Archive of Our Own ^beta

PROJECT P.E.G.A.S.U.S. — NEW MEXICO DESERT — NIGHT

The New Mexico desert was alive with panic.

The sprawling S.H.I.E.L.D. research facility, usually a sterile fortress of order, now looked like an anthill someone had just kicked over. Men in suits barreled down corridors with laptops tucked under their arms. Soldiers in combat gear hustled crates of sensitive equipment onto waiting Humvees, tires shrieking against the sand as convoys peeled out into the night. Above it all, a disembodied voice blared from hidden loudspeakers: “All personnel evacuate immediately. Priority Alpha. This is not a drill.”

Out of the black sky, a helicopter swept in low, rotors chopping the air into a deafening roar and kicking up waves of grit that stung the skin.

On the landing pad below, Agent Phil Coulson stood with his hands neatly clasped behind his back, unbothered by the dust storm swirling around his polished shoes. His dark suit was impeccable, his sunglasses even more so, and he regarded the approaching helicopter with the faintest ghost of a smile — the kind of expression that suggested he might be thinking about what to have for dinner later.

The chopper touched down hard enough to shake the ground. The side door swung open and Deputy Director Maria Hill jumped down first. Every inch of her radiated cool, tactical precision — her navy uniform spotless, her hair pulled back, her sidearm already resting at her hip like she might need it in the next thirty seconds.

Close behind her came Director Nick Fury himself, striding out of the helicopter with the long, deliberate steps of a man who could order a nuclear strike without breaking stride. His black trench coat whipped in the desert wind as he stalked toward Coulson, one eye glinting with irritation that was only partly about the dust.

“How bad is it?” Fury demanded before his boots had even stopped moving.

Coulson gave a polite little shrug, his voice calm. “That’s the problem, sir. We… don’t actually know yet.”

Fury stopped, fixed him with his good eye, and growled, “You know I hate it when people lead with ‘we don’t know.’”

“Yes, sir,” Coulson replied smoothly. “That’s why I kept it short.”

Fury grunted, clearly deciding it wasn’t worth wasting a glare on him, and motioned toward the facility doors. “Walk and talk.”

—

The air inside was thick with ozone and urgency. Staff scrambled through the radiation section of the building, white lab coats flapping behind them as they carried what little they could salvage. Overhead, sirens wailed and red warning lights pulsed along the walls.

Coulson led the way, Hill and Fury at his heels.

“Dr. Selvig picked up an energy surge from the Tesseract about four hours ago,” Coulson began. His tone was casual, almost conversational, as if he were discussing a minor scheduling conflict.

Fury’s brow furrowed. “NASA didn’t authorize Selvig to test anythin’ tonight.”

Coulson shook his head, adjusting his tie. “He wasn’t testing it. He wasn’t even in the room. The Tesseract just… turned itself on.”

Hill’s eyebrows shot up. “I’m sorry — it did what?”

“Spontaneous event,” Coulson clarified. “Nobody touched it.”

Hill glanced sideways at him, deadpan. “That’s… not ominous at all.”

“Current levels?” Fury asked, his voice low.

“Climbing,” Coulson admitted. “When Selvig couldn’t shut it down, I called for an evac.”

Fury’s jaw tightened. “How long to get everybody out?”

Coulson hesitated just a beat too long. “Campus should be clear in the next half hour.”

Fury stopped in his tracks and leveled him with a look that could’ve peeled paint. “Half an hour? Coulson, do I look like I got half an hour to you?”

Coulson straightened his tie again and said without missing a beat, “No, sir. You strike me as more of a ten-minute man.”

Fury’s lip quirked. “Damn right. Do better.”

Coulson gave a little nod — a tiny bow of acquiescence — and peeled off to start issuing sharper orders.

Hill stayed at Fury’s side as they descended a stairwell toward the lower levels.

“Sir,” she said quietly, “evacuation may be… futile.”

Fury glanced at her, one brow arching. “Oh, here we go. Do tell.”

“If we can’t control the Tesseract’s energy,” she continued, keeping her voice even despite the tension in her jaw, “there may not be a minimum safe distance.”

Fury stopped halfway down the steps, fixing her with a flat stare. Then he said, deadpan, “So what I’m hearin’ is… we tell everybody to go back to bed and just hope it don’t blow us all to hell?”

Hill blinked. “That’s not what I—”

“Good,” he cut her off with a wave of his hand. “Cause I already told Coulson we’re on a ten-minute clock, and if I tell him to reverse the evac now, he’ll have a damn aneurysm.”

She exhaled, almost a sigh. “I just thought you should know the risks.”

“Oh, I know the risks. I also know the mission. Which reminds me…” Fury glanced down the hall toward a row of steel security doors. “I need you to make sure every last Phase Two prototype is on a truck and rolling before this thing cooks us alive.”

Hill’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Sir,” she asked evenly, “is that really a priority right now?”

Fury turned his head and gave her that look — the one that could shut down even the most skeptical senior agent. “Until such time as the world ends, Hill,” he said, his voice dropping into a growl, “we will act as though it intends to spin on. So get down there, clear out every damn piece of Phase Two tech, and get it movin’. You understand me?”

Hill’s expression didn’t change — not much, anyway. A faint trace of her usual dry wit slipped into her voice as she replied, “Crystal clear, sir.”

“Good.”

Hill spun on her heel and snapped at two nearby agents in tactical vests. “You heard the Director. With me. Let’s move.”

The trio jogged off toward the restricted labs, Hill already barking orders as she went.

Fury stayed behind for a moment, staring down the corridor toward the pulsing blue light of the Tesseract chamber. His eye narrowed at it, and under his breath he muttered, “You keep actin’ up, and I’m gonna find a way to put your ass in a box.”

Somewhere deep in the building, a crackle of alien energy flared as though it had heard him.

And he did not look impressed.

—

Nick Fury pushed through the double doors into the heart of the lab, the last place anyone sane wanted to be tonight.

The room was still packed with blinking monitors, humming machines, and that unnatural blue glow from the Tesseract sitting at the center of it all like a smug little star. But most of the scientists had already bolted — running past him in a steady stream, clutching clipboards, bags, or nothing at all — leaving behind only the handful of personnel who either didn’t mind dying horribly or were too stubborn to care.

Fury stopped just inside, boots planted, trench coat swaying behind him as his one good eye swept the chaos.

“Talk to me, Doctor,” he said, his voice low and even, which somehow managed to make everyone in earshot freeze.

From behind a large, humming machine, Dr. Erik Selvig popped his head out, blinking as though just noticing there were other people in the room. His shirt was rumpled, his glasses slightly askew, and he wore the perpetual expression of a man who was only barely keeping the universe from collapsing out of spite.

“Director,” Selvig greeted dryly as he stepped into view, wiping his hands on his lab coat.

“Doc,” Fury said with a faint nod. “Is there anything — and I mean anything — we know for certain right now?”

Selvig didn’t smile, but something like dark humor danced in his eyes. “The Tesseract is… misbehaving.”

Fury stared at him for a long beat, his good eyebrow arching up like a weapon.

“Is that supposed to be funny?” he deadpanned.

Selvig tilted his head slightly, as though considering it. “No,” he replied, his Scandinavian lilt making it sound almost philosophical. “No, it’s not funny at all. The Tesseract isn’t just active… she’s misbehaving.”

Fury exhaled through his nose and muttered, “Well, damn. That’s what I was afraid you meant.”

Selvig was already walking toward a nearby workstation, gesturing for Fury to follow. “We tried pulling the plug,” he explained, tapping commands into a keyboard. “Shut off the power. But she…” His shoulders rose in a helpless shrug. “…she just turns it right back on. Like she knows better than we do.”

“She.” Fury’s tone was dry enough to parch the desert. “We’re genderin’ the cosmic death cube now?”

Selvig shot him a quick, faint grin, then pointed at the readouts. “If she reaches peak levels, Director… well. There won’t be enough left of this building to argue semantics over.”

Fury folded his arms and leaned over the monitor. “We’ve prepared for this, Doc. Harnessin’ energy from space. That’s what all this is about, right?”

Selvig stopped typing long enough to glance up at him, his expression grim.

“We don’t have the harness,” he said flatly. “Our calculations are far from complete. And now she’s throwing off interference. Radiation. Not lethal, yet, but… low levels of gamma.”

Fury gave him a long look, unimpressed.

“Gamma,” he repeated, his voice dropping into a growl. “You’re standin’ here tellin’ me it’s just ‘low levels’ like that don’t ruin somebody’s whole damn week. That can be harmful, Doc. You know that.”

Selvig muttered something in Swedish under his breath and turned back to his keyboard.

Fury straightened up and looked around the room, spotting a familiar figure crouched high on the catwalks above — all shadows and sharp angles. “Where’s Barton?” he asked.

Selvig snorted without looking up. “The Hawk? Where else?” He gestured vaguely skyward. “Up in his nest. Watching. Brooding. You know.”

Fury smirked faintly and tapped his earpiece. “Agent Barton,” he called, his voice low. “Report.”

From above, Clint Barton stepped into the light — black tactical gear blending him into the beams and railings. Without a word, he holstered his bow, hooked a rappelling line to the rail, and slid smoothly down to the floor.

He landed without so much as a thud and started walking toward Fury, hands casually at his sides like he wasn’t armed to the teeth.

“You wanted eyes on,” Clint said coolly as he approached. “I see better from a distance.”

“Uh-huh,” Fury grunted as the two of them fell into step, circling the edge of the lab in that quiet, predatory way that made everyone else instinctively move out of their path. “So, tell me — you see anything that might set this thing off?”

Barton’s eyes flicked up to the glowing Tesseract, then back down. His voice stayed low, steady. “No one’s come or gone. Selvig’s clean. No contacts. No IMs, no calls. If there was any tampering, sir… it wasn’t at this end.”

Fury frowned, one brow rising. “‘At this end,’ huh?”

Clint gave a little shrug and glanced back at the cube. “Well… it’s a door to space, right? And doors…” He looked back at Fury, his mouth curling in a faint smirk. “…doors open from both sides.”

Fury didn’t say anything, just stared at the Tesseract with a look that promised it better not try anything stupid while he was in the room.

On the other side of the chamber, Selvig muttered something under his breath as he pounded keys.

Fury’s ear caught just enough to hear him whisper, almost to himself: “Not yet…”

That was enough to make his fingers twitch toward his gun.

—

The monitor flashed red. Then white. Then black.

Every eye in the room shot to the Tesseract, which suddenly began to pulse brighter, its glow building into an almost deafening hum that rattled the machines around it. The air went sharp and cold, the scent of ozone filling everyone’s lungs as the cube lifted an inch off its pedestal and cracked reality open.

The whole facility thundered.

Topside, Maria Hill was halfway to the transport trucks when the tremor hit. She froze mid-step as the ground rumbled beneath her boots, snapping her gaze toward the main dome, where an unnatural light now shot skyward like a beacon. She tapped her comm.

“Coulson?” she barked.

Across the floor above the lab, Coulson steadied himself against a railing, already pulling his sidearm. His sunglasses were gone now — this wasn’t the kind of situation you wore shades for.

“I see it,” he replied evenly, his voice barely audible over the roar. “And I don’t like it.”

Below them, the Tesseract’s glow suddenly exploded, sending a rippling ring of blue energy through the air. People were flung backward as though struck by hurricane-force winds. The blast punched a hole through the ceiling in a swirling vortex of color and sound, and space itself seemed to open — vast and terrible and infinite — through the portal forming above the platform.

Nick Fury didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.

From the swirling chaos stepped a figure — tall, graceful, draped in green and black, his cape billowing as he landed lightly on the platform. A golden horned helmet gleamed under the blue light. His mouth curled into a grin as he surveyed the devastation around him, spinning a long, sinister scepter in his hand.

But then the grin faltered slightly. Everyone was staring at him like he was just another problem to clean up.

Fury was the first to speak. “Sir,” he drawled, already pulling his sidearm, “I’m gonna have to ask you to put down the glow stick of destiny.”

Loki tilted his head, one black eyebrow arching at the sheer audacity. Then, without a word, he leveled the scepter at Fury and unleashed a crackling blue blast of energy.

The Director was already moving.

Clint Barton slammed into him from the side, driving him to the ground as the blast ripped through the space where his chest had been. The two men rolled behind a console as energy crackled and sparked above them.

The room erupted in gunfire.

Agents opened up on Loki from every corner, bullets whining through the air. The trickster god merely raised his free hand and the bullets bounced. Sparks skittered harmlessly across his armor as he advanced, his grin returning.

“Is that the best your realm has to offer?” he called mockingly as he lashed out.

The scepter flashed and one of the agents was hurled across the room. Loki moved like water — graceful, lethal — driving his blade into a second guard’s vest and spinning to send another sprawling with the butt of the scepter.

Barton rolled, coming up in a crouch, loosing two arrows in rapid succession. The first clanged uselessly off Loki’s chestplate; the second he caught midair without even looking.

“You have heart,” Loki murmured as he seized Barton’s wrist, twisting his bow away with supernatural strength.

Clint gritted his teeth, trying to wrench free, but the Asgardian already had the tip of his scepter pressed to his chest. A cold blue light flared in Barton’s eyes — and then they went black.

He froze.

Loki smiled.

“Good,” he murmured. “You’ll do nicely.”

Around them, other agents faltered as Loki swept the scepter through the room, turning them one by one. Their eyes darkened, their faces slackened into calm obedience.

Behind a console, Fury edged along the wall, his hands slick on the Tesseract. He popped it free of its mount and slipped it into a metal case with practiced precision. He was halfway to the door before the Asgardian’s voice stopped him.

“Please don’t,” Loki said, his tone light but the weight behind it iron. “I still need that.”

Fury paused, then slowly turned, the briefcase still in his hands.

“This doesn’t have to get any messier,” he warned, his voice low and even.

Loki tilted his head, almost amused. “Oh, but it does. I’ve come too far for anything less. I…” he straightened, spreading his arms grandly, “…am Loki of Asgard. And I am burdened with glorious purpose.”

Selvig — who’d been crouched over one of his injured techs — finally looked up at that, squinting.

“Loki?” he muttered. “Brother of Thor?”

Fury didn’t take his eyes off Loki.

“We ain’t got no quarrel with your people,” he said.

Loki’s smile turned cold.

“An ant,” he replied, “has no quarrel with a boot.”

Fury’s lip twitched. “You plannin’ to step on us then?”

Loki’s grin widened. “I come with glad tidings. Of a world… made free.”

“Free from what?” Fury shot back.

“Freedom,” Loki said simply, as though explaining it to a child. “Freedom is life’s great lie. Once you accept that…” He turned, planting the scepter firmly against Selvig’s chest as the scientist froze, “…you will know peace.”

Selvig’s eyes darkened. His hands dropped to his sides.

Fury’s voice cut the silence.

“Yeah,” he said dryly. “You say peace, I kinda hear somethin’ else entirely.”

On the other side of the room, the Tesseract began to wail, its light growing brighter, its portal destabilizing.

Barton, now standing at Loki’s shoulder, glanced up at the ceiling, then leaned down to murmur, “Sir. Director Fury’s stallin’. This place is about to blow. Drop a hundred feet of rock on us. He means to bury us.”

Fury’s brow furrowed as he caught Barton’s glance. “Like the Pharaohs of old,” he muttered.

At a console, Selvig was furiously typing commands even as his eyes stayed blank.

“He’s right,” Selvig said calmly, his voice flat. “The portal’s collapsing in on itself. You have maybe two minutes before critical failure.”

Loki’s eyes gleamed as he looked back at Barton.

“Well then,” he murmured.

Before Fury could react, Barton whipped his pistol from his holster and fired.

The round slammed into Fury’s shoulder, spinning him sideways as the briefcase clattered to the floor. Barton stooped to snatch it up, already moving toward the exit as other controlled agents fell in behind him.

Fury lay on his side, clutching his bleeding shoulder, glaring daggers at Loki as the god of mischief turned one last, satisfied grin over his shoulder.

“Enjoy your freedom,” Loki purred as he strode out of the lab, his new army in tow.

—

The air outside the collapsing lab was a storm of dust, sparks, and shouting.

Clint Barton stalked out first, black tactical gear streaked with debris. His face was calm, unreadable, but his eyes—blackened by Loki’s control—glimmered with something alien. In one hand, he had his bow slung. The other was jabbing toward the row of utes lined up in the loading bay.

“These vehicles,” he ordered flatly to a pair of stunned agents. “Keys. Now.”

The agents froze, glancing at each other, and then at the figure behind Barton—Loki himself, striding casually out into the chaos like he owned it. The Asgardian’s horned helmet caught the emergency lights as he swung himself up into the flatbed of the nearest truck, that smug grin never leaving his face.

Hill was already on the scene, crouched behind a Humvee with her pistol drawn. She tapped her earpiece, her tone clipped. “Who is that?” she murmured, eyes narrowing at the sight of Loki stepping up into the truck bed.

Barton didn’t even look at her. He just threw himself into the driver’s seat, muttering, “He didn’t tell me.”

Rock and metal groaned overhead as the ground beneath them rumbled dangerously. Hill stood, backing toward another vehicle.

Her radio crackled, Fury’s voice low and sharp in her ear.

“Hill,” he barked. “You copy?”

Loki’s piercing gaze flicked toward her at the sound of the name, almost sensing the communication.

Hill hesitated just a second too long before she answered.

“This is Hill,” she said, voice tight.

“Barton’s turned,” Fury said bluntly.

That was all she needed to hear. She spun just in time to see Barton whip his pistol up and open fire.

Hill dove, rolling behind a Humvee as bullets cut through where she’d been standing. Barton vaulted down from the catwalk and into the driver’s seat, Selvig already sliding into the passenger side beside him, blank-faced and compliant.

Hill sprang up, returning fire, her rounds sparking off the tailgate as the truck peeled away, tires squealing.

Fury’s voice barked through her earpiece again. “They got the damn Tesseract! Shut them down!”

Hill didn’t even answer. She holstered her pistol, ripped open the door of a nearby ute, and threw herself behind the wheel.

The chase was on.

—

The tunnel was a screaming nightmare of falling rock and twisted steel. Hill rammed her truck into gear, headlights slicing through the darkness. In the truck ahead of her, Barton was focused, hands steady, as Loki crouched in the bed behind him like a king surveying his throne.

Hill gritted her teeth and leaned out her driver-side window just long enough to squeeze off a few rounds. Glass shattered on Barton’s side mirror. He didn’t flinch—just adjusted his grip and swerved. Loki, meanwhile, raised his scepter lazily and unleashed a crackling beam of blue energy straight into the road behind them.

The blast caught the agent tailing Hill full-on, sending the car flipping end over end in a ball of flame. Hill swerved to avoid the wreckage, the dashboard lights blinking wildly as rocks rained down from the collapsing ceiling.

In the wreckage of the lab, Fury was still moving.

He pressed one hand to his bleeding shoulder and dodged a cascade of sparks as he sprinted for the door, yelling into his comm.

“Coulson! Talk to me!”

On the stairs, Coulson was rallying a small group of agents. Cases full of data and equipment toppled down the steps as the ground gave another violent shake. One agent instinctively bent to grab them.

“Leave it!” Coulson ordered, his usually mild voice cutting through the noise like a whip. “Go! Now!”

They ran, Coulson not far behind, shouting into his radio. “Director, you’re clear! You need to move, now!”

Fury didn’t have to be told twice. He burst out onto the helipad just as his ride dropped low enough for him to jump aboard. The chopper barely lifted before the ground beneath the lab sank into itself, concrete and metal crumpling like paper.

Hill was still on Barton’s tail, tires shrieking as she closed the distance. She ducked low, firing straight through her own windshield to riddle Barton’s rear glass with holes.

Barton calmly reached up, popped a fresh clip into his sidearm, and returned fire—his shots punching through Hill’s hood and forcing her to swerve.

Loki turned then, raising his scepter high. With a flick of his wrist, he brought half the ceiling down on Hill’s truck.

The tunnel caved around her, and Hill’s truck skidded to a halt, stuck behind a mound of rock. Dust poured in through the shattered windows as she covered her head.

Above ground, the Tesseract’s energy finally reached a terrifying crescendo.

The blue light collapsed in on itself, forming a pinprick of white before detonating in a flash so bright it burned into Fury’s good eye. The entire facility imploded with a roar that rolled across the desert.

From several miles away, Coulson’s SUV rocked violently as the shockwave hit.

“Director? Director, do you copy?” Coulson called, voice cracking with static.

On the ground below, Fury picked himself up from the dirt, his trench coat smoking from the crash of his helicopter. He still had his pistol in his hand as he fired one last, futile shot toward the distant taillights of Barton’s truck.

Too far. They were gone.

Fury holstered his weapon and tapped his comm.

“The Tesseract is with the hostile force,” he said evenly, though his jaw was tight. “I’ve got men down. Hill?”

Hill’s voice finally came through, breathless, static-laced. “A lot of men still under. Don’t know how many survivors yet.”

Fury stood there a long moment, surveying the wreckage. The sky above was still glowing faintly blue from the energy cloud.

“Sound the general call,” he ordered coldly. “I want every livin’ soul not on rescue out lookin’ for that briefcase. Nobody rests till we’ve got eyes on it.”

Hill’s voice came back quick. “Roger that.”

Fury switched frequencies. “Coulson? Get back to base. This is a Level Seven.”

Coulson hesitated only a second before replying, his voice grim. “As of right now?”

Fury’s gaze narrowed on the horizon where Barton and Loki had vanished.

“We are at war.”

Coulson’s voice was quiet, but steady. “What do we do?”

Fury didn’t answer right away. He just stared out into the night, his expression unreadable, his mind already calculating the next move.

Finally, he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for the comm to pick up:

“…we get ready.”

And the thought struck him, sharp and clear.

It’s time… to bring them together.

—

The desert was quiet now, quiet in the way only a place that had just been torn apart could be. Smoke still rose in angry black spirals, wind carrying the bitter tang of scorched rock and melted steel.

Fury stood on a ridge of broken concrete, trench coat fluttering in the hot breeze. Below him, agents and medics moved like ants in the glow of work lights.

Coulson appeared at his side, hands in his pockets, tie straight, his mild expression giving nothing away but those sharp, clever eyes.

“You’ve got that look, sir,” Coulson said conversationally. “The one where you’re about to do something reckless but make me clean it up.”

Fury didn’t even glance at him. His one good eye stayed on the horizon, like he could already see what was coming.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Phil. You like cleaning up my messes.”

“Not wrong,” Coulson admitted wryly. “Who do you want?”

Fury finally pulled his gaze back to the field below and reached into his coat. He handed Coulson a data tablet. Coulson scrolled through the glowing list. Names he already half-expected — Stark. Rogers. Romanoff. Banner. Barton. Coulson’s brow rose slightly.

“And the other ones?” he asked.

That finally earned Coulson a sideways glance. Fury’s grin was slow, dangerous.

“You just can’t wait to see me play that card, can you?”

Coulson didn’t bother to deny it.

Fury reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a small, black-and-silver mirror — delicate but heavy, etched with faint runes that shimmered faintly under the desert stars.

Coulson’s expression barely shifted, but there was a faint glimmer of amusement.

“Ah,” he said softly. “That card.”

Fury turned away from the agents below, holding the mirror flat in his palm. “We’re gonna need every damn ace I’ve got left in the deck,” he murmured to himself.

He checked the shadows around him — no eyes on him — and leaned closer to the mirror.

Then he spoke the word.

“Marauder.”

The surface of the mirror rippled like water.

And far, far away… someone heard him.

—

DEEP SPACE — ABOARD THE MARAUDER

The Marauder cut through the endless dark like a sleek black blade, its crimson and gold decals catching stray starlight. The magically enhanced Assault Corvette thrummed with quiet power, its runed hull pulsing faintly every few seconds.

On the bridge, Harry Potter sat in the captain’s chair like he owned the stars, boots up on the console. His green eyes sparkled under the dim glow of the consoles.

He glanced up at the viewport, smirking faintly at the swirl of nebulae outside.

Around him, his wives each owned their corners of the bridge like queens on a chessboard.

At navigation, Daphne Greengrass — all icy elegance, her pale blonde hair falling over one shoulder — adjusted their heading with precise flicks of her fingers. She didn’t look up, her voice cool and crisp.

“Course is stable. For now.”

At gunnery, Susan Bones leaned back in her chair, legs crossed, fiery hair catching the light as she casually polished a blaster rifle. She shot Harry a sidelong look, her grin crooked.

“You’re bored,” she accused. “I can tell. You always sit like that when you’re bored.”

Fleur Delacour stood leaning against the bulkhead, her French accent lilting through the room as she braided her hair. Her smile was all fire and gold.

“Mon amour, bored or not, you always find trouble. Do not pretend otherwise.”

On the other side of the bridge, Val and Dacey Mormont were at the holo-chess table — Val in her light armor, a smirk playing across her face as she moved a piece.

“Check,” she drawled.

Dacey — all coiled strength and her trademark glare — moved her piece in retaliation. “Not yet.”

Allyria Dayne reclined nearby, her violet eyes fixed lazily on her datapad as her lips curved in faint amusement.

Shaak Ti meditated in the co-pilot’s seat, serene and composed.

Aayla Secura leaned against the edge of the console, her lekku curling slightly, her sharp smile playing on her lips.

And Riyo Chuchi stood near the viewport, her eyes narrowed as she sipped her drink. It was she who noticed first.

“The mirror,” she murmured, voice soft and chime-like. “It’s glowing.”

That got Harry’s attention. His boots hit the floor with a satisfying clang as he leaned forward, snatching the mirror from where it floated by his chair.

Sure enough — the surface rippled to reveal Nick Fury’s one-eyed scowl.

“Well, well,” Harry said, his voice low and amused, his grin lazy but dangerous. “Nick bloody Fury. Been a long time since you rang, Director. What’s the emergency — Skrulls again? Or did Stark finally blow up New York?”

Fury’s voice was just as sharp and dry as ever, cutting through the mirror.

“Cut the jokes, Potter. The world’s burnin’. You in or not?”

Harry stood. He glanced around the bridge at his wives. Daphne arched one brow, Susan’s grin widened, Fleur tossed her braid over her shoulder, and Val and Dacey both pushed away from the chessboard. Shaak Ti opened her eyes, serene as ever, while Aayla’s smirk sharpened. Riyo simply set her cup down and straightened.

Harry’s grin turned feral.

“Tell me where and when, old man,” he said lightly. “And save me a seat at the table.”

Fury’s expression didn’t change. “You already know where. Earth. Now. We’re at war. Time you came home.”

Harry’s emerald eyes gleamed. He pocketed the mirror and turned to his wives, clapping his hands together with a grin.

“Ladies,” he said, his voice rich with mischief and promise. “Pack up the drinks. Looks like we’ve got ourselves an apocalypse to crash.”

Daphne’s cool smile sharpened. “Took him long enough to call.”

