Jordan rubbed his face and decided not to explain the entire complex history of cybernetics to her.
"His name is Genos," Jordan said, keeping his voice level. "He is a cyborg. Not a housekeeping robot."
Tatsumaki extended her psychic perception just briefly. It was an instinctive, invisible assessment she applied to anything new in her immediate environment. She registered the biological signature underneath all the chrome and synthetic muscle. A human brain. A human nervous system. Everything else was machine. She filed the information away without any particular ceremony.
"Ah," she said simply. "I see."
She offered no further comment or insult. Jordan noted this as one of her better moments of restraint.
Genos had stopped near the courtyard entrance the moment they appeared. The massive storage box remained perfectly balanced under one arm, his posture completely straight despite the heavy load. He waited until the initial introductions were underway with the rigid attentiveness of someone who genuinely considers social greetings to be a matter of utmost importance.
"Genos," Jordan said, gesturing to the group. "You already know King. The one floating is Tatsumaki, the Tornado of Terror, S-Class. Her sister Fubuki is right behind her."
Genos's posture, which was already excellent, somehow became even more precise.
"King." Genos nodded sharply, then turned to the sisters. "Ladies." He inclined his head with the intense formality of someone who had been taught that absolute sincerity and high volume were the exact same thing. "Welcome."
King returned the nod with a slight, easy smile. "Good to see you, Genos."
Tatsumaki gave a minimal, dismissive sound of acknowledgment. Fubuki, however, leaned slightly sideways to get a better look at the face under the mechanical plating. She noted that he was young, well-structured, and genuinely handsome in the parts that were still original. She returned his greeting with a polite, real smile.
Jordan's eye caught the courier seal still intact on the side of the massive box Genos was carrying. "More supplies? I thought we sorted out the ingredients this morning."
"I calculated that the total number of guests would likely be higher than initially estimated," Genos said. He spoke with the absolute gravity of a man who takes dinner provisioning as seriously as combat. "I placed an additional order this morning. The estimated delivery window concerned me, so I flew down the mountain to collect it directly from the drone."
Jordan stared at him for a long moment.
He flew down a mountain to intercept a delivery drone just because he was worried about the timing.
"That is very you," Jordan said, shaking his head slightly. "Thank you."
Genos nodded, already pivoting toward the kitchen with the unstoppable momentum of someone who has a strict schedule and fully intends to keep it. The storage box, which Jordan noted was approximately the size of a small refrigerator, disappeared through the doorway along with its carrier.
"Alright." Jordan turned back to the rest of the group. "Let's go find Bang first."
The main room of the dojo smelled strongly of high-quality tea and aged wood.
Bang and Saitama sat across from each other at a low wooden table. They sat in the unhurried, comfortable way of two people who had exhausted normal conversation a long time ago and arrived at the peaceful stage beyond it. Steam rose steadily from two ceramic cups. Somewhere outside, birds were chirping in the late afternoon sun.
Saitama's ears tracked the approaching footsteps well before the sliding door even opened. He had the particular attentiveness of someone who had been waiting for food and was now counting heads.
He turned as Jordan's group filed into the room. His internal headcount went from Jordan, to King, and then completely stopped.
He looked at Tatsumaki floating in the air. He looked at Fubuki standing behind her. He looked back at Jordan, his face a mask of mild confusion.
"I said I'd help with the ingredients," Saitama said, his voice flat. "And you went and found more people. How many is that?" He squinted at the two sisters. "Look, Jordan, if you need entertainers for the evening, you can't hire minors. That's not legal."
The entire room went completely still.
Tatsumaki's green aura flared violently. Every single loose object in the immediate area began to tremble and vibrate against the floorboards.
Bang coughed twice. It was the precise, deliberate cough of a wise man trying to prevent a structural incident in his own home.
"Saitama. These are heroes from the Hero Association. Both of them." Bang gestured toward the women with measured calm. "The Tornado of Terror and her sister, the Blizzard of Hell. Jordan likely ran into them while he was in M-City."
"Tornado and Blizzard," Saitama repeated the names slowly, showing the earnest respect of someone who takes hero monikers very seriously. He nodded several times. "Oh. Okay. That makes sense, those are very good names."
Tatsumaki was already moving. The psychic force radiating off her small frame had escalated from a mild temperature change to a full-blown weather event in under three seconds. Green light blazed blindingly bright, and the ambient air pressure in the room shifted so noticeably that ears popped.
"Let go," she snarled. She had just found Jordan's firm grip already wrapped securely around her waist. She pushed against his hold with enough raw telekinetic force to violently rattle the tea cups on the table. "I'm going to kill that bald idiot."
"I have significant hair loss," Saitama corrected her. He spoke with the quiet dignity of a man simply standing by his facts. "But I am not fully bald. There is a distinction. You're being very rude for someone who just got here."
