After school, I met Peter at the exit. He was just saying goodbye to Gwen, who was rushing to her internship with Dr. Connors (another potential time bomb, but let's leave her alone for now). Peter looked thoughtful, but no longer as lost as he was that night at his house a month ago.
"Pete! A minute," I called out to him.
He turned around, a flash of surprise on his face replaced by a friendly smile.
"Oh, John! Hey. Did you want something?"
"Yeah, I wanted to talk. About... well, you know. About your... unique traits. How are you handling them? Are you training?"
Peter tensed slightly and looked around to make sure no one was listening. The schoolyard was almost empty.
"Um... yeah. A little. I'm trying to... control it. Remember what you said about being careful..."
"I remember. And I'm glad you heard me. But control is one thing, development is another. You aren't going to hide this power forever, are you?"
He sighed.
"I don't know, John. It's all so... complicated. I still don't understand what I'm supposed to do with all this. This power... it hasn't gone anywhere. Sometimes it feels like it's just... waiting."
"Waiting for what?" I asked softly.
"I don't know. Maybe waiting for me to screw up again? Or for something to happen where it's actually needed? I... I'm training. A little at a time. So I at least don't accidentally hurt anyone."
"Training? Where?"
Peter hesitated again, looking at me searchingly. He was likely deciding if he could trust me. A month had passed since our last serious talk, and I had tried not to pressure him, giving him space. It seemed to have worked. A decision flashed in his eyes.
"Alright. Come on, I'll show you. It's not far. Only... don't tell anyone, okay? No one at all. Not even Gwen."
"My lips are sealed, Pete. Lead the way."
We caught a bus—we had to head toward the industrial outskirts of Queens. The ride passed in silence. Peter stared out the window, clearly nervous, while I... I was trying to suppress an intrusive urge to turn on some heavy hip-hop on my phone and start nodding my head to the beat, imagining we were riding in a tuned black Charger instead of an old yellow bus. Damn you, Dominic Toretto, and your 43%!
"You don't turn your back on family, even when they do," a snide inner voice whispered with a slight Latino accent.
I mentally told it to get lost.
We got off at a half-empty stop. Around us stretched rows of old warehouses, abandoned workshops, and vacant lots enclosed by rusty mesh. The air smelled of machine oil and neglect. Peter led me along a broken road, weaving between potholes, toward a massive red-brick building with shattered windows and rusted gates. An old factory. Closed about twenty years ago, by the look of it.
"In here?" I raised an eyebrow inquiringly.
"Yeah," Peter nodded, crawling through a hole in the fence. "The perfect spot. No one's around, there's plenty of space, and no one will hear if I... break something."
I followed him. Inside, gloom and desolation reigned. Huge workshops with soaring ceilings, rusty machines under layers of dust, scraps of wire hanging from above like vines. Broken glass crunched underfoot. The place was a bit eerie, but for training with superpowers—it was indeed perfect. Spacious and isolated.
"Not bad," Toretto chimed in again. "Enough space to assemble a couple of engines. And for a barbecue too. The family would like it."
"Shut up," I snapped mentally. "I'm having a serious conversation here."
"Well, here it is," Peter spread his arms, surveying the vast space. "My personal gym."
"Impressive," I nodded. "And what do you do here? Just jump across the beams?"
"Well... yeah. Jumping, running on walls, testing my strength..." he looked a bit embarrassed. "Trying to understand the limits. And... something else."
He walked over to one of the support columns and tapped it with his knuckles. A hollow thud rang out. Then he raised his arm, and I saw on his wrist... a strange bracelet. Metallic, with some nozzles and a cartridge. A web-shooter?
Thwip!
A thin but incredibly strong white strand shot from the nozzle and stuck to a beam under the ceiling about twenty meters above us. Peter yanked the thread—it held his weight. He smiled with the pride of a genius who had just demonstrated his creation.
"There. I... I made this myself. I call them 'web-shooters.' And the web formula... is mine too. Strong, sticky, dissolves on its own after an hour."
"Whoa!" I was genuinely impressed. I knew about it from the comics, of course, but seeing it live... Peter Parker, a total genius!
"This is next level, Pete! I knew you were smart, but this... The formula? Was it hard?"
