Krypton Technologies first Client I

Kara (POV)

The shrill ring of my phone shattered the late morning silence like a grenade in a library. Buried under a chaotic tangle of blankets on the couch in my Tech Forge, I fumbled for the phone, groaning like a zombie who just wanted five more minutes of sleep.

"Hello?" I rasped my voice more gravel than silk.

"Miss Vasílissa! Where are you? The test starts in an hour!" Schmidt's voice crackled through the receiver, panicked like a dial-up modem in a hurricane.

I shot upright like someone hit the 'emergency eject' button, the world spinning for a second, and I swear I saw stars. "Relax," I croaked, still sounding like I'd swallowed a jar of sandpaper. "An hour? Plenty of time to calibrate the targeting matrix and—maybe—put on pants."

I could practically hear Schmidt's sigh of relief from here—thin, fragile like it might blow away in a stiff breeze. "Alright, alright. Just hurry up. We still need to drive to the base."

"Twenty minutes," I shot back, swinging my legs off the couch with more grace than I felt. Stretching, my joints popped like popcorn. Glancing over at the mess of weapon components scattered around my workshop, I cracked a grin. "Just need to wrangle these tech toys into place. Seventeen-step pre-assembly protocol? Easy."

I snapped the phone shut and stretched again, stifling a yawn that felt like it could take out a small city. "Damn it, I got so caught up in this vampire business, I forgot about the project," I muttered to myself. The amusement flickered in my eyes, despite the looming deadline. I loved this chaotic mess of a life.

"Ava!" I shouted, dragging myself upright and trying to look like I had my life together. "Get the anti-tank cannon prepped. We're on a deadline."

Somewhere on the other side of the line, Schmidt probably had his hand clutching the phone like it was a life raft, torn between the contract dangling just out of reach and the sinking feeling that he might actually have to rely on my sleepy genius today. By now, he was probably already sprinting toward my workshop, praying for a miracle.

I crushed a breakfast bar like it was my last meal, the sweetness briefly kicking me into gear, before I thought about grabbing another one—or maybe a protein shake to shake things up—when a knock on the door interrupted my zen moment.

The door slammed open, and there he was: Schmidt, looking like he'd aged five years in the last five minutes. "Miss Vasílissa, for the love of deadlines, you're just waking up? The test is in an hour!"

The fatigue in my voice must've tipped him off, because Schmidt's gaze narrowed, suspicion flickering in his eyes. "Questioning my methods, are we?" I quipped, smirking. Classic Schmidt—he'd clearly expected me to be a whirlwind of pre-test prep, not casually fueling up over breakfast. He still hadn't learned I do things my way.

"Listen closely," I said, letting my tone firm up, the sleep-deprived act kicking in. "I haven't slept in twenty hours, buried in research." Okay, maybe that was a little white lie, but the glint in my eye made it sound way more convincing. "The weapon system will be operational. No need for last-minute jitters."

Truth? I'd been out hunting vampires, not exactly tweaking targeting matrices. But Schmidt didn't need to know the details.

"Now," I continued, tossing the rest of my breakfast bar in my mouth with dramatic flair, "I'm just fueling up for the big day. You know how dedicated I am." Totally convincing, except for the little sleep marks on my arm. Schmidt's gaze flicked to them, and I caught him staring. I rolled my eyes, muttering under my breath, "Stupid synthetic skin—acts way too real."

Schmidt wisely kept his mouth shut, probably calculating how much time we'd waste if I started explaining my upgrades. Instead, I pointed down the hall. "Alright, if speed's the name of the game, grab the Storm from storage and haul it to the balcony. Stairs are at the end of the hall."

I didn't miss the flash of reluctance on his face, so I added, "Ava, go with him. Keep him out of restricted zones. And if he touches anything he shouldn't feel free to go full T-X on him."

Schmidt grumbled, "Fine, but hustle it up. First impression with the military—let's at least try to look professional."

"Don't worry," I replied, spooning cereal into my mouth like I wasn't on a ticking clock. "Everything's gonna go smoothly. Besides, with all the recent attacks, this weapon's gonna be a game-changer for urban warfare." I said it like it was no big deal, but the weight of the words hung between us.

He sighed, a flicker of hope battling the knot of worry on his face. "Let's hope so."

While Schmidt wrestled the drone across the balcony, I leaned against the doorway, grinning. "Rough night, Schmidty? You're handling that thing like it's a shopping cart with a hangover."

"Speaking of wrestling," he shot back, panting as he wiped the sweat off his brow, "how exactly are we getting this hunk of junk off the balcony? No crane today?"