Susan was already powering up the guns. “About time someone needed us.”

Fleur’s laugh was like wildfire. “Oh, mon chéri… let’s make an entrance.”

The Marauder thrummed louder as the runes along her hull flared gold. Harry dropped into his chair, leaning back with his fingers tapping idly against his leg.

“Next stop,” he said, grinning wickedly, “Armageddon.”

The corvette banked hard and shot into hyperspace, leaving nothing but starlight and the faint echo of his laugh in its wake.

RUSSIA — ABANDONED WAREHOUSE — NIGHT

The warehouse was cold. A cavern of half-finished steel beams and concrete, windows nothing but holes in the dark walls, the only light coming from a bare bulb that swung lazily overhead. Outside, the unfinished railroad tracks stretched off into nowhere, glistening faintly under the moonlight.

Natasha Romanoff sat in the middle of it all, a single figure in a black dress, her legs crossed even though she was tied to a chair. Her copper-red hair hung in loose waves around her face, and though her lip was split from the latest hit, her eyes… her eyes were bored.

The taller thug landed another backhand across her cheek. The chair skidded an inch across the concrete floor. Natasha tilted her head back, hair falling out of her face as she smirked at him faintly.

Across the room, General Georgi Luchkov — a barrel-chested man in a Soviet-era uniform that strained at the buttons — growled in Russian.

"This is not how I wanted the evening to go."

Natasha let out a low, dry laugh in flawless Russian.

"Oh, I know exactly how you wanted this evening to go, General. Trust me — this is better."

The taller thug snarled, shoving the chair backward until it teetered dangerously over the edge of the floor’s drop-off. Natasha kept her face calm, her eyes just a little colder now.

"I thought Solohob was running the export business," she added mildly, like she was discussing dinner plans.

Luchkov barked a laugh, stepping forward to loom over her. "Solohob? Your information is as outdated as your reputation. The famous Black Widow — nothing but a pretty face."

Natasha arched a brow, lips curling ever so slightly. "You really think I’m pretty?"

That earned her a glare. He strode to the table behind him, where a lineup of pliers, clamps, and other rusty implements sat waiting. He picked up a pair of pliers, squeezing them once for effect as the tall thug forced her jaw open.

"Tell him we do not need the Lermontov to transfer the tanks," Luchkov said coldly. "Tell him he’s out. Well… you may have to write it down."

He leaned close, the pliers catching the light.

Then a phone rang.

Everyone froze.

The shorter thug glanced at Natasha’s phone on the table and picked it up. "Da?" His brow furrowed. He held it out to Luchkov.

"It’s for you."

Luchkov snatched the phone, already angry. "You listen here—"

Coulson’s voice cut through, quiet, precise, deadly.

"You’re at 1-14 Solenski Plaza. Third floor. We’ve got an F-22 circling eight miles out. Put the woman on the phone… or I blow the whole block before you make it to the lobby."

Luchkov froze. He glared at Natasha, then shoved the phone at her ear.

She leaned her cheek to balance it, blinking at nothing. "Hello?"

"Agent Romanoff," Coulson said lightly, voice crackling over the line. "We need you to come in."

Her brow creased slightly, like he’d just interrupted her dinner. "Are you kidding? I’m working here."

"This takes precedence," Coulson replied, perfectly calm.

"I’m in the middle of an interrogation. This moron’s giving me everything."

Luchkov straightened, indignant. "I am not giving everything."

Natasha didn’t even look at him. Her smirk deepened just a hair. "Oh, sweetie… you sure about that?"

"Natasha," Coulson’s tone sharpened. "Barton’s been compromised."

Her expression darkened. The smirk vanished, replaced by something colder and sharper.

She exhaled once through her nose.

"Let me put you on hold."

Natasha nodded faintly to Luchkov. The tall thug leaned forward slightly — confused — and she drove her heel into his shin, snapping him forward, and brought her forehead down into his nose with a crack. He went down hard.

She pivoted in the chair, still tied, and used the legs to trip the other thug, smashing him across the jaw with the chair back as he fell. Then she rolled her body sideways, kicked up and back, snapping the chair apart against the floorboards as she stood.

The taller thug came at her again. She swung a broken chair leg into his ribs, flipped onto his chest, and springboarded off, flipping through the air and landing behind him. Her dress tore at the knee as she dropped into a flying scissor move that brought him down with a satisfying thud.

Luchkov was already fumbling for a weapon when she caught his ankle with a length of chain, yanked it out from under him, and sent him sprawling. She knocked his head into the steel railing once — hard — then wrapped the chain around his ankle and let him dangle over the edge of the drop-off like a sack of potatoes.

She dusted her hands off, picked up her heels, and plucked the phone off the ground.

"Where’s Barton?" she demanded.

On the other end, Coulson sounded almost apologetic. "We… don’t know yet."

Her green eyes narrowed. "But he’s alive."

"We think so. I’ll brief you when you’re back. But first—" There was the faintest pause, just long enough to make her grimace. "—we need you to talk to the big guy."

Natasha blinked at the wreckage she’d left behind. "Coulson, you know Stark only trusts me about as far as he can throw me."

"No, Stark’s mine. You’re getting the big guy."

She stopped walking. Her eyes swept over the groaning thugs and the dangling general.

She muttered something under her breath in Russian — a dry, bitter laugh at her own misfortune — and tucked the phone against her ear as she strode for the exit, a hole in her tights, her heels clicking across the cold concrete.

"My God," she murmured, shaking her head.

On the other end, Coulson smiled faintly, already thinking about how to break the next piece of bad news to Fury.

—

INDIA — KOLKATA — NIGHT

The streets of Kolkata were alive with noise and color even in the dead of night. Hawkers cried half-heartedly from behind their carts, cows meandered lazily through throngs of people, and the smell of spice hung thick in the humid air.

A little girl darted through the press of bodies, barefoot, her dark hair plastered to her cheeks. She pushed through the door of a crumbling building, a makeshift hospital.

Inside, the air was worse — hot and heavy with sickness. Cots were crammed into every corner, people coughing into rags. A man in an apron shouted at her in Hindi.

"Who are you? Get out! There’s sickness here!"

The girl ignored him and darted further in, spotting the man she was looking for.

Bruce Banner stood near a corner, his thin frame blending into the shadows, his hands shoved in his pockets, watching quietly as a nurse adjusted a boy’s bandages.

The girl skidded to a stop in front of him, breathless.

"You’re a doctor," she said in rapid-fire Hindi, tugging at his sleeve. "My father won’t wake up. He has fever. He’s moaning."

Bruce crouched down, his gentle face creasing into concern.

"Slow down," he said, his Hindi calm and patient. "Is he… like them?"

He glanced over at a man hacking blood into a rag on the next cot.

The girl shook her head, her little fingers fumbling for a handful of crumpled rupees. "Please."

Bruce sighed, ran a hand down his face. “Should’ve gotten paid up front,” he muttered in English. But he stood anyway, following her out.

They moved through the narrow alleys, Bruce keeping his head low, always glancing behind them. At one point, a black government car rolled past on the main road. Bruce stopped, his breath catching — but the car drove on. He exhaled and ushered the girl onward.

Finally she led him into a shack on the very edge of the city. But as soon as he stepped inside, she slipped out through the back window like smoke. Gone.

Bruce froze. His eyes narrowed.

"Clever little actress," he murmured to himself. "Should’ve known.”

That’s when he heard the click of the door behind him.

“You know,” came a smooth, accented voice, “for a man who’s supposed to be avoiding stress…”

He turned.

“…you picked one hell of a place to settle.”

Natasha Romanoff leaned casually in the doorway, scarf draped loose around her neck, her red hair catching the dim light. She looked completely at home in the cramped, dusty shack.

Bruce sighed through his nose and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Avoiding stress isn’t the secret,” he said dryly.

Natasha quirked an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Then what is it? Yoga? Breathing exercises? Knitting?”

Bruce gave her a sidelong look. “You brought me to the edge of the city,” he said, glancing to the window. “Smart. I assume the whole place is surrounded?”

Natasha stepped further in, unwinding her scarf as she went.

“Just you and me,” she said evenly.

Bruce’s eyes flicked to the window again. “And your little actress buddy? Is she a spy too? Do they even let them start that young?”

Natasha’s lips tightened, just slightly. “…I did.”

Bruce studied her for a moment, then straightened. “Who are you?”

“Natasha Romanoff.”

He snorted faintly. “Of course you are.” His tone darkened as he added, “You here to kill me, Miss Romanoff? Because… that’s not gonna work out for everyone.”

Her green eyes met his, calm and unflinching. “No. Not here to kill you.”

“Then what?”

She let the corner of her mouth tick up. “Here on behalf of S.H.I.E.L.D.,” she said lightly, like it explained everything.

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “S.H.I.E.L.D. How the hell did they find me?”

She gave him a look like she was surprised he even needed to ask. “We never lost you. We’ve… kept our distance. Helped keep some other interested parties off your scent. You’re welcome.”

“Why?”

“Nick Fury trusts you,” she said simply. Then her tone sharpened. “But now I need you to come in.”

Bruce folded his arms, leaning against the table. “And if I say no?”

Natasha’s smile turned ever so faintly… suggestive. “I’ll persuade you.”

Bruce tilted his head, his sad, quiet smile returning. “And what if the… other guy says no?”

Her smile faltered just slightly. “You’ve been more than a year without an incident,” she said carefully. “I don’t think you want to break that streak.”

Bruce’s fingers brushed a cracked wooden cradle near him, rocking it gently. He didn’t meet her eyes. “I don’t always get what I want,” he said softly.

She hesitated — then pulled a slim phone from her coat and set it on the table, flipping it around. The screen lit up, showing a glowing blue cube.

“We’re facing a potential global catastrophe, Doctor.”

Bruce’s eyes stayed fixed on the photo, his frown deepening. “Those,” he muttered, “I actively try to avoid.”

“This is the Tesseract,” she pressed, her tone colder now. “It’s been taken. Emits a gamma signature too weak for us to track. There’s no one alive who knows gamma radiation like you. If there was… that’s where I’d be.”

He let out a short, dry laugh, finally looking up. “So Fury doesn’t want the monster?”

“Not that he’s told me.”

“And he tells you everything?”

Natasha smiled faintly. “Talk to him yourself. He needs you on this.”

“He needs me in a cage,” Bruce shot back, voice suddenly edged.

“No one’s putting you in a—”

“STOP LYING TO ME!”

The table rattled under his fists as he slammed them down.

In the blink of an eye, Natasha’s hand was under the table, and she came up with a gun trained squarely on him. Her eyes were flat, her breath just a little too fast.

Bruce stared at her. Then he softened, raising his hands slightly. “I’m sorry,” he said gently. “That was mean. I just… wanted to see what you’d do.”

He smiled faintly. “Why don’t we do this the easy way? You don’t use that…” he tapped his chest, “…and the other guy doesn’t make a mess. Okay? Natasha?”

She stayed like that for another long, tense beat — then slowly lowered the gun, her face schooled back to calm as she pressed a finger to her earpiece.

“Stand down,” she murmured. “We’re good here.”

Outside, he heard the faint shuffle of dozens of agents retreating, their weapons lowering, boots crunching in the dirt.

Bruce gave her a dry little smile. “Just you and me, huh?”

Natasha gave him a look — faintly embarrassed, but not enough to admit it — and pulled her scarf back on.

And Bruce… just chuckled softly to himself.

—

THE S.H.I.E.L.D. ANALYTICAL ROOM — NIGHT

The walls were lined with giant monitors that glowed an icy blue, filling the darkened chamber with just enough light to cut sharp edges into Nick Fury’s frown. He stood alone at the center of the room, hands clasped loosely behind his back, his long coat hanging heavy on his shoulders.

On the screens above him, half a dozen shadowed faces glimmered like specters, the World Security Council in all its sanctimonious glory. Their outlines were sharp, but their features conveniently hidden by layers of encryption and ego.

Councilman #1 was the first to speak, his voice crisp, clipped, and already managing to annoy Fury.

“Director,” he said, leaning into his own self-importance, “S.H.I.E.L.D. operates under the direct authority of this Council. We should have been informed of all the details regarding this… Tesseract incident.”

Fury’s good eye narrowed slightly. He took a long, deliberate moment to let silence stretch uncomfortably across the airwaves before replying.

“The Council’s interest in our work,” he said at last, his voice low and steady, “has always been about one thing: results. Not procedure. Y’all never gave a damn about procedure before, don’t pretend now.”

Councilman #2 spoke next, with all the condescension of someone who’d never been punched in the face — which, in Fury’s opinion, was a damn shame.

“And yet, we now learn,” he said, voice dripping disdain, “that one of your own agents — Clint Barton — is working with the enemy. A man who, I might remind you, was once considered intimate with S.H.I.E.L.D. procedure.”

Fury’s frown deepened. For a second he wondered how the hell they even knew Barton’s name already. Natasha wouldn’t have snitched, Coulson sure as hell wouldn’t have… which left Hill. He filed that thought away for later.

The second councilman continued, leaning forward as though he’d scored some grand point.

“This man,” he sneered, “whose singular talent appears to be—”

“—killing,” Fury cut in smoothly, his voice slicing through the man’s words like a razor.

The shadow froze mid-sentence. Fury raised his head, staring directly into the camera.

“Yeah,” Fury said. “Barton’s good at killing. That’s why I recruited him. But you know what he didn’t do? He didn’t kill me. He didn’t even go for the headshot. Man’s been compromised. Brainwashed. Don’t act like you don’t know how that game’s played.”

His gaze swept the room as he continued.

“I won’t write Barton off. Not yet. Not when we’re already on Loki’s trail. We’ve got eyes on him, and we’re scrambling a response team as we speak.”

There was a scoff from another screen — this time from a woman’s silhouette. Her tone was sharp, almost gleeful.

“The Avengers,” she said, the words curling out of her mouth like an accusation.

Councilman #1 jumped back in, his voice like a hammer on glass.

“The Avengers Initiative,” he said coldly, “was shut down for a reason, Director. It was a volatile concept even at the best of times — which, I think we can all agree, this is not.”

Fury stood there in silence for a moment, his expression calm, unbothered. Then a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“This,” he said lazily, “is just a response team.”

The councilwoman snapped back, her irritation cutting through the speakers.

“Then I suggest you make your response rapid, Director. We all know what’s at stake.”

And with that, the screens blinked off one by one, leaving Fury standing alone in the dim room, the hum of the monitors fading into quiet.

He let out a long breath through his nose, muttering under his breath.

“Yeah,” he said to no one in particular, his tone wry, almost bitter. “We do.”

His hand drifted instinctively to his pocket, where he kept the battered little mirror. He didn’t pull it out. Not yet. But his thumb brushed over it like a habit as he stared up at the empty screens.

“Guess it’s time to start callin’ in favors.”

—

BROOKLYN GYM — NIGHT

The old gym smelled of leather, chalk, and sweat. It was empty, quiet except for the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of fists pounding into canvas.

Steve Rogers stood alone under a cone of light, shirt clinging to his back, sweat running down his neck. The punching bag swung violently on its chain, straining with each hit, groaning against the force of him. He wasn’t just fighting the bag — he was fighting memory.

He was running through a forest again, artillery screaming overhead, mortars sending dirt into the air. Hydra soldiers fired wild blue streaks of Tesseract energy that melted the trees around him.

There’s not enough time! I gotta put her in the water!

The memory of his own voice — young, desperate — echoed in his skull.

His punches became more brutal.

He saw himself in the Red Skull’s chamber, watching Schmidt grab the Tesseract before vanishing into a blinding flash of light.

Peggy’s voice followed, softer, warmer:

You won’t be alone.

He’d believed her then.

He hit the bag so hard the chain finally snapped, sending it hurtling across the room in an explosion of sand and torn canvas. The noise brought him back to the present — back to this strange new century, to a world that felt more alien than anywhere he’d fought before.

Breathing hard, Steve rubbed his face and grabbed a fresh bag from the rack. He hoisted it one-handed, like it weighed nothing, and hooked it up before starting over.

That was when he heard the door creak open.

Nick Fury stepped into the gym like he owned the place — which, for all Steve knew, he did. Dressed head-to-toe in black, long coat sweeping behind him, Fury watched the soldier for a moment before speaking.

“You know,” he called out, “there are easier ways to keep a bag company.”

Steve didn’t even slow his punches. “Trouble sleeping?”

Fury smirked. “You could say that. But then again, I’m not the one beating the hell outta an innocent sandbag.”

Steve landed one last heavy shot before stepping back, shaking out his fists. “I slept for seventy years,” he said evenly. “Pretty sure I’ve had my fill.”

Fury’s good eye glinted as he strolled closer. “Then you oughta be out celebrating. Checking out the sights. Brooklyn’s got some fine nightlife these days. Lotta pretty girls. Couple decent bars.”

Steve sat on the bench, starting to peel the tape from his knuckles. “I went under, the world was at war. I wake up, and they tell me we won. Nobody bothered to tell me what we lost.”

Fury paused. That one hit closer than he’d expected. He tilted his head, then leaned casually on the bench.

“Yeah,” Fury admitted. “We lost a lot. Still do. Made some mistakes along the way. Some of ‘em real recent.”

Steve looked up at him then, suspicion flashing in his eyes. “You’re not here to make small talk, are you?”

Fury grinned faintly. “Not my style. I’m here with a mission.”

“Trying to get me back in the world?”

Fury shook his head. “Nah. Trying to save it.”

That earned a raised eyebrow from Steve, but Fury didn’t flinch. He produced a slim folder from his coat and handed it over. Steve flipped it open, scanning the contents — Tesseract schematics, energy readings, photos of blue light tearing through a S.H.I.E.L.D. lab.

Steve’s jaw tightened. “Hydra’s secret weapon,” he muttered.

“Howard Stark pulled it outta the ocean while he was lookin’ for you,” Fury said, folding his arms. “Thought it might be the key to clean, unlimited energy. Lord knows this planet needs it.”

Steve snapped the folder shut and handed it back. “Who took it from you?”

Fury hesitated just a beat, then: “Name’s Loki. And before you ask — no, he ain’t from around here. He’s what we’d call… an off-world problem. And trust me, Cap, the world’s gotten a helluva lot stranger since you last took a stroll through it.”

Steve’s lip curved slightly. “Stranger than me?”

Fury chuckled dryly. “Ten bucks says you’re wrong. But don’t worry — we’ll bring you up to speed if you’re in. There’s a debrief packet waiting for you back at your place.”

Steve stood, towering over Fury as he reached for another punching bag and slung it over his shoulder. His voice was calm, but there was steel under the words.

“You got anything else to tell me about the Tesseract? Anything I should know right now?”

Fury stared back at him, his smirk fading to something more serious.

“You should’ve left it in the ocean,” Steve said flatly.

Fury didn’t argue. He just watched as Steve walked out of the gym, bag slung over his shoulder, footsteps heavy in the quiet.

Then Fury muttered under his breath, just for himself:

“Hell of a thing about the ocean, Rogers. Sooner or later, everything we bury down there washes back up.”

—

ATLANTIC OCEAN — UNDERWATER

The cutting laser on Iron Man’s gauntlet burned through steel like butter, sparks fizzling into the murky dark as Tony Stark hummed to himself inside the suit.

"Almost there… don’t rush me. Good things come to those who… well, me,” he quipped, watching the pipeline split.

He slid the gleaming Stark Energy Core into place with a flourish, fingers steady as the reactor came to life, a bright glow radiating out.

“Boom. You’re good on this end,” he said aloud, water sloshing as he straightened up. “Rest is up to you.”

Pepper’s voice crackled over the comms, dry and impatient. "You disconnected the transition lines? Are we off the grid yet?"

“Pepper,” Tony said, already powering up his thrusters, “Stark Tower is about to become the single most self-sustaining, eco-friendly, clean-energy beacon on the face of this planet. You’re welcome. Cue applause.”

"Wow," she replied, deadpan. "So maybe our reactor takes over and actually works?"

“Excuse you. Of course it works,” Tony shot back, banking upwards toward the surface. “I assume. Light her up.”

As he burst from the ocean and streaked toward the Manhattan skyline, the faint glow of his tower flickered to life behind him — the gleaming arc reactor in its heart blazing to full brilliance, the STARK letters across the top illuminating the night.

"How does it look?" Pepper asked.

Tony tilted his head slightly inside the HUD, smirking. “Like Christmas. But with more… me.”

"We need to go wider on the public awareness campaign," Pepper continued, because she was Pepper and could never let him bask. "You need to do press. I’m in D.C. tomorrow. I’m working zoning for the next three buildings."

Tony sighed theatrically. “Pepper, you’re killing me here. Remember the moment? Enjoy the moment. The world needs to sit back and appreciate this fine bottle of Stark they’re lucky enough to sip from.”

"Then get in here, and I will," she replied smoothly.

Tony grinned. Touché.

—

STARK TOWER — PENTHOUSE

The gauntlet of sleek gadgets and robot arms stripped the Iron Man suit from him piece by piece as he walked toward the penthouse.

JARVIS chimed in dryly: “Sir, Agent Coulson of S.H.I.E.L.D. is on the line.”

“Tell him I’m not in,” Tony said, stepping out of the last piece of armor and straightening his shirt. “Matter of fact, tell him I’m out. Way out. Maybe even dead. Definitely unavailable.”

“I’m afraid,” JARVIS replied in his infuriatingly calm voice, “Agent Coulson is insisting.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Grow a spine, J. I’ve got a date with destiny. Or Pepper. Or both. Not necessarily in that order.”

Pepper was standing by the monitors, watching the tower’s energy readings like a proud parent.

“Levels are holding steady,” she said, tapping a display. “I think.”

“Of course they are,” Tony replied, striding in. “I was directly involved. Which brings me to my next question — how does it feel to be a genius?”

Pepper barely glanced at him. “I really wouldn’t know, now, would I?”

Tony feigned offense. “What do you mean? Look around. All this?” He gestured dramatically at the vast expanse of glass and light. “This is you.”

Pepper arched an eyebrow and tapped the reactor in his chest. “No, that’s where it came from.”

“Uh-uh. Twelve percent you.”

Pepper slowly turned her head. “Twelve?”

Tony nodded sagely. “An argument can be made for fifteen.”

Pepper poured herself a glass of champagne, her expression flat. “Twelve percent… for my baby?”

“I did all the heavy lifting,” Tony reminded her, with a smirk. “Literally. And I seem to remember the security snafu…”

Pepper gasped. “Oh, no you didn’t.”

“My private elevator,” Tony pressed.

“Our elevator,” she corrected.

Tony leaned closer. “I’m gonna pay for that comment later in some subtle way, aren’t I?”

“It won’t be that subtle,” Pepper promised.

“I’ll tell you what,” Tony said, lifting his glass. “Next building says Potts on the tower.”

“On the lease,” she shot back, clinking glasses with him.

JARVIS cut in, his tone mildly apologetic. “Sir, the telephone. I regret to inform you my security protocols are being… overwritten.”

A beat later, Coulson’s dry voice came through: “Stark. We need to talk.”

Tony snorted and picked up the phone, not even glancing at it. “You’ve reached the life-model decoy of Tony Stark. Please leave a message.”

Coulson’s voice remained perfectly level. “This is urgent.”

“Then leave it urgently.”

And right then the elevator door opened, and Phil Coulson stepped out.

Tony froze. “Security breach,” he deadpanned, gesturing toward Pepper. “That’s on you.”

Coulson didn’t miss a beat. “Mr. Stark.”

Pepper brightened. “Phil! Come in!”

Tony waved his hand. “His first name is Agent, thank you.”

Coulson held up a file. “I can’t stay. We need you to look this over.”

“I don’t like being handed things,” Tony said immediately.

“That’s fine,” Pepper interjected smoothly, already walking over. “Because I do.”

In one graceful move, she handed her champagne to Coulson, took the file, and swapped glasses between the two of them like a magician. “Thank you.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “Official consulting hours are between eight and five every other Thursday.”

“This isn’t a consultation,” Coulson replied.

Pepper gave him a knowing glance. “This is about… the Avengers?”

Tony shot her a look. “Which you know nothing about.”

“Right. Nothing.”

Tony tilted his head at Coulson. “Pretty sure the initiative was scrapped. Didn’t even qualify. Apparently, I’m volatile, self-obsessed, and don’t play well with others.”

Pepper took a slow sip of her drink. “That I did know.”

“This isn’t about personality profiles anymore,” Coulson said flatly.

Pepper leaned closer to Tony as he flipped through the file, the holograms of heroes, monsters, and gods sparking to life before them.

“You know,” Tony murmured, watching the images scroll past, “I thought we were having a moment.”

“I was having twelve percent of a moment,” Pepper replied sweetly. Then, in a quieter voice, “Phil’s rattled. That worries me.”

Tony squinted at Coulson. “How can you even tell? And why is he Phil now?”

Pepper just smiled faintly and kissed his cheek before turning to grab her bag. “I’m taking the jet to D.C. tonight.”

“Tomorrow,” Tony corrected automatically.

“You’ve got homework.”

Tony smirked. “What if I didn’t?”

She leaned in and whispered something that made Tony’s eyes widen in mock offense.

“Well,” he said, adjusting his collar. “Square deal. Last date.”

She kissed him one more time before heading for the elevator.

“You work hard,” she called.

“Always do.”

Pepper turned to Coulson with a faint smile. “You driving by LaGuardia?”

“I can drop you.”

“Fantastic.”

As the elevator doors closed, she shot Coulson a sly look. “Tell me about the cellist. Still a thing?”

“She moved back to Portland,” Coulson admitted.

Pepper groaned. “Boo.”

Left alone, Tony stared at the hologram of the Tesseract floating above his palm. The cold blue light shimmered on his face, and for once, his smirk faded just a little.

—

DEEP SPACE — EDGE OF THE SOLAR SYSTEM

The Marauder tore out of hyperspace with a ripple of golden starlight and a low, resonant boom, her black, crimson, and gold hull gleaming against the void. Ahead of them floated Earth — still small, still distant — wrapped in clouds, busy with satellites and orbital clutter.

Harry Potter lounged in the captain’s chair like a man who owned the stars. His tall, broad-shouldered frame was angled just so, his emerald eyes bright under the console’s glow. The Marauders would’ve approved of the smirk playing across his face.

“Well,” he drawled, tapping his palm as the blue-green planet grew larger in the viewport. “Home sweet… whatever the hell that’s supposed to be these days.”

Daphne Greengrass, standing at navigation, didn’t so much as glance back. The pale blonde’s hair — straight and silky, falling over her shoulder — shimmered like moonlight as her fingers danced over the controls.

“We’re cleared through the Kuiper Belt,” she replied coolly. “Course is stable. No need to sound so… sentimental.”

On the opposite side of the bridge, Susan Bones was slouched in the gunnery chair, her vivid red hair catching the console lights. She idly twirled a blaster rifle as she looked up with a crooked, knowing grin.

