The conversation with Dr. Connors concluded with the scientist's enthusiasm burning bright despite the late hour and the cold gnawing at exposed skin.
"Astartes biological modification..." Connors repeated the words slowly, savoring them like fine wine. His eyes, tired moments before, now gleamed with intellectual hunger. "The surgical procedures alone represent centuries of accumulated medical knowledge. And the gene-seed technology? That's revolutionary. Transformative." He looked at Nolan with something approaching reverence. "I'll start with the remains. Dissection, tissue analysis, genetic mapping. Build understanding from the foundation up."
Nolan nodded, satisfied with the scientist's commitment. Before he could respond, David's mechanical voice cut through the conversation.
"Doctor Connors, the biological laboratory is among the most complete facilities in the new base." The Man of Iron's skull tilted, blue light flickering in his eye sockets. "It requires only minor decoration and equipment calibration before you can begin preliminary work. I can have it ready within forty-eight hours."
Connors blinked, surprise evident. "That quickly? I'd expected weeks of setup time..."
"I plan ahead." David's tone suggested this should have been obvious. "Your requirements were predictable. The infrastructure has been waiting for you."
The two fell into immediate technical discussion, their voices overlapping as they debated laboratory specifications, equipment needs, safety protocols. Connors gesticulated with increasing animation, his earlier penguin-like waddle forgotten as intellectual excitement overcame physical discomfort.
Nolan let them talk, his attention drifting elsewhere.
His gaze traveled across the open area, past stacks of supply crates and equipment containers, to where the Gang Dog squads had gathered in loose clusters. They laughed with the particular abandon of soldiers who'd survived danger and earned celebration. Bottles passed from hand to hand. Someone had started singing, badly but with enthusiasm. Others joined in, creating a discordant but genuine chorus.
These men had followed him from the start. Had fought with him. Had relocated to the literal end of the world without complaint or hesitation. Their loyalty was proven, their courage evident.
And Nolan had decided they deserved better than basic equipment and hope.
The elite stormtrooper initiative had been forming in his mind for weeks, crystallizing into concrete plans during the voyage south. The Gang Dogs, all of them, would undergo transformation into something more. Not Astartes, that remained impossible for now, but something approaching their capabilities.
Step one was equipment. The carapace armor they currently used, reliable but ultimately limited, would be replaced. But with what? Modular auxiliary power armor, similar in concept to Iron Man's systems, seemed most practical. Exoskeleton enhancement without full enclosure. Strength amplification, reaction time improvement, integrated weapons systems.
The thought made Nolan's tactical mind race ahead. If Raditus's foundry achieved projected production rates, if resources held out, if technical challenges proved surmountable...
Why stop at auxiliary systems?
Full mortal power armor. Not Astartes-grade, but closer. Sealed environmental systems. Comprehensive protection. Enough strength enhancement to turn an ordinary human into something that could at least survive on a battlefield where Space Marines operated.
The idea was radical, perhaps excessive. But if he couldn't acquire actual Astartes through the simulator, if gene-seed technology remained out of reach...
Low-end versions, small Astartes, budget Space Marines.
The terminology didn't matter. What mattered was capability. Enhanced Gang Dogs in proper power armor could handle small to medium-scale conflicts. Could defend the base. Could operate independently on missions requiring more than human capability but less than full Astartes overkill.
And if larger conflicts emerged...
Nolan's thoughts turned darker, exploring scenarios he hoped would never manifest.
Alien invasion. Full-scale war with terrestrial governments. Chaos incursion. Any threat large enough to truly endanger the base or his operations.
At that point, the calculation changed. Thousands of Intelligent Control Corps units could be manufactured and deployed. David's strategic brilliance applied at global scale. Total war, if necessary.
But the cost...
Images surfaced unbidden. The Death Korps of Krieg. Colonel Jurten's fanaticism. A world reduced to radioactive ash in the name of victory, its population transformed into gas-masked suicide troops who knew only service unto death.
