"Do you remember what Saitama said he was busy with?"
Genos ran the query against his memory banks. The result was immediate. "Looking for a job?"
His expression shifted into the particular configuration that meant he was assembling a logical chain. Jordan watched it happen.
"So if I help Saitama resolve his employment situation, he'll have time to teach me?"
Jordan opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried to locate where the reasoning had gone wrong.
"Once you solve his job problem—he goes to work. Then he has no time to teach you."
Genos stared at him.
"...Is that so."
Jordan took a quiet breath and recalibrated his approach. The child was earnest. Earnestness was workable. It just required more steps.
"The purpose of work is income. Saitama is constantly looking for work. What does that tell you?"
Genos processed this with visible effort. Then, carefully: "Does this mean that Saitama-sensei is... living under some financial constraints?"
"You can just say he's broke."
"That's incredibly rude!"
"Fine. Financially constrained." Jordan gestured for him to continue the logic chain.
Something clicked behind Genos's electronic eyes. "...I have money."
"There we go."
Genos reached into his pants pocket and produced a stack of ten-thousand-yen notes of a thickness that suggested the word "pocket money" was doing significant heavy lifting. He also mentioned a premium gold card, and a nearby bank's ATM, and Dr. Kuseno's general philosophy about ensuring adequate field resources.
Jordan looked at the brick of cash.
"...That'll be enough."
He caught Genos starting to turn toward the table and grabbed his arm. "Not directly. He won't take it. Given his personality, direct charity ends the conversation immediately."
Genos turned back, pen ready. "Then what's the method?"
"Reframe it. Tuition. Room and board. He's providing a service, you're compensating him for it. Completely different transaction."
The enlightenment that crossed Genos's face had the quality of someone discovering that social interaction had exploitable mechanics.
"I see."
Jordan outlined the specific sequence. Genos listened with the focused attention of someone memorizing combat data. When Jordan finished, they looked at each other across the courtyard corner—two people who had just finalized a plan that one of them understood considerably better than the other, but both of whom were committed to the outcome.
Jordan patted his shoulder. "Good. Keep that energy. Go get him."
Back at the table, the remaining three watched them return.
Genos sat down. His gaze found Saitama with the precision of a targeting system that had locked its final parameter.
"Saitama-Sensei. Please accept me as your disciple."
Saitama looked at Jordan. Jordan had discovered that his teacup, when clinked against King's teacup, produced a pleasant sound. He and King were exploring this phenomenon together.
This is tea. Not wine.
"Absolutely not, that sounds like a hassle—"
"I've condensed my reason to under twenty words, as you requested." Genos's eyes were steady. "Please teach me how to become as strong as you, teacher."
Saitama went quiet.
There was something happening in his expression—the specific recalibration of someone who has decided they dislike a person and then been confronted with evidence that the person, when focused, is actually quite decent. The chatterbox quality had completely disappeared. What was left was just a seventeen-year-old being completely sincere.
Kind of likable when he gets serious.
But the apartment—Jordan already took the spare room—there's nowhere to put him—
So I'm saying no.
A stack of ten-thousand-yen notes hit the stone table with a definitive thud.
"Teacher." Genos's voice was level. "This is the first month's tuition. I'll also be covering accommodation and meal costs for the duration of my studies."
Saitama looked at the money.
The money looked back at him.
"...Welcome." His hand was already moving across the table. "I don't have spare toiletries. Bring your own toothbrush and towel."
Genos shook his hand with both of his, expression unchanged but something behind it that might, in certain lighting, resemble relief.
The sparring results with the Asura Minotaur had been good enough that Jordan made a separate trip to the House of Evolution to assess resupply options.
Clone 99 was mopping a corridor when Jordan materialized in his peripheral vision.
The mop left his hands at considerable speed.
Jordan's psychic field caught it, returned Clone 99 to upright, and waited.
"No need for the reaction. Where's Dr. Genus?"
"M-main body is in the laboratory—"
"I'll find him. Carry on."
He was gone before Clone 99 finished processing the encounter. The clone retrieved his mop, stood very still for a moment, and then remembered that the terrifying individual who occasionally appeared in their corridors was, technically, their boss now and meant no harm.
I almost forgot.
Dr. Genus looked up from his workstation and had approximately one second of alarm before Jordan's explanation reached him.
"Doctor—any spare specimens you're not using? I need consumables for training purposes."
The relief on Genus's face was immediate and genuine. Not a progress check. Not an infrastructure question.
He pushed his glasses up. "With the new protocols the boss provided, the original specimen batch has been superseded. If you need them, take as many as you like."
"One today is sufficient." Jordan ran the logistics. M City was temporary. Saitama and King couldn't stay indefinitely. And now there was a cyborg student to factor in. "I'll come back if I need more."
"Of course." Genus stood. "After your last visit, your biometric data was added to the facility's security system at maximum clearance. Full access to all incubation levels. Let me show you the Level One room—after that, you can navigate independently."
The incubation room was large, cool, and very quiet. Two rows of transparent cultivation chambers lined the walls, each one a self-contained life support environment—nutrient solution, vital sign monitoring, growth data logging. Pale green culture medium filled each tank with the particular luminescence of things being preserved at the edge of their natural state.
Jordan scanned the occupants.
Mosquito Girl slept in her tank with the composed stillness of something dangerous that had temporarily agreed to be still. Without the aggression, without the predatory focus, she had an almost peaceful quality. Almost.
Further along: Frog Man, Mantis Man, Ground Dragon. Minor characters from the original timeline, preserved here in suspension, waiting for a purpose that Dr. Genus had been designing and Jordan had redirected.
If a certain snake-obsessed man with an immortality fixation ever saw this room, he'd be marking disciples before anyone could stop him.
They turned a corner.
A metal gorilla approximately the size of a small car stood holding a mop roughly proportioned to its dimensions. Both items—gorilla and mop—went completely still.
Then the mop hit the floor.
"A—a—a—a—human?!"
The mechanical voice was familiar. Jordan remembered it from a previous visit—the Armed Gorilla, who had made an extremely rapid exit from their last encounter on the grounds of continued existence.