Wesley stood in the center of the throne room, Severance's blue mass slowly retracting back into his body. The symbiote whispered satisfaction in his mind, pleased with the display of dominance.
"As a tournament participant, you have a spectator quota," Wesley said, his voice still carrying an edge. "You can bring up to ten people to watch the Dragon Ball tournament."
T'Challa nodded carefully, still clutching his ribs where Severance had struck him.
"Now," Wesley continued, "we need to confirm your wish. If you win the championship, what will you ask for?"
T'Challa's brow furrowed. "Can I wish for anything? Are there restrictions?"
Cross spoke for the first time since entering the palace, his voice measured and calm. "We review all wishes. If your request is malicious—something that would harm innocents or threaten the world—you won't be permitted to make it even if you win the championship."
T'Challa looked at Cross, then down at the gold coin in his reddened palm. His thoughts drifted to Nakia, his girlfriend who worked tirelessly for African communities across the continent. Her passion for helping the marginalized, for fighting inequality, had always inspired him.
After a long moment, he spoke. "If I win, I wish for all African people to no longer face discrimination. True equality, recognized globally."
The throne room fell silent.
Cross's expression shifted, surprise flickering across his features. He'd expected something selfish—power, wealth, resurrection of a loved one. Instead, T'Challa had chosen a wish that would benefit millions of people he'd never meet.
Even Wesley seemed momentarily taken aback, though he covered it quickly.
"Your wish has been recorded," Wesley said, pulling out a small device and speaking the information into it. "Before the tournament begins, someone will retrieve you and your spectators. Transportation to the venue will be provided." He gestured at the gold coin. "Keep the Dragon Ball secure in the meantime."
Without further ceremony, Wesley and Cross turned and walked toward the exit.
As the doors closed behind them, T'Challa stared at the coin in his hand, then looked at his sister.
"Arrogant," he muttered. "Incredibly arrogant."
Shuri helped him to a chair, her hands gentle as she examined his injuries. "You antagonized them, brother. Treated them like servants come to beg an audience."
"I know," T'Challa admitted, wincing as she probed his ribs. "But if I'd been wearing the Black Panther suit, that fight would have gone differently."
"Would it?" Shuri asked pointedly. "That creature that emerged from him wasn't technology. It was alive. Sentient. I saw it in the way it moved." She shook her head. "And this is just a decoy palace. No vibranium weapons, no advanced defenses. Even with your suit, you'd have been outmatched."
T'Challa knew she was right, but his pride still stung.
Outside the palace, walking back toward their rental car, Cross glanced at his son.
"You're getting impulsive, Wesley."
Wesley's jaw tightened. "The file had minimal information. Just a name, photo, and title. When he started asking questions instead of answering them, I needed to assess his capabilities."
"You have a Scouter," Cross said quietly. "You could have simply scanned him. No violence necessary."
"I didn't expect him to be enhanced," Wesley admitted. "Most humans die from a blow like that. His durability is significant."
Cross stopped walking, turning to face his son fully. "What if you'd killed him? We're here to confirm participation in the tournament, not to assert dominance through force. That kind of reputation would reflect badly on the Fraternity."
Wesley nodded slowly. "I understand, dad. When we pick him up for transport to the venue, I'll be more... professional."
Cross studied his son's face, noting the tension in his jaw, the slight agitation in his movements. Something had been off about Wesley lately. More aggressive. Quicker to anger.
The symbiote.
Cross had noticed it before—subtle personality shifts in those bonded with the alien creatures. John Wick had reported similar issues early on, though Reaper seemed more compatible with his particular mindset. But Wesley's Severance appeared to carry a more tyrannical streak, whispering suggestions of dominance and violence.
Control yourself, Cross thought, watching his son. Or the symbiote will control you.
He'd need to speak with Smith about this. The symbiotes were powerful tools, but they came with risks. Psychological contamination. Aggression. Loss of restraint.
Wesley had just demonstrated all three.
"Come on," Cross said, resuming their walk to the car. "Let's get to the airport. We have a long flight home."
Behind them, the palace gates closed with a hollow clang.
On the other side of the world, John Wick sat in the passenger seat of a rental sedan, studying the file folder in his lap. The gunsmith drove, navigating through New Mexico's dusty roads with casual confidence.
