8 [ F series ] The wolf is at your door

I dug my bare fingers into the metal panels of the back door of the van and curled them around the internal support structure so that I could rip both doors off the back of the van at once.

Very dramatic yes?

While I had a pair of black Blood Iron armguards, and black gloves on my hand, they were both just for the looks as neither the metal or even the Unstable Molecular Fabric of the gloves could hold up against me using my full strength without being torn apart.

Not that I was wearing gloves because I worried about leaving fingerprints, they were fingerless, but I had a look I was going for.

The Bloodsteel breastplate that covered my upper chest and back was mainly there to secure the gravity negation system that supported my ability to fly with the plasma powered jets mounted on the black greaves on my legs.

Then again black UMF boots were made with thick chamber cushioned soles that I hoped would hold up as long as I used the jets to ease into my landing. The titanium caps at the toes and wrapping around the side of the boots would have to do to keep my footwear together when I felt the need to kick someone.

Completing my look was a bright red set of cargo pants, a sleeveless red pullover shirt under the chest piece, and an actual utility belt reinforced with more titanium painted black.

There wasn’t all that much in the pouches on the belt, but in my past life, I had learned how handy a work belt was for keeping my tools on hand.

Standing in front of the torn open doors, I had to lean down from my height of seven foot four to bring my head into view for the four shocked looking men in the van, and to show off the black Blood Iron mask that I made to match one of the older versions of my new Daddies armor. No helmet, just the mask held on by three black leather straps going around my bald head.

All four men opened fire on me, one of them even had aVeresk Sub-machine gun with a suppressor on it.

The other three guys just started blasting away with some automatic pistols, probably making themselves deaf shooting inside the confined space of the back of the cargo van.

So I shouted a bit when I joked. “So! I take it you’re not Quiet Riot fans!”

Three of the men flinched, and one even fell over. More than likely it was from the fact that their bullets were either falling off of me after flattening against my bare arms and unarmored gut or were crumbling to dust after impacting against the blood metal in a flare of magical red light.

Again, very dramatic. I do not need the armor, I am bulletproof and more. The armor is more for the look, and to house my tech.

As well as some magic.

The Blood Iron was something of my own invention. I had bonded the iron from seven gallons of my own blood into the metal and had then inscribed Runes into its inner surface as the repurposed birth Cretch pumped plasma and nutrients into me to replace the blood.

The Blood Iron linked the runes inscribed into it to me permanently, keeping them from losing their magic, but it did leave me vulnerable to witchcraft should anyone get ahold of a piece of it.

But I wasn’t too worried about it. I would be in fights now and then. If you fight, you bleed. Such dangers will always be with me.

Some of those runes were locking the bullets that hit my armor in place, and then pulling the iron from them to repair the damage those bullets did to the metal. While I was proud of my invention, it was still a form of Iron, which is not the best metal for armor. It needed the enchantment.

The Sub-machine gun guy dropped his Veresk when he saw that it wasn’t doing anything to me, and pulled out a small spray bottle before pushing his way past the other men, arm outstretched toward my face.

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Oooo, a smart guy. Those are always handy as long as they don’t get above themselves. I think I might have just found my right hand man.

And since I have no clue if my mother’s invulnerability worked against pepper spray, I took ahold of the door frame at the back of the van and lifted the whole vehicle off the ground to shake it around a bit.

Gently mind you. While these guys may be Russian mobsters, they were still just human, and I wanted them intact.

First rule of being a bully. You need some little guys around. Minions as my little brother would have put it.

They take care of the work that’s beneath you.

A playground bully is what I remember being, at least until I was old enough for organized sports. I loved the power, and I knew it would make things easier for my wimp of a brother and our sister when they started up in school.

Hurting my knee had wreaked my sports career in college, but my scholarship had a clause in it that let me finish school for free even if an injury meant I couldn’t play anymore. At least as long as the injury was sports related.

My job had paid pretty well, but sometimes it had been a struggle to support myself, the kids, and both of the ex-wives.

So while I would miss the family I was leaving behind in another world, the kids were grown with their own lives, the ex-wives could go and get real jobs, and I was now young again. And strong once again as well, very strong.

My future was wide open, the world was mine.

To take.

First, Russia. Starting with their criminal underworld.

The mobs had all the money, and they pretty much controlled the economy, having filled in the ecology as Communism died out and was awkwardly replaced by Capitalism.

And he who controls the money controls the world.

Russia was wide open for a supervillain, there was practically no one else here to challenge my claims… and hardly any heroes to oppose me.

There was the Winter Guard, the leftovers from several previous local teams, but they were like the Avengers. They fought against threats on a national or global level, not mobsters.

Good people to have around, so I didn’t want to fight them, yet. I could just take over command of them when I made myself the absolute ruler of all of Russia, The Tsar of Iron.

Before then, I was looking forward to a few tussles. Especially the bear guy. Throwing down with a bear guy? What could be more Russian than that? Count me in.

First though, minions.

“I trust we are done with the shooting of guns at your new boss my Brothers Karamazov?”

The one who had been holding the pepper spray froze in place in the act of reaching out to pick it back after I set the van back down on the ground.

He looked around nervously “Ah… We are Koscheis, and only two of us are brothers…”

I grinned under my mask. This guy was looking better and better. Even volunteering information. So helpful. “I know who are Sasha. I know who all of you are.”

Pointing at each of them in turn, I named the others from the files I was reading off the projection against the inside of the lens in my mask. “Pavel, Fyodor, and… Chekhov… Really?”

The chubby guy with the shaved head shrugged. “My mother loved Star Trek, but my father insisted on spelling it like the playwright so it looked better in school. But I did appreciate the literary reference if that helps keep us alive?”

Heh. “Your family dabbled in mysticism, even claiming to be the descendants of Koshchei the Deathless. But now you have fallen on hard times, and you four are the only young able bodied men left in your family. I could use experienced men who lack the backing to try to seize power from me.”

Two of them looked at Sasha of the pepper spray, while Chekhov seemed more intent on checking out my armor.

Or me. I don’t swing that way, but it's nice to be appreciated.

The oldest of the four men, Sasha slowly straightened up until he got one foot under him. “The last time our family dealt with the supernatural, it didn’t go well.”

I nodded. “New York, an Avatar of Baba Yaga.” I held up my hand palm out. “Don’t worry about it, I don’t need you to do magic, I just want people who know it when they see it.”

It would be useful to have someone watching my back so that when someone starts making weird hand gestures at me while talking about hoary hosts, they know to just shoot them before they finish instead of standing around wondering what the guy is going on about.

Lowering my hand, I offered it to him as I pressed him to make a decision. “So work for me as my first and best. Or continue to squander your skills as petty thieves and lackeys.”

He hesitated. “Who is it we would be working for?”

I tapped the Silver wolf’s head I had set into my belt buckle. “Fenris. Fenris Von Doom. The Iron Tsar.”

Chekhov gave me a questioning look as if asking me if I was serious. For real, from you, Mr. Navigator?

I turned my head to him, narrowing my eyes through the slits in the mask. “Branding Mr. Chekhov. As well as a warning… and a promise.”

Why not take a cue from another would be dictator who thankfully seems not to exist in this world?

“We will be making Russian Great Again.”