The lounge on the underground base's first level was quiet, peaceful, the kind of silence that felt earned after violence and chaos. Nolan sat cross-legged on his metal bed, the frame creaking slightly under his weight despite its reinforced construction.
He'd just finished washing, hot water sluicing away dried sweat and the lingering smell of combat. His short gray hair remained damp, countless water droplets clinging stubbornly despite his attempt to towel dry. Occasionally one would break free, sliding along his neatly trimmed temples before landing on the full, bulging muscles of his thighs with soft taps.
He wore only a white bath towel wrapped around his waist, the fabric warm and slightly rough against his skin. The air in the lounge was cool, comfortable, conducive to rest.
Nolan could now use the ganglion tissue's functions to maintain consciousness for extended periods without traditional sleep. Days, potentially, though he hadn't pushed the limits to discover his true endurance ceiling.
But during free time, he still preferred maintaining fixed schedules and routines. Structure provided psychological benefits that transcended pure physiological necessity. Humanity required rhythms and patterns to maintain sanity.
After ten minutes of sitting motionless, the remaining water droplets on his body had mostly evaporated, leaving his skin dry and slightly cool.
In one hand he held a thick book, its cover worn from handling. The title, embossed in fading gold letters, read "Observations of the Universe: A Rogue Trader's Chronicle." The author's name had worn away entirely, lost to time and use.
Nolan, wearing an expression of comfortable contentment, slowly reclined on the metal bed. The surface was cool against his bare back, the temperature differential pleasant rather than shocking.
He opened the book to where he'd left off, a page marker indicating his progress. He'd barely read three sentences when something occurred to him with sudden urgency.
Without ceremony, he tossed the heavy tome beside his pillow. It landed with a solid thunk, pages ruffling briefly before settling.
Then he opened the simulator interface without hesitation, the familiar display materializing in his consciousness with practiced ease.
Nolan narrowed his eyes slightly, his fingertips making gentle scrolling motions as he navigated mental menus. He entered the simulator's salvage page, where pending results awaited review.
All salvage tasks he'd selected previously had completed their processing cycles. Ten ordinary salvages and one designated salvage, all ready for harvest.
Nolan first checked the items obtained from the ten ordinary salvage attempts. His expression soured slightly as he read the results.
Expired food supplies. All ten of them. Ration packs whose best-by dates had passed decades or centuries ago, rendered worthless by time. Completely useless except perhaps as historical curiosities.
He dismissed those results with mental gestures and focused on the designated salvage harvest, the one that had consumed substantial resource time investment.
[Specified Salvage Countdown: Zero]
[Designated Salvage: Power Fist Gloves]
[Salvage Harvest: Power Fist Gloves - Fist of Belial (Relic)]
[Annotation: "This is a finely crafted power fist from the Blood Ravens Chapter. This extremely destructive but slow-attacking weapon is usually installed on Terminator Armor for enhanced close-quarters combat capability."]
[Annotation: "It is said this weapon was forged by the Blood Ravens Chapter in memory of Belial, Grand Master of the Dark Angels' Deathwing Company. The Blood Ravens hoped to honor all battle-brothers worthy of wearing Terminator Armor, holding the Dark Angels' First Company as the ultimate combat model for Terminator teams."]
[Annotation: "This power fist was finally lost on the eve of an expedition into uncharted regions. It experienced countless magnificent cosmic phenomena that even Astartes rarely witness, and allegedly reached distant extragalactic regions beyond the Imperium's borders."]
[Annotation: "'The above information is provided by the ancient machine soul residing within this weapon. Veracity and accuracy cannot be guaranteed...'"]
[Annotation: "'Power fists hold no secrets!' declares the ancient machine spirit emphatically."]
The series of annotated text made Nolan, still lying on the metal bed, blink several times in succession. His expression shifted through confusion, interest, and cautious skepticism.
He reread the annotations about the power fist carefully, checking each line twice, looking for specific warning signs or red flags.
No mention of Chaos contamination. No suggestion of daemonic taint or corruption. No warnings about dangerous side effects or cursed properties.
The weapon appeared clean, at least according to the simulator's analysis.
Nolan decided to extract the exquisite power fist called the Fist of Belial and examine it properly.
A few seconds later, reality rippled. Space folded. Something massive materialized directly on his chest with sudden weight that drove the air from his lungs in a surprised grunt.
