One Punch MCU

[TheLastDreamer]

Tatsumaki screamed, blood dripping from her nose as she thrust both hands toward the sky. Above her, an entire city block complete with a shattered intersection and a half-collapsed grocery store were slowly drifting up into the clouds. She pulled with every ounce of her power to bring it back down, but the city block continued onto the sky.

A few yards away, Silver Fang was on one knee, his breathing ragged. Beside him, King stood, the legendary King Engine rumbled loudly in his chest. Even Genos, missing his left arm and leaking sparking fluid from his chest plate, could only stare upward in despair.

The sky above Z-City wasn't a sky anymore.

At the center of the tear floated a being that defied the senses. It had no face, no limbs, just a shifting mass of blinding, multi-dimensional shapes.

"TREMBLE, MORTAL FLESH," the being's voice vibrated directly into the marrow of their bones. The pressure alone forced several A-Class heroes in the distance to collapse, clutching their heads. "I AM THE DEVOURER OF PARADIGMS. YOUR REALITY IS BUT A THREAD, AND I HAVE COME TO UNRAVEL IT!"

Tatsumaki's knees buckled. Genos gritted his teeth, his optical sensors flashing red as he calculated their chance of survival as zero. This was it. The end of the world.

A few feet to Genos's right, a white cape flapped lazily in the upward draft.

Saitama scratched his cheek.

He tilted his head, watching the geometric nightmare flash with impossible colors. He brought a red-gloved hand to his face, rubbed his left eye, and let out a long, whistling yawn.

Something was bothering him.

Did I leave the AC running? Saitama thought, his blank, oval eyes staring through the city block. ...No. I unplugged it this morning. ...Good.

He blinked. Another thought surfaced, far more pressing than the floating concrete.

"Hey, Genos," Saitama said, his voice flat.

Genos turned his head, his mechanical eye whirring. "Master! You must fall back! My core is critically damaged, but I will detonate it to buy you and the others a few seconds.."

"Is today Saturday or Sunday?" Saitama interrupted.

Genos froze.

"M-Master?" Genos stammered, the apocalypse momentarily forgotten. "It... it is Saturday. Why?"

Saitama's eyes widened. A bead of sweat formed on his bald head.

Saturday, Saitama panicked. The premium beef is fifty percent off until 7:00 PM. If I miss it again, I'm going to have to eat plain udon for the third night in a row. "BEHOLD THE END OF EPOCHS!" the Devourer boomed. "I SHALL FOLD YOUR DIMENSION INTO DUST! COWER BEFORE HYPERSPACE COLLAPSE!"

The space beneath the entity began to fold inward. A massive, swirling hyperspace gate ripped open, a black hole began to form in the sky, sucking the very light out of the atmosphere. The pressure was immense. The city block collapsed into it, and the ground beneath the heroes began to crack and lift.

Saitama looked at his watch. 6:42 PM.

"Yeah, okay," Saitama muttered.

As king raised his hands in defeat Saitama stepped forward, wound back his right arm, and threw a punch.

The fist hit the air.

For a fraction of a second, silence blanketed the world.

Then, reality itself cracked.

A web of jagged, glowing fractures exploded outward from Saitama's knuckles, shattering the hyperspace gate like glass.

The Devourer ceased to exist.

But the unstable dimensional field didn't just vanish. The crack grew. It splintered downward, opening a violent, impossible chasm of twisting colors right beneath Saitama's boots.

The ground disappeared.

"...Eh?" Saitama blinked.

He reached out, grabbing at nothing but fractured purple light. A chunk of concrete flew past his face. Then, the light swallowed him whole.

Darkness.

He was falling. Endless fields of stars blurred past him, streaking like a rain. Upside-down oceans and shattered, impossible geometries floated in the void. There was no wind, no sound, just the dizzying sensation of tumbling through the spaces between realities.

Saitama slowly rotated in the void, looking at a passing nebula.

"Huh," he said.

He hit the ground. Hard.

Saitama sat up slowly, patting the dust off his yellow jumpsuit. He was sitting on wet, sticky asphalt. The air smelled entirely wrong, a thick mixture of stale urine, wet garbage, and heavy exhaust fumes.

He looked around. It was a narrow, shadowed alleyway walled by red brick. He walked to the end of the alley and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

It was loud.

A boxy, bright yellow car flew past him, the driver slamming on the horn.

"Hey, I'm walkin' here, buddy! Watch it!" a man in a thick coat yelled at the taxi.

Saitama blinked. The people that rushed past him on the crowded sidewalk didn't look like the citizens of Z-City. They wore heavy coats, strange hats, and all seemed to be glaring at the pavement as they walked.

A metal cart on the corner was billowing steam. The heavy, greasy smell of boiled meat, onions, and mustard drifted over to him. Saitama's stomach gave a loud growl.

He looked up. The towering skyscrapers were just buildings. No Hero Association headquarters looming in the distance. No smoking craters. Just... a city.

He walked up to a green metal newspaper stand on the corner. The vendor gave his spandex a weird look but didn't say anything. Saitama stared at the bold, English print at the top of the paper.

The New York Times.

Saitama stared at the letters. New York?

It should be very far away from my apartment, he thought. Can I just jump back? He looked up at the sky. No. Probably not.

He patted his pockets. He reached into the hidden pouch of his suit and pulled out his worn, leather wallet. He flipped it open. A few thousand yen bills and some loose silver coins clinked softly.

He checked another pocket. Nothing.

He looked up and down the street. No familiar grocery stores. No Genos trailing behind him with a notepad. No apartment key that fit any door on this continent.

He was hungry. He was tired. Nobody here spoke Japanese. His money was basically shiny metal disks and colorful paper.

Saitama stood frozen on the corner of 42nd Street, emptiness settling in his chest.

"...The supermarket sale."

Desperate, he wandered down the block until he found a glowing vending machine tucked outside a closed bodega. He stared at the colorful rows of snacks. He held his breath, slid a 500-yen coin into the slot, and prayed.

The machine whirred.

Clink. The coin dropped into the metal return tray at the bottom.

Saitama stood there in silence for a long, long time. The neon light of the machine buzzed. He reached down, took his useless coin back, and felt his shoulders slump in defeat.

He turned around, walked slowly back into the dark alleyway, and found some relatively clean cardboard boxes stacked near a dumpster. He flattened one out on the cold concrete, sat down, and pulled his knees to his chest.

His stomach rumbled again, echoing in the New York night.

"The sale's definitely over."

 

[TheLastDreamer]

The alleyway on 42nd Street was loud and bright.

Saitama stood up, leaving his flattened cardboard box behind. He walked aimlessly for hours. New York at night never seemed to slow down. Steam drifted from food carts on nearly every corner. Grilled meat, roasted nuts, and spices filled the air. People were everywhere, eating hot food wrapped in foil, laughing, shouting.

Nobody paid any attention to the bald man in the yellow jumpsuit. In a city this crowded, he didn't even register as strange.

His stomach protested.

He stopped outside a corner store. Through the glass, he could see rows of plastic-wrapped pastries. He pushed the glass door open. A bell jingled.

The man behind the counter didn't look up from his tiny television screen. "Next."

Saitama walked to the aisle, picked up a soft, squishy loaf of bread, and set it on the counter. He held up a finger.

"One loaf."

The cashier glanced at it, then at Saitama. "Three dollars."

"..."

Saitama reached into his pocket and pulled out a crisp, colorful Japanese yen note. He placed it softly on the counter.

The cashier stared at the paper. He shook his head, sliding the bread back toward his side of the register. "No, man. Dollars."

Saitama pointed at the yen.

"No," the cashier repeated, his voice hardening.

Saitama slowly pulled the yen back. He turned and quietly left the store. The bell jingled behind him.

He walked another ten blocks. The exhaustion was setting in, worse than the hunger. He found a bench near a subway entrance, lay down, and pulled his white cape over his shoulder. He closed his eyes.

A sharp tap on his boot woke him.

A police officer in a heavy blue jacket was standing over him, holding a nightstick. "Move along, buddy."

Saitama blinked, sitting up. "...Move?"

The officer pointed down the avenue. "Yeah. Can't sleep here. Move along."

Saitama stared at the officer's pointing finger, then looked back down at the bench. He nodded slowly.

"Ah."

He stood up and walked away.

He tried the concrete steps of a large church. A security guard waved him off. He tried the corner of a quiet bus stop. A late-night street sweeper honked loudly until he stood up. New York City did not want him to sleep.

Eventually, the towering concrete and glass gave way to a massive, sprawling line of trees.

Saitama crossed the street and stepped onto the grass. It was dark here. The city noise faded behind the trees. He walked deep into the shadows until he couldn't see the streetlights anymore.

He found a large oak tree with exposed roots. He pulled a discarded piece of cardboard he'd found a few blocks back from under his arm, laid it out on the dirt, and sat down. He wrapped his white cape around his shoulders like a blanket.

Birds chirped softly in the branches above. The wind rustled the leaves.

It was peaceful.

Saitama closed his eyes. Finally.

Clack-clack.

Saitama's eyes opened.

It was a sharp metal sound. It came from a clearing just a few dozen yards through the trees. He ignored it and closed his eyes again.

Then came the voices.

"Load the truck. We move in three minutes," a soft-spoken voice said. The man's English was careful and deliberate.

Saitama frowned in the dark. ...Construction?

"Too risky," another voice answered in Mandarin. "The port authority is swarming with federal agents."

"Nobody comes through here this late," another man said. "Just get the crates in the van. The buyer's paying double for the ordnance."