Earth had its own madmen. Nolan knew this with certainty. Heroes walked the world, yes, but so did villains whose sanity hung by threads, whose response to existential threat might make Jurten look restrained by comparison.
And if pushed far enough, if the base faced total destruction, if his own life hung in the balance...
Could he guarantee he wouldn't become that madman? Wouldn't choose scorched earth over defeat?
His simulated bodies' various self-destructions suggested the answer wasn't as clear as he'd like. That capacity for extreme solutions lurked in him, waiting for sufficient desperation to manifest.
The thought was deeply uncomfortable. Nolan pushed it aside, focusing instead on the warm glow of the heating elements and the sound of his soldiers' laughter.
Better to build strength now. Better to never reach that precipice where such choices became necessary.
The night deepened around them, temperature plunging as the already frigid air surrendered more heat to the endless sky. The round table meeting wound down naturally, energy and alcohol both running low.
Gang Dogs departed in groups, those assigned to watch duty heading for their posts with weapons and warm clothing, the rest shuffling toward heated quarters with the particular weariness that followed good food and better fellowship.
Jessica and Connors left together, the former still energized but recognizing the latter's exhaustion. Magnum oozed along beside them, an ambulatory puddle of rust-colored mudman that somehow managed to convey contentment.
Soon, only two figures remained at the table.
Nolan sat with food still piled before him, eating with methodical efficiency that spoke to enhanced metabolism's constant demands. Each bite was large, chewed thoroughly, swallowed, immediately followed by another. The rhythm was almost mechanical, fuel consumption rather than dining.
David stood across from him, tending the grill with surprising delicacy. His metal fingers manipulated tongs and spatulas with precision, turning steaks at optimal moments, adjusting temperature through methods that had nothing to do with human intuition and everything to do with thermal sensors and programmed algorithms.
"My lord." David's vox-speakers produced sound without the Man of Iron's jaw moving, an unsettling effect Nolan had never quite gotten used to. "According to my calculations, barring unforeseen complications, the Twin Island base will achieve full operational status within two months."
Blue light pulsed in his eye sockets, steady and rhythmic like a heartbeat rendered in photons.
Nolan paused mid-chew, considering the timeline. Then nodded once, swallowed, and resumed eating. Two months was aggressive but achievable. David's estimates were typically conservative, accounting for multiple failure modes and setbacks. If he said two months, the real timeline was probably six to eight weeks.
The sound of footsteps on snow, soft but distinct, drifted through the cold air. Light steps, careful placement, someone trying for stealth but not quite succeeding against the crusted surface.
Nolan didn't turn around. He swallowed his current bite, exhaled a plume of white mist that caught the grill's light, and spoke to the darkness behind him.
"Ms. Romanoff, the nighttime temperature on the Twin Islands approaches negative twenty Celsius. Not ideal conditions for escape attempts." His tone was conversational, almost friendly. "And unless you've developed the ability to fly or can single-handedly operate a ten-thousand-ton cargo vessel, I'd strongly advise against trying anything dramatic."
Silence held for several seconds. Then the footsteps resumed, no longer attempting concealment.
Natasha emerged into the glow of the heating elements, her figure wrapped in a bulky white down jacket that added significant mass to her normally sleek frame. Her red hair was pulled back in a practical braid, her face pale but composed. She moved with her characteristic grace despite the heavy clothing, approaching the low table where Nolan and David maintained their vigil.
"Mr. Nolan?" Her voice carried carefully controlled surprise. "I believe we've met before. Once. Briefly."
David, without being asked and without breaking rhythm on the grill, plucked a fresh steak from the warming rack and extended it toward Natasha on a clean plate. She accepted it with a small smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, then settled onto one of the supply crates serving as makeshift seating.
Her green eyes studied Nolan's profile, taking in the short grey hair that caught light like frost, the cyan wolf eyes that reflected the heating elements' glow with unsettling intensity.
