Nolan was naturally quite satisfied with Reditus's demonstration, his earlier skepticism completely dispelled by the practical results.
The flying vehicle met or exceeded every requirement he'd outlined. More importantly, the optical camouflage system represented technology he hadn't even thought to request, a genuine innovation rather than mere competent execution.
In truth, his requirements for any flying vehicle had always been relatively simple and straightforward.
First and foremost, it needed to be durable. Robust construction that could withstand damage and continue functioning. The longer the operational endurance, the better. He had no patience for equipment that required constant refueling or maintenance.
If the craft also provided fire support capabilities and other special tactical effects, naturally more was better. Additional weapons were always welcome, expanding his options in any engagement.
But if those extras weren't feasible within reasonable constraints, it genuinely didn't matter that much to his core mission profile.
After all, most of the time Nolan operated by wearing his power armor, descending from the sky like an avenging angel wreathed in righteous fury, then killing whatever enemies stood before him in brutal close combat. His fists and weapons did the real work. The vehicle was simply transportation to get him where the killing needed to happen.
Not long after the initial demonstration concluded, Nolan and Reditus fell into detailed technical discussion about the flying vehicle's finer points. They debated structural reinforcements, power distribution efficiency, weapon mounting configurations. The servo skull proved surprisingly receptive to feedback, actually listening rather than immediately dismissing suggestions as it once might have.
They also discussed timeline projections for when similar vehicles could be mass-produced, what bottlenecks existed in the manufacturing process, and how the upcoming base relocation might affect production schedules.
It was during this productive exchange that David's mechanical voice suddenly emanated from an automaton bee passing by the workshop's entrance. The small drone hovered near the doorway, its speaker crackling faintly.
"My Lord," David's tone carried subtle tension beneath its usual measured calm. "There are new 'little friends' in our underground passages asking for candy."
Nolan turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing with immediate understanding. His posture shifted subtly, muscles tensing beneath his clothing as combat readiness asserted itself.
With his arms crossed over his chest, he stared at the automaton bee floating in the air and responded with deliberate lightness that didn't match the coldness in his eyes.
"Are there any extra programs scheduled for Halloween that I'm unaware of? David, ensure the intruder mice don't escape. Have Jessica take the Gang Dogs and give our uninvited guests some appropriate 'candy' as a welcoming gift."
The automaton bee's optical sensor flashed once in acknowledgment before the drone darted away, disappearing down the corridor to relay orders.
Half an hour earlier, before the intrusion was detected, the night in New York had been proceeding normally.
Even though the evening air remained bitterly cold, winter's grip still firm despite the calendar claiming spring's approach, even though piles of dirty snow remained heaped on sidewalks where municipal services had failed to clear them properly, nothing could resist the enthusiasm of children celebrating Halloween.
Naughty kids dressed up as various monsters, superheroes, and pop culture characters flooded the streets. They moved in excited packs from door to door, clutching plastic pumpkin buckets and pillowcases, demanding the sweet candy that was their annual due.
Thanks to New York's century-long reputation for public security challenges, most conscientious parents quietly followed their children at a discreet distance. They lurked in the shadows or loitered on street corners, ensuring their offspring's safety while maintaining the illusion of independence the kids craved.
Of course, there were also many parents who chose a different philosophy entirely. They let their children grow wild and free like weeds, unsupervised and untended. As long as the kids managed to stumble home alive before dawn broke, that counted as the final victory of Halloween in their estimation.
A grim calculus, perhaps, but one that reflected certain harsh realities about the city.
However, as the old saying went with dark wisdom, it remained perpetually unclear which would arrive first: accidents or tomorrow. The future and disaster raced constantly, neither guaranteed to win.
Inside an expensive apartment belonging to a wealthy family in Midtown Manhattan, a scene of terrible violence had recently concluded.
The apartment itself was luxurious, all hardwood floors and high ceilings, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering spectacular views across a significant portion of Manhattan Island. The kind of place that cost millions just for the privilege of breathing its air.
In the brightly lit dining room, a table had been set for an elegant meal. Warm candlelight flickered from ornate candlesticks. Fresh flowers arranged in crystal vases provided color and the faint scent of roses and lilies. The table's surface gleamed with polish.
