Krypton Technologies first Client II

Kara (POV)

I stepped up to the viewport, feigning calm while my mind cataloged every outdated structure outside like a museum guide gone rogue. This wasn't a cutting-edge proving ground—it was a battlefield from someone's Cold War Barbie playset. I suppressed a groan and pivoted, locking eyes with General Stone.

"Correction, General," I began, my tone polished with just the right edge to cut through his skepticism, "this isn't merely a flying machine. It's a revolution in aerial warfare—an autonomous drone unlike anything currently deployed by any nation-state."

Stone's response came with a scoff so practiced it could've been trademarked. "Prove it, Ms. Vasílissa. Otherwise, you're just another contractor with slick PowerPoint slides and empty promises. Failure means legal headaches for your company—a bureaucratic bog where innovation goes to die. Understand?"

His skepticism was a brick wall, one forged in decades of dealing with charlatans and salesmen hawking their latest "breakthroughs."

I stepped closer, my resolve unwavering. "Unlike those charlatans, General," I countered, my words precise and sharp, "I back my promises with results. What you're about to witness isn't just a machine—it's the dawn of a new era in warfare."

Flicking my Bluetooth earpiece on, I tilted my head slightly. "Schmidt, are you ready?"

"Prepped and waiting," came Schmidt's steady reply. "Commence demo?"

I turned back to Stone, a razor-thin smile on my lips. "Let's dispel your Cold War-era skepticism, General. We'll start with a little speed—a demonstration of raw power that redefines the limits of aerial combat."

The Storm, idle only seconds before, erupted into motion. It blurred into an almost imperceptible streak as it shattered the sound barrier, leaving a booming shockwave in its wake. The windows vibrated. Stone's face, carved from years of jaded experience, betrayed the faintest twitch of surprise—a tic so small it barely registered, but I caught it.

Leaning closer to the viewport, Stone rasped, "Ms. Vasílissa, enlighten me. What's the operational peak velocity of this 'Storm'?"

"Maximum theoretical velocity exceeds Mach 2," I replied coolly, "though sustained operation at that speed isn't advisable due to thermal and structural stresses."

I toggled my earpiece again. "Schmidt, bring the propulsion system to full throttle for the next run. Let's remind the General why this isn't his grandfather's drone."

Outside, the Storm hovered with a lethal elegance, its hum a quiet prelude to chaos. I continued, pivoting to weaponry. "It's equipped with a standard-issue .45 caliber machine gun: four hundred rounds per magazine, one hundred rounds per minute firing rate."

Stone raised a skeptical brow, his smirk returning. "Standard armament? Hardly revolutionary. Or…" His eyes narrowed, curiosity glinting. "Are you suggesting a... non-standard payload?"

I let my lips curl into a knowing grin, letting the tension hang for just a moment too long. "The specs I outlined are indeed standard, General. But since you have a keen eye for the extraordinary, I could demonstrate... an enhanced capability. With the right materials."

Stone's smirk faltered as interest overtook skepticism. He exchanged a quiet, clipped conversation with a nearby officer. After a tense pause, he turned back to me. "Hold, Ms. Vasílissa. It seems we can accommodate your request. High-tensile materials are being retrieved as we speak."

I nodded, the thrill of controlled chaos buzzing under my skin. "Excellent," I said smoothly, my voice steady. "Prepare to witness why this isn't just a prototype, General. It's the next chapter in warfare."

But curiosity surged through me, mingled with just enough skepticism to keep my defenses sharp. Is he talking about bringing in tanks? On short notice? I arched a brow but didn't voice the question.

Stone, clearly catching my puzzlement, offered an explanation so deadpan it could've been carved in granite. "We were originally slated to observe a demonstration of Stark Industries' latest prototype. That, however, has been... postponed. A more immediate matter presented itself: surplus tanks." He gestured vaguely as if conjuring the image of rusting metal beasts. "Relics of the past clogging up space. Disposal usually involves refurbishment, resale, or, in the simplest terms, a one-way trip to the Atlantic floor."

