Blue plasma screamed from the pistol's muzzle, so bright it painted the alley in harsh electric light.
Nolan lowered the weapon, his expression carved from stone. A few meters away, the Purple Man's corpse dissolved into ash and slag, the plasma's heat reducing flesh and bone to nothing but carbon smears on the pavement.
Behind him, David raised his metal head. Blue light flickered in his optical sensors as he inclined forward in something approximating a bow.
"My lord, I have identified the deceased's background."
Nolan raised an eyebrow and glanced back at the automaton. After a moment, he gave a slight nod. Permission granted.
"Metahuman. Male. Forty-two years of age." David's mechanical voice rolled out facts with methodical precision. "Common alias: Kilgrave. True name: Kevin Thompson."
He paused, processors organizing data.
"His history is complicated. No parents on record. Abandoned at the Red River Institute as an infant. As an adult, he appears to have worked as an intelligence operative for an unknown agency before going independent. He then used his abilities to travel extensively, leaving a trail of victims across multiple continents."
Blue light pulsed from David's eyes. Holographic images materialized in the air between them, cycling through a grim slideshow.
The Purple Man appeared in dozens of locations. New York. London. Tokyo. Paris. And in his wake, bodies. Victims throwing themselves from buildings. Victims turning on each other with knives and broken bottles. Victims with dead eyes and slack faces.
David continued his report without waiting for Nolan's response.
"Due to his consistent choice of attire, survivors have dubbed him 'Purple Man.' His crimes include: compelling humans to commit suicide, forcing victims to murder each other, sexual assault of numerous women, theft of high-value art and gemstones..." The automaton's tone carried a hint of something that might have been contempt. "His behavior was consistently reprehensible. The world is improved by his absence."
Nolan took a slow breath through his nose. "His power. It controlled people through speech, right? Verbal commands?"
David's head swiveled toward him. The holographic images vanished.
"After analyzing autopsy reports from various jurisdictions, I've identified traces of an unknown viral agent in multiple deceased victims. This pathogen appears to be the mechanism of control. In essence, the Purple Man was a mobile viral transmission vector. His commands were delivered through airborne particles carrying this engineered virus."
Nolan's eyes narrowed as he processed the information. After a moment of thought, he nodded.
"Create a file. Label it 'Metahuman'. Put all his information in there." His jaw tightened. "I have a feeling we're going to encounter more of these people. Better to start keeping records now."
He holstered the plasma pistol and turned to leave.
David's voice stopped him mid-step.
"My lord." The automaton's mechanical voice carried an unusual quality, something that almost sounded like amusement. "This is merely the appetizer. The Purple Man's abilities were not natural. Evidence suggests he was created."
Nolan's frown deepened. He turned back, fixing David with a sharp look. "Roxxon Industries? Their mystery compound again?"
"Affirmative. Eighty percent probability."
David's optical sensors brightened as he accessed deeper data files.
"The Red River Institute, where Kevin Thompson spent his formative years, has received consistent funding from an entertainment company called 'Vought International' for decades. This financial relationship dates back to World War II. While Vought officially has no connection to Roxxon Industries, I have uncovered several irregularities."
He paused, as if savoring the revelation.
"I believe Vought is a subsidiary of Roxxon, operating through multiple shell companies and intermediaries. Consider the logic: why would an entertainment corporation controlled by Roxxon maintain a money-losing orphanage for over half a century? Unless that orphanage generates value through other means. And now we discover that a metahuman emerged from this facility. One orphan with powers might be coincidence. But I suspect there are more."
The implications hung in the air like smoke.
"You're saying the Red River Institute is a laboratory," Nolan said slowly. "A facility for creating metahumans."
"I cannot state this with absolute certainty," David admitted. "However, I believe we can extract a sample from the iceberg. Expose a portion of the larger conspiracy. The pattern is too consistent to ignore."
Nolan stood silent for several seconds, his mind working through possibilities and probabilities. Finally, he looked up.
"Where is this orphanage?"
"A small rural town in Kansas, my lord."
Another pause. Then Nolan gave a curt nod.
"Understood. Continue the investigation. Dig deeper into Vought's connections. I want to know everything about that orphanage before we make a move."
"As you command, my lord."
Nolan didn't return home to sleep. His mind was too active, thoughts churning through the implications of what David had uncovered.
