The operation of the Twin Islands Base once again returned to daily routine.
After the chaos of the Warhammer mission, after the revelations and technological developments, after the disruptions and adjustments, life settled into familiar patterns. Routine was valuable, providing stability that let people focus on long-term development rather than constant crisis response.
Nolan supervised and personally led the Gang Dogs to continue honing their will and body.
Every morning found him on the training grounds, pushing his soldiers through exercises that would break normal humans. The Gang Dogs responded with enthusiasm bordering on religious fervor, treating his instruction as divine commandment.
They ran through Antarctic cold without protective gear, building cold resistance through exposure. They sparred with powered weapons against training dummies that regularly needed replacement. They practiced small unit tactics in terrain that would kill civilians within minutes.
And Nolan led from the front, demonstrating techniques, correcting mistakes, occasionally joining the exercises himself to maintain standards.
Raditus and the increasingly formidable Doom also invested themselves in absorption and research of many technologies.
The tech-priest and the sorcerer-engineer made an unlikely but effective partnership. Raditus brought Mechanicus knowledge and religious dedication to sacred machines. Doom contributed witchcraft-enhanced engineering and genius-level innovation unconstrained by dogma.
Together they tore apart salvaged technology, understanding it, improving it, integrating it into base capabilities. The space hulk yielded secrets daily. The alien teleportation system revealed new properties under analysis. Antarctic vibranium's exotic characteristics slowly surrendered to study.
And because the tedious daily operations of the base were basically handled by the ship machine spirit Procellas...
The ancient artificial intelligence coordinated logistics with inhuman efficiency. Supply chains optimized themselves. Maintenance schedules adjusted automatically. Personnel rotations balanced workload without requiring command intervention.
David had delegated base management to Procellas months ago, recognizing that an AI designed to run capital ships could easily handle a small Antarctic facility.
Therefore, David also had considerable time to remotely control three forces.
Latveria. Japan. Imperial Heavy Industries. Three organizations on three continents, each requiring oversight, each serving strategic purposes in Nolan's expanding network.
David adjusted their development continuously, responding to opportunities, managing threats, ensuring growth aligned with long-term objectives. The ancient Man of Iron proved as capable at corporate management as he was at warfare.
Now the most leisurely person in the entire Twin Islands base was probably Jessica.
The young woman could be seen showing off throughout the facility, strutting around with her power gloves and carrying her power scythe. The weapons were gifts from Raditus, marks of favor that she displayed with adolescent pride.
She appeared and disappeared at will, using anti-gravity flight to zoom through corridors. Elusive. Playful. Thoroughly undisciplined in ways that grated against military standards.
Even Connors, who was in charge of the gene-seed research project, worked so hard all day that he often forgot to eat.
The scientist's dedication was absolute, bordering on obsessive. He studied Astartes remains with scholarly intensity, trying to understand how Primarch genetics could be adapted for human enhancement without the catastrophic failure rates of normal Space Marine creation.
It seemed that Raditus really couldn't stand Jessica's playful and undisciplined image anymore.
The tech-priest had complained. Multiple times. In increasingly pointed language. Jessica was wasting potential, showing disrespect to sacred weapons, failing to honor the machine-spirits housed in her equipment.
So, under the loving gaze of a large group of Gang Dogs who'd gathered to watch, Nolan went into battle himself.
The training ground fell silent as he stepped onto the practice area. Gang Dogs nudged each other, grins spreading. This would be educational.
Nolan engaged Jessica with his bare hands, no weapons, no armor.
Just Primarch genetics and combat training against a teenager with power weapons and anti-gravity flight. It should have been unfair. It was, but not in the direction Jessica expected.
He knocked her to the ground effortlessly, demonstrating that power scythes were useless if you didn't know how to use them properly.
Jessica tried to fly away. Nolan caught her ankle and slammed her into ferrocrete. She attempted a power scythe strike. He ducked inside her guard and delivered an open-palm blow that sent her tumbling. She activated her power gloves. He simply didn't let her connect, reading her movements before she made them.
The fight lasted thirty seconds before Jessica lay groaning on the frozen ground.
Then Jessica, with her nose and face swollen from the beating, completely became a highlight in the daily special training of the Gang Dogs.
They loved watching her get destroyed repeatedly. Especially when she screamed with severed arms and legs during exercises that pushed healing capabilities to their limits, limbs deliberately broken to be regrown through panacea exposure.
The Gang Dogs had endured similar training. Watching Jessica go through it too created camaraderie through shared suffering.
In addition, Jessica's training courses expanded to include proper combat skills for power scythes.
The strict teacher Nolan personally taught her, which mostly involved beating technique into her through repeated sparring. He would demonstrate a form once, have her attempt it, then correct her failures through applied force.
Jessica learned quickly when the alternative was getting hit.
The training would continue until she was completely proficient, no matter how long that took.
And just as Nolan was thinking that he had rested sufficiently, when he was planning to conduct the next simulator mission...
Raditus's autonomous servo robot messenger appeared at his quarters.
