BAD NEWS:I'll be dropping the story if it gets to chapter 30 without a single Kofi supporter.
***
Packing up an entire lab was a logistical nightmare, one Aaron had no interest in overseeing. He had the technicians crate up the key items: the spider enclosures, the core electron microscope, and several smaller, high-precision analyzers. The rest could follow.
He descended to the executive garage with Norman and Felicia in tow. The target was Norman's former chariot: a sleek, gunmetal grey Rolls-Royce Phantom, a statement of power as much as transportation.
"My friend," Aaron said, noting the pinched look on Norman's face as he gazed at the vehicle, "there's no need for such austerity. Capital will flow soon enough."
Norman managed a strained smile. "Of course, sir. It's just… my son Harry suggested something more… understated. A Ford, perhaps. Wants me to have a 'common touch.'"
The excuse was transparent. The truth was the company's coffers were strained, and diverting millions for a new luxury car when the miraculous healing accelerant was still in R&D felt like a dangerous indulgence.
Aaron shrugged, unconcerned with Norman's automotive woes. He turned to Felicia. "You're licensed to drive?"
"Yes, sir. Fully certified," Felicia replied, a flicker of surprise crossing her features.
"You're driving."
A beat of hesitation, then she slid into the driver's seat, her posture suddenly rigid as she adjusted the leather-wrapped steering wheel and familiarized herself with the alien cockpit of buttons and screens. The scent of rich leather and polished wood filled her senses. This was several tax brackets above any vehicle she'd ever touched.
Aaron settled into the expansive rear seat, his mind already on the next phase: assimilating the new acquisitions. He felt a faint, familiar tingle across his scalp—his enhanced Precognitive Sensory Array giving a low-grade warning. He attributed it to the potential danger of a novice driver piloting a two-ton luxury missile through Manhattan traffic.
To her credit, Felicia's initial clumsiness faded quickly. She pulled out of the garage with a smooth, if overly cautious, grace, navigating the early afternoon traffic with a concentration that furrowed her brow. It wasn't the fluid skill of a professional chauffeur, but it was competent. Perhaps she was a quick study.
As they merged onto the parkway, Aaron gave her the address of the Bishop-provided townhouse. He missed the subtle flush that crept up Felicia's neck, the slight tightening of her grip on the wheel. The idea of driving her formidable, enigmatic new boss to his private residence sent a jumble of professional and personal calculations spinning through her head. Her driving became marginally more hesitant, the car drifting minutely within its lane.
Aaron noted the minor instability but remained silent.
New driver nerves, he reasoned. Patience is a virtue.
****
Across the city, in the sun-drenched conservatory of the Bishop townhouse, a different kind of assessment was underway.
Eleanor and Kate sat across from a young woman who seemed to have stepped out of an athleticwear catalog. She was tall, nearly six feet, with a swimmer's build—long-limbed and lean rather than bulky. Her blonde hair was tied in a practical ponytail, and her smile was bright and confident.
"…and I hold certifications in gymnastics, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, Krav Maga, kickboxing, and Greco-Roman wrestling," the woman, Adeline, was saying, her tone brisk and factual. "I'm also proficient with mid-range impact weapons—the quarterstaff, for example. In a documented self-defense incident, I was able to neutralize three assailants, each over two hundred pounds, without sustaining injury."
She paused, taking in the skeptical tilt of Eleanor's head. Kate, however, was leaning forward, eyes wide.
"I'm also fluent in English, French, and Italian," Adeline added.
Eleanor cleared her throat gently. "Miss Adeline, your resume is… impressive. Forgive me, but you appear quite young. The profile you describe suggests someone of rather more… substantial physical presence."
Adeline's smile didn't waver. She reached into a sleek leather satchel at her feet and began producing documents, laying them on the glass coffee table like a winning hand. "My high school national gymnastics championship. First place in the amateur women's lightweight boxing tournament. Runner-up in the armed combat league—lost to a former Marine Force Recon instructor. My concealed carry permit, with qualifying scores in the top percentile."
