David continued its report, methodically working through the accumulated intelligence and organizational updates that required Nolan's attention.
First came Hydra-related matters.
"The Hydra organization has entered what appears to be complete dormancy following the loss of a core leadership figure," David explained, its mechanical voice carrying notes of frustration. "Beyond maintaining basic regular contact with all embedded personnel through secure channels, their activities have ceased almost entirely."
Nolan leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled thoughtfully.
"Even assassination contracts and financial market manipulation operations have been temporarily suspended," David continued. "This silence has significantly complicated my efforts to track the locations of Hydra's important bases and identify their remaining core figures through network surveillance."
The Man of Iron's optical sensors dimmed slightly, a sign of displeasure Nolan had learned to recognize.
"Currently, I possess the locations of only small and medium-sized bases. None contain high-value targets worthy of your personal intervention." David paused. "Moreover, most of these smaller installations, particularly those located in minor European countries, are already being systematically eliminated by genuine S.H.I.E.L.D. agents operating under Director Fury's command."
"Working with local law enforcement?" Nolan asked.
"Precisely. They conduct raids and seizures under various legal pretenses: tax evasion, weapons trafficking, suspected terrorism. The usual bureaucratic cover stories." David's tone suggested something approaching admiration for the efficiency. "Therefore, the current Hydra organization cannot attract your direct interest for the immediate future. They've gone to ground effectively."
Nolan nodded slowly, filing the information away. Hydra would resurface eventually. They always did. Like cockroaches, you could never truly exterminate them, only force them to scatter and regroup.
"Next, I have updates regarding the Yashida family's development," David continued, shifting topics smoothly.
"Go on."
"Using various legal and semi-legal means to reclaim their historical status within Japanese society, the Yashida family has successfully seized approximately one-third of the lifeline industries that effectively control Japan's economy." David's optical sensors brightened with what might have been satisfaction. "They've accomplished this primarily through hostile takeovers and strategic acquisitions from rival zaibatsu conglomerates."
Nolan raised an eyebrow, impressed despite himself. Mariko had proven herself a ruthless and effective leader.
"Moreover," David added, and something in its tone suggested this next part was particularly noteworthy, "perhaps the combined effect of Hydra's brainwashing techniques and the Imperium of Man's indoctrination texts has proven exceptionally potent. Mariko, who apparently internalized concepts of absolute loyalty, has taken initiative without prompting."
"What kind of initiative?" Nolan asked warily.
"She is planning to pay tithes to you, my Lord."
Nolan blinked, genuinely surprised. "Tithes? Like the Imperium collects from worlds under its protection?"
"Precisely. She appears to have extrapolated from the doctrinal materials and concluded this would be the appropriate course of action." David's head tilted slightly. "As the entity currently uncertain of proper protocol, I must ask: do we need to collect such taxes? And if so, what form should these taxes take?"
David gestured with one metal arm, the motion almost apologetic. "After all, I currently control substantial ownerless wealth globally, combined with the many legitimate industries you've acquired over recent years. The wealth generated annually already amounts to astronomical figures by any reasonable measure. Additional taxation seems potentially redundant."
Nolan sat in silence for several long moments, processing this unexpected development. His fingers drummed against the metal table, the rhythm unconscious and thoughtful.
Finally, he spoke. "We'll have the Yashida family pay military taxes rather than monetary ones."
"Military taxes, my Lord?"
"Exactly. Mariko should expand their ninja contingent substantially. Not just maintaining the current small elite force, but forming a properly organized ninja corps. Well-trained, disciplined, equipped with modern technology integrated with traditional techniques." Nolan's mind was already working through the strategic implications. "At minimum, several hundred operatives. Preferably closer to a thousand once full recruitment and training cycles complete."
"I understand. Shall I relay these specifications?"
"Not yet. There's more." Nolan leaned forward, his expression becoming more focused. "I also want the Yashida family to begin using legal channels to recruit orphans and displaced children from across the globe. Establish programs that appear philanthropic on the surface: orphanages, youth training academies, scholarship opportunities."
David's optical sensors flashed with recognition. "You intend to build a recruitment pipeline for future operatives."
"Exactly. Along with any adult humans who voluntarily join, fully informed of what they're getting into. No deception for adults, but children can be shaped from youth." Nolan's voice was cold, pragmatic. "Whether we're building a loyal successor academy for future leadership or training more berserker-class shock troops, Japan presents unique advantages."
"The eradication of Hydra forces from the region," David observed.
"Precisely. With Hydra's network dismantled, there's a power vacuum and minimal surveillance from competing intelligence organizations. Japan becomes a suitable location for establishing such programs without immediate international scrutiny." Nolan smiled without humor. "Plus, the cultural context already includes traditions of absolute loyalty and rigorous martial training. We're simply... modernizing ancient practices."
