the boots, directing the air ducts downward. I connected the batteries into a single circuit that could be carried in a backpack, and soldered the processor with accelerometers directly into the case of one of the boots, writing a simple code on the laptop to increase thrust when a sharp fall was detected. I attached this entire construction to a pair of old sneakers with strong Velcro. The result was an ugly but functional Frankenstein monster of the high-end garage tech world.
I turned on the boots. A low-pitched, low-frequency hum sounded, and I felt the soles of the sneakers lift slightly off the concrete floor of the garage. A lift of 5-10 centimeters. The coils were working. A light click of a switch—and the fans on the sides added thrust with a quiet whistle, stabilizing the sneakers in the air. The basic function worked. Now the art began.
Calibration. It took a good three hours. Three hours of absolute, meditative concentration. For Peter, this must have looked like shamanism. I sat on the floor, surrounded by wires, holding a multimeter in one hand while slowly turning trimmer resistors with the other. I wasn't just checking numbers against the formula \(F_{\text{induction}} = I^2 \mu_0 A / (2d^2)\); I was listening to the hum of the coils, feeling the slightest changes in vibration, looking for that very, ideal resonance. I tuned the accelerometers by repeatedly dropping the boots from different heights and tracking their reaction speed. This was the work not of a scientist, but of a master tuning an unseen musical instrument.
The output was a real miracle of garage thought. Bulky, ugly sneakers with attachments, capable of:
1. Flying for 15 to 30 seconds at an altitude of up to 10 meters.
2. Detecting free fall and activating the propulsors, reducing speed by 90%. A fall from ten meters would feel like a jump from one.
3. Creating impulsive "platforms" from ionized air, allowing up to five "steps" through the air.
I added a couple of mini-fans from an old laptop to cool the batteries in the backpack and, spurred by the "Risk of Disassembly" skill, checked every connection for strength and modularity once more. Everything was ready. And the System didn't keep me waiting.
[Created electro-mechanical construction "Diamagnetic Propulsors." Difficulty: Normal. Received +200 OP!]
A modular device for short-term flight, fall mitigation, and air cushion creation, using dynamic induction of eddy currents in ionized air.
And again, no reward for uniqueness. Well, I'm not surprised. In some secret S.H.I.E.L.D. hangars or in Stark's personal workshop, far more elegant prototypes were likely gathering dust. In any case, 200 OP is 200 OP. The balance of 700 points was already pleasing to the eye.
"Time for tests," I said, putting on the boots and throwing the backpack with batteries over my shoulders.
We went out to the backyard. The area wasn't quite private, but a quick glance around confirmed the absence of onlookers. First thing, I climbed onto the low roof of the garage without thinking twice.
"Trust your work?" Peter asked from below with a nervous smirk.
"I trust my calculations," I answered and stepped into the void.
For a split second—free fall, a chill in the stomach. And then the accelerometers kicked in. The fans roared, and the fall slowed sharply. I landed on my feet with the softness of a cat.
"Hm, indeed, a very 'soft' landing," I noted, ignoring the inner voice grumbling about danger. "The feeling is like my legs are sinking into something dense, like jelly."
Next—a few steps through the air. Barely visible rings of ionized air flared and went out under my feet, creating a solid support where there was none. And for the remaining charge—a short, fifteen-second flight over the yard. Success. The prototype had a right to life.
"Cool!" Peter's eyes burned with delight. "It's like maglev for the feet! Although in real combat conditions, it's problematic to use, of course."
"Agreed," I nodded, unclipping the bulky construction. "These are 'Gravity Boots-1.' Crude, raw, and power-hungry. Need to reduce dimensions, find a normal power source, improve materials... And all this work—is for you. The today's you, under the Intelligence Potion. I also have a number of ideas for modernization. We'll bring them to fruition. Well, after the work on the main project with the Potion, of course."
"Then... shall we go? The lab should be empty by now," Peter asked impatiently when we went into the house.
"Yes," I threw him the keys to the Honda. "Get in for now. I'll quickly change into something cleaner and be on my way."
