The lab was quiet and deserted on a Saturday afternoon. Only the refrigerators and the ventilation systems were humming. I took two cheap vials of ingredients synthesized by Peter, counted out thirteen hundred-dollar bills, and handed them to him. He took them with a mixture of relief and shame, quickly stashing them in his backpack pocket.
"So, spill the beans, what happened?" I asked, sitting on the edge of the lab table. I decided to start with this before revealing anything about myself. "We both understand that we are doing... not quite standard things. Trust is a fragile thing. And what I tell you next depends directly on what problems made you look for money so urgently. I hope you didn't get involved with the mafia?"
I asked the last question with a slight smirk to lighten the mood a bit.
"Um... No, no mafia!" Peter flinched, his cheeks flushed. "But... is it that obvious that I have problems? I thought... MJ seemed to be talking to me as usual..."
"Obvious is an understatement, Peter. And men, contrary to popular belief, are sometimes more empathetic than women. I sensed something was wrong in your voice during our phone conversation."
"I figured as much..." he muttered, looking down. But, fortunately, he didn't clam up. My directness, financial help, and willingness to talk did the trick. "Anyway, Uncle Ben... he's practically like a father to me. He was rushed to the hospital yesterday. Kidney failure. The medical bills, even in a public hospital... they are huge. Aunt May and I just can't handle it. She works at a non-profit charitable foundation; they pay peanuts. I started working as a photographer for the 'Daily Bugle', the pay is meager, but the work is non-standardized, and even so, money is still catastrophically short."
Yeah... This is a really serious problem. I frowned. What the hell? In the classic story, Uncle Ben falls victim to a criminal, which sets Peter's heroic path in motion. And here—a disease. Without any obvious prerequisites, considering that Peter is not a spider and is unlikely to become one. Or maybe... is this the catalyst I didn't even think about? The disease will worsen, the doctors will throw up their hands, and Peter, driven to despair, will decide to test Doctor Connors' serum on his uncle (or on himself to test the medicine). Sounds terribly coherent. And I, with my money, have just interfered in this scenario.
"Listen, Peter. We haven't known each other for very long, but you have a really serious situation. Don't you have any close friends who could help? Mary Jane, for example? You know that her boyfriend is Harry Osborn. Norman Osborn's son. A billionaire, owner of 'Oscorp', which owns half of the private clinics in this city!"
I saw how my words hit him. This was not just a mention of rich acquaintances. It was a reminder of the chasm between their world and his.
"MJ and Harry... things are complicated there," he looked away, and there was bitterness in his voice. "They... they won't help. They have their own world—parties, expensive cars, and restaurants... What do they care about a humble, underachieving student who just helped them with their homework at school?"
This was a revelation. He wasn't just in love with the same Mary Jane. He felt used by her, but still didn't turn away, while they...
"As for the others..." he sighed. "There's a colleague, Gwen Stacy. She's a couple of years older, but already a full-fledged junior assistant to Connors. We seem to communicate well, respect each other's intellect. But it's... not even a friendly relationship. In this regard, even you, in our few meetings, have somehow become closer to me."
Too many revelations per square inch of dialogue. Peter was not 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 was extremely honest with me, exposing his most vulnerable spots.
Which means it's time for me to reveal some of my cards. His story touched me. But my pragmatic mind saw this as an opportunity as well. Right now, Peter is the perfect candidate for an ally: brilliant, in desperate straits, and, most importantly, grateful.
Time to start recruiting.
"Alright," I began, deciding to strike while the iron was hot. "We'll solve your money problem. It will be something like a private research grant. In return, I'll need your full support in providing, shall we say, specific services that only your brilliant mind is capable of."
Peter opened his mouth, and I, anticipating his question, hurriedly added: "Nothing illegal! No weapons, drugs, or industrial espionage."
"I... I appreciate the offer, John, but despite having access to the lab, I'm quite severely limited," his voice sounded uncertain. "I can't just order any reagents. And with some equipment, like the mass spectrometer, it's forbidden to work without the approval of Professor Connors. Maybe, apart from synthesis according to a ready-made formula, I won't be able to be useful in any other way..."
"At this stage, that's enough for me. But in the future, I'm mainly interested in consultations and help with the theory for my projects."
"What projects? I honestly still don't understand what exactly you're doing."
"Well, in short..." I lowered my voice, creating an atmosphere of conspiracy. "Projects related to the creation of bio-enhancers. Serious pseudo-combat and combat stimulants. For example, muscle ones, or those that accelerate and sharpen combat instincts. Or even..." here I switched to a whisper, "brain doping without side effects."
"Is that... is that something like next-generation steroids?" Peter frowned.
"It's better!" I replied enthusiastically. "These are products that work in real-time and with virtually no side effects. Well, except that the combat stimulant has a number of unpleasant moments, but if with your help to refine the formula!.." here it is, the main reason. Without a systematic 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 suggesting I engage in the underground creation of uncertified drugs... For what? Do you sell them?" Peter's voice took on a steely edge. "Though what am I asking. It's clear you sell them, otherwise where would you get this kind of money."
"Firstly, not chemical, but..." I stumbled. Chemistry is about precise formulas, understanding reactions. And I just followed instructions, like a medieval apprentice, without delving into the essence... Yes, that's it. "Alchemical. And secondly, I don't sell them to anyone. It's strictly for personal use."
I wisely kept silent about Blade, especially since it was more of a barter than a sale.
"Alchemy?" Parker raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Are you kidding me? Alchemy is pseudoscientific mysticism based on belief in transmutation and the Philosopher's Stone. What survived from it and works is called 'chemistry'."