Jordan smiled, reached into the air beside the portal, and pressed his palm flat. The deep blue opening contracted smoothly and closed, taking its aurora light with it.
He turned to Saitama, put his hands together, and bowed slightly at the waist.
"The time reversals—those were part of the experiment. I know it's been a rough afternoon. Thank you for your patience, seriously."
Saitama said nothing for a moment.
The information was doing its rounds: time reversal. Jordan. The portal. The entire impossible, infuriating, inexplicable afternoon. He'd spent nearly a hundred loops searching every mountain range and coastline and city garbage district on the continent for an explanation, and the explanation had been standing at a lake on the Z-City outskirts the entire time.
"It really was you."
The anger that had been building across approximately ninety-eight cycles of waking up in the same dormitory without his sukiyaki reached its peak and then, somehow, kept going past it into a territory that wasn't quite anger anymore. He looked at Jordan.
...It was Jordan, and he didn't do it on purpose.
He exhaled.
Let it go.
As for the dark energy signature he'd detected—the dense, Dragon-level-plus density of it mixing into the blue portal light—
Look, he thought, this isn't the first time Jordan's been involved with something dangerous. Or the fifth. At some point you either trust the person or you don't. Saitama had arrived at a conclusion about that a while ago.
If Jordan was using it, it was fine.
A smell arrived.
Saitama's train of thought came to a complete stop.
He sniffed the air once, involuntarily, then again with more intention. Something familiar and deeply, specifically appealing was winding through the forest on the evening air—hot broth, a spice profile that opened somewhere in the nose and kept going, the layered complexity of a hot pot that had been simmering long enough to develop character.
"That's..."
He sniffed again.
"That's hot pot."
"Correct." Jordan was already grinning. He put a hand on Saitama's shoulder and steered him slightly to the left. "Come see."
On the sheltered side of a large blue boulder that formed a natural windbreak, someone had established a campsite.
The campfire was substantial and well-managed, its light warm and steady. Over it: a hot pot of impressive dimensions, broth already at a rolling boil, the spiced and fragrant steam of it rising through the canopy above. Around the fire: seats made from tree stumps and flat-topped rocks, a natural shelf of living wood arranged at the right height for staging ingredients.
On that shelf, working with the efficiency of someone who had done this many times, a figure in a purple three-piece suit was pulling hot pot ingredients from somewhere inside his jacket—fresh-chilled, still cold, organized by type—and arranging them in precise rows.
Saitama stared.
"...Who's that?"
The purple suit. There was something about the purple suit that his brain was filing under familiar without being able to locate the specific memory. A faint sensation at the back of his head—not quite a chill, not quite recognition—made him rub the spot absently.
"I feel like I've seen that color before."
Jordan coughed twice.
"Right, introductions. This is my—" he considered the right description— "Stand. A mental projection that operates independently. Think of him as a ghost that can think for himself. Generally, only people with strong enough mental sensitivity can see him." He paused. "You can call him F-Boy."
He raised his voice slightly toward the figure at the shelf. "F-boy—say hello to Saitama-nii."
The purple-suited figure turned.
He looked at Saitama with the composed expression of someone who has been waiting to do this for a while, and inclined his head in a greeting that managed to convey both respect and a certain amount of familiarity that hadn't been established yet.
I've met Saitama-kun.
Saitama blinked.
The ghost hadn't spoken—not exactly. The words had arrived anyway, as clearly as if they'd been said aloud.
"Oh," Saitama said. "Hello, F-Boy."
He stood there for a moment, looking at the purple-suited figure who looked exactly like Jordan but wasn't Jordan, and felt the specific confusion of something that should be strange but wasn't quite registering as strange.
Why is that? he thought. Why does this feel like meeting someone I've already met?
F-boy regarded Saitama with perfect composure.
We have known each other for some time, actually, he communicated, with the particular dignity of someone who needs to get something off his chest. And for the record—whatever you may have suspected—I did not pull your hair out.
Saitama's hand went to the back of his head.
"Jordan," Jordan said, heading off the developing thread, "before Genos moved in, F-Boy handled most of the housework. You just couldn't see him at the time."
Saitama considered this for a moment. Then the pieces settled.
