And the cherry on top: assembly. The requirements included a vacuum chamber for sputtering conductors, laser calibration with micron accuracy, and a clean room of ISO 3 class. Without a full-fledged, high-tech laboratory worth millions of dollars, this drawing was just a beautiful but useless picture.
This was a case when the System gave me a drawing of a starship, forgetting to mention that a planetary factory was needed to build it. When I develop to the level where I can afford it, the need for such a primitive shield will most likely disappear. The Gacha of the Celestial Forge is unpredictable. What will it throw at me next? A skill of intuitive component replacement? Access to the library of Kamar-Taj? Ready-made tactical armor from another universe?
No. The Protective Field Generator goes into the farthest drawer of the mental desk. Minus 100 OP, invested in knowledge that I won't be able to use for a very long time. It's a shame, but it was a valuable lesson.
There were 150 OP left. Crossing my fingers, I poured them into "Muscle Stimulator." A new wave of information, a new bout of headache, but this time... it was different. Structured. Similar to a complex but solvable problem. I exhaled with such relief that I felt dizzy. Unlike the generator, this I could do. Theoretically, by collecting everything I needed, I could brew a few doses today, recovering the spent points with interest.
Muscle Stimulator.Arcanum classification: Alchemic drug / Temporary bio-amplifier. A disposable injector that urgently accelerates muscle strength, speed, and endurance to peak human values, and in some places even beyond. It doesn't rewrite your DNA like the Super-Soldier Serum, but acts at the cellular level. The active substance, clusters of unstable ozone, bind to ATP in the muscles, arranging a "nitrogen ignition" for them—forcing them to release energy 10-15 times more intensely. This is doping, after which there will be no rollback. The palladium stabilizer in the composition works as an ideal radiator, dissipating stress and removing decay products, preventing cells from burning out. The effect lasts 15-20 minutes—the perfect window for a fight or escape.
Yes, the recipe was non-trivial, but after the monstrous generator, it seemed like a children's instruction from the "Young Chemist" kit. Time to stock up.
I mentally made a list, simultaneously rummaging through the Internet:
Base (Active Substance): Synthetic testosterone. The main problem. In the pharmacy, it's strictly by prescription, and not even in every one. I'll have to look for workarounds. I left this item for the finale.
Stabilizer: Colloidal solution of palladium. I had the ore, but why complicate things? A ready-made laboratory solution can be bought in a chemical store. A 100 ml vial will cost about $200. Easy.
Binding Agent: Purified bovine serum albumin (BSA). Also not a problem. Commercial laboratories sell it in powder form. Another $200 for a jar, which will be enough for an entire army.
Catalyst: Titanium mesh. Fine, 100 mesh. A small sheet of 15x15 cm, which will be enough for dozens of servings, costs only $100 in an online store for industrial filters.
Solvent: Isopropyl alcohol. Already available.
A plan was emerging. Most of the components were within reach. But what to do with the base? The recipe allowed replacing testosterone with its precursor, diethylamine, but the effectiveness of the drug noticeably decreased. No, I need the original. Maximum power.
Okay. First, what can be bought legally and quickly. And with testosterone... I'll figure something out. There are plenty of geniuses in this city who might need "reagents for a scientific project."
I returned to the garage as dusk was beginning to descend on Brooklyn. On the workbench, the fruits of my day's labors were arranged in neat rows: vials of colloidal palladium, a container of snow-white albumin powder, and coils of titanium mesh. This pile of reagents cost me almost a thousand dollars, with part of the sum going to "speed up" overly slow lab assistants. Now I have a supply of components for dozens of doses of the stimulant. But all this is meaningless without the main ingredient.
It was only six in the evening, but it felt like an eternity had passed. Thursday was so eventful that it would have been enough for a month. And now, standing before the last, most difficult obstacle, I felt fatigue and a headache rolling over me. Fucking synthetic testosterone.
