If one were to identify the most explosive news story dominating global media coverage, the choice would be obvious.
Three days ago, an organization calling itself the Guardians of Terra had hijacked every communication channel on Earth. Simultaneously. Television networks. Radio frequencies. Internet streaming services. Every platform, regardless of security protocols or geographic location, had broadcast the same message, carried the same symbol, transmitted the same voice.
And that voice had announced responsibility for the deaths of hundreds of thousands of people in a Mexican slum district.
The story consumed every news cycle. Dominated every social media platform. Became the only topic of conversation in offices, homes, public spaces across the entire planet.
Online, the response was volcanic.
Millions of people flooded cyberspace with condemnations. The comment sections of every news article overflowed with rage, with calls for justice, with demands that governments act immediately and decisively. The rhetoric escalated by the hour, each post trying to outdo the previous in expressing fury and disgust.
"Arrest them all!"
"Death penalty is too good for these monsters!"
"Every country needs to send troops! Hunt them down!"
"This is worse than any terrorist attack in history!"
The digital mob grew larger with each passing hour, fed by outrage and the comfortable distance of screens. It was easy to condemn from safety, to demand blood when you weren't the one who had to spill it.
Some voices attempted counterarguments. Local people from the region, those who'd suffered under the Blood Coven's influence for years, tried explaining the context. Individuals with knowledge of supernatural threats posted detailed analyses of what the cult had represented, what horrors had been building in that district.
Their posts were buried instantly. Drowned beneath torrents of rage from people who had no interest in nuance or complexity. The mob wanted villains, clear and simple. The Guardians of Terra had provided that role, and nothing would dislodge them from it.
Three days after the slum's destruction, official forces from every major nation convened.
The meetings were held in secure facilities, swept for electronic surveillance, attended only by individuals with the highest clearances. No press. No public observation. Just closed doors and classified discussions that would determine international policy.
Multiple sessions occurred across several days. Delegations argued, negotiated, made deals that had nothing to do with justice and everything to do with geopolitical advantage.
Finally, they emerged with their announcement.
The Guardians of Terra was officially recognized as the largest terrorist organization since World War II's conclusion and Hydra's supposed destruction. Only the second organization in modern history to be formally sentenced for crimes against humanity.
The declaration was unanimous. Every participating nation signed the resolution. The language was harsh, absolute, designed to satisfy the public's demand for condemnation.
But actions spoke differently than words.
Mexico, the nation directly affected, deployed significant resources. Military units cordoned off the devastated zone. Forensic teams sifted through cooled slag and ash, searching for any evidence that might prove useful. Intelligence operatives conducted interviews with survivors, analyzed financial records, traced supply chains.
The other signatory nations? They sent token forces. Joint investigation teams numbering perhaps a dozen personnel each, mandated to coordinate with Mexican authorities and file regular reports. Symbolic gestures designed to satisfy domestic constituencies without committing serious resources.
Behind closed doors, away from public scrutiny, those same nations were conducting their own investigations. Classified operations utilizing assets that officially didn't exist, gathering intelligence through methods that would never appear in any report. But these activities remained state secrets, known only to the few with proper clearance.
Online, conspiracy theorists debated endlessly about what those investigations might have discovered, what hidden truths governments were concealing. The discussions generated millions of posts, achieving nothing beyond providing entertainment for people with too much time and too little real information.
As for Nolan, the man who'd ordered the extermination and broadcast its justification to the world...
He withdrew from the chaos entirely.
The underground base became his refuge, a sanctuary isolated from the storm of public opinion raging above. No interviews. No statements. No acknowledgment that he was aware of or concerned about the global response.
He simply continued his work.
The first priority was addressing the slum refugees who'd been evacuated before the fire.
Imperial Heavy Industries, that corporation which had carefully cultivated a reputation for philanthropic activities and charitable donations, moved with immediate purpose. Press releases went out within hours of the Mexican government's initial statements. Offers of assistance, expressions of sympathy, promises of support.
Negotiations began.
Multiple rounds of meetings between Imperial Heavy Industries representatives and Mexican government officials. The discussions were lengthy, complex, involving lawyers and financial analysts and bureaucrats who understood how to structure deals that satisfied all parties while concealing the actual terms from public scrutiny.
The final agreement was elegant in its simplicity, brutal in its implications.
Imperial Heavy Industries would receive control of the former slum district, excluding only the capital's immediate metropolitan area. Additionally, they secured economic rights to surrounding territories, a percentage of all commercial activity conducted within those boundaries for the next thirty years.