Quickly changing from work clothes into clean jeans and a t-shirt, I threw a box with all sorts of electronic junk into the trunk of the car—an excellent cover if I suddenly needed to "accidentally" get something rare out of the inventory. The whole way to the institute, Peter couldn't sit still. He was overflowing with ideas, sketching something in a notebook; his brain was already tuning in to the upcoming, truly monumental task.
By 6:30 in the evening, we parked by the impressive building of the university's science building. The evening light painted it in golden tones. I looked at Peter, then at the building. The coming hours would determine if not everything, then a great deal. There were gods, monsters, and aliens in this world. But true power, capable of changing reality, always started with one thing.
Intellect. Brains. Genius. That is the basis. That is the base. And today we were going to hack its code.
***
Fool. Fool. Fool!
It was officially the worst day of her life. The funeral, organized by her father's colleagues, left the taste of bile in her mouth. She stood under the drizzling rain, looking at the lacquered lid of the coffin, and saw around her not mourners, but hyenas in expensive suits. Faces full of fake sympathy. Handshakes, sticky with bribes. She knew that the investigation into the death of Captain George Stacy would be hushed up. Closed as an "accident in the line of duty." And from this realization, the bitterness of loss became almost unbearable.
Now she is alone. All alone. And all because of last night. Because of her cursed secret. On another patrol, she had to reveal herself to him. He looked at her, at his daughter in a ridiculous costume, and in his eyes there was neither fear nor condemnation. Only endless fatherly anxiety. "We'll talk at home, Gwen," he said. But he never returned home.
She wanted to cry. And she cried, mixing tears with cold drops of rain. To hell with the stereotypes that heroes must be strong. She is not a hero. The hero was her father. A real, honest cop who refused blood money and was killed for it.
Kingpin.
A name that now echoed in her head like a funeral knell. A freak who imagined himself the king of New York. She didn't know his identity, but that didn't matter. What mattered was that his empire, built on bones, drugs, and slavery, had taken her last relative. Now his bandits, his lackeys, his bastards—were her number one target.
She understood. Now she understood everything. Patriot, Angel, Blazer, Destroyer... Dozens of heroes who flared up on the New York horizon, only to disappear as suddenly as they appeared. Some of them were strong, very strong. And even if Kingpin might not have been the direct cause of the disappearance of each of them, the fact itself spoke volumes. In London, there were three teams of heroes. In New York—only one meta-loner. Her. This city was a graveyard for those who wore a mask.
But when the mind is drowned by the thirst for revenge, the body acts on autopilot. As soon as dusk fell on the streets, she put on her costume. The mask hid her tear-stained eyes but couldn't hide her rage. She flew into the city not to patrol. She flew to hunt.
All the dark alleys. All the questionable companies. She was a hurricane sweeping through the criminal underworld. She was looking for a lead, beating information out of every bastard wearing gang "colors." This time she didn't hold back. She heard the crunch of bones under her fists and felt nothing but dull satisfaction. She needed answers. And she got them. Just not the ones she expected.
"Well, why can't you sit at home, little bug?" A mocking, arrogant voice made her wince. From the shadow of an alley stepped a man in a bulky orange suit, with futuristic gloves on his hands. "Do you absolutely need to look for trouble for your appetizing butt?" It sounded laughably ridiculous with his caricatured German accent.
Oh, he was definitely a meta. He moved with a speed and strength exceeding human levels. And his gloves... On any other day, she would have quipped. Laughed at his accent, ridiculous outfit, and absurd nickname. He must surely call himself something like "The Vibrator." Но not now.
Now she felt as shitty as possible. One of his glove attacks—an invisible wave of compressed air—hit the wall next to her. She was thrown back, momentarily disoriented. And what's worse, her spider-sense, her main ace, beat in agony, stunned and weakened. This was exploited by one of his hangers-on. Several shots. Оne of them found its mark. A sharp, burning pain pierced her left side.
Stunned, bleeding, she retreated shamefully, hiding on the roof of a low building. The meta-bastard strolled freely through the alley below, showering her with mockery, trying to provoke her and get her to reveal her location. She had to run. Но the thirst for information, the desire to know more, turned out to be stronger than the instinct of self-preservation. And that became her latest mistake of this cursed evening.
"A Kingpin lackey dares to lecture me?" she shouted, and her voice trembled with pain and rage. "Vibrator, is there something wrong with your head at all?"