Saitama sighed.

Too loud. He stood up, leaving his cardboard on the ground, and walked through the brush.

In the clearing, a large black van was parked entirely off the path, its headlights off. Five men dressed in dark clothing were moving heavy steel crates. There was a nervous younger man keeping watch near the tree line, a veteran operative guiding a crate, and an impatient man barking muffled orders.

The soft-spoken leader stood by the van's open doors.

"Boss," the nervous man whispered, raising his assault rifle. "I heard somebody."

The leader looked at the nervous man. "Then check."

The nervous man flicked on a flashlight, sweeping the beam through the trees. The light caught the edge of a white cape.

The operative stepped forward, keeping his rifle raised. He reached out and pushed a low-hanging branch aside.

Saitama stood there scratching his stomach.

"Who the hell…" the operative started.

Saitama spoke. "...Please... quiet."

The clearing went completely still. One crate hit the ground with a heavy thud. Four rifles swung toward Saitama. Laser sights cut through the darkness, painting little red dots across Saitama's yellow chest.

One of the men laughed. "It's just a bum."

The leader stepped forward. He looked at Saitama's outfit, then motioned with his hand. "Move."

Saitama stared at him. "No."

The leader's eyes narrowed. "I said move."

"Sleep," Saitama replied, pointing back toward his tree. "Too loud."

The impatient thug stepped up alongside the leader, his finger tightening on the trigger of his rifle. "We don't have time for this crap. Put him down."

The thug fired.

The sound echoed through the treeline.

Ping.

The bullet struck Saitama squarely in the chest. It flattened against his collarbone, bounced off, and fell harmlessly into the grass.

Saitama looked down. There was a tiny, smoking hole in the fabric of his yellow jumpsuit.

No one moved.

The impatient thug stared at his rifle, then at the flattened bullet in the grass. His grip loosened.

Saitama gently touched the frayed edges of the hole.

"..."

He looked back up at the men.

"I had just fixed it last week."

Saitama pulled his right fist back.

The impatient thug didn't even have time to blink before the bald man was suddenly standing right in front of him.

Saitama threw his punch.

It stopped a mere inch from the thug's nose.

But the momentum of the punch kept going.

Leaves rained from the canopy like a torrential downpour. A massive flock of pigeons exploded out of the trees, scattering into the night sky. Half a mile away, along Fifth Avenue, the heavy glass windows of luxury penthouses rattled violently in their frames.

Deep inside the park, a massive cloud of dust slowly drifted into the moonlight.

When the dust cleared, the clearing was gone. In its place was a massive, perfectly smooth trench carved straight through the earth, uprooting trees and completely vaporizing the black van.

The impatient thug, the soft-spoken leader, and the rest of the crew hadn't been hit, but the sheer concussive force of the wind had blasted them backward. They were scattered across the tree line one hanging upside down from sturdy branches, others half-buried in the loose topsoil, all completely unconscious.

Saitama stood at the edge of the crater. He looked at his ruined cardboard box, now buried under a mountain of dirt.

He let out a long, exhausted sigh, turned around, and began walking deeper into the park to find another tree.

When the dust settled, a shattered steel crate lay half-buried at the edge of the trench. A scorched metal plate had come loose from its side.

Ten interlocking rings adorned the plate.

Near the edge of the crater, the nervous operative who had been standing just far enough back to only be thrown by the outer shockwave lay in the dirt, covered in dirt and bruises, coughing violently. His hand trembled as he reached for a shattered radio clipped to his vest.

"Central..." the operative wheezed into the static, looking at his unconscious crewmates and the impossible canyon carved through the park. "Shipment is... compromised..."

 

[TheLastDreamer]

The sun wasn't entirely up when the jogger called 911.

By 6:00 AM, two NYPD officers from the local precinct ducked under the low-hanging branches of Central Park, following the frantic civilian who kept pointing toward the clearing. The older officer rested a hand on his belt, expecting kids setting off fireworks or a vandalized statue.

They stepped through the tree line, and both officers stopped.

The older cop slowly let his hand fall away from his belt. He stared straight ahead. "...Jesus."

This was more of a terror attack. Half the park was gone.

The younger officer unclipped the radio from his shoulder, his hands shaking.

"Central, this is Lincoln Twelve."

"Go ahead, Twelve."

"...You're gonna want supervisors down here."

The radio crackled. "Shots fired?"

The officer looked down into the sheer drop of shattered ground fading into the morning mist. "...I don't know what this is."

An hour later, the clearing was wrapped in layers of yellow tape.

Crime Scene Unit technicians stepped carefully around the edge. Detectives in trench coats stood in small groups, talking quietly. Personnel from the Parks Department and the Fire Department stood further back, nobody quite willing to step into the massive trench.

A senior detective knelt near the edge. He picked up a handful of loose dirt, rubbed it between his fingers, and dropped it.

No scorch marks. No lingering smell of sulfur or cordite. Just displaced earth and shredded, twisted pieces of a black van embedded deep into the trunks of the surviving trees.

Another detective walked carefully along the rim, looking down into the darkest part of the gouge.

"...How deep?" he asked.

A CSU tech holding a tape measure shook his head. "About fifty feet at the deep end."

A few yards away, near the barricades, a man in a plain dark suit ducked under the police tape.

He held a cup of coffee in his hand and briefly flashed a badge to the uniform on guard. He offered a small, polite smile.

An NYPD lieutenant noticed the federal credentials and walked over, his expression remaining tight.

"Morning," Agent Phil Coulson said. "Mind if I take a look?"

The lieutenant sighed, stepping aside. "Be my guest. Whatever it is."

Coulson walked toward the trench, taking a slow sip of his coffee.

"Who found it?" Coulson asked quietly.

"Jogger," the lieutenant replied. "About five-thirty. Nobody heard a thing until a single gunshot got called in around two. But dispatch couldn't pin the location. After that there were reports of an earthquake, then nothing."

Coulson nodded. He turned his attention away from the crater and looked toward a pair of ambulances parked on the grass. Paramedics were loading stretchers into the back.

"Victims?" Coulson asked.

"Five of them," the lieutenant said, pointing toward the tree line. "One was near the edge, coughing up dirt but conscious. The other four were blasted into the brush. One was literally hanging upside down from the branches. Ruptured eardrums, severe concussions. Lucky to be alive."

Coulson walked over to the ambulance. He stood out of the paramedics' way, watching them secure a neck brace on one of the men. Coulson's eyes drifted down to the man's hands hanging off the side of the gurney. Thick, rough calluses on the knuckles and the inside of the index finger. He looked at the heavy, laced tactical boots.

Not homeless.

Coulson turned back to the lieutenant. "Appreciate the help, Lieutenant."

Ten minutes later, a woman in a sharp suit walked up to the NYPD command post. She handed the precinct captain a thin stack of paperwork. Just paperwork for a quiet transfer of authority.

The area became federal.

SHIELD agents in dark windbreakers replaced the local CSU. They moved methodically through the debris field.

"Got something," an agent called out.

He used a pair of tweezers to lift a small, deformed piece of lead from the grass. A flattened bullet. A few yards away, another agent uncovered the shattered remnants of an assault rifle.

Further down the trench line, three agents were digging around a massive chunk of twisted steel.

"Agent Coulson."

Coulson walked over. The agent brushed the loose dirt away from a scorched metal plate bolted to the side of the ruined crate.

Ten interlocked rings.

He stood up and looked around the clearing. He gestured to a technician carrying a heavy, portable scanning unit.

"Run it again," Coulson said.

The tech swept the long sensor wand over the dirt, adjusting the dials on his chest rig. The scanner stayed silent.

"Sir..."

"What've you got?" Coulson asked.

The tech looked up from his screen. "...Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"No radiation. No chemical residue. No electrical discharge. No thermal event."

Coulson looked past the tech at the trees lining the edge of the destruction. He followed the line of the trench backward. The crater didn't radiate outward in a circle like an explosion. It was directional. A perfect, widening cone of destruction, originating from a single point... about five feet above the grass.

Coulson's eyes narrowed. He looked at the flattened bullet they'd found right at that exact origin point.

"...Air pressure," Coulson murmured.

The agents turned to look at him, then followed his gaze from the start of the trench to the untouched trees behind them.

Coulson stepped away from the group. He pulled a secure phone from his pocket and pressed a single button.

"Sir," Coulson said.

"Talk to me," Nick Fury replied over the encrypted line.

"Ten Rings shipment," Coulson said.

A brief pause. "Destroyed?"

"Obliterated," Coulson said.

"How?" Fury asked.

Coulson looked at the sheer drop of the fifty-foot trench stretching across the park. "...We don't know."

"Estimate."

Coulson watched an agent bag the flattened bullet. "One enhanced individual. Unprecedented kinetic output. Whatever hit them didn't use explosives. They were hit by a shockwave."

He looked back at the trench before finishing his thought. A rogue super-soldier experiment. A black-market kinetic weapon.

"Contain it," Fury said. "Find him."

Saitama opened his eyes.

Sunlight filtered through the green leaves above him. He sat up slowly, stretching his arms over his head. His back cracked. Sleeping on the roots of a tree wasn't much better than the cardboard box.

The small, scorched bullet hole was still there in his yellow jumpsuit.

He sighed.

His stomach let out a violent, echoing growl.

"...Hungry."

He stood up, brushed the dirt off his pants, and walked aimlessly through the park until he hit a paved walking path. The morning air was crisp, and the path was already busy with people jogging, walking dogs, and riding bicycles.