"You're the rude one! Your whole family is rude!"
Jordan kept his grip on Tatsumaki's waist. At the same time, he had his other hand planted flat against Saitama's chest. He was actively pushing the two of them in opposite directions while blue and green psychic light flickered and snapped between them like competing thunderstorms.
"The kitchen," Jordan said. He spoke in the dangerously calm tone of someone who is not shouting simply because shouting would be inefficient. "If either of you tries anything right now, the kitchen gets destroyed first. No kitchen means no hot pot. Is that what we want?"
Fubuki took this chaotic opportunity to step carefully around the contained disaster. She located Bang with her eyes and offered a deep, respectful bow.
"Silver Fang. My sister and I apologize for the sudden disruption." She straightened up with the practiced grace of someone who has spent her entire adult life managing Tatsumaki-related property damage situations. "We were unexpected additions to the evening."
Bang's expression held the warm, weathered ease of an old man who has seen many terrifying things in his life and found most of them merely interesting. His sharp gaze moved briefly across the torn edge of Fubuki's dark battle suit, noting the concrete dust still trapped in her hair, recognizing the obvious signs of a brutal afternoon she had just pushed through.
"Welcome," Bang said simply, his voice soothing. "We have plenty of room here, Miss Fubuki."
King had materialized beside the old martial artist by this point. He had set his sealed seafood box down near the wall and completed his own social calculus. He bowed to Bang with the genuine, heavy respect of someone who truly means it.
"Master Bang. It's been a while."
The old man looked up at the towering hero. The light in Bang's eyes was the measuring kind. It was the deep assessment of someone who has spent a lifetime reading how people stand, how they carry their own weight, and what unseen burdens they bring with them.
"Your aura," Bang said slowly, his voice dropping a fraction. "King. It's completely different from the last time we met." Something that looked very much like genuine approval settled deeply into the old man's lined expression. "That's not a small change."
King received the observation quietly. He stood with the stillness of someone to whom sincere praise still lands with some surprise, despite everything he had been through.
"I didn't imagine, when we first met, that I'd become a proper hero," King said, his voice a low rumble. He paused, glancing down at his large hands. "The M-City branch confirmed my application this week. I should be officially registered by the end of the month."
Bang's thick white mustache lifted as he smiled warmly. "Is that so? Then congratulations are definitely in order."
"It wouldn't have happened without Jordan and Saitama." King glanced across the room. Jordan was still physically managing the escalating Tatsumaki and Saitama situation with the tired resignation of a man doing his third consecutive hour of unpaid peacekeeping.
"Clearly," Bang agreed with a soft chuckle.
At the center of the room, the volatile situation was finally resolving. This was less because anyone had actually conceded the argument, and more because Jordan had physically repositioned Tatsumaki. He lifted her, still radiating a cloud of contained, vibrating outrage, and deposited her directly into Fubuki's arms.
Fubuki caught her out of pure reflex.
She stood there for a long moment holding her older sister. Tatsumaki was still glowing faintly green and currently wore the exact expression of an angry cat that had been wrapped in a towel against its will. Fubuki's face worked rapidly through several distinct stages of mental processing.
Who am I. Where am I. Why is this my life.
Jordan smoothly redirected Saitama's attention with a heavy hand on his shoulder. He used the conversational ease of a man casually changing lanes on a highway.
"Didn't you say you'd help with the food preparations? Why are you just sitting in here drinking tea?"
Saitama blinked. His brow furrowed with genuine, mild thought. "Genos said the kitchen is a disciple's training ground. He said it very firmly." Saitama paused, scratching his cheek. "He sort of guided me out the door."
Jordan was still composing his response to that when something moved at the absolute edge of everyone's vision.
F-boy stepped free from the air. He moved with the automatic, silent efficiency of a man who has identified a situation that falls directly under his operational remit. As Saitama had turned his head, a few loose strands of hair drifted down from his scalp. F-boy's hand snapped out, catching the hairs perfectly without breaking his unhurried stride. He was completely through the kitchen door before the moment even fully registered.
Tatsumaki went absolutely still in Fubuki's arms.
Her anger did not disappear. It simply lost its immediate priority. Her bright green eyes tracked the empty space where F-boy had just been standing, then snapped to the closed kitchen door, and finally settled intensely on Jordan's back.
"Fubuki," Tatsumaki said, her voice completely stripped of its previous sharp inflection. "Put me down."
Fubuki let go immediately, feeling the profound relief of someone who has been holding something warm, highly explosive, and incredibly uncertain.
"Of course. Yes."
Tatsumaki floated back up into the air, smoothing her dark dress. The blinding green light returned to its habitual, low simmer. She drifted slowly toward the center of the room, her gaze moving thoughtfully and sharply between Jordan and the wooden kitchen door.
Strange ability, she thought, her eyes narrowing in calculation. What exactly is it?
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