Nolan stood patiently in the foundry's oppressive heat, listening as Raditus outlined its various proposals with mechanical enthusiasm.
The servo-skull's suggestions were ambitious and comprehensive. First came improvements to Hydra's brainwashing technology, refining the mental conditioning protocols to incorporate direct combat knowledge implantation. Muscle memory, tactical doctrine, weapon proficiency, all downloaded directly into enhanced neural tissue like software updates.
Second, Raditus proposed designing modular mechanical armor: low-cost but robust, prioritizing durability and ease of manufacture over sophisticated features. Simple plates that could be stamped from standard materials, servo-assists that used proven Imperial designs rather than experimental systems.
"The beauty of modular construction," Raditus explained, its mechanical voice animated with technical passion, "is rapid scalability. With minimal time investment and resource consumption, we could produce batches of barely adequate Astra Militarum troops. Not exceptional, perhaps, but functional. Expendable in the right tactical contexts."
Nolan listened without showing much surprise or particular enthusiasm. The Servo-Skull's obsession with mass-producing soldiers wasn't new. Raditus had been advocating for explosive recruitment and rapid deployment strategies since their first conversations about military doctrine.
But this time, Nolan didn't immediately dismiss the idea.
He considered the proposal seriously, weighing pros and cons, calculating resource requirements and strategic value. Finally, he spoke.
"If you can produce actual working samples of this equipment, physical prototypes that demonstrate functionality rather than theoretical schematics, then we'll discuss your suggestion at a subsequent command meeting." Nolan's tone was measured, neither encouraging nor discouraging. "Try to gain support from others. David, Connors, even Bucky. If they see merit in your designs, I'll authorize production."
The servo-skull's optical sensors brightened considerably. That was as close to approval as Raditus would get at this stage.
Afterward, Nolan spent additional time discussing carapace armor styling with the Tech-Priest. Aesthetic considerations mattered more than people assumed. Armor that looked impressive affected enemy morale and reinforced the wearer's psychological confidence.
Finally satisfied with the direction of Raditus's work, Nolan turned and left the foundry workshop. The temperature dropped noticeably as he ascended back toward the upper levels, cool air feeling almost shocking after the furnace heat below.
He returned directly to his private lounge, the small room that had become his refuge during contemplative moments. Nolan sat on the metal bed, its surface cold against his legs through his clothing, and thought for several long minutes.
Then he activated the simulator.
The interface materialized in his consciousness with familiar ease. He navigated to the designated salvage function, a feature he hadn't utilized in considerable time. The mechanics were straightforward: specify an item category, invest resource time, hope probability favored desired outcomes.
He designated the salvage target: Power Fist Gloves.
Then he increased the invested resource time to one thousand hours. Substantial investment should theoretically improve results, though randomness always played its role.
[Designated salvaged item: Power Fist Gloves]
[Basic salvage consumption: one hundred hours]
[Increase salvage probability?]
[One thousand additional hours added]
[Salvage probability increasing...]
Nolan selected ordinary salvage, running the process ten consecutive times to maximize chances. Then he took a deep breath, feeling tension in his shoulders he hadn't consciously acknowledged.
"I haven't needed designated salvage in quite some time," he muttered to the empty room. "Hopefully I've accumulated some luck during the interval."
The system began its work, calculations running beyond his perception.
Later, in the brightly lit base hall, Nolan reclined beside the metal round table with elbows propped on its surface. His hands were crossed, fingers interlaced, as he listened to Bucky across from him.
The former Winter Soldier was clearly agitated.
"Captain, the guys you recruited are a bunch of complete bastards!"
Bucky's frustration was obvious, almost tipping into anger. Deep lines creased his forehead as he went on,
"Every one of them has been enhanced with Super Soldier Serum, so their memory and reaction speed are way better than before. But they still refuse to learn anything from my combat experience or follow my tactical methods!"
Bucky's mechanical arm, the one engraved with Adeptus Mechanicus emblems in intricate patterns, rested on the metal table's surface. His grip tightened unconsciously around the silver water glass he'd been holding, crushing it into a ball of crumpled scrap metal with casual, frustrated strength.
"They actually mocked my instruction!" Bucky continued, his voice rising slightly. "Called my techniques 'sissy methods' to my face! Said no real men would bother learning such cowardly tactics! Can you believe that?"
Nolan, who'd been holding back a smile throughout this entire complaint session, finally allowed a slight grin to cross his face. He shook his head gently, almost fondly.
"Bucky, haven't you encountered similar attitudes during your past military career?" Nolan's tone was patient, understanding, but also slightly amused. He blinked slowly, studying his friend's frustrated expression. "Just follow your honest instincts. There's no need to overthink the situation or worry excessively about their approval."
He gestured casually with one hand.
"Haven't you noticed those same guys obviously respect Old John far more than they respect you? That's entirely because the only activities Old John has engaged in these past days, besides eating and sleeping, are systematically beating people unconscious in hand-to-hand combat training."
Nolan's smile widened slightly.
"For a group of fundamentally violent men who solve most problems with direct action, there are only two reliable methods for gaining their genuine respect. Either you make them absolutely terrified of you, instilling fear so deep they dare not resist from the bottom of their hearts. Or you earn their admiration on the battlefield through demonstrated competence and shared bloodshed, making them completely respect your capabilities."
Bucky's expression shifted as Nolan spoke. Something in his eyes changed, hardening with renewed determination. The words seemed to awaken dormant instincts, military training and Winter Soldier conditioning both contributing to sudden clarity.
