The training grounds at Hero Association headquarters sprawled beneath the afternoon sun—a wide concrete expanse built to absorb the kind of punishment that would level city blocks. Jordan Evans stood near the observation rail, collar of his S-Class uniform sharp, posture easy. Beside him, Sitch was already sweating.
"Good afternoon, Lord Jordan Evans. I'm sorry to trouble you again today."
"Don't worry about it." Jordan's gaze had already drifted past the man, settling on the lone figure stationed at the center of the field. "Small matter."
Small matter.
The silver robot stood roughly three meters tall, squat and dense with firepower. Cannon barrels bristled from its shoulders like a porcupine built by a defense contractor. Its chassis caught the sun in cold, industrial angles.
So it's Metal Knight.
Jordan kept his expression neutral. He knew the profile well. Dr. Bofoy barely appeared in the original timeline, but whenever he did show up, it wasn't for anyone's benefit but his own. The man was a walking conflict of interest—top suspect in multiple Hero Association conspiracies, probable architect of the Crazy Cyborg incidents, and now apparently signing infrastructure contracts at cost. Generosity like that always came with strings.
"Mr. Sitch," Jordan said, his tone conversational, "where's the new S-Class hero? If he's present, let's get started."
Sitch straightened, grateful for something to do. "Yes, Lord Jordan Evans." He gestured toward the center of the field. "The S-Class hero joining us today is called Metal Knight. As it happens—he's already here. That armored robot is Metal Knight, in a manner of speaking."
Jordan glanced at the cluster-cannon barrel on the machine's shoulder. "Isn't it a bit unusual to call a robot a hero?"
"Ah—well—" Sitch launched into his explanation with the energy of a man defusing a bomb. "The actual S-Class hero is Dr. Bofoy, who operates the robot remotely. The doctor is a leading researcher in mechanical augmentation, and this unit is one of his developments—"
"If it takes damage during the test," Jordan cut in, "you're not expecting me to cover repairs?"
"Of course not—"
The voice that answered wasn't Sitch's.
A low hum built from within the silver chassis. Hydraulics hissed. The robot's optical sensors flared to life, and it rose from its idle crouch with the grinding whine of active engines spooling up.
"S-Class Rank Two, 'Super Cop.'" The voice that emerged from the machine was processed, clinical, with an undercurrent of genuine interest. "I've heard a great deal about you."
The robot lifted off—twin thruster ports on its back flaring orange—and repositioned itself at the edge of the testing zone, weapons tracking passively.
"I've long heard that 'Super Cop' is the world's strongest superpowered individual. I'd appreciate your assistance in confirming whether my current capabilities meet S-Class standards."
Jordan tilted his head slightly. Around him, the afternoon felt very still.
"S-Class standard," he repeated, "can't be confirmed by having a remote-controlled box fire a few shells."
He let that land for a beat.
"I'll be direct: I'll help run the assessment. But I don't endorse S-Class status for heroes who never show their faces." He glanced at the robot's blank faceplate. "And 'explosions' don't count toward the evaluation. Let's be clear on that from the start."
Sitch made a sound like a man having a quiet internal crisis.
He sidled close and dropped his voice to a murmur. "Lord Jordan Evans—Dr. Bofoy has just signed a significant order with the Association at extremely reduced rates. He'll be handling a comprehensive upgrade of the headquarters' entire defense infrastructure. The concessions he's made suggest a genuine commitment to—"
"Mr. Sitch." Jordan's voice was equally quiet, but it carried. "Think about what you're describing. A single individual—one whose motives we can't independently verify—designing and controlling the security architecture of this entire facility." He let the thought breathe. "Does that strike you as safe?"
Sitch opened his mouth. Closed it. His expression shifted through several stages before settling somewhere between alarmed and deeply uncomfortable.
Jordan hadn't expected to derail the deal—the higher-ups would have their reasons, and executives rarely reversed decisions that were already made. But seeds grew in the right soil. Sitch was a careful man. He'd remember this.
"Alright. Let's begin—"
A sphere of green light drifted onto the training grounds.
"Wait."
The voice was sharp, carrying that particular edge of someone who had never once in their life been told to wait and wasn't about to start.
Of course.
The psychic energy bloomed and dispersed, and Tatsumaki descended from it the way a storm front arrives: all at once, impossible to ignore. Same slit skirt. Same white legs. Same swept-back hair like the fronds of some extraordinarily irritated plant. She touched down above Jordan and Sitch—hovering, because touching the ground would have implied she considered anyone here her equal—arms crossed, eyes already narrowed.
"Can someone explain," she said, without preamble, "who decided this person was the world's strongest superpowered individual?"
Jordan glanced at Sitch. You said this was just a standard assessment.
Sitch was visibly glistening. He did not speak.
"Tatsumaki." Jordan regarded her with the patient expression of a man who had been through this before. "What brings you here?"
"I detected irritating psychic fluctuations in the area." She turned her head sharply, as though the very act of looking at him required effort she resented spending. "Came to investigate. Should have known it was you."
Jordan studied her for a moment—the posture, the expression, the coiled irritation looking for somewhere to land. He said, perfectly evenly: "You have such a charming appearance, and yet you always say exactly the thing designed to make people like you least. Curious choice."
"—Who said anything about wanting you to like me—you absolute—"
"I didn't say it was specifically me."
"You were implying—"
"Was I? Interesting."
"You're doing it right now!"
"I don't know what you're—"
"Fight me."
"I mean, if you're asking—"
Sitch put his face in his hands.
He had been in this organization for years. He had managed crises, negotiated disasters, and mediated between personalities that would have broken lesser men. And yet here he was, watching two S-Class heroes who had apparently decided that an afternoon assessment was the correct venue for whatever this was.
The bonds between S-Class colleagues must be something special.
Fortunately, Metal Knight chose that moment to redirect everyone's attention.
"So this is S-Class Rank Three, the 'Tornado of Terror.'" The robot's optical sensors swiveled toward Tatsumaki, and there was something almost academic in Dr. Bofoy's tone. "Another superpowered individual, same rank tier as Rank Two. Excellent. Let's see how the machine performs against psychic combatants."
Jordan quietly began counting.
Unilaterally dismissing her as the world's strongest. Short. Ranked. That's—
That was not stepping on a landmine. That was performing a choreographed routine in a minefield while wearing tap shoes.
He looked up at Tatsumaki.
The silence that followed was the particular kind that happened before weather events.
Her aura dropped—a weight that pressed against the air itself, that made the concrete beneath them creak. Her hair stood on end. Emerald psychic energy erupted from her in a rising tide, the training grounds bathing green, her skirt somehow managing to behave itself through sheer force of personal gravity.
"What did you just say, you stinking robot?!"
Dr. Bofoy, watching through his monitors in a room that was very far away and very reinforced, saw the power reading on his screen jump to a level he hadn't anticipated.
He pressed the firing command.
The silver robot dropped into combat stance before the psychic wave could fully extend. Every cannon port on its chassis heated simultaneously—the temperature distortion visible even from the observation rail. Muzzle flares bloomed, and then the sky was full of missiles.
Dozens of them. Orange contrails stitching the air, all of them locked onto one small, furious woman.
Sitch went pale. Large drops of sweat traced paths down his face as he watched the projectiles converge.
He wasn't worried about Tatsumaki. That wasn't the concern.
The concern was that if today's events managed to make her actually angry—not posturing-angry, not arguing-angry, but the genuine article—there might not be a Hero Association headquarters to walk out of.
His gaze, helpless and imploring, found Jordan Evans.