The base hall's lights burned with harsh, unforgiving brightness, casting everything in sharp relief. No shadows offered comfort. No dimness softened the edges of what they were witnessing.
Above the metal round table, holographic images floated in crystalline clarity. Real-time battlefield footage transmitted through David's network connection, processed and displayed for all to see. Every detail visible. Every moment of violence preserved with documentary precision.
Six hours had elapsed since the evacuation operation began.
Six hours that felt simultaneously like minutes and like years, time distorting under the weight of watching distant violence unfold in real-time with no ability to intervene.
The combat team had advanced approximately three kilometers into the slum's interior. Three kilometers purchased with blood and ammunition, every meter contested. Two defensive lines had been established and were being maintained, but barely. The positions required constant reinforcement, constant vigilance, constant expenditure of resources and human endurance.
Civilian evacuations numbered somewhere between ten and twenty thousand processed through the official channels, verified and cleared by ultraviolet light and silver weapons. If the count included those who'd simply fled on their own initiative, running without waiting for verification or organization, the total approached fifty thousand.
Fifty thousand lives saved.
Against a population of hundreds of thousands still trapped in the danger zone, it was merely a beginning. A drop removed from an ocean.
And the Blood Coven had adapted.
The footage showed their new tactics with brutal clarity. Rather than simply attacking the defensive lines, they'd begun systematically slaughtering civilians in areas not yet reached by the evacuation effort. Public executions designed to shock and terrorize those who might otherwise flee. Blood ran in the streets, deliberate sacrifices that served both tactical and magical purposes.
Simultaneously, they deployed their accumulated reputation and influence. Years of operating in the slums had earned them a certain twisted credibility. Now they weaponized it, spreading lies through the remaining population. The armed forces weren't here to save anyone. They were here to drive people from their homes, to destroy the community, to serve interests that didn't care about the poor.
Some civilians believed it. Enough believed it.
The Thrall, those mindless corrupted thralls, swelled in number as civilians voluntarily submitted to transformation rather than face the uncertainty of evacuation. They became cannon fodder, flesh barriers thrown against the defensive lines in waves that seemed endless.
David stood motionless beside the metal round table, a statue of burnished metal and glowing optical sensors. The images continued to flow from its eyes, projecting upward in shifting patterns that tracked multiple battlefield perspectives simultaneously. Its voice emerged in that characteristic measured tone, devoid of emotion but not uncaring. Simply factual.
"My lord, Gang Dog casualties remain limited. No deaths yet, but twenty-three soldiers have sustained serious injuries requiring medical evacuation. The automatic servo robots have performed within expected parameters. Fifty-seven have temporarily withdrawn from combat due to mechanical failures or weapon overheating. They are conducting self-diagnostics and field repairs."
The Man of Iron's head tilted fractionally, processing additional data streams. "The fifty-six heavy combat servitors have not yet been deployed. Command authority has been delegated to Bucky and Old John, allowing them to release the servitors based on their independent assessment of battlefield conditions."
A brief pause, then David continued. "However, the Blood Coven's mobilization efforts have proven highly effective. A significant number of civilians have been mentally compromised, transformed into Thrall. Additionally, our aggressive engagement tactics have created an unintended tactical advantage for the enemy. The more we kill, the more blood accumulates on the ground. Blood priests who have lost their physical bodies are exploiting this environment, using the abundant blood supply to perform increasingly powerful rituals and manifestations."
Something that might have been approval entered David's voice, though the tone remained neutral. "The combat teams have developed effective countermeasures. Flamer units are systematically burning corpses and evaporating blood pools, denying the priests their primary resource. Lasgun teams have discovered that concentrated fire on individual blood-manifested priests limits their regeneration capabilities. Each priest appears able to reconstitute their form three to four times maximum before the coherence breaks down, reducing them to inert pools of coagulated matter."
"Old John is currently organizing a decapitation strike team equipped with freezing grenades. His objective is to locate and eliminate the enemy's command structure, thereby reducing pressure on the forward defensive positions."
Throughout David's report, Nolan sat perfectly still at the metal round table. His posture appeared relaxed, almost casual, but something in the set of his shoulders betrayed the tension underneath.
His right hand rested on the table's surface. One metal-clad finger began to tap. Slowly at first. A rhythmic drumbeat against the polished metal.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The sound was dull, heavy, each impact resonating through the table and into the floor. The tempo remained steady, mechanical in its precision, but somehow conveying more emotion than any dramatic gesture could have managed.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Perhaps it was the accumulated weight of that persistent noise, each tap like a hammer blow against already-frayed nerves. Perhaps it was the images still playing above the table, showing another civilian cut down by a priest's blood magic, another Gang Dog thrown backward by an explosion, another building collapsing under the weight of sustained fire.
Tony Stark surged to his feet with sudden violence. He turned toward the base passage without a word. His face was set in hard lines, jaw clenched tight enough to ache.
"Stark." Nolan's voice cut through the space between them, calm and cold. "What are you planning to do?"
Tony didn't look back. He kept walking, his footsteps heavy against the floor. "I can't just sit here watching this happen. I'm going to the battlefield. I'm going to help." His voice carried an edge of desperation, of someone who needed to act or break under the pressure of inaction. "Even if I can only save one person, it's worth it."
His mustache trembled slightly, a small tell of the emotional storm beneath the surface.
