A few weeks later.
“Play!” whined the little white-haired girl with unique eyes that held all the colors of the rainbow, demandingly thrusting a toy robot toward Tony.
“I’m busy,” he replied with weary resignation, focusing on soldering a new circuit board.
The old one had fallen in the line of duty during a test run, and now he had to build a new, far more reliable one.
Which was exactly what he had accomplished today, connecting it to the rest of the internal components of his repeatedly modified “Brain Upgrade 2.0” complex.
This time, he had accounted for the mistakes of the previous design, leaving a generous margin of safety for the physical hardware, while also pre-writing all the necessary programs and creating backups.
The most terrifying part hadn’t been the equipment exploding, but the destruction of the software, of which the overconfident child had been left with nothing but fragments of code—both functional and flawed.
And which was which, he had no idea, because he hadn’t bothered with labeling, content with dates and an arbitrary set of characters generated by the computer.
Well, lesson learned, lesson internalized; now he labeled everything.
“With what?” Lucy inquired, tilting her head adorably and eliciting a doomed gaze toward the heavens from Stark, through which he once again asked what he had done to deserve such punishment.
Not that Lucy was a bad girl, or that she misbehaved, but being an extremely curious and quick-witted child who was openly ahead of her peers, she was a terrible “why-box. ” And what was most frightening was that she never lost interest in Tony’s explanations, listening attentively to everything and MEMORIZING it…
resulting in a whole avalanche of new questions.
As a consequence, Stark was forced to give her what amounted to actual lectures on engineering and programming!
And all of this took place under the adoring gaze and barely suppressed laughter of her mother, who captured moments she deemed particularly cute on camera.
To deliver the final blow, she would say every time that it was for the family archive, having already mentally married Tony to her daughter, receiving a delightfully gloomy expression from him with a new surge of positive energy.
And Stark would look at Lucy every time, thinking, realizing that he preferred much more mature and curvaceous beauties, and would keep his mouth shut, because something inside told him: if you speak your mind, you will face terrible vengeance, because even though Lucy is small, she is still a female.
It might seem strange that Lucy, who wasn’t even a year old yet, already spoke well and was capable of full-scale learning, but it would only be strange if she were an ordinary child, rather than a modified one.
Who are the modified?
People whose genome has been enhanced in one way or another.
This was a relatively young and complex field, having begun its full development only about a decade ago.
While before that it grew more horizontally, focusing primarily on purely cosmetic changes, biological implants, improving crop varieties, and acting more as an appendage to cybernetics, now it was growing vertically, shifting from extensive to intensive growth.
A sufficient mass of knowledge and applied experience had simply accumulated to pique the interest of the powers that be, and scientists were able to respond to their wishes without any astronomical costs.
As a result, genetically enhanced humans appeared.
They existed before, but exclusively in high offices or in elite military departments, usually connected to intelligence.
Now, there were far more of them, even if the primary pool of patients consisted of young people under the age of 21.
Older organisms tolerate intervention into their genome much worse and, as a result, can suffer serious damage, develop malignant tumors, shorten their lifespan, or die altogether.
Formally, Tony was also a modified human, but his genome had only been cleared of malignant DNA strands, with special attention paid to hereditary diseases, and that was it, whereas Lucy was a fully modified human.
She hadn’t just undergone modification at the embryo stage; she was the product of a mother’s egg and a father’s sperm altered by geneticists, developing in a special incubation chamber and being progressively enhanced.
The main emphasis was placed on appearance, health, intellect, and her organism’s tolerance to implants.
They had even increased her bio-current production, since many elite cybernetic models are powered precisely by it.
Hence the white hair and the unique iris color—consequences of an intervention into the genome that was extremely deep and well-thought-out, yet poorly controlled in minor details.
So there was no need to be surprised that the baby understood things that not every adult was capable of grasping, especially now, while Tony got by with basic concepts and images.
Lucy was still a long way from the details.
“It’ll be funny if she masters engineering before learning the multiplication table,” Tony chuckled, realizing how absurd the thought was…
at first glance.
