The lab on a Saturday afternoon was quiet and empty.
Only the cooling units and ventilation systems hummed.
I took two cheap vials of the synthesized ingredients from Peter, counted out, and handed him thirteen hundred-dollar bills.
He took them with a strange mix of relief and shame, quickly pocketing them into his backpack.
“So, spill it.
What happened?” I asked, sitting down on the edge of the lab table.
I decided to start with this before revealing anything about myself.
“We both understand we’re doing…
not exactly standard things.
Trust is a fragile thing.
And what I tell you next directly depends on what kind of problems made you need money so urgently.
I hope you haven’t gotten involved with the mafia?”
I asked that last question with a slight grin to lighten the mood.
“Um…
No, no mafia!” Peter flinched, his cheeks flushing.
“But…
is it really that obvious that I have problems?
I thought…
MJ seemed to talk to me like usual…”
“Obvious isn’t the word, Peter.
And contrary to popular misconception, men can sometimes be more empathetic than women.
I sensed something wrong in your voice during our phone call.”
“I figured…” he muttered, dropping his gaze.
But thankfully, he didn’t shut down.
My directness, financial help, and willingness to talk had done their job.
“Well, Uncle Ben…
he’s practically a father to me.
Yesterday, he was rushed to the hospital.
Kidney failure.
The medical bills, even at a public hospital…
they’re enormous.
Aunt May and I just can’t handle it.
She works at a non-profit charity, they pay peanuts.
I started working part-time as a photographer for the Daily Bugle, the pay isn’t great, but the hours are irregular, and even then, we’re still catastrophically short on money.”
Hmm…
That was a serious problem.
I frowned.
What the hell?
In the classic story, Uncle Ben is a crime victim, which triggers Peter’s heroic journey.
But here, it’s an illness.
No clear preconditions, considering Peter isn’t a spider and probably never will be.
Or maybe…
this is the catalyst, one I hadn’t even considered?
The illness will worsen, doctors will throw up their hands, and driven to desperation, Peter will decide to test Dr.
Connors’ serum on his uncle (or on himself to check for safety).
It sounded horribly plausible.
And I, with my money, had just interfered with that scenario.
“Listen, Peter.
We haven’t known each other long, but you’ve got a really serious situation.
Don’t you have any close friends who could help?
What about Mary Jane?
You know her boyfriend is Harry Osborn.
The son of Norman Osborn.
A billionaire, the head of Oscorp, which owns half the private clinics in this city!”
I saw my words hit him.
This wasn’t just mentioning rich acquaintances.
It was a reminder of the gulf between their world and his.
“MJ and Harry…
it’s complicated,” he looked away, and bitterness crept into his voice.
“They…
they won’t help.
They have their own world—parties, expensive cars, restaurants.
What do they care about a nobody dropout who just helped them with their homework in school?”
That was a revelation.
He wasn’t just in love with the same Mary Jane.
He felt used by her, yet he still didn’t turn away, while they seemed to have no problem turning their backs on him…
“As for others…” he sighed.
“There’s a colleague, Gwen Stacy.
She’s a couple of years older, but already a full junior assistant to Connors.
We get along decently, respect each other’s intellect.
But it’s…
not even a friendship.
In that regard, even you, in just a couple of meetings, have become closer to me.”
Too many revelations per square inch of dialogue.
Peter wasn’t just a shy genius.
He was a deeply lonely person.
No close friends, no girlfriend, no relatives except a sick uncle and an aunt barely making ends meet.
He had been brutally honest with me, laying bare his most vulnerable spots.
So, it was time for me to reveal part of my hand.
His story moved me.
But my pragmatic mind also saw an opportunity.
Right now, Peter was the ideal candidate for an ally: a genius, in a desperate situation, and, most importantly, grateful.
Time to start recruiting.
“Alright then,” I began, deciding to strike while the iron was hot.
“We’ll solve your money problem.
It’ll be like a private research grant.
In return, I’ll need your comprehensive support in providing, shall we say, specific services that only your brilliant mind can handle.”
Peter opened his mouth, and anticipating his question, I hastily added, “Nothing illegal!
No weapons, drugs, or industrial espionage.”
“I…
I appreciate the offer, John, but despite having lab access, I’m pretty seriously limited,” his voice sounded uncertain.
“I can’t just order any reagents I want.
And some equipment, like the mass spectrometer, I’m not allowed to use without Professor Connors’ approval.
Maybe, besides synthesis from an existing formula, I won’t be able to be of much use…”
But in the future, I’m mainly interested in consultations and help with the theory for my projects.”
“What kind of projects?
Honestly, I still don’t understand what exactly you’re doing.”
“Well…” I lowered my voice, creating an atmosphere of conspiracy.
“Projects related to creating bio-enhancers.