"Well... it took some work," he shrugged modestly, but his eyes were glowing with excitement. "The base is a bio-cable, spider-silk technology they were developing at Oscorp—remember, they showed it on the field trip? I memorized the main components, then did some chemistry at home, experimented with polymers, plasticizers, solvents... Found a way to polymerize the compound right as it leaves the nozzle under pressure. It worked!"
"Incredible!" I stepped closer, examining the shooter. "And the mechanism itself?"
"Made that too. The housing is a titanium-aluminum alloy; I got scraps from the school workshop. A piezoelectric actuator for the valve, replaceable cartridges..." he began enthusiastically explaining the design details.
I listened to him, but gears were already turning in my head, fueled now not only by my engineering past but also by Coulson's tactical thinking and... damn it, even Toretto's crazy inventiveness regarding non-standard solutions.
"Hold on, Pete," I interrupted him. "This is genius. But... tell me, have you thought about how this could be... developed? I mean, beyond just swinging on webs and tying up bad guys?"
"Developed? In what sense?" He looked at me in surprise.
"Well, look. You have a delivery system for a unique adhesive substance. It's a platform! You could create a ton of useful things based on it!" I felt my "nerd mode" switching on. "For example... your suit."
"A suit?" Peter winced. "You mean that pajama from the ring? Don't remind me; that was a nightmare. I haven't thought about a suit yet. Why would I need one?"
"Because if you ever decide to use your powers 'in public,' you'll need anonymity and protection," I said seriously. "That red ski mask isn't enough. You'll be identified by the first high-resolution security camera. You need a full suit that hides your figure, changes your voice... And it has to be durable. By the way, can your web help here? Create something like... web body armor?"
Peter pondered.
"Web armor... Interesting thought. Theoretically, a multi-layered structure could absorb kinetic energy... I'd need to test tensile and puncture strength... But yeah, it's possible."
"Or you could just always drive a fast car and wear dark glasses. Also an option," Toretto cut in. I ignored him.
"Alright, we'll deal with the suit later. Let's get back to the shooters," I refocused on the gadgets. "Do you have any other abilities? Besides strength, agility, sense, and wall-crawling?"
"Um... I don't think so. Why, should there be? Bio-electricity? Invisibility? Organic webbing from... ahem... other places?" Peter coughed awkwardly.
"I don't think so," I chuckled. "But that doesn't mean you can't expand your arsenal. Look. You have a way to quickly deliver a sticky substance at a distance. What if you... modify the 'charge' itself?"
"Modify it? How?"
"Well, for example: Impact Webbing. Imagine increasing the viscosity and mass of the ejected web glob, and most importantly—the initial velocity. Not a thin thread, but a dense, heavy 'projectile' that instantly envelops the target upon impact and knocks them off their feet through kinetic energy. How to do it? Maybe change the nozzle design? Add an accelerator to the formula itself that activates upon exit? Or use a different type of pressure in the cartridge?"
Peter listened, eyes wide. His brain was clearly working at full capacity.
"Increase speed and mass... Accelerator... Pressure... Hm. Theoretically, if I change the polymer ratio, add a weighting agent that doesn't affect stickiness... and use a dual-cartridge system for a short-term pressure boost at the moment of firing... Yes! It's possible! It'll be like... like a non-lethal web shotgun!"
"Exactly!" I was encouraged by his reaction. "Next: Web Bomb. Right now, you fire in a focused direction. But what if you need area coverage? Imagine a cartridge that doesn't fire a thread but explodes on impact, scattering dozens of short, extremely sticky threads within a radius of several meters? Perfect against a group of enemies or to quickly block a passage. How? Change the cartridge design. Make it fragile, with internal partitions that break on impact. Or add a micro-detonator triggered by impact or a timer..."
"AOE effect... Explosive cartridge..." Peter muttered, already pulling a notebook and pencil from his backpack and starting to quickly scribble some diagrams. "Micro-detonator... I could use a piezo element triggered by the housing deformation on impact... Or a simple chemical timer... So many options! Genius!"
"Let's keep going. Electric Webbing. Think about the properties of your web. Does it conduct current? If so, weakly. But what if we enhance it? Imagine firing not just webbing, but a charged thread. Not to kill, of course, but for temporary paralysis. Like a taser, but at a distance. How? Integrate a small high-voltage converter and a capacitor into the shooter. Charge the web at the moment it leaves the nozzle. You'll need good insulation on the shooter itself and perhaps a special web formula with increased conductivity..."
