A craftsman's ability to create was, in the end, still a form of mutant power — one not strictly tied to his intelligence. That also meant that as he aged and his physical strength declined, his forging skill would inevitably weaken as well.
Fortunately, for now, it was still enough.
Standing in his workshop, the craftsman looked around, excitement glimmering in his eyes. He turned his gaze toward a massive holographic screen displaying the blueprints and technical specifications of the power armor.
His fingers moved deftly over the virtual interface. What Ethan had discussed with him earlier was merely the exterior and rough layout; now he had to go deeper, planning out every last detail.
As his hands danced, the image on the screen shifted rapidly, and the shape of the power armor gradually took form.
"Begin forging simulation," he said, cracking his neck before gesturing toward the screen.
He started from the skeleton, selecting a high-strength alloy as the base material. Then he integrated a set of precision actuators and joint structures to ensure both flexibility and stability in the armor's movements.
Once the frame was complete, the craftsman began installing sensors and perception units, carefully placing each one to ensure the armor could accurately read and respond to its environment.
For the energy system, he opted for a low-cost energy storage unit instead of a fusion core, cleverly embedding it into the armor's power pack.
The armor plating was another crucial component. He selected thick, durable materials, cutting them into various shapes and fixing them onto the skeleton using precision connectors.
Meanwhile, in a nearby isolation room, Speedball was idly playing crossword puzzles, a few comic books stacked beside him. Having been unable to leave for decades, this was how he usually passed the time.
Ethan watched the process from start to finish, his eyes filled with a mix of anticipation and excitement.
"How long until the first batch is ready for delivery?" he asked.
The craftsman rubbed his chin thoughtfully before replying, "I'll do everything I can to speed things up, but each suit has to go through strict testing and calibration. I can't risk safety or performance."
He paused, calculating in his mind. "If everything goes smoothly, about a week. But I can make a prototype for you right now."
Saying that, he picked up a data pad from the workbench and headed into the next room.
Hours passed as the group waited in the workshop. From the adjoining room came the rhythmic clanging of metal — at first chaotic, then gradually falling into a steady, almost musical rhythm. It was like listening to a symphony of craftsmanship.
While the craftsman worked, Ethan's thoughts wandered — to how he might swiftly eliminate the remaining warlords scattered across the wasteland.
Ironically, Red Skull, the supposed ruler of the wastes, posed the least threat. In the comics, his physical capabilities were no more than those of a well-trained human.
At times, however, he replaced his body through cloning and consciousness transfer — each new host body perfectly matched to his old nemesis, Steve Rogers.
But even that didn't matter. Just another enhanced human. And ever since the Day of the Fallen Heroes, he'd spent most of his time holed up in the White House, wearing Captain America's old uniform and ranting like a lunatic. His mind was long gone.
Then there was Banner — the old green monster. From what Ethan had gathered, only one personality remained in that body, and judging from his emotional instability and erratic intellect, it was probably the insane Banner.
"Hulk" himself was never that twisted. Most of the time, the simple-minded Hulk just wanted to smash the people he hated — how was that his fault?
Of course, by "Hulk," Ethan meant the most familiar version — not the gray-skinned ones from Sakaar's gladiator pits.
As for the thousands of green-skinned Banner offspring roaming the wasteland? Hardly an issue. Conventional firepower could wipe them out easily.
The real problem — the most dangerous and intact supervillain across the entire wasteland — was Doctor Doom. Decades later, he still commanded a vast army of Doom-bots.
Just as Ethan was lost in thought, he heard the craftsman calling him. The man emerged from the next room, pushing a metal cart loaded with tools and parts. His forehead glistened with sweat — clear proof of the effort he'd just put in.
"All done! Let's see if this beauty meets your expectations!"
"Well then, let's find out," Ethan replied with a smile. He grasped the edge of the drape covering the cart and lifted it in one smooth motion.
Beneath it stood a brand-new prototype of the Thunder Power Armor.
Its design closely matched the previously discussed model — sleek and golden, exuding both strength and elegance. Every joint and component had been crafted with care, blending technology and craftsmanship into a seamless whole.
Ethan leaned in, examining it from head to toe — the helmet, the power pack on the back, the articulated joints of the arms and legs.
"This is incredible," he said sincerely.
"Glad to hear that," the craftsman replied with a relieved smile, wiping the sweat from his brow.
It had been a long time since he'd made anything like this. The shelter didn't require heavy weaponry; their usual opponents were little more than bandits and small-time raiders.
Ethan nodded to Hawkeye, signaling him to try it on. With the craftsman's help, Clint stepped forward and began donning the armor, adjusting it until it fit perfectly.
To keep production costs down, the armor lacked an automatic donning system — it required assistance to enter the frame and secure the plates manually.
"How does it feel, Clint?" Ethan asked.
Hawkeye flexed his arms and legs, testing the motion. He smiled, raising his arm and curling his fingers experimentally, testing the suit's responsiveness.
"Not bad at all," Clint said, his voice tinged with excitement. "Feels strange at first, but the strength and agility… yeah, that's something else."
After a series of tests, the Thunder Power Armor proved capable of lifting over ten tons and achieving running speeds near one hundred kilometers per hour.
Its high-strength alloy shell could withstand direct gunfire and moderate explosions — at worst, Hawkeye's explosive arrows would only scratch the paint.
The weapons systems weren't installed yet, but compared to the armor itself, that was a trivial matter.
Satisfied, Ethan nodded. "Let the craftsman rest for a bit, then have him start on the remaining suits. In the meantime, let's go pay a visit to your two old friends."
He smiled faintly.
"They've each got something… very interesting in their hands."
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