“Yeah,” Susan piped up. “Still looks loud and messy to me. Still blue. Still ready for us to clean it up.”

“And still theirs to wreck,” Fleur added, leaning one hip against the bulkhead with an almost feline ease. She was weaving her braid, and her French accent wrapped around every word like silk. “We’re just here to… pick up the pieces, non?”

Harry shot her a sideways grin. “Oh, love, you know me so well.”

Then his eyes found Shaak Ti, poised at the co-pilot’s station, lekku draped over her shoulder like ink on snow. A quiet gravitas radiated from her, calm and serene even here.

“Shaak,” Harry said lazily. “Get the droids online. She’s their girl while we… stretch our legs.”

Shaak Ti inclined her head slightly. “At once.” Her hands, elegant and precise, began issuing melodic commands to the maintenance deck.

Below them, the droid bay lights flared to life, astromechs and maintenance droids rolling into motion with cheerful whistles and clunks.

“You sure you trust those little tin cans to keep her flying?” Dacey’s low, dark voice rang out as she leaned against the holo-chess table.

Val — light armor gleaming, long blonde braid swinging — just smirked at her sister-wife, already buckling her vibroblade to her hip.

“Relax,” Val replied smoothly. “They kept her alive through a black hole. You think Earth’s orbital debris scares them?”

Aayla Secura — arms crossed, lekku curling faintly — chuckled softly from her spot near the viewport. Her smile was sharp, her lilting voice edged with wry humor.

“You two impress me,” she said, eyes narrowing faintly. “For women raised in castles and chainmail… you took to the stars faster than most younglings.”

Shaak Ti allowed herself the faintest of smiles without turning from the console. “Indeed. Even Jedi need years to fly at your level.”

Val exchanged a glance with Dacey, who just raised one dark brow, unbothered.

“We’ve been out here eighteen years,” Dacey replied evenly, her Northern accent clipped but not unkind. “And if you haven’t noticed…” she adjusted her vambrace with a dry glare, “…flying is just another kind of war. You pick it up fast, or you die.”

Allyria Dayne — lounging lazily on the corner of a console, datapad glowing in her pale hands — spoke without even glancing up. Her violet eyes sparkled faintly.

“We had very good teachers,” she murmured. “And even better reasons to learn.”

Harry let out a low laugh, warm and dangerous all at once, filling the bridge. “That’s my girls,” he said, straightening at last. “Always making the Jedi look like slow learners.”

Aayla smirked faintly at him, lekku twitching ever so slightly. Shaak Ti didn’t even dignify the remark beyond the faint curve of her lips.

Harry pushed himself to his full height, stretching until his knuckles cracked. “Alright, ladies. Time to suit up. Cargo hold in five.”

Susan was already halfway up, rifle slung over her shoulder as she shot him a cheeky grin. “Starfighters warm and ready?”

Harry’s grin turned wicked. “ETA-2s prepped and waiting. Just you, the stars, and a loyal astromech riding shotgun. You know… the perfect recipe for chaos.”

Fleur passed him on her way to the door, her golden hair catching every spark of light. She let her fingers trail down his arm as she passed, her smile full of promise.

“Mon amour,” she said, her French accent melting around him like honey. “And you wonder why we followed you.”

Harry caught her hand just long enough to lift it to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. His emerald eyes glinted up at her.

“Oh, darling,” he murmured. “I never wonder. I just thank the stars every bloody day.”

Daphne, already at the hatch, cleared her throat pointedly, though there was the faintest smirk tugging at her lips.

“Captain,” she said crisply. “We do have a war to crash. Try to focus.”

Harry winked at her as he fell in behind them. “Oh, Greengrass, I am focused. Always. On exactly the right things.”

Val and Dacey were already striding down the corridor, their easy banter echoing off the walls as Shaak Ti and Aayla followed with measured calm. Riyo Chuchi brought up the rear, her soft chime of laughter barely audible as she adjusted her gloves.

Behind them, the Marauder thrummed like a living thing, runes along her hull glowing gold. Below, the sleek Jedi starfighters waited in neat rows, canopies open, engines purring, astromechs trilling eagerly.

Harry paused just at the threshold of the hold, glancing once more at the stars beyond the viewport.

His grin was sharp now. Bright and dangerous.

“Let’s make Earth remember,” he said softly, to no one and everyone all at once, “what it means when we come home.”

And with that, he strode into the hangar, his wives flanking him — queens, warriors, witches, and gods.

The Marauder hummed louder behind them as the Jedi starfighters roared to life, a chorus of engines and anticipation rising together.

Earth didn’t stand a chance.

The steady hum of the Quinjet filled the cabin as it cruised high above the clouds. Steve Rogers sat on the bench along the starboard side, tablet in hand, elbows resting on his knees. His broad shoulders were hunched slightly as he watched the shaky footage playing on the screen — green skin, raw fury, and carnage.

On the tablet, the Hulk roared and ripped a military jeep in half like it was made of tinfoil. Steve’s jaw flexed slightly.

From up in the cockpit, the pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom. "We’re about forty minutes out from base, sir."

Steve gave a short nod, though no one could see it.

"Copy," he called back absently, not taking his eyes off the screen.

Across the cabin, Phil Coulson finally unbuckled and stood. He smoothed down his tie — still crisp, still professional despite the turbulence — and walked over to Steve, hands clasped behind his back.

“Captain,” Coulson said lightly, “you don’t exactly ease into things, do you?”

Steve looked up at him, lips quirking into a faint smile, and held up the tablet so Coulson could see the footage.

“So… this Doctor Banner was trying to replicate the serum that was used on me?” Steve asked, his voice calm but curious.

Coulson nodded, leaning slightly on the bulkhead.

“A lot of people have tried,” he admitted. “You were… well. You were the world’s first superhero, Captain. Banner thought gamma radiation might hold the key to recreating Erskine’s original formula. Turns out…”

On the tablet, Hulk let out another thunderous roar and hurled a Humvee into the side of a building.

“…didn’t really go his way, huh?” Steve finished for him, dry but not unkind.

Coulson allowed himself the faintest smile. “Not so much.” Then he tilted his head slightly. “When he’s not that thing, though? He’s like…” He hesitated, searching for an analogy. “Like a Stephen Hawking.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “…Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

Coulson blinked, then actually chuckled softly. “Right. Sorry. He’s… smart. Like, genius smart. You’d like him. Probably.”

Steve finally closed the tablet and powered it down. “Maybe.” He set it aside, then stood up and stretched his long frame to its full height. Coulson, though visibly shorter, didn’t seem intimidated — just mildly impressed.

Coulson cleared his throat, straightening his jacket slightly. “I gotta say, sir… it’s an honor to meet you. Officially, I mean.”

Steve turned his head just enough to glance at him sidelong, eyebrow raised.

“I sort of already… met you. I mean,” Coulson stumbled slightly, his usually perfect deadpan slipping just enough to be endearing, “I… I was there while you were still in the ice. I… watched you while you were sleeping.”

Steve froze mid-step and gave him a look. “…You watched me?”

Coulson winced. “Not like that. I was just… present. I was on the team monitoring you. Making sure you stayed alive. You know. Standard procedure. And…” He exhaled, regaining his usual even tone. “…it’s just a huge honor to have you on board.”

Steve’s expression softened. He looked Coulson in the eye and gave a quiet, reassuring smile. “Well. I just hope I’m the man for the job.”

Coulson’s gaze sharpened, and his answer came without hesitation. “Oh, you are. Absolutely. No question.” He paused, then added with a faint, knowing smirk. “We even… uh. Made some modifications to the uniform. I… might’ve had a little design input.”

That got an amused grunt out of Steve as he leaned against the wall, crossing his thick arms over his chest. “The uniform, huh? You mind telling me what’s wrong with the one I got?”

Coulson shook his head quickly, holding up his hands. “Oh — nothing. Nothing at all. But, you know… the stars and stripes? Some people think it’s a little…”

Steve cut him a look. “…Old-fashioned?”

Coulson didn’t flinch. If anything, his faint smile widened slightly. “With everything that’s happening now? And with what’s about to come to light?”

He adjusted his tie, his voice dropping just enough to carry a quiet weight.

“People might just need a little old-fashioned.”

Steve let that sink in. His jaw tightened a little, but his eyes softened. He gave a small, respectful nod.

“Fair enough,” he said simply, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

Coulson allowed himself just the smallest breath of pride.

And in the quiet hum of the Quinjet’s cabin, they both stood there for a moment — one a living legend from another time, the other just a man who’d never stopped believing in what that legend stood for.

—

The underground lab was a hive of frantic, mechanical movement. Soldiers — their eyes glassy and unnatural under Loki’s spell — marched briskly between workstations, checking rifles, strapping on gear, unloading crates of ammunition. A faint metallic hum filled the space, punctuated by the sharp clatter of boots and the hiss of compressed air as Selvig fussed over the alien CMS device in the corner, mumbling to himself.

In the middle of it all sat Loki.

Perched languidly on a metal crate, clad in his simple leather coat and shirt, he spun the scepter lazily in one hand, its blue gem shimmering faintly with cold, hungry light. His green eyes watched Selvig for a moment — faintly amused, faintly bored — then drifted shut.

He let himself fall inward.

The cold darkness coiled around him, pulled him in — and when his eyes opened again he was no longer sitting in the lab.

He stood now in the great stone throne room beyond the stars. Black marble gleamed like oil underfoot, and the air crackled faintly with alien energy. His armor materialized around him as he straightened: gold and green plates gleaming, horned helm rising above his head like a crown.

On the steps of the great throne, the Other appeared, slithering into view with a grin that was all too many teeth and none of them kind. He moved with an almost predatory calm, his robes whispering over the stones.

“The Chitauri,” the Other said, his voice drawling, soft and menacing, “grow restless.”

Loki’s lip curled into a faint smirk. He didn’t even look directly at him, instead dusting a fleck of phantom ash off his shoulder.

“Let them go at each other’s throats if they like,” Loki said idly. “I will lead them when it suits me — into a glorious battle.”

The Other’s grin widened, showing still more teeth. His pale, milky eyes glimmered faintly as he took a step closer.

“Battle?” he repeated, voice dripping with condescension. “Against… the meager might of Earth?”

Loki finally met his gaze, his smile as sharp as a blade.

“Glorious,” he replied evenly, “not lengthy. Assuming your… force is as formidable as you so love to claim.”

The Other tilted his head, a chuckle rattling from his throat like dry leaves in a storm. “You question us? You question him?”

His grin fell away like a dropped mask, and suddenly his eyes were fire, his tone venom.

“He who put that pretty little scepter in your hand… who gave you knowledge, gave you purpose… when Asgard cast you out, and you crawled away defeated, little prince?”

Loki stiffened, the smirk faltering for just a fraction of a second. Then his shoulders squared, and his voice came out low, dangerous.

“I was a king,” he hissed. “The rightful king of Asgard. Betrayed. Mocked.”

The Other gave a slow, mocking clap, each smack of his hands echoing in the vast chamber. “Oh, yes,” he sneered. “And soon, no doubt, you’ll be defeated again. This time… by a gaggle of frightened mortals.”

Loki’s smile returned then — brittle and cruel. “Mortals are weak,” he said, almost to himself. “They mistake selfishness for spirit. And when the sky falls, they’ll scatter like ants. Every man for himself. No banners. No brotherhood. No heroes.”

The Other’s grin twisted into something darker. He stalked down the steps, eyes glinting.

“And how,” he said, his voice lowering into a near-growl, “do you propose to rule them then… little king?”

Loki didn’t flinch, even as the Other loomed close. His smile was almost serene now.

“Unmercifully,” he said.

The Other chuckled again — but there was no mirth in it. He straightened, circling Loki like a wolf circles its prey.

“Your ambition is small, Asgardian,” he said with a hiss. “Childish. You crave a throne when there are whole worlds to claim. When the Tesseract opens the doors… you’ll see.”

Loki’s eyes narrowed. He tilted his head, the scepter’s tip glowing faintly as he lifted it and leveled it at the Other’s chest.

“But you don’t have the Tesseract yet,” Loki said, his voice cutting through the room like ice.

The Other’s grin vanished.

In a flash he lunged forward, fingers curled like claws — but froze when the head of the scepter flared bright and hot inches from his throat.

Loki’s emerald eyes blazed.

“I don’t threaten,” he murmured. “But until the Tesseract is mine… until your precious armies are mine to command… you are nothing but words.”

The Other stared at him for a long, taut second, then slowly… slowly relaxed, and smiled again.

“You’ll have your war, Asgardian,” he said softly, stepping back. “But if you fail… if the Tesseract is kept from us…”

His voice dropped to a whisper, deadly and cold.

“There will be no realm… no barren moon… no pit deep enough to hide you. You think you know pain? He will make you long for something as sweet as pain.”

The Other’s clawed hand reached up and pressed lightly to Loki’s forehead — and in a blink the black marble dissolved into air.

Loki jolted, his eyes snapping open back in the lab.

The faint hiss of Selvig’s work greeted his ears, but for a moment he didn’t move. His grip tightened on the scepter, knuckles white.

His eyes darted to the shadows of the lab, almost… cautious. Almost afraid.

Then, ever so slowly, his smirk returned.

And the game went on.

—

The Quinjet’s wheels thumped against the landing deck of the Helicarrier, the roar of engines swallowed by the wind whipping across the sprawling metal behemoth. The carrier stretched on and on, two massive runways cutting along its spine. Steve stood near the open ramp, shoulders squared, eyes scanning the expanse with quiet wonder. He muttered low enough no one heard, “That’s one hell of a boat.”

Coulson stood just behind him, hands clasped neatly, a faint smile on his face as though he’d heard anyway.

As the ramp lowered with a hiss, the pair stepped out onto the deck. Planes were being strapped down, crews ran drills, and the whole place buzzed with an energy Steve hadn’t felt since… well, since his war.

Natasha was waiting halfway down the runway, leaning casually against the railing like she owned the whole damn ship. She straightened at their approach, her dark red hair glinting in the sunlight.

Coulson spoke first, nodding to her. “Agent Romanoff. Captain Rogers.”

Steve gave her a curt, automatic nod. “Ma’am.”

Natasha’s lips curved faintly at that, like she’d just bitten down on a laugh. “Hi.” Her gaze flicked to Coulson. “They need you on the bridge. They’re starting the face-trace.”

Coulson’s expression tightened with purpose, but he still allowed himself a glance back at Steve before he left. “See you up there,” he said.

“Looking forward to it,” Steve replied, though his eyes were still roaming the deck, taking it all in.

Coulson’s footsteps faded as Natasha fell into step beside Steve, hands in the pockets of her sleek tactical jacket. They strolled toward the railing.

“You know,” she said lightly, voice carrying just enough over the din, “it was quite the buzz around here… finding you in the ice. Like Christmas came early. I swear Coulson almost swooned.”

Steve glanced at her, one blond brow arching in bemusement. “Swooned?”

“Oh, yeah. Big time. Has he asked you to sign his Captain America trading cards yet?”

Steve blinked. “Trading cards?”

Natasha shot him a sly sideways look. “They’re vintage,” she said smoothly, with just enough bite to make him wonder if she was talking about the cards… or him. “He’s very proud.”

Steve shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his mouth despite himself. “Right.”

A few paces ahead, a man in a loose shirt and jeans was weaving through the crew, trying — and failing — to keep out of everyone’s way. He adjusted his glasses absently and kept his gaze down, looking very much like he’d rather be anywhere else.

Steve’s eyes caught him and brightened. “Dr. Banner.”

Bruce looked up in surprise. He gave Steve a shy little smile as they met halfway and shook hands.

“Oh. Yeah. Hi,” Bruce said, rubbing the back of his neck once they let go. “They, uh… they told me you’d be coming.”

“Word is,” Steve said, his voice warm and good-natured, “you can find the cube.”

Bruce’s brows lifted at that, something wry glinting in his eyes. “Is that the only word on me?”

Steve’s grin widened just a touch, almost boyish. “Only word I care about.”

Bruce regarded him for a second longer than he probably meant to, then dropped his gaze and nodded, a faint smile on his lips. “Thanks. That’s… kind of nice to hear.”

Steve glanced around at the sprawling activity. “Must be strange for you. All this.”

Bruce chuckled under his breath. “Well, you know. Strange and me… we’re kind of old friends at this point.”

Steve let out a small laugh of his own. His eyes lingered on a squad of men running in formation across the deck. For half a second, he was back in the camps, hearing barked orders and the rhythm of boots pounding dirt.

Natasha’s voice cut through the memory.

“Gentlemen,” she called, her tone dry and faintly amused, “you might want to step inside in a minute. It’s about to get a little… hard to breathe.”

Steve blinked, glancing at her. “What?”

The Helicarrier shuddered under their feet. Around them, agents moved with mechanical precision, strapping down Quinjets and securing oxygen masks to their faces.

Steve frowned, leaning closer to the railing as the whole deck seemed to tremble with power. “Is this… a submarine?”

Bruce’s laugh this time was short and incredulous, his expression somewhere between disbelief and amusement. “Really?” he said, cocking his head at Steve. “They wanted me in a submerged, pressurized metal container? That’s adorable.”

Steve’s frown deepened — right up until the lift fans roared to life.

Massive turbines mounted at the sides of the carrier unfurled with a mechanical shriek, spinning faster and faster until the whole deck lifted from the sea.

Steve’s jaw actually went slack as he watched the ocean drop away beneath them.

Bruce stepped up beside him, sliding his hands into his pockets, and shook his head slowly, a faint grin tugging at his lips.

“Oh, no,” Bruce murmured, his voice quiet, dry, and just a little dark.

“This,” he said, glancing sideways at Steve, “is much worse.”

Steve kept staring out at the rising horizon, breath catching in his chest, his smile faint but growing.

“I don’t know,” he muttered. “Feels like home already.”

Natasha’s smirk from behind them said she heard that.

—

The Helicarrier’s turbines roared like titans as the deck continued to rise, ocean shrinking to a glittering smear below. The massive bay doors yawned open, and Steve, Natasha, and Bruce stepped through into the interior.

Steve’s sharp blue eyes swept over the space as they walked, noting everything — the agents rushing to stations, the banks of glowing screens, the low murmur of clipped orders. The place thrummed with controlled chaos, like the command tents of his past… if someone had handed the command tent to a god of technology.

They entered the bridge proper and Steve slowed, his tall frame filling the entryway as his gaze took it all in.

The bridge was alive. Agents sat in neat rows, fingers flying across consoles as data streamed across wall-sized displays. Voices overlapped in efficient, military rhythm.

Maria Hill strode across the center aisle like she owned it, tablet in hand, her tone brisk and cutting.

“Get me those readings now,” Hill snapped at one of the techs. “And clear the aft deck. If I see one more unsecured Quinjet back there, someone’s getting written up.”

Natasha leaned in, her voice a low purr. “Try not to look impressed, Captain. They’ll eat you alive.”

Steve cracked a faint grin, eyes still on the screens. “Bit late for that,” he muttered.

At the heart of the bridge sat Nick Fury, his presence more commanding than the chair he occupied. He didn’t even look up when he spoke, his gravelly voice cutting through the noise.

“Captain Rogers. Doctor Banner. Agent Romanoff.”

Steve instinctively straightened, boots clicking on the deck as they approached.

Hill glanced over from her station. “We’re at lock, Director,” she reported crisply.

Fury finally looked up, his single eye sharp and unamused. “Stealth mode,” he ordered.

Hill gave a single nod. “On it.”

But before she could relay the command, a voice from the back of the bridge cut her off.

“Director! We’ve got bogeys! Ten… unidentified craft, closing fast!”

The hum of the bridge went dead. Agents stiffened, hands hovering over controls as the central screens lit up with tactical data.

On the display, a formation of sleek, angular starfighters streaked toward them — black hulls edged in crimson and gold, moving in perfect synchronicity. They looked predatory.

Hill snapped to her team immediately. “Weapons hot. All batteries stand by. Give me firing solutions.”

Steve squinted at the screen, arms crossing over his broad chest. “Those aren’t anything I’ve seen before,” he muttered.

Bruce shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “Well,” he murmured dryly, “that can’t be good.”

Natasha’s eyes narrowed, a faint smirk ghosting her lips. “Definitely not Air Force. I’ll give them points for style, though.”

Hill barked another order. “Vector me in on the lead ship. We take it down, maybe the others scatter.”

“Belay that!” Fury’s voice cracked across the bridge like a whip.

Everyone froze.

Fury stood, his long coat settling into place as he stepped toward the main screen. His good eye narrowed as he studied the lead fighter, which banked lazily across their bow like a shark sizing up prey.

“They’re friendly,” he said flatly.

Hill turned to him, her eyes sharp with disbelief. “Sir? They’re running dark. No transponders, no comms, nothing. We don’t even know what they are.”

Fury’s smirk was faint, but unmistakable. “Trust me. I know.”

Steve gave Natasha a sidelong look, brow raised. She only quirked one of her own.

Bruce sighed, mumbling just loud enough to be heard, “Of course he does…”

Fury straightened his coat and faced the screen, his tone like gravel wrapped in steel.

“Patch me through to the lead ship,” he ordered.

One of the techs jumped to comply, fingers flying. “You’re live, sir,” the agent reported.

The comms crackled to life, and Fury didn’t waste a second.

“This is Director Nick Fury of S.H.I.E.L.D.,” he said, his voice dry, deliberate, and just this side of annoyed. “Mister Potter… if you’re listening, I’d appreciate it if you brought your birds in closer and saved me the damn dramatics.”

On the main screen, the lead starfighter tilted in acknowledgment — a slow, taunting roll — before breaking formation and gliding toward the Helicarrier with effortless grace.

Steve’s brow furrowed. He muttered to no one in particular, “Potter?”

Fury’s smirk deepened, his good eye glinting like a man who’d just won a bet.

“Oh,” he drawled under his breath, “you’re about to find out.”

Behind him, Hill arched one perfectly sculpted brow. “You know,” she murmured dryly, “one of these days, you’ll let the rest of us in on the joke before the punchline.”

Fury didn’t even glance back. “No fun in that,” he shot back.

Steve’s gaze stayed locked on the screen as the strange ships banked again, their black-and-gold hulls glinting like blades in the sun, moving in perfect, predatory unison.

Bruce, beside him, exhaled long and low. “Definitely not Air Force,” he muttered.

Natasha, her arms folded, only smirked. “Well,” she said lightly, “at least they’re punctual.”

—

The bridge held its breath.

On the main screen, the lead starfighter banked slightly, gliding toward the deck like it owned the very concept of gravity. Fury didn’t move, just stood there with his hands clasped behind his back, his coat hanging perfectly still despite the hum of tension in the room.

Steve’s jaw worked as he watched the formation outside the viewport, arms folded tight. Then he reached into his pocket and dug out a crisp ten-dollar bill.

He held it out toward Fury, two fingers pinching it like an admission.

Fury turned his head slightly, his one good eye narrowing in dry amusement. “What’s this now?”

Steve’s grin was faint but boyish. “I said I’d never be surprised again. Looks like I was wrong.”

The corner of Fury’s mouth ticked upward just enough to be dangerous as he plucked the bill from Steve’s hand and slipped it into his coat. “Damn right you were, son. Don’t make a habit of that.”

Behind them, Natasha glided past like a shadow, her smirk sharp enough to cut steel. “Some of us knew better than to bet against him,” she said as she passed, her voice velvet and thorn.

Bruce trailed after her, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, head down but his tone dry. “I’m beginning to see why,” he muttered, half to himself.

Fury finally stepped away from the command chair, his boots clicking against the metal as Hill fell into step beside him. She was already snapping orders into her earpiece, her gaze glued to the screens.

“Keep the deck clear, keep your weapons holstered,” she instructed as they walked. “Let’s not start an incident we can’t finish.”

They moved as a group through the corridor toward the blast doors. Steve kept pace with long, easy strides, his hands swinging at his sides like he’d just come off the field. “You really think these are friendlies?” he asked over his shoulder without slowing down.

Fury’s voice behind him was calm, smooth as black ice. “Boy didn’t fly halfway across the damn galaxy to start a fight with me. If he wanted one… you’d already know.”

Natasha chuckled softly at that, her arms folded. “That’s comforting,” she said dryly.

The heavy doors ahead groaned open, letting in a blast of sunlight and wind. The deck stretched out before them — wide, gleaming, and now dominated by a formation of black-and-gold starfighters that shimmered in the sun like blades of obsidian.

Steve stepped out first, squinting slightly as the wind tousled his hair and the light caught the sharp line of his jaw.

The ten ships descended in perfect synchronicity, engines purring like caged predators. They landed two by two, their cockpits still sealed, the air around them shimmering from the heat of their thrusters.

Steve took a slow breath, his lips curling into an incredulous half-smile. “Okay,” he muttered under his breath, almost as if he didn’t want anyone to hear. “Now that’s impressive.”

Natasha came up beside him, black leather catching the light, her eyes on the ships as her own smile crept in at the edges. “Careful, Rogers,” she murmured. “You’re starting to sound surprised again. Not a good look for you.”

Steve shot her a look, his grin widening a little. “Yeah? You sound impressed yourself, Romanoff.”

“Please,” she said, voice a drawl as she crossed her arms. “I don’t impress easy. But… they’ve got style. I’ll give ‘em that.”

Fury stepped up on Steve’s other side, his eye fixed firmly on the lead fighter as its canopy began to hiss and slide open.

“Let’s see what kind of show the boy brought us,” he said lowly, almost to himself.

Behind them, Coulson finally caught up, slightly out of breath but trying very hard not to look it. He edged closer to Natasha and murmured, “For the record, I never doubted him either.”

Natasha’s eyes flicked toward him, a single brow arched. “You collect trading cards of this guy too?”

Coulson gave her a perfectly straight look, then muttered, “Don’t judge until you see the holographic set.”

Bruce stood just behind them all, his hands still deep in his pockets, looking at the ships like a man who already had a migraine forming. “I feel like I should be more worried about this,” he murmured. “And yet here I am.”

Hill stood a pace behind Fury, tablet in hand, her voice crisp as she issued final deck instructions. “All clear. Crew in position. No one makes a move unless the Director gives the word.”

Fury didn’t so much as glance back. “Damn right.”

The air on the deck was taut, every pair of eyes on the rows of black-and-gold ships as they sat there like sleeping beasts.

Then — with a hiss of hydraulics and a plume of steam — the canopy of the lead fighter slid fully open.

Steve’s breath caught without meaning to. Natasha’s head tilted in interest. Coulson’s fingers itched for his camera. Bruce sighed quietly, like a man resigned to the fact that nothing was ever simple.

Fury’s lips curled just slightly as he muttered, “Showtime.”

And the figure inside the ship began to climb out.

—

The cockpit canopy hissed open, and a figure rose — boots clanging lightly against the wing of the sleek black-and-gold fighter.

The man stood there for just a moment, letting the wind whip through his untamed black hair. His black bodysuit caught the light — gold accents at the shoulders and crimson plating over his chest and forearms giving him the look of a soldier who’d been sharpened into a weapon.