Saitama stood by a drinking fountain, watching the people go by. He needed food.

A man in expensive running gear jogged past, slowing down to check his smartwatch. Saitama stepped toward him.

"...Food?" Saitama asked.

The jogger blinked, pulling out an earbud. "Sorry?"

Saitama pointed at his stomach. "...Hungry."

The jogger looked at the bald man in the bizarre, dirty yellow costume. He hesitated, then reached into the tiny zipper pocket of his running shorts. Without another word, he pulled out two crumpled paper bills and handed them over.

"Here you go, man. Good luck," the jogger said, putting his earbud back in and jogging away.

Saitama stood on the path, looking down at the two green pieces of paper in his glove. They had the number '1' printed on the corners and a picture of a stern-looking man in the center.

"...Money?"

He turned the bill over. Not yen. Different.

He stuffed the strange paper into his pocket and started walking toward the edge of the park. The city was awake now. Yellow cabs rolled past one after another. Delivery trucks idled by the curbs.

As he stepped onto the sidewalk, the smell of fresh bread reached him.

Saitama stopped. He inhaled deeply. His blank eyes brightened with a sudden flash of hope.

He started walking toward the bakery sign hanging a block away.

Across the street, a black, unmarked SHIELD SUV drove past him, heading straight toward the police barricades in Central Park.

 

[TheLastDreamer]

Agent Phil Coulson stood inside the mobile command unit, scanning the array of monitors.

"Witness statements are all over the place," a junior agent said, handing Coulson a file. "One says a bald guy in a yellow suit. Another says it was a homeless man. Some swear it was a guy in superhero cosplay. Half of them insist he had a cape."

Coulson flipped through the pages. Nothing reliable. Just the usual Manhattan morning confusion.

"Did anyone actually speak to him?" Coulson asked.

"A jogger gave him two dollars," the agent said. "And a bakery employee two blocks from the park said a guy matching the description came by. Said he asked for food."

Coulson pulled up the city's traffic cameras, following the route away from the bakery. One intersection after another flickered across the screen until a bodega camera caught a flash of yellow.

"Got him," Coulson said.

Warm air greeted Saitama as he stepped inside the bodega.

The owner was arguing with a supplier near the front register. An old woman was slowly counting coins for a carton of milk. Two construction workers poured coffee in the back corner. A kid stared up at a rack of candy.

Saitama stood in the second aisle, staring at a loaf of sliced bread.

$3.49.

Too expensive.

He moved down the aisle to the cup noodles. $0.79.

He turned toward the produce section and stopped.

Cabbage.

SALE. $1.99.

He reached into his pocket and felt the two crumpled bills.

The bell above the door jingled.

A man in a plain dark suit stepped into the aisle and stopped a few feet from him.

"Morning," Coulson said.

Saitama looked up. "...Morning."

"Mind if I ask you a few questions?"

Saitama blinked. "...English little."

Coulson nodded. "Your name?"

"...Saitama."

"Where are you from?"

"...Z-City."

"Z-City? Purpose in New York?"

Saitama looked back at the produce section. "...Food."

Coulson wrote that down. He looked up, his eyes catching the scorched, frayed hole in the yellow fabric across Saitama's chest.

"Mind telling me what happened there?" Coulson asked.

Saitama looked down at his jumpsuit.

"...Gun," Saitama said. He frowned. "I wash."

Outside, the commander didn't wait for Coulson's signal

"Move in. Secure the asset."

The bodega doors slid shut.

Four agents in dark clothing entered together. One stayed by the door while the other three spread through the aisles.

The old woman stopped counting coins. The construction workers turned. The owner cut himself off mid-sentence.

Saitama didn't notice. His attention was already on something else.

In the produce aisle, another customer reached toward the bin. Toward the last discounted cabbage.

Saitama's eyes locked onto the man's hand.

He started walking.

Three agents moved to intercept. Two grabbed Saitama's arms. A third stepped squarely into the middle of the aisle.

"Sir, hold it right there," the agent said.

Saitama kept walking at the same pace, as if nobody had grabbed him.

Their boots slid across the floor as they dug in and pulled. Saitama dragged the two men down the aisle without changing his pace.

A shopping cart tipped over, spilling boxes of cereal.

"Sir!" an agent yelled, his boots squeaking against the floor. "Stop!"

"...Cabbage."

"Get on the ground!"

Saitama reached past the third agent blocking his path. "...Need cabbage."

"Hey! Easy! You're knockin' everything over!" the owner yelled.

Coulson stopped writing.

The older customer on hearing the commotion had taken a step back. Saitama picked up the cabbage and asked the man."Not want."

The man shook his head.

On seeing that Saitama walked to the front register. The agents stumbled as he casually slipped out of their grips to reach for his pocket. He placed the cabbage on the counter.

The cashier stared at the four armed agents, then at the bald man.

"Uh..." the cashier swallowed hard. "One ninety-nine."

Saitama smiled. He placed his two dollars on the counter.

He stood there. Waiting.

The cashier blinked. "...We don't have pennies."

Saitama waited. The agents looked at one another. No one moved.

"Look, man," the cashier whispered, sliding the cabbage forward. "...Just take it."

Saitama nodded. "...Thank you."

He tucked the cabbage under his arm and walked past the tactical team. A moment later, he pushed through the man in front of the door, the bell above the door jingled, and he was gone.

Ten minutes later, Coulson stood outside the bodega, holding a secure phone to his ear.

"He treated five armed agents like they weren't even there," Coulson said.

Fury didn't answer right away.

"What was he after?" Nick Fury asked.

Coulson watched the bodega owner sweeping up spilled cereal through the glass window. "...A cabbage."

"...He ignored arrest over a cabbage?"

After a moment of thought Coulson replied "It was discounted,"

 

[TheLastDreamer]

Camera flashes burst one after another across the front of the Manhattan gala. Luxury sedans lined the curb, their purrs drowned out by the shouting reporters leaning over the barricade.

"Tony! Over here!" a reporter yelled.

"A picture, Mr. Stark!" another shouted, waving a camera.

Tony Stark, who had just gotten out of his sedan paused on the red carpet, adjusting the lapels of his tuxedo. He offered a smile to the crowd. "One? That's optimistic."

"Tony, keep moving," Pepper Potts said, stepping up beside him while typing rapidly on a digital planner. "The board meeting was rescheduled to nine tomorrow morning, and you still haven't reviewed the Apogee presentation."

"Review it? Pepper, I lived it," Tony said, walking briskly toward the glass doors. "It's an award for being me. I'm highly qualified."

Happy Hogan pushed ahead."Come on fellas let's get a move on it."

Across the avenue, the shouting from the gala faded into the background for Saitama. He sat on the edge of a concrete planter, his dirty yellow jumpsuit ignored by the pedestrians. In his hands, he held a warm hot dog wrapped in a scrap of wax paper. The steam carried the scent of mustard and grilled meat.

He took a small, careful bite.

His eyes closed.

Peace. Real food. After a long day of raw produce and continuous pestering, the warm bun was the closest thing to a miracle he had found in this city.

Then a sharp screech of tires cut through the avenue. Heads turned. A yellow taxi lurched sideways as a black SUV slammed into its front quarter panel. Metal shrieked against metal, the impact spinning the cab across two lanes until it blocked the intersection. Another SUV mounted the curb, forcing pedestrians to scatter. Before either vehicle had fully stopped, the side doors flew open.

Men in plate carriers and helmets jumped out.

"Smoke!" one shouted.

"Left! Clear the perimeter!"

A metal canister bounced once on the asphalt, then burst with a sharp hiss. White smoke poured across the street, swallowing parked cars one by one.

Instantly, the avenue erupted. "Gun!" someone screamed. "Run! Oh my God!" Paparazzi dropped their gear, heavy lenses shattering on the pavement as they scrambled away. A woman stumbled out of the cloud, clutching a broken heel, while photographers at the barricade abandoned their tripods entirely. But one photographer instinctively kept his lens raised, filming through the haze until a companion dragged him down.

"Down!" Happy Hogan roared, lunging forward. He grabbed Tony by the front of his tuxedo, shoving him hard behind the rear bumper of a parked limousine.

Tony winced as his shoulder clipped the heavy tire. "They're shooting at me, Happy. I noticed."

Happy ignored him, his pistol drawn as he pushed Tony lower. "Stay down!"

Tony peeked over the hood, eyes scanning the moving shadows in the smoke. "...Definitely kidnapping," he muttered to himself.

"What?" Happy rasped.

"They're herding," Tony said. "Package first."

Through the haze, more men spread across the street. One of the gala's private guards lunged at an advancing mercenary near the concrete planter. The mercenary caught him with the butt of his rifle. The guard staggered backward, heels scraping across the pavement as he fought to keep his balance. He failed. His back slammed into the concrete planter hard enough to shake it. The impact ran through the concrete. The planter jolted beneath Saitama.

The hot dog slipped from his fingers.

It traveled through the air, hit the edge of the granite curb, and landed in the street gutter. It rolled a few inches, then stopped. A rushing stream of dirty rainwater reached the bun, swirling the mustard away, before slowly carrying it toward the dark iron grate of the storm drain.

Saitama stayed where he was. His eyes tracked the floating bun until it disappeared completely into the sewer.

Saitama stared at the empty iron grate.

"..."

"My lunch."

The mercenary who had struck the guard reset his stance, turning sharply. His rifle rose instantly toward the bald man's head. "Face down!"

Saitama stayed where he was. He looked annoyed.

He raised one hand and swatted.

Crack.

A gap ripped through the smoke.

