Smith made his way through the Fraternity's corridors toward Bulma's laboratory, finding the door slightly ajar. Inside, the young genius was hunched over a workbench, completely absorbed in her task. Components and circuit boards covered every available surface, and the sharp scent of soldering flux hung in the air.
"Brother Smith?" Bulma glanced up briefly without pausing her work. "What's up?"
Smith hesitated at the threshold, a twinge of guilt passing through him. Was he exploiting child labor? Bulma was brilliant, certainly, but still just a kid. Then again, she seemed genuinely enthusiastic about the work, and her capabilities far exceeded most adults...
"How's the development on the combat power detector coming along?" he asked, pushing past his momentary concern. "I'm going to need functional units soon."
Bulma set down her tools and turned to face him properly. She gestured to an intact scouter resting on one side of the workbench, then to a scattered array of materials and components on the other side, clearly her attempts at reverse-engineering and replication.
She picked up the original scouter and fitted it over her left eye with practiced ease. The device activated with a soft chirp, and she aimed it at Smith.
"One-ninety. That's pretty impressive." She adjusted the readout, scanning the rest of the castle's interior through the walls. "Everyone else here registers around five or six. Only three people hit eight, and that's when they're in some kind of enhanced state."
Smith nodded, processing the information. His power level had increased slightly, the result of consistent training with weighted gear and gravity manipulation. The three who reached eight had to be Mr. X, Cross, and his son, all three could activate that peculiar bullet-time perception that slowed the world to a crawl.
Bulma removed the scouter and tossed it to Smith with casual disregard for the alien technology's value. "I've disassembled this thing completely and analyzed the design principles. The engineering is actually pretty clever, clever for its size constraints, anyway."
She crossed her arms, warming to the technical discussion. "I've developed a working prototype design, but material limitations are a problem. Earth doesn't have the exotic metals this uses. Given what I can source locally, the reproduction units will probably max out at detecting three hundred power level."
Smith caught the scouter smoothly, impressed despite himself. Bulma had only possessed the device for a short time, yet she'd already mapped its entire functionality and begun developing Earth-compatible alternatives. She truly was a scientific genius, the kind who'd eventually build time machines with spare parts and determination.
"Half the detection range is fine. One-fifty is more than adequate for a first-generation model," Smith said. "But I need anti-tampering measures built in. If someone tries to disassemble or reverse-engineer the units, they should self-destruct."
He'd spent enough time on Earth to recognize the planet possessed formidable scientific capabilities, particularly in certain organizations like SHIELD and various corporate research divisions. Without proper countermeasures, they'd sell maybe a dozen units before someone cracked the technology and flooded the market with knockoffs.
Bulma's eyes narrowed with amusement, a knowing smile crossing her face. "Release one generation, stockpile the next, develop the third? That's standard Capsule Corporation strategy. My dad does the same thing."
A knock interrupted their conversation. Fox entered, her appearance immediately commanding Smith's attention. She wore a form-fitting office lady outfit, pencil skirt, white blouse, blazer, that emphasized her already impressive figure. The blouse's buttons strained slightly across her chest, and Smith realized this was the first time he'd seen her in anything other than tactical gear or casual clothing.
"Chief," Fox reported, her tone professional despite the outfit. "Our surveillance team outside Midland Circle reports that the Hand's leadership has departed in multiple armored vehicles. Trajectory analysis suggests they're heading toward the flour mill location."
Smith's expression brightened with predatory interest. "All five fingers moving together? Now that's interesting. I wonder what prompted such a strong response."
He turned to Bulma and offered a slight bow. "Thanks for your hard work, Bulma. I need to go handle some enemies. We'll continue this discussion later."
He strode toward the door, then paused and turned back to Fox. A slight smirk played at his lips. "Is that outfit bulletproof?"
Fox stopped, stepped closer, and kissed him on the cheek, her smile carrying equal parts affection and mischief. "You like it?"
Smith slipped an arm around her waist and returned the kiss properly. "Wait for me at home. Once I've dealt with these Hand bastards, wear this tonight. We'll celebrate."