"Save your energy." Nolan's tone remained level, almost conversational. "In a large-scale war of extermination against a supernatural threat, your presence won't significantly alter the situation. You might reduce some soldier casualties. You might boost morale temporarily. But those are responsibilities they already bear. That's the purpose for which I trained them."
His words landed with the weight of absolute certainty, brooking no argument.
They had the opposite effect.
Tony spun around, the armor pivoting with him. His eyes were wide, bloodshot from strain and lack of sleep and the sheer emotional overload of the past hours. When he spoke, his voice cracked slightly with barely contained fury.
"Damn it! There's no such thing as 'should be responsibilities'! How can you just send your people to die? You..."
"Stark." Nolan interrupted without raising his voice, without showing even a flicker of anger on his features. "You're not a soldier. You're not an agent. You may never truly understand what responsibility means. What sacrifice means. But you need to at least learn basic respect."
He remained seated at the metal round table, his posture unchanged, his expression still carrying that same neutral calm that was somehow more intimidating than any display of rage could have been.
"I told you from the beginning, Stark. Everything you would see after entering this base would exceed your concepts and your imagination. You insisted on coming in anyway."
His eyes fixed on Tony with that unwavering cyan gaze, and when he continued, his voice carried a note of something that might have been sympathy. Or simply clinical observation.
"Anger. Shame. Fear. These are normal physiological reactions when facing this kind of warfare. After becoming a superhero, you've witnessed many tragedies. You've developed a conscience that wants to do good. But you've never truly set foot on a life-or-death battlefield." He paused, letting that sink in. "Sacrifice, loyalty, fighting until death. These are the final destinations for human soldiers and agents. This is what it means to stand between civilization and chaos."
Nolan raised one hand, pointing toward a side passage. "Stark, if you genuinely want to end this situation as quickly as possible and save more human lives... do you see that corridor? Third underground level. My Tech-Priest may need your assistance. This would allow you to utilize your true nature as a technological genius and make a genuine contribution to this war effort."
The silence stretched between them, taut as a wire pulled to breaking point.
Tony stood there, chest heaving with rapid breaths. His hands flexed at his sides, opening and closing into fists, a physical manifestation of someone trying desperately to regain control over spiraling emotions.
He stared at Nolan for a long moment. Reading something in that impassive face, or perhaps failing to read anything and drawing his own conclusions.
Finally, without another word, Tony engaged his flight systems. Repulsors flared to life, lifting him off the floor. He shot toward the passage Nolan had indicated, disappearing into the corridor leading to the foundry workshop on the third underground level.
The sound of his propulsion systems faded gradually, leaving behind only the ambient hum of the base's machinery and the soft whisper of David's projectors.
"My lord," David said quietly, its optical sensors still displaying battlefield footage even as part of its attention remained on the conversation. "I have notified Raditus that assistance is incoming."
A pause, then: "But will your actions just now..."
"David." Nolan's voice remained calm, but there was a note of finality in it. "I know what you're concerned about. Stark won't become a threat to us. His character has flaws, certainly. But I believe in his conscience. He simply hasn't escaped the limitations of his superhero mindset. He hasn't truly grown up yet."
His finger resumed its tapping against the table surface. Tap. Tap. Tap.
"So I gave him an opportunity. And I'll continue giving him opportunities in the future. What he does with them, how he processes and understands what he's learning... that's up to him."
Across the metal round table, Blade shifted slightly. his head tilted just fractionally, as if reassessing Nolan through those ever-present sunglasses. But true to his nature, he offered no verbal commentary. No judgment. He simply observed, absorbed, and kept his thoughts to himself.
Nolan didn't waste energy trying to decipher the agent's internal monologue.
"My lord," David continued, its voice taking on a more analytical quality. "According to my calculations and battlefield projections, the Gang Dogs should maintain combat effectiveness through the first twenty-four hours without major difficulties. However, the rate of civilian evacuation will continue to decrease as we advance deeper into hostile territory. Based on continuous analysis of current battlefield conditions and enemy adaptation patterns, after seventy-two hours we will have successfully evacuated approximately two hundred thousand civilians at maximum."
The Man of Iron paused, letting that number hang in the air. Two hundred thousand saved. Against hundreds of thousands who would remain.
"The Blood Coven's control over the slum districts is considerably tighter and more comprehensive than our initial intelligence suggested."
Nolan's finger stopped its tapping.
He sat in silence for a long moment, head slightly bowed, eyes distant. Processing. Calculating. Accepting.
Then he straightened abruptly, the movement decisive and final. The blue power armor moved with him as he rose to his full height, servos humming their familiar accompaniment.
"David." His voice carried command authority now, the tone of someone who'd made a decision and would see it through regardless of consequences. "Load the Land Raider onto the Valkyrie. Prepare it for immediate deployment."
He turned fully toward the Man of Iron, his eyes blazing with that lupine cyan intensity. "Simultaneously, deploy all available automated surveillance drones over the battlefield. Use them to locate the Blood Coven's primary nest, their command center, wherever their leadership is coordinating from."
His lips pulled back slightly, not quite a smile but showing teeth nonetheless. "I'm going to personally deliver them an appetizer gift before the main course of the extermination order arrives."
The tapping had stopped.
The waiting was over.
Nolan was going to war.