A glimmer of understanding flickered to life. These weren't just props for my demo. Stone was killing two birds with one Storm. If my tech proved its mettle, he'd not only validate its potential but also solve a storage problem that no amount of Pentagon spreadsheets could clean up. Efficient, I had to admit. Ruthless, too.

The distant rumble of machinery broke my thoughts. Two minutes later, three weathered tanks rolled into the testing arena, groaning and clanking like retirees begrudgingly pulled out of bed. Their once-imposing silhouettes were marred by rust and peeling paint—proud warriors reduced to scrapyard candidates. Soldiers scrambled from the cockpits, their movements quick and cautious, a silent testament to the hazards of antiquated hardware.

Stone turned to me, his expression finally loosening from its skepticism, though his tone still carried the weight of command. "Shall we commence, Ms. Vasílissa?"

I leaned into my earpiece, my voice low but firm. "Schmidt, activate the anti-tank sequence. Engage chest-mounted missile payloads for secondary impact."

The soldiers who had just vacated the tanks exchanged wary glances, their relief palpable. They weren't eager to be front-row spectators to a 21st-century fireworks show.

The Storm sprang into action, circling the tanks with a grace that made its lethal intent all the more chilling. With a sudden burst of movement, it lined up its first target. A cylindrical projectile launched from its arm, spinning as it tore through the air, heading straight for the nearest tank.

Stone leaned in, his sharp eyes tracking every movement with the precision of someone who had spent a lifetime sizing up threats. The projectile hit the tank with surgical accuracy, and for a heartbeat, the machine stood frozen, as if refusing to acknowledge its fate.

Then came the explosion.

The tank erupted in a fireball that lit up the test field like a scene straight out of a blockbuster. The blast shook the air with the kind of intensity that could rattle bones, sending debris skittering across the barren arena. All that remained of the tank was a smoking crater as if it had never existed at all. Stone flinched—not from fear—but from the sheer ferocity of the demonstration as if the very power of the explosion had momentarily cracked his ironclad composure.

I pivoted on my heel, locking eyes with him, an unspoken challenge hanging in the air like smoke. "So, General," I said, the words dripping with just the right amount of cocky confidence, "how's that anti-tank cannon working for you?" I watched, leaning just a little too close, his expression calculating like a man trying to piece together a puzzle while he was standing inside it.

Stone's brow furrowed as his mind raced, no doubt running through the numbers, analyzing the data, looking for holes. "That detonation..." His voice dropped, gravelly and thick. "Had the characteristics of a miniaturized bunker-buster payload. Has Krypton Technologies really pulled off something like this?"

I let a small, tight smile form, knowing exactly where I had him. This wasn't about the weapon—it was about the seed I'd planted in his mind. "Necessity breeds innovation, General," I replied smoothly, leaning into the moment. "Miniaturization isn't just a technical achievement; it's a strategic one. It makes the weapon portable, cost-effective, and—most importantly—deployable by even the greenest recruit. A perfect blend of power and affordability. A modern military's dream, wouldn't you agree?"

Stone straightened, his expression as unreadable as a stone monument, but there was something in his eyes now—a glimmer of doubt cracking the walls. "Impressive," he muttered, almost to himself. Then, more firmly, "I trust the demonstration isn't finished yet?"

I let a faint smile tug at my lips, eyes gleaming. "Not by a long shot, General. Shall we move on to phase two?"

I gestured grandly to the ravaged test field, letting the silence stretch for just a beat, adding a little dramatic flair. "Buckle up, General. You're about to see the grand finale."

But just as I was about to cue the next phase, something flickered on the Storm's readout. A sharp, cold spike of instinct shot through me, and without a second thought, I dropped low, every muscle primed for impact.

"General!" I barked, urgency cutting through the air. "Get down!"

His expression was pure confusion, but reflex kicked in as he followed suit, the scowl on his face deepening in frustration. The soldiers around us scrambled to follow, but before they could react, the ground beneath us shuddered—a deep tremor that rattled our bones.

Then came the BOOM.