Fuck.
The word only had time to slip through her mind. The mentioned bastard, attracted by her bravado, smirked. He crouched, and his gloves hit the asphalt. A deafening roar sounded. The sonic wave turned into reactive thrust. A moment before, he was on the ground. Now he was already standing on the roof, a few meters from her, looming over her wounded body. Under the mask, he was definitely grinning smugly.
"I am the Shocker," his voice sounded like a death sentence. "However, the dead have no need for this information."
This time she knew roughly what to expect. Overcoming the fiery pain in her side, she lunged to the side at the very moment Shocker hit the roof again. The vibrational wave passed centimeters from her, making the concrete under her feet crack. Not letting him recover, she fired two streams of webbing, thickly covering his futuristic gloves.
Но that gave her only a few seconds of breathing room. A low-frequency hum sounded, and the webbing, vibrating at a frantic speed, simply crumbled into dust. Shocker attacked again—this time with short, sharp pulses, trying to predict the trajectory of her movements, cornering her like an animal. Because of the wound, her dodges were clumsy, slow. After half a minute of these deadly dances, one of the pulses still hit her tangentially.
The world turned into jelly. Her legs gave way; a deafening ringing sounded in her ears. Again that sickening disorientation. Gathering the remnants of her will into a fist, she pushed off the edge and jumped onto the roof of the neighboring building. Shocker, not rushing, moved after her.
She understood. In her current state, she wouldn't just be unable to beat the answers out of him—she wouldn't last a minute against him. She had to run. Retreat. Live to get revenge another time. Releasing a web, she flew up. Higher. Still higher. Manhattan was a forest of skyscrapers. The bastard, fortunately, fell behind, not wanting to be seen at such a height. Но the pursuit was replaced by another, more terrifying problem. Consciousness... it began to fade.
Blood loss. The daytime stress from her father's death and the subsequent funeral. Evening brawls with bandits. It all mixed into one toxic cocktail that even her improved organism couldn't withstand. Dark spots swam before her eyes. "Need cover. Need treatment. A couple of hours, and I'll be fine." Но she wouldn't make it to her home in Brooklyn. She'd pass out right in mid-flight and smear herself on the asphalt.
Hospital? No, even worse. Ever since she got her powers, hospitals had become a forbidden zone for her. The risk of exposure was too high. Taxi? Subway? A wounded girl in blood would be noticed by cops immediately after the doctors. Her father's former colleagues. They'd start asking questions. Not an option.
There was only one place left. The last harbor. The institute laboratory. There was a first-aid kit there that she unashamedly replenished after every raid. At such a time, no one was guaranteed to be there. And there was her personal, familiar-to-the-detail window with a filed latch. Besides, it was only one block of flight away. She had to make it.
Gathering her will into a fist, she lunged toward the institute with her last strength. The buildings merged into blurred stripes. The window of the science building, her goal, pulsed in her mind as the single point of salvation. And here she was at it. Но something was wrong. A light was on in the window. And at that same moment, her spider-sense wailed. Not about danger. About witnesses. "Someone's in there!"
A moment later, she saw a familiar skinny figure, absorbedly writing formulas on a lab board. Peter Parker. Her colleague. A smart, quiet guy who, she had long suspected, had uncovered her secret. Her sense always behaved strangely around him—it didn't scream about a threat, but rather... buzzed unobtrusively. Но he was silent. He hadn't told anyone. He... was someone she could deal with. And she didn't have a choice anyway. Roofs and alleys in her state were a death sentence.
She clumsily, without a gram of her usual spider grace, pried the latch and literally fell inside. Her legs no longer held her. The last thing she saw before the world finally went out was Peter's shocked face as he turned at the noise. And then—the saving darkness.
***
Literally ten seconds later, John returned to the laboratory. He surveyed the frozen scene. On the floor, in a pool of her own blood, lay the unconscious black-and-white body of the city heroine. Above her, with a marker in his hand and an expression of absolute stupor on his face, frozen was Peter Parker, whose intellect, enhanced by the Potion, had obviously failed, facing such a blatant violation of all the laws of probability.
John only gave a tired chuckle, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
"Well. Only had to step out to the restroom for a couple of minutes, and September 22nd reminds us of its existence again..."