Harry Potter leapt down to the deck in a fluid motion, the metal echoing under his boots. He straightened to his full height, broad shoulders and long frame filling the space, green eyes glinting like polished emeralds as they swept over the waiting crowd.

Even at a distance, he wore a grin that was part charm, part challenge.

And then he called out, voice cutting easily through the howl of the turbines:

“Bloody hell, Fury! What happened to your hair? Don’t tell me Earth’s been so stressful it just gave up on you?”

For a beat, the deck went silent.

Natasha pressed two fingers to her lips, hiding a smirk. Steve actually snorted, his arms crossing as his lips twitched upward.

Bruce just muttered, half to himself: “Oh boy. This guy’s a lot.”

Fury didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. He just smirked slow and dangerous and called back:

“Boy, if you’re really about to talk hair to me with that mop, you better take a damn good look in a mirror first.”

Harry laughed — a deep, easy sound that filled the deck as he strode forward like he owned the place.

“Fair play,” he called back, still grinning.

When he reached Fury, they clasped forearms — not a handshake, but something with weight behind it. Something that said: we’ve both seen things.

“Been a long time,” Harry said, tilting his head just a fraction, studying him. “Last I saw you was what… ’95? Back when you had a full head of hair and thought pagers were cutting-edge tech.”

Fury’s smirk deepened. “And you thought you were only marrying one girl. Guess we were both young and dumb.”

That earned a bark of laughter from Harry — low and warm but with a dangerous little edge.

“Well,” Harry said, letting go of Fury’s arm and glancing over his shoulder, “speaking of…”

Behind him, the other starfighters’ canopies hissed open all at once.

Steve’s brows furrowed and his arms folded tighter. “Oh boy,” he muttered.

Natasha leaned forward slightly, head tilted, her eyes narrowing as she cataloged everything.

Bruce shoved his hands into his pockets. “Definitely worse,” he murmured.

Coulson, standing just behind them, visibly tried not to beam like a kid meeting his favorite comic book hero.

And then… one by one, the women emerged.

The first was tall, blonde, and devastatingly elegant — her blue eyes cut across the deck like she’d been born to command it. Fleur Delacour’s smirk was as French as her strut, her voice as soft and dangerous as silk.

“Still charming the locals, ’Arry?” she murmured in that unmistakable accent as she joined him.

Next came Daphne Greengrass — all icy poise and cool detachment, her platinum hair catching the light as she adjusted her gloves like this was just another boardroom she intended to dominate.

Susan Bones followed with quiet confidence, her red hair bright against the black deck as she dropped to her feet, shoulders squared, a small, wry smile tugging at her lips.

Then came Val — clad in fur and leather, her golden hair braided back, a long sword slung across her back. She moved with the calm, predatory grace of a Northman sizing up a battlefield.

Beside her, Allyria Dayne glided down, her dark hair and luminous violet eyes giving her an ethereal presence — like a star come down to earth.

And Dacey Mormont — tall, muscular, her braid snapping in the wind — stepped down last of the Westerosi women, arms crossed, gaze as sharp and unflinching as a drawn blade.

And then… the aliens.

Shaak Ti descended with quiet dignity, her crimson skin and lekku giving her the kind of presence that silenced even the murmuring crew.

Aayla Secura followed, her blue skin and piercing eyes sweeping over the Helicarrier with a subtle, feline curiosity that dared anyone to challenge her.

And finally Riyo Chuchi — delicate and deceptively fragile-looking, her blonde hair catching in the breeze as she tilted her chin just high enough to remind everyone she belonged here too.

Harry threw a hand out, sweeping toward them all with a grin that practically dripped confidence.

“So,” he said, voice carrying over the deck. “You remember my wives, don’t you, Fury?”

Fury’s good eye moved slowly down the line — from Fleur’s smirk to Daphne’s cool stare, from Val’s faint grin to Shaak Ti’s serene composure.

For just the smallest moment, his poker face cracked — a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth that could almost have been a smile.

“Hell,” he finally drawled, slipping his hands into his coat pockets, “how could I forget?”

Harry chuckled under his breath. “Good man,” he said, then turned slightly to glance back at the nine women arrayed behind him like the world’s deadliest honor guard.

They assembled in a perfect V at his back — nine queens behind their king, the wind whipping through their cloaks and hair, sunlight catching on steel and jewel-toned skin, like a scene torn straight from a prophecy.

Steve, who’d been quiet for a moment, muttered low enough for just Natasha to hear:

“Well. That’s… something.”

Natasha smirked, sidling closer and leaning in just enough to whisper back, voice dry as desert sand:

“Told you to stop being surprised.”

On the Helicarrier deck, the wind howled around them, and for just a moment, it felt like the entire world tilted further into Harry Potter’s orbit.

Harry’s grin lingered on Fury for a moment longer, but then his emerald green eyes—bright and unflinching—shifted to the towering blond behind him. There was no mistaking the man: broad-shouldered, standing at attention like he was carved out of the deck itself.

The smile on Harry’s lips softened into something more genuine, something heavier with respect.

He strode forward, his boots clanging lightly against the Helicarrier’s deck as the wind whipped around them.

“Blimey,” he muttered under his breath, but loud enough to carry. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

Steve Rogers stood straighter, his eyes sharp but wary.

Harry stopped just short, his grin returning in full force as he extended a hand.

“You’ve got no idea how surreal this is, mate. Harry Potter,” he said warmly, his voice carrying that lazy, confident charm of someone utterly sure of who he was.

Steve’s grip was firm as they clasped hands — just shy of competitive — but Harry matched it easily.

“Steve Rogers,” Steve replied, his brow furrowing just slightly, as though he still wasn’t quite sure what to make of him.

Harry’s smile turned downright mischievous, his emerald eyes sparkling.

“Oh, I know,” he said with a smirk. “I read all the comics.”

Steve blinked, his hand still caught in Harry’s.

“…Comics?”

Harry let go and waved a hand toward Fury with exaggerated innocence. “Oh, yeah. Nick’s got two copies of every issue stashed in his quarters somewhere. One to read, one sealed in mint condition. I may have… borrowed a few back in the day.”

Fury groaned, rubbing at his brow.

“Goddamn kid never learnt to respect personal property,” he muttered.

Harry shot him a cheeky grin over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Nick — never even dog-eared a page.”

That got a chuckle out of Fury, and even Steve cracked a crooked, confused little smile.

“Well… guess you’re full of surprises,” Steve admitted, and Harry clapped a broad hand on his shoulder.

“You’ve got no idea,” Harry replied with a wink.

Behind Fury, Coulson was watching the whole exchange with quiet glee. He leaned just slightly toward the director and muttered:

“But I’m the one who gets grief for my trading cards?”

Fury shot him a withering glare. Coulson, of course, just smiled faintly — utterly vindicated.

—

Meanwhile, Natasha Romanoff had already moved toward the line of women standing behind Harry in that perfect V-formation — each one as striking and self-assured as the next. Her expression stayed calm, professional, but her green eyes swept over each of them with razor precision, already cataloguing everything.

She stopped first in front of Daphne Greengrass — cool, impossibly poised, with sleek blonde hair and a faint, imperious smile that didn’t quite reach her ice-blue eyes.

Natasha’s lips quirked faintly. “You don’t strike me as the type who needs much introduction,” she said evenly.

Daphne tilted her head slightly, her smile sharpening just a fraction. “Neither do you.”

Natasha’s gaze moved down the line to Susan Bones — warm brown eyes and auburn hair that caught the sun, her posture relaxed yet somehow unyielding.

“Hi,” Susan said simply, her voice even and friendly. “Susan Bones. Resident peacekeeper. Sometimes.”

Natasha arched a brow and murmured just loud enough for Susan to hear: “You’ll need the patience of a saint to keep this group in line.”

That earned her a soft laugh from Susan. “So I’ve been told.”

Val — all sharp edges and lethal grace in her furs and leather — held Natasha’s gaze with a wolfish grin.

Natasha glanced at the long sword slung across Val’s back.

“Nice blade,” Natasha noted dryly.

Val’s grin widened into something almost dangerous. “You should see what I can do with it.”

Natasha gave a little hum of approval before moving on to Allyria Dayne — whose hauntingly pale violet eyes and star-kissed dark hair made Natasha pause a beat longer than usual.

“Allyria Dayne,” she said, her voice lilting, soft yet impossible to ignore.

Natasha gave her the faintest, enigmatic smile. “Whatever he did to earn your loyalty… I’d like to read the report.”

Allyria only smiled faintly, as if she knew something Natasha didn’t.

Then came Dacey Mormont — tall, powerful, her arms folded and her expression pure iron.

“Dacey Mormont,” she said bluntly, her voice carrying like steel.

Natasha’s mouth curved just slightly. “We’re going to get along fine,” she murmured.

And then… the final three.

Even Natasha Romanoff stilled for half a second.

Shaak Ti stepped forward first — her red-and-white skin striking against the gray of the deck, her quiet, serene presence impossible to miss. She inclined her head gracefully, her eyes calm.

Aayla Secura was next — blue skin and a lithe, coiled energy about her, her smirk faint but knowing as her bright eyes locked on Natasha’s.

And finally, Riyo Chuchi — delicate, almost ethereal, her tiny frame belying the undeniable strength in her gaze.

Natasha’s eyes swept over the three of them before she straightened, slipping her hands casually into her jacket pockets.

“Ladies,” she said evenly, her voice carrying just enough warmth to take the edge off. “Welcome to the party.”

Harry, glancing over his shoulder at the tableau, grinned wide — that devil-may-care smile lighting up his face.

“Careful, Ms. Romanoff,” he called with a chuckle. “You’re already outnumbered.”

Natasha’s eyes stayed on the women, her smirk growing ever so faintly as she replied without missing a beat:

“We’ll see about that.”

And there they stood:

The wind howling across the Helicarrier deck.

A soldier out of time, shaking hands with a wizard out of worlds.

A line of queens standing behind their king — like they’d never stand anywhere else.

Even Bruce Banner, standing quietly behind Steve, shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and muttered under his breath:

“Well. This should be… interesting.”

Steve just shook his head slightly, a bemused grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Fury, standing dead center between it all, his coat whipping in the wind, finally muttered:

“God help me. I hate it when he’s early.”

And Harry?

He just winked.

—

The group moved off the deck and into the steel-and-glass belly of the Helicarrier. The steady hum of turbines thrummed through the floor, the open air of the sky deck giving way to a controlled, clinical atmosphere.

Harry trailed near the back, emerald green eyes alive as they roved over every piece of tech, every bustling agent. He walked with his hands in his pockets, broad shoulders loose, grin faint but amused — like he’d already memorized the place the second he stepped aboard. Behind him, his wives fanned out in quiet formation. Daphne’s icy poise, Fleur’s feline grace, Dacey’s quiet steel, Val’s predatory alertness, Allyria’s shadowy calm, and the alien trio’s otherworldly presence turned heads as they passed, even though no one dared say anything aloud.

Up front, Nick Fury finally threw a glance over his shoulder at the quiet man in a rumpled shirt and jeans who’d been keeping his head down.

“Doctor Banner,” Fury said, his gravel-deep voice cutting through the low murmur of boots and comms chatter. “Thanks for coming in.”

Bruce looked up like a kid caught daydreaming. He managed a faint, sheepish smile, adjusting his glasses and giving a little shrug. “Thanks for… asking nicely,” he replied. Then he hesitated a beat before adding, “Uh… any idea how long I’m staying this time?”

Fury kept walking, his one good eye forward, his mouth pulling into a wry half-smile. “Soon as we get our hands on the Tesseract, Doc, you’re free to go. Scouts’ honor.”

Bruce huffed out a dry little chuckle, scratching the back of his neck. “Right. So… where are we on that?”

Fury didn’t answer right away. Instead, he snapped his fingers at Coulson, who’d been keeping pace just off his right shoulder.

“Coulson.”

Coulson’s tablet was already in his hands before his name finished leaving Fury’s lips. The senior agent fell back a step, glancing briefly at Harry — who caught his eye and grinned like they were old pals — then addressed the group.

“We’re sweeping every wirelessly accessible camera on the planet,” Coulson explained in his calm, precise way. “Cell phones, laptops. If it’s connected to a satellite, it’s an extra pair of eyes and ears for us.”

Natasha, already ahead of the group, had peeled off to one of the workstations at the bridge’s edge. She crouched fluidly, her hair gleaming under the cool lights as her fingers danced across the screen. An image of Clint Barton filled the display — bow on his back, his jaw set in a grim line. With a quick swipe, data and stats scrolled up next to his image.

She turned her head just enough, voice dry and sharp. “That’s still not gonna find them in time.”

Bruce stepped closer, brow furrowed, and gave the screen a thoughtful frown. He muttered to himself, then spoke up. “We… need to narrow the field.” He glanced around. “How many spectrometers do you guys have access to?”

Fury shot him a flat look over his shoulder. “How many you need access to?”

Bruce managed a crooked, self-effacing little smile. “Call every lab you know,” he said. “Have them put the spectrometers on the roof and calibrate them for gamma rays. I’ll rough out a tracking algorithm based on cluster recognition. At least we can rule out a few places.”

Fury didn’t even flinch as he reached for his comm, already barking into it. “You heard the man.” Then, to Natasha: “Romanoff. Show the doctor to his lab.”

Natasha stood fluidly from her crouch, giving the screen one last swipe before turning back. Her eyes cut briefly to Harry and his wives — her mouth quirking ever so slightly at their sight — before she addressed Bruce with a faint, dry smile.

“You’re gonna love it, Doc,” she said, falling into step beside him as she headed down the hall. “We’ve got all the toys.”

Bruce followed, hands in his pockets, his lopsided smile faint but present. “You got a Commodore 64?”

Natasha tilted her head, deadpan, and without missing a beat called out to a passing agent: “Hey, do we still have a Commodore 64 in—”

Bruce cut her off with a soft laugh, shaking his head. “You’re… very young,” he said dryly as they walked off.

Natasha’s smirk widened a fraction. “You keep telling yourself that, Doc.”

The two disappeared around a corner.

Behind them, Steve — who’d been keeping quiet, arms crossed as he scanned the bridge with soldier’s eyes — finally spoke, his baritone voice breaking through the quiet.

“That man’s calm,” he muttered, mostly to himself, but loud enough that Harry — still leaning back slightly with his hands in his pockets — caught it.

Harry chuckled low in his chest and shot Steve a look of quiet amusement. “You’d be surprised what he’s capable of when he’s not calm, mate.”

Steve met Harry’s green eyes for a beat, then nodded faintly — a soldier’s respect there already.

At the rear of the group, Daphne exchanged a look with Fleur, who smirked faintly. Val muttered something about “shiny new toys” under her breath.

Shaak Ti and Aayla, serene as ever, glided along as though nothing could surprise them. And Riyo, walking light on her feet at the very back, caught the curious glances of passing agents with an almost mischievous smile.

At the front, Fury barked a few more orders into his comm before glancing sidelong at Coulson, who still wore a faint smirk.

“You got somethin’ you wanna say, Coulson?”

Coulson arched an eyebrow, tablet still in hand. “Not a word, sir.”

But the way his mouth twitched into a smile said plenty.

—

Fury finished barking into his comm and slid it back into his coat pocket as the group neared the bridge doors. They opened with a hiss, revealing the sprawling nerve center of the Helicarrier — glowing screens, agents hunched over terminals, and the quiet roar of turbines beneath them.

He stopped dead in his tracks, boots planted wide, and pivoted on his heel to face Harry and his entourage.

Harry had been trailing toward the back of the group, his emerald eyes sweeping lazily across the bustling operations room as if committing it all to memory. His wives flanked him naturally — each one striking in her own way, each radiating a distinct air of lethal grace.

Fury’s one good eye narrowed slightly, and his voice cut through the chatter like a blade.

“Boy,” he said evenly, the weight of the word dropping hard. “Tell me you and your… highly distinguished company can help me find Loki and the Tesseract.”

The room quieted perceptibly. A few agents even paused what they were doing to glance up.

Harry tilted his head, his lopsided grin curling at the edges. “Ah,” he drawled, that easy British charm curling through the tension. “There it is. The ask.”

From his right, Daphne — icy and composed in a form-fitting jacket, her blonde hair perfectly tucked back — arched a brow and murmured just loud enough for him to hear:

“Took him long enough.”

On his left, Susan crossed her arms, her copper hair gleaming under the lights, and gave Fury a faint, wry smile. “At least he asked instead of ordered,” she quipped. “That’s progress.”

Fleur let out a soft, musical laugh and toyed with a loose strand of platinum hair, her French accent curling around her words like silk. “We ‘ave been… how you say… itching to be useful, non?”

Harry didn’t take his eyes off Fury. His grin sharpened just a little, though his tone stayed light. “You’re asking,” he observed, the faintest edge of steel in his voice. “Not ordering. Smart man.”

Fury’s mouth ticked up into a tiny smirk. “I know what you’re worth. So I’ll say it again. Can you help me find them?”

Harry’s smile settled into something more dangerous, more confident. He straightened, his hands sliding free of his pockets.

“You need magic and the Force working together,” he replied matter-of-factly. “Tracking spells layered with precognition and field sensitivity. Clever play.”

He flicked his gaze to Shaak Ti and Aayla standing quietly behind the others. Shaak’s lekku shifted faintly as she inclined her head gracefully.

“I can sense the echo of his mind,” she said, her voice low and serene, with a faint undercurrent of menace. “Faint. But not gone.”

Aayla’s piercing blue gaze swept over Fury next. “If you can give us even a vague location,” she added smoothly, “we can amplify it. Narrow the field.”

Harry turned slightly, his gaze sliding to Daphne.

She met his eyes coolly, then gave the faintest of nods. “We’ll need a map grid,” she said crisply. “I can lay a proximity charm keyed to the Tesseract’s magical frequency.”

Susan rolled her shoulders, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “I can bind the spell into your surveillance network. Piggyback on whatever feeds you’ve already tapped.”

Fleur tilted her head, her smile sly and a little wicked. “And I,” she said, a delicate shrug rippling through her tailored coat, “will make sure it does not… explode, oui?”

Coulson, standing just behind Fury, made a valiant effort to keep his expression neutral — but the faint upward quirk of his lips betrayed him.

Fury folded his arms across his chest and shifted his weight slightly, his good eye glinting. “That’s what I like to hear,” he said evenly.

Harry stepped forward, his grin now edged with something darker. He stopped just shy of Fury, standing tall enough to force the older man to tilt his head slightly to meet his gaze.

“All you had to do,” Harry murmured, his voice low but carrying, “was ask. Politely.”

Fury didn’t flinch. He held Harry’s emerald stare for one long beat… then gave the faintest of nods.

“Please,” he said flatly.

Harry’s smile broadened just enough to show teeth. “Better,” he replied.

He straightened fully, his long coat shifting around him as he glanced back over his shoulder at his wives, his voice cutting through the quiet with quiet authority.

“Ladies?”

Daphne adjusted her gloves, her eyes glinting ice. “Ready.”

Susan cracked her knuckles, then let her arms fall to her sides with a faint smirk. “Ready.”

Fleur let out a soft, wicked laugh. “Toujours prête.”

Shaak Ti inclined her head once more, her voice calm and commanding. “We are prepared.”

Aayla stepped forward slightly, her eyes flashing faintly with Force energy. “Ready.”

Harry turned back to Fury, his grin now full and confident — part predator, part showman.

“Then let’s go hunting,” he said.

Fury’s smirk deepened, his gravelly voice rolling out like distant thunder. “That’s the spirit.”

Behind him, Coulson leaned slightly toward Maria Hill and murmured dryly, “Best recruitment I never did.”

Hill, arms crossed and her expression unimpressed but faintly amused, didn’t even look at him when she deadpanned:

“You’re still not getting a raise, Coulson.”

And for once, he didn’t argue — just let the smallest smirk tug at his mouth as Harry Potter and his nine wives strode onto the Helicarrier’s bridge, emerald and gold light already gathering faintly at their fingertips.

—

The bridge felt quieter now.

Harry and his wives had swept out like a summer storm breaking, the air still charged in their wake. Natasha and Bruce had already disappeared down to the labs. Coulson ducked into a side corridor, no doubt to coordinate whatever Coulson coordinated. Steve lingered by one of the tactical tables, arms folded, jaw tight in thought before finally striding off with that grim determination only Rogers seemed to carry.

And then there were two.

Fury leaned against the console in silence, one hand resting on the edge as his good eye swept the bridge. Finally, he pushed upright with deliberate calm, his trench coat shifting like a shadow.

Across the room, Hill was already working, cool and composed as ever. Her fingers moved over a holographic display, scrolling through feeds with mechanical precision.

Fury’s eye fixed on her. “You tell the World Security Council Barton’s been compromised?”

Hill didn’t flinch, didn’t even glance up, but her hands hesitated just a fraction.

“That was procedure,” she replied smoothly, her tone polite enough to hide the faint steel behind it.

“Mm,” Fury grunted, watching her longer than was strictly necessary. Then he stepped off, boots clicking against metal as he turned toward the tall panoramic window at the far end of the bridge.

Hill kept her eyes on her display, though her voice followed him across the quiet.

“Did you,” she asked, calm and cutting all at once, “tell them who exactly you’ve put on the response team?”

Fury stopped just short of the window. His shoulders stiffened faintly.

Then, very slowly, he looked back at her.

The stare alone said more than words could’ve. His gaze narrowed, his brow creased just enough to be dangerous, and his lips curved into something that almost — almost — resembled a smirk.

“I ain’t gotta tell them everything,” he said finally, his tone dry and heavy with disdain.

Hill didn’t flinch, though her blue-gray eyes darted up at that.

“You briefed them on the operation,” she pressed, “but not on who you’re fielding?”

Fury made a sound low in his throat — something between a chuckle and a growl — before turning fully back to the window. He stood there, hands clasped behind his back now, trench coat settling around his legs as he stared out at the endless white clouds and bright blue sky beyond.

After a moment, he said it, soft but sharp enough to carry.

“Doesn’t appear that I have to.”

Hill straightened slightly behind him, her frown deepening just enough to betray her thoughts.

Fury let the silence hang there for a beat. Then he added, still watching the clouds:

“‘Course… they don’t know about my trump cards, do they?”

Hill’s fingers froze over her console.

Fury’s smirk widened — faint but unmistakable — as he continued, almost to himself now.

“They don’t know about him. Or them.”

Hill’s head lifted fully now. She turned, watching his back as he stood, unmoving, at the glass.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t ask.

But her eyes narrowed as if already weighing the implications.

Fury just stood there, a silent sentinel over his bridge, the faintest gleam of satisfaction glinting in his lone eye as the turbines hummed and the Helicarrier sliced through the clouds.

—

The underground lab hummed with a strange kind of energy — literal and otherwise. Banks of servers glowed blue and white, cables snaked across the floor like vines, and in the center stood the CMS device, pulsing faintly as Selvig and a swarm of scientists hovered over it.

Erik Selvig waved a harried hand at one of the techs hauling a crate. “Put it over there!” he barked, already turning back to his notes. Then he caught sight of Clint Barton striding in, iPad tucked under one arm, a faint smirk on his lips.

Selvig raised his brows and gestured vaguely at the room around them. “Where did you even find all these people?”

Clint didn’t break stride, just glanced up with that dry, unamused look of his. “SHIELD’s got no shortage of enemies, Doctor,” he said. He stopped next to Selvig and held up the iPad, flipping it around to display a series of diagrams. “This the stuff you need?”

Selvig leaned forward, squinting. His face brightened like a kid at Christmas. “Yes—yes! Iridium!” He laughed, shaking his head in wonder. “It’s found in meteorites. It forms anti-protons. Very hard to get hold of.”

Clint arched a brow, one corner of his mouth tugging upward. “Especially if SHIELD knows you need it.”

That earned him a distracted wave from Selvig. “Well, I didn’t know!”

He stopped suddenly as Loki entered the room. The god of mischief moved like a shadow through the fluorescent lights, his long coat trailing behind him, his smile infuriatingly serene.

Selvig’s eyes lit up. He pointed a trembling finger. “Ah! This is wonderful. The Tesseract—it’s shown me so much. More than knowledge.” He lowered his voice as though confessing a sacred truth. “It’s… it’s truth.”

Loki’s smile deepened, but his words were quiet and sharp as he stopped beside the doctor. “I know. It touches everyone differently.”

Clint, meanwhile, had drifted to the back of the room, muttering something to one of the black-clad agents posted by the door.

Loki’s gaze found him anyway. “And what did it show you, Agent Barton?”

Clint didn’t even glance up. He just adjusted his grip on the iPad, still scrolling. “My next target.”

Selvig chuckled at that, looking over his shoulder at Clint. “Stick in the mud,” he muttered, shaking his head. “He’s got no soul.” Then louder, to Clint: “No wonder you chose this tomb to work in!”

Clint finally looked up, deadpan. “Well, the Radisson doesn’t have three levels of lead-lined flooring between SHIELD and that cube.”

Selvig’s laugh faded into a distracted nod, already walking off toward the CMS.

Loki, watching Clint now, allowed himself a little smirk. “I see why Fury chose you to guard it.”

The two men fell into step, walking through the length of the lab as agents and scientists bustled around them.

“You’re gonna have to contend with him,” Clint said quietly, his voice even, his eyes sharp. “As long as he’s in the air, I can’t pin him down. He’s already putting together a team.”

Loki’s smirk didn’t falter. “Will they be a threat?”

Clint let out a dry snort. “To each other? More than likely. But if Fury can get them on track—and he might—they could throw some noise our way.”

Loki tilted his head, studying the mortal with that unblinking, serpentine calm. “You admire him.”

They kept walking. Clint’s mouth curved into something resembling a smile. “He’s got a clear line of sight.”

“Is that why you failed to kill him?”

Clint stopped walking, but Loki didn’t. He strolled into the tunnel ahead, his long fingers trailing lazily along the cold wall.

“It might be,” Clint admitted finally, his voice low. “I was disoriented. Not at my best with a gun.”

That stopped Loki in his tracks. His head turned slightly, that sharp grin of his curling wider as an idea bloomed behind his eyes.

“I want to know,” he said softly, “everything you can tell me about this team of his. I would test their mettle. I grow weary of scuttling in shadows. I mean to rule this world…” He turned fully now, his green eyes glinting. “…not burrow in it.”

Clint regarded him for a long, measured beat. “It’s a risk.”

Loki’s smile turned devilish, his teeth catching the light. “Oh yes,” he said.

Clint exhaled through his nose, one hand drifting down to the black case slung over his shoulder. “If you’re set on making yourself known,” he said evenly, “I could be useful.”

Loki stepped closer now, his presence looming, his voice dropping into a velvet whisper. “Tell me what you need.”

Clint knelt and unlatched the case, the soft click of metal loud in the silence. He swung it open and drew out his bow, extending it with a fluid motion until it locked into place with a satisfying snap.

