[Ku'gath's massive head vanishes in the melta bomb's explosion.]
[The blast is blinding, consuming everything in a sphere of superheated destruction. The daemon's flesh vaporizes, its bones turn to ash, its very essence torn apart at the molecular level.]
[From deep in what remains of its throat, full of maggots and corruption, a final whine escapes. Unwilling. Defiant. But inevitable.]
[Ku'gath's soul returns to Nurgle's Garden, cast back into the Warp to reform over centuries or millennia.]
[You don't survive the blast.]
[The violent explosion and flames consume you completely. Your body is vaporized, reduced to less than ash. Just particles scattered on the wind.]
[You are dead.]
[This simulation has ended. Duration: 49 days.]
[This simulation offers retainable rewards.]
[1. Leman Russ Tank Driving Manual (Complete Edition)]
Note: "Brakes? Do you need those? I only know how to push the accelerator!" - Last words of a Cadian tank commander
[2. Mathieu's Servo-Skull (Relic Quality)]
Note: "This is the only remaining relic of the War Apostle. Please treat her well."
[3. Mark IV Precision Bolter (Relic Quality)]
Note: "This weapon contains the Emperor's wrath. It is His reward for destroying the plague."
[This simulation exceeded 24 hours. Simulator cooldown penalty is not waived.]
[Cooldown time: 49 hours]
[Currently available cooldown reduction: 289 hours]
[Consume cooldown reduction time?]
[Cooldown reduction not consumed. Simulator entering natural cooldown (can be overridden at any time).]
The simulation ended.
The reward options appeared before Nolan, text glowing in his vision.
The moment he saw the bolter among the choices, an enormous smile split his face.
"Finally!" he practically shouted, his excitement overriding his usual stoicism. "Finally!"
In his elation, Nolan completely forgot about the flying vehicle he'd been desperately seeking. The bolter drove every other thought from his mind.
He didn't even glance at the other options. Didn't consider, didn't deliberate.
His hand moved to select the precision bolter, and reality obliged.
Weight materialized in his hands. Cold metal, beautifully machined, heavy beyond belief. The bolter was enormous, its bulk impressive even against Nolan's enhanced physique.
He held it up, turning it slowly, examining every detail with an expression bordering on worship. The craftsmanship was exquisite. Every angle, every surface, every component was perfect.
A grin spread across his face, unbidden and uncontrolled. He looked almost drunk with joy.
He took a deep breath, then sprinted from the lounge, bolter clutched in both hands, heading straight for the base's firing range.
At the range, Nolan forced himself to slow down. To think. To prepare properly.
He stood with his feet wide apart, knees slightly bent, weight distributed evenly. His soles pressed firmly against the floor, seeking maximum stability. Every muscle in his body tensed, coiling tight.
The bolter's recoil was legendary. World-famous, really. Except for specialized models built specifically for mortal use, most bolters were standard-issue weapons for Astartes. Space Marines. Eight-foot-tall posthuman warriors in power armor.
Nolan was strong. Enhanced by the simulator, by whatever the Emperor's blessing had done to him. But he wasn't Astartes. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
This was going to hurt.
He raised the bolter, lined up his sights on the target David had constructed from construction debris, and gently squeezed the trigger.
The weapon roared.
The sound was unlike anything else. Not the crack of a lasgun or the boom of conventional firearms. This was deeper, more violent. The bolt shell ignited as it left the barrel, accelerating to supersonic speeds in meters.
The recoil slammed into Nolan like a freight train. Despite his stance, despite his preparation, he was driven backward a full step, boots scraping across the floor.
The target exploded. Simply ceased to exist. The mass-reactive warhead detonated on impact, and the dummy vanished in a shower of debris and smoke.
Nolan's face flushed red. His arms screamed in pain, muscles burning from the strain.
And he laughed.
Zehahahahaha….
A sound of pure, unrestrained joy burst from his throat. He couldn't help it. The pain was worth it. God, it was so worth it.