"Capacitor... Insulation... Web conductivity..." Peter bit the tip of his pencil, his gaze fixed on his notes. "I'll need to calculate the voltage and current to make it safe but effective... Power source? Maybe use the kinetic energy of my movements? A converter based on..."
"There! Think in that direction!" I encouraged him. "Next—reconnaissance. You can't be everywhere at once. Spider-Drone. Well, maybe not a full-fledged flying drone right away, that's complicated. But something like... a mobile sensor? A small module you fire on a web; it sticks to a wall or ceiling and transmits sound or even video to some receiver?"
"Mobile sensor... Transmitter..." Peter started writing in the notebook again. "I could use a micro-camera and microphone from an old phone... transmission via a low-power encrypted radio channel... Powered by a mini-battery... The housing... could be 3D printed in the school lab... Yes! It's doable! I'll be able to 'see' and 'hear' around corners!"
"And last for today," I decided not to overwhelm him with ideas all at once. "Web Trap. Or an ejector. Instead of firing at a target, you fire near it. You leave a small module on a wall or floor that reacts to motion or a laser beam crossing (if you add a laser) and fires a net or a sticky stream. For perimeter security, for creating traps..."
"Proximity sensor... Laser trigger... Ejection module..." Peter raised shining eyes to me. "John, how do you know all this?! This is... it's just incredible! My head is spinning with ideas!"
I chuckled, shrugging.
"I just... read a lot. Sci-fi, technical journals... And I think a bit tactically. I see a problem—I look for a solution. Your shooters are a genius foundation, Pete. You just need to look at them from a different angle."
"Yeah, from the angle of knowledge from another world and secret agent experience," I added to myself. "And perhaps a bit of a street racer's crazy inventiveness. Although no, Toretto would have just welded a turbine to the web-shooter."
Peter began talking excitedly about how he could implement this or that idea, what materials would be needed, what calculations had to be made. He became that enthusiastic scientist-genius I knew again. The spark of enthusiasm in his eyes was much better than confusion and fear.
"Listen, Pete," I said when he ran out of steam. "This is all cool. But remember—safety first. Yours and your..." I hesitated slightly, feeling Toretto's misplaced influence again, "...loved ones. Your Family. No gadgets will help if you're careless."
Peter nodded seriously.
"I remember, John. Thanks. For... for everything. For the ideas, for the support. I'm... I'm glad I told you."
"I'm glad too," I replied sincerely. "We're friends. A team. Family," the last word slipped out on its own, and I mentally groaned. Damn!
Peter blinked in surprise but then smiled. "Yeah. Family. Sounds... good."
He probably thought that since I'm an orphan, I lack the warmth of a family.
We spent another hour at the factory. Peter showed me his acrobatic tricks—flips, wall runs, jumps to incredible heights. I gave him advice on movement tactics and using the environment for cover—thanks to Coulson. Then we discussed gadgets a bit more. Peter was determined to start working on prototypes as soon as possible.
When it began to get dark, we made our way out of the factory. Reaching the bus stop, we said goodbye. Peter rushed home, and I, sighing, remembered the combat android from the future who was now left... alone. Damn... With thoughts of what an idiot I am, I caught a taxi and got in.
A few minutes later, the taxi finally stopped at my house. I paid, bolted out of the car, and almost ran up the porch, hurriedly unlocking the door.
"2B? I'm home!" I shouted, trying to make my voice sound calm rather than panicked.
Silence. My heart skipped a beat. I quickly threw off my jacket and backpack in the hallway and glanced into the kitchen—empty. Then the living room—no one there either. Only my room was left. I approached the door, hesitated for a second, and cautiously pushed it open.
She was there. Sitting on the chair by the window, in the same pose I had left her in that morning. But something was different. She wasn't looking at the street. She was holding a book—an old, tattered volume of Shakespeare that I had once found among the belongings of this body's parents. And she was... in "human" form. The bio-synthetic shell.
She raised her head at the sound of the opening door. On her face (or rather, the part not hidden by the blindfold), there were no obvious emotions, but her posture seemed less tense than in the morning.
"Commander John," she said in her melodic, almost human voice. "You have returned. Operational environment unchanged. No threats recorded."
I breathed a sigh of relief. She was fine. And she was reading Shakespeare. That was... unexpected.
"Hey, 2B," I entered the room. "Glad everything is quiet. What were you doing? Is the book interesting?"