A large roasted turkey with crispy, perfectly browned skin sat on a serving platter as the centerpiece. It looked professionally prepared, probably catered from some upscale restaurant. Plates of steaming steaks and elaborate side dishes were arranged around it with careful presentation.
But nestled among these delicious-looking foods, creating grotesque contrast with the holiday feast, were other things.
The pale, severed head of the apartment's male owner had been casually thrown beneath a burning candlestick where wax dripped down like tears of mourning. His eyes stared sightlessly at nothing, expression frozen in the moment of death. Blood pooled beneath the skull, mixing with spilled wine.
Near the head, positioned with deliberate mockery, lay a single white thigh. The limb clearly belonged to the female owner of the apartment, judging by its slender form and the remains of expensive clothing still clinging to the flesh. The voluptuous curves and smooth skin suggested someone who'd maintained their appearance through wealth and privilege.
At first horrified glance, it appeared there was only that one thigh present. The rest of the woman's body was conspicuously absent, presumably scattered in other rooms or disposed of entirely.
"Butcher, can you not be so bloody and cruel every single time?" A voice complained loudly, breaking the silence. "It's really disgusting to witness your work!"
The speaker was a middle-aged man with long white hair that fell past his shoulders. His face appeared haggard, skin stretched thin over prominent bones, eyes shadowed with exhaustion or perhaps something darker. He sat at the table as if this were a normal meal, picking up one of the flower arrangements. He stuffed the rose petals into his mouth and chewed them repeatedly, grinding the organic matter between his teeth.
His face twisted with distaste as he continued his complaint.
"You could obviously kill them with a single punch, end it quickly and cleanly. Why torture them? Why even..." He gestured vaguely at the dismembered remains. "Why go to such lengths with the mutilation?"
"Mr. Nitro," a deep voice responded with deliberate patience, "you were the one who determined this apartment's location was ideal for observing most of Manhattan Island. You knocked on this family's door and demanded entry. Yet now you complain about how cruel my methods prove to be?"
The speaker was a muscular man standing nearly two meters tall, his physique almost grotesquely developed. Every muscle was clearly defined beneath his tight clothing, suggesting inhuman strength. Most distinctive was his bald head, which bore a large metal plate covering approximately half his skull. The cybernetic implant gleamed dully in the candlelight.
The man called Butcher slightly turned that augmented head, fixing the complaining Nitro with an utterly indifferent stare. His eyes held no remorse, no shame, nothing but cold pragmatism.
"Weren't most of the people you killed throughout your past career innocent civilians as well?" Butcher continued softly, his tone almost conversational. "Random targets eliminated to prove points or send messages. We are fundamentally the same, you and I. The only difference is I'm honest about what I am."
Then, with deliberate provocation, he raised one rough, callused hand. His thick fingers closed around the severed thigh resting near his place at the table. He rubbed the limb slowly, almost sensually, clearly savoring the texture of skin that remained as delicate and smooth as silk even in death.
"Damn you, Butcher!" Nitro's voice rose sharply, face flushing with sudden rage. "You still have the audacity to make comparisons?"
He slammed his palm against the table, silverware jumping with the impact.
"If you didn't slaughter people wherever you went, leaving trails of mutilated corpses like some kind of deranged artist, why would we be hiding so desperately right now? Answer me that!"
Nitro leaned forward, white hair swaying with the movement as his agitation grew.
"We entered North America from Europe with completely legal status and documentation! Proper papers, established covers, everything arranged perfectly. If it weren't for your compulsive murder sprees drawing attention, why would S.H.I.E.L.D. agents keep pursuing us so relentlessly? We could have operated freely for years!"
His voice cracked slightly with frustration and fear.
"Leviathan has fallen so far from what it once was! They actually found a perverted killer like you and made you a member of the Zodiac. It's pathetic. We used to be professional agents, trained assassins, and precise executioners working for a cause. But at least we maintained some humanity in our operational methods!"
Nitro gestured wildly at Butcher, his movements becoming more erratic.
"Look at your series of actions since joining us! Where is your humanity? Where is any restraint or strategic thinking? Even if hell genuinely exists somewhere, even if demons literally walk in torment through eternal flames, those creatures would kneel down and kowtow in respect to acknowledge you as their superior!"
Perhaps it was Butcher's calm rebuttal that struck a nerve. Perhaps it was the other man's deliberate, almost sexual caressing of the dismembered thigh. Perhaps Nitro had simply reached his breaking point after weeks of running.
