[Life is Good] Chapter 57

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I met Miss Blanc the next day.

She was open, friendly, and surprisingly cheerful. Every now and then, she’d glance at her prosthetic arm, but she didn’t look broken or bitter about it. We had a quick chat, with McCoy and Jennifer joining in, and when Erika showed up, we all headed to check out the armor.

Valerie warned me in advance that the exosuit was "a little banged up."

I did not expect it to look this bad.

Jesus.

I stared at what was supposedly a "functional but damaged" armored exosuit.

Yeah, no.

This thing was wrecked.

Dented, twisted, completely trashed—those were the first words that came to mind when I took in the sight of its crushed plating, missing arm, and visibly mangled leg mechanisms.

I turned to the engineer, utterly shocked. How the hell did she even survive this?!

"I did warn you it was banged up," she muttered, throwing a glance at an increasingly irritated-looking Lenhsherr. Before Magneto could open her mouth and lay into her, I stepped in.

"Miss Blanc, I just want to say—thank you," I said, and I wasn’t even faking it. Every ounce of gratitude I could muster was in my voice. Sure, the state of the suit was depressing as hell, but I couldn’t even imagine what she went through inside that thing.

Valerie and McCoy shot me surprised looks, but Magneto’s gaze softened in understanding.

"I was there that day, when Venom went on a rampage," I continued. "I ran while the cops held her off. If it weren’t for them—and you—I probably wouldn’t be standing here. So, really. Thank you."

The woman stared at me, surprise shifting to understanding, then to something more thoughtful. She bit her lip, ran a hand over her metal prosthetic, and after a few moments, let out a short chuckle.

"You know what, kid? Maybe I should be thanking you," she said, and I blinked in confusion.

She toyed with the earring in her left ear, glancing at her wrecked armor.

"See, back then, I was out to prove a point. I wanted to show the world that my baby was worth something, that I was right and everyone else was wrong." She flexed her prosthetic fingers, watching the movement. "I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve cursed myself since then. Rushed into a fight with a goddamn monster, lost my arm, barely made it out alive. I could’ve just swallowed my pride, taken a job at some mid-level tech firm. But nooo, I had to be Blanc the Brilliant and show off."

Her expression darkened for a second—then it cleared up, replaced by something almost triumphant.

"But you know what? Looking at you, standing here, alive and well… If I only managed to help one person that day, then it was worth it," she said with a grin. "So thanks, Tobias. Your words mean a hell of a lot more than some fancy trinket from the mayor. That baboon-assed bureaucrat looked like she had a gun to her head when she handed it to me."

"Uh… you’re welcome?" I mumbled, feeling all kinds of awkward.
She’d saved my ass, and she was the one thanking me?

And yeah, I meant it—I truly believed that if not for her, I might not have made it out of that day alive. It was entirely possible that because of her interference, Venom got held up long enough for me to escape.

Valerie just smirked at my flustered expression and turned back to her suit.

"Right. Anyway, what I was saying…." She picked up a tablet from a nearby workbench, tapped a few times, and pulled up a schematic on the large monitor.

"If you guys want to get the most out of this project, we’re better off ditching the prototype. The only salvageable parts are some of the electronics, and even that’s a stretch. That said, I can restore it relatively quickly if necessary—but honestly? We’d be better off ordering proper parts from HammerTech or Oscorp and building it the way it was meant to be built."

She glanced at me.

"I would recommend Stark Industries, but they don’t do small-batch production. The prototype armor was garbage—slapped together with whatever I could scavenge. When you’re a solo engineer with a limited budget, getting quality materials is a nightmare. And even if I had found better materials, the prototype’s mechanisms couldn’t handle the full scope of my original design."

Valerie tapped a few more times, bringing up a new design.

"And this… this is what it was supposed to be."

Damn.

The thing on the screen was a beast.

Three words came to mind: reliable, armored, brutal.

No sleek curves, no fancy aerodynamic shapes. Just thick, heavy plating and raw, industrial power.

Chunky armor segments, sharp angles, and reinforced joints. It looked like a walking tank.

"The Breakthrough Assault Suit, Mark I," Valerie announced proudly.

"With the proper materials, this bad boy would weigh around 1000 pounds. Armor plating can withstand heavy machine-gun fire—tested against 14.5mm rounds. The segmented structure allows for quick part swaps in the field, no need for a full repair crew. The helmet has built-in air filtration, and in emergencies, it can go fully sealed for up to ten minutes—handy for chemical attacks, high-heat zones, or even short bursts of underwater movement."

I whistled low.

"Straight-line sprint speed? Nearly 60 miles per hour—for an experienced pilot. Power reserve on standard batteries? Forty minutes. Battery swaps can be done in the field, and yes, it’s dock-station compatible for recharging."

She took a sip from a plastic water bottle before continuing, clearly enjoying herself.