“I’ll need,” Clint said dryly, “a distraction.” He glanced up, meeting Loki’s gaze without flinching. “And an eyeball.”

Loki’s laugh — low, rich, and entirely unholy — echoed through the tunnel.

—

The Helicarrier bridge hummed with energy and low chatter, the screens flickering as agents scrolled through feeds and data. Steve Rogers leaned over a tactical table, arms folded, jaw tight in concentration.

Coulson sidled up beside him, practically vibrating with quiet excitement. “Hey, Cap,” he said, voice low but earnest, “if it’s not too much trouble… mind signing these for me?”

Steve raised a brow, confused.

Coulson carefully pulled a plastic case from his coat and handed it over. Inside: a pristine stack of Captain America trading cards. “Vintage set,” Coulson explained, voice dropping to a reverent whisper. “Took me a couple years to track ‘em all down. Near mint condition. Well... slight foxing on the edges, but that’s just character.”

Steve blinked. “You collect these?”

A sheepish shrug from Coulson. “Guilty. Big fan. What can I say?”

Steve smiled softly, shaking his head in amused disbelief as he accepted the pen.

Before he could sign a single card, the hiss of the bridge doors opening snapped every head toward the walkway.

Harry Potter stepped onto the deck, the black bodysuit hugging his lithe frame, red and gold armor gleaming faintly beneath the harsh white lights. His emerald eyes scanned the room, cool and confident — a predator about to strike.

Behind him came the nine:

Daphne Greengrass, blonde and poised, with that Sydney Sweeney icy-glamour vibe, slipped into position beside Susan Bones, whose copper-red hair shimmered under the lights like Ariel Winter’s quiet fire. Fleur Delacour floated just behind, Margot Robbie’s effortless French chic oozing from every gesture.

Shaak Ti and Aayla Secura followed, robes whispering and eyes faintly glowing — Kate Beckinsale’s refined menace paired with Anya Chalotra’s sharp intensity.

Riyo Chuchi, Val, Dacey Mormont, and Allyria Dayne completed the circle, each radiating cool power and calm readiness — Sabrina Carpenter’s youthful steadiness, Katheryn Winnick’s no-nonsense strength, Bridget Regan’s fierce warmth, and Alexandra Daddario’s steely grace.

Fury stepped forward, arms crossed, the weight of his gaze pinning the group in place. His good eye narrowed just enough to cut through the bravado.

“We’ve got him,” Harry said, voice low but carrying across the bridge like a command.

Susan stepped up, raising a datapad, “Two clusters down to one. Stuttgart. Germany.”

Shaak Ti’s calm voice cut through the hum. “He is… unguarded. Unconcerned.”

A moment later, Jasper Sitwell approached, his Mark Strong–like presence all business, tablet in hand. “Sixty-seven percent match on local surveillance,” he reported crisply. “Cross-match shows seventy-nine percent. Stuttgart, twenty-eight Königstraße.”

Fury’s smirk twitched. “Not exactly hiding.”

Sitwell nodded once, dry smile faint. “No, sir.”

Fury glanced at Steve, then Harry. “You’re up.”

Steve’s jaw clenched, shoulders squared as he slung his shield onto his back. “Understood.”

But his eyes flicked to Harry, waiting for the nod that gave the word.

Harry turned to his wives — his quiet authority wrapping the group like armor. Daphne met his gaze with a curt nod, Susan smiled faintly, Fleur murmured something in French that earned an eye-roll and smirk from Susan, Shaak and Aayla exchanged a sharp glance before stepping closer, Riyo, Val, Dacey, and Allyria poised and ready.

“Let’s move.”

Nine figures melted into motion, swift and fluid, the quiet hum of their power barely disturbing the air as they swept off the bridge.

Agents paused mid-task, watching them go. Coulson discreetly tucked his trading cards away with a small, satisfied grin. Hill’s cool gaze lingered, sharp and calculating.

But as the last footsteps faded, Shaak Ti remained behind.

Her grace was effortless as she drifted back to Fury’s side, lekku twitching faintly.

“Your man,” she said softly, eyes flicking toward Sitwell’s station, “the one we spoke to.”

Fury’s brow creased but he didn’t look at her directly. “Sitwell. What now?”

Shaak’s pale eyes narrowed, voice calm but heavy with warning. “The Force whispers deception. Something clings to him. Wrongness.”

Fury turned slowly, one good eye locking with hers.

“You’re telling me to watch my own man?”

She inclined her head, unflinching. “Precisely.”

With a final, deliberate nod, Shaak swept off to catch up with the others.

Fury stood silent for a moment, then muttered under his breath with a grin:

“Damn Force. Always spoiling the fun.”

—

The corridors of the Helicarrier thrummed with quiet purpose, the steady roar of turbines beneath their feet lending a faint vibration to the air. Agents hustled past with clipboards and headsets, and holographic maps flickered across the walls like constellations in motion.

Harry and Steve walked shoulder to shoulder down the central walkway, Coulson trailing half a step behind them, tablet clutched in both hands like it was a holy relic.

Harry — tall, broad-shouldered, black bodysuit fitted under his gleaming red-and-gold light armor — strolled like he owned the place, hands tucked into his pockets and an amused little grin playing on his lips. His emerald eyes roamed lazily over the bridge’s controlled chaos.

Steve — all chiseled jawline and quiet grit in his jeans and bomber jacket — walked with a sort of square-shouldered courtesy that still managed to command attention.

Coulson, of course, was grinning faintly to himself, his eyes flicking between the two men as though he still couldn’t believe his luck at standing between Captain America and whatever exactly Harry Potter was.

It was Coulson who broke the silence first, clearing his throat and gesturing toward a door at the end of the corridor.

“Captain,” he said, a little breathless despite himself, “we’ve got a changing room set up just ahead. Your gear’s already there. I, uh…” He hesitated, then added with quiet pride, “…had some input on the design. Hope that’s not a problem.”

Steve shot him a glance, his mouth twitching into the faintest incredulous smile. “You helped design it?”

Coulson nodded, all earnestness now. “Made sure it paid respect to the classic. A lot of thought went into it. Months, actually. …Years, if I’m being honest.”

Steve shook his head, a little chuckle rumbling out of him. “Well. Guess I’ll see if it lives up to the hype.”

“That’s the spirit,” Coulson said, almost beaming as he hugged his tablet closer.

But Steve’s blue eyes slid sideways after another few paces, narrowing ever so slightly at the figure beside him. He studied Harry’s relaxed, almost boyish posture; the cocky grin that never quite left his face; and — most of all — the faint shimmer of power in those impossible green eyes.

“Alright,” Steve said at last, his tone light but edged with honest curiosity. “Tell me something, Harry. How does a young man — who’s clearly British, by the way — end up married to nine women… three of whom, from the looks of things, aren’t even human…”

Harry’s grin widened without him saying a word.

“…and,” Steve went on, “from what I’ve heard from you and Fury, you’ve been… roaming through space for the last seventeen, eighteen years?”

Harry stopped mid-stride, arching a brow at him, and then did something that startled even Coulson — he laughed. A deep, low, warm laugh that made Steve frown even harder.

“Ah, Steve,” Harry said at last, still chuckling as he resumed walking. “You really shouldn’t go by appearances. You, of all people, ought to know better.”

Steve’s brow knit even tighter. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Harry shot him a sideways look, emerald eyes glinting as the grin sharpened just a little. He didn’t even have to think about it.

“You’re ninety-two years old,” Harry pointed out, calm as you please. “And here you are — walking, talking, fighting like you’re still in your twenties.”

Steve faltered for half a second at that, and Coulson — predictably — couldn’t resist muttering under his breath behind them.

“He’s got you there, Cap,” Coulson said, the faintest smirk curling his lips.

Steve snorted softly and shook his head, though the corner of his mouth tugged upward in something like reluctant amusement. “Fair enough,” he admitted. “So you’re saying there’s more to you than meets the eye?”

Harry let out another quiet laugh, though this one was darker. “Oh,” he said. “Much more.”

He slowed as they approached the door, one hand rising to rest lightly against the frame. He leaned against it just enough to give his next words a deliberate weight, his eyes catching the light and burning faintly brighter.

“To understand us,” he said, his voice dropping to something softer — but no less commanding, “you’d need to start with one simple truth.”

Coulson leaned forward slightly, his tablet held tight in both hands now, his eyes wide.

Harry’s grin stayed in place — faint, dangerous, amused — as he held Steve’s gaze.

“We,” he said, “don’t belong to this universe.”

The words hit the air like a thunderclap.

Steve actually stopped cold this time, staring at him. Coulson’s jaw went slack, his eyes darting between Harry and Steve as though he was waiting for someone to tell him this was a joke.

Harry didn’t move. He just let it sink in.

Then, as if it were the most casual thing in the world, he added:

“We’re multiversal travelers.”

For the first time, Steve Rogers looked like he didn’t quite know what to say. His mouth opened, then closed. His brow furrowed so deep it could’ve cast shadows.

Coulson mouthed the words silently to himself: Multiversal… travelers?

And then Harry pushed the door open, glancing back at them over his shoulder with a flash of white teeth and a wink that was all confidence and mischief.

“But,” he added smoothly, “that’s a story for another time.”

The door hissed shut behind him, leaving Steve and Coulson alone in the hall — one bewildered, the other looking like Christmas had come early and punched him in the face.

Steve stared at the door for a long beat, then finally muttered, half to himself:

“Well, hell.”

Coulson just grinned faintly.

Exterior — Stuttgart Museum — Night

The grand facade of the Stuttgart Museum glittered under spotlights, its stately marble columns rising into the darkness like sentinels. A string of luxury cars lined the entrance, spilling tuxedoed men and bejeweled women onto the red carpet.

Loki stood across the street, leaning lightly on his cane — a striking figure even dressed in an impeccably cut black suit. The faintest smirk curved his lips as his sharp green eyes swept the building.

His cane — the scepter in clever disguise — tapped against the pavement as he began his slow walk toward the entrance. He moved like a man who owned the place already.

—

Interior — Stuttgart Museum Gala — Continuous

The gala was in full swing — crystal chandeliers casting golden light over the crowd. A string orchestra played an airy waltz as waiters weaved through with trays of champagne. Laughter and polite applause rippled across the polished floors.

At the podium on the small stage, the head doctor of the museum, a balding man in his sixties, smiled at the assembled elite.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, tapping the mic gently. “Thank you for joining us tonight…”

His words trailed into the murmur of the crowd as a dark presence at the balcony above caught his eye.

Loki was watching.

—

Exterior — Science Annex Rooftop — Same Time

The guards around the annex stood alert, rifles at their sides. On the roof, one of them crouched by a spotlight, scanning the grounds below.

He frowned, hearing a faint thwip in the wind.

Then another.

He looked down — just in time to see one of his comrades slump with an arrow in his chest.

“Was ist das—” he began, raising his rifle — but another arrow punched clean through his shoulder, spinning him down into silence.

Clint Barton climbed smoothly onto the roofline, bow already nocked, his expression calm and businesslike. He didn’t bother looking at the man he’d just dropped.

Below him, three SHIELD turncoats moved to the annex door, keeping low. Clint dropped beside them with feline grace, twirling a compact scanner in one hand.

He quirked a dry smile as he crouched before the retinal scanner.

“Never met a door I couldn’t talk to,” he muttered.

One of his team chuckled.

Clint powered on the SHIELD device — it hummed to life, projecting a faint blue light.

—

Interior — Stuttgart Museum — Main Hall — Same Time

Loki descended from the balcony, his shoes echoing softly against the marble. His smirk had grown wider now, darker.

A security guard at the stage noticed him, his hand drifting to his sidearm.

Loki’s cane swept up in a blur — crack — and the guard crumpled to the floor without a sound.

The music screeched to a halt as screams and shouts erupted.

“Everyone, stay calm,” the head doctor called out in vain as the guests panicked, scattering toward the exits.

Loki didn’t even spare them a glance. He reached the stage, his presence commanding, and with one hand he grabbed the doctor by his lapels, flipping him effortlessly onto his back atop a marble table carved with mythical beasts.

Loki’s smile widened into something cruel as he produced a gleaming optical device from his jacket.

“Hold still,” he murmured, his voice low and almost soothing — which somehow made it worse.

“No — please—!” the doctor gasped, twisting as Loki clamped the device over his eye.

A sharp whir of light and blades.

The doctor screamed, writhing in agony as Loki’s grin deepened, his green eyes alight with quiet glee.

“Such fragile little creatures,” he said under his breath.

—

Exterior — Science Annex Entrance — Same Time

The scanner beeped, projecting a perfect holographic replica of the doctor’s eye.

Clint’s tablet screen flickered, bringing up the doctor’s vitals and ID.

“Gotcha,” Clint muttered with satisfaction, glancing at one of his team. “And they say archers don’t multitask.”

The heavy doors hissed open.

He rose smoothly, tucking the scanner back into his belt, and strode in.

Inside, the room was sterile and humming, filled with secure cabinets and sealed crates. Clint made his way to the one he wanted like he’d built the place himself.

He crouched, opened the cabinet, and withdrew a glass thermos containing a faintly glowing cylinder.

Iridium.

He turned it over in his hands, smirking faintly.

“Well,” he drawled, “mission accomplished. You can keep your fancy medals.”

Behind him, one of his crew muttered, “Never doubted you for a second.”

“Liar,” Clint said absently, tucking the iridium under his arm.

—

Interior — Stuttgart Museum — Back to Loki — Same Time

The doctor collapsed to the floor, clutching his face and whimpering as Loki pocketed the optical device, straightened his jacket, and surveyed the chaos.

The guests were gone.

The guards were incapacitated.

And he stood there in the wreckage, the very picture of composed malice.

“Now,” Loki murmured to himself, adjusting his tie and tapping his cane against the marble.

“On to the next act.”

His smirk curled wider as he turned toward the door, his shadow stretching long and sharp behind him.

—

Exterior — Stuttgart Museum Plaza — Night

The crowd outside the museum had barely begun to regroup from the chaos within when a ripple of cold power swept through the square.

Loki strode out of the museum doors at a measured pace, his cane striking stone with each step. As he moved, his mundane black suit shimmered into gold-plated Asgardian armor, green cape unfurling behind him like a banner of conquest. His helmet materialized next, the long, curved horns glinting wickedly under the streetlights.

Gasps erupted from the crowd.

The shriek of sirens followed — three police cruisers screeching to a halt at the edge of the square. Officers spilled out, weapons raised.

Loki didn’t even slow his stride.

He flicked his wrist lazily.

A blast of blue energy arced from his scepter, striking one car dead-center. The vehicle flipped like a toy, slamming into the others, sending metal and glass raining down.

The crowd screamed and tried to scatter.

But Loki simply… multiplied.

Three illusory duplicates of himself shimmered into being around the perimeter, all perfectly identical, all wearing the same smug expression.

“Kneel before me,” he said, his voice smooth but commanding — like a king announcing himself to his new subjects.

No one listened. They bolted for the side streets, skirts and suits fluttering, shoes clattering against stone.

His green eyes narrowed, his smirk sharpened.

He threw his arms wide, his tone now edged with danger.

“I said… KNEEL!”

The three doubles moved as one, blocking the fleeing people at every exit. Herding them. Closing them in.

One by one, the crowd dropped to their knees, shivering and terrified, their gazes locked to the ground.

Loki’s arms stayed wide, a brilliant smile spreading across his face as if this was the moment he lived for.

“Ah… is not this simpler?” he purred. His voice carried easily over the quiet sobs of the crowd, silk and steel in equal measure.

“Is this not your natural state? It is the unspoken truth of humanity… that you crave subjugation. The bright lure of freedom diminishes your joy — a mad scramble for power, for identity. You were made to be ruled. In the end…”

He walked slowly through them now, gaze sweeping over the bowed heads.

“…you will always kneel.”

But then — a single voice cut through the silence.

“No.”

Loki stopped mid-step. Turned.

An elderly German man stood near the front of the crowd, his thin frame straight, his hands clenched at his sides. He glared at Loki with all the defiance his worn body could muster.

“Not to men like you,” the man said, his accent thick but his voice steady.

Loki tilted his head, his smirk returning, a glint of malice in his eyes.

“There are no men like me,” he replied, every word dripping with smug certainty.

The old man’s lips twitched, just faintly, into something that was almost a smile.

“There are always… men like you.”

That wiped the smile clean from Loki’s face. He strode toward the man now, every inch of him radiating cold fury.

“Look to your elder, people,” Loki snarled, raising his scepter. “Let him be an example!”

Blue light flared at the tip as he drew back to strike.

And that’s when a vibranium shield slammed down in front of the old man — just in time to deflect the blast.

The crowd gasped as Loki staggered back a step, his blast ricocheting harmlessly.

Standing between him and the German man now, straight-backed and broad-shouldered, was Captain America himself — shield raised, eyes locked on Loki.

Steve lowered the shield just slightly and tilted his head at the god of mischief.

“You know,” he said, his voice calm but with an edge of dry humor, “the last time I was in Germany… and saw a man standing above everybody else?”

He gave a faint shake of his head.

“We ended up disagreeing.”

Loki straightened to his full height, dusting an imaginary speck off his gold-plated shoulder, and sneered faintly.

“The soldier,” he said smoothly, his smirk returning as he eyed Steve up and down. “A man… out of time.”

But Steve didn’t flinch. His blue eyes narrowed, his jaw set, and his voice dropped into something harder, colder.

“I’m not the one who’s out of time,” he replied.

And this time — it was Loki who stiffened.

—

The Quinjet descended like a hunter, turbines howling through the night. Searchlights painted the square in stark white as the mounted gun swiveled down, locking onto Loki.

A crisp, sardonic voice crackled through the PA, calm and deadly.

“Drop the weapon. Stand down. Or I repaint this square with what’s left of your horns.”

Loki’s smirk barely twitched as he stood in the center of the plaza, scepter gleaming. His voice rose in a mocking drawl as he finally looked skyward.

“Ah. The red one. How charming that you think I’d listen to you.”

Then, with a flick of his wrist, a blue bolt of searing energy shot up and smashed into the Quinjet.

Natasha’s Russian swear cut through the comms as she wrestled the controls. The jet pitched violently, narrowly avoiding a crash.

“Yeah, thanks for that, reindeer games,” she muttered under her breath.

On the ground, Steve didn’t wait for an opening — he made one.

“Knew he was gonna be chatty,” Steve growled to himself, then launched his shield at Loki with brutal precision.

The god’s reflexes were lightning quick. He caught the shield on the tip of his scepter and spun it wide, the clang echoing through the square.

Then they charged.

The clash was explosive — Loki’s scepter against vibranium, Steve’s boots gouging furrows into the stone as he shoved back against the god’s strength.

“You really don’t know when to quit, do you?” Loki taunted between strikes, his tone laced with venom and amusement in equal measure.

“Not my style,” Steve shot back, grunting as their weapons locked.

Loki ducked and swept Steve’s legs out, sending him sprawling. The Captain rolled, came up on one knee, and hurled his shield again. This time, Loki batted it aside and stalked forward, pressing his advantage.

“You’re a relic,” Loki hissed, planting a boot on Steve’s chest and forcing him down. “A fossil wrapped in a flag. And now you’ll kneel.”

The scepter’s glow grew brighter as it hovered just above Steve’s helmet.

But Steve’s blue eyes were locked — not on Loki — but past him.

“Now!” Steve barked.

Loki’s eyes narrowed — just as a brilliant arc of red-and-gold energy slammed into his back like a thunderclap.

The god froze mid-motion, his limbs locking as golden magical runes seared into existence around him.

Steve shoved the scepter away and rolled to his feet, dusting himself off.

“Not bad,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “Appreciate the assist.”

From the shadows, a tall figure strode forward, boots clicking on the stone.

Harry Potter.

The black bodysuit hugged his frame like a second skin, reinforced by gleaming red-and-gold armor that glowed faintly at the edges. His emerald-green eyes cut through the dark, alive with power and mirth. Magic still crackled faintly in the air as he crouched over Loki, fingers brushing the god’s temple.

“Silencio,” Harry murmured, and the spell clamped over Loki’s mouth like invisible steel.

The god’s eyes went wide as he found himself utterly mute. Worse, no matter how hard he tried to break the spell, his own magic faltered.

Panic flashed briefly in his expression — though he tried to bury it under icy disdain.

“You’re welcome,” Harry added casually as he straightened.

Steve smirked faintly. “You’re full of surprises.”

Harry’s grin tilted roguishly. “You don’t know the half of it.”

Then AC/DC’s “Shoot to Thrill” suddenly exploded over the Quinjet’s loudspeakers, loud enough to make even Natasha wince.

Steve’s brow furrowed, looking up in confusion.

Harry raised an eyebrow.

Even Loki’s frozen face managed to convey faint disgust.

“Seriously?” Steve muttered.

Natasha’s voice came over the comms, deadpan.

“Stark.”

“Miss me, Romanoff?” came the predictably smug reply, right as a red-and-gold streak rocketed across the night sky.

Iron Man touched down like a comet, thrusters blasting the square into a storm of dust and heat. The armored plates on his suit slid and shifted as every single weapon he had deployed with a whir-click-shunk.

Tony stood there, faceplate still down, repulsors aimed at Loki’s immobile body.

“Alright, sparkle-horns,” he announced grandly, “you’ve officially been Stark-blocked. Don’t bother thanking me, you’re welcome by default.”

Then the faceplate slid up to reveal his signature grin — only for his confidence to falter when he actually saw the scene.

Loki was already down. Silent. Steve was standing there looking bored. And there was some other guy — a tall, broad-shouldered Brit in black and gold — calmly inspecting the god like he’d done this a thousand times before.

Tony’s weapons retracted with a faint hiss.

“…Oh,” he said flatly. “Well. This is awkward.”

Steve crossed his arms, smirking faintly. “Little late to the party, Stark.”

Harry didn’t even look up as he crouched to check Loki’s bonds.

“And you are?” Harry asked dryly.

Tony blinked, pointing at himself. “Wait. You don’t know who I— you’re not with him?”

Harry finally glanced up, grin curling at the edges. “Definitely not with him.”

Tony glanced between Steve, Harry, and Loki, completely thrown.

“…What the hell did I just fly into?”

Steve sighed and clapped Tony on the shoulder as he passed.

“Long story,” Steve muttered.

Harry added without missing a beat — just loud enough for Loki to hear:

“But not nearly as long as his ego.”

Loki’s muffled growl was the only reply as Tony turned his head and stared after Harry, completely baffled.

“Okay…” Tony muttered. “Did I just get upstaged in my own entrance? …That’s illegal.”

—

The Quinjet roared through the clouds on its final approach to the Helicarrier, blades slicing the night. Inside, the air was tense but not quiet — the kind of tension that came with too many egos in one small space.

Loki sat at the back of the cabin, shackled to a reinforced seat, his wrists bound with gleaming cuffs and his scepter locked in a containment crate. Even silenced by Harry’s spell, his emerald eyes sparkled with mischief, his posture regal despite the circumstances.

Natasha sat in the cockpit, fingers flying over the controls. Fury’s gravelly baritone came over the comms.

“Romanoff. Prisoner say anything yet?”

Natasha allowed herself a faint smirk and glanced back at Loki.

“He hasn’t said a word. Harry shut him up — magically,” she replied, the edge of amusement in her voice clear. “Which, honestly? Probably for the best. If the Norse myths are accurate, listening to him talk’s just asking for trouble.”

There was a low chuckle from Fury’s end of the line.

“No argument here. Just get him here. We’re running low on time.”

“Copy that,” Natasha said, flipping a switch.

In the cabin, Harry leaned lazily against the bulkhead, arms folded, green eyes glinting as he watched Loki like a cat watching a mouse. His crimson-and-gold armored shoulders gleamed faintly under the lights. Steve sat across from him, his elbows on his knees, jaw tight, while Tony stalked the aisle, his hands moving as fast as his mouth.

“I don’t like it,” Steve finally rumbled, his tone low and certain.

Tony stopped mid-step, turned, and pointed at him.

“Which part? That we’re babysitting Glorious Purpose back there instead of jettisoning him into a black hole, or—” he swung the finger to Harry, eyes narrowing in mock accusation, “—that Mr. Broody McGloweyes here just waltzed in and took down a scepter-wielding god like it was a Tuesday matinee? ‘Cause, pal, both options keep me up at night.”

Harry didn’t even blink. “You talk a lot for someone who looked winded five minutes in.”

That earned a sharp, low laugh from Steve, who clapped once against his thigh and muttered, “He’s not wrong.”

Tony ignored them both and started pacing again, gesturing furiously at Harry.

“No, see, here’s my problem. You show up in a pretty little ensemble straight out of a Stark Industries concept sketch, and somehow you shut down that—” he jabbed a thumb at Loki “—with nothing more than some jazz-hands and an ominous glare. I’ve been running diagnostics in my head since takeoff. Either you’re hiding a whole lot of alien hardware in that suit of yours, or—” he leaned in closer now, narrowing his eyes, “—you’re doing something very illegal with physics.”

Harry arched one brow, grinning faintly. “You think I need gear to beat him?”

“Oh, no,” Tony shot back. “I think you need to explain your cheat codes. What is it? Quantum phase disruptors? Asymmetrical energy dampeners? Gamma-tuned photonic resonators? Or maybe… nanites?”

Steve tilted his head at Harry, smirking faintly. “You catching any of that?”

Harry gave him a sideways glance, his emerald eyes dancing. “Oh, sure. Sounds like a lot of words for ‘I have no idea what’s going on.’”

Steve chuckled, and even Natasha smirked faintly from the cockpit.

Tony threw up his hands. “Fine. I’ll bite. What do you call it, then?”

Harry tilted his head ever so slightly, then finally spoke.

“Magic,” he said.

Tony froze. His eyes narrowed, his jaw slackened. “…Magic? Really?”

Harry shrugged, tracing a lazy rune in the air. The faint sigil glowed gold and then fizzled into sparks.

Tony scoffed. “Right. Okay. Magic. And I suppose next you’re going to tell me you’ve got a pet dragon and your owl writes your memos? Pal, everything has a scientific explanation. Even his parlor tricks,” he added, jerking his chin toward Loki.

Even with his mouth magically silenced, Loki somehow smirked harder at that.

Steve cut in, folding his arms and cocking his head at Tony. “You know… I seem to remember the file calling Loki the God of Magic. Or did I misread that part?”

Even Loki’s green eyes glimmered with faint amusement now, his silent chuckle visible in the rise and fall of his shoulders.

Tony glared at both of them. “No. Nope. Still not buying it. Alien? Sure. Powers? Sure. But magic? That’s just science we don’t get yet.”

Harry grinned now — the kind of grin that promised trouble — and pushed off the bulkhead. He stepped toward Tony slowly, like a predator circling prey.

“Oh? Want me to prove it?”