"Captain," Bucky said, standing abruptly with newfound purpose evident in every line of his body, "I think I understand exactly what needs to be done now."
He nodded heavily toward Nolan, the gesture carrying finality and commitment.
Then Bucky, his face settling into a considerably grimmer expression than before, shook out his mechanical arm. Servo-motors whirred softly as he tested the limb's responsiveness. He turned and walked with deliberate strides toward the passage leading to the second underground level.
Nolan watched him go, still smiling. He observed Bucky's tall figure, noting the slight dignity in his bearing despite the frustrated energy radiating from him.
A soft sigh escaped Nolan's lips.
"Facing four hundred forty-four Super Soldier Serum-enhanced fighters simultaneously, Bucky's probability of victory approaches zero," he muttered to himself, almost conversationally. "Although, maybe not. If Bucky chooses to admit defeat and request reinforcements, Raditus would definitely provide him with combat servitor support. That Tech-Priest loves any excuse to field-test new equipment."
At that moment, hasty footsteps suddenly echoed from the metal passage connecting to the base hall.
David emerged at speed, its tall frame moving faster than usual, the slight hunch in its metal spine more pronounced. The Man of Iron's optical sensors were blazing bright blue, suggesting elevated processing activity.
It walked directly toward Nolan's position without preamble or pleasantries.
Nolan, who'd been relaxing against the metal round table, immediately straightened. He took a deep breath, reading urgency in David's body language. Something had happened.
He stood from the metal seat, fixing his gaze on David's sensor array.
"David, what's wrong? Report."
"My Lord, Madame Gao's criminal organization has suffered major setbacks." David's mechanical voice carried clinical detachment that somehow made the news worse. "Because all elite gang members were transferred to the base for enhancement procedures, the Hand organization seized the opportunity to launch coordinated sabotage and counterattacks against all your properties simultaneously."
Blue light flashed rapidly in David's optical sensors as it continued.
"Originally, Madame Gao planned to handle the situation independently using remaining forces. However, this assault appears to be the Hand's full commitment. They're attempting to completely destroy Madame Gao's criminal empire through this surprise offensive, eliminating your presence in the underworld power structure."
David paused, its tone shifting slightly.
"I personally assess that to minimize unnecessary profit losses and prevent further territorial erosion, we should directly eliminate the Hand as an active threat. They've become a time bomb that requires permanent defusal."
Nolan's expression gradually transformed as David spoke. The casual warmth drained from his face, replaced by something cold and calculating. His eyes narrowed to dangerous slits.
A sneer crossed his lips, devoid of humor or warmth.
"I originally intended to preserve the Hand organization intact, allowing Madame Gao to use them as training opponents for developing her subordinates' combat capabilities," Nolan said, his voice dropping to something quiet and lethal. "Since they're foolish enough to invite their own destruction so enthusiastically, I'll simply oblige them. Kill them all. Leave absolutely no survivors."
The next moment, Nolan twisted his neck sharply left, then right. Vertebrae popped audibly. He began issuing orders with rapid precision.
"David, notify all gang dogs immediately. It's time for them to leave their cages and hunt."
David's metal head dipped in acknowledgment. One metal hand waved sharply, triggering pre-programmed response protocols.
Automatic servo robots that had been on standby throughout the base hall instantly divided into multiple specialized teams with coordinated efficiency.
One team headed directly to the underground foundry, tasked with extracting weapons and full equipment loads for four hundred forty-four enhanced fighters.
Another team rushed toward the second underground level training areas to initiate emergency assembly protocols for all gang dogs.
Simultaneously, additional servo robots moved to Nolan's position, carrying components of his Terminator armor. They would dress him for war while he walked, maximizing time efficiency.
Nolan, his face set in stern lines that promised violence, strode toward the metal platform where his Terminator armor stood in dormant mode. The massive suit waited like a sleeping giant, ready to wake.
David turned and walked toward the equipment room at matched pace. It would prepare additional weapons and tactical gear for Nolan's deployment: ammunition reserves, backup power cells, medical supplies, communications equipment.
At the same moment, at the edge of the training ground on the second underground level, Bucky stood before the assembled gang dogs. He'd been preparing to have his "friendly exchange" about proper respect and combat instruction methodology.
An automatic servo robot suddenly rolled up to him at high speed, its mechanical tentacles waving for attention.
Bucky received the notification through his neural interface, information flooding his consciousness in compressed data packets.
He immediately pivoted toward the training gang dogs, his voice cracking like a whip across the space.
"Everyone! Stop training immediately! Emergency assembly! Prepare for combat deployment!"
The response was instantaneous and impressive.
Tall gang dogs abandoned whatever activities they'd been engaged in without hesitation or complaint. They ran toward Bucky's position, forming organized ranks in remarkably short time. The emergency assembly took perhaps ninety seconds total, showing the discipline that had been drilled into them despite their earlier resistance to instruction.
The next moment, automatic servo robots carrying laser weapons and full carapace armor loads rushed onto the second underground level like a mechanical tsunami. They moved with single-minded purpose, distributing equipment with practiced efficiency.
Gang dogs began donning armor plates, securing straps and checking seals. Hands grasped laser rifles, fingers familiarizing themselves with controls one final time. Faces showed mounting excitement, anticipation mixed with professional focus.
The local Astra Militarum belonging to Nolan was preparing to deploy.
The super soldier gang dogs' first real battle was imminent.
The Hand had made a fatal mistake.
Now they would learn the price.