Serious pseudo-combat and combat stimulants.
Like muscle stimulants, or ones that accelerate and sharpen combat instincts.
Or even…” here I switched to a whisper, “brain doping without side effects.”
“That’s…
something like next-gen steroids?” Peter frowned.
“It’s better!” I replied enthusiastically.
“These are products that work in real-time and have almost no side effects.
Well, the combat stimulant has a few nasty points, but if we refine the formula with your help!..” There it was, the main reason.
Without a system skill, I could only blindly follow Blade’s recipe and create a potion that would most likely just kill my frail body.
“So, you’re offering me an under-the-table job creating uncertified drugs…
To do what?
Sell them?” Steel notes appeared in Peter’s voice.
“Though why am I asking.
Obviously you sell them, otherwise where would you get that kind of money.”
“First, not chemical, but…” I stumbled.
Chemistry is precise formulas, understanding reactions.
I was just following instructions, like a medieval apprentice, not grasping the essence…
Yes, that was it.
“Alchemical.
And second, I don’t sell them to anyone.
It’s strictly for personal use.”
I wisely remained silent about Blade, especially since that was more of a barter than a sale.
“Alchemy?” Parker raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“Are you joking right now?
Alchemy is pseudoscientific mysticism based on a belief in transmutation and the Philosopher’s Stone.
What survived from it and actually works is called ‘chemistry.'”
“Look,” I pulled the Muscle Stimulant injector from my pocket.
“This is the result.
At full dose, it lets a person reach near-superhuman levels for 15-20 minutes.
It works on a cellular level: clusters of unstable ozone bond with ATP in the muscles, giving them a ‘nitrogen ignition,’ and the palladium stabilizer acts as a heatsink, preventing the cells from burning out.”
Peter looked at me like I was insane.
“That sounds like complete scientific nonsense.
‘Clusters of unstable ozone’?
Ozone is O₃, a powerful oxidizer.
It would cause tissue necrosis, not enhancement!
‘Nitrogen ignition’ is a term from auto mechanics, not biochemistry.
And palladium is a platinum-group metal, a catalyst, not a ‘cellular heatsink’!
Heat is dissipated by blood flow!
You’ve thrown together terms from three different scientific fields, and not a single one works the way you described!”
“Then let’s test it,” I spread my hands.
“On any of these mice.”
“Why not on yourself?
You say it works.”
“Well, a mouse would need just one drop, while I’d need the whole dose.
Hate to waste it,” I grinned.
“Hah, fine,” Peter sighed.
“But if you thought you convinced me, you’re wrong.
Until I see it with my own eyes, I won’t believe it!”
“Peter, you’re working with Connors on a regenerative serum that, in theory, regrows limbs.
Since when does a simple muscle stimulant surprise you so much?”
“First, it’s not fucking simple!” Peter snapped back, taking the injector.
He was clearly stung.
“And second, Connors’ serum, for all its ambition, is based on understandable principles of cross-species genetics and stem cell stimulation!
Not on palladium suddenly deciding to work as a heatsink!”
I watched silently as he carefully extracted one drop from the injector and, using a pipette, administered it to a lab mouse.
“As I said, I can’t explain HOW it works.
But…” I smiled, noticing the mouse starting to change.
“You can see that it DOES work.”
The effect was almost instantaneous.
The rodent’s muscles visibly swelled, the definition so sharp it looked like a bad Photoshop job.
The mouse itself seemed not to notice—it calmly chewed its food, only twice nearly tipping over from the unfamiliar power in its paws.
No signs of pain, aggression, or mental deviation.
After about seven or eight minutes, the muscles began to deflate just as quickly, returning to normal.
A faint, barely noticeable wisp of steam rose from the rodent’s body.
Peter was silent.
He stared at the mouse with wide eyes where skepticism fought with utter astonishment.
“Okay…” he muttered dazedly, coming to his senses.
“Now…
now I believe something happened.
But I won’t believe it’s safe until I examine that mouse!”
His disbelief instantly transformed into feverish scientific fervor.
“I need blood samples, right now!
Run a biochemical analysis, check for cellular damage, lactate levels, residual elements…
God, what the hell is this stuff?!”
For the next hour, I watched with genuine interest as a genius operated in his natural habitat.
Peter dashed around the lab like a man possessed.
He took blood samples from the mouse, spun them in a centrifuge, analyzed them with a spectrometer, studied tissue sections under a microscope.
He constantly muttered under his breath: “No signs of cellular breakdown…
Lactate levels normal…
Where did the extra biomass go?
The law of conservation of energy hasn’t been repealed…
This is impossible!”
It was amusing to watch, but it was already three in the afternoon.
I needed to get going soon to meet Lucas.
“Peter,” I called out quietly.
“Accept it.
You won’t find anything.