Tony arched a brow and crossed his arms. “Go ahead. Be my guest.”

Harry’s smile widened just enough to be unsettling. He wiggled his fingers lazily at Tony, muttering something under his breath.

At first, nothing seemed to happen. Steve’s mouth twitched. Natasha’s smirk grew by half an inch.

Even Loki’s shackled body leaned forward ever so slightly, his eyes bright with intrigue.

Then Harry conjured a small, gleaming mirror into his palm and held it out to Tony.

“Take a look,” he said, deadpan.

Tony yanked the mirror from his hand, peered into it—

And froze.

“…Oh hell no,” he finally said, his voice flat.

His goatee? Gone. Not trimmed. Not singed. Just… gone. Clean-shaven as a recruit on his first day of boot camp.

The cabin erupted in low laughter. Steve’s laugh was deep and infectious, Natasha’s soft but undeniably entertained. Even Loki’s green eyes twinkled with visible delight at the sight of Stark flailing.

Tony pointed at Harry furiously, sputtering. “You don’t— No. No. You don’t mess with a man’s facial hair! That’s just wrong!”

Harry only grinned wider. “It’ll come back when you agree magic exists. And mean it.”

Tony sputtered some more, then slumped back against the bulkhead, glaring at Harry. “…Fine. Magic exists. You happy?”

Harry raised a single brow.

Tony groaned. “…Fine. I mean it. Magic exists. I’m a big believer. Hocus pocus. Abra-freaking-cadabra. Now fix it before I have an identity crisis in midair.”

With a snap of Harry’s fingers, the mirror dissolved and Tony rubbed his jaw as the faint shadow of his goatee reappeared.

Tony muttered under his breath, pacing again. “Stupid smug sorcerers and their stupid smug spells…”

Steve clapped Harry on the back, shaking his head in amusement. “That was a thing of beauty.”

Harry simply grinned. “Oh, I know.”

At the back of the cabin, Loki shifted slightly in his restraints, his emerald eyes locked on Harry now — the faintest smirk curling his lips. Even silenced, he managed to radiate the same thought loud and clear:

Interesting.

—

The Quinjet sliced through the clouds, steady and swift, though the skies outside were beginning to churn ominously. Every so often, turbulence jostled the cabin, but no one spoke of it yet.

Tony stood in the aisle, one hand theatrically rubbing at his freshly-restored goatee as though he could still feel Harry’s spell lingering on his face. He narrowed his eyes and turned his focus to Steve, who sat calmly in his jump seat with his arms crossed over his chest.

Tony squinted, pacing slowly.

“You know,” he began, wagging a finger in Steve’s direction, “you’re pretty spry for an… older gentleman.”

Steve’s eyebrows went up just a fraction.

Tony nodded to himself, warming to the subject. “Yeah. Real spry. Like, unreasonably limber. So what’s your thing? You got a secret? Pilates? Goat yoga? That thing where they tie you into knots with silk scarves and hang you from the ceiling? Cirque du Cap?”

Steve blinked at him once. Then again. “…Goat yoga?” he repeated flatly.

Tony smirked. “Oh, don’t play innocent, Cap. It’s like calisthenics for the Instagram generation. Builds core strength, improves balance, gives you an excuse to post adorable animal pictures while you’re stretching.”

Steve tilted his head just slightly, unimpressed. “Sounds ridiculous.”

“Yeah, well, you missed a few decades of ridiculous,” Tony said lightly, leaning against the bulkhead. “You know. During your extended nap.” He gave Steve an exaggerated shrug. “Capsicle.”

Steve stared at him for exactly three long seconds — just long enough to make it clear the jab had landed.

From where he leaned against the opposite wall, Harry finally let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. His green eyes sparkled with dry amusement.

“Two egos enter, no survivors,” he muttered under his breath.

Before Steve could retort, a sudden CRACK split the air outside, so loud and sharp the whole cabin flinched. Lightning flashed bright enough to cast stark shadows along the walls, and the jet lurched violently to the side as a blast of wind hammered it.

Natasha’s hands flew to the controls, her expression tightening. “Hold on—” she called back over her shoulder. “That one was close.”

Tony caught himself on a support strut, eyes wide. “Uh, yeah, that was not on the weather app this morning.”

Steve braced a hand on the ceiling, instinctively scanning for damage.

Natasha’s eyes narrowed as the Quinjet shuddered again. The static in the air was so thick it raised the hair on everyone’s arms.

“…Where the hell is this coming from?” she murmured, almost to herself.

Another rumble of thunder — deeper this time, almost a growl — rolled overhead.

That was when they all noticed Loki.

Still shackled, still silenced, but… different now. The smug smirk that had barely left his face since his capture had finally slipped. His posture was tense, his gaze locked out the window, unblinking.

Steve caught it first, narrowing his eyes at him.

“What’s the matter?” he asked dryly, watching Loki’s shoulders stiffen. “Scared of a little lightning?”

Loki didn’t even bother to turn his head. His eyes, gleaming green in the dark, stayed fixed on the storm clouds outside. His jaw tightened, but the spell on his tongue held.

Harry stepped forward, his boots quiet against the deck, and studied him — then glanced outside as well. He didn’t even need to ask.

One plus one.

He turned back to the others, his expression neutral but his voice dry.

“…Maybe he’s not overly fond of what follows,” Harry said.

The words hung there as another fork of lightning split the sky, so close it rattled the entire cabin.

Loki closed his eyes, as though resigning himself to something inevitable. His fingers flexed against his shackles, his smirk nowhere to be found now.

Tony, for once, actually fell quiet. His gaze drifted from Loki to Harry to the window and back again.

Even Natasha glanced over her shoulder, just long enough to see the eerie calm on Loki’s face.

The Quinjet kept pushing forward into the storm.

And above them, in the heart of the blackened clouds, something moved — streaking closer with the sound of thunder rolling in its wake.

Harry didn’t take his eyes off the window. He just muttered, almost to himself — but not too quietly for them to hear:

“Showtime.”

—

A blinding white light engulfs the ramp in an instant, accompanied by a deafening CRACK of thunder. The Quinjet shudders violently under the sudden impact of wind and raw power.

Not lightning.

A God.

THOR.

The god of thunder plants himself on the Quinjet’s open ramp like a divine hammer strike — his red cape whipping, long blond hair wild in the wind. Mjolnir glints in his right hand, but his blue eyes are fixed like a hawk’s on his quarry.

His massive fist closes on Loki’s throat before anyone can react. The shackled trickster’s head snaps up at the familiar grip, his green eyes narrowing with indignation and — if one looked closely — a flicker of guilt.

Even silenced, Loki somehow manages to look offended, muttering something inaudible behind the magical gag as Thor yanks him out of his seat like a disobedient child.

Thor’s voice is a booming command, even if directed only at Loki.

“You have caused enough mischief, brother.”

He glares over his shoulder at the stunned humans — Steve, Tony, Harry, Natasha — then leaps off the Quinjet ramp with a roar, dragging Loki bodily into the storm below.

For a few moments, all anyone can do is stand there in the swirling wind and gape.

Finally, Tony breaks the silence. His helmet slides closed with a mechanical click. He points at the swirling clouds outside, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

“Oh, now there’s that guy.”

Harry, leaning casually against the bulkhead, arms crossed, watches the storm below with faint amusement. He glances at Tony.

“Thor. God of Thunder. Loki’s brother. You know how family reunions get.”

Tony whirls on him. “Thanks for the briefing, Sparkles. Got any more trivia for me? Maybe tell me his mother’s maiden name while you’re at it?”

Steve steps forward, still watching the clouds where Thor and Loki disappeared. His voice is calm but edged.

“Is he a friendly?”

Tony scoffs and primes his repulsors as he stomps toward the ramp.

“Doesn’t matter. He lets Loki go? The Tesseract’s gone. He kills Loki? The Tesseract’s still gone. Either way…”

He stops, just long enough to gesture dramatically at the storm outside.

“…I’m not letting Fabio in a cape ruin my evening or my mission.”

Steve grabs his arm as he nears the edge.

“Wait. We need a plan of attack!”

Tony looks back, a sharp grin hidden under the helmet.

“I have a plan: attack.”

And with a deafening WHOOSH, he launches himself into the night sky.

Steve exhales through his nose, shaking his head as he grabs a parachute. “Stark…”

He turns, holds out another chute toward Harry.

“Coming?”

But Harry just smirks faintly and waves the pack off.

“I’ve got my own ride.”

Steve frowns. “Your what now?”

Harry pulls a small, palm-sized metal starfighter model from… somewhere (Steve decides it’s better not to ask). The faint red and gold etchings along its wings pulse as Harry crouches, sets it on the floor, and murmurs something in a language Steve’s never heard.

The runes flare to life as the toy levitates off the deck — then shoots out of the ramp into the night air.

Steve watches as it grows and grows until it becomes a full-size sleek Eta-2 Actis-class interceptor, black with crimson and gold decals, its engines roaring to life. The canopy slides open.

Harry glances back, his emerald eyes glinting. He salutes lazily.

“Don’t wait up, Captain.”

And with that, he steps into open air, landing in the cockpit as the ship banks and rockets after the others.

Natasha’s voice cuts through the quiet as she keeps the Quinjet steady, her tone dry but edged with something like worry.

“You know… you don’t have to follow them. Sit this one out. Those two?” she says, nodding toward the storm. “They come from legends. They’re gods.”

Steve tightens the straps on his parachute. He glances back at her, dead serious.

“There’s only one God, ma’am. And I’m pretty sure He doesn’t dress like that.”

Natasha huffs a soft, incredulous laugh as she watches him step onto the ramp.

“You’re all gonna get yourselves killed,” she mutters.

WHOOSH.

Steve dives into the storm.

Through the roaring clouds below, we see four distinct figures plummeting toward the forest — one red-and-gold streak of repulsor fire, one streak of lightning, one falling starfighter banking low, and one parachute cutting clean lines through the storm.

The Quinjet fades into the night behind them as thunder cracks and lightning flashes.

The real fight is about to begin.

Wind howls through jagged rocks as storm clouds churn above the snow-dusted peak. Thunder rumbles, low and menacing, as THOR slams down onto the mountain with a flash of lightning, clutching Loki by the collar of his green-and-gold tunic.

Without ceremony, Thor hurls his brother against the craggy wall of rock. Loki hits hard, cracks spiderwebbing behind him as he slumps down into the snow.

The magical charm Harry left on him finally fizzles away — and Loki gasps, rubbing his throat, then grins lazily up at his captor.

“Finally,” Loki breathes, his voice velvet with amusement. “I was starting to wonder if I’d have to mime my way through my own execution.”

Thor plants his boots, fury glinting in his eyes, and raises Mjölnir high, the runes glowing as thunder roars above them.

“Where is the Tesseract?” Thor demands, his voice cracking like the storm.

Loki chuckles darkly, pushing himself off the wall with no sign of fear, only mischief.

“Oh, brother,” Loki drawls, tilting his head. “I missed you too.”

Thor’s grip on the hammer tightens, his shoulders bunching with righteous anger.

“Do I look to be in a gaming mood?!” he bellows.

Loki smiles, unfazed by the shout, brushing snow off his shoulder like a man adjusting his cuffs before a party.

“You really should thank me, you know,” Loki says airily. “With the Bifrost destroyed, how much dark energy did the Allfather have to summon just to send you here? All this… just to fetch me? How touching. How very… precious.”

Thor slams Mjölnir into the mountain at his side, the impact making the whole peak tremble as snow and stone rain down around them. The god of thunder closes the gap in two strides, grabs Loki by his collar and lifts him off his feet. His voice drops to something raw, something almost pleading.

“I thought you died.”

That earns Thor a faint smirk, more cutting than a blade.

“Did you mourn?” Loki asks coolly, green eyes glinting.

Thor breathes hard, jaw tight.

“We all did. Our father—”

“Your father,” Loki snaps, and Thor stops short, his face falling. Loki wrenches out of his brother’s grip, straightening his tunic as he stalks a few paces away. “Did he tell you what I am? What I really am?”

Thor’s silence says more than words could.

Loki spins on him, his voice rising now, sharp with years of buried pain.

“We were raised together! We played together! We fought side by side!”

He stalks closer, eyes burning now.

“But I remember… always in your shadow. Always second to the mighty Thor. Always… less.”

He jabs a finger at his brother’s chest.

“I remember you tossing me into the abyss. I fell through worlds you’ll never comprehend. I was broken… and reborn. I was, and should be, king!”

Thor takes a long, slow breath, as if trying to steady the storm within him.

“So you take the world I love as recompense for your imagined slights?” His blue eyes blaze with defiance now. “No. Midgard is under my protection.”

Loki laughs — cold, low, mocking — as he circles his brother like a serpent.

“And you’re doing a marvelous job of it,” Loki sneers. “The humans slaughter each other by the thousands while you posture and pout. And you expect me to leave them to their own devices? To… protect them? Why shouldn’t I rule them? At least I would give them purpose.”

Thor shakes his head.

“You think yourself above them?”

Loki’s smile sharpens to a knife-edge.

“Well… yes.”

Thor plants his feet firmly, voice dropping into something heavier than thunder.

“Then you miss the first truth of a throne, brother. A ruler serves. A ruler must earn his place. That throne would suit you ill.”

Loki’s expression darkens, his charming mask cracking for just a moment as he shoves Thor aside with a snarl. He stalks back toward the edge of the precipice, his cape fluttering like a banner in the wind.

“I have seen worlds you’ll never know!” Loki shouts over his shoulder, turning back now, his silhouette framed against the sky. “I have grown, Odinson — while you sat fat and complacent in your halls. I have glimpsed the true power of the Tesseract, and when I wield it—”

Thor cuts him off, stepping closer, voice taut.

“Who showed you this power, Loki? Who holds your leash now?”

Loki’s lip curls, and his laugh is full of venom.

“I am a king.”

Thor’s eyes narrow, and his voice drops like a hammer.

“Not here. You will yield the Tesseract. You will yield this… poisonous dream. And you will come home.”

For the first time, something almost fragile flickers in Loki’s expression — and then it’s gone, replaced by cold defiance.

“I don’t have it. You need the cube to bring me home. But I’ve sent it off. Even I don’t know where it is now.”

Thor exhales slowly, Mjölnir sailing back into his hand with a flash of lightning. He glares at his brother, voice low.

“You listen well, brother—”

But before Thor can finish, a red-and-gold blur slams into him from the side, sending him sprawling across the rocks. The impact echoes like an explosion as snow and shards of stone scatter into the wind.

Iron Man straightens above them, his helmet eyes glowing, repulsors charged.

Loki watches the whole scene unfold from his perch, a faintly amused smirk spreading across his lips.

“I’m listening,” he murmurs dryly, voice smooth as silk.

And above them all, the storm rumbles on.

—

The dark trees sway in the howling wind, branches creaking as lightning streaks across the sky. With a BOOM, two gods of might and metal crash through the canopy, snapping trunks like matchsticks, and slam into the forest floor in a storm of earth and sparks.

Thor rolls to his feet, his crimson cape dragging through the mud, his blue eyes blazing with righteous fury. His chest heaves as he spins on his adversary.

Tony, still clad in his gleaming Mark VI armor, rises calmly out of the crater he left, metal plates hissing into place. His helmet retracts with a mechanical whir, revealing a faintly amused and thoroughly annoyed Tony Stark.

Thor’s voice booms through the forest, each word crackling with thunder.

“Do not touch me again!”

Tony smirks faintly, brushing imaginary dirt off his gleaming shoulder plates.

“Then don’t take my stuff,” he shoots back smoothly.

Thor narrows his eyes, taking a threatening step closer, Mjölnir at his side.

“You have no idea what you are dealing with, mortal.”

Tony tilts his head, his smirk sharpening into a full-on grin.

“Shakespeare in the park? Doth mother know you weareth her drapes?”

Thor growls, but there’s the faintest flicker of confusion in his gaze. He shakes it off, gripping his hammer tighter.

“This is beyond you, metal man. Loki will face Asgardian justice!”

Tony’s grin fades to a thin, serious line. He straightens to his full height, his eyes hard.

“He gives up the Cube, he’s all yours. Until then? Stay out of my way… tourist.”

The helmet slams shut with a metallic clank.

Tony turns to walk away, his thrusters firing lightly as he strides forward.

But he doesn’t make it three steps before Thor’s patience snaps.

With a guttural roar, Thor swings his arm, and Mjölnir spins through the air like a blazing comet, slamming into Iron Man’s chest and sending him flying backward through two trees.

INSIDE THE SUIT. Alarms blare softly as the HUD flickers.

“Okay,” Tony mutters flatly, picking himself up. “That happened.”

On the ridge above, Loki lounges casually on a boulder, legs crossed, chin resting in his hand. His emerald eyes glitter with pure delight as he watches his brother and his would-be captor tear each other apart.

“By all means,” he murmurs to no one in particular, his silken voice full of glee. “Do carry on.”

Below, Thor raises his hand, and Mjölnir rockets back to him, landing with a satisfying thunk. He swings the hammer in a wide arc, summoning a brilliant ray of energy that crackles through the air and slams into Tony’s armor.

The impact sends Iron Man skidding back through the dirt. Sparks shower off his chestplate as his repulsors flare.

“Oh, you wanna play that game?” Tony snaps, steadying himself. “Fine by me.”

He levels his hand and fires a blast of concentrated energy that slams into Thor, knocking the god flat on his back in the mud.

Tony hovers a few feet above the ground, glancing down.

“Right back at you, bitch.”

Thor plants a knee in the ground, his eyes blazing, his teeth bared in something between rage and exhilaration.

“You dare?” he snarls.

With a roar, he lifts Mjölnir high and calls the storm to him. Lightning splits the sky, arcing down and striking the hammer as the air itself seems to crack and howl.

INSIDE THE SUIT. JARVIS’s calm, cultured voice cuts through the blinding light.

“Sir, power levels have reached four hundred percent capacity.”

Tony grins behind the helmet, even as static skitters across the HUD.

“How about that.”

Thor unleashes the full fury of Mjölnir, a torrent of lightning slamming into Iron Man’s armor. For a moment, Tony staggers under the assault—then he digs in his heels and fires back with a double blast from his hand repulsors, forcing Thor back to his knees.

Both men freeze, glaring at each other, the air crackling between them like a live wire.

“You’ve got a hell of a punch, Point Break,” Tony quips, his voice distorted through the helmet.

Thor’s lips curl into a grim smile.

“You fight well… for a thief.”

For a single, charged heartbeat they stand there—like two gunslingers in a duel.

Then, as one, they launch forward, streaking across the clearing in a blur of light and fury, colliding mid-air in a deafening clash of metal and godly strength.

Above them, Loki leans back lazily on his boulder, watching his brother and his captor spiral up into the clouds, his voice lilting and amused.

“Oh, this is going to be delicious.”

And thunder roars overhead as the battle rages on.

—

The impact shook the earth as Thor and Iron Man CRASHED back down, smashing through trees like wrecking balls through matchsticks. Branches splintered, leaves rained down, and the forest echoed with the violent symphony of their battle.

Before Thor could recover, Tony yanked the thunder god upright, steel grip like a vice.

Thor’s blue eyes narrowed, but Tony didn’t hesitate—grabbing both hand boosters, he slammed his palms down on Thor’s armored fists, CRUSHING the boosters as energy surged wildly.

“You’re gonna have to try harder than that, Odinson,” Tony taunted through his helmet’s comm.

Thor snarled and retaliated, eyes blazing, summoning every ounce of strength to CRUSH the broken hand boosters.

Tony didn’t back down. Charging up, his palms glowed with concentrated energy, and with a furious BLAST, he shot a searing beam straight into Thor’s faceplate.

Thor staggered back, losing his footing.

“Is that all you’ve got, metal man?” Thor growled, lunging forward.

With a swift motion, Tony headbutted Thor with his gold-titanium alloy helmet — a brutal clash of titans that sent the thunder god reeling.

Not to be outdone, Thor slammed his forehead into Tony’s helmet with a mighty CRACK, sending Stark flying through a tangle of trees.

Iron Man’s boosters flared as he recovered mid-air, zooming back at Thor with reckless speed.

Grabbing Thor by the arm and cape, Tony swung him like a ragdoll into another ancient oak, the tree groaning under the impact.

Thor shook off the blow and looked up, eyes blazing with fury and exhaustion.

He sprinted forward, patience gone like smoke in the wind, aiming to end this.

Tony swung again, but missed. Thor’s momentum doubled, and with a savage grunt, he grabbed Tony, lifted him high, and SMASHED him down hard onto the forest floor.

Lightning crackled as Mjölnir returned to Thor’s hand, its handle glowing fiercely.

Just as the hammer rose, ready to deliver a finishing blow, Iron Man skidded across the dirt with a quick burst of hand boosters, tripping Thor and sending him sprawling.

Thor scrambled up, scanning for Stark—

But before he could react, Tony CRASHED into his back with the full weight of his armored bulk.

The two locked eyes, primal and unyielding, both ready to unleash hell.

Suddenly—CLANG!

Captain America’s shield ricocheted off a nearby tree, slicing the tension like a knife through silence.

Thor and Iron Man snapped their heads toward the sound.

There, standing tall atop a fallen log, was Steve Rogers — resolute and unyielding, shield back in hand, eyes calm but fierce.

Behind him, hovering just above the forest floor, was a sleek black starfighter emblazoned with red and gold decals — its cockpit open like a predator’s maw.

Harry stepped out, arms crossed, emerald eyes gleaming with dry amusement.

“Well, you ladies done having your little catfight?” Harry called, voice smooth but tinged with sarcasm.

Tony’s helmet visor flickered as he scanned the ship.

“Okay, that thing? That’s bitching.”

Steve offered no smile, his gaze locked on the two titans ready to explode.

“Maybe it’s time to bring this party to a close.”

Thor’s lips curled into a grudging smile beneath the storm clouds.

“Agreed. But only because I tire of this play.”

Iron Man cracked his fingers inside the suit.

“Fine. But next round? I’m bringing fireworks.”

Harry shrugged, already stepping toward the cockpit.

“Then let’s make sure there is a next round.”

The forest held its breath, the storm waiting, as these four warriors prepared for the fight that could decide more than just their pride.

—

A long column of SHIELD agents in tactical gear marches steadily across the helipad, flanking Loki. His hands are cuffed, but his posture is relaxed—almost regal. A sly smile plays on his lips, eyes glinting with mischief beneath the heavy shadows of the overhead lights.

As they pass the imposing entrance to the Helicarrier Lab, the faint clatter of tools halts abruptly.

Inside, Bruce Banner stands over a cluttered workbench, the infamous Chitauri Scepter laid out before him. His brow furrows as he rubs his temples, lost in the complicated circuitry and strange energy readings.

Then, his eyes catch movement through the lab’s window. He glances up just in time to see Loki’s procession.

Loki’s emerald gaze meets Banner’s across the glass. Without hesitation, Loki gives a subtle nod and that same sly, almost conspiratorial smile.

Banner blinks, momentarily unsettled, and rubs the back of his head, as if trying to shake off a nagging headache—or maybe a deeper unease.

He exhales softly, muttering under his breath,

“Great. Just what I needed today.”

Loki’s smile widens ever so slightly, but he says nothing, letting the silence hum with unspoken promises and ancient games yet to be played.

—

The containment chamber hummed softly, suspended in the center of the Helicarrier by thick hydraulic arms. The walls of the cell gleamed — reinforced glass with faint, pulsing seams of steel and circuitry running through it.

Loki sat casually in the center of his transparent prison, hands folded on his knee, smirking faintly to himself. Even here, shackled to nothing and surrounded by armed guards just outside the chamber, he carried himself like a king holding court.

The door to the control platform opened with a hiss, and Nick Fury stepped in. Long black coat billowing slightly behind him, he strode to the console with deliberate, measured steps.

He glanced up at the god in the glass, then leaned forward, pressing a button.

The cell emitted a metallic clunk, and a panel in the floor beneath it slid open, revealing only darkness below. A faint, hollow howl of wind whistled up through the gap, promising nothing good to whatever fell.

Loki, still seated, cocked his head slightly, curiosity flickering in his green eyes. He peered downward as far as his vantage allowed.

Fury straightened, resting one hand on the console.

“In case it’s unclear,” Fury began, his tone dry but carrying an edge sharp enough to cut glass, “you try to escape, you so much as scratch that glass…”

He nodded toward the abyss beneath the chamber, where the air roared and hissed.

“That hatch opens. You drop thirty thousand feet in a steel trap. No doors. No windows. No keys. You get how that works?”

The faintest flicker of something — not quite worry, not quite interest — passed through Loki’s eyes.

Fury jabbed a finger toward him.

“Ant,” he said flatly.

Then he tapped the button that controlled the trapdoor and muttered,

“Boot.”

The panel beneath the cell slid shut again with a heavy slam.

Loki’s lips curled into a sly, mocking grin.

“It’s an impressive cage,” he drawled, leaning back slightly and running one long finger along his own jawline. “Not built, I think… for me.”

Fury’s one good eye narrowed slightly, but his tone remained cool.

“Built for somethin’ a lot stronger than you.”

At that, Loki actually chuckled — low and melodic, his smirk widening.

“Oh,” he murmured, his gaze sweeping lazily toward the camera in the corner of the cell, as though addressing someone on the other side, “I’ve heard.”

And he winked.

—

Rows of screens lined the walls, displaying the feed from inside Loki’s cell. Around the table sat the others — Harry lounged back in his chair, emerald eyes narrowed in quiet amusement, while his wives flanked him, some leaning forward, others exchanging silent, knowing glances. Daphne, arms crossed; Susan, analytical and calm; Fleur, sharp-eyed and faintly disdainful. Val, Dacey, and Allyria watched with the wariness of warriors. Shaak Ti, Aayla Secura, and Riyo Chuchi shared a silent, tense stillness, their alien features unreadable.

On the opposite side of the table, Bruce Banner stood with his hands on the back of a chair, staring intently at the screen. His brow furrowed slightly as he studied Loki, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

Loki’s gaze — on screen — flicked to the camera again, and this time his smirk turned darker.

“The mindless beast,” he said, voice like silk but with an unmistakable barb, “makes play he’s still a man. Tell me — how desperate are you, that you call upon such… lost creatures to defend you?”

Banner stiffened slightly, his fingers curling faintly against the chair.

Back in the chamber, Fury didn’t flinch. He stepped forward, resting both hands on the console, fixing Loki with that unblinking stare.

“How desperate am I?” Fury’s voice was soft, but it carried like a gunshot. “You threaten my world with war. You steal a force you can’t hope to control. You talk about peace, but you kill because it’s fun. You’ve made me very desperate.”

He leaned in closer to the glass now, his voice dropping just enough to become even more dangerous.

“And you’re not gonna be glad you did.”

Loki only smiled wider, teeth flashing, and leaned back lazily.

“Ooh… it burns you to come so close. To have the Tesseract in your grasp. To imagine your little kingdom of men warmed by its light. Only to be reminded…”

His tone shifted then — deeper, colder, laced with disdain.