The enormous power fist glove possessed a dark green metallic luster across its surface, the color somewhere between forest shadow and deep ocean. The craftsmanship was immediately apparent even to non-expert eyes: perfectly fitted plates, seamless joints, intricate mechanisms visible through narrow gaps.
The immense weight forced Nolan to sit up abruptly from the metal bed, his abdominal muscles flexing with effort. The power fist had to mass at least fifty kilograms, possibly more, concentrated in a relatively compact form.
He carefully grasped the weapon with both hands, feeling cold metal against his palms. The temperature was significantly below ambient, suggesting internal heat sinks or exotic materials with unusual thermal properties.
Nolan examined the power fist from multiple angles, turning it slowly, studying its construction with genuine curiosity.
"Tsk... the annotations claimed there's a machine soul residing in this weapon," he muttered to himself, speaking aloud to the empty room. "I've never actually encountered a genuine machine soul before. Not that I'm aware of, anyway."
He paused, feeling slightly foolish but committed to the experiment.
"Uh... hello? Machine soul? Are you there?"
Silence. Not even a subtle vibration or temperature shift.
Nolan listened intently for several seconds, straining for any response: mechanical sounds, electrical hums, psychic whispers, anything that might indicate consciousness residing within the weapon.
Nothing whatsoever.
After finding no response of any kind, Nolan began physically examining the power fist more actively. He tapped the dark green metal shell with his knuckles, the impacts producing hollow ringing sounds that echoed in the small room.
Ting ting ting...
Then he attempted moving the massive metal fingers, each one as thick as an ordinary person's wrist. The digits were locked in place, immobile without power systems engaged. Hydraulics and servo-motors remained dormant.
But throughout his examination, there was never any sign of the so-called machine soul's existence. No response to stimuli, no autonomous movement, no indication of awareness.
"Hmm... maybe the machine soul is some form of weak artificial intelligence," Nolan reasoned aloud, thinking through possibilities. "Perhaps it requires connection to Terminator Armor power systems before it can truly activate and manifest consciousness."
He nodded to himself, satisfied with this explanation.
"Forget it. I'll send this to Raditus. As a Tech-Priest, he's far better qualified to determine whether a machine soul actually exists within this weapon."
Nolan, having failed to produce any meaningful interaction, slowly relaxed his furrowed brow. The frustration of unsuccessful communication faded, replaced by pragmatic acceptance.
He rose from the bed, the bath towel adjusting slightly around his waist, and moved toward the lounge door. Opening it revealed an empty corridor, but he knew automatic servo robots patrolled constantly on various maintenance schedules.
"Robot! Attend!" His voice carried clearly down the hallway.
Within seconds, an automatic servo robot rounded the corner, its mechanical tentacles moving with characteristic efficiency. The machine approached and stopped before Nolan, awaiting orders.
"Take this power fist to Servo-Skull Raditus in the foundry workshop immediately," Nolan commanded, placing the heavy weapon carefully into the robot's tentacles. "Handle with appropriate care. This is potentially valuable relic technology."
The servo robot's tentacles wrapped around the power fist securely, gripping at optimal stress points to prevent damage or dropping. It turned smoothly and departed down the corridor at efficient speed, carrying its precious cargo toward the foundry levels.
Nolan watched it disappear around the corner, then closed the lounge door with a soft click. He returned to the metal bed, lying down with practiced ease, and attempted entering proper sleep cycle despite his body no longer strictly requiring it.
Old habits persisted for good reasons. Sleep provided mental benefits that wakefulness couldn't replicate, allowing subconscious processing and psychological integration of experiences.
Hours later, Nolan woke naturally, feeling refreshed and energized.
He rose from the bed with fluid grace, tall body moving with coordinated precision. After dressing in casual clothing, he picked up the universe chronicle book he'd barely started reading and walked out of the lounge carrying the tome under one arm.
The brightly lit base hall greeted him with its usual harsh illumination, the overhead fixtures creating an environment of perpetual artificial day. Shadows fled before that light, leaving nowhere to hide.
At a glance, Nolan spotted David directing operations from near the metal round table. The Man of Iron was coordinating with non-staff personnel through internet connections, managing the complex web of legitimate businesses that provided cover and funding for their actual operations.