The machine waited patiently for acknowledgment, then notified him of important news. The production line for the Thunderhawk transport aircraft had been completed ahead of schedule.
The first indigenously produced Thunderhawk transport aircraft in this world had left the factory brand new, ready for service.
Therefore, Nolan could only temporarily close the simulator interface.
He lowered his head and thought for a moment, strategic priorities shifting. Aircraft without pilots were useless. He needed to begin selecting suitable transport plane pilots from the Gang Dogs and other base personnel.
Regarding this matter, Raditus's suggestion was predictable: install cogitator systems on the Thunderhawk transports to allow autonomous flight.
The tech-priest favored machine solutions to biological problems, which was consistent with Mechanicus philosophy.
Nolan's idea differed fundamentally. He wanted the Gang Dogs to learn to fly the vehicles first.
Human pilots had advantages machines couldn't replicate. Adaptability. Improvisation. The ability to make judgment calls in situations no programming anticipated.
After all, the cogitator system was not omnipotent, despite what Mechanicus doctrine claimed.
It could not surpass the flying skills of an experienced pilot, especially in combat conditions that required split-second creative responses.
As a result, a unique driver selection activity kicked off on the Twin Islands.
Announcements went out through vox-channels. Notices appeared on data-slates. Nolan himself made the offer during training sessions, explaining the opportunity.
As for Nolan's selection method, it was very simple and pragmatic:
Those who liked flying vehicles and had similar experience would be given priority. Previous aviation training counted heavily. Enthusiasm mattered. Natural aptitude would be tested.
However, Nolan forgot one important thing about his recruitment base.
If Gang Dogs had loved learning since childhood, possessed educational dedication and intellectual curiosity...
They wouldn't have become gang members in the first place.
The Gang Dogs were loyal. Brave. Capable fighters. But most had grown up on streets where survival mattered more than academics, where piloting aircraft was something rich people did.
Twenty-four hours later, there were only four candidates who came to register with Nolan.
Four. From a base population of hundreds. The turnout was embarrassingly low.
These four people included the energetic Doom, whose genius extended to rapid mastery of any technical system, and the submissive Jessica, who was probably motivated by desire to escape ground-based training.
In other words, there were only two people who genuinely wanted to learn driving skills for their own sake.
Even if the Stormtroopers team was added to the list as mandatory participants required to cross-train in all combat roles, there were only nine candidates total.
When he thought about it, when he truly processed that only nine people could be selected from the Twin Islands base with hundreds of personnel...
Nolan, who maintained a stern expression, almost laughed out of sheer frustration.
The situation was absurd. He had cutting-edge aircraft and nobody who wanted to fly them. It was like having Ferraris and a population that preferred walking.
Just when he was planning to have Doom, who quickly learned driving skills through combination of genius and witchcraft-enhanced learning, take time to write a suitable set of teaching materials...
When he was considering selecting additional drivers from the Planetary Guard resistance forces that Latveria was providing...
Nolan was approached by a surprising candidate.
At this moment, Nolan squinted at the figure standing before him.
He stared at Natasha Romanoff with her distinctive red ponytail, taking in her confident posture and calm expression. Silence stretched between them, growing increasingly awkward.
Nolan fell into an eerie quiet for a long while, processing implications.
After a long time, he spoke carefully:
"Miss Natasha, as a captured member of S.H.I.E.L.D., do you think your life here is too comfortable? Too free?"
The question was pointed, reminding her of her status. Prisoner. Hostage. Person whose continued survival was tactical convenience rather than right.
"Why do you think I will let you come into contact with the flying vehicles we produce?"
The suspicion in his voice was obvious. She was a spy. Giving her access to aircraft meant giving her escape routes.
Hearing Nolan's questioning words, Natasha showed no intimidation.
A faint smile appeared on her lips, expression mixing confidence with something that might have been amusement. She did not flinch or retreat from his scrutiny.
Instead, she stared at Nolan directly and said with interesting certainty:
"I am considered one of the best pilots in S.H.I.E.L.D. I am proficient in almost all flying vehicles currently in service."
No false modesty. Just statement of fact delivered with professional pride.
"I can quickly get familiar with any model, regardless of manufacturer or design philosophy."
Her tone suggested this was demonstrated capability rather than empty boasting.
"Furthermore, I am also a veteran pilot who has experienced various battlefields and operational environments."
Combat experience. Not just training exercises but actual hostile situations. The kind of pressure that separated competent pilots from exceptional ones.
"Any thrilling flying environment won't trouble me. Isn't this more reassuring than those novice pilots currently in your hands?"
The argument was logical, practical, appealing to Nolan's pragmatic nature. She offered superior capabilities compared to his current candidates.
Natasha's words made Nolan subconsciously widen his eyes slightly.
He stared at her expressionlessly for several seconds, then sneered with dark humor:
"Haha, that's exactly why I'm even more worried!"
The laughter was humorless, carrying edge rather than amusement.