It was like the world had cracked open, the shockwave blasting through the facility. The ground shook, dust and debris erupted into the air, and the sound of concrete groaning beneath our feet rattled my very core. I straightened, coughing lightly, blinking through the smoke and haze. Around me, soldiers were stumbling out of the chaos, faces half-hidden behind hands coated in a fine layer of ash.

"Apologies for the unconventional presentation, General," I called over the din, voice sharp, cutting through the chaos. "That was just a taste. The Storm's final weapon? Also its self-destruct mechanism. Four mini-missiles, each packing the explosive punch of eighty kilograms of TNT. Stored safely in its chest cavity. Convenient, right?"

Stone emerged from the cloud of dust, brushing debris from his uniform with the kind of grimace that only a general could wear, but his eyes were wide—no longer just calculating. He was evaluating. "All four detonated, Ms. Vasílissa?"

I gave him my best mock-serious look, shaking my head with a chuckle. "Oh no, General. Krypton Technologies doesn't deal in defective merchandise. That was just one missile. A little appetizer for what's to come."

We stepped out into the sunlight, the dust-heavy air giving way to a cloudless sky. I couldn't help but glance at the wreckage of the tank—once a proud relic, now a molten scrap heap, nothing but a testament to the raw power the Storm packed.

Stone's voice broke the silence, rougher now, but with a grudging respect that I could practically taste. "Ms. Vasílissa, enlighten me. Is manual control the only way to pilot these drones?"

I felt the opening. The opening. My tone shifted just slightly—just enough to let a little pride shine through. "Absolutely not, General. In fact, I'd recommend prioritizing autonomous operation. The onboard AI doesn't just keep up with the enemy; it outpaces them. In critical combat scenarios, its reaction time is faster than any human could manage. Think of it as a soldier with the reflexes of a machine—minus the nerves, of course."

His expression faltered for a fraction of a second, something like doubt flickering behind his eyes before he squashed it down. "And the safeguards?" His voice lowered slightly, more serious now. "How do you prevent... friendly fire?"

I nodded, anticipating the question. "Rest assured, General. Krypton Technologies takes battlefield safety seriously. The Storm's AI follows strict protocols. It's got a digital fingerprint—one that ensures only authorized personnel can override its security measures. You want an extra layer of security?" I added with a flick of my wrist, reaching into my briefcase and pulling out a sleek black case, extending it toward him with a touch of showmanship. "We've got that covered too. A proprietary identification marker. Just in case."

Stone took the case from my hand, his sharp eyes scanning it like it held the secrets of the universe, glancing between me and the sleek object in his hand. The skepticism was gone now. In its place, a spark of genuine curiosity. And despite my best efforts to hide it, I felt a little satisfaction stir inside me. Mission accomplished.

"Think of it as a digital handshake," I said, my voice smooth and confident, with just the right touch of professional charm. "Each marker is uniquely coded, and the Storm's onboard system uses facial recognition software to verify personnel. Only authorized individuals—those with valid markers—are recognized by the AI. No exceptions."

Stone flipped open the case, inspecting the sleek metallic device inside. It was no larger than a military dog tag, but its implications were undeniable. The holder of these markers would hold absolute control over the Storm. I could see it in his eyes—the recognition, the shift in understanding. This wasn't just technology; it was power.

I let the silence hang for a moment, savoring the gravity of the situation. Then, I added with a hint of a smile, "Now, let's talk numbers. Budgetary constraints are always a concern, especially in today's geopolitical landscape. That's why Krypton Technologies is offering a special incentive. If you purchase fifty Storm units, we'll throw in a state-of-the-art wireless charging station—worth $3 million—at no additional cost."

Stone's face remained a study in unreadable concentration, but I caught the subtle shift in his eyes—a flicker of interest. I knew he was considering it. This wasn't just a transaction; it was an invitation to dominate the future of warfare.

But Stone wasn't one to be swayed by flair. His voice, as steady as a stone wall, cut through the tension. "One question remains," he said, the tone sharp as ever. "What happens if an adversary manages to get their hands on one of these markers? Could they hijack a Storm unit?"