I smirked, grabbing my tablet and a bucket of water. "Who needs a crane when you've got cutting-edge tech? The Storm flies, remember? And the full-sized version? Built like a tank—well, maybe a flying bathtub, but still."

As Schmidt groaned and headed downstairs, I punched in the activation sequence. The Storm hummed to life, lifting off the balcony like a drunk hummingbird. A stray pushcart didn't survive the process, so I gave it a quick dousing before heading down. Once the drone hovered a steady four meters above the road, I gave the anti-gravity core one last tweak and turned to Schmidt.

"Alright, Schmidty, let's hit the road."

He raised an eyebrow, sliding into the beat-up Chevy we were using as our "official" vehicle. "Not worried some trigger-happy redneck's gonna take a potshot at that thing?"

I slid into the passenger seat, buckling up with a shrug. "At this altitude? Nah. Plus, we'll call the base when we're closer. No sense giving the locals a heart attack with our flying death machine."

"And this junker?" I nodded at the car, wrinkling my nose. "Seriously?"

"We're the scrappy upstart, remember?" Schmidt said, throwing the car into gear. "It lowers their guard."

"Huh. Fair point," I admitted, leaning back with a grin. "Alright, let's get this show on the road."

...

General (POV)

"Director, we've got a situation." Maria Hill strode into Nick Fury's office, her steps brisk and no-nonsense.

Fury barely glanced up, his hands sifting through a mountain of classified reports. "What's going on?"

"One of Frost's private clubs has been wiped out. Completely."

Fury's expression didn't change, but the subtle shift in his posture said enough. "Source? Is it reliable?"

Hill nodded. "There was a fight. Rockets were involved, triggering an explosion. By the time first responders arrived, it was just an empty shell of a building. Our agents used on-site scanners—traces consistent with dozens of vampires. Surveillance confirms it. A woman went in and never came back out. Analysts think she's connected."

Fury leaned back, steepling his fingers as his single eye sharpened. "Pull up the footage."

Hill tapped her tablet, and moments later, grainy footage flickered onto Fury's monitor. He watched in silence, his face unreadable. When the clip ended, he swiveled back toward her.

"Is STRIKE ready to deploy?"

"They are," Hill confirmed.

"Keep them on standby. If these vampires are gearing up for something big, I want to be ahead of it."

"Understood." Hill turned to leave but hesitated at the door. "Director, about the Hell's Kitchen incident—this is the best resolution we could get from the video feed."

Fury sighed. "Play it."

The footage unfolds:

01:00:01 AM

A woman in a red hoodie dress steps into the frame, the streetlights casting a faint glow on the fabric as she crosses the sidewalk. The camera struggles to pick up her finer details, but her slender silhouette and purposeful stride stand out. She moves with deliberate grace, as though she knows exactly what awaits her.

01:00:25 AM

Reaching the entrance of a weathered building, she pauses briefly. The faintest glimmer in her eyes suggests awareness—perhaps a flicker of defiance. Without hesitation, she pushes the door open and disappears inside. The camera barely catches the movement behind the worn glass doors before she's gone.

01:01:15 AM

Screeching tires rip through the quiet night as three black SUVs barrel into view. Their headlights slice through the darkness, engines growling like predators on the hunt. They skid to a halt in front of the building, and a small squad of black-suited men pours out, armed and alert. Weapons at the ready, they fan out and sweep the area.

01:02:05 AM

From the lead SUV, a man in tactical gear emerges, barking orders. His stance is rigid, his movements cold and efficient. Though his voice is muffled, the urgency is palpable. His eyes linger on the building as if he knows exactly what lies within.

01:03:00 AM

A flicker of movement catches the camera on the third floor—a shadow darting past the window, too fast to follow. Then, chaos explodes. Men charge into the building.

01:04:12 AM

The camera captures the fiery eruption as rockets detonate on the third floor. The explosion roars through the building, shattering windows in a cascade of glass. Flames lick at the structure as the street is bathed in an orange glow. The shockwave ripples outward, shaking everything in its path.

01:04:30 AM

Smoke pours from the wreckage, and for a moment, silence hangs heavy. Then, the woman reappears. Through the haze, her silhouette emerges, moving quickly and confidently away from the flames. The black-suited men on the street are visibly rattled—some frozen, others scrambling.

01:05:01 AM

As the dust settles, the camera picks up the aftermath: smoke, debris, and a hovering drone circling the gutted third floor. Its lights blink once before the feed abruptly cuts to black.

"This is where the footage ends," Hill said, pulling up additional data. "Our analysis indicates the drone likely deployed a targeted EMP to erase any evidence."

"You're telling me you couldn't extract any information about the woman in the footage?" Fury's voice was a razor, slicing through the tension in the room.