"Miss Natasha, this is not discrimination based on profession or gender."
Nolan's tone became flat, analytical, explaining tactical reality without emotion.
"You are a spy agent. You also know some secrets about our base, especially its geographical location."
Information she could sell or trade. Knowledge that made her dangerous.
"How can you make me believe that you will not take the first opportunity to escape with one of our aircraft?"
The question was entirely reasonable. Every calculation suggested she'd run given the chance.
"To be honest, if S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't still tactically useful to my larger objectives, I would have already carried out a beheading operation on Nick Fury and other senior agents."
The threat was delivered casually, statement of contingency planning rather than active intent.
"And you were also high on that target list."
Let her understand exactly how precarious her position was.
However, Nolan had just finished speaking when something shifted in Natasha's expression.
The faint smile on her mouth still did not disappear, but something in her eyes changed. Determination crystallizing into visible resolve.
She looked at Nolan with a solemn expression and said softly but firmly:
"Mister Nolan, if you don't trust me, I can fully accept the brainwashing process."
The offer was shocking. She knew what that meant. Had probably been briefed on the risks.
"And I am even willing to carry restrictive measures such as explosive collars with me at all times."
Escalating commitment. Offering to become a literal bomb that could be detonated remotely if she betrayed them.
Nolan's expression shifted to genuine confusion.
"Why? You should know that the brainwashing technology I have access to is immature, experimental at best."
He'd made no secret of this. The neural conditioning available was crude.
"And there is a huge risk of the experimental subjects becoming permanently demented, right?"
Brain damage. Personality death. Becoming a drooling vegetable trapped in a functional body. The failure rate was unacceptably high by any medical standard.
"Miss Natasha, facing this level of risk, do you still want to volunteer? Is working for S.H.I.E.L.D. worth this much to you?"
The question carried genuine bewilderment. What could Fury possibly offer that justified accepting these odds?
It seemed that Natasha's sincere words and obvious conviction made Nolan put away his contemptuous attitude.
He straightened his back, taking her more seriously. His expression became neutral rather than dismissive as he looked at Natasha and asked with real curiosity.
"S.H.I.E.L.D.?"
Natasha's response carried something that sounded like bitter amusement.
"No, Mister Nolan, I think you misunderstood my motivations entirely."
Her smile turned sad, old pain surfacing briefly before being suppressed.
"Since Mister David found me extensive real information about S.H.I.E.L.D. and Nick Fury through your intelligence network..."
David had been thorough. Decades of classified operations. Morally questionable missions. The bodies buried in organizational closets.
"The leader who I used to treat like a father figure has died in my heart."
The words emerged with finality. Grief for something lost mixed with anger at betrayal.
"I used to think that I had escaped to the so-called free world, that I had changed organizations and countries to serve something better."
Natasha's voice took on a quality of someone explaining past naivety to her current self.
"I could do some good things. Make up for the mistakes I made in the past. Become a real good person rather than just a weapon."
The aspiration had been genuine. She'd wanted redemption through service.
"But I was wrong. I found that S.H.I.E.L.D. has never been much different from the Red Room or even Hydra."
The comparison was damning. Three organizations with different flags conducting identical operations.
"If initially it was because of the cure from your panacea that made me curious about the science and technology you control..."
Honesty about initial motivations. She'd wanted the miracle medicine for selfish reasons.
"If it was the selfish idea of somehow acquiring it for myself or S.H.I.E.L.D...."
Tactical assessment. How to exploit this resource for organizational benefit.
"Then when Latveria was liberated by you, after I learned about the local people's lives through Mister David, about the earth-shaking changes you implemented..."
Her tone shifted to something approaching wonder. "Everything changed."
"I used to arrogantly think that you were just another ambitious villain organization, no different from all the others."
The assessment had seemed obvious. Paramilitaries toppling governments fit established patterns.
"But later I found that I was really wrong about your intentions and methods."
Evidence had accumulated. Reports from Latveria. Testimony from freed citizens. Economic data showing improvement.
"If you set aside those overly cruel killing methods during operations..."
"Your actions are indeed working for a better future of humanity, not just your own power."
"So, if you think that everything I say now is just to gather intelligence and please S.H.I.E.L.D. through false loyalty..."
Natasha's voice hardened with conviction.
"Then you really underestimate the thinking capacity of both a woman and a professional spy agent."
Her gaze locked with Nolan's, unflinching.
"Now, I want to truly transform into a good person. A hero remembered by others for the right reasons."
"And a liberator who ends the painful lives of more sisters still trapped in the Red Room!"
The final declaration emerged with passion that couldn't be faked, years of guilt and determination combining.
Silence fell in the wake of her speech.
Nolan studied her face, enhanced perception reading micro-expressions, searching for deception. His Primarch genetics gave him advantages in detecting lies, and he used them now without mercy.
But he found only sincerity mixed with desperate hope.
Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, master spy and assassin, stood before him asking to be enslaved rather than remain what she was.
And Nolan, against all tactical judgment, found himself believing her.
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