I met his gaze, my own resolve unshakable. "An excellent question, General. Each marker is not only uniquely coded, but it also has an embedded self-destruct mechanism. If anyone attempts to tamper with it, the marker disintegrates instantly—rendering it completely useless. The Storm won't engage unless the digital signature of the marker matches the verified facial recognition data. If that doesn't check out, the unit stays offline."

Stone leaned back slightly, a long pause as he considered the answer. His mind was turning, dissecting the possibilities. I could almost hear the gears grinding as he processed the ramifications of autonomous warfare, the future of military strategy in the palm of his hand.

"And the pricing for the additional weaponry?" he asked, leaning forward now, a glint of interest in his eyes, his focus sharpening. "Specifically, the mini-missiles and the anti-tank cannon?"

Another perfect opportunity. "Another excellent question, General," I replied, my voice unwavering. "The cost of the mini-missiles depends on the payload configuration. We have a variety of options tailored to different battlefield needs. As for the anti-tank cannon, each round costs $50,000." I let the numbers sink in, the magnitude of it settling over us.

"Now, for the Storm unit itself, it's priced at $40 million. That includes a full arsenal valued at $800,000—the same weapons you saw in action today."

Stone's lips twitched a brief flicker of something—maybe amusement, maybe skepticism. It was hard to tell, but it was enough to make me lean into the moment. "And complimentary maintenance?" he asked dryly, trying to peel back the layers.

I couldn't help but chuckle, playing into his dry humor. "Of course, General. All mechanical failures are covered under our comprehensive warranty program. And to sweeten the deal, we even offer a complimentary paint job for battle-scarred units. After all, a weapon this good deserves to look as good as it performs."

That earned me a snort, a mix of disbelief and amusement. But it landed exactly as I intended. The paint job wasn't the selling point, but it served as a reminder—Krypton Technologies had a reputation for precision, even in the smallest of details.

Stone extended his hand, the earlier skepticism replaced by a grudging respect. "Ms. Vasílissa," he said, his voice firm, "you drive a hard bargain. But based on what I've seen today, I believe we can reach an accord. Deal."

The moment his hand clasped mine, I felt the weight of victory settle over me. I could see the glint in my eyes, but I kept my expression steady, businesslike. "Deal, General."

Victory tasted sweeter than I'd anticipated. Now we were in business.

....

Schmidt, looking like a walking hurricane of cables and dust, staggered back into the warehouse right as Stone and I sealed our deal with the sort of handshake that felt more like the start of a power play than a business agreement. For a moment, he was unnoticed—until I slid a data tablet toward the General, the official contract now in his hands.

"So, General," I said, leaning just a fraction closer, eyes locking onto his with the quiet confidence of someone who knew exactly how this conversation was going to unfold, "how many Storm units are you planning to integrate into your arsenal?"

Stone, his expression as stoic as ever, swiped through the contract with the kind of efficiency that came from years of dealing with high-stakes negotiations. His voice was as gravelly as a tank rolling through a quarry. "The procurement process will take a few days to finalize," he muttered, eyes flicking over the details. "Having the contract prepared ahead of time would certainly expedite things. However,"—his gaze shot up, narrowing slightly—"Ms. Vasílissa, you've yet to address production capacity. Tell me, can Krypton Technologies handle the scale of deployment I'm considering?"

I felt the weight of his unspoken concern. Stone wasn't worried about getting the Storms into his hands. No, he was wondering if we could actually deliver on the grand promises I was making. The last thing he wanted was a bunch of shiny prototypes with no real muscle behind them when the bullets started flying.

"General," I said with a low chuckle, my voice smooth as velvet, "you're underestimating Krypton Technologies. Let me put it in simple terms—we could assemble another fully operational unit in a week, even if the Storm you saw today was obliterated in a flash."

Stone's eyebrows practically shot into orbit. "A week? You're telling me these aren't fragile, hand-crafted prototypes?"

I flashed him a grin, amused by his disbelief. "Not at all, General. This very unit," I gestured toward the approaching Storm, its monstrous frame casting a shadow like an executioner's axe, "was assembled in the exact same timeframe. The materials are readily available, and while we're not completely vertically integrated just yet, our production process is smooth. We can handle large orders without breaking a sweat."

