The Inquisition had been born in less than an hour, a secret organization forged over expensive wine and classical music in Tony Stark's laboratory.
Due to the complications surrounding Nolan's public identity, or lack thereof, Tony volunteered to handle all administrative and logistical matters. Nolan and Thor would focus purely on military operations.
The question of Steve Rogers came up naturally.
Nolan's position was clear and uncompromising. "Unless Rogers completely takes over S.H.I.E.L.D. and purges every last Hydra agent from the organization, he doesn't learn about the Inquisition's existence. Period."
Tony nodded slowly, fingers drumming against his crossed arms. "Agreed. The Inquisition might need to make decisions that violate conventional morality. Or international law. Rogers's personality... he's a good man, but good men don't always make the hard choices."
"He'd try to stop us," Nolan said simply. "Or worse, try to reform us."
"Exactly."
With that settled, the conversation shifted to operational planning. How to systematically dismantle Hydra. Where to start. What resources they'd need. When to strike.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
The heavy footfalls of the Igor armor interrupted them. Jarvis maneuvered the bulky suit through the laboratory entrance, the Assault Centurion gripped carefully in its industrial lifting claws.
Tony's attention snapped away from Nolan and Thor immediately. He circled the Centurion like a predator examining prey, eyes tracking every detail, fingers already twitching with the urge to disassemble something.
Nolan provided a brief overview. The Centurion's purpose. Its capabilities. The modification he wanted: converting the lengthy manual deployment process into something faster, more automated, less dependent on support crews.
Tony crouched down, peering into the Centurion's internal mechanisms through gaps in the armor plating. He stood, walked around it again, then straightened and looked at Nolan with something between disdain and admiration.
"I still hate this aesthetic," he said bluntly. "Stupid, bulky, brutalist industrial design. But I have to admit, whoever designed this understood high-intensity warfare. This thing is built for sustained combat in the worst possible conditions."
He tapped the chest plate with one knuckle, the sound echoing dully.
"If you want automatic deployment, the combat power and defensive capabilities will drop significantly. You'd be fundamentally changing the design philosophy from the ground up."
Tony paused, thinking.
"So here's my suggestion. Give me time to map the entire internal structure, reverse-engineer the deployment process, and design a dedicated loading platform. It won't alter the Centurion's core function, but it will dramatically speed up the time from storage to combat-ready. The only issue..."
He met Nolan's eyes.
"I'll know everything about this armor. Every technical specification. Every design choice. Every weakness. Are you willing to accept that?"
Nolan didn't hesitate. "Deal. Raditus is swamped with other projects and doesn't have time for this. Consider the technical data an advance payment for your help."
Tony's eyebrow rose. "You trust me that much?"
"I trust you to be smart enough not to abuse the information."
"Fair enough."
The Thunderhawk's engines roared back to life, their bass rumble shaking Stark Tower's landing platform. The massive aircraft lifted off smoothly, nose angling toward open sky.
Tony had already disappeared back into his workshop, the Assault Centurion now his primary obsession. Thor had received a text from Jane and departed to meet her, grinning like a fool in love.
They'd agreed to coordinate online about timing for the Hydra operation. No rush. Better to plan properly than act rashly.
Nolan settled into the Thunderhawk's passenger compartment, watching through the viewports as New York City shrank beneath them.
David's voice came through the internal comm. "My lord, we have company. Two Quinjet fighters maintaining pursuit at three kilometers distance."
Nolan's expression went cold. "S.H.I.E.L.D. or Hydra?"
"Does it matter?"
"Not particularly." Nolan leaned back in his seat. "Once we're clear of land, shoot them down."
"Understood."
The Thunderhawk maintained its course, heading out over the Atlantic. The Quinjets followed, maintaining distance but clearly tracking their flight path.
Minutes passed. The coastline receded behind them. Nothing but open ocean ahead.
"Engaging," David said calmly.
The Thunderhawk banked hard. Weapon systems came online with a whine of charging capacitors. The twin lascannons on the wings swiveled, targeting locks acquiring both Quinjets simultaneously.