In exchange, the Imperial Heavy Industries would rebuild homes for all refugees. Free of charge. Complete reconstruction, modern infrastructure, everything necessary for a functioning community.
They would also construct a memorial park on the site of the disaster. A place of remembrance for the hundreds of thousands who'd died, designed to attract visitors from around the world. Tourism, properly managed, could revitalize the entire region's economy. And Imperial Heavy Industries would control the development rights.
Furthermore, the Imperial Heavy Industries provided substantial funding to Mexican authorities. Officially designated for the investigation and apprehension of Guardians of Terra members. The money came with no strings attached, no oversight requirements, no demands for accounting of how it was spent.
Everyone involved understood the arrangement's true nature. The funds were payment for Mexico's cooperation, for their agreement to share all intelligence gathered during the investigation, for their promise to provide Imperial Heavy Industries with regular updates on any progress made by domestic or international teams.
On the surface, it appeared to be a mutually beneficial arrangement. Mexico received reconstruction funding and economic development. The refugees received new homes. Imperial Heavy Industries demonstrated corporate responsibility while expanding their territorial control.
Beneath the surface, the deal was considerably more complex. But those complexities remained hidden behind layers of legal documentation and carefully structured press releases.
The refugees themselves, those who'd survived the evacuation, received their own arrangements.
Civilians who'd volunteered to fight alongside the Gang Dogs found themselves presented with options. They could accept a substantial cash payment, enough to relocate and start fresh elsewhere, and disappear into new lives with the understanding that they would never discuss what they'd witnessed or participated in.
Or they could choose integration. Employment within Imperial Heavy Industries' various subsidiary operations, initially as ordinary Mexican immigrants with documentation that would gradually be legitimized through proper channels. New identities, new backgrounds, new lives built on foundations that couldn't be traced back to the slum.
Those who'd been injured during the fighting, particularly those with permanent disabilities, received different consideration. David, managing the corporation's vast portfolio of controlled assets, identified a large medical facility in a remote location. Secure. Private. Well-staffed. The building was immediately repurposed as a long-term care facility specifically for these wounded volunteers.
They would receive treatment, rehabilitation, ongoing support for as long as necessary. And they would remain separated from the world, protected from questions they couldn't safely answer.
When these immediate concerns had been addressed, when the refugees were settled and the wounded were receiving care, Nolan finally felt prepared to convene a meeting.
The roundtable gathered in the base's main conference hall, that circular chamber with its metal table reflecting overhead lights. The usual attendees assembled: Bucky, Old John, David, Raditus hovering above his designated position, Dr. Connors looking uncomfortable and out of place among the military personnel.
Nolan stood at his position, hands resting on the table's surface. He'd prepared remarks, rehearsed what he wanted to say, but now that the moment had arrived, the words felt inadequate.
He drew a slow breath and began.
"I've thought about this extensively over the past three days." His voice emerged steady despite the turmoil underneath. "About my decisions. About the consequences of those decisions. About what I should have done differently."
His hands pressed harder against the metal table. "I want to review, for everyone present, the damage caused by my willful actions."
The words came slowly, each one weighted with recognition of failure. "I greatly increased the risk to this organization, which hasn't yet grown strong enough to withstand serious scrutiny. I've made us targets when we should have remained invisible. And I..." He paused, forcing himself to continue. "I bear indirect responsibility for the final deaths of hundreds of thousands of people."
Old John started to interrupt, but Nolan raised one hand, asking for silence.
"I understand the circumstances. I know the alternatives were limited. But the harm caused by an extermination order is never simple. Never clean. The consequences extend far beyond the immediate deaths." His jaw tightened. "Right now, the world appears calm. Order has been restored. Life continues as normal for most people."
His gaze swept across the assembled group. "But countless organizations have begun investigating the Guardians of Terra. Intelligence agencies. Military units. They're searching for us. And they're patient. They're thorough. Eventually, someone will find us."
David's optical sensors flashed, blue light pulsing as it processed this assessment. "My lord, I believe your concerns are well-founded. The probability of eventual discovery approaches certainty given sufficient time."
Nolan nodded. "Which is why we need contingency plans. Multiple layers of preparation for the worst-case scenarios."
He gestured, and David projected several documents above the table's surface. Schematics. Maps. Operational outlines.
"I've designated these initiatives as the Relocation Plan, the Substitution Plan, and the Escape Plan. Each addresses different aspects of our vulnerability."
