The elevator reached the top floor with a soft ding that sounded like a death knell in the enclosed space.
"Can I go now?" Mond asked with the hopeful tone of someone asking if their root canal was finished.
Noah glanced at his talent system interface and shook his head. "Not yet."
Still doesn't qualify, Noah thought, studying Mond like a specimen that wasn't quite meeting laboratory standards. There's got to be a pattern here. Some kind of threshold or requirement I'm missing.
Mond's shoulders sagged with the weight of cosmic injustice. His fists clenched reflexively, then immediately unclenched as he remembered that his captor had recently demonstrated an alarming immunity to bullets.
"What else do you need?" Mond asked, his smile looking like it had been assembled from broken glass and suppressed homicidal thoughts.
"Actually," Noah said, extending the briefcase toward him, "I'm giving this back."
Mond stared at the case like it might explode. "What?"
"Business transaction," Noah explained, pulling out the nickel he'd given Mond earlier. "I'm buying it from you again."
This is either genius or insanity, Noah thought as Mond reluctantly accepted the exchange. But if I'm right about how this system works...
He checked his interface again. Still no change in Mond's status.
"Actually, on second thought," Noah said, retrieving the case and handing over a dollar bill this time. "Let's make it an even trade."
[TARGET QUALIFICATION: UPDATING...]
Progress, Noah noted with satisfaction. It's not just about what crimes they've committed in the past. It's about active participation in criminal activity.
Over the next few minutes, Noah conducted what could generously be called a controlled experiment in criminal enhancement. Each transaction—briefcase for money, money for briefcase—represented another illegal drug deal, another count of trafficking, another step deeper into serious felony territory.
By the sixth exchange, Mond looked like someone who'd been forced to play the world's most expensive game of hot potato.
"This is insane," Mond muttered, clutching the briefcase with sweaty palms. "You're making me buy and sell the same drugs over and over again."
"I prefer to think of it as rapid career advancement," Noah replied, checking his system one more time.
[TARGET MEETS CRITERIA]
Bingo.
"Thanks for your cooperation," Noah said, raising his pistol.
"Wait, what are you—"
BANG!
[ELIMINATE DANGEROUS CRIMINALS: 2/15]
Noah smiled with the satisfaction of someone who'd just solved a particularly challenging puzzle. The system wasn't measuring static criminal history—it was tracking active criminal behavior. Each drug transaction had added to Mond's "sin score" until he crossed whatever invisible threshold separated regular criminals from genuinely dangerous ones.
It's like a video game, Noah realized. You level up your targets by making them commit more crimes. Probably not the most ethical approach to vigilantism, but definitely efficient.
At one in the morning, Noah returned to Sister Margaret's wearing a fresh set of clothes and carrying the briefcase full of evidence from his educational evening with the Russian mob.
The bar was in full swing despite the late hour, because apparently mercenaries were nocturnal creatures who considered violence a form of evening entertainment. Two large men were engaged in what looked like a professional disagreement conducted entirely through facial reconstruction, while a crowd of armed spectators placed bets on the outcome.
One of the fighters hit the floor with a wet thud that suggested several important bones had changed positions.
Weasel emerged from the crowd, checked the fallen man's pulse, and announced, "Still breathing!"
The crowd groaned in disappointment, apparently having wagered on a more permanent resolution to the conflict.
These people, Noah thought, have a very different relationship with mortality than most folks.
He made his way to the bar, set the briefcase on the counter, and slid his completed black card across to Weasel.
"Contract fulfilled," Noah said simply.
Weasel looked up from cleaning a glass that probably hadn't been truly clean since the Clinton administration. "Got proof?"
Noah produced the phone he'd liberated from the street muggers earlier, showing Weasel the photos he'd taken in the elevator.
"Thorough," Weasel approved. "I'll verify this with our contacts and get your payment processed. Standard fees apply—I take ten percent as a handling charge, plus you owe me for the deposit I fronted you."
"Can I get paid in cash?" Noah asked. "I'm not exactly set up with traditional banking at the moment."
"Cash costs extra, but yeah, we can do cash." Weasel pocketed the black card. "You'll need somewhere to keep it, though. Speaking of which, you mentioned needing a place to stay?"
"Something off the books," Noah confirmed. "I'm trying to maintain a low profile until I get my documentation sorted out."
Weasel nodded like this was a perfectly normal request from someone who'd just completed his first professional assassination.
"I've got a safe house sitting empty," he said. "Nothing fancy, but it's secure and invisible to anyone who might be looking. Rent comes out of your earnings."
"Perfect." Noah pulled out the cash he'd accumulated from his various entrepreneurial activities. "Let me buy you a drink to celebrate."
Weasel looked at the money, then at the two gold teeth Noah had placed on the bar, and decided not to ask about their provenance.
"What's in the case?" Weasel asked instead, nodding at the briefcase.
Noah's face lit up with the enthusiasm of someone who'd just discovered a new hobby.
"This," he said, "is what I like to call a criminal development kit."
"A what now?"
"Training equipment for aspiring villains," Noah explained, patting the case affectionately. "Through careful application of its contents, you can rapidly increase someone's criminal credentials. Turn a small-time crook into a serious felon in just a few minutes."
He looked at Weasel with the hopeful expression of a salesman who'd just found a potential customer.
"Interested in trying it out? I guarantee results."
Weasel took a step back from the bar, his survival instincts apparently functioning better than his business sense.
"I'm good," he said quickly. "Very good. Completely satisfied with my current level of criminality, thanks."
Noah shrugged. "Your loss. But if you know anyone looking to upgrade their villain status, I'm happy to provide consulting services."
As he settled in at the bar with his drink, Noah reflected on his first successful contract. He'd learned valuable information about how his power system worked, secured a steady income source, and established himself as a professional problem-solver in New York's underground economy.
Not bad for someone who was being tortured in a government facility three days ago, he thought. Though I should probably work on my sales pitch for the criminal enhancement services. Maybe something catchier than 'villain training kit.'
Outside, somewhere in the city, Wade was probably tracking down leads on Francis's operation. Tony Stark was building his first suit of armor in a cave on the other side of the world. And Noah was sitting in a mercenary bar, planning his next assassination while trying to figure out the most efficient way to corrupt people's souls for supernatural achievement points.
_________________________________________________________________________
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