The four heavy bolter turrets added their firepower a heartbeat later.
The engagement lasted approximately three seconds.
Las-fire cut through the sky like divine judgment, superheated air ionizing into brilliant lances of light. The bolters added explosive punctuation, shells detonating against aircraft frames.
The first Quinjet simply disintegrated, structural integrity failing catastrophically. It became a cloud of burning debris tumbling toward the ocean.
The second tried to evade, banking desperately. A lascannon shot clipped its engine. The aircraft spun out of control, trailing smoke and flame, before slamming into the water at terminal velocity.
David circled the crash sites twice, sensors sweeping for survivors, life signs, emergency beacons.
Nothing. Just wreckage and spreading oil slicks.
"Targets neutralized," David reported. "Resuming course to Twin Islands."
The Thunderhawk climbed through cloud layers and vanished from civilian radar, leaving no evidence except debris that would sink before anyone found it.
Hours later, the Thunderhawk settled onto the Primogenitor Island landing platform with practiced precision. The engines wound down, their roar fading to a low rumble, then silence.
Nolan descended the ramp and immediately noticed the second Thunderhawk parked nearby. Its hull bore fresh damage: scoring from small arms fire, impact craters from something heavier, scorch marks that spoke of close calls.
Near the damaged aircraft stood dozens of young girls. Teenagers, most of them. Their ages ranged from perhaps twelve to seventeen. Their faces showed confusion, fear, exhaustion. They huddled together instinctively, seeking safety in numbers.
Natasha Romanoff stood near them, clearly having just finished speaking. She looked tired. Not injured, but worn down, the kind of exhaustion that comes from sustained high-stress operations and emotional trauma.
She saw Nolan and straightened slightly, professional habit overriding fatigue.
"Natasha." Nolan approached, glancing at the girls briefly before focusing on her. "You completed the mission? I didn't expect you back this quickly."
Something shifted in Natasha's expression.
"Primarch , the Red Room is gone. Burned to the ground. Their leader, Dreykov, was blown apart by the Stormtroopers. No one will suffer what I suffered. Not anymore."
Her voice wavered slightly on the last words, but she pushed through.
"Though I didn't expect the scale of it. These girls are only half of what we found. The other half are still waiting for transport. The Stormtroopers are securing the site."
She paused, then continued.
"There was one unexpected benefit. I found my sister. Yelena. She's been working to free Black Widows from Red Room control. I'd like to bring her to meet you, if you'll allow it."
Nolan absorbed this information, then turned toward David descending the Thunderhawk's ramp.
"David, have Procellas arrange separate private quarters for these children. Designate the Gang Dogs' residential area as temporarily restricted. Any Gang Dog who enters without authorization will experience an early Antarctic survival training exercise. If any... incident occurs that shouldn't, I will personally execute the entire squad of the offender."
His voice carried across the platform, cold and absolute.
David's optical sensors brightened. "Understood, my lord. I will ensure they comprehend the consequences of disobedience."
David moved toward the cluster of frightened girls. Holographic projections materialized around him, soft colors and gentle patterns designed to calm and distract. The girls' fear visibly diminished as David led them deeper into the base, his voice modulating to something almost fatherly.
When they'd disappeared from view, Nolan turned back to Natasha.
"Do you need additional support?"
She shook her head. "Not yet. The Stormtroopers are more than capable. Hunting down scattered Black Widows requires flexibility and intelligence analysis. Yelena and I, plus the Stormtroopers, are sufficient for now."
"I'll write up a comprehensive plan for training these girls and establishing a proper intelligence network. Give it to David so he can prepare resources in advance."
"I appreciate it." Nolan's expression softened slightly. "Thank you for your contribution. If you encounter threats beyond the Stormtroopers' capabilities, request base support immediately. Don't hesitate."
Natasha blinked, surprised by the sincerity.
Then she smiled, faint but genuine.
"Thank you for your trust, Lord Primarch."
The title still sounded strange coming from her. But it didn't sound wrong anymore.