The information in the folder was sparse but shocking.
Thor Odinson. Second Prince of Asgard. God of Thunder.
A hand-drawn sketch showed a blonde man with classical Nordic features. Below it, a brief biography outlined facts that seemed pulled from mythology textbooks.
"I thought I understood this world," John said, shaking his head. "After everything I've seen with the Fraternity, the Dragon Balls, the supernatural conflicts... I thought I'd seen the depths of it."
He tapped the file. "But Norse gods? Actually real and collecting Dragon Balls?"
The gunsmith chuckled, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel. "This world is crazier than any of us can imagine. And the Dragon Ball tournaments keep getting more insane. First cycle, it was assassins and criminals. Second cycle, vampires and enhanced humans. This time?" He gestured at the file. "Gods. Immortals. Cosmic beings."
John Wick leaned back in his seat, a wry smile crossing his face. "I'm lucky I didn't have to participate this time. Helen wouldn't have stood a chance if I'd died fighting a literal god."
During his own Dragon Ball collection, his opponents had been mundane. Criminals, mercenaries, businessmen who'd acquired balls through connections or money. A few had required violence, but nothing he couldn't handle.
Now? Gods walked the Earth and competed for wishes.
"Lucky indeed," the gunsmith agreed. "Though you've got your own advantages now. That symbiote of yours makes you more dangerous than most enhanced humans."
John's hand unconsciously touched his chest, where Reaper resided beneath his skin. The symbiote stirred at the acknowledgment, a faint pulse of satisfaction.
We are strong, Reaper whispered in his mind. Even gods would respect us.
John didn't respond to the symbiote's pride, but he couldn't entirely disagree.
Following the Dragon Radar's guidance, they pulled onto a quiet residential street. The device pointed them toward a modest house with a detached garage, scientific equipment visible through the windows.
"This is it," the gunsmith said, parking at the curb.
John climbed out, straightening his jacket. He walked to the front door and knocked.
Footsteps approached from inside, and the door opened to reveal a young woman with dark hair and an instantly curious expression.
"Can I help you?" Darcy Lewis asked.
"We're looking for Thor Odinson," John said politely. "We need to speak with him about an important matter."
Darcy's eyebrows rose, but she turned and shouted back into the house. "Thor! You've got visitors!"
From somewhere deeper in the residence came a booming voice. "Who would seek me here?"
Jane Foster appeared behind Darcy, her astrophysicist's mind already working through possibilities. "Could be S.H.I.E.L.D.," she murmured, then louder, "Or maybe the Dragon Ball tournament organizers?"
Thor emerged from what looked like a living room, a video game controller still in one hand. He was massive—easily six and a half feet tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of presence that filled a room without effort. His blonde hair was slightly disheveled, his eyes the blue of lightning strikes.
He looked at John and the gunsmith with open curiosity. "Yes? What brings you to this dwelling?"
John had faced dangerous men his entire career. Assassins, mob bosses, enhanced killers. But standing before an actual god gave him pause—just for a moment.
"Hello, Thor Odinson," John said, finding his professional calm. "We represent the Dragon Ball tournament organization. We need to verify some details about your participation."
"Oh my god," Darcy breathed, eyes going wide. "You're actually with the Dragon Ball people?"
The gunsmith offered a slight smile. "May we come in? This conversation would be better held privately."
Jane quickly stepped aside. "Of course, please. What should we call you?"
John and the gunsmith entered, the house's interior cluttered with scientific equipment and astronomical charts.
"I'm the Baba Yaga," John said, using his Fraternity designation.
"Gunsmith," his companion added.
Darcy and Jane exchanged confused glances at the obvious code names, but neither commented.
John turned his attention to Thor, all business now. "We need confirmation. Are you certain you want to participate in the Dragon Ball tournament? Compete for the championship and the right to make a wish?"
Thor's expression grew serious, the playful video-game demeanor evaporating. His hand unconsciously moved to where Mjolnir would rest at his side if he'd been wearing his armor.
"I will participate," Thor said, his voice carrying the weight of absolute conviction.
John nodded.
He reached into his jacket and withdrew a gold coin, identical to the one Wesley had given T'Challa half a world away.
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