Arriving at the address, I met Louise, a nice woman around forty who was clearly worn out from the move.
She gave me a quick tour of the already almost empty house.
Walking through the rooms where our footsteps echoed, I didn’t feel emptiness; I felt potential.
Right here, in the living room, would be a kind of relaxation and planning area.
And that small room would be perfect for an office.
But the main thing was the garage.
Spacious, with a separate exit to the backyard.
My future workshop.
Louise explained that she and her family were already practically living in their new house in another state, and all they had left to do was rent out this flat house to close things out.
They’d initially listed it at $3,500, but there hadn’t been many calls — for a one-story house, even in a good neighborhood, it was a bit steep.
So that morning, they’d made a strategic decision to lower the price to $3,000.
I was one of the first to call on the new price.
Luck was on my side.
It smiled even more when Louise, apparently assessing my neat appearance and calm manner of speech, seemed to see the ideal tenant in me.
She didn’t need a problematic renter she’d have to keep an eye on from another city.
She needed someone who would just pay on time and not throw parties.
My “introverted student” story worked one hundred percent.
Literally twenty minutes after my arrival in Bay Ridge, we were already driving in her car to the notary to sign the contract.
Louise’s family’s hurry worked in my favor; she headed off to their new house that very evening.
And I spent all of the following Tuesday and Wednesday moving.
It was exhausting.
First — hauling my few but important belongings out of the fleabag in Hell’s Kitchen.
I had to break the contract with the previous landlord, who, of course, didn’t return the $500 security deposit old John had paid.
I took the loss philosophically — it was the price of saying goodbye to my old life.
Then came the setup.
Carrying boxes, arranging equipment in the garage, buying all sorts of household odds and ends.
The constant taxi rides quickly showed me a harsh truth: even my bulging pockets could be emptied if I spent money on cabs thoughtlessly.
I realized it was time to buy a car.
Not just for convenience, but as an important strategic asset.
To my great surprise, digging through my memory, I realized I already had a driver’s license.
Thank John’s foster mother, who’d actively used all social welfare programs, including free driving lessons for foster children.
Another unexpected gift from the past.
Part of Wednesday, aside from household chores, I devoted to finding a car.
Analyzing listings on Craigslist, trips to different corners of Brooklyn, inspecting several rusted buckets of bolts.
Finally, I found what I needed — a 2007 Honda CR-V.
Unobtrusive, reliable, roomy enough, and, most importantly, not attracting unnecessary attention.
The perfect “gray” car for my purposes.
For only 7,200 dollars.
After a short negotiation and inspection, I paid cash on the spot, got a receipt and a certificate of ownership, and registered the car in my name at the Brooklyn Department of Transportation that same day, paying for insurance there at 100 dollars a month.
And so, by Wednesday evening, I was sitting in my own garage, on my own folding chair, next to my own car.
I closed the doors, cutting myself off from the outside world, and finally allowed myself to take stock.
The following cards were in my hand: a reliable car, a pleasant quiet house with a year’s rent, 180 CP in the balance (in rare free moments I hadn’t been idle, but had been crafting various small items), and a thick wad of cash totaling 25,000 dollars — I had sold all the gold bars after all, methodically driving around different pawn shops across the city.
Life is good.
I felt that intoxicating sense of control and security that I had been so lacking.
But for complete liberation, a couple more steps remained.
Tomorrow I would drop out of the College of Arts.
It wasn’t a serious problem, but subconsciously I felt constrained by that formality.
And I also needed to pay off a 2,000 dollar loan.
Close all old accounts to start with a clean slate.
I spent another hour clearing out the garage, sorting my equipment and putting materials on shelves.
This monotonous work was calming and satisfying.
With a sense of accomplished duty, I topped off 20 CP on small crafting, bringing the balance to a clean two hundred, and went to sleep.
The plan for tomorrow was simple and clear.
Drop out of college.
Earn another 50 CP.
And unlock two recipes from the “Arcanum” set at once: “Muscle Stimulant” and “Protective Field Generator.” With my funds and resources, I was sure I could manage creating something from one of these two options, and each was good in its own way.
If I needed more money, I would assemble or buy a personal ore smelter right here in the garage.
But that was all for tomorrow…
The morning in the new house was different.
Quiet.
Peaceful.
The sunlight filtering through the blinds carried no anxiety or smell of dampness like in the old studio.
It promised a productive day.
The energy bubbling inside was no longer just youthful maximalism.
I felt it almost physically — something warm and dense in my chest, demanding release, thirsting to create.
Were these hormones of the young body affecting me like this?
Or was the notorious System Spark of the Creator, about which I knew practically nothing yet, truly swelling, eventually to become a full-fledged Flame of the Celestial Blacksmith?
I listened to my inner sensations.
They were specific, but definitely positive.
It was an itch in my fingertips, a desire to take tools and turn a pile of materials into something new.