Fox drew two .45 caliber Kimber pistols from concealed holsters at her waist with fluid grace, the weapons appearing in her hands like magic. "You're not taking me with you?"
The juxtaposition was striking, professional office attire paired with lethal hardware and the casual competence of a master assassin. Smith shook his head, though his expression remained warm.
"It'd be a shame if that outfit got damaged. Besides, the Hand will likely attempt a counter-strike against our headquarters once they realize I'm targeting them. Take your team and establish a defensive perimeter. Expand reconnaissance range to maximum. I want advance warning if they try anything."
Fox holstered her weapons with obvious reluctance but nodded acceptance. "Be careful."
"Always am."
Smith exited the headquarters and launched himself into the night sky, the cityscape blurring beneath him as he rocketed toward Hell's Kitchen at supersonic speeds.
John Wick had barely cleared the burning flour mill's perimeter when the Hand's response team struck. The ambush was well-coordinated and brutally efficient, multiple shooters establishing crossfire patterns while ninja operatives moved to flank his position.
Only his Fraternity-issued bulletproof suit saved him from immediate death. High-velocity rounds hammered into his chest and back, the impacts feeling like sledgehammer blows even through the advanced armor weave. He dove behind his car as return fire intensified, using the vehicle's engine block as cover while his assault rifle barked responses toward muzzle flashes.
But the Hand had sent professionals. A full tactical team, soldiers equipped with modern firearms working in coordination with ninja trained in traditional weapons. The combination was devastatingly effective.
John attempted to break the encirclement three times, and each time concentrated fire drove him back to cover. His assault rifle clicked empty, and he transitioned smoothly to his backup pistols, twin Glocks that felt comfortable and familiar in his hands.
He'd managed to kill three of them, at least. Small consolation as the noose tightened.
The ninjas were getting closer now, moving with inhuman silence and coordination. John could feel them approaching, predators closing on wounded prey. He took a deep breath, preparing for a final desperate push.
Then a massive hammer materialized from thin air and smashed into the nearest ninja, sending the black-clad figure ragdolling across the asphalt.
The hammer, easily four feet long and glowing with strange energy, whirled through the air like a sentient weapon, crushing bones and denting body armor with each impact. The Hand's soldiers opened fire on the impossible object, bullets sparking off its metallic surface while ninjas attempted to slice it with their katanas.
A familiar voice shouted in pain with each impact: "Ow! Ow! That hurts!"
John recognized that voice immediately. He rolled out from beneath the car and came up shooting, targeting legs and joints where armor was weakest. The Hand's soldiers dropped to their knees, and John closed distance rapidly, delivering headshots with clinical precision.
One shot to shatter the mask, one shot to destroy the brain.
He grabbed one soldier's rifle mid-burst, redirecting the weapon skyward while pumping three rounds into the man's face at point-blank range. Blood and brain matter painted the interior of the tactical helmet.
A ninja lunged at his back, but John was already moving, spinning inside the blade's arc, getting his arm around the attacker's throat while pressing his pistol against the base of the man's skull. The muffled gunshot dropped the ninja like a puppet with cut strings.
With Puar's intervention, the tide had turned completely. The Hand's elite team, caught between John's lethal precision and Puar's shape-shifting hammer attacks, began dying rapidly.
Within minutes, only three ninjas remained, retreating toward better positions.
John and Puar advanced, pressing their advantage, then headlights blazed across the battlefield as multiple vehicles screeched to a halt.
Madame Gao emerged from the lead vehicle, her elderly frame somehow radiating menace despite her age. She raised one hand and made a sharp gesture, like swatting an insect.
An invisible force, pure chi channeled with five centuries of mastery, slammed into both John and Puar. John felt his ribs crack as he flew backward, his body tumbling across concrete until he crashed into a loading dock wall. Puar's transformation shattered mid-flight, his hammer form dissolving as he reverted to his natural blue-furred shape, hitting the ground hard and rolling limply to a stop.
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