Stone seemed to process that, though the skeptical lines around his mouth deepened. "You can assemble one in a week?"

"Absolutely," I affirmed, letting the words roll off my tongue with the precision of a well-timed shot. "This one was built at that exact time. No sky-high development costs. No delays for parts to trickle in. It's modular. You swap out the broken bits and keep rolling. Efficiency is the name of the game."

I let the words sink in, watching his mind whirl. A modular design meant not only fast production and repairs but also allowed for flexibility—and in war, flexibility was power. "The only thing we need now is funding."

I could almost see the calculations running through his head. The implications were massive. A rapid deployment force, with minimal downtime for repairs, and the ability to field units anywhere, anytime. A dream come true for military strategists. But I knew he wasn't just thinking about logistics; he was thinking about power. Control.

I leaned in just slightly, my voice dropping into something more dangerous, more tantalizing. "General, acquiring just one of these units... it won't give you the control you think. Trust me."

I turned to the approaching Storm, the gleam in my eyes like a predator sizing up its prey. "I made sure the Storm's big enough to send anyone who gets in the way straight to the moon."

Stone's expression stiffened. There it was—he'd caught the subtle implication. Was I implying that he, too, could be swept up in a future detonation? His mind was racing now, a little wariness creeping into his calculated gaze. Had I just made it personal?

Good. That was exactly the point.

"Well, General," I taunted, my voice laced with mock sweetness, "care to test it out? I'm sure we can afford to lose a few parts."

The challenge hung in the air, slicing through any last remnants of his smug composure like a hot knife through butter. "And to protect the integrity of the technology," I added, my tone smooth but tinged with an unmistakable edge, "we've taken extra precautions. White phosphorus, among other high-temperature components, is embedded deep within the Storm's core systems. Anyone trying to unauthorized disassemble it will find their efforts… explosive."

I couldn't help but grin wider, watching him tense as the weight of my words settled in. "And, just for good measure," I leaned forward, voice dropping to a purr, "I made it just a bit bigger to ensure the explosives hit like a freight train."

Stone's amusement vanished faster than a mirage in the desert. His mind was already racing, recalculating. Too bad he was realizing, just a moment too late, that I wasn't some slick-talking vendor with a handful of flashy toys—I controlled a weapon far more dangerous than he'd ever anticipated. Reverse-engineering the Storm? That'd be a one-way ticket to a funeral pyre.

I let the silence stretch as my gaze locked on him, watching the unease start to settle in his posture. It was a beautiful thing, really. Watching a seasoned warhorse realize he'd just met a different breed of predator. "General," I purred once more, my voice sweet but with a bite that could cut through steel, "perhaps you'd like to test those safeguards firsthand? I'm sure we could afford to sacrifice a few expendable parts."

A ripple of tension passed through him, and I saw the edge of his anger sharpen. He wasn't some green rookie, ready to fall for flashy salesmanship. He'd seen real war, real carnage. But he wasn't expecting me to be this sharp, this calculating.

"No need for the theatrics, Ms. Vasílissa," he growled, irritation thick in his voice. "Leave the Storm. You and your... associate can go. The contract will be finalized by tomorrow evening. Understood?"

He turned on his heel, striding out with a swiftness that was almost comical given how rattled he'd just been. I could practically hear the wheels turning in his head: He didn't want to be played, but national security trumped his pride. The drones would be his soon enough. But reverse-engineering them? That'd be a fool's errand—and he knew it.

I watched him storm off, the satisfaction surging in my chest like a warm drink on a cold day. The amusement I'd seen in his eyes had shifted—fear, respect. The kind of fear you only earn when someone realizes you've got more power than they bargained for. The deal was already in the bag. Krypton Technologies' dominance was secure, locked down tighter than any of those self-destructing Storms.

Sliding into the passenger seat of Schmidt's beat-up Chevrolet, I allowed myself a moment to savor the sweet taste of victory. Stone's dumbfounded expression? Priceless. I'd just turned his plans into dust, and it felt damn good.