The next morning, at eight o'clock sharp, Nolan's aunt opened the apartment door and stopped short.
Two brightly colored scooters blocked her path: one red, one yellow, both gleaming under the hallway lights.
Nolan stood beside them, grinning. "Aunt, I know your birthday isn't for another six months, but consider this an early gift. Happy everything!"
"You brat! Wasting money again!" His aunt rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her, curling upward despite her scolding tone.
"Let me show you how to—"
Nolan moved to demonstrate the controls, but his aunt pushed him aside. She lifted her chin with unmistakable pride.
"Your aunt used to be quite the motorcycle rider back in the day." Her cheeks flushed slightly. "Well, those are stories from my youth. Don't go spreading them around!"
Before Nolan could respond, she snatched the keys from his hand, chose the yellow scooter, and started it with practiced ease. The engine purred to life.
She waved once without looking back and rode off down the street.
"Tsk. Showing off..." Nolan shook his head, impressed despite himself.
At least the gift might earn him some leeway for taking that makeup exam without permission. That had to count for something.
Still smiling, Nolan headed back upstairs.
An hour of studying later, he was ready to murder his textbooks.
Furious, he grabbed his chainsword and began swinging it wildly through the living room like a man possessed.
Why did students need to learn algebraic geometry? Weren't the various angles and methods for setting murder traps more practical?
Why did they have to take performance art electives? Was Catachan combat doctrine not good enough? Were Krieg siege tactics somehow inadequate for modern education?
After thirty minutes of aggressive sword practice, Nolan dropped the weapon and collapsed onto the sofa, gasping for breath.
The gun situation was frustrating, sure. The simulator could handle a few more runs without additional resources. But his diploma? That was becoming a serious obstacle to his life.
More troublesome than he'd anticipated.
As time passed, Nolan's eyelids grew heavy. His breathing deepened into soft snores.
The sound of the door opening jolted him awake.
Outside, the sky had darkened. He'd slept the entire day away.
Nolan started to rise, intending to make dinner, when he noticed his aunt sitting on the sofa. Her face was pale, her expression grim.
He frowned. "Aunt, what's wrong? Did something happen with the restaurant renovation?"
"Jerry." Her voice cracked. "Mike's missing brother. They found him."
Her eyes were red-rimmed. She struggled to get the words out.
"Mike called me. He was crying. He said they found his brother, but..." She swallowed hard. "Jerry died….. What they did to him..."
Nolan's face went completely blank.
He'd been the first to know. But there had been too many complications, too many variables. He couldn't have told Mike the truth himself. Not without exposing everything.
"Mike's mother had a complete breakdown," his aunt continued, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "She couldn't handle it. Mike resigned. He apologized. I didn't try to stop him."
She shook her head slowly. "The police still need to preserve evidence, so Jerry's funeral is scheduled for two weeks from now. Mike said he wanted to thank us for everything over the years. He hopes we can come."
Nolan nodded silently. "We should go. It's the right thing to do." He paused. "Which neighborhood is Mike's family in?"
"Harlem," his aunt said with a sigh.
Nolan's frown deepened, then relaxed. His expression became serious. "The security there is terrible. Don't go without me. Mike's a good man, but that doesn't mean everyone in Harlem is."
His aunt nodded. She looked at him carefully. "I understand. There's something else I need to tell you. With Mike gone, we need to hire new staff."
She took a breath.
"Nolan, you've grown up. You have your own path now." Her voice was gentle but firm. "I don't know anything about superheroes or Captain America. But I know you're trying to do good things. That's worthy of recognition. So I won't stop you."
"Aunt, actually I—"
The words caught in Nolan's throat. He wanted to explain, to tell her the truth, but nothing came out.
She waved her hand. "I just hope you won't get hurt. That you won't be in danger. I won't ask for anything else."
Nolan nodded heavily.
After a moment of silence, he changed the subject. "Have you thought about what kind of people you want to hire?"
His aunt frowned thoughtfully. "Male or female doesn't matter. They need to be careful, obedient, quick with their hands. Even if they can't cook, that's fine. Cutting vegetables, serving food, simple work." She shrugged. "We'll see after the interviews."
Nolan nodded, and they chatted about lighter topics for a while longer.
Eventually, he excused himself and returned to his bedroom.
Expressionless, he lay on his bed with the chainsword in one hand and the plasma pistol resting on his chest in the other. He stared at the dim ceiling, his mind churning.
He'd checked the statistics on missing children in recent years. The numbers from the New York police alone were staggering.
If disabled children were killed for the economic benefits of their organs and corneas, then where did all the healthy children go?
Were the Tracksuit Mafia the only ones running this kind of operation in New York? In the entire country?
Was the so-called Underground King the mastermind behind the whole profit chain?
Should he notify the superheroes?
Iron Man probably wouldn't care. But Captain America would. Rogers always cared.
But if Nolan accidentally revealed his own identity, then S.H.I.E.L.D., riddled with HYDRA as it was, would become a constant threat lurking in the shadows.
And what about the simulator's resource problem? How could he obtain guns reliably?
Should he just lose his mind and rob an arms dealer's warehouse?
Or learn to manufacture guns from internet tutorials?
If he made his own guns, what materials would he need? Where would he source them?
Nolan closed his eyes. Questions spiraled through his mind, each one leading to three more. He turned them over and over, examining them from every angle.
As drowsiness crept in, blurring his thoughts, an idea he'd overlooked for far too long suddenly burst into crystal clarity.
"I might be out of touch with current events," Nolan muttered, sitting bolt upright. A faint smile played across his lips. "But I know someone who isn't."
His eyes gleamed in the darkness.
"Dear ex-classmate Dmitri, for example."