(Attendance please…)
….
The explosion was… contained. That would be the best word for it in the present situation, at least as far as what Natasha was witnessing, and even Prince T'Challa, who was currently lying on top of his father, bracing for an impact that never came.
At the epicenter of where the blast should have been stood Gojo, the modified bullet-bomb trapped between his hands. And it did explode. But it wasn't the earth-shattering, building-collapsing boom that the perpetrator had likely intended.
Not even sound was able to escape from between Gojo's palms when it went off. Nothing came out, no shrapnel, no fire, not even the shockwave.
The heat, the kinetic energy, the sheer force of the chemical reaction, all of it was suppressed, crushed by the limitless until there was nothing left between Gojo's palms except a little bit of residue.
When the reaction ended, Gojo opened his hands. There was nothing there except a thin wisp of smoke that lingered due to the explosion.
Gojo stood there looking at his palm with a face that just said, Hmm, it was nothing, rather than acknowledging he had just saved so many people.
"Hehehe…" Gojo muttered, his voice cutting through the loud screaming of people scrambling towards the exits even now.
"Man, that was something. This is the first time I did something like this. Would you believe that? People are getting really creative in fitting a bomb anywhere nowadays, even in a bullet. Though I think this was already a thing before."
He shook his hands casually to blow off the little bit of smoke clinging to his skin.
On the floor, T'Challa was still covering his father, his body tensed for an impact that never really arrived, or to be exact, never arrived from where he had feared.
He slowly lifted his head, his eyes widening. He looked at Gojo, who had just casually nullified the threat, and then looked down at his father beneath him.
King T'Chaka was blinking, looking up at his son hovering over him. He didn't even know what had happened in that instant; one second he was talking at the podium, and the next second he was on the floor.
T'Chaka looked a little dazed from the tackle his son gave him, but nonetheless, he was very much alive.
"Baba?!" T'Challa breathed out, his voice somewhat trembling just for a second, checking for injuries.
"I'm… fine, my son," T'Chaka said, his voice steadying. He then looked around at the chaos of everyone just looking out for themselves and running towards the exits. "I think… we are fine."
Natasha was the first one to move from her spot after witnessing this. She didn't waste time marveling at what Gojo had done or acting surprised again, because she had seen a lot of things till now, and honestly, Gojo stopping a bomb between his palms was numbered very low on the list of things that would surprise her at this point.
She immediately came towards T'Challa and his father, helping the King get up. "We have to move from the glass wall," she ordered, her voice cutting through the panic. "There could be another shot. Fast."
T'Challa immediately nodded, shifting back into a protector's mindset. "Correct, Ms. Romanoff."
He lifted himself up and then helped his father move to the side, away from the exposed glass wall, though not exactly running to the exit with the chaotic stampede that was happening there.
Gojo didn't seem to care about the panic as he casually walked to their side. He looked at T'Challa and then his father. "You guys good?!"
T'Challa nodded, looking at the white-haired young man with a new level of respect. "Yes, we are. Thanks to you. You saved us."
"You saved me and my son," T'Chaka added, dusting off his suit but looking at Gojo with intense gratitude. "Thank you. I won't forget this debt."
Gojo just waved his hand dismissively. "No problem. It was nothing. And your son saved you, not me. I just took care of the bullet bomb. If he hadn't tackled you, the bullet would've hit you before it even went boom."
T'Challa, looking very grateful and seeing firsthand how wrong others, aka the media and news, were about this guy, was witnessing the reality.
Gojo was powerful, sure, but strangely humble about saving lives. Or maybe just indifferent. It was hard to tell.
"Good, Satoru. Good quick thinking," Natasha said, her eyes scanning the perimeter. She then turned to the Prince. "T'Challa, though… how did you know that bullet was coming?"
She didn't know how he did it. Was it one of their advanced techs, or vision tech, or something else entirely?
"I did not, Ms. Romanoff," T'Challa admitted, his voice serious. "I had looked outside and there was a commercial van with security checking it… seeing their reaction, I thought something was off. So I just jumped in then without thinking too much… I didn't know about the bullet at all. But…"
It was a bit of a stretch on his part regarding the commercial van, a gut feeling more than hard evidence, but if he hadn't acted on that instinct, his father would have been shot.
And not to mention, after being shot, the bullet was designed to explode in the hall, killing most if not all the people near the podium.
"If you hadn't jumped, the bullet would have been shot to…" Natasha started, but didn't complete the sentence. The implication hung in the air heavy enough.
"We can check the details or whatever later," Natasha said, snapping back to the mission. "First, we have to get out of here. The shooter might still be active."
The chaos in the main hall was still unfolding. It was a mix of screaming delegates and security personnel rushing around like headless chickens, frantically clearing out the building.
It was, honestly, a bit embarrassing. A gathering of the world's leaders and representatives, and at the first sign of danger, they abandoned all decorum, caring only for themselves and rushing outside like barbarians.
Natasha guided King T'Chaka and T'Challa towards the emergency exit, while Gojo walked behind them, hands in his pockets, looking bored.
After getting out of the hall, they were rushed to a secured, bulletproof room, the kind of place people usually arrived in before bombs went off, not after.
Security guards were already at the door, securing the perimeter.
Inside, the adrenaline began to wear off, replaced by a heavy, suffocating tension. King T'Chaka sat down on a chair, breathing heavily, the physical toll of the tackle catching up to his age.
T'Challa knelt beside him. "Are you fine, Baba… did you get any injuries?"
"I'm fine, son," T'Chaka assured him, placing a hand on T'Challa's. "Sit. You are making me somewhat dizzy being like that."
T'Chaka then looked at Natasha and asked, "Do we have something? What it was, or who did it?"
Natasha shook her head. "We don't at the moment. But security is checking the location and from where the shot was possibly fired. Then they would check the building and security feeds. I assure you, we will know soon enough who did this."
T'Challa didn't sit. He turned his eyes to Natasha, his gaze hard. "This wasn't an accident. Someone targeted the summit… and targeted my father."
"Well, duh," Gojo said, leaning against the wall casually. "It is obviously a targeted hit. And not to mention, it came from very, very far away."
He pointed a finger in the air, explaining his deduction. "It took quite a few sweet seconds after you tackled your father to the ground for the bullet to arrive. So it was already shot way before you tackled him… meaning the distance was very far. Security will take way more time and have to expand the range to find the shooter's nest. So probably we won't know for the time being who did this. They, or whoever it was, would have already cleared out from where they were and moved out by now."
T'Chaka looked at the young man, impressed by the quick analysis, and even thinking so clearly. "What about the others… are they safe?"
Natasha nodded. "They have been moved to secured rooms much like this one for the time being, until we are sure it is safe to go outside the building. The shooter, even though they ir that someone likely moved… there is a chance they could still be actively waiting."
….
A/N: hmmm… so how was it? I think this has become my habit of writing this rather than wanting to know how was the chapter.
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