The mercenary vanished.

There was no body, no sound of running boots, and no impact against the walls. The space where the man had been standing was completely empty. No one heard him land. Three blocks away, somewhere beyond the buildings, a heavy splash echoed across the Hudson.

Behind the limousine, Tony Stark blinked. He looked, then looked again. The space was completely empty. The guy was... gone.

Tony looked at Happy. "Where'd he go?"

Happy stared at the empty patch of asphalt, his pistol shaking slightly. "...I... I don't know."

The remaining mercenaries froze. Their tactical radios crackled with clipped.

"Echo Two!"

"Answer!"

"Contact lost!"

Engines turned over. Doors slammed. Tires chirped against the asphalt as the SUVs pulled away, disappearing into morning traffic within seconds. The only trace of their arrival was the dropped rifles, shattered cameras, and a street still buried under drifting smoke.

Saitama stood up from the planter, still holding a tiny, torn scrap of the hot dog bun in his left hand.

The hot dog vendor peeked his head out from behind his metal cart, looking at the empty street, then at the bald man in the yellow suit. He looked at his dented cart, then back at Saitama.

"...You still want onions?" the vendor asked, his voice shaking.

Saitama looked down at the scrap of bread in his fingers.

"...No," Saitama said. He looked toward the storm drain where the rainwater was still rushing. "...Gone."

He let the scrap drop into the gutter and began walking away, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets.

From behind the limousine, Tony Stark stood up, brushing the dust off his tuxedo. His smile was completely gone. He adjusted his cuff, his eyes locked onto the retreating figure and the white cape. Happy stood beside him, still breathing heavily. "You know him?"

Tony didn't answer right away. He kept watching until the yellow suit disappeared around the corner. For the first time that morning, he was clueless.

"...Should I?" Tony asked.

 

[TheLastDreamer]

Pepper Potts had already been sent ahead to the Stark Industries headquarters, furious about the schedule and demanding a full security debrief before morning.

Tony Stark remained in the back of his Maybach, an open laptop resting on his knees.

"The hot dog guy said he walked west," Happy said, keeping one hand on the steering wheel while scanning the sidewalks. "Said the bald guy looked like he'd lost a best friend after his hotdog fell."

"Yeah?" Tony muttered, clicking through high-resolution stills from a gala photographer's dropped camera. He zoomed in on a blurry frame. "Happy... he vanished."

"Maybe he had something on under the suit," Happy offered.

"Hidden, where?" Tony pointed at the illuminated screen. "There's nowhere to hide it. No frame, no backpack, no cables. The guy's wearing pajamas, Happy. If something like that existed, I'd be trying to buy it."

Happy turned the corner onto 52nd Street.

"There," Happy said, slowing the car.

Saitama was sitting on a concrete curb outside a closed laundromat, illuminated by a blue neon sign. He held his cape loosely in one hand while staring glumly at the scorched, blackened hole burned into the chest of his yellow suit. Across the street, a late-night diner's kitchen fan blew the smell of burgers and onions over the sidewalk.

Saitama's head turned toward the smell. His stomach let out a loud, miserable growl.

Tony looked at the way the bald man was staring at the diner, then glanced at Happy.

"Buy everything," Tony said.

Happy blinked. "What?"

"The diner. Buy whatever they've got cooked. Right now."

Two minutes later, Happy returned carrying three heavy paper bags bursting with double cheeseburgers, large fries, and paper cups of soda. He opened the rear door of the Maybach.

Saitama's nose twitched. He looked up from his ruined suit, his eyes locking onto the grease-stained paper bags.

"Get in," Tony said from the leather backseat. "Eat."

Saitama didn't ask any questions. He climbed into the wide leather interior, took a bag from Happy, and sat down.

Happy quietly shut the door and climbed back into the driver's seat. He adjusted the rearview mirror, his grip tightening on the steering wheel every time Saitama reached into the bag. Saitama didn't notice. He unwrapped a burger and took a bite.

"Slow down, big guy, nobody's taking it," Tony said, handing him a paper napkin.

Saitama swallowed, his eyes lighting up slightly. "...Good."

Tony leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and flipped open a small notebook.

"So... Saitama, right?" Tony asked.

"...Yes."

"You always eat like that?"

"...Hungry."

Tony nodded once, tapping his pen. "Right. Let's start with you. So what are you, military?"

"...No."

Tony scribbled a note. "Didn't think so. Government?"

"...No."

"Private lab?"

"...No."

"Another country?"

Saitama blinked. "...Another?"

Tony stopped the pen, leaning back. "Exoskeleton?"

"...No."

"Gene-splicing? Gamma radiation?"

"...No."

Tony closed the notebook with a soft snap. He looked up, resting his chin on his knuckle. "Okay... forget all that. Just tell me what happened."

Saitama wiped his mouth with the back of his red glove. He looked at Tony, his face completely flat.

"...Training."

Tony held the pen ready again. "Training. Fine. What kind of training?"

"One hundred push-ups."

Tony wrote it down. "Standard conditioning. And?"

"One hundred sit-ups."

"...Every day?"

Saitama nodded. "Every day."

"One hundred squats."

Tony looked up. "...Seriously?"

"Ten-kilometer run."

Tony waited, his eyes narrowing slightly. "For how long?"

"Three years."

The crinkle of Saitama opening a second burger wrapper echoed in the car.

"...That's it?" Tony asked.

Saitama paused with the burger halfway to his mouth, as though he'd remembered something. "...No AC."

Tony frowned. "You mean... air conditioning?"

Saitama nodded. "Summer... no AC."

Tony stared at the bald man. He looked at the flat, deadpan expression, watching for a smirk or any sign of a joke.

There was nothing.

Tony sighed as he asked, "No serum?"

"...No."

"No experiment?"

"...No."

"No radiation?"

"...No."

Tony waited. Saitama just kept chewing, reaching blindly into the paper bag for another fry.

Up front, Happy stared at the mirror, quietly muttering, "This is insane..."

"You're actually serious," Tony asked quietly.

Saitama frowned, pointing a french fry at Tony. "It was hard! My hair fell out!"

Tony stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he started to laugh, a short, exhausted exhale of disbelief.

Ten minutes later, Saitama stepped out of the Maybach onto the curb, carrying the two remaining bags of burgers and a big soda bottle.

"...Thank you," Saitama said, offering a small nod.

"Don't mention it. Seriously, don't mention it to anyone," Tony said, leaning out the window.

Saitama turned and began walking down the sidewalk, munching on fries under the yellow streetlights.

Happy exhaled a long breath in the front seat. He looked at Tony in the rearview mirror.

"So?" Happy asked. "What's the verdict?"

Tony kept staring at the corner where Saitama had disappeared. His fingers tapped once against his notebook.

"So," Tony said softly, "I have absolutely no idea."

He adjusted his tuxedo jacket and leaned back into the leather seat.

"...Find him again, Happy."

Happy blinked. "Why? He didn't tell you anything useful."

"He didn't lie," Tony said, looking out the window. "And physics doesn't just quit. Until I understand what I saw, he's the most interesting thing in this city."

[

I'm sorry, fellas. I'm not the original creator of these characters or the show, so mistakes are bound to happen. Please don't expect everything I write to perfectly match the original standard, logic or personality of every character.

I know I'll make mistakes, so please bear with me. I hope you still enjoy this silly little fanfic. Yeah, I'm not planning on writing long ass fanfic.

]

 

[TheLastDreamer]

Morning light shone through the glass windows of the Stark mansion underground workshop.

Tony stood in front of a floor-to-ceiling whiteboard, holding a dry-erase marker. The board was covered with his writings. Near the center, a single number was circled four times.

A cold cup of coffee sat on the workbench behind him.

The door slid open and Happy walked in carrying two fresh coffees. He stopped to look at the board.

"You didn't sleep," Happy asked.

"No," Tony said, his eyes fixed on the board.

Happy set the coffee down. "Still thinking about Pajama Man?"

"Happy, that guy punched another into the Hudson," Tony said.

"Yeah..."

"Without any buildup." Tony capped the marker and tossed it onto the bench. "Like I said physics doesn't negotiate, Happy. So why'd it make an exception yesterday?"

The door slid open again. Pepper Potts walked in holding a stack of manila folders.

"The legal team has been up since four," Pepper said, setting the folders down. "NYPD wants a statement about the gala, the insurance adjusters are asking about the taxicab, and two board members are asking why our security couldn't stop four guys in an SUV."

Tony kept staring at the whiteboard.

Pepper looked at the dark circles under his eyes. "You're looking for him."

Tony picked up a fresh marker. "Already found him."

Pepper blinked. "...Excuse me?"

"Lost him again," Tony muttered.

Pepper pinched the bridge of her nose. "Tony, there was an attempted kidnapping on Manhattan soil. We need to handle the press."

"Happy's handling it," Tony said, walking past her toward the elevator.

Happy looked up. "I am?"

"You're driving," Tony said. "Let me know when the press gets here."

...

The Maybach rolled slowly down a street on the Lower East Side.

"Where do we start?" Happy asked. "New York's got eight million people."

"Anywhere cheap," Tony said from the backseat. "A guy who worries about a cheap hot dog isn't hanging out at the Plaza."

Two blocks later, Happy slowed the car.

Outside a Japanese grocery store, Saitama stopped walking. Stacked behind the glass were packages of instant udon. He pulled out his wallet and looked inside. He closed it, then opened it again as tho money might magically appear inside the empty leather pouch. He looked up at the price tag printed on the window sign and let out a quiet sigh.