He pointed to the first set of documents. "Bucky, Old John. You'll depart within the week, traveling to Japan with two hundred Gang Dogs. Your primary objectives are assisting the Yashida family in fully consolidating their territorial control and eliminating any remaining threats to their stability."
Bucky leaned forward, studying the projected information. "And other objectives?"
"Establish a training facility. Remote location, defensible position, capable of housing and training new recruits. Additionally, we need a dedicated program for berserker candidates. Old John, that's your specialty."
The veteran grinned, his crimson beard still showing traces of stains that wouldn't quite wash out. "About time we started properly training the next generation. I've been wanting to build a real program for years."
Nolan's attention shifted. "David. You'll lead five hundred automatic servo robots to the Pacific Ocean. Deep water territory, well away from established shipping lanes. Your objective is locating an uninhabited island with substantial mineral deposits and beginning development of our second secret base."
David's head inclined in acknowledgment. "Understood. Once the facility reaches minimum operational status, we'll begin transferring equipment and personnel from the current location."
"Exactly. And the new facility's foundry needs to be upgraded significantly. Not just a workshop anymore. A full manufacturing plant capable of producing everything we need independently."
"The scale of such an operation will require substantial time and resources, my lord."
"I know. But we need backup systems. If this base falls, we can't risk losing it all."
Dr. Connors cleared his throat, the sound uncertain. All eyes turned toward him. The scientist shifted uncomfortably in his seat, one hand adjusting his glasses in a nervous gesture.
"I... I have a small request." His voice carried apologetic tones. "My regeneration serum research is entering the final critical phase. I can't afford distractions right now, and relocating the laboratory would set me back by months at minimum."
Nolan's expression softened slightly. "I understand, Doctor. Everything I've outlined is worst-case planning. We're not abandoning this base unless circumstances force that choice. You'll have time to complete your work."
Connors nodded, visible relief crossing his features. He settled back in his chair, tension draining from his posture.
Above the table, Raditus began to vibrate with barely suppressed excitement, the servo-skull's vox-grille crackling with static.
"My Lord Primarch! This is extraordinary! Not the potential loss of the base, of course, but the possibilities it opens!"
The skull spun in a tight orbit, whirring like an overclocked cogitator.
"New design authorizations! Additional machine patterns! Combat constructs, industrial labor frames, infiltration units—finally!"
The red optics flared like igniting plasma.
"And… you are granting me clearance for explosive ordnance development?"
"Limited clearance," Nolan clarified. "The base needs to be defensible if discovered. That means automated defenses, including explosive charges positioned strategically throughout the facility."
"Ah, I see! The Substitution Plan! Magnificent!" Raditus buzzed, excitement spiking.
"Populate the seemingly abandoned base with mechanical sentinels, and when investigators stroll in expecting an empty terrorist den…"
The servo-skull let out something disturbingly close to a delighted cackle.
"Surprise!"
"Something like that. The goal is maintaining the illusion that Guardians of Terra has been destroyed while we relocate to more secure positions."
Old John stroked his beard, nodding slowly. "Classic misdirection. Let them think they've won, claim victory over the evil terrorists, meanwhile we're establishing new operations elsewhere."
"Precisely. Though I'm under no illusions about how long that deception will hold." Nolan's expression became more serious.
He paused, considering his next words carefully. "Tony Stark already managed to find us through simple deduction and persistence. Other will be equally determined."
David's sensors pulsed. "My digital concealment efforts are effective within cyberspace, but they cannot alter physical evidence or prevent real-world investigation. Tracking operations require significant resources and patience, but several organizations possess both in abundance."
"Which is why we're implementing these plans now, before the pressure intensifies." Nolan's hands pressed flat against the table. "We work quickly, we work quietly, and we prepare for the worst while hoping for the best."
The meeting continued for another hour, discussing logistics, timelines, resource allocation. When it finally concluded, the attendees dispersed to begin their preparations.
The base, which had been bustling with activity following the operation's conclusion, gradually settled into focused quiet. People moved with purpose, but conversation was minimal. Everyone understood the stakes.
Nolan spent the first day after the meeting attending to personal matters that had been delayed too long.
He used the illusion dust, that remnant of the crystal Dario Agger had, which created convincing disguises, to conceal his distinctive features. To any observer, he appeared as a completely ordinary young man, unremarkable and easily forgotten.
Thus disguised, he traveled to the hospital where Jessica Jones remained under treatment.
The facility was private, expensive, the kind of place where discretion was valued as highly as medical expertise. He'd arranged for her care immediately after the pier incident, ensuring she received the best treatment available while maintaining complete confidentiality about her identity and circumstances.