She placed the final document down with a soft tap. It was a legal ruling, redacted in parts. "And the court's verdict. Justifiable homicide and self-defense. Two assailants critically injured, one deceased. The police report notes… significant trauma to the groin area of two individuals."
Eleanor's eyebrows shot up. Kate's mouth formed a silent 'O.'
"Every award, every certification, is verifiable on the respective official sites," Adeline concluded, her blue eyes meeting Eleanor's directly. "I have no reason to fabricate."
A quick, discreet call from Eleanor to a private verification service confirmed it. It was all astonishingly, undeniably real. This slender young woman was a certified combat prodigy.
"When I heard about Miss Bishop's ambition," Adeline continued, her voice softening as she turned to Kate, "it reminded me of myself at her age. I devoted myself to this path. No parties, no distractions. It requires singular focus."
"Do you regret that?" Eleanor asked, her voice quiet.
"Not for a second," Adeline replied without hesitation. "The moment I knew I could protect myself—truly protect myself—from anyone who meant me harm, every hour of sweat was worth it. And seeing that same fire in Kate's eyes… I'd consider it a privilege to help her kindle it. I believe she could surpass anything I've accomplished."
Kate was practically vibrating in her seat. "Mom. Her. She's the one. Can she be my teacher?"
Eleanor looked from her daughter's eager face to the stack of improbable credentials, then to Adeline's steady, open gaze. The woman was an anomaly, but the evidence was concrete.
"We were considering Taekwondo as well," Eleanor mentioned, testing.
Adeline gave a slight, dismissive shrug. "A sport with many rules. I prefer systems designed for reality, where there are none. I can teach her what works."
That sealed it for Kate. She nodded vigorously.
Eleanor extended her hand. "Very well, Miss Adeline. Welcome. We look forward to a productive partnership."
"The pleasure is mine, Ms. Bishop."
****
In the back of the Rolls-Royce, Aaron's phone chimed softly.
A text from Kate: You will NEVER guess what just happened!
He allowed a small smile. Before he could type a reply, another message followed.
I found the most amazing combat instructor! She knows EVERYTHING!
Aaron's smile faded. His fingers moved swiftly. Everything? Does she know Russian? Latin?
A pause. Then Kate's reply: She says no, and that stuff is boring anyway.
Aaron felt a tension he hadn't realized was there ease from his shoulders. Good.
He asked for the instructor's name. Adeline.
A quick mental command activated his Network Interface Protocol. His consciousness skimmed the surface of the public web, pulling news articles, competition records, social media profiles (minimal), and the court documents Adeline had referenced. The picture that formed was one of staggering, almost cinematic, success. A polymath of physical discipline. The awards were legitimate. The story checked out.
Too much, in fact.
Aaron leaned back, his Superior Cognitive Matrix cross-referencing timelines, achievement densities, and physiological probabilities. A young woman mastering half a dozen combat disciplines to championship levels while also achieving linguistic fluency was rare but not impossible for a true savant. But the sheer, unbroken perfection of the record was what pinged his instincts. No major losses after a certain age. No recorded injuries beyond minor sprains. A seamless, victorious march through multiple unrelated competitive fields.
In the intelligence world, a cover that was too clean was often the dirtiest. A biography without a single, humanizing failure was a constructed thing.
Too smooth, he mused, his eyes narrowing slightly as the cityscape blurred past. Too easy.
A perfectly normal, extraordinary person appearing just as Kate began her training, eager to teach 'everything that works'? Coincidence was the refuge of the unprepared.
He made a mental note. Adeline warranted a closer, more discrete look. Not through digital records, which could be fabricated, but through observation. His newly acquired Biological Sonar and Thermal Sensory Overlay could reveal things paperwork never would.
For now, Kate was safe under Eleanor's roof and, presumably, this Adeline's tutelage. But Aaron had just been handed a puzzle, and his nature was to solve them—especially when they involved pieces that fit a little too neatly.