“…what real power is.”

Fury just smiled thinly and straightened up, turning away from the console.

“Well,” he said over his shoulder as he walked toward the exit, “you let me know if ‘real power’ wants a magazine or somethin’.”

Loki’s smirk followed him all the way out. The god leaned back in his chair and glanced one last time at the camera, his green eyes glittering with unspoken schemes.

“Do keep watching,” he murmured. “This is where it starts to get… interesting.”

And he laughed — soft, low, and full of promise.

—

The monitor crackled, flickered… then went black, snuffing out Loki’s smirk like the flame of a candle.

For a long beat, the room stayed still and quiet, thick with tension and unsaid words.

Steve Rogers stood at the edge of the table, his arms folded, eyes locked on the blank screen. His jaw was clenched so hard you could almost hear it grind.

Next to him, Harry leaned casually against the wall, hands in his pockets, his emerald green eyes glinting faintly under the low light — thoughtful, calculating.

Behind them, Thor stood silent and hulking, his head bowed. His fists tightened and loosened at his sides in turn, his body stiff as a war hammer. His face was a storm — grief and pride and fury warring behind his eyes.

Even Natasha Romanoff didn’t speak. She leaned against the table, arms crossed, expression carefully neutral, though her sharp gaze drifted from Thor to the darkened monitor to Harry and back again.

And then, of course… Bruce Banner broke the silence.

“Guy really… grows on you, doesn’t he?” Bruce muttered dryly, rubbing at his temple as though Loki’s very presence was giving him a migraine.

Steve turned his head slightly, his voice flat but heavy.

“He’s going to drag this out. Play for time. That’s his move.”

Harry straightened lazily from the wall and stepped forward, his tone quiet but edged with steel.

“The real question is… do you know what his move is, Thor?”

Thor finally raised his head. The god’s eyes burned like lightning contained in ice.

“Loki… has an army,” he said at last, his voice low and resonant. “The Chitauri. They are not of Asgard… nor of any world you know. He means to lead them here — to claim Midgard as his own.”

He paused, his jaw tightening as though the words tasted bitter.

“They will win him this world. In return… the Tesseract.”

Steve’s expression hardened, his voice low and serious.

“An army? From outer space?”

Before Thor could answer, Shaak Ti tilted her head, her dark eyes narrowing with a hint of disdain.

“We have heard of the Chitauri,” she said, her voice smooth and melodic.

Beside her, Riyo Chuchi gave a faint, elegant nod, her blue eyes glittering like sapphires.

“They are a hive-minded species,” Riyo added in her soft but cutting tone. “Reptilian. Technologically advanced, but without will of their own. Perfect soldiers. Ruthless. Efficient. Disposable.”

Harry crossed his arms, his emerald eyes darkening with quiet knowledge.

“That’s the problem,” he said evenly. “The Chitauri don’t move without someone pulling the strings. They’re just… cannon fodder. For hire. The question isn’t what army Loki’s leading — it’s who’s he working for.”

That landed heavily on the group, drawing a faint frown from even Natasha.

Bruce rubbed the back of his neck and gave a dry, uneasy laugh.

“And I’m guessing he needs Selvig to… what? Build another doorway? Makes sense.”

Thor’s head snapped up, his blue eyes narrowing.

“Selvig?”

Bruce blinked at him, looking confused.

“Yeah. Erik Selvig. Astrophysicist. Works with S.H.I.E.L.D. Why?”

Thor’s mouth tightened, his face darkening even further.

“He is… my friend.”

Natasha’s cool, professional voice cut in like a knife.

“Loki’s got him under some kind of spell. Along with one of ours.”

Steve finally stepped forward, his frustration palpable.

“Then why let us take him?” he asked, his voice sharp. “He’s not leading an army from in there.”

Bruce leaned back in his chair, shaking his head.

“You’re trying to figure out Loki,” he muttered. “That’s your first mistake. The guy’s brain is… what’s the word…”

He waved his hand vaguely, searching.

“…a bag of cats. You can smell crazy on him.”

That earned him a sharp look from Thor.

“Have care how you speak,” Thor said, his voice rising to a warning growl. “Loki may be beyond reason… but he is of Asgard. He is my brother.”

That hung in the air for only a second before Natasha’s dry voice sliced through.

“He’s killed eighty people in two days.”

Thor blinked, his mouth opening… then closing again. He grimaced faintly and muttered:

“…he’s adopted.”

That finally cracked the tension. Harry let out a low chuckle, his mouth quirking as he shook his head. Even Bruce smirked faintly, muttering something under his breath.

Across the table, Daphne Greengrass leaned lazily against Harry, her cool blue eyes sparkling with sharp amusement.

“Well,” she murmured dryly, her blonde hair falling over her shoulder, “family reunions must be fun.”

Susan Bones, arms folded with an almost maternal scowl, shot her a look.

“Daphne,” she chided softly.

But even Susan’s lips twitched faintly.

On the other side of the room, Fleur Delacour sat perched on the table edge, her golden hair and flawless posture making her look more like a queen than a fighter. She gave a faint, dismissive sniff and said, her French accent thick and lilting:

“I ‘ave seen lesser men cause more trouble. At least zis one is… entertaining.”

Dacey Mormont and Val both let out quiet, sardonic chuckles from where they stood in the shadows, their warrior’s eyes meeting in silent agreement.

And near the back, Allyria Dayne’s piercing violet gaze never left the blank monitor — though the faintest smirk curved her lips.

Above them all, on the still-active security feed in the corner, Loki sat calmly in his glass cell, leaning back as though lounging in a throne, his green eyes glinting.

He smirked faintly… and gave the camera the faintest, mocking nod.

As though to say: Exactly as planned.

—

Bruce leaned forward on the edge of the conference table, his fingers steepled as his brow furrowed deeply, lines creasing his otherwise mild-mannered face.

“It’s about the mechanics,” he murmured at last. “Iridium. What did they need the Iridium for?”

Before anyone else could even hazard a guess, the door swung open.

“Oh, don’t everybody jump in at once,” Tony Stark announced, his tone the verbal equivalent of a cocky grin as he strolled inside like he owned the place. His suit jacket was unbuttoned, his shades perched on his face, and Coulson followed behind him with the resigned patience of a man used to this exact routine.

“It’s a stabilizing agent,” Tony continued, barely slowing his stride as he approached the table. “Don’t look so impressed, Banner. I skimmed the file. Some of it. Okay, fine — the first page and a diagram that looked like spaghetti.”

He dropped a hand on the table with a little rap of his knuckles, then shot a sly wink at Coulson.

“I’ll fly you there, Coulson. Keep the love alive.”

Coulson just gave him a look — not quite disapproving, but very far from impressed — before moving off toward the monitors.

“Means the portal won’t collapse in on itself, like it did back at S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Tony explained offhandedly, thumbing through something on his phone as if this was all just background noise to him.

His gaze drifted lazily across the room and landed squarely on Thor, who was standing off to the side with his arms folded, every inch the aggrieved Norse prince.

Tony grinned and gave him a jaunty two-fingered salute.

“No hard feelings, Point Break,” he said breezily. “You’ve got a mean swing. Good form. Just terrible aim.”

Thor’s head tilted slightly, one golden eyebrow quirking upward, though his stoicism didn’t quite hide the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Satisfied with himself, Tony kept on, waving one hand in a vague, dismissive circle.

“Iridium means the portal can open as wide — and stay open as long — as our Asgardian pin-up boy wants. Bad news for us, good news for him.”

That was when his eyes caught Harry.

Leaning against the far wall, his posture loose and casual, Harry wore his trademark faint smirk. His emerald eyes glinted in the low light, knowing and amused. Flanking him, almost like a royal court in their own right, were his wives: Daphne Greengrass, cool and poised with her platinum blonde waves; Susan Bones, her brilliant red hair catching the light; Fleur Delacour, radiant and amused with her unmistakable French elegance; Val, statuesque and lethal, her icy blue eyes narrowing at Tony like she was sizing him up; Dacey Mormont, fierce and sardonic, one hand resting lazily on her hip; Allyria Dayne, sultry and watchful, a quiet intensity in her midnight eyes; and finally the three alien women, Shaak Ti, regal and untouchable, her gaze sharp as glass; Aayla Secura, lounging effortlessly with an air of feline danger; and Riyo Chuchi, delicate but deadly, her crystalline blue eyes unreadable.

Tony stopped in his tracks mid-quip, his grin growing wider by the second.

“Well, damn,” he said, sauntering closer, his eyes sweeping across the group like he was inspecting a priceless work of art. “Harry, my man. Didn’t realize you’d already achieved the dream of every human male since the dawn of time: a harem. And not just any harem…” — he gestured grandly at Shaak, Val, and Riyo — “…hot alien chicks. Do you wake up every morning, high-five yourself, and just… thank the universe? Because if you don’t, you should.”

Shaak Ti tilted her head just enough to make him feel judged. Val let out a dry little snort of laughter. Riyo merely blinked slowly, unimpressed, as though she’d seen a hundred men like Tony before and found all of them lacking.

Harry didn’t even blink. His smirk just deepened.

“It has its perks,” he said lightly.

Tony laughed low in his throat.

“No kidding.” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder toward the hangar. “Speaking of perks — that bitchin’ one-man spacecraft you were riding earlier? Tell me that’s not just some oversized RC plane. Please. For the sake of my faith in humanity. Let me take a peek? Maybe just… cop a feel?”

Daphne arched a perfectly sculpted brow and gave Tony a slow once-over. Then she smirked.

“Oh, Stark,” she drawled, her voice silk and steel all at once. “If you think that’s impressive… you’d probably orgasm if you saw our actual ship. The big one. Currently parked somewhere near Neptune. Fully crewed by droids.”

Tony froze mid-step.

“…Spaceship?” he repeated faintly.

“Droids?”

Fleur let out a light, musical laugh that turned heads.

“Oh, oui,” she purred. “Quite… magnifique, monsieur Stark. You would lose your mind.”

Tony stared at Harry, wide-eyed like a kid seeing Disneyland for the first time.

“Okay. You and me? Later? We’re having a drink. You’re telling me everything. Because that?” — he jabbed a finger at Harry, grinning — “is awesome.”

Harry’s grin widened just a touch.

“We’ll see if you can handle it.”

Tony chuckled to himself, already muttering under his breath about “Neptune… droids… harem…” as he wandered toward the banks of monitors.

“So. Uh. Raise the mid-mast, ship the topsails. Something nautical. Oh, and—”

He stopped dead in front of one of the consoles, his head cocking to one side with exaggerated suspicion.

“—that man… is playing Galaga.”

All eyes swung toward the S.H.I.E.L.D. tech at his station, who froze mid-click, caught dead to rights.

Tony grinned wickedly and leaned closer, just enough to make the guy sweat.

“Thought we wouldn’t notice. But we did.”

The poor tech scrambled to minimize the game, his cheeks turning crimson.

Already bored, Tony moved toward Fury’s desk. He crouched down, pretending to inspect a faint glow on one of the panels — and in one smooth, practiced motion, slid a tiny button-sized bug under the edge of the desk, completely invisible to everyone else.

Well. Almost everyone.

When Tony straightened, dusting his hands theatrically, his gaze met Harry’s from across the room.

Harry’s emerald eyes were fixed on him, that faint knowing smile still in place.

For a moment they just stared at each other. Then Harry inclined his head slightly, as if to say: Your secret’s safe. For now.

Tony’s grin turned conspiratorial before he finally straightened up and muttered under his breath, mostly to himself:

“How does Fury even do this? All these blinking lights, cameras, watching everyone all the time? And all with a single eye. Sounds exhausting.”

Maria Hill, standing off to the side with her arms crossed, raised one elegant brow and replied, her voice cool and dry:

“He turns.”

Tony blinked, then smirked and tugged at his lapels.

“Well,” he said finally, “that sounds exhausting, too.”

And just like that, he strolled away — leaving half the room trying not to laugh, and the other half shaking their heads in quiet disbelief.

Tony Stark leaned back against the conference table, his tailored suit jacket catching just enough light to remind everyone in the room who brought the swagger. He spun a small screwdriver between his fingers, like a man who’d already solved this puzzle and was just waiting for everyone else to catch up.

“The rest of the raw materials,” Tony drawled, his dark eyes sweeping lazily over the team, “Agent Barton can snag without breaking a sweat. Only major component Loki still needs… is a power source. High energy density. Something to really kick start the Cube.”

Maria Hill stood a few feet away, tablet in hand, arms folded. Her icy gaze and sharper tongue didn’t even flinch as she fired back.

“When did you become an expert in thermonuclear astrophysics, Stark?”

Tony gave her that signature Robert Downey Jr. smirk.

“Oh, you know. Last night. The packet, Selvig’s notes, Extraction Theory papers. You should try it sometime — it’s called reading. Am I seriously the only one here who did the homework?”

Across the table, Steve Rogers crossed his broad arms over his chest, blue eyes narrowing slightly.

“Does Loki need any particular kind of power source?” he asked, voice calm but clipped.

Bruce Banner finally stirred, looking up from where he’d been sitting quietly. His shoulders hunched as he rubbed the back of his neck.

“He needs to heat the Cube to about a hundred and twenty million Kelvin just to break through the Coulomb barrier,” Bruce said softly.

Tony perked up like Christmas had come early.

“Unless…” he snapped his fingers, “…Selvig’s figured out how to stabilize the quantum tunneling effect.”

Bruce blinked, then allowed himself a faint smile.

“Well… if he could do that,” Bruce admitted, “he could achieve heavy ion fusion at any reactor on the planet.”

Tony clapped his hands together and grinned.

“Finally. Someone who speaks English.”

Steve glanced between them, his brow furrowed.

“…Is that what just happened?”

Tony ignored him completely, striding over to Bruce and offering his hand.

“Good to meet you, Doctor Banner. Your work on anti-electron collisions? Brilliant. Very smashing.”

Bruce chuckled nervously and muttered, looking down at their hands.

“Thanks.”

But Tony leaned closer with a conspiratorial grin.

“Also? Big fan of the way you lose control and turn into a giant green rage monster. Rounds out the resume nicely.”

Before Bruce could even react, a deeper voice cut in from the wall — warm, amused, and dripping with charm.

Harry.

He leaned casually against the wall, emerald eyes glinting, his broad-shouldered frame relaxed. His wives — nine of them — stood like an elegant formation around him.

“We’re fans too,” Harry said, his grin crooked and self-assured. “Even caught the Harlem showdown. And we were halfway across another galaxy at the time.”

That earned a ripple of laughter from his wives. Fleur let out a low, musical giggle. Daphne’s smirk was sharp as a blade. Even Shaak Ti’s lips curved faintly, her dark eyes glittering.

Bruce blinked, startled, then chuckled sheepishly.

“…Thanks,” he murmured again.

That was when Fury swept into the room, trench coat billowing like a storm cloud, his one good eye razor-sharp.

“Dr. Banner’s here to track the Cube,” Fury said flatly. “But I’d like you to join him, Stark.”

Steve straightened, his jaw set.

“I’d start with that staff,” Steve said firmly. “It may be magical, but it feels an awful lot like a HYDRA weapon.”

Harry pushed off the wall and moved closer, his wives following like a regal procession. His expression was suddenly harder, more serious.

“It’s definitely worth a closer look,” Harry said, voice edged with steel. “Even from here, I can feel it. Whatever that staff is, it’s giving off energy… a lot like my magic. It’s… wrong.”

Shaak Ti stepped forward gracefully, her gaze distant, her tone calm but grim.

“The Force around it is heavy,” she said. “Distorted. Like something alive… and angry.”

Aayla’s dark gaze narrowed as she added softly:

“That staff carries too much malice for it to simply be a tool.”

Fury’s eye flicked between the three of them, and though his face didn’t change much, the weight of their words sank in.

“Noted,” he said coolly. “But it’s still powered by the Cube. And I want to know how Loki turned two of my best agents into his own personal flying monkeys.”

Thor, who’d been silent as a mountain in the corner, finally furrowed his brow and rumbled:

“Monkeys? I do not understand.”

Steve’s face brightened just a little too much.

“I do,” he said proudly. “I understood that reference.”

Tony groaned theatrically and dragged his hand down his face.

“Oh, Lord. He’s proud of himself. Pop culture is officially dead.”

But Steve just stood taller, a little smug.

Tony clapped his hands once and flashed Bruce a roguish grin.

“So. Shall we play, Doctor?”

Bruce stood, straightened his jacket, and allowed himself the faintest wry smile.

“Let’s play some.”

The two of them strode out side by side, already falling into a fast-paced debate about reactor specs and Coulomb barriers, the language of geniuses that left everyone else in the dust.

As the others began to disperse, Harry exchanged a look with Fury, who gave him a subtle nod. Then Harry glanced back at his wives — Daphne’s sly smile, Fleur’s cool amusement, Susan’s curious gaze, Val’s measured calm, Dacey’s quiet steel, Allyria’s dark humor, Shaak Ti’s regal serenity, Aayla’s subtle fire, Riyo’s understated wit — and they all followed his lead as he turned on his heel.

In the corner, the unlucky Galaga player dared to sneak another round, his fingers flying over the keys as the screen lit up again.

Tony had been right.

Thought no one would notice.

But they did.

—

The steady hum of Stark’s holographic monitors filled the lab like a quiet storm. Numbers and schematics danced in the air around Tony, who sat lazily in his chair, legs crossed, fingers flying across a virtual keyboard as he muttered to himself. Near the workbench, Bruce crouched low, the faint ticking of his gamma scanner blending with the rhythmic tap of Tony’s fingers. The scepter lay on the table between them, pulsing faintly, as though it was waiting for someone to make a mistake.

Bruce frowned at his readout, his thumb running along the edge of the scanner as if he didn’t entirely trust what it was telling him.

“The gamma readings are definitely consistent with Selvig’s reports on the Tesseract,” he murmured. His voice was low, thoughtful. “But at this rate, it’s gonna take weeks to process everything.”

Tony didn’t even glance up, already pulling apart lines of code in his holograms.

“Or,” he said, his voice the picture of breezy confidence, “we bypass their primitive little mainframe, reroute to the Homer cluster, and clock this baby at six hundred teraflops. Give or take.”

Bruce looked up, a faint, disbelieving smile tugging at his lips.

“All I packed was a toothbrush,” he deadpanned.

That earned a grin from Tony, who finally deigned to meet his gaze.

“You really need to stop by Stark Tower sometime. Top ten floors — all R&D. Lab toys you can’t even pronounce. It’s basically Willy Wonka’s candy land. Minus the creepy boat ride and child endangerment.”

Bruce chuckled softly but shook his head, glancing back to the scanner.

“Thanks… but the last time I was in New York…” His voice trailed off awkwardly. “…I kind of broke Harlem.”

Tony waved a dismissive hand, already pulling another projection into view.

“Yeah, yeah. Water under the bridge. I promise you — stress-free environment. Absolutely no tension, no surprises.”

Then — with no warning at all — Tony jabbed Bruce square in the ribs with a miniature electrical prod, a faint spark snapping against his shirt.

“Ow!” Bruce flinched back, eyes wide.

Tony leaned forward at once, his sharp brown eyes scanning Bruce like a predator waiting for the green monster to rear its head.

At that moment, Steve and Harry strode into the lab.

Steve’s voice cracked the room like a rifle shot.

“Hey!”

His broad frame seemed to fill the doorway, his sharp blue eyes narrowing on Tony as he closed the distance.

Tony blinked at him, unfazed.

“What?” he asked, innocent as sin. “Nothing happened. Really.”

“Are you nuts?” Steve barked, his tone clipped and commanding.

Tony gave a careless shrug, eyes still locked on Bruce as he jabbed a thumb toward Steve.

“Jury’s still out. But you’ve really got a lid on it, huh, Big Guy? What’s the secret? Mellow jazz? Bongo drums? Huge bag of weed?”

Steve’s frown deepened, his voice dropping into the gravelly edge he reserved for moments of genuine irritation.

“Is everything a joke to you?”

From the doorway, Harry leaned his shoulder against the frame, arms folded, his emerald green eyes sparkling faintly as he smirked.

“Funny things are,” he said smoothly.

Tony immediately pointed at him.

“See? He gets it.”

But Steve’s glare didn’t soften.

“Threatening the safety of everyone on this ship isn’t funny. No offense, Doctor.”

Bruce raised a placating hand.

“No, it’s fine. I wouldn’t have come aboard if I couldn’t handle… pointy things.”

Tony motioned vaguely at Bruce’s chest.

“You’re tiptoeing, Banner. You should really strut.”

Harry smirked faintly, finally pushing off the doorframe and stepping in.

“For once, I agree with Stark,” he said dryly. “Strutting suits you, Doc.”

Steve’s jaw flexed, his hands clenching at his sides.

“And you two should focus on the actual problem. Loki’s still out there. Every second wasted puts more people in danger.”

Tony finally turned to him fully, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back against his workstation.

“You think I’m not focused? Then why did Fury call us now, huh? Why not last year? Or the year before that? You don’t ask those questions because you’re too busy playing perfect little soldier. Me? I like to see the whole board. And something here…” He gestured vaguely to the scepter, to the lab, to the whole ship. “…doesn’t add up.”

Steve crossed his arms, standing just as tall.

“You think Fury’s hiding something?”

Tony’s eyebrows shot up in mock surprise.

“He’s a spy, Cap. The spy. His secrets have secrets.”

Harry stepped up to the workstation, his deep voice cutting through the tension like a clean blade.

“For what it’s worth,” he said calmly, “I’m friends with Fury. And Tony’s right. Nick’s not telling you everything. He never does.”

Tony shot him a triumphant look.

“See? Even Mr. Wizard agrees. And don’t tell me it’s not bugging you too, Banner.”

Bruce froze at the attention, stammering slightly.

“I just… I just want to finish my work…”

Steve didn’t let him off that easy.

“Doctor?”

Bruce sighed, adjusting his glasses.

“Loki’s jab about ‘a warm light for all mankind’? That wasn’t for Fury. That was for you, Stark. Even if Barton didn’t tell him about the tower… it was all over the news.”

Steve’s brow furrowed faintly.

“Stark Tower? That big, ugly—”

Tony’s eyes narrowed to slits.

“Careful.”

Harry clapped Tony lightly on the shoulder, offering him a sly grin.

“Art’s subjective, Tony. Don’t let the mean soldier hurt your feelings.”

Tony sniffed dramatically.

Bruce pressed on, gesturing at the hologram.

“It’s powered by Stark Reactors. Self-sustaining energy. That building could run itself for a year.”

Tony raised his chin proudly.

“Prototype. And for the record — I’m kind of the only name in clean energy right now.”

Bruce squinted faintly.

“So… why didn’t SHIELD bring you in on the Tesseract project? Why are they even in the energy business?”

Tony’s smirk returned in full force.

“Don’t worry. I’ll find out as soon as my decryption program finishes crawling through their files.”

Harry arched a brow.

“You mean the one you planted on Fury’s desk earlier?”

Tony glanced at him sidelong, feigning surprise.

“Ah, so you did notice. Well played.”

Steve stared at them both, appalled.

“You… planted a—?”

Tony cut him off, popping a blueberry into his mouth and holding the bag out.

“Jarvis has been running it since I hit the bridge. In a few hours, we’ll know every dirty little secret SHIELD’s been sitting on. Blueberry?”

Steve’s voice dropped, low and sharp.

“And you wonder why they didn’t want you around?”

Tony shrugged carelessly.

“An intelligence agency that’s afraid of intelligence? Doesn’t really track, does it?”

Steve took a step closer, his piercing gaze fixed on Tony.

“I think Loki’s trying to wind us up. If we lose focus now, he wins. We have orders. We follow them.”

Tony tilted his head, his expression shifting to one of mild mockery.

“Yeah… following isn’t really my style.”

Steve let out the faintest of smirks.

“You’re all about style, aren’t you?”

Tony straightened and shot back.

“Of the people in this room, which one of us is A: wearing a spangly outfit, and B: not contributing to the conversation?”

Before either could take it further, Harry stepped squarely between them, raising his hands in mock exasperation.

“Alright, alright. Enough with the dick measuring. We’ve got bigger problems than your bruised egos.”

Bruce, quietly relieved, offered Harry a small, grateful nod.

Bruce gestured faintly at Steve as the Captain turned to leave.

“Steve… you really don’t think something feels off about all this?”

Steve froze in the doorway, visibly wrestling with himself. But at last he shook his head.

“Just find the Cube,” he ordered, his voice tight, before striding out.

As his footsteps faded down the hall, the room fell quiet again — and Tony tossed another blueberry in his mouth.

“Well,” he said, smirking faintly. “That went well.”

—

Tony Stark leaned back lazily on his stool, his hands clasped behind his head, legs crossed like he didn’t have a care in the world — even though he was flipping through complex algorithms and gamma emission data faster than most people could spell their own name.

His eyes flicked over at Bruce Banner, who was hunched at his own station, quietly running the scepter under a gamma scanner. Banner’s shoulders were tight, his expression neutral in that tired, sad way only Banner could pull off, though his hands moved with steady, surgical precision.

Tony tilted his head, his smirk already halfway loaded.

“So,” he drawled, “that’s the guy my dad never shut up about, huh? The great Captain America. ‘Beacon of Hope,’ ‘Light of Freedom,’ blah blah blah…” His tone was all mocking, though it was more about his dad than Steve. “Honestly? Starting to wonder if maybe they should’ve just kept him on ice. Would’ve saved us all a hell of a lot of grief.”

Bruce didn’t even flinch. His eyes stayed on his screen, his fingers tapping a quiet rhythm against the scanner as he replied softly, almost distracted.

“The guy’s not wrong about Loki,” Bruce murmured. “He does have the jump on us.”

Tony snorted and turned back to his own holographic display, waving one hand in the air dismissively.

“What he’s got is an ACME dynamite kit with a comically long fuse. It’s gonna blow up in his face, and guess what — I’m gonna be there with popcorn when it does.”

That earned him the faintest ghost of a smile from Banner.

“And I’ll read all about it,” Bruce added dryly, still focused on the scanner.

Tony leaned over, narrowing his eyes at him playfully. “Uh-huh. Or,” he said, his voice dropping into something just a little more pointed, “you’ll be suiting up. Like the rest of us.”

Bruce finally met his gaze, one brow raised, lips twitching into something that was more grimace than grin. “Ah, see…” he said, almost apologetically. “…I don’t get a suit of armor. I’m exposed. Like a nerve. It’s… a nightmare.”

From the corner of the workstation, where he’d been leaning with quiet patience and watching them both with those sharp green eyes, Harry Potter finally spoke up.

“That doesn’t make you weak,” Harry said evenly, his deep voice low but cutting through the air like steel wrapped in velvet. “You’re just brave enough to walk in without one. Not many people can say that.”