"The suit can be equipped with modular weapons. Standard infantry firearms? Too small for these gauntlets. So, the base loadout includes: a machine gun mounted under the left forearm, with a backpack ammo feed; and a shotgun on the right for close-quarters combat—though honestly, it’s so big it’s basically a hand-cannon."

She smirked.

"Could also swap it for a flamethrower—good for clearing enemy-occupied buildings."

She chuckled darkly.

"But maybe stick to the shotgun in wooden structures."

Valerie tapped the screen again, pulling up a diagram of the back-mounted equipment.

"There’s an option for a guided missile launcher—locks onto targets using the suit’s onboard electronics. Of course, that would cut down on the machine gun’s ammo capacity. It can carry up to 450 pounds of gear without excessive wear and can lift up to half a ton. Integrated comms, ECM jamming, night vision… and the helmet? Can be either fully enclosed with external camera feeds, or open-faced with bulletproof glass over the eyes."

She turned to me with a grin.

"Oh, and last but not least? Wrist blades. Eighteen inches long. Built into the forearm plating."

"Magnificent…" I practically drooled at the sight. "Wrap up two for me! One for special occasions, the other for everyday wear! But uh… why the skull on the chest plate?"

"Uh…" Valerie scratched the back of her head, looking slightly embarrassed. "Thought it looked cooler?"

I gave her a solemn nod. "Style isn’t a skill, but it’s still important."

And hell, she was right—it did look cool. The helmet? Straight-up Doom Slayer vibes. Approved.

Erika rubbed her chin thoughtfully. "Alright, Dr. McCoy, once you’ve finalized the production details, send me the paperwork. If prototype testing goes well, we’ll proceed with the order. Miss Blanc, restore the prototype and notify me when it's ready—we’ll set up a test site. Tobias needs to run at least a few tests with his ability active while wearing the armor."

She turned to me, expression serious. Well… she tried to be serious, but honestly, she had the same problem as Betty’s mom—her ‘stern face’ just made her look like a concerned relative.

"Tobias," she continued, "even if you get the Mk-I, I hope you’re not planning to just run around the city in it like some kind of action figure. This isn’t a toy—it’s a real combat machine. And you’re not Iron Lady; you can’t just fly away if something goes wrong. This armor is for emergencies only, or missions where it’s absolutely necessary. Understood?"

"Yes, ma’am! Absolutely, ma’am!" I mock-saluted. "So… what about testing the prototype?"

She hesitated. "…We’ll see."

And with that, she ruffled my hair and walked out, ignoring my indignant glare.

I’m not a kid anymore! Why does everyone keep messing up my hair?!

To my right, Banner tried and failed to suppress a giggle. I shot her a betrayed look, only to get full-blown laughter in return.

"Strict lady," Blanc muttered. She’d only just met Erika in person.

"Strict, but fair," I shrugged. "She does a lot for us. Pushes herself hard, so she expects a lot in return."

"She doesn’t like that you’re involved in all this," McCoy chimed in, scrolling through something on her tablet. "Though, judging by the way you were eye-fucking that Mk-I, I doubt anyone could’ve stopped you. You were practically bouncing in place, like some excitable teenage girl."

I scoffed. "Please. Loving big guns and high-tech armor transcends gender."

My eyes drifted back to the armor on the screen.

"Look at it. It’s a work of art. How can you not want to climb inside, fire off some rounds, sprint at full speed? I’m not even talking about wading into enemy lines and going full bloodbath—just target practice, maybe smashing through a few walls! Feeling the power of the servos! Experiencing the armor’s strength and mobility!"

Blanc cackled and clapped me on the shoulder.

"Damn, kid! When I first heard who was getting my baby, I thought the world had lost its mind. But turns out you’re a proper gun nut!"

Hah. If only she knew how much I geeked out over Warhammer power armor.

"Maybe you’ll even make a decent pilot for my beauty after all," she added. "But listen—this thing isn’t a toy. If you wanna use it properly, you need serious training. Without that, it’s just a really expensive, bulletproof coffin. You need to learn response time, movement control, the different power modes. It’s gonna take work."

"Don’t worry, Val," Jennifer smirked. "Just drop by their training halls after school sometime. Toby will put in the effort—he’s insanely dedicated."

Blanc gave me an appraising look. "Alright, then. Let’s see what you’ve got."

McCoy clapped her hands. "Tobias, you’re dismissed—we’ve got plenty of work to do. You probably won’t hear from us until Monday. I already have your measurements, so no issues there."

"Uh, Miss McCoy, about the Mk-I and sizing… what if I, y’know… outgrow it?"

Blanc snorted. "Relax, you’ll be fine. The Mk-I was designed as a mass-production model for the military—soldiers come in all sizes. It’s meant to be adjustable. Hell, even if you hit 7 feet tall, we’d still have options. Highly doubt you’re gonna outgrow it completely."

"Got it, got it," I nodded, doing my best Battle Droid impression. "Alright, I’m off to go hit the books. Have a great evening, geniuses."