This stimulant works without side effects.
I know it absolutely for a fact.” Follow the newest chapters on g.com.
“Impossible!” He whirled around to face me, clutching a printout with some graphs.
“It’s just physically, thermodynamically impossible!
Muscle mass doesn’t come from nowhere and doesn’t disappear into thin air, dissipating as steam!
Listen, can you give me the full formula?” Peter caught himself, realizing how that sounded.
“Um…
I swear I won’t reveal it to anyone or use it.
It’s…
strictly to satisfy my scientific curiosity!
I have to understand the mechanism!”
“Hah, I understand completely,” I grinned.
“And while you were rushing around, I already sketched it out for you.
It’s not a formula, though, more of a…
recipe.
Here.”
I handed him a sheet of paper.
Peter greedily devoured it with his eyes, and his face began to change rapidly, cycling through all stages from bewilderment to despair.
“No…
Nonsense…
What utter nonsense…” He clutched his head.
“This isn’t chemistry, it’s a collection of shamanic rituals!
Titanium mesh as a catalyst for testosterone?
Colloidal palladium as a…
what, cellular heatsink?!
Maybe, through quantum fluctuations, a specific sequence of molecules creates a local disturbance in reality?
To negate the observer effect, it all happens inside muscle tissue?
No…
Quantum mechanics, fueled by testosterone and cobbled together on a bench…
Fuck…”
That last word was spoken with such an intonation of hopelessness that I felt a momentary pang of conscience.
I had pushed a young scientist into something that was breaking his worldview.
On the other hand, he’d better get used to it, because there’s more to come.
“Want to try making it?” I offered.
“You have the equipment.
You can synthesize the testosterone.
I have the other ingredients with me, in a box in the car.” (Actually, they were in my inventory.)
“Yes!
Of course, I’ll try!
Right now!” His despair instantly turned into determination.
For his brilliant brain, this simple recipe was like instructions for assembling a stool.
But the effect…
it was like assembling a stool that could withstand a meteor impact.
I went to the car and “from the box” retrieved the serum albumin and colloidal palladium solution.
Peter, receiving the ingredients, set to work.
Even the Master Clockmaker inside me had to admit: the kid worked with incredible precision and pedantry.
Every movement was measured, not a single wasted second.
In less than half an hour, he had a finished injector in his hands.
He tested it on another lab rat.
The effect was identical.
Peter silently watched as the rodent’s muscles bulged and then returned to normal.
Then he slowly sat down at the lab table and buried his face in his hands.
“Fuck…”
“Agreed,” I confirmed heavily.
“And you haven’t even seen the Intellect Potion yet.”
Before he could ask anything, I continued, “But that’s the next level.
Right now, I have a specific task for you.”
I handed him another sheet, detailing the recipe for the “Beast Potion.” Peter studied it in silence for a few minutes, and the silence in his head was clearly deafening.
“I see…” he finally spoke.
“An activator, a syn-epinephrine complex.
Classic catecholamine storm.
It overloads the beta-adrenergic receptors.
Hence the side effects you described: tachycardia, risk of arrhythmia, hypertensive crisis.
This isn’t a stimulant; it’s a sledgehammer to the nervous system.”
“You’re the genius, you know best,” I agreed.
“I need you to remove those side effects.
Create a pure product that can be used perfectly in conjunction with the Muscle Stimulant.”
“That’s…
not a one-month job, John!” he exclaimed.
“I’d need to model the active components, calculate hundreds of analogs for the stabilizer, run simulations, synthesize dozens of variants for testing!
That’s a whole dissertation, not a Saturday puzzle!”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” I stopped his torrent of scientific speech.
“We’ll manage it today.
Did you forget what I was talking about?
You haven’t seen, and certainly haven’t felt, the effect of the Intellect Potion.
Trust me, it won’t just add a few points to your IQ.
It accelerates synaptic connections, sharpens intuition, and lets you see all possible solutions simultaneously.
Those months of research you mentioned…
you’ll run through them in your head in a couple of hours.”
I could see he was doubtful.
But he had already witnessed the impossible.
After a brief hesitation, he nodded.
“But if nothing comes of it…”
“It will,” I said confidently.
“I’m heading to a supplier for rare ingredients now.
When I get back, everything will be at your disposal.
Under the intellect buff.”
The conversation was over.
It was nearing five o’clock, and I left for the meeting.
I was curious myself to see just how much more brilliant Peter would become.
And whether I was making a mistake by getting him involved in this.
Alright, away with doubt.
Ideally, I’d need not just to make the stimulants compatible, but to combine them both into a single drug.
In an even better ideal…
To somehow permanently fix the effect of the Intellect Potion, or at least a weakened version, so as not to overload the processor.
Hmm, more tasks for my new brilliant partner.