Still, basic mathematics wasn’t that difficult a task when you had technology that accelerated learning, an absolute memory, and a brain literally wired for absorbing, analyzing, and utilizing information.
“Assembling a flow distributor to reduce the load on the main power line. So it doesn’t blow up again,” the young Stark finally replied to the little girl’s question.
“I am forced to note that the component configuration you are creating is not certified by a qualified specialist and possesses a number of weak points in its design,” chimed in Omnissiah, whom Tony had repainted in red.
He absolutely detests pink, and this way it at least matched the lore and theme.
Alas, he hadn’t been able to change the holographic, mustachioed anime face; Claire had made a rather primitive and single-use holographic projector, and had placed it in such a way that it couldn’t be removed without completely dismantling the head.
“It is certified by me,” Tony replied greenlighting it.
“The probability of an explosion of the designed equipment is seven point three percent. An unacceptably high risk; it is recommended to install additional fuses.”
“No need, the main load will be distributed between the netrunner chair, the data center, and the adapters,” Tony grumbled, though half-heartedly.
He didn’t know what his parents had tweaked inside Omnissiah, but she was developing rapidly, even precipitously, and within just a few days of active involvement, she could offer genuinely good advice on his project.
And, of course, send reports to his parents regarding what she recommended, what she advised, where Tony himself was taking excessive risks, and so forth, and they in turn forced him to redo moments they deemed particularly “risky.
“Strangely enough, they completely trusted the machine in this matter.
Even though Claire checked the code of her creation on a regular basis, Omnissiah was still a crude, rushed piece of work not designed for complex mathematical tasks and building engineering projects.
Either his mother’s genius was that vast, or there was something he didn’t know about the source code Claire used when creating her brainchild.
“Notification sent to Mr. and Mrs. Stark,” the treacherous piece of iron informed him, completely ignoring Tony, just like every time before.
“And what is this for?” little Lucy poked a microcircuit.
“Sigh…” Tony breathed.
“Hee-hee-hee-hee…” Lucy couldn’t contain herself.
Somewhere beneath the slums.
“So, how do you like it?” Claire asked, gesturing widely at the space.
“Plenty of room, expansion work can be carried out both deep and wide, there are three tunnels—two leading out of the city, one into the slums.”
“Unfamiliar architecture. What is this?” inquired a well-groomed Japanese man in Arasaka’s signature black-and-red suit.
Ryu Kushinada was actively scanning the ceiling and beams of the structure he saw, trying to calculate the strength of the crude but generally interesting design.
And judging by what his cybernetic eyes were showing, either his optics were malfunctioning, or the builders of this place were total paranoiacs.
“A Cold War-era bunker,” Robert answered briefly.
“Designed in response to the Russian test of the Tsar Bomba in 1961.”
“Tsar Bomba?” Ryu repeated.
He knew little about that project, but apparently, the initial design had been changed, otherwise the Soviets stood every chance of if not causing a tectonic plate shift, then triggering devastating earthquakes across the entire globe, which was why the original yield had been seriously reduced.
“What is the situation with Net access here?” he cast the useless trivia out of his head.
“We will have to lay a cable, but nothing difficult is anticipated.”
“We can duplicate the connection with transmitters accessing satellites; that way, we can ensure not only communication but also power for the future laboratory. The main thing is to work well on the shielding.”
“Mhm,” Ryu nodded in agreement.
Initially, he hadn’t expected much from the local gaijin, but the level of professionalism they had already displayed genuinely pleased him, as did the connections acquired during this assignment.
If everything went smoothly, he would be able to assume the post of director at the local branch of the zaibatsu, and from there, with luck and good performance, gain control over the entire European district.
“What can you offer for backup power sources? The project is far too important for Arasaka to limit ourselves to half-measures.”
“A nuclear reactor,” Claire answered.
“After the failed coup, many highly qualified engineers who were ideological or simply did not fit in with the new political elite fled the Soviet Union, settling in Poland and other Slavic countries. Including those who had access to classified information.”
“Not the best recommendation, considering the Chernobyl accident,” Kushinada noted.
