Over the next week, Noah threw himself into weapons modification with the obsessive focus of someone whose life literally depended on maximizing his technological advantages.
The moment he'd begun working with Weasel's gun parts, his Ultimate Marksman abilities had activated in ways he hadn't expected. Technical specifications flooded his consciousness—metallurgy data, ballistics calculations, engineering tolerances that would have required years of specialized education to understand.
This isn't just about shooting, Noah realized as he disassembled his third pistol design. It's about understanding every component of the weapon system, from manufacturing to terminal ballistics.
His first modification attempt had produced a handgun with double the stopping power of a standard pistol but without the increased recoil that typically accompanied enhanced firepower. Unlike Frank's modified Browning—which hit like a cannon but required superhuman strength to control—Noah's design distributed the kinetic forces through advanced barrel geometry and recoil compensation systems.
This is genuinely revolutionary engineering, Noah thought, examining his work. I could patent this technology and make millions in the civilian market.
But he wasn't satisfied with raw power. After studying the tactical requirements of his situation—multiple hostile organizations, superior numbers, need for rapid engagement—Noah began designing for different parameters entirely.
Rate of fire over individual shot power. Controllability over intimidation factor. Precision over raw destruction.
Over several iterations, Noah developed twin pistols that could fire at submachine gun rates while maintaining pistol accuracy. The weapons incorporated magazine ejection and reload systems built into specially designed shoulder holsters, allowing for seamless ammunition changes without interrupting his firing rhythm.
The engineering was so advanced it bordered on science fiction, but Noah's supernatural understanding made it feel intuitive rather than impossible.
Five days after beginning his weapons project, Noah drove to an abandoned industrial site outside the city for field testing. He needed somewhere isolated enough to test his modifications without attracting police attention or curious observers.
The empty lot stretched for several acres, surrounded by the skeletal remains of a demolished factory. Perfect for his purposes.
Noah checked his perimeter one final time, then activated the concealed mechanisms in his jacket. The modified pistols slid into his hands with mechanical precision, delivered by spring-loaded systems that responded to specific arm movements.
Time to see what Ultimate Marksman can really do with proper equipment.
His pupils dilated as bullet time engaged, flooding his system with combat-ready adrenaline. The world shifted into crystalline slow motion as his enhanced perception constructed a three-dimensional tactical analysis of his surroundings.
Target acquisition: 360-degree engagement pattern. Threat assessment: simulated multiple hostiles. Ammunition management: sustained fire with tactical reloads.
Noah began firing, his body rotating in smooth arcs as the pistols discharged with the rapid precision of mechanical perfection. The sound was unlike anything a normal handgun produced—more like dual submachine guns synchronized to a lethal rhythm.
Each shot was calculated, each movement flowing into the next with mathematical precision. The magazine ejection and reload systems functioned flawlessly, delivering fresh ammunition without interrupting his firing pattern.
When the demonstration concluded, Noah had fired nearly two hundred rounds in less than thirty seconds, his movements so fluid they resembled a deadly form of performance art.
That, Noah thought as he exited bullet time, is going to give Fisk's people some serious problems.
He was walking back to his motorcycle when movement in a nearby construction site caught his attention. Two figures stood among the concrete and steel framework—a large man and what appeared to be a young girl, maybe ten or eleven years old.
Father and daughter, Noah assumed, though something about their positioning seemed off. They were standing too far apart, too formally, like actors hitting their marks rather than family having a casual conversation.
Then the man raised a pistol and aimed it directly at the child.
What the—
Noah's bullet time activated instantly, his enhanced perception slowing the scene to manageable speed. The man's finger was already squeezing the trigger, the firing pin beginning its deadly journey toward the primer.
One of Noah's pistols materialized in his hand as he calculated angle, distance, and trajectory in the span of microseconds.
BANG!
Noah's bullet curved through the air in a perfect arc, threading between construction obstacles to intercept the other projectile at precisely the right moment.
PING!
The collision occurred directly between the man and child, both bullets deforming and falling to the concrete with the distinctive sound of metal striking stone.
The little girl—who'd been standing with her eyes closed, apparently resigned to her fate—slowly opened them to find herself unharmed. Her father stood frozen, staring at the ground where two bullets lay fused together at a ninety-degree angle.
One bullet pierced completely through the other, Noah noted from his concealed position. Even with bullet time, that was some precision shooting.
"Big Daddy?" the girl asked, her voice carrying the kind of trust that suggested this wasn't the first time her father had pointed a weapon at her. "What happened?"
The man—"Big Daddy," apparently—continued staring at the impossible ballistic evidence on the ground. Noah could see him trying to process how someone had managed to shoot his bullet out of the air when there were no clear lines of sight from any nearby position.
That's Hit-Girl and Big Daddy, Noah realized, recognizing the scenario from another corner of the superhero movie universe. He's training her to be bulletproof through controlled exposure to gunfire. Extremely dangerous, arguably abusive, but effective conditioning for someone who's going to face armed opponents.
And I just interfered with their training regimen.
Noah slipped away before either of them could spot him, but the encounter left him thinking about the broader implications of his situation. If Hit-Girl and Big Daddy were operating in New York, then the city's vigilante population was more extensive than he'd realized.
More players on the board, Noah thought as he drove back toward the city. Some might be allies, some definitely enemies, and some—like an eleven-year-old assassin and her obsessively protective father—are probably best avoided entirely.
At least my new weapons work perfectly.