This inner fire could push me toward all sorts of accomplishments, great and not so great.
Deciding not to clutter my head with philosophical questions, I had breakfast and settled down with my laptop, planning the next steps in the field of crafting.
At the same time, I was waiting out the morning traffic jams in New York, and only when the traffic eased up a bit did I get into my Honda and drive to the College.
A simple, albeit tedious, task lay before me: to officially burn my bridges.
File a withdrawal application, fill out the form to exit the loan program, listen to the mandatory consultation where someone with a tired look would explain what I had already googled.
And then — the settlement.
A semester here cost 4,500 dollars, a year — 9,000.
More expensive than my car.
John had just finished a full year, so that exact amount, plus an accrual of 300–500 dollars for these half-month period, was what I had to repay.
Fortunately, the terms of the subsidized loan were lenient: no interest, and payments could start six months later over ten years.
Naturally, I wasn’t going to drag it out.
I’d set up autopay and forget about this debt like a bad dream.
Arriving at the College, I began making the rounds of the administrative offices on rocket-like speed.
This whole bureaucratic red tape took about an hour. Get faster updates on novelping.com.
Each signature placed on the papers felt like the snap of scissors cutting another thread binding me to John’s life.
Finally, I was handed an official confirmation.
I was no longer a student of this College.
True, I hadn’t stopped being a credit slave, but that was already in the details, hah.
Satisfied, I headed for the exit.
Plans were already swarming in my head: stop by the hardware store, stock up fully, and immerse myself in crafting ecstasy for the whole day.
But my plans were not destined to come true so easily.
Right towards me, down the sun-drenched corridor, she was walking.
That familiar mop of red hair in the crowd of students was like a bright flash — Mary Jane Watson in the flesh.
Beside her walked a guy who was her complete opposite (and I don’t just mean gender, hah).
Thin, slightly stooped, he was made of sharp angles and nervous energy, and behind the lenses of round-framed glasses hid a gaze accustomed to book pages, not people’s faces.
Green sweater, worn jeans…
No offense to the guy, but he was an archetypal representative of the nerd faction, a textbook specimen.
And it would have been fine.
I wasn’t going to change my route or start a conversation.
The girl noticed me and gave a welcoming nod with a slight smile.
I nodded back, trying to keep an impassive expression.
We passed each other.
I had already taken a couple of steps, immersed in my thoughts about the upcoming crafting, when a fragment of their conversation reached my ears.
One word.
More precisely, one name she uttered made me freeze in place.
.”..There’s really nothing complicated there, Peter, with your brains you’ll fix that spotlight in no time…”
What she said next, I missed.
My hearing had latched onto that one single word, and the rest of the world simply ceased to exist.
A name.
Peter.
My brain, which at that moment had urgently kicked into high gear, instantly sifted through gigabytes of meta-knowledge.
Peter.
In Mary Jane’s orbit…
Thin.
Nerd.
Glasses…
The puzzle clicked together with a deafening, silent flash.
Peter.
Parker.
I stared at the back of this stooped guy, trying to match his image with the legend.
There was no confidence, no hidden strength, not even a hint of that witty hero he was supposed to become.
Only awkward youth.
That’s what a lack of a radioactive spider bite does to people…
The question is different.
What should I do?
And is it even worth doing anything?
Reasons for intervention?
At least two, and both are weighty.
First — Peter Parker is a damn Genius.
One of the smartest people in this world.
I don’t know how brilliant this particular version of him is, but that can easily be gauged from a conversation.
Second — his tragic future.
His Lizard alter-ego, which is almost inevitable in those variations of the universe where Spider-Gwen exists.
I’m not a hero, but…
Is it possible to prevent the emergence of one of New York’s rather dangerous monsters at the inception stage?
So, stop.
No rush.
Let’s think it all through again.
Coldly and systematically.
Asset: Genius.
What significance does this have specifically for me?
I am not a genius, not even close.
I am a practitioner with access to potentially incredible technologies.
But I don’t always understand the fundamental principles underlying them.
Parker is a bridge.
He’s not just a resource.
He’s a force multiplier.
A living supercomputer capable of taking my blueprints from the Forge — artifacts from other realities that violate the laws of physics — and finding a way to make them work here, in my garage, with a soldering iron and parts from a radio market.
He could explain the biochemistry of the Muscle Stimulant to me, optimize the mechanism for the Protective Field Generator, help with programming.
This isn’t just accelerating CP farming.
This is a quantum leap in the quality and speed of my development.
Peter Parker is one of the few universal geniuses, and ignoring such an asset when it’s literally within arm’s reach would be criminally stupid.
Passive: Lizard.
And on the other side of the scale is his monstrous alter-ego.
Honestly, moral dilemmas and Gwen’s path to becoming a heroine concern me little.
What concerns me is risk analysis.
Is this tragedy as important for Gwen as, say, her father’s death?