“An early project, rushed construction. Research was conducted after the accident. And thanks to that, Russian nuclear power remains one of the best in the world to this day… as is their entire energy sector in general.”
“Hard to argue,” Ryu was forced to admit.
Even though he was a patriot of his country, he acknowledged the achievements of the Russians in this area.
After all, SovOil had been the first to learn how to extract highly efficient fuel from renewable resources, leaving oil for the production of complex chemicals and other materials.
“But will the refugees be able to build a modern reactor and keep it a secret?”
“They are classified information holders who have families here. The reactor is of an old design, but the blueprint is tested and reliable; it can act as the main source of energy,” Robert joined in.
“Good,” the corporate suit nodded with satisfaction.
“Saburo-sama will be pleased to hear of such capabilities from our foreign partners; it is not for nothing that we chose your country for the project.”
“Have the deadlines been set yet?” Claire asked with interest.
“The methodologies have been mastered, the equipment designed, and by the time construction is finished, it will be stripped of its teething troubles. All that remains is to select personnel of the appropriate caliber and future project participants,” their interlocutor eagerly boasted.
“We can begin immediately upon completion of construction.”
After all, the information was far from secret, and the Polish president’s people would still need time to prepare everything on schedule.
“What about your side?”
“Everything is ready, construction crews have been assembled and are waiting for the go-ahead, materials for the primary phase of construction are waiting on the rocks.”
“And what about the churchmen? I heard their head is not very pleased with our arrangements.”
“Cardinal Lewandowski will not be a problem,” Robert assured their important trade partner, his face remaining unchanged but grimacing internally with displeasure.
“He is needed for influencing the crowd, but he holds no real political power in this matter.”
“I certainly hope so,” he was given a calm nod in response.
“Otherwise, the Arasaka Corporation will have to defend its interests, or, in the case of excessively high costs, sever business relations with the government of the Polish Republic. I believe that is not in your interests. ” The most obvious threat slipped from Ryu’s lips as easily as his breath.
He was willing to tolerate a lot for the sake of career growth, but only from his corporation and subordinates; someone else’s unprofessionalism drove the unfeeling perfectionist out of his mind.
Usually, blood would spill after something like that.
And the blood of a handful of fanatics who rejected technology and blindly followed an outright heretic he would pour like water, should even a hint of trouble arise from their side.
“The Cardinal will not be a problem. His power over the crowd is great, but state and shadow structures are outside his zone of influence.”
“I have heard you, and you have heard me.”
Poland.
Warsaw.
Electronics Market.
Two months later.
“How much!? I could assemble an adapter myself for that kind of money, and I’d still have half left over!” complained a nearly nine-year-old toddler (his birthday was in a couple of weeks), currently sitting in Omnissiah’s arms, where he had been forcefully placed due to his hyperactive nature and the large crowd.
“Boy, this isn’t just an adapter, it’s the latest Petrochem model! They install these little things at their stations! It’s not just a piece of plastic and copper, it’s a complex mechanism with specialized software for redistributing energy flows. Something like this removes the load from the main system and saves computing power, without overloading the main server with thousands of offloading operations,” a slightly stout, balding, but still sturdy man in his fifties assured Tony.
“Yeah, and then you have to replace them every month,” Tony snorted dismissively.
“I’m telling you in plain human language: I need a simple adapter with voltage adjustment, not these trendy gadgets! Simple, reliable as a stick, and cheap! So that if it breaks, I can just pick it up and throw it away, instead of grinding my teeth trying to fix expensive garbage made of copper and plastic for a bunch of eddies!”
“Well, I don’t have the model you need, kid. I don’t!” the vendor threw his hands up.
“Everything we had was snapped up long ago, and there won’t be new arrivals because it’s been discontinued.”
“Omnissiah, is that true?” Tony asked his robo-nanny, which was equipped with highly sensitive sensors and a lie-detection program.
“No,” the robot replied.
“Then, if he lies again, break his arm,” Tony answered, narrowing his eyes with satisfaction.
The nerve, people trying to scam kids into buying overpriced junk.
“Understood,” she replied with barely discernible satisfaction in her voice.