"...Too expensive," Saitama muttered.

Tony opened the car door and stepped onto the sidewalk. He walked up beside him, leaning against the wall.

"Hungry?" Tony asked.

Saitama didn't look over. "...Udon."

"Get in," Tony said, gesturing toward the car.

Ten minutes later, Tony sat in the booth of a Midtown restaurant. Saitama sat across from him in his yellow suit.

A waiter approached, handing over two leather-bound menus. Saitama opened his, stared at the dense rows of English words for three seconds, on realizing he couldn't read a single letter he quietly closed it.

"Order whatever you want," Tony told him.

Saitama looked up at the waiter. "...Udon?"

"Yes, sir," the waiter said.

Saitama nodded. "...Okay."

"Bring him a big bowl," Tony added. "Hot broth."

The waiter took the menus and left.

Tony pulled a silver pen from his pocket, grabbed a cloth napkin, and began sketching lines.

"...No recoil," Tony muttered, drawing an arrow. "...No crater." He drew another line. "...No pressure wave." He looked up. "...Do you have any idea how annoying that is?"

Saitama pulled a pair of chopsticks apart as the waiter set down a massive bowl of noodle soup. Saitama's eyes brightened for a second. He leaned over and pulled a heavy clump of noodles into his mouth.

Tony looked up from his napkin. "Why'd you hit him?"

Saitama swallowed. "...Hot dog."

Tony waited. "...The hot dog."

"...He hit," Saitama said.

"...So you launched him into the Hudson."

Saitama shrugged, taking another bite. "...Lunch gone."

Tony looked back down at the napkin, drawing another line. "...Are you listening?"

"...Can eat and listen," Saitama said, before immediately slurping a long strand of noodles.

Tony clicked his pen shut and tossed it on the table. "I have a job opening. Work for me."

Saitama paused with his chopsticks. "...Pay?"

"Yes," Tony said. "Stand near me. Bodyguard stuff. Someone shoots, you hit."

"...Dangerous?"

"...Sometimes," Tony said. On seeing him hesitate Tony pivoted to. "Apartment. Your own place."

Saitama's chopsticks stopped.

"...Big?" Saitama asked.

Tony blinked. "Compared to?"

Saitama thought for a second. "...Closet."

Tony laughed. "Yes. Real bed. Kitchen."

Saitama set his chopsticks down, looking at him with actual interest.

"Food, too," Tony added. "How much do you eat?"

"...A lot."

"I noticed," Tony said. "As much as you want. I'll cover it."

Saitama thought it over. "...Food first."

Tony smiled. "Deal."

From the entrance, Happy watched them. He started walking over.

"Tony," Happy said.

Tony ignored him, watching Saitama drink the broth.

"Tony."

"...Tony!"

Tony looked back annoyed. "What?"

"He's your bodyguard now?" Happy asked, pointing at Saitama. "What about me?"

"You're still my bodyguard, Happy," Tony said.

"Then what is he?"

Tony gestured toward Saitama, who was tipping the giant bowl back to get every drop of soup. "Congratulations, Happy. You have help."

Across the street, a black sedan sat along the curb.

Agent Phil Coulson sat in the passenger seat with a cup of coffee. He lowered his binoculars.

The agent driving turned around. "Target is inside with Stark. Should we move in?"

Coulson took a sip of coffee. He watched through the restaurant window as Tony spoke to the man in yellow.

"No," Coulson said.

"Sir?" the driver asked. "Director Fury wants this individual contained."

"He's not causing a disturbance," Coulson said, adjusting his tie. "And right now, Stark is doing our job for us. Let's see what Mr. Stark thinks he's doing."

Tony slid a sleek, embossed black business card across the table.

"My office," Tony said. "Be there at nine tomorrow."

Saitama picked up the card. He turned it sideways, then upside down, squinting at the raised lettering.

Tony watched him.

"...You don't know where that is."

Saitama looked up.

"...No."

Tony sighed.

"Give that to any cab driver."

Saitama looked at the napkin.

"...Cab?"

Tony blinked.

"Taxi."

"...Ah."

Saitama nodded, and slipped the card into his wallet beside the stack of yen.

 

[TheLastDreamer]

CNBC played on the wall-mounted screen in front of the executive boardroom, the sound muted. The news ticker showed Stark Industries stock down three percent, a red headline read: GALA SECURITY FAILURES RAISE QUESTIONS IN MIDTOWN.

Obadiah Stane sat at the head of the conference table. Around him, senior board members spoke over one another.

"...insurance adjusters are demanding access to the site…"

"...the mayor's office called twice before eight…"

"...four armed men in broad daylight, Obie!"

Obadiah raised a hand.

"Gentlemen," Obadiah said. "We survived two recessions and the end of the Cold War. We will survive whatever dent this causes. The NYPD is handling the investigation, and our PR team is drafting a response."

"And Tony?" a board member asked. "Where is he?"

"Tony is doing what Tony does best," Obadiah said softly. "Focusing on the future. Let me handle him."

The board members gathered their folders and filed out the glass doors. Later Pepper Potts stepped inside, carrying a clipboard and a stack of printed memos.

Obadiah leaned back in his chair, taking a sip of water. About time, he thought. Aloud, he asked, "Tell me he didn't crash another car."

"No," Pepper said. "Tonys hired someone."

Obadiah looked up. "Finally. Someone with a badge and a background check, I hope. Who is he? Ex-Secret Service? Blackwater?"

Pepper considered explaining, then decided against it. "...You should probably see him first."

….

The glass elevator rose towards the top floor.

Obadiah stood outside the doors, adjusting his tie. He expected a broad-shouldered operative, someone whose resume was as clean as his haircut.

The elevator chimed. The doors slid open.

He saw a bald man wearing a yellow jumpsuit with a blackened bullet hole burned into the chest walk out. A white cape hung off his shoulders. Under his arm, he carried a plastic grocery bag containing two pork buns.

The smile remained on Obadiah's face.

Tony hired... this?

It took Obadiah a moment to regain his composure

Looking at the bearded man in the three-piece suit, Saitama stopped.

Obadiah extended a hand. "Obadiah Stane. Executive Vice President."

Saitama shifted his plastic bag to his left hand and shook Obadiah's hand. "...Saitama. Good meet."

Tony stepped out of the elevator behind him, holding a cup of coffee. He walked past Obadiah without stopping.

Obadiah looked from the bald man to Tony's back. "Military?"

Tony stopped, turning around with a smirk. "You're late to that conversation."

Tony kept walking, heading straight down the executive wing. Obadiah watched them disappear around the corner. Tony better not have brought a stray civilian oddities onto the executive floor without an explanation.

Ten minutes later, Obadiah stood in the glass hallway outside the human resources department, holding his cell phone to his ear.

"Security," a voice answered on the line.

"It's Stane," Obadiah said. "I need the file on Tony's new personal guard. Clearance level, badge number, background check."

"Ah... Mr. Stane," the security chief hesitated. "He doesn't have a badge."

Obadiah narrowed his eyes. "Excuse me?"

"Mr. Stark brought him straight up from the garage. He bypassed visitor registration entirely. There's no file."

Obadiah hung up. He walked straight into the HR director's office and shut the door.

"Where are his tax forms?" Obadiah asked.

The HR director looked up from her computer. "Whose tax forms, Mr. Stane?"

"Saitama. The new hire."

She typed on her keyboard, scrolling through the roster. "I don't have a Saitama in the system. Is he a new recruit? Should I look him up?"

"Yes, here is footage from one of our security cameras,"Obadiah said.

She continued typing on her screen and said "I don't see a Social Security number, no I-9, no direct deposit.""

Obadiah looked at the screen.

No Social Security number. No I-9. No direct deposit.

Nobody can hire a man who doesn't officially exist.

He turned and walked out.

Down in the garage, Happy was leaning against the Maybach, checking his watch.

"Happy," Obadiah said.

Happy looked away, scratching the back of his neck. "Morning, Mr. Stane."

"Where'd Tony pick him up?"

"Look, Obie..." Happy shifted his weight. "We found him near 52nd. Tony bought him some food, talked to him for ten minutes, and offered him a job. Beats me why. Guy just stands there while Tony talks to himself."

Bought with lunch?

Obadiah nodded slowly, keeping his expression neutral. "Right. Thanks, Happy."

Down in the workshop, lights hummed over a row of testing equipment.

Tony sat on a rolling stool in front of a monitor and a steel pressure pad mounted to the wall. Saitama stood nearby, eating a cold pork bun.

"Easy one," Tony said, clicking a stylus against his tablet. "Light goes green. Touch the pad. Try not to break anything."

Saitama chewed slowly. "...Tap."

"Red light turns green, tap the pad," Tony repeated.

A small red LED on the wall glowed brightly. Three seconds passed.

The LED flashed green.

Saitama raised his index finger and tapped the steel pad.

A sharp beep echoed through the workshop. The monitor flickered, then displayed three red words: ERROR: RANGE EXCEEDED.

Tony frowned. Glitch. "Again."

He reset the system, adjusting the optical sensitivity.

The red light turned green. Saitama tapped the pad.

ERROR: SENSOR DISCONNECT.

Again?

Tony lowered his tablet and walked over to the wall. He reached up, touching the high-speed tracking housing. A thin, spiderweb crack ran straight through the center of the optical lens.

"Great," Tony muttered.

Saitama took another bite of his pork bun. "...Done?"

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose, his brain started hurting. "Yeah. Go find Happy. Tell him to show you where the coffee machine is."