Whatever the specific trigger, the middle-aged man's face suddenly transformed. Color flooded his pale cheeks with unnatural speed.
A trace of bright energy fluctuation suddenly jumped and sparked in the depths of his eyes, visible as actual light rather than mere metaphor. His long white hair began dancing and floating without any wind to move it, defying gravity as power built within his body.
His entire body's skin began glowing faintly, heat radiating outward in visible waves. The temperature in the room spiked noticeably, candle flames bending away from him.
The expressionless Butcher simply picked up the white thigh he'd been fondling and a large carving knife from the table. He gripped both like weapons, the blade gleaming sharp and the bone within the limb sturdy enough to serve as a club.
His already muscular body began expanding further, clothes straining against suddenly growing mass. It was as if some transformation was taking hold, muscles swelling with inhuman power. He crouched slightly, balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to pounce at the slightest provocation.
The air between them crackled with imminent violence.
"Nitro! Butcher! Calm down this instant!" A third voice cut through the tension like a knife.
Just as open conflict seemed inevitable, just as powers prepared to unleash and blood prepared to spill, something changed beneath their feet.
The polished wooden floor under both men suddenly erupted with sticky brown mud. The substance appeared like a quagmire opening in solid ground, defying all natural laws as it bubbled up from nothing.
The viscous mud moved with obvious purpose and terrible speed. It quickly covered both Butcher and Nitro's entire bodies, flowing up legs and torsos to encase them completely. Only their mouths and noses remained exposed for breathing, everything else sealed in hardened earth.
At the same time, a tall figure also composed of that same sticky mud slowly emerged in the brightly lit dining room. The form rose from the floor itself, pulling substance from somewhere to build mass and shape.
Within seconds, the mud condensed and transformed into a young man wearing cowboy-style clothing: denim jeans, worn boots, a leather vest over a simple shirt. Around his neck hung a golden cross on a heavy chain, the religious symbol gleaming incongruously against his earth-stained appearance.
"Magnum! Release me this instant if you have any courage!" Even encased in hardened mud with only his face exposed, Nitro still found breath to shout his outrage. "What right does someone who just recently joined Leviathan and achieved Zodiac status have to command us? When I was traveling around the world completing missions and building my reputation, you were still playing in literal mud somewhere in South America!"
His voice carried genuine fury mixed with contempt for this younger operative.
In contrast, Butcher kept his mouth firmly closed. Even his breathing rhythm slowed deliberately, conserving energy and oxygen. His eyes tracked the newcomer with cold assessment, calculating options without wasting breath on pointless complaints.
The next second, the young man called Magnum glanced at the human remains scattered across the dining table and still clutched in Butcher's trapped hand. His expression remained utterly blank, showing neither disgust nor approval at the carnage.
He snorted coldly, the sound carrying clear disdain.
"Instead of staying here killing each other like rabid dogs and inevitably attracting S.H.I.E.L.D.'s attention with your noise and stupidity, you might as well save your energy for actual combat missions," Magnum said in a low, controlled voice. "Channel your aggression toward productive ends."
His mud-created form solidified further, becoming more human in appearance with each passing second.
"If Leviathan's strategic plan to attract, infiltrate, and ultimately absorb or destroy the Guardian of Terra organization fails because of you two idiots fighting amongst yourselves, then your best choice would be to never return to base. Don't even think about setting foot on the European continent again."
Magnum's eyes hardened as he continued.
"Because the leader of the Zodiac, Gemini, can tolerate tactical accidents and operational setbacks in any plan. Unexpected complications are part of warfare. But Gemini absolutely cannot and will not tolerate reckless idiots who sabotage missions through incompetence or lack of discipline."
He paused, letting that threat sink in fully. Both trapped men understood exactly what Gemini was capable of doing to operatives who failed.
Then Magnum's expression shifted slightly, something almost like satisfaction crossing his features.
"And while you two wastes were staying here wallowing in self-pity and pointless conflict, I've been productive. I used my unique talents to actually locate the suspected primary lair of the Guardian of Terra! The base we've been searching for since arriving in this cursed city."
His voice carried undisguised pride now.
"They really did choose to hide in densely populated urban areas as our intelligence suggested."
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