"...Oh." He nodded slowly. "That explains the feeling." He swallowed, his attention now fully occupied by the hot pot. "It's not dinnertime yet. Why is there so much food?"
"Making amends." Jordan steered him to the nearest tree-stump seat and pressed down on his shoulders until he sat. "The time rewinds cost you most of your afternoon. This is the apology."
"You don't have to—it wasn't intentional—"
Saitama had reflexively reached to scratch the back of his head during the sentence.
F-boy noticed.
He had materialized behind Saitama before the scratch was finished, which caused Saitama to freeze mid-motion and look over his shoulder with the expression of someone who has identified a possible threat and is gathering information before responding.
F-boy extended his hands.
He began massaging Saitama's shoulders.
The pressure was exactly right—the specific calibration of someone who has, over an extended period, become familiar with the exact tension distribution of a particular person's upper back. Saitama's expression did something complicated, traveled through several intermediate states, and arrived at relaxed.
"...Thanks, F-Boy."
F-boy stepped back, calm as ever, and slipped something into his jacket pocket with a motion so practiced it was nearly invisible.
You're welcome, Saitama-nii.
Jordan looked at his Stand with the warmth of a man recognizing a job well done. "Good man."
He clapped his hands together, and two pairs of wooden chopsticks materialized from a quick Wood Release—smoothed, properly sized, exactly right for the task. He held one pair out to Saitama.
"Broth's ready. Let's eat."
"I really shouldn't—this is—"
Jordan had already placed the first Wagyu beef slices into the pot. They unfurled in the hot broth with the immediate, persuasive aroma of something that has been anticipating this moment. Two cans of beer appeared on the flat rock beside the seat, cold enough to be sweating in the evening air.
Saitama looked at the pot.
Looked at the beer.
Looked at the pot.
"...What else is there to say," he said, picking up the chopsticks.
Somewhere in the Z-City instructor cafeteria, a carefully prepared double-flavor sukiyaki was being kept warm under entirely false pretenses.
I'm sorry, Genos, Saitama thought, somewhere around his third serving, not particularly sorry. As your teacher, I'll eat first as a mark of respect. That's just traditional.
The dormitory corridor was quiet when Jordan walked Saitama back, which was good, because Saitama's current relationship with straight lines was complicated.
"I'm not drunk," Saitama announced, to the corridor in general. "This is nothing. Jordan—" he grabbed Jordan's arm with the grip of a man who has decided something important— "call King. Call Master Bang. We're having another three hundred cups."
"Mm-hm."
The dormitory door opened.
Genos stood in the doorway.
His expression was the expression of someone who had prepared a special meal, waited through an entire afternoon, and opened the door to find his teacher in the custody of someone else, flushed and cheerful and deeply committed to a plan that didn't involve the sukiyaki.
What level of master-complex produces that look? Jordan thought. It's impressive, honestly.
"Genos." Jordan transferred Saitama with the practiced ease of a handoff. "Your teacher is in your capable hands. Look after him."
Genos received his teacher with both arms. Straightened. Fixed Jordan with a look of absolute solemn resolve.
"Jordan. I will take excellent care of the teacher."
The delivery was the delivery of a man making a vow that he intends to keep forever, in front of witnesses, at the threshold of the rest of his life.
...What a terrible analogy, Saitama thought, from somewhere inside Genos's careful hold.
Jordan waved.
"Good night, Genos."
He turned and walked down the corridor, waited until he was far enough that only the Mind Network could hear, and let out a long, quiet exhale.
"Finally. Home."
A burst of white smoke. Gone.
The shadow clone he'd left behind would cover the evening. Standard arrangement.
Because—and Jordan was comfortable acknowledging this—he was a married man now, functionally speaking. The brother couldn't go unlooked-after, but the wife at home couldn't be neglected either. These were simply the logistics of the situation.
Tatsumaki had been exhausted at noon.
But it was evening now, and she had been asleep for several hours, and the worst of the fatigue—whatever had accumulated across the afternoon—had mostly faded. She stretched in the quiet bedroom, registering the absence of aching, and reached for the remote.
The potato chips, she noted, were gone.
Someone was going to answer for that.