The nurse at the reception desk barely glanced at him, accepting his visitor credentials without question. He made his way through sterile corridors to Jessica's room, his footsteps echoing softly against linoleum floors.
She was awake when he entered, sitting upright in bed, staring at a television mounted to the wall. News coverage, inevitably. The Mexican slum disaster still dominated every channel.
"Hey." Her voice emerged rough, still recovering from injuries sustained during her captivity.
"Hey yourself." Nolan pulled a chair closer to the bed, settling into it with a soft creak of metal legs against floor. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I got hit by a truck, dragged for a mile, then hit by another truck." Her attempt at humor fell flat, exhaustion evident in every word. "But alive. Which is more than I expected after..." She trailed off, not finishing the thought.
They sat in silence for several moments, the television providing background noise neither of them was actually listening to.
"Thank you," Jessica said finally. "For the rescue. For this." She gestured vaguely at the hospital room, the medical equipment, the care she'd been receiving.
"It's the least I could do. You were taken because of information I gave you."
"No." Her voice hardened slightly. "I was taken because monsters exist, and I got in their way. That's not on you."
Nolan didn't argue, recognizing the futility. He stayed for another twenty minutes, making small talk that carefully avoided discussing his recent activities or the global manhunt currently underway. When he left, Jessica was already drifting back toward sleep, exhaustion claiming her once more.
The visit provided some measure of closure, confirmation that at least one person had survived the recent chaos relatively intact.
But Nolan's more difficult task still awaited.
He returned to the underground base, emerging from the concealed entrance into the evening air of New York. The city had transformed while he'd been occupied with the operation's aftermath. Autumn had given way to early winter, temperatures dropping, the first hints of seasonal change visible in bare trees and gray skies.
He made his way to The Evening Heart.
Her aunt was cleaning tables when he arrived, his movements carrying the practiced efficiency of someone who'd performed the same tasks for years. She looked up as the door opened, her expression immediately shifting to concern when she recognized him despite the disguise.
"Nolan." She set down her cleaning cloth, crossing the dining area to meet him. "Are you alright? I've been trying to reach you for days."
"I know. I'm sorry. Things have been... complicated."
She studied his face, reading things he hadn't intended to reveal. "Come on. Sit down. I'll make tea."
They settled at a corner table, away from the windows, and Nolan began the conversation he'd been dreading.
"Auntie, I need you to leave New York."
Her hands stilled around the teacup she'd been preparing. "What?"
"It's not safe here anymore. Not for you. I've made enemies, powerful ones, and I can't guarantee they won't try using you to get to me." The words came out in a rush, faster than he'd intended. "I've arranged everything. A new restaurant in another city, fully funded, all the equipment you could need. You can continue your work, live comfortably, be safe."
May set down the teacup with deliberate care. "And you?"
"I'll visit when I can. But distance is necessary right now. Please, Auntie. I'm asking you to trust me."
She was quiet for a long time, her gaze distant, processing what he'd said and all the implications underneath. Finally, she nodded slowly.
"Alright. If you truly believe it's necessary."
"I do."
"Then I'll go. But Nolan..." Her hand reached across the table to grip his. "Whatever you're involved in, whatever you've done, be careful. Please."
"I will. I promise."
They talked through the evening, discussing logistics, making arrangements, saying things that needed to be said before distance separated them. When Nolan finally left, long after midnight, he carried the weight of another goodbye, another person moved to safety because proximity to him had become dangerous.
Weeks passed. November gave way to December. The investigation into Guardians of Terra continued but without significant breakthroughs. Public interest began to wane as newer scandals and crises demanded attention.
And on a cold morning when the first real snowfall of winter blanketed New York in white, The Evening Hearth closed its doors.
Nolan Aunt had departed three days earlier, traveling under an assumed identity to a location known only to a handful of people. The restaurant sat empty, furniture covered with sheets, kitchen equipment packed away or sold.
On the front door, secured with tape against the metal security shutter, a sign hung in simple red letters:
FOR RENT
The neighborhood soon took notice.
Even though restaurants close all the time in New York, The Evening Hearth had a deep connection to the people around it. Its sudden closure—along with Nolan's aunt moving away—left the neighborhood shocked and confused
For Nolan, standing across the street in falling snow, watching the empty building, the closed sign felt like something more final. Another connection to normal life severed. Another step deeper into the path he'd chosen.
He pulled his coat tighter against the cold, turned away from The Evening Hearth, and disappeared into the winter morning.