Ideally, I needed to get it as soon as possible. But how? Buying it legally is impossible. Stealing it from a pharmacy or warehouse? With my Inventory, it wouldn't be difficult—just teleporting the required box right off the shelf. But that's like hanging a neon sign on my back that says, "Hey, all-powerful organizations, pay attention to me!" I've already attracted Vampires, and I certainly didn't fancy dealing with some pharmaceutical megacorp's problems as well.
There was one option left: synthesize it myself. But that required equipment far superior to my humble garage laboratory. A gas chromatograph, a high-pressure reactor, a centrifuge capable of separating isomers... I didn't have any of that. But...
At this "but," my fingers froze, ceasing their drumming on the table. An idea was born in my head. Slippery, risky, morally dubious, but devilishly tempting.
"What do I have to lose?" I muttered to myself, finding in my phone the number I had received just a few hours ago. Contact: "Peter Parker."
I rewrote the first message several times, trying to find the perfect balance between friendliness and flattery, so as not to look like a creepy stalker.
"Peter, hi! This is John Thompson, we crossed paths at college today. Listen, I've got a scientific snag here, and Mary Jane seemed to say today that you're the smartest guy in the world. Somehow I suspect she wasn't exaggerating."
After sending it, I felt a pang of conscience. I was going to use this guy, his kindness and genius, for my own purposes. But I immediately suppressed that feeling. My survival is at stake. It's not personal, it's a necessity. Four minutes of waiting seemed like an eternity. Finally, the screen blinked.
"Hi. Come on, she's exaggerating. How can I help?"
He took the bait. Modest, responsive—the perfect target. I quickly typed out a pre-thought-out story.
"I'm doing, well, let's say DIY biohacking. Trying to get a culture of chlorella cells to do interesting things. I can send you a photo of my mini-lab so you don't think I'm a psycho :)"
Without waiting for a response, I sent the photo. I specifically chose an angle that included a microscope, a couple of flasks with harmless green liquid (ordinary water with dye), a laboratory centrifuge, and several jars of reagents. It looked like the project of an enthusiastic biology student, but not like an underground production of superhuman doping.
"Wow. Serious approach for a home project."
Great, he's impressed. Now—the essence of the problem, wrapped in a scientific guise.
"Thanks. But I've hit a wall. I need one reagent to stimulate metabolism, but I can't buy it anywhere in pure form. And without it, the cells just don't react to the catalyst. It's a steroid base, very similar to testosterone, but I need maximum isomeric purity, otherwise the whole culture dies."
"So, the problem is contamination of commercial samples?"
Yes! He led me to the right thought himself. He was already solving my problem in his head.
"Exactly! I've already ruined three samples, wasted a lot of money. And then I thought... you probably work in a well-equipped laboratory. You have access to equipment that I can only dream of. Maybe you can help an enthusiast? Synthesize a couple of milliliters of pure product. All expenses, of course, are on me. I'll pay for the reagents and for your time."
The last sentence was key. It turned a dubious request into a partially business proposal. I held my breath. If he refused, I'll have to go back to the robbery idea.
"Hmm... In theory, it's possible. Nothing super complicated. I'll be in the university lab late after classes today. Can you come to the main building of NYU?"
"You've saved me, really saved me! I'll be there as soon as you give me the signal!"
I leaned back in my chair and exhaled loudly. It worked. The hook was swallowed. The problem with the base is, you could say, solved. The plan was building itself: get the testosterone, create a few stimulants, get my spent OP back, and spin that damn Gacha. And then... then I'll have to decide what to do with the fanged problems that are now gathering dust in my Inventory in the black Cruze. I wonder what condition they're in? Conceptual stasis? Or just dead? Okay, while I'm weak, I shouldn't even think about it. I'll check as soon as I get my hands on something more serious than a UV floodlight. And ideally, when I solve the Vampire problem at the root, and not just relieve it with stimulants and other homemade things.
I spent the next couple of hours trying to distract myself by watching how-to videos for garage engineers on YouTube, but my thoughts kept returning to the upcoming meeting. Finally, the phone chimed with a message from Parker. "I'm here, lab 304."
It's time. I called a taxi. My Honda, which I used to escape the chase, remains in Inventory. No extra threads, no coincidences. Paranoia is a survivor's best friend.