They walked through the quieter, tree-lined streets of the Upper East Side, the earlier chaos a world away. Kate kept pace beside Aaron, a whirlwind of questions wrapped in designer clothing.
"Aaron, are you from, like, Japan? Or China? Was that some kind of martial arts you used back there? I've seen Bruce Lee movies! They say he could kick people across a room! I always thought it was special effects, but after seeing you…"
She mimicked a sweeping motion with her tiny arm. "…it must be real! Can you teach me? I can pay! I've got an allowance. Well, Mom controls it, but I'm sure I could…"
The torrent was relentless. Her eyes shone with a fervor that had nothing to do with childish fantasy and everything to do with a witnessed, undeniable truth: power existed, and it was standing next to her.
"If you want abilities exactly like mine," Aaron said, his voice calm and measured, "then I'm afraid that's impossible. It's not something that can be taught."
The Primal Furnace was a singularity, bound to him. Theoretically, it could bestow synthesized traits, but that was a currency he would not spend lightly, certainly not on an acquaintance, no matter how wealthy or earnest. Power given was obligation incurred, and he had no intention of becoming a patron so soon.
Kate's face fell, her shoulders slumping. "So… ordinary people can't become superheroes?"
"Of course they can," Aaron countered smoothly. "Look at Tony Stark. No super-soldier serum, no radioactive spider. Just intellect, resources, and will."
Instead of encouragement, this seemed to deepen her gloom.
"But I don't have a suit," she mumbled, kicking a pebble. "I asked Mom. She said it takes more money than we have, and a brain like his. We don't… I don't have either."
Aaron glanced at her, his Superior Cognitive Matrix analyzing her posture, the genuine frustration beneath the privileged exterior. "Then start with the foundations. Study tactics. Train your body. Master a weapon. Not everything requires a billion-dollar suit."
Kate perked up slightly, counting on her fingers. "Okay! I could do taekwondo, and fencing, and judo, and maybe karate…"
"Slow down," Aaron said with a faint chuckle. "You're still growing. Overtraining can do more harm than good. And as for taekwondo…" He let the sentence hang, his tone implying there were more pragmatic choices for real-world application.
"I'll consider my options carefully!" Kate declared with sudden seriousness, mimicking an adult's resolve. Yet the underlying disappointment remained. The path he outlined was long, arduous, and mundane. It lacked the instant, world-altering potency she had just witnessed.
She looked up at his profile, a silhouette of calm, contained strength. "Couldn't you teach me? Even just basics? Fighting, or… awareness?"
Aaron's expression turned thoughtful, almost amused. "I could try. But what I 'know' isn't really knowledge in a traditional sense. It can't be broken down into steps."
"What do you mean?" Her brow furrowed in confusion.
"Have you ever watched Ultraman?"
Her eyes lit up. "The old Japanese show? Yeah! I love the theme song! 'Take me higher!'"
Aaron smiled. A soft, synthesized orchestral swell began around them, the iconic Ultraman Tiga transformation melody emerging perfectly from the air, as if played through invisible speakers. Kate looked around, bewildered.
"If I told you I could become light," Aaron said, his voice layered over the music, "would you believe me?"
"Huh?"
As the melody reached its crescendo, a gentle, photonic glow began to emanate from Aaron's skin. It wasn't a blinding flash, but a steady, warm luminescence that clung to his form, outlining him against the dappled shade of the street. To Kate, it looked like sunlight had chosen him as its vessel.
She gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. "You… you are light! Are you an Ultraman? Aaron Ultraman?!"
The glow subsided as quickly as it came.
"No," he said, his normal, warm hand ruffling her blonde hair. "That was a joke. I'm not an Ultraman. Just a minor trick."
"But you glowed!" she insisted, hopping in place with excitement. "Photon Man? Solar Flare?"
Before she could continue, Aaron began to sing. But it wasn't his own voice. It was the flawless, unmistakable tenor of the current pop idol topping the charts, pitch-perfect and rich with studio-quality resonance. He held a note, then seamlessly transitioned into a different song, this time in the smooth, raspy baritone of a legendary rock singer from the 70s. The shift was instantaneous, each imitation not a caricature but a perfect vocal replica, as if the original artists were standing there.
Kate stared, utterly stupefied. "How… you sound exactly like them! You could be the world's greatest impressionist! Or a singer! You'd be famous!"
Now she understood. This wasn't a skill one learned in a dojo. It was something… other.
Her mind, fueled by comic books and cartoons, raced to categorize. "So you're like… Mockingbird? No, she's already taken… The Mimic? Or… The Impossible Man!" She blurted out the name of the classic Fantastic Four villain, the absurdist shapeshifter. "Or Omni-Man!"
Aaron held up a hand, cutting off her brainstorming. "Let's stop there. I'd prefer not to have you shouting those kinds of names in public."
His tone was light, but the warning was clear. In the Marvel Universe, names had weight. Invoking concepts like "The Impossible Man" was frivolous; invoking others—names of cosmic entities, dread lords, or abstract forces—could be literally perilous. He had no desire to attract the attention of beings who listened for such things, or the mischief of gods like Loki who might find such a naming game an amusing pretext for intervention.
"I'm just a man with a few unusual tools," he said, deflecting. "Focus on what's achievable, Kate. The bow, for instance. It's a weapon of precision and discipline. It doesn't require super-strength, just focus, practice, and a keen eye. Something you could master."
He was steering her, subtly, away from the impossible and toward a destiny he vaguely recalled—one with a purple uniform and a quiver. It was a kinder nudge than the universe might later provide.
Kate was silent for a long moment, the gears in her head turning more slowly, recalibrating. The sheer, bewildering scope of what she'd seen—the speed, the light, the voices—had momentarily short-circuited her desire for simple training. She was looking at a puzzle box with no apparent seams.
"Okay," she finally said, her voice quieter, more thoughtful. "A bow. I could try that." But her eyes still held a spark of awe when they flickered to him. The lesson had been imparted, albeit not the one she'd asked for: some boundaries between the possible and the impossible were not meant to be crossed, only observed from a respectful distance. He was not a sensei. He was an event.