"To a certain extent, we did," Hill replied, swiping her tablet to project an image onto the nearby screen. The grainy picture displayed a partial profile of the figure. "The woman appears to be blonde with blue eyes. Based on her movement patterns, estimated height, and weight, we have a possible match. While the image quality is subpar, the facial structure geometry suggests a high probability it's Kara."

Fury leaned forward, his single eye narrowing. "Kara. What's she up to, and how the hell did she walk away from that blast?"

"The technicians are working on it, but initial analysis suggests it has something to do with her clothing. Given her… background, it's not a stretch," Hill said, her voice matter-of-fact.

Fury arched an eyebrow. "Interesting."

Hill hesitated before continuing. "However, there's a problem."

"There's always a problem," Fury said, exhaling sharply. "Spit it out."

"This." Hill tapped her tablet again, pulling up another video. A different scene played out: a woman in a red dress walking purposefully toward the entrance of a bustling disco. Hill froze the frame, zooming in. "This was taken the same night. A bloodbath took place here. Literally."

Fury's expression didn't flinch. "Define 'literally.'"

Hill's tone didn't waver. "Eyewitness accounts say a group of students visiting the club were bathed in blood—courtesy of the sprinkler system above. Over sixty vampires were neutralized using UV grenades, and Blade was spotted on the premises."

"And?" Fury asked.

"And this," Hill said, zooming in further to highlight the figure's face. "Facial recognition software identifies this woman as Kara with 90% certainty."

Fury's eye flicked between the two images on the screen. "Same night, same timeframe… Hell's Kitchen and the club?"

Hill nodded. "Exactly. How can she be in two places at once?"

Fury leaned back, steepling his fingers. "Is she in league with Blade now? Or is he freelancing? And what the hell is going on with these vampires? None of this adds up."

Exasperated, Fury waved Hill away, signaling for her to leave as he pressed his fingers to his temple. "Still no clear intel from the military about that unidentified craft that crashed into a forest a few weeks ago. Now the vampires are stirring up trouble. It's one mess after another," he muttered under his breath, a verbal tick that betrayed his frustration. "What a time to be alive."

He jabbed his intercom. "Coffee. Black. No cream."

...

Kara (POV)

As we cruised down the road, the Storm buzzed overhead like a futuristic insect, sleek and ominous, turning heads left and right. It wasn't just a drone—it was the drone. The gleaming metal glinted under the sun like it had its own spotlight. In a place like this, where high-tech innovation probably peaked at an electric can opener, the Storm might as well have been a UFO.

I caught sight of the gawking crowd and leaned over to Schmidt, unable to resist. "Hey, think we could rent ad space on the Storm's belly? Monthly subscription—prime real estate. Picture it: 'Welcome to Buttcrack, Idaho – Population: Us and This Killer Drone!'"

Schmidt snorted his usual stoicism cracking. "Sure, Miss Vasílissa. And while we're at it, maybe slap a QR code on it for the military. 'Scan here for your next contract.' Very cutting-edge."

I chuckled, the tension in the air momentarily breaking. "Always the entrepreneur, Schmidt."

As we neared the base, Schmidt's humor shifted back to practicality. He pulled out his phone, his eyes flicking between the road and the Storm as it cruised above us. "Hold up, Miss Vasílissa. This is Air Force turf. They're not fans of unidentified aerial phenomena in their airspace."

I smirked. "Unidentified flying object? Please. Give it ten minutes, and they'll be filing adoption papers for this baby."

When we arrived at the base's gates, a jeep rolled up with military precision, the kind that practically screamed, You're not welcome unless we say so. A soldier stepped out, his no-nonsense gaze bouncing between me, Schmidt, and the Storm like he was deciding which one of us to interrogate first.

"Krypton Technologies?" His voice was clipped, authoritative. "Ground your... device. Immediately."

The tone wasn't exactly friendly, but I knew better than to escalate. I raised my hands, mock surrender. "Relax, soldier. It's just a drone, not a Death Star."

Schmidt muttered under his breath, "Not helping."

With a few deft taps on my tablet, the Storm dropped into a hover, perfectly aligning itself above the flatbed truck the soldiers had brought out. The synchronized precision was as much a flex as it was compliance.

Schmidt sighed as he climbed back into the Chevy, muttering about radar systems and military red tape. "Deputy General Stone oversees procurement," he said in that 'brace-yourself' tone of his. "Hammer's presentation is the only thing standing between us and a multi-million-dollar contract. You've got an hour, Miss Vasílissa. Make it count."

I flashed him a sharp grin. "By the time I'm done, he'll be begging us to let him double it."

"Let's hope so," Schmidt muttered, as cicadas buzzed in the distance, competing with the faint hum of civilization.

