"In broad daylight, a grown man pointing a gun at a little girl? Really classy."
A voice rang out from behind.
Big Daddy froze and spun around.
There, standing casually with a pistol aimed at his head, was Robert.
He shot that bullet!?
Big Daddy's mind reeled. He had just fired—and yet, somehow, his shot had been intercepted midair. The man behind him was the only one in sight. Did this guy seriously stop a bullet... from behind?
"Mindy, stay behind me!"
Without hesitation, Big Daddy moved in front of his daughter, shielding her with his body while subtly shifting his grip on the gun in his right hand. But he didn't raise it. Something about Robert's calm demeanor, the steady aim of that gun—he wasn't stupid enough to test his luck.
Still, the little girl didn't flinch.
At just eleven years old, Mindy's expression was stone-cold, her posture sharp. The second she sensed danger, she'd snapped into a combat stance—like she'd been trained for war, not the playground.
Robert raised an eyebrow. "Wow. Kid's got nerves of steel."
"Who are you?" Big Daddy asked, voice low and guarded. "What do you want?"
Robert's expression shifted into a frown. Why did it suddenly feel like he was the bad guy here?
He glanced between the two of them. Then he noticed something odd—Mindy was wearing lightweight body armor. Not the bulky kind, either. This was custom-fit, tactical-grade.
"You two are... actually related?"
Big Daddy gave a stiff nod, not taking his eyes off Robert. Every fiber of his body was on high alert. The man in front of him gave off serious danger signals—like no matter how he moved, he wouldn't be able to dodge in time.
Worse yet, Mindy was still behind him.
He wasn't about to risk it.
Robert finally lowered his gun. "Ah. Got it. Misunderstanding."
He scratched the back of his head. "Looked like you were about to shoot a kid, and you've got a real creepy vibe going on, so... I thought you were some kind of psycho hitman. No offense."
Big Daddy let out a tight breath of relief—but his left eye twitched at that last comment.
Mindy, completely unfazed, tilted her head. "We were training."
Robert blinked. "...You were what?"
"We were training!" she repeated, her eyes lighting up as she stepped forward. "And what you did back there—intercepting a bullet with another bullet? That was insane! Are you a superhero or something?"
Robert chuckled. "You wanna learn how to do it? I could teach you."
"YES!"
"Ahem."
Big Daddy cleared his throat sharply, putting a hand on his daughter's shoulder and gently pulling her back. "We appreciate the... save. But we've got things to do. C'mon, Mindy."
"Wait! Just one more question—"
"No."
Big Daddy didn't even glance back as he led her away, Mindy craning her neck to look at Robert the entire time like she'd just spotted her new favorite action figure in real life.
Robert didn't follow. He already had a good idea who they were.
Big Daddy and Hit-Girl.
The infamous father-daughter vigilante team from the Kick-Ass corner of the Marvel universe. Bloody, ruthless, and unrelenting against criminals. Adorable on the outside. Absolute nightmares in a fight.
Robert holstered his pistol and strolled off humming to himself.
---
Over the next few days, Robert tinkered with some new ideas in his apartment-turned-armory.
The twin pistols were working beautifully—but this was Marvel. A place where gods, monsters, and aliens roamed the streets. Two pistols weren't going to cut it forever.
His original plan had been to start modding a sniper rifle. Maybe even something big and ridiculous like a shoulder-mounted launcher. You know... something practical.
But there was a problem.
He was broke.
A good sniper rifle cost a fortune. Ammo? Worse. Explosives? Don't even ask. A single grenade cost more than he made from his last commission.
So, Robert did what any genius with no budget would do.
He pivoted.
Why keep trying to modify the guns themselves... when he could upgrade the ammunition?
Bullets, grenades, smoke bombs, flashbangs—all cheaper, easier to stash, and still packed a punch.
To his delight, the idea actually worked.
Robert grinned as he popped open one of his prototypes. He might not have vibranium or Stark tech, but with the help of his Super High School-Level Sharpshooter instincts, he could turn the cheapest ammo into tactical masterpieces.
Take grenades, for example. You couldn't kill Thor with one, but you could definitely annoy him.
Robert's philosophy?
"If I can't break them, I'll inconvenience the hell out of them."
Flashbangs? He modified them to emit seizure-inducing rainbow pulses.
Smoke bombs? Loaded with ultra-fine chili powder instead of gas.
Even if the target didn't choke, they'd be clawing at their eyes.
Sure, there was a chance he might get caught in the splash zone too... but with his regeneration, that was a price he was willing to pay.
His logic was simple.
Hawkeye made it into the Avengers with a bow and trick arrows.
And what did Hawkeye have?
Exploding arrows. Grappling arrows. EMP arrows.
He even took down Loki with one.
Well, Robert thought, if a guy with pointy sticks can go toe-to-toe with gods, I can do something with bullets and brainpower.
Still... as Robert surveyed the small mountain of black powder, torn schematics, and empty shell casings cluttering his room, he sighed.
"Not enough. Still not enough. And my wallet's bleeding."
He rifled through a drawer and pulled out a crumpled receipt. Then glanced at the pitiful amount of cash left in his stash.
Time to swallow his pride.
"Guess I'd better go find Weasel... and pick up another commission."
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