Saitama nodded, turned around, and walked toward the glass elevator.

Tony kept staring at the cracked lens, tapping his fingers against his knee.

…

The executive floor was dark. Only Obadiah's monitor remained lit.

He held a secure satellite phone to his ear.

"I want everything you have on Stark's new bodyguard," Obadiah whispered into the receiver.

"We ran the name through our network," a voice crackled through the phone. "Nothing. He doesn't exist in any federal database, state record, or international intelligence grid."

Obadiah tapped his fingernails against the desk. "Everyone leaves footprints. Find his."

"I sent you what little we pulled from local traffic feeds," the contractor replied. "That's all there is."

A quiet chime signaled an incoming file on Obadiah's computer. He clicked the icon.

A single surveillance photograph opened on his screen. It showed the bald man standing outside a small bodega in his yellow suit, staring intently at a crate of cabbage.

Below the photo, a brief text report read:

SUBJECT: Saitama

ORIGIN: Unknown

CITIZENSHIP: Unknown

PRIOR EMPLOYMENT: Unknown

MILITARY RECORD: Unknown

FINGERPRINTS: No Match (NYPD Database)

CLEARANCE: Unknown

Obadiah looked at the photograph.

"Can he be bought?" Obadiah asked.

"Unknown," the contractor on the line replied. "We don't even have a bank account to trace."

Obadiah leaned back. He closed the file with a single click then said softly. "Remove him.'

In an unmarked warehouse in Queens, a computer screen glowed in the dark.

A mercenary team leader stepped up to the desk and looked down at the printed picture of a bald man in a yellow suit holding a cabbage.

He read the file summary, then looked back at the picture.

A short, quiet laugh escaped his throat.

"One bald guy?" the team leader asked, tossing the folder onto the table. "That's what he's worried about?"

 

[TheLastDreamer]

Pepper dropped a folder onto the workbench beside the cracked optical tracker.

"Payroll sent him back."

Tony looked up from the tracker. "They fired him already? That's efficient."

"They didn't hire him."

Crunch. Saitama sat on the end of the workbench, eating cornflakes out of the cardboard box.

Pepper turned to him, clicking a pen. "Current address?"

Saitama stopped chewing. "...No address."

"Previous address?"

"Z-City."

Pepper waited then sighed. "No address"

Pepper pinched the bridge of her nose. "No Social Security number. No passport."

Tony stopped twirling his screwdriver. He reached into his jacket, pulled out a black card, and tossed it across the room.

The metal clattered against the workbench. Saitama took it.

"Food, clothes, transit," Tony said. "Use it."

Saitama turned the black card over in his hand. "...How much?"

"No limit," Tony said.

Saitama looked at the card. "...No limit?"

"Basically."

Saitama looked at the card again.

"Take him shopping, Happy," Tony called out as Happy walked through the door. "Get him out of those pajamas."

Happy looked at Saitama's dirty yellow suit, his eyes fixing on the scorched hole over the chest. "Thank God."

Saitama looked down at himself. "...Suit fine."

"It has a hole in it," Happy said.

"...Small," Saitama said.

ln an unmarked gray surveillance van parked at Manhattan avenue, two men wearing headsets stared at monitors linked to a rooftop camera.

"Target is mobile," the spotter said into his mic. "Leaving Stark facility in a black Maybach. Passenger seat."

Across the street, the team leader sat in a separate sedan. "Maintain visual. Keep your distance until he separates from Stark's driver."

The Maybach pulled over near a commercial strip. Saitama stepped out. They had stopped at a discount clothing rack first. Happy had watched in despair as Saitama passed the jackets and picked out a plain gray T-shirt, a pair of ten-dollar sweatpants, and a pack of white socks.

"Target entering civilian structure," the spotter reported.

Through the telephoto lens, the spotter watched Saitama walk into a discount supermarket. He stopped in front of an upright freezer, turning his head side to side.

"He's checking reflections," the spotter said.

Saitama rubbed a smudge off his bald head using his glove, then turned around.

Ten minutes later, Saitama stood perfectly motionless in the middle of aisle four, holding two identical boxes of family-sized ramen. He stared at the boxes.

"He's been stationary for eleven minutes," the spotter said.

"Why?" the team leader asked over the comms.

In the aisle, Saitama held both boxes out to Happy. "...Which cheap?"

Happy looked at them. "You have a card with no limit."

Saitama kept holding them out. "...Which?"

Happy sighed and checked the price tags.

Happy drove him another three blocks before Saitama suddenly pointed out the window. "Stop."

"What? A department store?"

"There."

Happy parked. He looked across the sidewalk.

It was a cramped, faded storefront with a peeling paper sign in the window: ALTERATIONS & REPAIRS.

Saitama walked straight up to the elderly woman behind the counter. He unzipped his yellow jumpsuit, stepped out of it, and handed the suit and his white cape over the counter.

Underneath, he was wearing the new ten-dollar gray sweatpants and the plain T-shirt.

The woman took the suit, squinting through thick glasses at the hole in the chest. "Bullet?"

"...Yes," Saitama said.

She looked at him. He looked at her.

"Five dollars. Ready in twenty minutes."

"...Okay," Saitama said. He took a numbered paper ticket and walked out into the side alley to wait.

Across the street, the gray van's doors clicked open.

"Target stripped his tactical layer," the spotter whispered. "He's isolated. Move in."

The gray van pulled smoothly into the mouth of the alley, blocking the exit. The sliding door rolled back. Two men in dark jackets stepped out.

The first operative closed the distance behind Saitama, stepping in and grabbed his arm and yanked him toward the open van door.

Saitama didn't budge.

The man grunted, planting his boots, and pushed again. Nothing.

The second operative grabbed Saitama's other arm, throwing his entire body weight backward. Saitama's feet stayed perfectly flat on the concrete.

Inside the van, the driver hissed. "What are you doing?"

"We're trying!"

Saitama looked into the dark van. "...Why?"

He took a step backward.

Both mercenaries, still gripping his arms with everything they had, were instantly yanked off their feet. They crashed face-first onto the sidewalk.

The men scrambled up, stumbling backward over each other in panic.

"Abort! Go!" one of them yelled, diving into the back of the van. The doors slammed shut. Tires shrieked against the pavement as the van reversed wildly out of the alley and sped away into traffic.

Saitama watched them go. "...Weird."

Ten minutes later, a black sedan pulled up behind the parked Maybach.

Agent Phil Coulson stepped out. He looked at the fresh skid marks leaving the alley. He looked at Happy , whose hand was resting inside his jacket on the grip of his pistol.

"Happy Hogan?" Coulson asked.

Happy looked at him. "Who's asking?"

Coulson showed his ID. "Phil Coulson." He looked back at the skid marks. "Bad afternoon?"

Happy slowly pulled his hand out of his jacket. "You could say that."

A bell jingled above the repair shop door. The elderly woman stepped out.

"Number forty-two!" she called out.

Saitama was on his feet immediately. He walked over to the counter and handed her five dollars.

He walked back to the car holding the suit. A noticeably mismatched yellow patch had been stitched perfectly over the hole in the chest. Coulson watched him the entire time.

.....

In his darkened office, Obadiah Stane's cell phone rang.

He picked it up.

"We're done," the mercenary leader said.

"You haven't completed the job."

"Then don't pay us."

Obadiah was silent. "I'm doubling it."

"Find someone else."

The line went dead.

Obadiah set the phone beside the keyboard. The surveillance photograph was still open on his monitor. Saitama stood outside the bodega with a cabbage tucked under one arm.

Obadiah enlarged the image.

That evening, the glass doors of Tony's workshop slid open.

Tony was sitting at his desk, looking at an expense report on his tablet.

"Eighteen dollars and forty-seven cents. That's all you spent?" Tony asked.

Saitama, now back in his newly patched yellow jumpsuit, took a seat on the stool. "...Yes."

"Why?"

"Sale," Saitama said.

Tony stared at him. He closed the tablet. "Afghanistan tomorrow. You're coming with me."

Saitama looked at him. "...Afghanistan?"

"Got some work there."

Saitama considered it. "...Where?"

"A bit west."

"...No."

Tony leaned forward. "Steak."

Saitama stopped.

"All you can eat," Tony said.

Saitama looked back. "...All?"

"All."

Saitama nodded. "What time?"

Pepper looked up from the folder in her hands. "You do remember he doesn't have a passport."

Tony looked at Saitama. Saitama looked at Tony.

"...Steak?" Saitama asked.

 

[TheLastDreamer]

"...Steak?" Saitama asked.

Pepper didn't look up from her folder. "He doesn't have a passport."

"It's my plane," Tony said.

"You're landing at a military installation in Afghanistan, Tony. You can't bring a legally nonexistent person onto a Defense Department trip."

Happy crossed his arms. "She's got a point."

Tony looked at him. "Whose side are you on?"

"The side that doesn't get detained overseas," Happy said.

Saitama looked back and forth between them. "...No steak?"

"I believe we can resolve this. Agent Phil Coulson S.H.I.E.L.D"

Phil walked into the workshop, his suit perfectly pressed. He held out a crisp, dark blue passport.

Tony took it.

"You made him a person overnight?" Tony asked.

"For travel purposes," Coulson said smoothly. "He's officially cleared as part of your security detail. Assuming, of course, that SHIELD is notified of his itinerary."

Tony opened the document. He frowned. "No last name?"

Coulson looked at Saitama. "He didn't give us one."

"...Not have," Saitama said.

Tony closed the booklet with a snap. "Of course you don't."