I headed back to my room, mentally bracing myself for the soul-crushing world of test prep.

Tomorrow was exam day. Not my finals yet, but knocking out even a few subjects early would make my life way easier. Sitting through classes where I just needed a quick review? Massive waste of time. A few more weeks, and I planned to finish the year entirely—and hopefully clear next year’s coursework by summer.

But that all depended on how things went.

Oh, and let’s not forget: two dates lined up this weekend.

Saturday afternoon? Lunch with Wolvie.

Sunday? Deadpool.

Now, Rahne was easy to figure out—she’d even chilled out a bit on her aggressive flirting after our negotiation success.

Wade, though?

Total wild card.

We hadn’t talked since that night she helped Mom Betty. Just one text saying, "Busy with stuff. Will call when free."

And then, out of nowhere, I see this shit on the news today:

"PARIS: The Louvre was hit last night. The thief? None other than the infamous mercenary, Deadpool. The target? The Mona Lisa."

Security cam footage left no doubt.

A very familiar red-and-black figure, running off with da Vinci’s masterpiece.

For "disguise purposes," she’d slapped a "NOT DEADPOOL" sign on her back.

I lost my shit.

Straight-up wheeze-laughed at my phone.

Like, she let herself get caught on camera. On purpose.

There’s no way that wasn’t intentional.

A couple of hours after the news broke, I got a text from Wilson.

"Hey, babe! So, first date Sunday? Also, what’s your stance on nipple piercings?"

…

First part? Easy.

"Yeah, Sunday works."

Second part? I… took a second.

Then typed:

"Not really my thing. Would make biting them tricky. Plus, I’d have to be careful with your chest, and where’s the fun in that?"

Fifteen minutes later, she replied.

"Got it. See you Sunday. Kisses and hugs. Piercings—up the ass."

…

I barely resisted typing: "Also a no."

Settled for:

"Agreed. See you then."

Right.

Time to get my head in the game.

Tomorrow, I had exams to ace and my first official SWAT training session.

Well… my first one that wasn’t part of some bullshit crisis scenario.

Eddie Brock

The ringing phone pulled Eddie away from yet another revision of his interview plans with Salamander. He glanced at the screen and smiled—Julia Stacy.

"Hello?" he answered.

"Hey, Eddie. How’s it going?" The smooth, pleasant voice on the other end sent a wave of warm nostalgia through him.

"All good, sweetie. How about you?"

The moment he spoke, a couple of his female colleagues nearby immediately perked up, their ears practically twitching.

Oh, so Cold-Shoulder Eddie has a thing going on?

The nickname always amused him. He wasn’t exactly untouchable—he just didn’t mix work and romance. The newsroom wasn’t a dating pool, and he had ambitions, real ones. Most women, no matter how understanding at first, eventually wanted their man safe—tucked away in a place where they didn’t have to worry about him all the time.

Not exactly a fit for his line of work.

"Come on, Eddie, we’re at work. Have some shame," Julia huffed, clearly flustered.

Busted.

"Listen, just be at the precinct tomorrow afternoon," she continued, quickly switching gears. "And Eddie? Just you. If I see a pack of your newsroom sharks sniffing around, I’ll be very upset."

"Got it. Thanks, babe. I’ll be there."

He smirked as she let out a mildly annoyed tsk but didn’t hang up.

"You stopping by tonight?" he asked casually.

"After nine—too much work, and my lieutenant’s still on medical leave. But not for long." A pause. "Pizza?"

"Nah, pick up a good bottle of wine—I’ll have dinner ready for you."

A pause. Then…

"Mmm… deal," she hummed, her voice softening. Warm, sultry.

"Hope you cook as well as you seduce cops, Brock," she teased, laughing lightly.

"Oh, much better. No contest."

Eddie grinned. His father had been an incredible cook, and the old man had drilled every skill into him.

"Honestly, if I’d shown up to our first date with one of my dishes, you would’ve fallen for me a lot faster," he added smugly.

Julia let out a pleased hum. "Alright then, see you tonight… darling."

"See you, babe," he replied, smiling into the receiver before the call ended.

He set the phone down, still absentmindedly tracing its edges, lips curled in a small, thoughtful grin.

Damn.

Gorgeous, smart, sharp—Julia Stacy was the whole damn package.

What started as a little playful flirting with a no-nonsense police captain had somehow turned into this—a relationship that had him, for the first time in his life, seriously considering marriage.

Did it matter that she was older? That she had a daughter?

Not in the slightest.

It was too early to think that far ahead, of course, but the thought had started creeping in.

Well, time will tell.

With a sigh, Eddie finally looked up—and instantly regretted it.

The newsroom?

Pure chaos.

The women in particular were in an absolute feeding frenzy. Whispering, giggling, plotting.

Oh, great.

Seemed like someone was about to face a full-on interrogation from his nosy-ass coworkers.

God help me.