The rain had not stopped, but the battle was already over.
When the last body fell, Nolan stood in the silence, his hand trembling slightly as he looked down at it. For a moment, a wave of emptiness washed over him.
"I've only been in this world for a few months," he whispered to himself, voice low and bitter. "How did it come to this? How did I end up killing so many people?"
But this was no choice of his own. The world had forced his hand, pushing him into blood and fire. Nolan's expression hardened. He could never give up what belonged to him, yet there were always people coveting his creations, circling like vultures. Against them, there was no compromise. Only retaliation.
He shook his head, pushing away the weight of unwanted thoughts. Leaving the smoldering ruins of the Irish gang's hideout, Nolan commanded his mechanical soldiers to scatter and circle around. Caution was survival. He would not leave behind trails that could easily be followed.
Only after making sure no one was tailing him did Nolan slip away, heading alone toward the hospital where Jessica Jones lay recovering.
Inside the dim room, Jessica was asleep, her breath calm and steady. Nolan stepped closer, gently brushing the hair from her forehead. His heart tightened.
"There won't be a next time," he murmured, voice heavy with promise. "I swear it."
That night, Hell's Kitchen descended into chaos.
When the Aryan Brotherhood had been wiped out earlier, it could still be explained away the group wasn't strong, their influence mediocre compared to other syndicates. But the Irish mob? They were different. They were one of the powerhouses of Hell's Kitchen, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the most feared gangs. Even Wilson Fisk, the infamous Kingpin, had to tread carefully around them.
And yet, in less than half an hour, their headquarters had been reduced to ashes. Their leader, Finn Cooley, had been slain. No survivors.
What unsettled the criminal underworld the most was not just the speed of the destruction, but the mystery. No one knew who had carried out the massacre. Rumors spread that the attack had something to do with Nolan Locke, heir of Locke Industries, but that was all anyone could confirm. The truth remained hidden in shadow.
At S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, a familiar file was placed before Agent Phil Coulson.
"Boss," an agent reported, "the Irish mob has been annihilated. They were one of the dominant factions in Hell's Kitchen, and now they're gone overnight. At the crime scene, we recovered a large number of bullet casings and even evidence of rocket launchers being fired. From the aftermath, this was no small skirmish. It was full-scale urban warfare. But you know how it is none of the local gangs are willing to cooperate with our investigation."
Coulson leaned back, exhaling through his nose. He already knew Hell's Kitchen too well. That district was a sewer, a cesspool where every kind of criminal gathered from New York's street thugs to entire syndicates stretching across the country.
And truthfully, the government had long since stopped trying to wipe them out. Even if one nest of gangsters was cleared, another would sprout overnight. So the politicians had settled on a compromise: control the chaos by letting certain gangs grow strong enough to enforce a twisted kind of order. Established gangs knew the rules. They understood restraint.
But now, with two syndicates destroyed in quick succession, that balance had been shattered.
Coulson tapped the folder with his finger. "And how certain are we that this connects to Nolan Locke?"
The agent hesitated. "It's hard to say. But boss, I'm telling you this Nolan Locke is hiding something. Something big."
Coulson glanced up at him. On the surface, it sounded like empty speculation, but his instincts told him otherwise. The evidence was thin, yet Nolan's name kept circling these bloody incidents like a shadow that refused to disappear.
And then there was the machine the combat robot recovered from the wreckage. S.H.I.E.L.D. had already begun analyzing it. The results were troubling. The armor composition didn't match any known Earth alloys. Its design was far too advanced, almost alien in nature.
Of course, Coulson didn't share that last conclusion. Instead, he rubbed his temples and gave his order.
"Keep this quiet. Assign two agents to monitor Nolan Locke. If Locke Industries stirs up more trouble, I want to know about it immediately."
He sighed heavily. "Hell's Kitchen… what a nightmare."
Meanwhile, Nolan remained oblivious to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s scrutiny. His focus was elsewhere on Jessica, who was recovering with astonishing speed.
When he had been shot, it took him nearly a month to regain his strength. Jessica, however, was already moving around after two weeks. Within a month, she was walking, jumping, almost fully restored.
Her resilience stirred both admiration and envy in Nolan. But he knew: every enhanced human was unique. No one could copy another's path. Jessica had gained her powers after surviving a horrific accident struck by a truck carrying volatile chemicals. Her parents had died instantly, while she alone survived, awakening with abilities no one could predict.
It was not a fate anyone would willingly choose.
During those quiet weeks, Nolan caught glimpses of the larger world on television. One night, the screen filled with images of the Hulk rampaging through a city. Cars and even tanks were tossed aside like toys, leaving devastation in his wake.
Nolan's breath quickened. He frowned deeply.
So this was the world he lived in. A world of gods and monsters. And the Hulk was only the beginning.
Jessica noticed his unease and tightened her grip on his hand. "What's wrong?" she asked softly.
He pointed at the green giant on the screen. "Do you think that guy is strong?"
Jessica snorted. "Of course he is. Ten of me couldn't do what he just did."
Her answer only deepened Nolan's thoughts. "Then tell me… what if one day that monster brings the fight to our doorstep? What happens to us then?"
Jessica chuckled, shaking her head. "You worry too much. That'll never happen."
But Nolan didn't laugh. For him, the question wasn't hypothetical. It was a warning.
His SAR-1 combat robots were serviceable for ordinary battles, functioning as reliable infantry. But against beings like the Hulk? They were nothing. He needed more. He needed weapons designed not for humans, but for superhumans.
Tony Stark, arrogant as he was, had proven something vital: the right technology could stand against gods. His Mark series armors were absurdly expensive, but undeniably effective.
"I need high-end weaponry," Nolan muttered, resolve settling in his eyes.
He excused himself from Jessica and descended into his underground laboratory. For hours, he poured over the endless catalog of his system, filtering designs, comparing costs, searching for a weapon that could give him even a fraction of the Hulk's deterrence.
Finally, he found it.
The T-800.
A battle robot pulled straight from the world of Terminator.
Just one complete design cost fifteen billion tech points far beyond his current means. He didn't even have a hundred million. But he could start with a frame, a basic prototype, and improve from there.
And he had a plan. At the upcoming military expo, he would seize the opportunity to acquire the Red Queen, the advanced artificial intelligence from the Resident Evil universe. With her control, the T-800 could be deployed with terrifying efficiency.
Perhaps he could even sell the military on a contract, securing funding while building his own unstoppable army.
A perfect plan.
For Nolan, the future was clear. If gods walked the Earth, then he would build machines to rival them.
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