Chapter 4.
I woke up to the sound of my own groan, soaked in cold sweat. Fragments of the nightmare were still flashing behind my eyes — I'd been walking through the park when the Hulk appeared out of nowhere and started tearing everything apart, and I ran, except I couldn't get away no matter how hard I tried. The faster I ran, the closer his roar got. My heart was hammering, but strangely — there was no panic, no animal terror. Just a simple fact: I'd had a bad dream. Yesterday's encounter had clearly left its mark on my psyche.
I sat up on the mattress and rubbed my face with both hands. My body ached, especially my legs — the very legs that had nearly given out on me during that chaos yesterday. Every muscle announced the excessive strain it had endured. Except something was different.
I checked in with myself. Yes, the pain was there. But it was… distant. Like loud music coming from a neighbor's apartment through the wall: you know it's there, but it doesn't bother you. Gone was the familiar urge to moan, to feel sorry for myself, to stay in bed. Instead, a thought surfaced in my head — clear and precise:
*The muscles are damaged from excessive load. They need nutrients and moderate activity to recover. Lying still will impair blood flow and extend the healing time.*
I got up. Not through gritted teeth, not against my own resistance — simply because it was the logical and correct next step. Hell. So this was what the word "synergy" actually meant. "Iron Discipline" had kept me from staying in bed. "Nerves of Steel" had muffled the pain and the residual fear from yesterday and from the nightmare. And "Structural Thinking" had immediately helped me analyze the situation and find the optimal explanation and plan. Each one was a modest little perk on its own. Together, they made a formidable cocktail. The world didn't feel quite so hostile and chaotic anymore. It was full of dangers, yes — but those dangers could be analyzed, categorized, and possibly even used.
While I drank my tea, the warm liquid chasing away the last of the sleep, my brain was already running at full speed.
Yesterday had given me a fairly clear demonstration of my actual situation — and of just how dangerous and real this world was. Training was well and good, and the system rewarded it. But it was a long, expensive road. And in the here and now, a chunk of wall could fall on my head or a car could come flying at me. I needed something more effective. I needed strength, and I needed it soon — as soon as was possible given my circumstances.
The first thought was the most obvious and the most cowardly: get out of New York. Find some quiet little town in the middle of nowhere, or better yet, go back home, where there were no superheroes and no supervillains. But I dismissed that idea immediately. Running was an illusion. This was the Marvel universe — you couldn't simply hide, because the problems would follow you everywhere. Even if I left, Thanos's Snap would reach me on another planet. There was no shelter from it. Here in New York, at least I had some idea of what to expect. In a manner of speaking.
I sat down at the laptop and sipped my tea. It was time to test one important hypothesis. I started searching — not just news, but historical records, archives, and various forums.
The Chitauri? Check. The attack on New York — check. Thor, the Hulk, Captain America — check, their photos had appeared in the press, though some were blurry the way photos of such things always were. The events of Iron Man 3 hadn't happened yet — Stark was still living in his mansion, and based on my memories, he was working on an entire army of suits and hadn't yet crossed paths with the fake Mandarin. Hm. So the timeline hadn't moved too far ahead. I had a little time to prepare for the arrival of the big purple guy.
I also looked into the topic of mutants, and found a boarding school for gifted teenagers under the direction of Professor Charles Xavier, along with a wealth of other information about them. I kept coming across news stories about clashes between something called the "Brotherhood of Mutants" and government forces. The upshot was that this world contained not only heroes from the MCU, but mutants from the X-Men universe as well.
Then I pulled up information on other countries. Yes, they had their own heroes too. England, Japan, Russia — everywhere there were hints of heroes, mutants, and conspiracy theories that had leaked online.
Unfortunately, running wasn't an option. This world was dangerous everywhere — the nature of the danger just differed by location. So I couldn't run. I had to find opportunities instead. And the Development System was my greatest advantage — except it didn't grant instant power. Which meant I had to look for something else. Something I could get right now.
I opened a text document on the computer and disconnected the laptop from the internet. Better safe than sorry. Then I started writing down everything I could remember about the Marvel universe. Every way to gain power.