The morning sun beat down on the private tarmac as Tony's jet waited on the runway.

Lt. Colonel James Rhodes stood near the boarding stairs in his crisp Air Force uniform. He watched the Maybach pull up. Tony stepped out, followed by a bald man wearing a yellow jumpsuit with a noticeably mismatched patch sewn over the chest.

Rhodey looked at the man. He looked at Tony then back at the man.

"No," Rhodey said.

"You haven't even heard the explanation," Tony said, walking toward the stairs.

"Don't need one."

"He's my new bodyguard," Tony said.

Rhodey looked past Tony to where Happy was pulling a single suitcase from the trunk. "What happened to you?"

"Apparently I got help," Happy muttered.

Rhodey shook his head and followed them up the stairs.

Inside the jet, Saitama poked the plush leather seat.

"...Food?" Saitama asked.

"It's a private jet," Tony said, pouring himself a drink.

Saitama nodded. He sat down, ate the first plate of catered food the flight attendant brought him, and fell asleep almost immediately. For most of the flight, while Tony and Rhodey drank like the night depended on it and the flight attendants danced to the tunes, Saitama didn't move.

The heat hit them the second the cabin door opened at Bagram Air Base.

Military transports rumbled across the tarmac. Personnel moved cargo between Humvees. The air smelled of jet fuel and hot sand. Tony adjusted his sunglasses, walking down the stairs as an officer stepped forward to greet him.

Saitama stepped off the stairs, squinting in the blinding light.

"...Atsui," Saitama muttered, fanning his face with a glossy Stark Industries brochure.

Rhodes paused. "What does that mean?"

"...Hot."

An hour later, they stood on a ridge overlooking a vast, empty desert valley. Military brass and armed escorts flanked Tony as he stepped up to a podium.

"They say the best weapon is the one you never have to fire," Tony told the crowd, his voice carrying over the wind. "I respectfully disagree. I prefer the weapon you only have to fire once."

He raised his hands.

Behind him, the Jericho missile launched. It arced high into the sky, split into a dozen separate warheads, and slammed into the distant mountain range.

BOOM.

A massive shockwave ripped across the desert, kicking up a wall of sand and dust. The soldiers cheered. Tony lowered his arms, turning back to the crowd with a satisfied smirk.

Saitama's cape snapped violently in the shockwave. He watched the mountain crumble into dust.

"...Loud," Saitama said.

Tony looked at him over the rim of his sunglasses. "That's your review?"

Saitama looked back at the scorched mountainside. "...Expensive?"

"Very," Tony said.

Saitama thought about it. "...Could punch."

Tony closed his eyes for a second. "We're not putting that in the brochure."

The convoy of armored Humvees idled in the dirt, waiting to move out.

A young soldier standing near the lead vehicle looked at Saitama's suit, adjusting his rifle sling. "So what are you supposed to be?"

"...Hero," Saitama said.

The soldier smiled. "Seriously?"

"...For fun," Saitama added.

Tony heard it from the passenger seat. He looked at Saitama, knowing the bald man wasn't trying to joke.

"Get in," Tony said.

Saitama climbed into the back of the Humvee. Rhodey took the vehicle behind them. The convoy began rolling out across the rocky, uneven desert road.

Inside the Humvee, the air conditioning struggled against the midday sun. Two soldiers sat up front, while the young soldier sat next to Saitama, grinning as Tony charmed the crew.

"Is this really your bodyguard?" the driver asked, glancing in the rearview mirror.

Tony gestured loosely. "Newest acquisition."

"...Employee," Saitama corrected, staring out the window.

"We're still working on branding," Tony said.

BOOM.

The Humvee ahead of them disappeared in a blinding ball of fire.

Tires screeched as the driver slammed the brakes. Gunfire erupted from the rocky ridges on both sides of the road. Bullets hammered against the vehicle.

The soldiers in the Humvee shouted orders, kicking their doors open to return fire into the dust.

Saitama stepped out behind them, blinking through the smoke.

The air was thick with the deafening crack of automatic weapons. He looked around. A U.S. soldier fired toward one ridge. Another fired in the opposite direction as rounds struck the Humvee's armor.

Saitama looked from one group to another.

"...Who?" Saitama asked.

Tony scrambled out of the front seat, diving for cover behind a tire. "The guys shooting at us!"

A sharp, high-pitched whistle cut through the gunfire.

An RPG streaked down from the ridge, aimed directly at Tony's Humvee.

Rhodey saw it from the vehicle behind them.

Saitama looked toward the sound.

He reached out and caught it.

Smoke curled from the tail of the metal cylinder resting in his glove.

"...This?" Saitama muttered.

He tossed it straight up.

A second later, it exploded well above the convoy, showering the dirt with harmless sparks.

Rhodey stopped firing. He looked at Saitama.

"Tony," Rhodey shouted over the noise.

Bullets continued to chew the dirt. Saitama stepped away from the Humvee, dusting sand off his cape.

Another explosion tore through the dirt a few yards away, throwing a cloud of shrapnel and sand over their position.

Tony coughed, wiping dust from his eyes. He looked down.

Half-buried in the sand inches from his knee was a broken missile casing. Stenciled across the faded olive-green metal were crisp black letters:

STARK INDUSTRIES

Tony stared at it.

Saitama crouched down next to him. He looked at the metal casing, then at Tony's face.

"...Yours?" Saitama asked.

Tony didn't answer.

Nearby, a wounded soldier dragged himself into the dirt behind the Humvee.

Saitama looked at him.

Then the young soldier from earlier cried out, clutching his shoulder as he fell against the vehicle's rear tire.

Saitama crouched beside him. "...Daijōbu?"

No answer. The soldier was breathing heavily, trying to stanch the bleeding.

Gunfire struck the dirt beside them.

Saitama looked toward the ridge. Gunfire flashed from several points along the rocks.

Another burst hit the Humvee.

He stood.

"...Oi," Saitama said.

 

[TheLastDreamer]

Gunfire continued to echo across the valley, bullets kicking up sprays of dirt and ringing against the armored plating.

Saitama turned around, crouched low, and grabbed the young soldier beneath his arms.

The soldier gritted his teeth, his hand pressed hard against the bleeding wound in his shoulder.

Saitama lifted the man and carried him around the rear of the Humvee, placing him in the dirt beside the convoy medic.

"...Daijōbu?" Saitama asked.

The medic looked at him wildly, tearing open a field dressing.

"...Okay?" Saitama corrected himself.

The young soldier gave a tight, pained nod.

Saitama turned and walked back into the open.

Twenty yards away, another soldier was pinned behind a shallow rock outcrop. The terrain offered almost no cover. Dirt sprayed across the soldier's helmet as rounds chewed the ground around him.

Rhodey, who fired short controlled bursts from behind his vehicle, saw the pinned man. He shouted orders into his radio, trying to coordinate suppressing fire for the man.

Before Rhodey could leave cover, Saitama walked into the open.

Bullets hit the dirt around him. Three rifle rounds struck Saitama directly in the chest. His white cape snapped backward.

He reached the rock outcropping and looked down at the pinned soldier.

"...Walk?" Saitama asked.

The soldier stared at him.

Saitama reached down, picked the man up by the straps of his tactical vest, and carried him back through the gunfire to the Humvee.

As he set the man down, Saitama looked at his chest.

There was another hole through the new patch.

He touched it once. Then he looked at the wounded men bleeding in the dirt.

"Saitama!" Tony shouted over the gunfire.

Saitama looked over.

Tony pointed toward the ridge. Muzzle flashes flickered among the rocks. "Those guys!"

Saitama followed Tony's finger.

"...Ah," Saitama said.

And disappeared.

Halfway up the ridge, a Ten Rings gunman fed a fresh magazine into his rifle. He raised the weapon, sighting down the barrel.

But Saitama was standing next to him.

The man flinched, swinging the rifle. Saitama reached out, took the weapon from the man's hands, and bent the steel barrel ninety degrees downward and handed it back.

The terrorist stared at the bent metal.

"...No," Saitama said.

Saitama walked past him. The gunman did not pursue.

Thirty yards away, a heavy machine-gun crew swung their weapon around on its mount.

Saitama stepped behind them.

"...Dangerous."

He pulled the long ammunition belt free from the weapon. Saitama pinched the steel receiver between two fingers.

Crunch. The gun sagged on its mount.

The gunner backed away with his hands raised. Saitama moved on.

Through his binoculars on a distant peak, Raza watched the ridge.

One firing position stopped. Then another. Men began abandoning their weapons.

Raza lowered the binoculars.

"Withdraw," he ordered.

"Sir?" his lieutenant asked over the radio.

"Now."

Farther down the ridge, an RPG gunner raised his launcher, tracking Saitama's yellow suit. He pulled the trigger.

Saitama casually reached out and caught the warhead mid-flight.

He tossed it over his shoulder into an empty ravine.

BOOM.

The gunner dropped the launcher, turned around, and ran.

Saitama let him go. He kept walking.

From the valley floor, Tony and Rhodey couldn't see much through the dust.

Gunfire rattled from the eastern ridge.

Crunch. It stopped.

Another position opened fire farther north.

Thud. Silence.

Then another.

Then the ridge went quiet.

Rhodey stood up slowly from behind the Humvee, his rifle lowered. He stared at the empty hills.

Near the top of the ridge, a local Ten Rings commander backed away, his hands trembling as he aimed his sidearm at the bald man in the yellow suit.

"What are you?" the commander yelled in broken English.

Saitama stopped. "...Hero."

The commander stared at him.

"...For fun," Saitama said.