Imperial Heavy Industries, the newly established conglomerate that had integrated numerous smaller companies and industries, required constant guidance and oversight. The organization had just entered the public eye following its announcement regarding Staten Island reconstruction, drawing both praise and scrutiny.
Nolan stepped forward and settled into a seat beside the metal round table. The chair creaked slightly under his weight, metal grinding against metal.
After he reviewed the business information David displayed through holographic projections, watching data streams and financial reports scroll past, a thought occurred to him with sudden clarity.
"David, I've decided to hold a roundtable barbecue meeting," Nolan announced abruptly, his voice carrying quiet satisfaction. "We haven't done one in far too long."
David's optical sensors brightened with interest, focusing fully on Nolan.
"The event serves multiple purposes," Nolan continued, warming to the idea as he articulated it. "First, we celebrate the successful completion of the gang dogs' first combat mission. They performed exceptionally well, exceeded expectations on multiple metrics. That deserves recognition and celebration."
He ticked off points on his fingers.
"It also provides opportunity to deepen relationships between team members, build camaraderie and trust through shared positive experiences rather than just combat stress."
"Second, we give Old John a proper welcome ceremony. The man's been here since returning from Asgard, and beyond becoming friends with Bucky who lives in the adjacent quarters, he's barely interacted with other team members. That's inappropriate for someone who's now a permanent fixture here."
David, seated across the metal round table, accepted the proposal with obvious pleasure. Something in its posture suggested satisfaction, though precisely how a mechanical being conveyed such emotions remained mysterious.
"An excellent decision, my Lord," David said, its mechanical voice carrying warmth. "I will begin preparations immediately."
It shook its metal head slightly, terminating information connections with non-staff personnel. External business could wait. Internal morale took precedence.
Then David began issuing commands to automatic servo robots, directing them to transport food and beverages from the material storage rooms. The machines scattered immediately, moving with purpose toward supply areas.
Nolan, increasingly enthusiastic about the upcoming event, activated his communication device and called his aunt at The Evening Hearth restaurant.
"Aunt, I need you to prepare everything in your kitchen," he said when she answered. "I'm booking all available food for a private event. Large quantities. Variety is important. This is preparation for a major celebration."
His aunt's pleased response crackled through the speaker. She enjoyed these opportunities to demonstrate her culinary skills on larger scales, and the payment was always generous.
Approximately one hour later, the preparations reached completion.
Teams of gang dog members, now wearing clean uniforms rather than combat armor, emerged from the second underground level's living quarters. They moved in organized groups under Bucky and Old John's leadership, conversations flowing easily despite maintained discipline.
Simultaneously, Servo-Skull Raditus, having received notification of the event, quickly drove its anti-gravity engine away from the autonomous foundry operations. It emerged into the base hall with obvious curiosity, optical sensors sweeping across the preparations.
Even Dr. Connors, who normally never cared about anything occurring outside his laboratory's walls, had been personally persuaded by Nolan to attend. The scientist appeared slightly uncomfortable in the social setting but willing to make the effort.
The usually deserted underground base transformed into something alive and vibrant. Voices echoed off metal walls. Laughter punctuated conversations. The smell of cooking food filled the air, replacing the usual industrial scents of oil and ozone.
Automatic servo robots shuttled through the growing crowd like tireless waiters, distributing drinks and food to everyone present. They moved with practiced efficiency, never colliding despite the cramped quarters, treating themselves as disposable furniture and tools rather than entities deserving personal space.
Seeing that everyone had basically gathered, that the stragglers had arrived and found places, Nolan rose from his seat. He held a transparent wine glass in one hand, the crystal catching light and throwing rainbow refractions.
He stood beside the metal round table, now laden with various foods his aunt had prepared: roasted meats, fresh breads, exotic fruits, traditional dishes. The spread was impressive, generous, celebratory.
Nolan tapped the smooth table surface with one sharp fingertip, the contact producing clear metallic sounds.
Ting! Ting! Ting!
The extremely crisp collision noise immediately attracted everyone's attention like a bell calling students to class. Conversations faltered, then ceased entirely. The noisy base hall fell silent within seconds.
Countless eyes turned unconsciously, focusing firmly on Nolan, who stood smiling with obvious pleasure. Anticipation hung in the air like physical substance.
Nolan took a deep breath, his chest expanding fully before releasing the air slowly. He blinked once, organizing his thoughts, then slowly raised the transparent wine glass held in his palm.