The super soldier serum? Every known version was either lost or came with horrific side effects. I was no Erskine — I couldn't improve on the formula, not even close. So even if I somehow got my hands on a vial, I'd be far more likely to turn into something along the lines of Red Skull, or some other freak, than Captain America. Same went for a radioactive spider bite — the same category as the serum, with an outcome that was completely unpredictable for someone like me.
Banner's blood? Heh. First I'd have to find Bruce Banner, which already pushed the difficulty level to quite a high setting. And even if I found him, getting a blood sample was one thing — not making the Big Green Guy angry in the process was another. The scenario in which the Hulk smears me across a wall seemed significantly more probable than any of the alternatives. And the example of the guy who transfused himself with Bruce Banner's blood and became the Abomination was fairly instructive. Same kind of roulette as the serum.
Magic? The Ancient One's sanctum, somewhere in Tibet or Nepal? I seemed to recall there was even an annex in New York — except how would I find it? Spend months, maybe years searching? And then study for years after that. What if I had no aptitude for it at all? Too long a road, and too unreliable. There was also the option of trying to learn magic through the internet, but that made me feel more like a monkey with a grenade — you never knew when or where it would go off.
Martial arts? Now that was an interesting option, and one that paired well with my Development System. But where would I find a genuine teacher, not a fraud? One willing to take on a broke adult nobody with a pile of problems? I didn't have a clear answer to that. The only candidate I could think of was Daredevil, but I had a suspicion that a man like that was unlikely to take me on as a student just because I asked nicely.
Going to the X-Men? As far as I understood the nature of the system, it clearly wasn't tied to the X-gene — it was closer to something that worked with souls. So that option was roughly on par with trying to become Daredevil's apprentice.
Alien artifacts like the Mandarin's rings, cutting-edge technology, the Eternals, gods, Asgard, other planets — all of it was somewhere far beyond the reach of a guy who was no genius, lived in a slum, and counted every dollar he spent on food.
I leaned back in the chair, which creaked in protest. I had the knowledge but not the means. I was like a hungry man standing in front of a restaurant window, looking in through the glass. Everything came back to my own insignificance and my complete lack of resources. I was a grain of sand in a desert.
Two days. Two long days of nothing but digging through the internet and scribbling in my text document, analyzing and building diagrams. "Structural Thinking" helped me organize the information and find connections — but it couldn't conjure solutions out of thin air. I went through dozens of possibilities and hit the same wall every time: I lacked education, connections, money, and plain luck.
Then, on the third day, over yet another cup of tea, I finally managed to piece together a plan that might actually work in my situation. Fragile and unreliable — but something.
In this world, there was a genuine hero to his core. Captain America. Steve Rogers. The kind of man who would help simply because it was the right thing to do. He had his principles, he believed in justice and honesty. He was part of the Avengers team, and he had access to SHIELD's resources.
And I knew something. I remembered his friend Bucky. I remembered that he was alive — but his mind had been wiped, and right now he was somewhere in Russia, in HYDRA's hands. That information should be worth a great deal to Steve. And maybe I could trade it for help. Not for millions of dollars — for the bare essentials: safety, decent food, a roof over my head, some safe supplements for physical development, access to a gym, maybe a trainer. Everything I needed to get in shape quickly and start earning Will Points through brutal training. The Development System didn't produce sudden jumps in ability, so all my progress would look entirely natural — no one would suspect I had something resembling a game system running in my head.
The question was: how do I reach him? That was the harder part. I didn't know where he lived. The Avengers compound? I wouldn't even be able to get through the front door. In my search for options I even thought of that post-credits scene — the one where they all eat shawarma after the battle with the Chitauri. But I didn't remember where that place was, and hoping for a chance encounter seemed like pure idiocy.
That meant going online. Digging through archives, forums, and public records. It took a long time, and by the end of the day my eyes ached from the constant strain. But I found Tony Stark's address. His Malibu estate, where he spent most of his time.
The plan was this: go there and try to get Stark's attention. Present things in a way that would make him pass word of me to Steve. Stark himself wasn't particularly useful to me. Yes, he was a genius, a billionaire, a playboy, a philanthropist — but none of that changed the fact that he was unreliable. He might just throw a few thousand dollars at me and show me the door. Or ignore me entirely.
