Jordan's pitch had a quality that wasn't quite charm and wasn't quite logic but operated somewhere between them—the particular momentum of someone who has already decided the conclusion and is working backward from it in real time.
"Logistics are handled," he continued. "Dr. Kuseno—Genos's doctor—can sort the equipment and training facilities. I have other channels for high-grade energy supplements and full medical coverage."
Saitama's expression, which had started the conversation at skeptical, was now doing something closer to interested.
"And the training structure essentially runs itself," Jordan said. "Look at what we have: Bang handling technique, King handling power theory, Genos managing assessments, you running the physical program. The whole architecture is already there."
Saitama nodded slowly.
"So from your perspective," Jordan said, guiding him gently toward the finish line, "how much does this actually change your daily life?"
Saitama considered it. "...I mean, the training is already the same training."
"Exactly."
"And the hero work is the same hero work."
"Exactly."
They had, at some point in the last thirty seconds, ended up sitting shoulder to shoulder, which was not how the conversation had started but felt like the natural conclusion of one.
"It's basically just putting your S-class name on it," Jordan agreed.
Saitama was nodding along at a comfortable rhythm when his expression changed slightly. He stopped mid-nod.
"Wait."
Jordan waited.
"You've named about four teachers. But you haven't said what you're doing."
Found the gap.
Jordan's response was immediate. "Homeroom teacher. I coordinate the overall program, liaise between instructors, make sure everything runs smoothly."
"That sounds like nothing."
"It sounds like management. Which is different." Jordan let this settle for approximately one second before adding, "And naturally, since the trainees are going to be working hard all day—I'll coordinate the food. Outsourced to proper restaurants, delivered daily. Healthy, high-quality, free for every trainee and instructor."
He left it at that.
From beside him came a sound.
It was loud, and it was sudden, and it had a resonance that suggested considerable depth of feeling. Not quite a stomach growl. More like a piece of industrial equipment discovering gravity. The specific timbre was distinctive to anyone who had spent time in the vicinity of a man whose passion for food frequently exceeded the available food.
A brief silence followed.
Saitama's hand came down from where it had risen instinctively. He arranged his face into a very serious expression.
"For the sake of the other heroes," he said, with great dignity. "I can reluctantly consider participating."
"Of course," Jordan said. "Not the food. That's irrelevant."
"Completely irrelevant."
"We're in agreement then."
"There's nothing to agree about yet, I'm just—"
A crash from the kitchen.
Both of them looked. The sound had been the cutting board, which was now on the floor—and Genos, whose hands moved at the speed of whatever he decided to move his hands at, had already cleared it and everything that had gone with it before the sound of the impact had fully finished traveling. By the time the air displacement arrived, Genos was standing in the living room doorway.
"Genos," Saitama said, craning slightly. "You alright?"
"Yes." Genos lowered his head, a very specific posture Jordan had learned to identify as I have a formal request. "Jordan. The food coordination for the training program—please allow me to handle it personally. All three meals. I'll oversee procurement, preparation, and delivery myself."
Jordan looked at him for a moment.
The energy nodes along Genos's chassis were slightly elevated. His posture communicated the seriousness one would normally reserve for a mission briefing.
This boy, Jordan thought, would walk through fire to make sure Saitama eats well. He's been doing it for months and I still find it moving every single time.
He kept his face composed. "Of course, Genos. No problem at all."
Genos looked up. Something in his expression settled—the particular relief of someone whose most important proposal has been approved.
"Don't worry," Jordan added. "While you're at it—study committee and logistics committee, both yours. Ingredient procurement, menu confirmation, training progress tracking, the whole thing. Can you manage it?"
The energy nodes lit up properly.
"I won't let you or Sensei down." The voice was firm. "Leave everything to me."
He turned and went back to the kitchen with the focused energy of someone who has just received orders they intend to execute thoroughly.
Saitama waited until the kitchen sounds resumed, then tugged Jordan's sleeve.
"...Is this actually happening?"
Jordan glanced at the kitchen. "Started as an idea. Now it has a logistics director." He shrugged. "I'd say it's happening."
He stood, straightened his shirt, and walked to the balcony with the unhurried deliberateness of a man transitioning from concept to implementation.
The first call was to Lanny.
"Good afternoon—yes, it's Jordan. You're going to tell me you saw this coming." He leaned against the balcony railing. "I need a favor. Media contacts, websites, whatever's appropriate—I'm setting up a professional hero training program. Voluntary, no fees. Looking for participants who feel their current power level isn't cutting it."
He listened for a moment.
"Teaching staff? Silver Fang, King, Caped Baldy, Demon Cyborg—plus myself." A pause. "Yes, I'm aware of what that sounds like. My circle of S-class contacts happens to be large. Work with what you have."
Somewhere, in a different city, Fubuki was reviewing the Blizzard Group's latest incident reports when a particular phrase—Silver Fang, King, Caped Baldy, Demon Cyborg—crossed her desk from a media monitoring alert.
She read it twice.
Brother-in-law, she thought, with a specific mixture of admiration and existential defeat, I don't think I belong in this conversation.
"First cohort will be small—ten participants," Jordan continued. "Run it through the Association's internal channels as well. If they want to co-organize, I'm open to it. Yes—okay, that's everything. Thank you, Lanny."
He found the next contact.
"Dr. Kuseno. Good evening—yes, Jordan Evans." A brief warmth entered his voice. "No need to thank me for the gene samples; if the research needs another batch next month I'll arrange it." He shifted the phone. "What I'm calling about: I'd like to commission a batch of capsule house units and a set of training equipment. Full specifications to follow."
—Achoo!
Somewhere in deep space in a different universe, Frieza sneezed for the fourth time this week and found himself in the uncharacteristic position of not knowing why.
—Achoo!
"A fifth Achoo?" Dodoria said carefully. "Your Majesty, perhaps—"
"Don't finish that sentence."
"How can I accept them for nothing?" Jordan was saying. "Genos is family, and family doesn't freeload from family. I'll send payment. And if the budget runs over, contact me directly—I'll cover the difference."
He ended the call and scrolled to the next entry.
The number had no name attached to it. Jordan keyed it without hesitation.
"It's me. I need a transfer—one hundred million into this account." He recited a string of digits from memory. "Yes. Now is fine. That's all."
He hung up and turned around.
Saitama was approximately thirty centimeters from his face.
Not threatening. Not alarmed. Just extremely close, with the round-eyed attentiveness of someone who has been standing there for an indeterminate amount of time absorbing information and has now reached the point of requiring clarification.
"Jordan."
"Saitama."
"Did you just—" Saitama glanced at the phone, then back up. "How much did you say?"
Jordan pocketed the phone.
"Is there a problem?"
Saitama's expression moved through several things in rapid sequence, landed somewhere that was mostly impressed and slightly concerned, and stayed there.
"...No," he said finally. "I just wanted to make sure I heard right."
"You heard right."
Saitama looked at the sky for a moment, then back at Jordan, apparently working through some kind of internal recalibration of scale.
"So," he said. "This is actually happening."
Jordan walked past him toward the living room.
"The hot pot's probably ready."
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