Several Days Later
John Wick's phone rang with an unfamiliar number—international prefix, Moscow area code. He answered with his characteristic economy of words. "John Wick."
"Mr. Wick." The voice carried a heavy Russian accent, cultured but rough around the edges. "I'm curious—was that Dragon Ball as valuable as you claimed?"
Recognition clicked into place. Ivan Vanko. The Russian who'd sold him a Dragon Ball over a year ago. Of the seven original sellers, Vanko was the only one who'd never made contact when the Dragon Ball resurface, despite John leaving him a business card specifically for follow-up.
"Mr. Vanko," John said, his tone neutral. "I'm surprised to hear from you. I assumed you would've reached out immediately after learning the Dragon Balls were genuine."
A dry laugh came through the line. "I know. You need to collect all seven, yes? What qualifications did I have to compete for them? I had no resources, no connections, no power."
Ivan paused, and John could hear machinery humming in the background—industrial equipment, maybe a workshop. "But I've used my time productively. I've built something. And now I'm ready to make a move."
"What kind of move?" John asked.
"I'd like to meet your employer. Smith Doyle."
John's expression didn't change, but internally his threat assessment kicked in. People asking to meet Smith usually wanted something—money, power, or revenge. "What's your purpose for the meeting?"
"I want investment," Ivan said simply. "And a fair chance to challenge Iron Man."
John's eyebrow rose fractionally. Challenge Tony Stark? When he'd first found Vanko, the man had been living in near-poverty, working manual labor for rubles. Now he wanted to challenge one of the world's most advanced weapons systems?
"Can you be more specific?" John asked. "If I'm going to report this to my employer, I need details that will justify his time and potential investment."
"The arc reactor technology doesn't belong exclusively to the Stark family," Ivan said, his voice carrying old bitterness. "My father, Anton Vanko, was co-developer of the original design. Howard Stark stole credit for joint work, then had my father deported to bury the truth."
He paused for emphasis. "I've successfully miniaturized the arc reactor. Built my own version from scratch. I can prove it."
John's attention sharpened. If true, this was significant. The arc reactor was Tony's foundation technology—the power source for everything Stark Industries produced. A competing design would be worth billions.
"If you truly possess that technology," John said carefully, "you shouldn't have trouble attracting investment. Why come to us specifically?"
"Because I trust you," Ivan replied. "When we made our transaction, you could've simply taken the Dragon Ball. Instead, you paid fairly and left contact information. That means something."
His voice softened slightly. "I needed that money desperately. You helped me when I had nothing. Now I'm returning the courtesy by offering you first opportunity."
The line went dead. Ivan had said his piece and hung up, leaving John to report the contact.
Smith Doyle's Office - Fraternity Headquarters
John stood before Smith's desk, delivering his verbal report with military precision. He recounted the conversation verbatim, including Ivan's claims about the arc reactor technology and his request for investment.
Smith leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, a knowing smile playing at his lips. "So he finally made contact. I was beginning to wonder if this particular complication would manifest."
He'd been waiting for Ivan Vanko to surface ever since the Dragon Ball tournament concluded. In the original timeline, Ivan had attacked Tony at the Monaco Grand Prix—a desperate act of vengeance after his father's death. But with Anton still alive, with money from the Dragon Ball sale improving their circumstances, the variables had shifted.
"Arrange for our Moscow Assassins Brotherhood contacts to bring Ivan Vanko to New York," Smith instructed. "First-class travel, appropriate hospitality. I want him to understand we're serious about this meeting."
"As for investment," Smith added, "we'll evaluate after I've spoken with him directly."
John nodded. "Yes, sir. I'll contact our Moscow Brotherhood immediately."
"What's Vanko's current situation?" Smith asked. "Financial, personal, family?"
John had anticipated the question. "After the Dragon Ball sale, I had our Moscow Brotherhood investigate. His father was hospitalized for treatment—respiratory issues, cardiac problems, general deterioration from decades of hardship. The care has stabilized his condition, but given his age and accumulated damage, prognosis isn't optimistic. He might have a few years left."
"Ivan used most of the Dragon Ball money to improve their circumstances," John continued. "Better housing, proper medical care for his father, workshop equipment for his research. He's been living modestly but productively."
Smith nodded slowly. Anton Vanko still alive—that changed everything about Ivan's motivation. He wasn't operating from a place of grief-fueled rage. He was trying to fulfill his father's dying wish, seeking vindication rather than simple revenge.
"Good. Handle the arrangements. Notify me when he arrives."
John departed, leaving Smith alone with his thoughts.
In his original, the Fraternity would've eliminated Ivan Vanko as a preemptive threat—preventing the Monaco attack, avoiding collateral damage, maintaining stable conditions for the Stark Expo. Clean, efficient, amoral problem-solving.
But the Fraternity had evolved. They no longer accepted assassination contracts based solely on someone's name appearing on a list. Now they required evidence, proof of genuine evil deserving of death.
Ivan Vanko hadn't committed any crimes yet. His grievance against the Stark family was arguably legitimate.