Tony glanced sideways at his protector-guardian, but decided he was imagining things, though he mentally resolved to dig around in her head at the first opportunity.
“Hey, hey, take it easy man!” the merchant raised his hands nervously.
“I really don’t have the model you need, but I have the materials for it!”
“Hand them over,” he was given a gracious nod in response.
“Thirteen eddies,” he replied, laying out a kit for assembling one adapter.
“How much!?” Tony protested, making the merchant wince.
“I can buy a brand new, pre-assembled one for that kind of money and still have change left over!” And so the argument entered a new round.
In general, Tony was a frequent guest at this market.
Warsaw was rich in all kinds of markets, and they all stood out due to the presence of a wide variety of high-quality goods at comparatively low prices, which could be brought down even lower if you knew how to haggle.
Tony knew how.
It worked especially well for him when a two-meter heavy piece of iron with smooth lines, a shotgun on its back, and an automatic pistol on its belt loomed behind him.
All the more so at the electronics market, where the vendors, by virtue of the nature of their goods, understood technology and could immediately identify a custom-built model looking after an obviously wealthy boy.
How did they figure out he was wealthy?
By his clothes and the cleanliness of his face.
The former was the credit of Tony himself, who knew how to dress and appreciated good things; the latter was exclusively the doing of Lucy Kushinada , quite the clean-freak who loved to slobber over other people’s faces.
Before meeting this woman, Tony could afford to walk around brutally with oil or some other technical fluid on his face; now, to avoid the humiliating process, he was forced to always be clean and tidy, even in his own home.
As for the merchants…even though Tony came from a wealthy family, he knew the value of money.
He knew how to save and disliked it when people tried to cheat him, which made all the market inhabitants who dealt with him on a regular basis howl.
The little Stark’s particularly stubborn temperament became unbearable over the last month, as he had almost, almost finished his installation, which definitely wouldn’t burn out this time!
If only because this time he was paying far more attention to the materials science of the components, and he was being assisted by Omnissiah with a direct connection to the Net and a whole array of engineering programs.
“This time everything has to work out!” Tony thought with cautious anticipation, pressing his purchases tighter to his chest.
He didn’t know why he had fixated specifically on this technology, didn’t know where this determination came from, but he was certain: as soon as he underwent the planned procedure, everything would change.
The mysteries that had weighed on him since childhood, the dreams full of feelings and emotions, the incredible knowledge surpassing so very much of what exists today—all of this would receive an explanation the exact moment he turned on his device.
The main thing was to build it.
Meanwhile, the child in the robot’s arms was leaving the market.
Another peaceful day in the expanses of Warsaw, whose residents are among the few in the entire world who can say they live not much worse than their ancestors from the end of the 20th century.
And all thanks to the firm hand of the current president and the Polish Church, who hold power and prevent chaos from engulfing the streets of Polish cities.
Only a lone priest strains his throat near the entrance, dressed in rags and using a pair of connected pipes instead of a cross.
“Listen to me, servants of His, listen, for I speak the truth to you! Reject the excesses of technology, stop replacing the flesh granted to you by God with vile metal, for this is the path to Hell! Renounce Evil, rise up against the corporations, overthrow the Devil’s henchmen, and turn your gaze to the true Light…”
But no one paid attention to the madman.
He had long since become a local attraction, regularly coming specifically to this market for his sermons until the police would take him to the station, hold him for a few days in a precinct cell, and let him go.
After all, he wasn’t hurting anyone.
Only a few noticed that for some reason he was no longer being touched.
Even fewer saw in this the first seeds of a storm.
Republic of Poland.
Warsaw.
The Kushinada Family Home.
A year later.
Located opposite the Stark house, the standard European-style cottage was quite tidy, well-maintained, and not very flashy, completely failing to create the impression that its owner turned over multi-million financial volumes.
For better or worse, Ryu Kushinada was a patriot to his core, striving in every way to live up to the image of a samurai from his homeland’s past, only instead of Japan, he considered Arasaka his home, and Saburo Arasaka his lord.
Which was the norm for a hereditary corporate employee.
The Kushinada family had joined Arasaka back under Saburo’s father, Sasai Arasaka.