This was a fucking bolter. A real bolter. In his hands. His weapon now.
He raised it overhead with both arms, laughing even harder, grinning like a madman.
The price for that single shot became apparent quickly. His right arm, which had borne most of the recoil, showed several radiating bruises spreading from his shoulder like cracks in ice. The tissue damage was significant.
"Need to wear the carapace armor to use this properly," Nolan muttered, examining the injury with clinical detachment despite his continued grin. "And I definitely can't use full-auto mode. That would snap my arm like a twig."
Unless he acquired power armor with proper recoil compensation and force feedback systems, or underwent the Astartes enhancement surgeries, he'd never be able to wield the bolter with the casual ease of a Space Marine.
But that was fine. He wasn't greedy.
The bolter and his chainsword. Two weapons from the Imperium of Man. It fulfilled a small wish, a fantasy he'd had since the simulator first activated.
Satisfied, Nolan carefully carried the bolter to the equipment room and placed it alongside his other gear. The chainsword. The void armor. The plasma pistol. His growing arsenal.
Then he turned and left the base, heading home with a spring in his step.
Minutes later, Nolan walked through his apartment door, humming tunelessly to himself.
His aunt sat on the living room sofa, phone pressed to her ear, engaged in what sounded like a serious conversation. She glanced up as he entered.
Nolan smiled and gave a small wave, then quickly crossed the living room and retreated to his bedroom.
He flopped onto his bed, pulling out his phone with the intention of finding a movie. Something mindless and entertaining to cap off this excellent day.
A knock at his open door interrupted that plan.
Nolan looked up. His aunt stood there, her expression subdued, almost melancholy.
He propped himself up on his elbows. "What's wrong, Aunt? Something happen?"
She shook her head slowly, then sighed. "Just... life's unpredictability catching up with me. I just got off the phone with an old friend. Someone I've known for years passed away. An accident, apparently."
Nolan nodded, offering a platitude without much thought behind it. "That's life, I guess."
His aunt's expression shifted instantly, eyes rolling. "The rice you've eaten isn't as much as the salt I've eaten. Don't lecture me about life, boy."
She started to turn away, then paused, remembering something.
"Oh, I almost forgot. Big Mouth Mike's brother died. The funeral kept getting postponed for over a month, but they've finally set a burial date. Don't make any plans tomorrow. You're coming with me to pay respects. Understood?"
Nolan sighed heavily, resignation in every line of his body. "Yes, ma'am. As you command."
"Good boy." His aunt's voice faded as she walked away, muttering something about respect and proper upbringing.
Nolan fell back onto the bed with enough force to make the frame creak and sway. He stared at the ceiling, mind wandering.
No flying vehicle meant his investigation into Red River Institute was stalled. He'd have to find another approach, or wait for better salvage luck.
The simulator's cooldown wasn't long. He could run another simulation soon if he wanted.
Madam Gao should have the weapons ready by now. He wondered how many she'd managed to acquire. Quality over quantity, hopefully.
After the funeral tomorrow, maybe he'd visit her. Check on the gang consolidation efforts, see how the territory integration was proceeding.
His eyelids grew heavy as his thoughts scattered and reformed. The day's excitement was catching up with him.
He twisted onto his side, found a comfortable position, and let sleep take him.
Night descended over New York. The city quieted, though it never truly slept. Even in the darkest hours, some activity continued. But Nolan's neighborhood settled into relative peace.
Deep beneath the apartment building, in the secret base's equipment room, something stirred.
The bolter, placed carefully on its storage rack, suddenly emitted a low, resonant hum.
The sound was barely audible, more felt than heard. A vibration that seemed to bypass the ears entirely and resonate in the bones.
Then, from within the weapon's mechanisms, a tendril of black mist emerged. Thin as a thumb, dark as void, it curled into the air like smoke from incense.
It hung there for a moment, writhing slowly.
Then it began to spread.