And unlike Justin Hammer—who'd invested in Ivan in the original timeline only to be betrayed spectacularly—Smith had advantages Hammer lacked. Absolute physical superiority to contain threats. Bulma's technical expertise to verify claims and prevent sabotage. The infrastructure to monitor and control potential security risks.
As for giving Ivan a "fair chance" to challenge Tony? That was trivial. The Stark Expo provided perfect venues for sanctioned demonstrations and competitions.
Smith made his decision. He'd meet with Ivan Vanko. If the man could be redirected from villainy toward productive contribution, that aligned with the Fraternity's true purpose—not just eliminating evil, but preventing it from manifesting in the first place.
Redemption over execution. When possible.
Smith's Office - Later That Afternoon
Fox entered carrying her ever-present tablet and a thick folder of reports. She settled into the chair across from Smith's desk and began her briefing without preamble.
"Stark Industries' stock price has surged following the Senate hearing," she began. "Your shares have appreciated significantly. Current valuation allows for collateralized loans exceeding ten billion dollars at favorable rates."
She swiped to the next screen. "Several insurance companies have launched 'superhero property damage' policies following your public advocacy. Uptake has been strong in New York—people remember the Broadway incident. Other states show minimal interest so far, but that will likely change after the next high-profile super-powered incident."
Smith made a mental note. When the Chitauri invaded New York in a few years, those insurance companies were going to face catastrophic losses. He should probably short their stock beforehand.
"We received fifteen million dollars from Stark Industries this morning," Fox continued. "Payment notation indicates medical expenses—presumably for Mr. Stark's treatment."
"Good," Smith said. "Make sure accounting records it properly. The IRS gets cranky about multi-million-dollar transfers without clear documentation."
Fox smiled slightly. "Already handled. Now, regarding product sales—the second-generation combat scouters have been extremely popular. Individual buyers upgrading from first-generation units, plus new orders from military and intelligence agencies. We've taken orders for over three thousand units so far."
She pulled up another report. "Hover car orders have exceeded five thousand units. The initial surge has peaked, but we're still seeing steady demand. Most orders are from ultra-high-net-worth individuals, Middle Eastern buyers, and several governments for VIP transport."
Smith did quick mental math. Five thousand units at ten million each... fifty billion dollars in sales. From a single product. In less than a week.
The wealth concentration in this world was staggering.
"Can Bulma handle manufacturing at that scale?" Smith asked.
"She's already establishing automated production facilities," Fox replied. "She's implementing an artificial intelligence system—she calls it 'Dada'—to manage assembly. Efficiency projections suggest minimal human labor requirements."
Smith frowned slightly. Full automation was efficient, but it eliminated employment opportunities. "We should provide some positions for Fraternity families. I know several members have spouses or relatives who aren't combat-capable but need work."
Fox made a note. "I'll coordinate with Bulma. We can assign quality control, logistics management, customer service roles—positions requiring human judgment rather than repetitive assembly."
"Good. What about the military subsidiary?"
"Universal Capsule Industries is officially established," Fox confirmed. "We've been added to the Department of Defense procurement registry. General Ross has already submitted preliminary requests for hover technology applications—rapid deployment vehicles, aerial logistics platforms, special operations transport."
She flipped to another document. "Initial contract projections suggest billions in military spending over the next five years, assuming we deliver functional prototypes."
Smith nodded. Military contracts were lucrative and strategically valuable, but they also came with oversight, regulations, and political entanglements. Worth it, but requiring careful management.
"Make sure we maintain clear separation between civilian and military operations," Smith instructed. "Different facilities, different personnel, different security protocols. I don't want classified military projects anywhere near our consumer manufacturing."
"Already implemented," Fox assured him. "Bulma insisted on the same thing—she doesn't want military brass breathing down her neck while she's developing civilian products."
Smart woman, Smith thought. Bulma understood that military contracts came with strings attached.
"Anything else?" Smith asked.
Fox consulted her tablet one more time. "The Stark Expo continues successfully. Media coverage remains positive. Tony Stark's popularity has actually increased following his Senate performance—people appreciate the anti-authority attitude."
She looked up. "Oh, and Tony confirmed the Monaco trip for next week. He sent over flight details and hotel information. He wants to know if you're still planning to attend."
Smith smiled. "Wouldn't miss it. Tell him I'll meet him at the airport."
Monaco. Where, in the original timeline, Ivan Vanko had made his dramatic attack on Tony during the Grand Prix.
But with Ivan coming to New York for a meeting instead, with his father still alive, with money and resources changing his circumstances...
Maybe Monaco would just be a pleasant vacation with fast cars and beautiful scenery.
Or maybe the universe would find a way to create drama regardless.
Either way, Smith would be there to see how events unfolded.
"That's everything for now," Fox said, standing. "I'll keep you updated on the Vanko situation."
"Thanks, Fox."
As she left, Smith turned his attention to the window overlooking the training grounds below. Werewolves and vampires sparring, human assassins running obstacle courses, the Korin Tower construction continuing steadily.
The Fraternity was growing. Evolving. Becoming something more than just an assassination network.
And Smith intended to guide that evolution carefully, turning an organization of killers into something that might actually make the world better.
One careful decision at a time.