Judging by how Peter is currently shadowing Mary Jane, ready to fulfill her request, he likely doesn’t have a close relationship with Gwen right now.
His action would most likely be driven by envy of the superheroine (if he already knows about her alter-ego) and a desire to prove something to the world.
Classic.
A weakness that can and should be exploited.
Preventing his transformation means eliminating a future threat and, possibly, gaining his loyalty.
No.
They’re leaving.
The window of opportunity is closing with every second.
The first step in any strategy is gathering data.
I need to talk to him.
Assess him.
Understand who is in front of me — a future Nobel laureate, a future monster, or just a downtrodden former teenager.
Yes, that’s the simplest and most obvious option.
The results of this conversation will be my starting point.
They were already almost out of sight around the corridor’s corner.
The chance was slipping away.
I needed to act immediately.
“Hey, MJ, hold up!” I called out, trying to make my voice sound as casual as possible.
They stopped.
Mary Jane turned, and surprise flashed across her face, replaced by friendliness.
“I overheard something about a spotlight…
what catastrophe happened?” I walked closer, deliberately using the word “catastrophe” to play on her slight theatricality.
It worked.
The girl threw up her hands, and a tragic note crept into her voice.
“Oh, it’s just awful!
The main spotlight on one of the rehearsal stages broke!
And the official electrician needs to put in a request, wait three days…
you know that bureaucracy!
And the girls and I have a performance in a small theater tomorrow, we absolutely need to hold a final rehearsal today!” She paused and proudly nodded toward her companion.
“Fortunately, after arranging with the department, I managed to bring in an independent expert from outside!”
I shifted my gaze to Peter, who, under this title, shrank even more and looked like he wanted to melt into the wall.
“An expert, huh?” I allowed myself a slight smirk, extending my hand to Parker.
“Are you sure he can handle it?
He gives off the vibe of more of a theorist than a practitioner.”
“He’ll handle it just fine!” Mary Jane immediately jumped to his defense, as Peter awkwardly shook my hand.
“Peter is the smartest person I know!”
“And this smartest person,” I pretended to frantically run through options in my head, though I had actually chosen the test beforehand, “can he, for example, assemble a Marx Generator?”
Mary Jane looked questioningly at the guy, obviously having no idea what I was talking about.
But Peter changed.
Up to this point, he had looked like Mary Jane’s shadow, lost and awkward.
But at the words “Marx Generator,” something clicked.
He straightened up, his gaze behind the glasses focused on me, and a spark of lively, professional interest flickered in it.
“Messed around with one in middle school,” his voice, previously quiet, took on slightly more confident tones.
“Though finding identical high-voltage capacitors was quite a challenge…
had to build my own out of foil and plastic bottles.”
“Huh, respectable,” I nodded, feigning slight surprise, though inwardly I was exulting.
Test passed.
“So where do you work, if it’s not a secret?
Or study?”
“I study at New York University.
Faculty of Biochemistry, Department of Genetic Engineering,” he awkwardly scratched his disheveled head.
“I work part-time on the side.”
Bingo.
There are no coincidences like that.
But I needed a finishing shot.
“Isn’t that where Doctor Curt Connors works, by any chance?”
Now Parker’s eyes genuinely widened in surprise.
“That’s where.
I even assist him a bit.
Part-time for now, but…
can’t complain.
Getting, even limited, access to a lab of that level and truly invaluable knowledge is an incredible stroke of luck.”
Jackpot.
“Boys, how about you stop whispering about your science?” Mary Jane interrupted our nascent dialogue, placing her hands on her hips dramatically.
“We’ve got, like, a spotlight that won’t fix itself.”
“Yes, we should probably get going,” Peter agreed guiltily.
I knew I couldn’t miss this chance.
“Can I get your number, please?” I addressed him directly.
“Having the smartest person by Mary Jane Watson’s standards in my contacts is certainly better than not having him.”
A slight blush touched Peter’s cheeks, but he nodded.
“Um, yeah, no problem, write it down.”
After saving the number, I said goodbye and left the College in an even better mood than after withdrawing.
I hadn’t just gotten rid of unnecessary obligations; I had acquired a key asset.
Getting into my Honda, I pulled onto the avenue, feeling like the master of the situation.
The world was full of possibilities.
But the euphoria didn’t last long.
Due to my lack of driving experience in this body, in this car, and considering the specifics of American traffic laws, I was, just like yesterday, extremely focused on the road.
And it was this concentration that allowed me to notice something unpleasant.
In the rearview mirror, a black SUV had been looming for several blocks.
A Toyota Land Cruiser, tinted pitch black.
I turned right, onto a less busy street.
A moment’s delay — and the “Cruiser” followed me.
A cold trickle of sweat ran down my back.
Another turn.
It was still there.
This was no longer a coincidence.
“Fuck,” I hissed through my teeth, gripping the wheel.
“I hope this is just paranoia, and the route of this coffin on wheels just coincidentally matches mine, right down to every random turn…”