No — I needed Captain America specifically. So I'd tell Stark I had information intended personally for Rogers. Information about James Buchanan Barnes. To hook Stark himself, I could hint at something only I would know. For instance, I could allude to his obsession with the suits — the one that was about to spiral out of control. Or — that his beloved Pepper was in danger because of that same obsession. That should be enough to at least get me a hearing rather than a quick ejection. From there, he might mention me in passing to Steve, and Rogers's curiosity and sense of responsibility would take care of the rest.
It was risky. Very. But I didn't see another option. Sitting and waiting until a brick fell on my head during the next superhero brawl wasn't a plan either. And if this didn't work — well, then I'd go looking for Daredevil and beg him to take me on, or I'd start learning magic off the internet.
Over the next several days I didn't wring myself dry. Instead I kept to light training — just enough to finish healing the bruises and stop limping. Every day I did some push-ups, some squats, stretched. The pain, fading gradually, was still there — but "Nerves of Steel" kept it manageable, and "Iron Discipline" made sure I did exactly the right amount of work and nothing more or less.
At the same time, I threw myself into freelancing like a man possessed. My skills combined with "Structural Thinking" were working wonders — code seemed to write itself, and I was finding logical errors at a speed that would have been inconceivable to my former self. I took everything I could get, put in twelve-hour days broken up by short breaks from the screen. And money slowly accumulated in my e-wallet. I needed to save enough for decent clothes — I wasn't about to show up to Stark's place in what I normally wore — and for a taxi there and back.
Finally the bruising on my face faded completely, leaving only a barely visible yellowish tint. The money in the account was enough to buy the simplest but clean, wrinkle-resistant jeans and a dark long-sleeved shirt from a secondhand shop. I looked… acceptable. Like a poor but tidy college student.
And so the day arrived. Prepared and presentable, I called a taxi through the app on my new cheap smartphone.
The drive took about an hour.
The driver, a sullen type in a cap, shot me a disapproving look when I asked him to wait. He'd clearly already decided I was some kind of nutcase who'd come to gawk at a billionaire's house. I stepped out of the car, and fresh, salty ocean air hit me in the face. It smelled completely different from my neighborhood — none of the city's usual stench. It smelled of freedom, and of the sea.
The gate was enormous: modern, polished metal and glass. Beyond it I could make out a perfectly manicured lawn and a long approach drive leading to a futuristic structure perched right at the edge of a cliff. It really did look, just like in the film, like a spacecraft poised to drop into the ocean below.
I found the intercom panel and pressed the button. The signal sounded somewhere inside. I waited. A minute. Two.
*It's not going to work. Nobody's going to answer. I'll have to go back, and the taxi money will be the last of it,* the panicked voice inside me whimpered — but "Iron Discipline" throttled it immediately.
I stood and looked at the ocean. It was boundless, grey-blue, powerful, and beautiful. And unexpectedly, I found myself struck by a simple realization: living in a city right next to the ocean, I had never once actually swum in it. There had never been time. The constant grind, work, problems — always something. And now, looking at those waves, I felt a wild, almost childlike pity — for myself, and for the boy who'd never gotten around to it.
At that moment, a polite voice issued from the speaker, perfectly measured, with an impeccable British accent.
"Good afternoon. How may I assist you?"
I recognized it instantly. JARVIS.
"Hello," I said, trying to make my voice as confident as possible, though it still trembled slightly from the nerves. "I need to see Mr. Stark. It's extremely important."
"Mr. Stark is currently unavailable. I can pass along a message," the artificial intelligence replied, with no hint of doubt or interest.
Thank God — I'd thought through this scenario too.
"A message won't be sufficient. Please inform him that I have information of the highest priority. It concerns your creator's life directly — that is to say, Mr. Tony Stark's." I paused to breathe and continued. "As well as his… private project. The army of suits he's been building in secret. And Miss Potts. This is critically important."
A silence followed, and I understood that the AI was processing the new information — or perhaps actually relaying it to Stark in real time. I was fairly certain JARVIS had already run every check there was to run on me.
After about ten seconds of waiting, the connection seemed to be intercepted. The speaker filled with distorted sounds — people shouting, the crack of gunfire, muffled explosions. And then a completely different voice came through — sharp, taut, with the distinctive cadences of Tony Stark.
"All right, you've got my attention. Where did you get that information? And if it's money you want, just say so — I don't have the patience for word games."