"There is a fine tradition in our organization," he began, his voice carrying clearly across the hall, "that has been maintained for a short time but must absolutely be passed forward to future generations. The welcome ceremony we call the roundtable barbecue meeting."
He paused, meeting eyes throughout the crowd.
"It's held whenever new members join our team. The purpose is simple: consolidate trust and relationships between everyone through eating and drinking together, and provide opportunity to relax minds that remain tense during normal operational periods."
Nolan's expression grew more serious, his tone shifting to something contemplative.
"To be honest, our team has been growing steadily and becoming stronger with each passing month. There are hundreds of people physically present here alone. If we add the many non-staff members who serve us indirectly through various capacities, the total number becomes even more substantial."
He gestured broadly, encompassing everyone.
"This growth is one result of everyone's collective hard work and dedication. I hope everyone can maintain and nurture what we've built together."
Then his smile returned, lighter and more playful.
"Of course, there's absolutely no need to discuss work issues during entertainment time. Tonight is for celebration, not business meetings."
Nolan raised his glass higher.
"Let us first welcome the berserker Old John, who comes from the ancient extraterrestrial civilization of Asgard." He paused, his expression turning comically distressed. "Though I must admit, I genuinely don't know Old John's full name. He's never mentioned it, and I've been too embarrassed to ask directly."
The admission, delivered with perfect comedic timing, immediately triggered low laughter throughout the assembled crowd. The joyful sound slowly echoed through the entire base hall, building and sustaining itself, feeding on collective amusement.
As everyone's attention turned, following Nolan's gesture, they found the subject of discussion.
Standing in the corner of the base hall, somewhat apart from the main crowd, the one-eyed elderly man wearing a simple black training suit couldn't help but grin widely. His weathered face creased with genuine pleasure.
Old John's muscular frame shook with laughter first, the sound deep and genuine. Then he shouted loudly toward Nolan's position, his voice carrying easily over the ambient noise.
"Haha! Nolan, you young fool, thank you for the flattery!" His single eye gleamed with mirth. "I appreciate the sentiment more than you know! My current life here makes me feel like I've returned to the easy days when I first joined Asgard's military legions, before responsibilities and politics complicated everything!"
His expression shifted slightly, becoming more mischievous.
"Of course, all you people who are laughing and enjoying yourselves need to remember: tomorrow means doubled training intensity! I'm quite looking forward to witnessing the first true human berserker being born from among your ranks! The potential exists; we simply need to forge it properly!"
Old John suddenly raised his single arm high, the limb corded with muscle despite his age.
"That's all this old man has to say! The rest of my blessings and good wishes are contained in this wine! I drink to you all!"
Without hesitation, he brought the transparent wine glass to his lips and drained it completely in one long swallow. His throat worked, Adam's apple bobbing, until the last drop disappeared.
"Cheers to Old John! Cheers!" The response was immediate and thunderous.
Everyone present raised their glasses toward the elderly Asgardian warrior, then drank heartily. Some finished their drinks in single gulps matching Old John's example. Others took deep swallows, draining half or more of their beverages.
The automatic servo robots immediately began circulating again, refilling empty glasses with practiced efficiency. Within minutes, everyone held fresh drinks, ready for the next toast.
Nolan, his smile now brighter and more genuine, raised his voice again as the atmosphere grew increasingly warm and convivial.
"Next, I want to celebrate that all gang dog members have successfully completed their first combat mission!" His tone carried pride and satisfaction. "Your performance exceeded all reasonable expectations. You demonstrated discipline, courage, tactical flexibility, and genuine brotherhood under fire."
He met the eyes of several gang dogs standing nearby, their faces showing pleased embarrassment at the praise.
"I won't elaborate with excessive compliments because your actions speak far louder than my words ever could. Just know that you've proven yourselves worthy of the investment made in your enhancement and training."
Nolan's grin widened.
"So tonight, everyone can drink and eat as much as they want! No restrictions, no limits, no judgments! Enjoy yourselves fully!"
He raised his glass one final time, voice dropping to something more solemn and ceremonial.
"For humanity's future... and for the Emperor's vision of what we might become..."
Then, returning to the celebratory tone: "Everyone, eat and drink well!"
The base hall erupted with cheers, glasses raised high, voices joining in enthusiastic chorus. The celebration had truly begun.
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