Not to say that the family had been able to rise greatly over these years, if only because dozens of such “dynasties” existed in the Japanese branch, but the Kushinada family had managed to secure a place as valuable, loyal, and above all, successful cadres.
Ryu, however, represented the new generation—young, ambitious, and yet to prove his utility to the corporation in proper measure.
Successes existed, of course, especially in the military field, but they were completely insufficient for him to be appointed to the post of head of one of the corporation’s strategic projects.
Semi-legal, dangerous, located far from blessed Japan—even so, had he not been a Kushinada , he wouldn’t have seen such a post for another twenty years.
His appointment was an advance payment and the result of trust earned by his surname over a long two hundred years of service to the Arasaka family.
And he understood this.
Understood and appreciated it.
Sitting in his office, Ryu read the reports of the research group.
The task before them was phenomenal, complex, and thoroughly illegal: to raise a group of netrunners that could successfully harvest data from beyond the Black Wall.
That is, they had to be able to cross this barrier in both directions, know what to look for, download it quickly, and return, all while avoiding wild AIs.
A complex task.
Problematic, but promising massive prospects both for the company itself and for Ryu Kushinada .
According to the initial plans, it was intended to use experienced netrunners who had proven their effectiveness, supplying them with advanced chrome almost to the point of turning them into a borg, where only a snippet of the nervous system and the brain remain of the human.
A simple but reliable idea, but there was a problem in the form of a small number of candidates.
Adam Smasher is not valued so highly in the ranks of their company for nothing and has achieved global fame; far from every person can endure the procedure of full body replacement with implants, and even fewer retain at least a drop of sanity while doing so.
Adam Smasher is unique in this regard, remaining himself even when relocated into a jar connected to a cyber-body.
Finding even one identical unique individual is a non-trivial task in itself, but turning him into a borg loyal to the corporation on top of that?
Practically impossible, considering WHAT tasks would stand before him, and this despite the fact that such a specialist would be far more useful in other directions.
Then Ryu decided to change the approach, reasoning correctly that no one would give him a second Adam Smasher; he needed to raise one independently.
The ideas ranged wildly, from cloning Arasaka’s famous borg to creating a neural computer based on his DNA with its subsequent use for penetrating the Old Net.
Alas, all analyst forecasts showed either too little efficiency or unjustifiably large expenditures of time.
And yet, while they are treadling water, Militech has its own projects for harvesting knowledge from beyond the Wall.
But Ryu managed to deliver a project that turned out to be that very golden 20-to-80 rule.
20% of effort brings 80% of the result.
Project “umenoko tomodachi” received the green light and highest praise from Saburo Arasaka himself, who appreciated not only the effectiveness but also the value of the idea.
The ability to raise loyal and skilled netrunners who would have no equal among others of their kind could reflect very well on the company’s security and methods for subtle elimination of targets.
He was provided with everything necessary: genetic laboratories, medical databases, the best specialists, and unlimited supplies of test subjects from the overpopulated streets of Japanese cities.
Just seven years of research, and he was able to obtain a stable result in raising the best netrunners in the entire world, those who are an order of magnitude superior to everyone else.
Give them a server, equipment, and access to the Net, and they will be an unstoppable force.
Genetic modifications outstripping modern counterparts by at least half a century; specially designed implants, more than half of which are responsible for the correct formation of the organism; serums, hormonal complexes, and a set of vitamins that extract the maximum out of the user’s artificially expanded genetic potential.
The final result is a netrunner with a sturdy body, good compatibility with chrome, improved heat exchange, a nervous system exceeding the standard one by eight times, and brain tissue whose density exceeds basic indicators threefold.
Genius intellect, accelerated maturation, improved body control, low perspiration, and an extreme reaction speed turned out to be just a pleasant bonus; the true potential of the children he created will unfold only in a netrunner chair, when connected to a powerful data center and suit.
Ryu couldn’t resist; he set aside the documents and brought up a view from a security camera on his desktop screen, which displayed his daughter, Lucyna.
The little girl was in a netrunner suit and chair, connected to the Net.