"Last time we met," she continued slowly, selecting her words with care, "you seemed to be concealing these rather distinctive physical characteristics."
Nolan pulled another large piece of steak from his plate, the meat still steaming despite the cold. He bit into it, chewed, swallowed, all without looking at Natasha.
"Simple illusion," he said around the next mouthful. He finally glanced her way, expressing neutral. "Looking like this, going out in public requires precautions. But everyone needs to relax occasionally. Even me."
Another bite. "What do you want?"
Natasha picked up a table knife, its silver surface catching reflections. She began cutting her steak with precise, economical movements, each slice perfectly measured.
"I've been trying to understand." She didn't look up from her work, keeping her attention focused on the food. "You command significant force. Enough to secure considerable benefits through conventional channels. Yet you never expose yourself voluntarily. Instead, you hide on this frozen island at the end of the world."
Her knife paused. She looked up, meeting his gaze directly. "With proper covert entry into existing power structures, you could extract enormous profits from major organizations. With skilled maneuvering, you could potentially replace them entirely." Her head tilted slightly. "So why don't you?"
Nolan wiped grease from the corner of his mouth with one metal finger, the gesture casual and slightly crude. He swallowed his last bite, set down his utensils, and considered the woman across from him.
"Do you want truth or comfortable fiction?"
"Truth. Obviously."
"Alright." Nolan leaned back, his armor's servos adjusting automatically to support the shift in posture. "Let's start with realistic factors, scaling from immediate to cosmic. Setting aside local supernatural events and the various superpowered individuals, you're already aware of those complications."
He raised one finger. "I won't discuss human class dynamics with you. The concepts are complex and you lack the theoretical framework to properly engage with them."
Natasha's expression flickered with something that might have been offense, but she remained silent.
"From Hydra. Large-scale organization, deeply embedded in global power structures." A second finger. "The Space invasion. Coming soon. Alien army, portal technology, intent to conquer." Third finger. "Skrulls. Shape-shifting infiltrators who've probably been on Earth for decades. You wouldn't know if your closest friend was one." Fourth finger. "The Kree Empire. Galactic power, countless light-years distant but very interested in Earth for reasons involving genetic experiments conducted millennia ago."
His hand remained raised, fingers splayed, counting off threats like items on a shopping list. "And then there's Space Warlord named Thanos. Cosmic-level entity collecting this Stones. Six that embody fundamental forces of reality itself. Earth currently houses two, possibly three of them, which makes us a target."
Nolan lowered his hand, letting it rest on the table's cold surface. "So tell me, Natasha. Knowing all that, understanding the scale of threats approaching... how exactly should I waste time playing power games with you? With S.H.I.E.L.D.? With humans who've never left their own planet and can't comprehend what's waiting out there?"
He paused, then added almost as an afterthought, "Oh, and dimensional demons. Entities from other planes of existence who view our reality as a snack bar. They don't bother me personally yet, but eventually those problems will land on my doorstep too."
Natasha had stopped cutting her steak. The knife rested forgotten against the plate's edge, her attention completely focused on Nolan's words.
"Maybe whenever Earth faces disaster, local heroes step up," Nolan continued, his tone shifting to something darker. "Maybe they succeed. Maybe they save the day and everyone celebrates. But what about the time before they act? The civilians who die while heroes gather themselves? The collateral damage that's just accepted as the cost of victory?"
His cyan eyes caught the firelight, seeming to glow from within. "That's why we exist. Why I'm building this. Progress is slow, yes. The timeline is frustrating. But I'm working toward humanity's future. Actual long-term survival, not quarterly profit margins or political capital."
Silence settled over them, broken only by the crackle of the grill and the distant sound of wind across ice.
Then Nolan leaned forward, elbows on the table, and his voice dropped to something quieter but somehow more intense. "And Natasha, have you considered what humanity could become if all Earth's nations and factions unified? If we stopped fighting each other and focused our combined resources on actual threats?"
He let the question hang in the frozen air between them, watching her face carefully for signs of understanding.