"I will relay your instructions to Mariko immediately," David confirmed. "She will undoubtedly be pleased to receive such clear direction."
"Good. Now, is there anything else requiring immediate attention?"
"Not at this time, my Lord. All other matters are proceeding within acceptable parameters."
"Then let's move on to the main event."
Several days passed in focused preparation.
Now Nolan stood before a one-way glass window on the underground base's second sublevel, his expression solemn and controlled. The closed room beyond the glass was starkly lit, every surface visible in harsh detail that left no shadows to hide in.
David stood beside him, the Man of Iron's posture unusually rigid, as if uncertain of its own role in what was about to unfold.
Dr. Connors occupied Nolan's other side, wearing a pristine white laboratory coat that seemed almost painfully bright against the dim observation room. His remaining hand fidgeted constantly, adjusting his glasses, smoothing his thinning blond hair, finding no comfortable position to rest.
Through the one-way glass, the adjoining room was divided cleanly into experimental space and observation zone. Three automatic servo robots moved with mechanical precision, their tentacles manipulating equipment with care that suggested expensive, delicate instruments.
A naked middle-aged white man lay on a metal experimental bed that reflected cold light from the overhead fixtures. His skin was pale, almost gray in the harsh illumination. Medical restraints secured his wrists, ankles, and torso to the bed's frame with heavy-duty straps designed to hold enhanced individuals.
The man was unconscious, his breathing shallow and regular, unaware of what was coming.
"Armstrong Williams," David began, its mechanical voice taking on a formal quality suitable for reading criminal records. Blue light flashed in its optical sensors as it accessed files. "Multi-millionaire. Serial killer. Nickname: 'Game Maker.' His preferred method involves killing ordinary people for personal entertainment through various elaborate death games of his own design."
David paused, ensuring both listeners were paying attention.
"Because he inherited substantial wealth from his father and possesses a meticulous, careful personality, he has escaped legal sanctions on numerous occasions. He has also murdered several private detectives who were secretly investigating his activities, making their deaths appear accidental or simply causing them to disappear entirely."
The Man of Iron's voice remained emotionless, but the recitation of facts carried its own condemnation.
"According to statistical analysis of documented cases and circumstantial evidence, Armstrong Williams has at minimum two hundred and thirty deaths directly attributable to his actions. The actual number is likely significantly higher."
The two humans listening showed completely different reactions to David's briefing.
Nolan, his expression remaining solemn and controlled, simply nodded once. His gaze never left the unconscious man beyond the glass. He studied Armstrong Williams like a craftsman examining raw materials, assessing quality and suitability for purpose.
When Nolan had personally captured the target from his fortified penthouse several nights ago, he'd already reviewed extensive video evidence. Armstrong had kept recordings of his "games" as trophies, mementos of suffering carefully cataloged and preserved. Nolan had watched enough to understand exactly what kind of creature he'd be experimenting on.
This wasn't a human being in any meaningful sense. This was a monster wearing human skin.
Connors, however, was clearly struggling.
The scientist's entire body language screamed discomfort. He shifted his weight constantly, his remaining hand clenching and unclenching, his breathing slightly elevated. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool temperature maintained in the observation room.
"Nolan," Connors said suddenly, his voice quiet but strained. "Are we truly going to conduct human experiments? Actually do this?"
Nolan turned slightly, meeting his mentor's eyes. His face showed no particular emotion, carefully neutral. When he spoke, his voice was gentle but firm.
"Teacher, this is a step we must take if we want to move forward. There's no alternative path that doesn't eventually require human trials." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "And judging from what Armstrong Williams has done, from the suffering he's inflicted purely for his own amusement, he deserves death. Your scientific ethics and moral standards are admirable, genuinely worthy of praise. But your conscience should also recognize that keeping people like this alive in the world represents indifference and disaster for everyone around them."
Connors raised his remaining hand to his face, rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses. He let out a long, shuddering breath.
"I know. I understand your reasoning intellectually." His voice cracked slightly. "It's just that temperament, personality, and life experiences formed during childhood are extraordinarily difficult to change, even when you recognize they're no longer serving you well."
He lowered his hand and offered Nolan a bitter smile that held no real humor.
"I was raised to believe in the sanctity of human life, in doing no harm, in the Hippocratic Oath. Those beliefs run deep, even when confronting someone who violated every principle of human decency."
Nolan nodded with genuine understanding. He glanced toward the automatic servo robots, which were now connecting medical monitoring equipment to Armstrong's unconscious form, then turned back to Connors.
"If you lack sufficient motivation to proceed, teacher, I can ask David to show you the recorded videos of Armstrong killing ordinary people. His victims begging for mercy. The elaborate cruelty he designed into each scenario." Nolan's voice remained gentle, but there was steel beneath it. "Sometimes abstract knowledge of evil isn't enough. Sometimes you need to see it directly."