He switched to another screen showing what was happening in their home digital fortress.
His daughter, his greatest triumph, was currently countering several combat daemons.
Countering them successfully!
What not every adult, mediocre netrunner could master, his daughter resolved without any particular difficulties.
He hadn’t just created the best netrunners; he had created a new species of human, the next step of evolution.
Stable, devoid of mutations, the best in everything.
Lucy is the Alpha and Omega, the best of the new seed.
The one who received the best set of genes, the one whose birth is the result not of chaotic evolution, but of human genius.
Unlike her future brothers and sisters, she was ALREADY born above the rest—better, stronger, sturdier, and more resilient.
Banally more beautiful.
The progenitor of a new species.
And someone like her, the best in everything, is already preparing for all the procedures, already taking precisely calculated supplements, and has already accepted into herself the first implants for controlling development to become EVEN better and more perfect.
Ryu clenched his hands, suppressing a tremor.
He yearned to see what the new generation of the Kushinada family would grow into, yearned to beget those who would magnify their surname and place it at the apex of the corporate hierarchy.
And Lucyna would be the first.
The first, but far from the only one.
At the same time.
The Stark house.
“Master Tony, it is time to wake up,” a obnoxious mechanical voice of an infernal machine, merely masking itself as a robo-nanny, tore him away from a pleasant dream involving himself and a couple of models in a jacuzzi.
“Begone clanker,” he muttered, not particularly believing in gods but trying to summon higher powers out of desperation, wrapping himself tighter in the warm, soft, and cozy blanket.
“Master Tony, it is time to wake up,” Omnissiah repeated.
“According to the compiled schedule, you must begin your morning workout in seven minutes and twenty-four seconds, otherwise you will be late for breakfast.”
“It’s seven in the morning, SEVEN” groaned the martyr, a victim of the soulless piece of iron, cracking his eyes open and checking the time.
“Why do you do this to me?” Tony asked, addressing either a non-existent god, the universe, or Omnissiah.
At 9 years old, the young Stark realized one important thing about himself…he was a night owl.
A textbook one.
He could fall asleep at three, four, five in the morning and wake up at 11:00–12:00 fresh as a daisy, except he’d want to go to sleep earlier by nighttime.
But if he got up even a fraction before ten in the morning, no matter how early he went to bed, he would be sleepy, sluggish, and generally wrung out like a sponge until lunchtime at best.
Alas, coffee is forbidden to him due to his age, as are energy drinks; the former leaches calcium from the bones, the latter is poorly tolerated by a still-young organism, so he suffers.
And up to a certain point, this hadn’t been a problem, but at some juncture, his parents got it into their heads to take up his extra education, though it would seem, where could there be room for more?
He was already remotely passing the curriculum of several European universities simultaneously and, unlike other slackers, he wasn’t tested by a program or a teacher via online communication, but by Omnissiah and his parents.
Three judges, like the heads of Cerberus, closed off the passage to the world of idling, cheating, and relaxation.
But!
On top of the already existing intellectual load, they added a physical load from above.
And if anyone thought that two former KGB agents currently working as a sort of oprichniki for a local dictator would limit themselves to running, a boxing section, a gym, or a swimming pool, they were an extremely naive person.
Shooting with all types of weapons, weapon maintenance, cross-country orientation, intelligence gathering in urban environments, clearing tracks, target elimination (both stealth and assault), field medicine, knife fighting, fencing, evading pursuit, throwing off tracks, camouflage, and acting—here is a list of by no means all, but the main subjects being taught to a NINE-YEAR-OLD child!
Childhood traumas?
Morality?
The value of human life?
Nah, never heard of it, his parents said and added a couple of extra assignments, otherwise there was too much time for all kinds of nonsense.
His brilliant brain was being exploited to the fullest, raising some kind of death machine rather than a civilian specialist.
The little Stark didn’t think much about his life, unlike his parents.
No matter how young Robert and Claire looked—like people in their late twenties—in reality, both were well over sixty.
Modern medicine and upgrades performed in their youth had done their work, seriously extending their younger years, and modern plastic surgery allows one to change height, gender, and even species affiliation altogether, replacing skin with a coat of fur and growing animal ears and a tail.