Back in his apartment, he sat cross-legged on his bed, staring at nothing.
After a long moment of hesitation, he opened the simulator interface again.
But he didn't start a new simulation. The emotional aftermath of the last one still sat heavy in his chest. He wasn't ready for another 'spiritual enema' as he'd come to think of them. The simulator had a way of making things far too real, too visceral.
He needed something safer. Something that wouldn't leave him running through Manhattan at three in the morning trying to outpace his own feelings.
His finger scrolled to the salvage function. He selected ten salvage attempts without overthinking it.
[Countdown to salvage completion: 9 hours, 59 minutes, 59 seconds]
The timer began its slow countdown.
Nolan watched the numbers tick downward for a few seconds, then closed the interface. He lay back on the bed, his gaze drifting to the window. Night still blanketed the city, Manhattan's lights creating an artificial constellation against the darkness.
His mind wandered through possibilities. An orphanage full of experimental subjects. A corporation playing god with children's lives. How many Kevin Thompsons had they created? How many others with different powers?
And what were they planning to do with them?
Sleep eventually claimed him, pulling him down into uneasy dreams.
The next several days fell into a rhythm.
Nolan salvaged. And salvaged. And salvaged again.
He needed a vehicle, something from the Warhammer universe that could cover long distances quickly. A Valkyrie assault carrier would be ideal, or even a Tauros rapid assault vehicle. Something that would let him reach Kansas without relying on commercial airlines or leaving a paper trail.
But his luck had apparently run dry.
The Solar Auxilia Void Armor had consumed all his good fortune. Now the simulator seemed determined to mock him with near-misses and consolation prizes.
He burned through one hundred and fifty hours of cooldown reduction time. The salvage results piled up in his inventory, useful but not what he needed.
[Salvage Harvest: Brand New Valhallan Ice Warrior Basic Kit (10 sets)]
Note: Produced on Valhalla. "Commissar Bob, don't be stupid, you're already freezing..." - persuasion from a soldier of the 246th Valhallan Regiment.
[Salvage Harvest: Brand New Cadian Shock Trooper Basic Kit (20 sets)]
Note: Produced on Cadia. "I say again, Cadia will never fall... unless the Despoiler himself comes." - Last transmission before the Fall.
[Salvage Harvest: Battle-Tested Laspistols (5 units)]
Note: Manufactured by the Adeptus Mechanicus. Please don't disrespect them... their machine spirits still endure.
Salvage Harvest: Brontian Longknives Combat Blades (100 units)
Note: Manufactured on the Hive World of Bront. "You call this scrap a blade?" — remark from a veteran of the 5th Brontian Longknives, accompanied by a sardonic thumbs-up.
[Salvage Harvest: Attilan Rough Rider Standard Saddles (10 sets)]
Note: Produced on Attila. If you can tolerate the smell... congratulations, welcome to the Rough Riders.
[Salvage Harvest: Aghimidor Ogryn Hunter Standard Kit (10 sets)]
Note: Produced on Aghimidor. "One head, two heads, three heads... don't worry, I just like green heads." - Ogryn counting Ork kills.
[Salvage Harvest: Miasman Redcowls Standard Kit (10 sets)]
Note: Produced on Miasma XV. "Toxic fumes... the ultimate experience." - Last words of a Miasman trooper.
[Salvage Harvest: Astartes Standard Rations (10 portions)]
Note: Manufactured by the Adeptus Mechanicus. Warning: mortals should not attempt consumption. Will break teeth and perforate intestines.
Nolan took a deep breath as he scanned through the dizzying array of salvaged equipment.
He wasn't upset. Couldn't afford to be. None of it was useless, after all. When the time came to train an actual force, he'd have more gear than he could possibly need.
"I could outfit soldiers until I die and still have equipment left over," he muttered, selecting another ten salvage attempts.
He stood from his desk, stretching muscles that had grown stiff from sitting. Time to head down to the secret base. Maybe David had uncovered something new about Vought or the orphanage.
His phone buzzed on the desk, the vibration loud against the wood.
Nolan grabbed it without looking at the screen. "Hey, Aunt. What's going on?"
He listened for a moment, his expression shifting from neutral to puzzled.
His frown deepened.
"Huh? My classmates?"