"Nolan, no. That won't be necessary." Connors shook his head quickly, almost violently. His expression twisted with internal conflict. "I'm not actually pitying Armstrong's upcoming experience or feeling sympathy for him as a person."
He paused, swallowing hard.
"What disturbs me is my own deep, eager desire to conduct human experimentation. I want to study the changes Super Soldier Serum will produce in his physiology. I fantasize about how additional experiments should be conducted with the limb regeneration compounds." His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "I'm mourning the death of my own ethical boundaries, watching them dissolve in real-time, and finding myself... not particularly bothered by their absence."
Connors's face showed genuine anguish, but also a strange relief, as if confessing had lifted some burden.
Before Nolan could offer comfort or philosophical justification, Connors straightened his spine with visible effort. He adjusted his white coat, smoothed his hair one final time, and moved toward the metal door leading into the experimental chamber.
His steps were measured, deliberate. A man walking to meet his destiny, for better or worse.
Nolan watched his old teacher pass through the door and approach the experimental bed. The transformation in Connors's demeanor was remarkable. The moment he entered the experimental space, his uncertainty vanished, replaced by focused professional intensity.
An automatic servo robot glided forward, carrying a square refrigerated container. Its mechanical arms handled the box with surprising delicacy, as if transporting something precious and dangerous in equal measure.
The subtle hiss of pneumatic seals releasing accompanied the container's opening. Cool mist rolled out, condensation forming immediately in the warmer air.
Inside, secured in protective foam and temperature-controlled housings, sat multiple tubes of dark blue liquid. The Super Soldier Serum caught the overhead lights, seeming to glow with internal luminescence.
Connors reached in without hesitation, his movements confident and practiced. He selected one tube, holding it up to examine the liquid's clarity and consistency. Satisfied, he gripped it firmly in his palm.
Another automatic servo robot approached rapidly, its tentacles connecting a bewildering array of monitoring instruments to Armstrong's body. Electrodes adhered to his chest, monitoring cardiac function. IV lines inserted into major veins, ready to deliver emergency medications if necessary. Sensors tracked brain activity, respiration, blood pressure, oxygen saturation, and a dozen other vital signs.
The monitoring equipment hummed to life, displays flickering with baseline data from the unconscious subject.
Connors studied the readouts for several seconds, confirming everything was within normal parameters. Then, without hesitation or ceremony, he positioned the serum injector against Armstrong's carotid artery and triggered the mechanism.
The dark blue liquid emptied from the tube in seconds, forced by compressed air directly into the subject's bloodstream.
The effect was immediate and violent.
Armstrong's eyes snapped open, bloodshot and wild. Every vein in his body bulged grotesquely, standing out against his skin like cables under tension. His muscles spasmed, contracting and releasing in rapid, uncontrolled sequences.
His entire body thrashed with desperate intensity, like a fish dying on a dock, movements purely instinctive and chaotic. The restraints groaned under the strain but held firm, engineered specifically to contain enhanced strength.
Armstrong's mouth opened wide, and he began screaming. The sound was inhuman, closer to roaring than any articulate expression of pain. It went on and on, his vocal cords straining, saliva flying from his lips.
Connors paid absolutely no attention to the subject's suffering.
His eyes had gone wide, but with fascination rather than horror. His gaze darted between the monitoring equipment's displays and the physical changes manifesting in Armstrong's body. He muttered observations under his breath, occasionally gesturing for servo robots to adjust sensor positions or capture specific angles with recording equipment.
Behind the one-way glass, Nolan stood with arms crossed, David beside him. Both watched with complete attention as the middle-aged man's body underwent extreme transformation.
Armstrong's frame expanded visibly. Muscles swelled, growing in mass and definition with each passing second. Bones lengthened and thickened, accompanied by audible pops and cracks as his skeleton restructured itself. His chest broadened, shoulders widening to accommodate new muscle groups.
The screaming gradually decreased in intensity, transitioning from agonized shrieks to exhausted whimpers. Armstrong's struggles became less frenzied, though whether from adaptation or simple exhaustion was unclear.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity but measured only minutes on the chronometer, Armstrong's body went still. His chest heaved with deep, gasping breaths. His eyes remained open but unfocused, staring at the ceiling with glazed incomprehension.
The transformation was complete.
The experimental subject who had been of average size and build now possessed the physique of a professional bodybuilder. Muscles bulged dramatically across his frame, veins prominent beneath stretched skin. His face had become more angular, bone structure more pronounced.
Connors approached cautiously, scanning the monitoring data with hungry eyes. He checked readings, cross-referenced values, made notations on a digital pad with rapid stylus movements.
Then he turned toward the one-way glass and raised his hand, thumb extended upward.
The universal gesture of success.
The human experiment utilizing Super Soldier Serum had succeeded on the first attempt.
Behind the glass, Nolan allowed himself a small, satisfied smile.