She looked down at the volume.
"Analysis of textual data. The work 'Hamlet.' The plot... is complex. Character motivations... are irrational. Concentration on revenge, betrayal, existential questions... Resource-intensive to comprehend, but... it evokes a certain resonance. Parallels with..." she hesitated, "...certain aspects of YoRHa protocols and the concept of determinism... merit further study."
She spoke like a scientist analyzing a complex phenomenon, but I caught something more in her words—an attempt to understand not just the book, but herself, her own forbidden thoughts and feelings through the prism of a human tragedy.
"Shakespeare is like that," I nodded. "Makes you think. I'm glad you found something to do. What about movies? Did you watch any?"
"Negative. The book seemed a... more structured source of data at this stage. Visual narratives require greater emotional involvement, for which I am... not yet ready."
"I understand," I said. "Everything in its time. Anyway, I'm starving. I'm going to make dinner. Will you join me? Or is it 'non-expedient' again?"
She looked at me, then back at the book. A second's hesitation.
"The sensory experience obtained this morning... was... significant. Further data collection... may be beneficial for adaptation. I... will join you."
It was a small victory. I smiled.
"Great. Let's go to the kitchen then. Will you help me? Not with the cooking, just... for company."
She carefully placed the book on the table and stood up. We went to the kitchen. I decided to cook something simple—spaghetti with tomato sauce and turkey meatballs. While I worked my magic at the stove, 2B sat at the table, silently observing my actions. But it was no longer that detached observation of an android. She watched how I cut vegetables, how I mixed the sauce, how the spaghetti boiled. Sometimes she tilted her head slightly, as if trying to understand the logic of my actions.
"Why are you adding... that?" she asked, pointing to a pinch of dried basil I tossed into the sauce. "The database indicates minimal nutritional value."
"It's for the taste, 2B," I explained, stirring the sauce. "And for the smell. Food isn't just fuel. It's also pleasure for the senses."
"Pleasure..." she repeated softly, as if tasting the word. "An inefficient variable."
"Maybe," I shrugged. "But without it, life would be bland. Like spaghetti without sauce."
Dinner passed almost in silence, but it was a comfortable one. 2B ate again—cautiously, in small portions, still analyzing every bite, but without that morning's shock and guilt. She even asked a couple of questions about the origin of pasta and the chemical composition of tomatoes. I answered as best as I could, trying not to delve too deep into scientific weeds. The important thing was the very fact of sharing a meal, this simple human ritual.
...After dinner, I washed the dishes; 2B stood nearby, watching.
"Is assistance required in cleaning the kitchen utensils?" she asked in her steady, melodic voice, being in her "human" bio-synthetic shell.
"No, thanks, I've got it. I'm used to it," I smiled. "You know, after a long day, sometimes I just want to... relax. I think I'll take a bath. Hot water is great for relieving fatigue."
I dried my hands and was about to head to the bathroom when I heard her voice behind me:
"Commander John."
I turned around. She was standing in the kitchen doorway. Against the soft light of the lamp, her silhouette looked particularly sharp: slender legs in tight stockings, a black dress accentuating her figure, and snow-white hair with a blindfold over her eyes gave the image both innocence and something disturbingly attractive.
"YoRHa protocols mandate providing support to the designated commander in all aspects, including personal service and hygiene procedures to maintain maximum combat readiness," she said in a completely steady, businesslike tone. "If assistance is required in cleaning hard-to-reach areas of the back, I can perform this procedure according to established specifications."
I froze. My heart skipped a beat, but this time not from panic or embarrassment, but from... something else. A mix of surprise, irony, and, to be honest, pure male curiosity. The situation was absurd, but... why not? She is an incredible creation, part of my new reality. Her offer, though formal, was an expression of her unique nature, her attempt to adapt and serve. Refusing seemed... wrong? Ungrateful?
"Family takes care of each other," Toretto grunted with satisfaction in my head. "Accept the help. Show trust."
"Are you... sure this is necessary by protocol?" I asked, trying to keep my voice calm, even with a hint of playfulness, though conflicting feelings were still fighting inside.
"Affirmative, Commander John," she tilted her head slightly, and I thought I saw her lips quiver, but it was almost unnoticeable. "Maintaining the commander's optimal condition is a priority task. The efficiency of hygiene procedures increases with assistance."