Or gills and scales.
In short, anyone looks however they want.
In the modern world, especially when you enter power structures, and ESPECIALLY when those power structures are connected with security forces, keeping your hands clean is a rarity, practically a labor of Hercules.
In the second half of the 21st century, human life is worth nothing and the sole metric is strength.
Will you draw the blood of anyone who covets you, your family, and your property?
You stand a chance of living a long and good life, even passing something down to your grandchildren.
Are you weak?
It doesn’t matter how smart, wealthy, or beautiful you are; it will be taken away, you will be used, and when you exhaust your utility, you will be thrown into the street to rot.
Tony’s parents understood how this world worked and knew what might come in handy for their child, which was why both invested in his education more than seriously.
Their child became a killer?
So what?
He killed outright scum who had lost every right to be called human—parasites of society living off the grief and deaths of law-abiding citizens.
Tony has too many activities?
A braindance with special equipment ordered exclusively for his neural connections, plus a naturally perfect memory, and we compress several years of study into a measly year, with parallel training in other directions.
Add to that cognitive activity stimulants with a couple of supplements for recovering strength.
Expensive, extremely expensive; the sum numbered six zeros even during preparation, and since the start of classes, though it hadn’t acquired a seventh zero, the digit standing before the zeros is far from a one.
But the final result was worth it.
Granted, in just a year of classes, even Tony wouldn’t become a master and professional of all the above, banally because practice is needed besides theory, but he had already reached the level of a confident amateur.
But that was, so to speak, the practical, down-to-earth part, whereas what was happening in the soul of the young Stark was known only to him.
At first, he took everything with enthusiasm.
He liked to learn, discover new things, test himself, and challenge his talents.
And then came the first “practical application” in knife fighting.
Nothing special, just his father arrived in the evening, took him along, drove somewhere to the border with the slums, after which he told him to wait in the car.
Well, he waited.
His father returned quickly, just 20 minutes, and he steps out of a armored monster with a machine gun on the roof, directing his steps into some alleyway.
An alleyway with three corpses.
Three scavengers, lovers of black braindances, kidnappers and butchers who harvested organs and implants from defenseless victims for sale.
Tony didn’t pity them; moreover, he despised them, perceiving them as something foul and unnatural, something that shouldn’t exist.
But, on the other hand, they were humans.
Humans who should have been tried and punished according to the law, not like this, in a back alley, without evidence.
At that moment, two things clashed in his head: principles and a mindset acquired from dreams, versus his father’s authority, backed by years of living in this world.
And then Robert gave him a knife and told him to practice strikes into vulnerable points on the body.
Arteries, organs, nerve intersections, empty spaces between ribs—all of this he had to practice on three human bodies.
Terrible and unacceptable in relation to a child?
Perhaps by the standards of the end of the 20th century it is so, but the present world is a far more cruel place.
A good parent is not one who raises a decent human being; a good parent is one who teaches their child to survive.
Teaches them to defend themselves and not be a silent victim, teaches them to precisely determine their strength and how to use it for victory.
Ultimately, the cold and rational side of his personality took over that day; he gripped the knife given to him more comfortably…
and struck, feeling a piece of himself die, and something else taking its place, something more appropriate to the surrounding realities.
The bodies were still warm.
And yet, Tony didn’t complain anymore.
He didn’t whine.
But he didn’t experience his former enthusiasm either.
There were three more such outings; the last one ended with his first real-life kill, rather than one in a simulator.
“That was easy,” Tony thought when the body of an adult man pumped up on steroids dropped with a split head, while his finger pressed the trigger of a smart pistol.
At that moment, he didn’t experience any particular shocks, mood swings, or anything described in books and shown in movies.
There simply came the realization that he had killed a human being and didn’t feel anything substantial about it.
Strange?
Monstrous?
Perhaps.
At most, there was a sense of a dirty and unpleasant, but necessary job that he had performed.
Later, he was shown a file with the “exploits” of the bandit he killed.
Rapes, kidnappings, human trafficking, forced addiction to heavy drugs…