The base loomed ahead—not a sleek Manhattan skyscraper, but a plain, functional four-story building. No flair, no distractions, just pure business.

As we pulled up, a small group stood near the entrance, clustered around a man whose presence radiated authority. He wore a perfectly tailored black suit, his stance calculated, his sharp gaze slicing through the air like a human radar.

The jeep soldier snapped a crisp salute. "Sir, representatives from Krypton Technologies have arrived."

I stepped out of the Chevy, every bit the picture of confidence. My stride was deliberate, my handshake firm as I met the man in the suit head-on. "Deputy General Kevin Stone, I presume? Kara Zor-El Vasílissa, CEO of Krypton Technologies."

Stone's handshake was cold, his expression colder. His sharp eyes scanned me like I was another piece of tech he needed to figure out. "Vasílissa. Any relation to Alura Vasílissa, head of Phoenix BioPharm?"

Ah, there it was. Not a question—an assessment. A test. The air practically crackled with unspoken weight.

I didn't flinch. "Alura Vasílissa is my mother," I said, my tone measured and steady. "But Krypton Technologies is entirely my creation. A different field. A different vision."

His lips twitched, forming what might generously be called a smile. Thin, calculating, and far from warm.

"Well," he said, his tone carrying just the faintest trace of amusement. "I hope your vision's as sharp as your confidence, Miss Vasílissa."

"Sharper," I replied, my voice like steel wrapped in velvet.

"Intriguing," Stone murmured, his expression a perfect poker face, though his eyes screamed judging-you-like-a-middle-school-principal. "I look forward to your presentation, Ms. Vasílissa."

"Of course, General," I replied, keeping my tone civil, but with just enough bite to remind him that Ms. Vasílissa wasn't here to play. "Is there a designated area for the demonstration? Or should I just plop it down in the parking lot next to the vending machines?"

Stone's lip twitched—probably the closest thing to amusement he could muster—before he gave a curt nod and turned on his heel.

As he walked, I was already moving to the flatbed truck, tapping my tablet like I was ordering pizza, and Storm hummed to life. The sleek prototype rose from the truck bed with an elegant lift that belonged on a runway. The shoulder-mounted engines whispered efficiency, while the converted ammo-box armament made a very loud promise: I will ruin someone's day.

Stone spared the barest glance at the machine, looking less impressed and more like someone forced to sit through a second-rate magic show. His brow furrowed, and he muttered, "Let's see what this Storm can do that impressed so few last month."

Oh, no he didn't. I ignored the jab and kept my focus sharp. "Lead the way, General," I said, calm as a sniper lining up a shot.

Stone grunted something vaguely directive and marched toward a building that screamed Top Secret, Touch, and Die. It was a hulking mass of composite material so classified that even aliens would need clearance. Inside, the vibe shifted—less "storage shed," more "Bond villain hideout." The cavernous space was packed with barricades and mock structures designed to mimic battlefield conditions, or at least, battlefield conditions before drones became everyone's favorite murder machines.

A blue-uniformed officer, clearly the "rules guy," stepped into our path like an NPC with a script. "One operator, one explainer," he intoned, his voice as crisp as his creases.

I handed my tablet to Schmidt without breaking stride. "You're up, Schmidt. Just like last time, but remember, this prototype's been juiced. Exceeds original specs across the board. Try not to break it—unless it looks really cool."

Schmidt nodded, equal parts confidence and please-don't-fire-me, and got to work. Meanwhile, I followed Stone into what I could only describe as a VIP box for destruction enthusiasts. The reinforced observation bunker overlooked the test zone like an emperor surveying the gladiator pit.

Stone leaned against the viewport, his voice gravelly and heavy with Cold War-era skepticism. "Let's see it perform, Ms. Vasílissa. We've got a variety of testing implements set up outside. Explain your machine's capabilities—every detail. Fail to impress, and your device becomes nothing more than a hangar queen. A museum piece. A cautionary tale in overpromising and underdelivering."

I stepped to the window, letting my eyes scan the test area. My stomach tightened as I took in the scene. This wasn't a cutting-edge proving ground—it was more like a junkyard with delusions of grandeur. Rusting structures, outdated setups... It was a battlefield alright, but one more likely to host reenactors than revolutionaries.

Great. My revolutionary tech was about to face off against an obstacle course designed by someone who thought dial-up internet was still a thing.

I schooled my expression, but the frustration burned. If this was the gauntlet they thought could judge Storm, then impressing them wasn't just about proving its worth—it was about showing them how embarrassingly far behind they already were.

"Well," I said, my voice as steady as my resolve, "let's show them what our company has to offer, shall we?"