"Well, you can't argue with logic," I allowed myself a wry smirk, gathering my courage—I'm not some generic protagonist, right...? "Alright, 2B. Let's perform your... support procedure. Why not?"
I saw her freeze for a moment, as if her internal systems glitched from the unexpected agreement. An almost imperceptible shiver ran through her body before she composed herself. If not for the android's perfect control, she might have made some sound—of surprise or... something else? But outwardly, she remained unfazed.
"Accepted, Commander John," her voice sounded absolutely steady, but I thought a new, barely audible note appeared in it. "I will prepare."
"Okay. I... I'll be in the bathroom then. Waiting."
I went to the bathroom, feeling not like a person, but like a character in some surreal play. Hot water noisily filled the tub, and steam quickly fogged the mirror. I stepped into the water, closed my eyes, and let my body relax. Surprisingly easy. Maybe an effect from Toretto—more confidence. Or maybe at some point, the brain just gives up in the face of the absurd and says: "Well, fine. Let it be."
A couple of minutes later, there was a soft, almost stealthy knock.
"Commander John? Requesting access to perform the procedure."
"Yeah... come in," I replied, a bit hoarsely, trying not to betray how my breathing had quickened.
The door opened.
I expected to see her in her standard YoRHa uniform. Black, strict, almost monastic... But instead—
I froze.
2B stood on the threshold, wrapped in a single towel—snow-white, fluffy, barely reaching mid-thigh. It wrapped around her figure so tightly that it felt as if the fabric was held only by chance—by a tight knot tied above her chest. Every curve of the body beneath it stood out clearly, as if carved by a sculptor; her slightly damp skin glowed in the soft light, and her legs—long, slender—seemed almost endless.
Her silver hair gathered in a bun gave the image a strange, almost intimate domesticity. A few strands had escaped and lay on her thin, graceful neck. Her lips glistened slightly—as if after a kiss that hadn't happened. And the blindfold... it only enhanced the ambiguity of what was happening. 2B didn't see me—or pretended not to see me. But I felt it: she sensed me with her whole body. It was as if her silence spoke more than any words.
She approached the tub, gracefully, silently, like a shadow of desire, and picked up a washcloth.
"You know, 2B," I said before she could wet it. My voice trembled, but I still continued. "Let's... for the sake of data completeness... try it differently. Without the washcloth. Just... with hands. Science requires precision, right?"
She froze. Several seconds of dead silence. I could literally hear the algorithms working in her head, cycling through options, evaluating boundaries of appropriateness, protocols, whatever.
"The request is non-standard," she finally said. "But logical in the context of assessing tactile interaction parameters and increasing comfort levels. Accepted."
She slowly set the washcloth aside, took the soap, squeezed some into her palms... and began to lather them. Slowly. Deliberately. I turned away, staring at the steam rising above the water, but I heard every gesture—how water droplets slid from her wrists, how the towel fabric softly rustled with movement.
And then her hands touched my back.
Warm. Smooth. Lathered. I shivered—not from surprise, no, but from the too-obvious sensuality of her touch. They were confident and yet gentle, almost caring. She wasn't just "washing" me. She was studying. Fingers glided over the shoulder blades, along the spine, lingering on the lower back. Somewhere on the edge between care and something... far more intimate.
I closed my eyes. Took a deep breath. My whole body was burning—not from the water. From her. From her touch. From her proximity. The towel was so close; I felt her breath, her scent—almost imperceptible, but completely non-mechanical. And when she touched my shoulders—not mechanically, but as if she allowed herself a bit more—I clenched my fists in the water to avoid turning to her and... breaking.
She worked in silence. And I was silent. It was too much. Too pleasant. Too tense. Too much on the edge.
When she finished, her hands lingered on my shoulders. For a second. Maybe two. It was long enough for me to remember this feeling forever.
"The procedure is complete, Commander John," she whispered.
"Thank you, 2B," I replied, without turning around. My voice sounded muffled, as if from a reluctance for something so wonderful to end so quickly. "It was... very effective."
"Data has been collected and will be analyzed," she added, and before I could say anything, she just as quietly stepped out of the bathroom, closing the door behind her.
I remained alone, leaning against the edge of the tub. A strange feeling of calm and light arousal struggled within me. Was it wrong? Perhaps. Dangerous? Nonsense. But at that moment, feeling the warmth on my skin and realizing the full surreality of what was happening, I couldn't deny it—this strange care from an android from the future was... pleasant. And frighteningly attractive.