Tony Stark. In person. And he was clearly in the middle of something messy.
"I don't want money, Mr. Stark. Well — I do, but what I need from you is more of a favor. One well within your power and not particularly burdensome. As for the information — it comes from a very reliable source. A verified one."
A brief silence from the other end, broken only by the sounds of combat.
"A favor?" Stark gave a short laugh. "Interesting. Fine — come in. JARVIS will keep an eye on you. Just don't get any ideas. My house has all kinds of surprises for the curious."
The connection cut out. The gate began to slide open with an almost inaudible hiss. I turned back toward the taxi driver, who was clearly gearing up to say something, but I got there first — I walked quickly to the car and pushed the cash through the window.
"That's it. Thanks."
Without a word, he was gone, leaving me alone in front of the open gate of the estate belonging to one of the most powerful men on the planet — and a superhero, as a secondary occupation.
"Welcome, Mr. Vetrov," came the same composed voice of JARVIS from a speaker by the front door as I finally approached. "Please come inside. The door is open."
A heavy glass door slid aside without a sound, letting me in. I stopped at the threshold. Inside, it looked even more like a spacecraft. Expensive furnishings, an open multi-level space, floor-to-ceiling panoramic windows with a view of the ocean, a well-stocked bar, and technology of every imaginable variety.
"Mr. Stark has instructed me to ensure your comfort. May I offer you something to drink? The bar has a wide selection," JARVIS continued.
"Thank you, but I don't drink. If it's possible — I wouldn't mind some tea. Black, ideally," I managed. Alcohol was the last thing I wanted right now.
"Of course. Tea will be ready in a few minutes. Please have a seat."
I settled onto a sofa that turned out to be surprisingly firm and resilient, though quite comfortable to sit on. A few minutes later a hidden panel in the wall slid open and a small platform glided out silently, bearing a steaming cup. I took it in both hands, and a rich, satisfying aroma hit me immediately.
*Well. This is definitely not my supermarket teabag blend.* The wry thought passed through my mind.
"Would you like to watch television while you wait?" JARVIS inquired.
"Yes, thank you." And the moment I answered, one of the enormous wall panels came smoothly to life, showing a news channel.
The screen was covering the aftermath of today's confrontation somewhere in the Middle East. Footage rolled of smoldering ruins, running people, and — a red and gold suit, moving with practiced confidence, picking off a cluster of drones with repulsor fire. So that's where he'd been.
I looked away from the screen and took a sip of tea. It was scalding hot, strong, and without a trace of bitterness or sourness. A perfect cup.
"JARVIS — you are… the home management system?" I asked, mostly to fill the silence.
"My functions are constrained by security protocols and Mr. Stark's directives," came the polite and entirely uninformative reply. "I ensure comfort and security within the estate."
"Understood," I said with a nod.
My subsequent attempts to draw the AI into conversation went nowhere. He was courteous but gave only general, non-committal answers. So I gave up and just watched television.
About two hours passed. I was on my fifth cup of tea and had made several trips to the bathroom — which, incidentally, turned out to be smart and impressively high-tech — and I was beginning to think Stark had simply forgotten about me, when a rising roar from outside broke the quiet. Through the panoramic window I watched as Stark in his suit descended smoothly onto what appeared to be a dedicated landing platform beside the house. He looked banged up — there was even a deep gouge visible on one of his shoulder pieces.
The suit opened, and Tony Stark stepped out with a fairly brisk stride. He said something immediately over his shoulder toward the suit, and the suit sealed itself, rose, and moved off in the direction of the cliff. Somewhere in the rock face there had to be a workshop where Stark would be taking the suit for repairs later.
Then his gaze landed on me. Quick and assessing. He crossed the entire living room without a word, walked to the bar, and poured himself something amber-colored into a glass. He took a sip, made a slight face, and only then spoke.
"So — how long are you planning to sit there not saying anything. Alexei Vetrov." He said the name like he was reading from a file. "There seem to be a lot of Russians around me lately. All right — so you claim to know my secrets. Explain. Fast, clear, no dancing around it. My patience will last…" he checked some invisible internal clock, "about five minutes." He spoke quickly, with confidence, in clipped bursts, pressing down on me with nothing but his presence and his tone.
This was it. The moment of truth.