The commander fired.

Saitama caught the round between two fingers.

The commander's pistol lowered. Saitama looked at the bullet, then at him.

The man dropped the gun.

....

Back down in the valley, the remaining Ten Rings fighters scrambled into their trucks and sped away, throwing up clouds of dust as they vanished into the desert.

"They're getting away!" a soldier shouted, raising his rifle.

Saitama dropped down from the ridge, landing lightly in the dirt near the Humvee. He watched the trucks disappear into the dust.

He turned back toward the medics.

He walked over to the young soldier he had pulled from the first volley of gunfire. The medic had just finished taping a thick pressure bandage over his shoulder.

The young soldier looked up.

"You really are a hero," the soldier breathed, his face pale.

Saitama looked down at him. "...Yeah."

"For fun?"

Saitama paused. "...Yeah."

Tony slowly walked through the wreckage of the ambush. He stopped near an overturned supply truck the terrorists had abandoned.

Inside the bed of the truck were several large wooden crates. Some had spilled open during the fight.

Tony stopped at the open crate.

He picked up one of the guidance modules and turned it over. The Stark Industries serial plate was still attached. Not just one module. Stacks of Stark missile casings. Launch system components stamped with his company's logo.

Rhodey walked up beside him.

"I didn't sell them this," Tony said.

Rhodey looked into the crate. "I know."

Saitama walked over, his cape dragging slightly in the dust. He looked at the crates. He looked at the Stark logo stenciled across the metal. Then he looked at Tony.

"...Yours?" Saitama asked.

Tony didn't answer.

Two hours later, the dust began to settle.

Helicopters chopped through the sky, landing in the valley to load the wounded. Soldiers moved quietly among the wreckage.

Tony sat on the rear step of a damaged Humvee while the last medevac crew loaded the wounded. He was staring at the ground, his mind reeling.

Saitama walked over. He held out a plastic bottle.

"...Drink," Saitama said.

Tony took it. "Thanks," he muttered. He unscrewed the cap and took a slow sip. He looked toward the ridge, then back at Saitama.

"You could've caught them," Tony asked.

Saitama looked toward the medics loading the helicopters.

"...They stopped."

"That's it?"

Saitama pointed toward the wounded soldiers.

"...Need help."

Tony looked at the medics then at the Stark logo on the wreckage.

He took another drink of water.

 

[TheLastDreamer]

The jet had been ready for forty minutes. Tony was still beneath the maintenance shelter.

A Stark Industries guidance unit sat on the plastic table in front of him.

An intelligence officer placed a printed manifest beside it. "Sir, we ran the serial number twice."

Tony picked the unit up, turning it over in his hands. "And?"

"Quality assurance rejected this batch six months ago. According to the disposal record, every unit was destroyed in California."

Tony looked at the intact serial plate for a moment, set the guidance unit back down. "I redesigned this piece last year."

Rhodey folded his arms. "You're sure?"

Tony gave him a long look. "I know my own work."

Rhodey picked up the manifest. "How does something scrapped in California end up on that ridge?"

Tony didn't answer. He stared at the serial number.

Fifty yards away, sitting on an empty ammunition crate near the perimeter fence, Saitama was eating a tray of unseasoned military rations.

The young soldier whose shoulder had been bandaged walked past, leaning heavily against a medic. He stopped when he saw the bald man in the yellow suit.

"Hey," the soldier said weakly. "Hero guy."

Saitama looked up from his tray.

The soldier gave him a small, exhausted nod.

Saitama nodded back. "...Yo."

Tony walked over a minute later, holding his sunglasses. He stopped beside Saitama and noticed the new tear passing cleanly through the center of the patch.

"Five-dollar repair lasted less than a day," Tony noted.

Saitama looked down at his chest. "...Hmm."

Rhodey stopped beside them. His eyes went to the hole on the suit near Saitama's chest.

"No vest?" Rhodey asked.

"...No."

Saitama looked down at himself. "...No?"

Rhodey slowly turned to look at Tony. "You watched rounds hit him."

Tony nodded. "Several."

Rhodey looked back at Saitama.

Saitama took another bite of his rations.

Tony patted Rhodey on the shoulder. "You're doing great."

...

Hours later, Tony had turned the cabin table into a mess of photographs, manifests, and serial numbers. His tie was discarded and his sleeves rolled up.

Rhodey sat across from him, watching him trace a line on a map with a red pen. "You haven't slept."

"I slept last week."

"Tony."

Tony stopped. He set the pen down.

"I know every bolt that goes into half that hardware," Tony said quietly, staring at a photograph of the destroyed Humvee. "I couldn't tell you where any of it goes after somebody signs the check."

Rhodey looked at the photograph between them. "You never asked."

Tony didn't answer.

Across the aisle, Saitama was fast asleep, his white cape pulled over him like a blanket.

.....

The black Maybach idled on the private tarmac as the jet touched down in New York.

Pepper Potts and Happy Hogan waited at the bottom of the stairs.

Tony walked down and Saitama stepped off the stairs behind him.

Happy opened the trunk, then stopped when he saw the yellow suit. He pointed directly at the fresh bullet hole.

"Again?" Happy asked.

"...Yeah," Saitama said.

Happy shook his head. "I'm not taking you back there today."

Pepper stepped toward Tony. She immediately saw his focus had shifted. "The board is waiting. Obadiah has called me seven times."

Tony opened the car door. "I'll see him in the boardroom."

"Tony..."

"Twenty minutes."

The executive boardroom was empty except for Obadiah, who was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over Manhattan.

The glass doors opened. Tony walked in and dropped three photographs onto the conference table.

Obadiah turned around. He looked at the photographs. They showed the Stark Industries logo stamped across crates of heavy ordnance in the Afghan desert.

"Recognize those?" Tony asked.

Obadiah sighed heavily. "Unfortunately."

"So do I," Tony said. "Temporary hold on distributor and subcontractor exports. Direct government contracts stay open for now. Everything else gets chain-of-custody verification."

Obadiah's expression remained perfectly composed, but his jaw tightened.

"You're reacting emotionally, Tony," Obadiah said smoothly, stepping toward the table. "We're a defense contractor. We deliver to governments and approved buyers. Once they take custody, we don't personally follow every crate."

Tony tapped the photograph. "This crate was never delivered. According to our records, it was destroyed."

Obadiah glanced at the photograph again. "Then you have a disposal problem. We investigate the contractor."

"I have a Stark Industries problem."

"You're talking about freezing shipments," Obadiah countered. "Do you have any idea what that'll do to this quarter?"

"I have a pretty good idea what one of our 'destroyed' guidance units did to my convoy," Tony fired back.

In the corner of the room, Saitama sat in a leather chair. He was reaching into a crystal bowl of complimentary mixed nuts, tossing them into his mouth.

Obadiah turned to Tony, ignoring the bald man entirely. "Weapons change hands, Tony. That's the world."

Saitama looked up from the bowl.

"...No sell"

Obadiah turned toward him. "Excuse me?"

Saitama pointed toward the photographs on the table. "...Until find."

Obadiah stared at the man in the dirty yellow suit. "That isn't how defense contracting works."

"...Okay," Saitama said. He tossed another cashew into his mouth.

Tony looked at Obadiah. "It is today. Put the hold through."

An hour later, the black Maybach pulled up to the curb outside an Brazilian churrascaria in Midtown.

"Come on," Tony said, stepping out of the car.

Saitama looked at him from the backseat. "What?"

"I made a promise," Tony said.

Inside the bustling restaurant, a few heads turned as Saitama was escorted to a private corner booth wearing his patched, scorched costume.

Twenty minutes later, a waiter arrived with another massive skewer of roasted beef. Saitama raised his plate.

"...More," Saitama said.

The waiter sliced the meat, then looked toward Tony.

Tony waved him on. "Keep it coming. I promised him unlimited steak. Apparently he took that literally."

Across the table, Tony hadn't touched his own plate. He was staring at a tablet, scrolling rapidly through endless rows of serial numbers and shipping manifests.

Saitama looked at Tony's untouched plate. "...Eat."

"I'm working."

"...Cold."

Tony looked at his steak. "You have a very limited range of concerns."

Saitama kept eating. "...Still cold."

Tony sighed and picked up his fork.

Tony's phone vibrated on the table. He answered it. "Pepper."

"I found the disposal certificate for the guidance package," Pepper said.

Tony set down his fork. "And?"

"It says the unit was destroyed six months ago."

"We know that."

"No. Listen," Pepper said. "The disposal certificate cleared with an executive override."

Tony stopped. "Whose?"

"That's the problem. The approval field is blank."

"Can it be blank?"

"Not on a closed disposal record."

Tony narrowed his eyes. "So somebody removed it."

"Or made sure it was never recorded."

Tony looked down at the serial number on his tablet. "Keep trying."

On the executive floor of Stark Industries, the glass hallway was completely silent.

Obadiah's phone rang as the elevator doors closed. He raised it to his ear.

"Potts accessed the disposal archive," a voice said on the encrypted line.

Obadiah pressed the button for the lobby. "Did you alter anything?"

"No."

"Good. Don't."

A brief pause hung over the line.

"Sir?"

"If Tony finds a missing file, he'll know somebody's watching," Obadiah said smoothly as the elevator descended. "Mirror her access. Every file she opens, every query she runs. Send it to me."

[

Guys, the upcoming war will be a legal battle, so don't expect Saitama to be the main character, since this isn't really his cup of tea.

You can access more chapters on my Patreon.

Patreon: https://patreon.com/TheLastDreamer

]