The next few days flew by in a blur. I was torn between school, homework, my own training (I had to maintain form and develop Toretto's skills, whose assimilation percentage was slowly but surely growing—already past 90%, and the craving for a "Corona" had become almost unbearable), and my two "projects"—Peter and 2B.
Peter and I met almost every day after school at that same abandoned factory. I helped him hone his acrobatics, gave advice on tactics based on Coulson's experience—how to use the environment, how to move unnoticed, how to assess threats. And, of course, we worked on the suit.
I sketched several designs, relying on the classic Spider-Man design (which, like it or not, was damn successful from a psychological and memorability standpoint), but added some practical details seen, let's say, in "technical journals." We discussed materials—we needed a fabric that was light, elastic, but durable. Peter caught on to the idea of using modified carbon nanofiber, samples of which he had seen at Oscorp, and developing a way to weave it into the base fabric. Lenses for the mask—I suggested making them mirrored on the outside (for anonymity) and with the possibility of polarization and basic night vision on the inside (simple circuits Peter could assemble). Work was in full swing. Peter was in his element again—scientific search, inventiveness. Seeing him like that, enthusiastic and focused, was much better than seeing him confused or depressed.
Regarding advanced gadgets—impact webbing, bombs, electric shock—Peter decided not to rush for now.
"First, I need to perfectly master basic swinging and acrobatics," he told me one day. "And make a proper suit. Then we'll think about upgrades. Step by step." I didn't argue. A sensible approach. The important thing was that the foundation was laid, the ideas sown.
In parallel, I took care of my finances. I needed to turn the treasures from the System inventory into real money. The diamond and gold coins were perfect candidates. I chose a day, found a couple of solid but not overly advertised jewelers and precious metal dealers in different parts of the city via the internet. I had to spend almost the entire day traveling around Manhattan and Brooklyn, but the result was worth it. No questions about the origin (thanks to the lack of markings on the coins and the diamond's versatility), quick appraisals, cash in hand. I tried to act as cautiously as possible, using basic conspiracy skills from Coulson—changing routes, avoiding cameras, paying cash for transport. By evening, I had just over fifteen and a half thousand dollars in my hands. Not a bad starting capital. Of course, I took on the appearance of an inconspicuous man.
Night. December 18.
Night fell. First, I went home and activated the System. The monthly exchange was available. A thousand dollars from the new stack moved into the System's virtual space, turning into 10 Gacha Points. Plus the eight that had accumulated over the past few days (the System really gave one point per day). In total, my balance now stood at 38 GP. Not forty, but enough for three guaranteed rolls of ten cards.
And current affairs included 2B. With her, it was... more complicated and simpler at the same time. After that incident in the bathroom, she became, strangely enough, a bit more... open? No, rather, she began to hide her perceptiveness and analytical interest in my human habits less. She increasingly stayed in "human" form when I was home. She still studied books and information, asked questions about people, but now she occasionally allowed herself a slight shadow of emotion—a fleeting surprise, a barely noticeable curiosity flickering in her voice.
She began to... care a bit? Now it was more obvious. A glass of juice or a plate of fruit would appear on the table when I came home tired, and to my grateful nod, she would sometimes respond with an almost imperceptible tilt of the head that no longer seemed purely procedural. A couple of times, when I stayed up late over textbooks or analyzing the situation with the Goblin, she silently brought me a blanket.
To my surprised look, she replied: "A decrease in the user's body temperature has been recorded. Hypothermia prevention is recommended to maintain optimal functioning." But I saw that it wasn't just about that. Perhaps she didn't fully understand her own motives, but the care was genuine. Sometimes I even thought I noticed a slight blush on her cheeks when our eyes accidentally met, but she would immediately look away or her face would become inscrutable again. She was still struggling, but the ice was definitely melting.
I looked at my Gacha Point balance—38, calling up the status.
[Page 1/3]
John Smith
Race: Human
Character Assimilation
Full Assimilation:
[Phil Coulson (S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent Template)] - 100%
In Progress:
[Dominic Toretto (Template)] - 93%
[Empty]
Summoned Characters:
[YoRHa No. 2 Type B (2B)]
Abilities:
[Photostatic Veil (Active, Psionic)]
Equipped Items:
None
Meanwhile, at the Osborn mansion...