That pulled Bruce’s attention fully. He blinked at Harry, startled at first… but then he huffed softly, almost — almost — smiling.

Tony, however, grinned wider, clearly undeterred. He tapped his own chest, rapping a knuckle against the faintly glowing arc reactor under his shirt.

“See,” Tony said, tone sharpening, “that’s where he’s wrong.” He jabbed a finger at Harry, then gestured to the little circle of light in his chest. “You think this is just armor? Think again. I’ve got a cluster of shrapnel trying every second to crawl into my heart. This…” —his fingers brushed the reactor— “…this stops it. This little circle of light is part of me now. Not just armor. It’s a… terrible privilege.”

Bruce straightened slightly, eyes narrowing in quiet thoughtfulness. “But you can control it,” he said softly.

Tony’s grin faltered into something harder. His gaze sharpened.

“Because I learned how,” he shot back.

Bruce nodded faintly, looking down at his hands, his voice barely audible.

“It’s different,” he murmured.

For a beat, the silence was heavy. Then Tony reached forward, swiping the glowing data stream from between them with one finger so the two of them stood face-to-face. His brown eyes, usually dancing with irreverence, were steady and searching now.

“Hey,” he said, quieter. “I’ve read all about your accident. That much gamma exposure? Should’ve killed you.”

Bruce met his gaze, his mouth pulling into a crooked, almost bitter little smile.

“So you’re saying the Hulk — the other guy — saved my life?” He gave a dry chuckle that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s nice. Nice sentiment. But…” His jaw tightened. “…saved it for what?”

Tony stared at him for a long moment, then finally leaned back with a faint shrug.

“I guess,” he said, “we’ll find out.”

Harry straightened off the wall and took a step forward, his hands sliding into his pockets. The faintest grin tugged at the corner of his lips as his green eyes glimmered in the lab light.

“You’ll find out,” he added, almost teasing, though there was a quiet wisdom behind his words. “But you’re asking the wrong question. Second chances don’t come with instructions. The point isn’t why you got one. The point is what you do with it now.”

Bruce blinked at him, genuinely surprised — then gave the faintest of nods, his shoulders easing just a little as though a tiny weight had been lifted.

Tony glanced between them, then huffed out a laugh under his breath.

“You know what?” he said. “You two should get a motivational podcast or something. Call it ‘Gamma & Green Eyes: All the Feelings.’”

That earned a low laugh from Harry, who just shook his head and leaned casually back against the counter.

The three of them fell back into their work, the hum of servers and soft tapping of keys filling the air once more.

But a few minutes later, Bruce’s voice rose, quiet and wry, more to himself than to either of them.

“You might not like what you find out,” he murmured.

Tony didn’t even look up from his screen. He smirked faintly, his voice as dry and sharp as ever.

“You just might,” he replied.

From across the room, Harry let out a quiet chuckle and shook his head, his expression equal parts amused and knowing — like he already suspected both of them would surprise themselves before this was over.

—

The steel door groaned in protest as Steve Rogers pressed his palm flat and shoved, muscles coiling in his shoulders. Even for him, the weight of it was satisfying — heavy and resistant, like something that wasn’t meant to be opened easily. He kept his touch firm, but controlled, so the hinges didn’t squeal and give him away. The door slid just wide enough for his frame to slip through, and then he eased it shut behind him with the quiet finality of a man used to moving through enemy territory.

Secure Storage 10-C stretched out before him like a monument to secrecy.

The warehouse was enormous — cold, cavernous, and silent except for the faint, low hum of power running through unseen conduits. The air smelled faintly of oil and ozone. Crates were stacked two, three stories high, marked in SHIELD’s stark black stencil. Every surface was harsh white under fluorescent lights, shadows crisp and angled like blades.

His boots made no sound on the polished concrete as he moved inside, his broad shoulders squared, his chin lifted just enough to keep scanning his surroundings. His eyes, sharp and unblinking, swept across the space — noting every corner, every door, every camera. No guards. No noise. No sign of life.

That didn’t make him feel any better.

He’d fought in more than enough wars to know the difference between a place being empty… and a place being watched.

Steve exhaled through his nose and started forward, keeping low as he threaded through the maze of crates. Each one was perfectly uniform — like soldiers on parade — but he didn’t trust appearances. He never had. Not since HYDRA.

His gloved fingers brushed one of the stencils as he passed. Black paint on cold metal. No dust. Recently handled. He crouched slightly to peer at the serial number, lips pressing into a line. Nothing jumped out at him yet — but he hadn’t come this far just to give up.

Halfway down the aisle, his instincts tugged at him. His gaze flicked up.

The second level of the warehouse loomed above him — a catwalk running the length of the room, high and narrow, perfect for recon.

Steve’s jaw set as he crouched low and tensed.

“Here goes,” he murmured under his breath.

Then, with a burst of speed, he sprang upward, muscles surging. His boots left the ground with barely a sound, his hands reaching out in a blur to catch the underside of the railing. The steel groaned faintly under his weight as he swung his legs up and over, landing on the balls of his feet in a single, fluid motion.

Up here, the air was cooler and clearer, and the view was everything he’d hoped. He crouched low, resting one hand lightly on the rail as his blue eyes swept the rows of crates below, scanning for anything out of place.

From up here, he could see into the shadows between the stacks — places the ground level left hidden.

Every muscle in his body stayed coiled and ready.

Steve moved forward down the catwalk, his boots whispering over the grating. He kept his profile low, shoulders hunched slightly. His left hand trailed lightly along the railing, the habit of a man who liked to know where his edges were.

His thoughts were quieter than his movements.

If Fury’s hiding something… and Stark and Potter are actually right… this is where it’ll be.

That thought didn’t sit easy in his chest.

Because no matter how much evidence piled up, there was still a part of him — maybe the last stubborn bit of faith he had left — that wanted to believe Nick Fury was fighting the same fight.

That they were all still on the same side.

But he’d learned the hard way that uniforms and words didn’t make a man honest.

Not anymore.

Not since the war.

Steve’s fingers flexed slightly on the railing, then curled into a fist.

“Not this time,” he said under his breath, voice low and hard.

A faint creak of metal answered him — the sound of his weight shifting on the catwalk — but otherwise the warehouse remained still. Silent. Watching.

Steve pressed on, step by careful step, a shadow gliding silently through SHIELD’s secrets, ready to tear the truth out of whatever dark corner it was hiding in.

And if he found it?

Well.

That would be SHIELD’s problem.

—

The van rattled deeper into the tunnel, its engine echoing like distant thunder through the endless stretch of concrete. Overhead, the harsh rhythm of fluorescent lights strobed by in long, cold pulses, throwing alternating bands of white and shadow across the interior.

Inside, the air carried the faint tang of ozone and steel.

Erik Selvig sat near the rear, hunched but composed at his makeshift workstation — a steel frame bolted into the van’s floor around the gleaming centerpiece of the operation: the Compact Molecular Stabilizer.

The CMS dominated the space like a pulsing heart torn from some futuristic creature. Its smooth alloy casing curved in perfect symmetry, studded with crystalline nodes and slits of blue energy that throbbed in a quiet, rhythmic sequence. Beneath the humming chassis, a lattice of fiber-optic cabling shimmered faintly as data danced across them, forming and unforming equations in a constant, living stream.

To either side of Selvig, a handful of SHIELD soldiers sat and stood with mechanical stillness. Their black tactical gear swallowed the ambient light, rifles slung loosely at their chests. Blank visors hid their eyes. They could have been statues for all the humanity they showed.

Selvig, on the other hand, seemed very much alive — but in a way that was… off.

His movements were steady. Purposeful. Hands precise as they glided over the sleek controls of the CMS, fingers tweaking dials, entering commands on the glowing touchscreens. His lined face was calm, his pale eyes fixed on the machine with a kind of rapture.

In his gloved hand, he now held the final piece.

A cylinder of iridium — small, polished, gleaming in the sterile light as though it contained something more precious than gold.

He turned it once, the metal prongs catching the light. His lips curved into a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“There you are,” he murmured softly to himself, his voice carrying just enough to be heard over the drone of the wheels and the faint hum of the CMS. “Last little piece of the puzzle.”

The CMS emitted a low, mechanical chime, and a slot near its core slid open with a hiss of releasing gas and the whisper of hydraulics. Inside, an array of crystalline receptors glowed faint blue, waiting.

Selvig inhaled through his nose, like a man savoring fine wine, and leaned forward.

“Iridium. Stable at absurd temperatures, beautiful under pressure,” he continued to himself, more a lecturer now, though no one was asking. “Resonance field unbroken even under asymmetric Coulomb stress. A… perfect medium.”

His thin smile widened into something sharp.

“We’ll need that… when the bridge opens.”

The words carried an eerie certainty, though he never took his eyes off the machine.

With slow, deliberate care, Selvig lowered the iridium into the slot, metal prongs aligned just so. It settled into place with a muted click, and for an instant the blue light brightened like a flare before subsiding into its previous rhythm.

The CMS issued a low tone, and the display screens came alive in a flurry of alien symbols mixed with human mathematics. Strings of equations streamed past in perfect, surreal harmony. Selvig’s eyes glittered as he took it all in.

“Good…” he breathed, almost reverently. “It accepts you.”

He leaned back just slightly, folding his hands neatly on the edge of the workstation. He didn’t so much as glance at the soldiers, whose rigid stances hadn’t changed since the van left the facility.

The light from the CMS painted sharp lines across his face, making the smile he wore seem even more alien.

This was not the smile of a man proud of his work.

It was the smile of a man who no longer cared about his work.

A man whose will was no longer his own.

Something deep inside him — something hollow and cold — approved.

The van kept rolling through the darkness, and Selvig sat perfectly still, watching the glow of the machine as it hummed softly to itself, alive now, purring like some terrible predator ready to be unleashed.

The faintest chuckle escaped him then — dry, hollow, almost inaudible.

“Soon,” he whispered to no one in particular, his voice equal parts wonder and dread. “Soon.”

—

The low hum of the Helicarrier’s bridge filled the silence as Thor stood before a SHIELD terminal, his massive frame almost comically out of place among the neat rows of consoles and blinking monitors. His storm-blue eyes were locked on a single display screen.

On it glowed the file of Jane Foster. A headshot of her, smiling faintly under her dark bangs, her name in bold white letters, a long list of credentials beneath. Thor’s jaw tightened, though there was the faintest hint of warmth in his gaze.

“She is… well?” Thor asked at last, his voice low, but carrying that regal note of command.

Phil Coulson, standing a pace behind him with his hands folded lightly in front of him, smiled faintly, his calm professionalism never quite hiding the hint of admiration in his tone.

“As soon as Loki took Selvig, we moved Dr. Foster,” Coulson assured him. “We’ve got an excellent observatory in Tromsø. Very remote. She was asked to consult there—suddenly, yesterday. Private plane. Handsome fee. She’ll be safe.”

Thor inclined his head, his golden hair catching in the overhead lights.

“You have my thanks.”

There was a beat before he added, his tone dropping into something darker:

“It is no accident Loki took Erik Selvig. I dread to imagine what he intends for him once he has served his purpose. Erik… is a good man.”

Coulson’s expression softened slightly. He shifted his weight, tilting his head toward Thor in quiet solidarity.

“He talks about you a lot,” Coulson said. “Selvig, I mean. You… changed his life. Changed a lot of lives around here. You changed everything.”

Thor’s face tightened at that, as though the words were not quite comforting. He turned his gaze to the great windows overlooking the clouds below.

“They were better as they were,” he said, almost to himself. “We pretend on Asgard that we are more advanced… wiser… yet we come here battling like—” he waved one large hand, searching for the right word— “bilgesnipe.”

Coulson blinked.

“I’m sorry, like what?”

Thor turned back, his brow lifted slightly as though the word were perfectly obvious.

“Bilgesnipe,” he repeated. “You know. Huge. Scaly. Big antlers. Ravages the fields of Vanaheim. You have no such creatures here?”

Coulson’s mouth quirked into a dry smile.

“Don’t… think so.”

Thor gave a small snort, his gaze distant again.

“They are repulsive,” he said gravely. “And they trample everything in their path.”

The god fell silent then, his eyes unfocusing as he stared into the sky beyond the glass. His voice dropped into something almost wistful.

“When I first came to Midgard… Loki’s rage followed me. And your people paid the price. Now… again. In my youth, I courted war.”

“That,” a deep, sharp voice cut in from behind them, “explains a lot.”

Nick Fury strode into the room, his long black coat catching the air, his presence as commanding as ever. He planted himself next to Coulson, one brow arched, and fixed Thor with his one good eye.

“Relax, Point Break. War hasn’t started yet.”

Thor’s head tilted toward him, but he said nothing.

“Question is,” Fury went on, crossing his arms, “you think you can make your brother tell us what the hell the Tesseract is?”

Thor’s jaw tightened further.

“I do not know,” he admitted after a pause. “Loki’s mind is far afield. It is not simply power he craves. It is vengeance—against me. There is no pain that would tear that need from him.”

Fury let out a humorless chuckle and shook his head.

“Yeah, a lotta guys think that… until the pain stops.”

Thor turned his full gaze on Fury, his expression grim.

“What is it you would have me do?”

Fury stepped forward, closing the distance between them, and jabbed a finger lightly against Thor’s chestplate.

“I’m asking what you’re prepared to do,” Fury shot back. His voice was quiet, but every word was a challenge.

Thor’s eyes narrowed.

“Loki is a prisoner.”

Fury’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smirk.

“Then why,” he asked, with just a hint of venom, “do I get the feeling he’s the only person on this damn boat who actually wants to be here?”

Thor stared back at him, but didn’t answer. Not right away. His silence said enough.

Coulson glanced between them, his usual calm diplomacy holding the moment steady before it could crack.

“We’ll keep you apprised,” he said quietly to Thor, then added under his breath, “Try not to throw anyone through a wall, huh?”

Thor gave him a look, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself.

Fury only turned and started walking away, his coat flaring out behind him.

“Think it over, Goldilocks,” he called over his shoulder. “Clock’s ticking.”

Thor stood there, still staring at the horizon beyond the glass, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

Coulson finally broke the silence, speaking softly, almost apologetically.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, “you’re not the only one who wishes things were simpler.”

Thor didn’t move, his voice little more than a murmur as he replied:

“Aye… but wishing does not make it so.”

And with that, he simply kept looking out over the clouds, as if somewhere, far below, the answers might yet reveal themselves.

The detention section was quiet at this hour, save for the faint hum of the forcefield encasing Loki’s glass cell.

Inside, the God of Mischief paced, slow and deliberate, like a predator in a cage much too small for him. His long coat swirled behind him with each measured turn, boots clicking softly against the pristine floor. His eyes glimmered with something unreadable—boredom, perhaps. Or amusement.

Then he stopped.

His lips curled faintly, though he didn’t yet turn around.

“Hmm.” His voice, low and almost amused, carried through the quiet. “Not many people who can sneak up on me.”

He finally pivoted smoothly on his heel, his emerald eyes flashing with recognition.

Natasha Romanoff stood a few feet from the cell, arms loose at her sides, her face schooled into neutral disinterest.

“But you figured I’d come,” she said flatly.

Loki tilted his head slightly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, of course,” he purred. “After. After whatever crude little tortures Fury can conjure up, you would arrive. The… gentle touch. The balm for my wounded pride. You’d coax me to cooperate.”

Natasha took a slow step closer to the glass, folding her arms.

“I just want to know what you’ve done to Barton.”

Loki’s smirk widened, his gaze flicking up and down her frame with calculated laziness.

“I’d say…” he murmured, sauntering closer to the glass, “I’ve expanded his mind.”

Natasha’s jaw tightened slightly, though her tone didn’t waver.

“And when you win? When you’re sitting at the top of the mountain… what happens to his mind then?”

Loki chuckled, a low, rich sound.

“Is this love, Agent Romanoff?” His eyebrows arched mockingly.

Natasha let out the faintest scoff, shaking her head.

“Love is for children,” she replied coolly. “I owe him a debt.”

That seemed to amuse him even more. He slowly sank into the sleek bench inside his cell, resting his forearms on his knees and regarding her with a predator’s patience.

“Tell me,” he said softly, gesturing for her to speak as though she were performing for his entertainment.

Natasha dragged a chair from the wall, the legs scraping faintly against the metal floor, and sat as well—mirroring his posture.

“Before SHIELD,” she began, her tone even, “I made a name for myself. Very specific skillset. Didn’t care who I used it for… or on. Got on SHIELD’s radar in a bad way. Barton was sent to kill me. He made a different call.”

Loki’s head tilted.

“And what if I vow to spare him?” he asked smoothly.

Natasha’s eyes stayed locked on his, cold and unflinching.

“Not letting you out.”

Loki threw his head back and laughed—a sharp, delighted sound that echoed off the glass.

“Ah… no,” he said, wiping at a phantom tear of mirth. “But I like this game. Your whole world hanging in the balance, and you… you bargain for one man?”

Natasha’s arms stayed crossed, her gaze unwavering.

“Regimes fall every day,” she said simply. “I don’t weep for that. I’m Russian. Or was.”

Loki’s smile darkened.

“What is it you want, then?”

“It’s not complicated,” she said, her voice low. “I’ve got red in my ledger. I’d like to wipe it out.”

That made him pause—for just a moment—before his grin returned, sharper now.

“Can you?” His tone dripped with mock sympathy. “Can you even begin to wipe out that much red? Dreykov’s daughter?”

Natasha froze—only slightly—but it was enough. Her lips parted, her breath catching in her throat. Her eyes glazed, just for a second.

Loki stood, prowling closer to the glass, his smile feral.

“Sao Paulo,” he continued, each word a dagger. “The hospital fire. Barton told me everything. Your ledger is dripping… gushing red. And you think saving a man no more virtuous than yourself will change anything?”

His voice rose, almost a roar now.

“This is the basest sentimentality! The desperate prayers of a child. Pathetic!”

Natasha flinched—just slightly—when he slammed his palm against the glass, the forcefield crackling faintly.

“You lie and kill in the service of liars and killers,” he sneered. “You pretend you’re separate. That you have a code. That you’re something more than the horrors you’ve inflicted. But you’re not. They’re a part of you. And they will never go away.”

His eyes blazed now as he leaned closer to the glass.

“I won’t touch Barton. Not yet. Not until I make him kill you. Slowly. Intimately. In every way you fear. And when he wakes, just long enough to see what he’s done… when he screams your name through his tears…”

He bared his teeth in a cruel grin.

“I’ll split his skull. This… is my bargain, you mewling quim.”

Natasha turned away, as though finally broken, her breath trembling as she muttered:

“You’re a monster.”

Loki threw his head back and laughed.

“No,” he hissed, still chuckling darkly, “you brought the monster.”

But when Natasha turned back to face him… the tears were gone. Her expression was icy calm.

“So,” she said evenly, “Banner. That’s your play.”

Loki’s smirk faltered.

“What?”

Natasha pressed a finger to her earpiece, her eyes still locked on his.

“Loki plans to unleash the Hulk. Keep Banner in the lab. I’m on my way. Bring Thor.”

She rose from her chair in one smooth motion and started toward the door. Then, just as she reached it, she glanced back over her shoulder, her lips curving into the faintest, mocking smile.

“Thanks for your cooperation.”

Loki stood frozen where he was, his smug grin gone, his fists clenching at his sides as she strode out without another word.

The door hissed shut behind her.

And for the first time since being brought aboard the Helicarrier… Loki looked rattled.

—

The hum of machines and faint ozone of electricity filled the air, but the lab was… quiet. Too quiet.

Nick Fury’s boots hit the floor with sharp purpose as he entered, his black coat snapping behind him like a banner in the wind. His one good eye swept the room — and stopped dead.

Stark lounged in a chair, feet up on a console, idly spinning a screwdriver like it was a cocktail stirrer. Banner stood at a terminal staring off into space, arms folded, his jaw tight in quiet thought. And Harry? Harry sat cross-legged on the workbench itself, lazily flipping a glowing golden coin between his fingers. He didn’t even look up, but Fury swore he saw the faintest smirk curl the young man’s lips.

“What the hell are you doing, Stark?” Fury’s voice boomed through the lab like a gunshot.

Tony didn’t even flinch. He twirled the screwdriver a little faster, then leaned back and gave him a lazy grin.

“Oh, funny,” he quipped. “I’ve been asking myself the same thing about you, Nick. Small world.”

“You’re supposed to be locating the Tesseract,” Fury bit back, his eye narrowing into a dagger.

Bruce finally spoke up, his voice calm but laced with steel.

“We are,” he said firmly. “The model’s locked. We’re sweeping for the gamma signature now. Once it pings, we’ll have it pinpointed within half a mile.”

Tony gestured vaguely to the screens, fingers dancing lightly over the holographic keys.

“And then you’ll have your shiny cube back. No muss, no fuss.”

But even as he said it, his screen flickered, and a hidden directory opened up on its own. Tony’s eyebrows shot up as schematics and classified files bloomed across the projection.

“Well, now, what’s this?” he murmured. “Something you forgot to mention, Director? …‘Phase 2?’”

Fury’s lips parted, but the hiss of the doors opening cut him off.

Steve Rogers stormed in like a thundercloud, his broad shoulders stiff, his jaw set in a look that could crack concrete. He carried a strange-looking HYDRA weapon in his fist — and he slammed it onto the table with a metallic clang that rattled the tools.

“Phase 2,” Steve growled, glaring at Fury with all the righteous fury of a man betrayed. “S.H.I.E.L.D.’s building weapons. With the Tesseract.”

He threw Tony a quick glance, his mouth a hard line.

“Sorry,” he added dryly. “Your computer was running a little slow.”

Harry finally looked up then, emerald eyes glittering with quiet amusement. He lazily flipped his coin once more before catching it midair, leaning back on his hands.

“Well,” he drawled in that velvety, dangerous voice of his, “of course. What else would you do with a godlike artifact? Build something shiny to blow each other up. Humanity’s creativity never fails to… disappoint.”

Fury turned his glare on him now, but Harry only smiled faintly, almost daring him to push it.

“We gathered everything related to the Tesseract,” Fury began, voice tight. “That doesn’t—”

“—mean you’re building weapons? Really? Nick, come on,” Tony cut him off, spinning his chair and swiveling the monitor toward Fury, the schematics glaring bright in his face. “Why lie? We’re all adults here. Well… most of us.”

Steve folded his arms over his chest, his voice low and biting.

“I was wrong about you, Director,” he said. “The world hasn’t changed a damn bit.”

That was when Thor and Natasha arrived, stepping in just in time to catch the fallout. Natasha’s sharp gaze immediately locked on Banner, and Banner… already looked ready to snap.

“Did you know about this?” Bruce demanded, his voice brittle.

Natasha stayed icy calm.

“You should think about removing yourself from this environment, Doctor,” she said evenly.

Bruce let out a low, bitter laugh.

“I was in Calcutta,” he shot back. “That was plenty removed.”

“Loki’s manipulating you,” she countered.

Bruce’s nostrils flared.

“And what have you been doing?!”

Her tone sharpened.

“You didn’t come here because I batted my eyelashes at you.”

“And I’m not leaving because you got a little twitchy,” Bruce barked back. Then his eyes snapped to Fury. “Why don’t you explain, huh? Why is S.H.I.E.L.D. using the Tesseract to build weapons of mass destruction?”

Fury’s gaze shifted — first to Thor, then to Harry.

“Because of them,” he said flatly, pointing a finger between them.

Thor straightened, affronted.

“Me?!”

Fury’s voice didn’t even waver.

“Last year, your little family feud leveled a small town. We learned Earth isn’t alone — and we’re hilariously, hopelessly outgunned. And then there’s you—”

His finger jabbed at Harry now.

“Fifteen years ago, you just show up. Black ship, harem of godlike women, and more power than I’ve seen in my entire career. You helped recover the Tesseract, sure… but I’d be a damn fool not to plan for the day you and yours decide you’re done playing nice.”

Harry finally straightened, hopping down from the bench. He caught his coin one last time and pocketed it, his green eyes glittering dangerously.

“Fair,” he admitted smoothly. Then a smirk tugged at his mouth. “But useless. You couldn’t stop me and my girls on our worst day, Nick. And you know it.”

Thor’s chin lifted, his voice like thunder.

“My people seek only peace with Midgard.”

Fury’s eyebrow arched.

“But you’re not the only ones out there, are you? And you’re not the only threat.”

Steve stepped forward now, his presence towering.

“Like you controlled the cube?” he asked coldly.

Thor turned to him, his voice booming now with Asgardian fury.

“It was your work with the Tesseract that drew Loki here — and his allies. A signal to all the realms that Midgard is ready for war.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed.

“A higher form of war?”

Fury’s jaw tightened.

“You forced our hand. We had to come up with something.”

“Oh sure,” Tony cut in, clapping his hands once, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Nuclear deterrent. Because that always ends well.”

Fury turned on him now.

“Remind me, Stark — how did you make your fortune again?”

Steve snorted, his lip curling.

“I’m sure if he still made weapons, Stark would be neck deep in this too.”

Tony shot up in his chair, spinning on him.

“Oh, how is this suddenly about me?!”

Steve glared back.

“Isn’t everything?”

Harry let out a long whistle, raising both hands.

“And here we go,” he quipped, voice dry as sandpaper. “Gentlemen, the inter-team dick-measuring contest continues.”

Thor growled low in his chest.

“I thought humans were more evolved than this.”

Fury’s head snapped toward him.

“Excuse me? Did we come to your planet and start blowing things up?”

Thor drew himself up even taller.

“Do you always treat your champions with such mistrust?”

Natasha cut in at last, her tone flat and precise.

“Are you all really that naïve? S.H.I.E.L.D. monitors potential threats. Always has.”

Bruce gave a sharp, bitter laugh.

“Captain America’s on the threat watch list now?”

Natasha didn’t even blink.

“We all are.”

Tony pointed a finger at Steve.

“You? On that list? Above or below angry bees?”

Steve stepped forward, his shoulders squaring.

“Stark, one more wisecrack—”

Tony raised his hands defensively, smirking.

“Whoa, whoa — verbal threat! I feel very unsafe right now.”

And then Harry froze. His eyes narrowed, emeralds glowing faintly. He raised one hand, and the room fell silent.

“Shut. Up.”

Every head turned as his gaze locked on the scepter lying on the table — its blue gem now glowing brighter, pulsing like a heartbeat.

“Well,” Harry muttered darkly. “There’s your problem.”

He flicked his wrist, and a shimmering golden shield sparked into existence, surrounding the scepter. The oppressive weight that had been pressing on all of them lifted, like clouds parting after a storm.

Everyone felt it — the rage, the hostility — gone.

Tony blinked, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Huh. So… turns out that was screwing with us.”

Harry lowered his hand and smirked faintly.

“Obvious. But hey — you’re welcome.”

For once, no one had a comeback.

—

The evening sky was bruised purple and orange as the lone transport carrier crept closer to the Helicarrier, its engines a low, steady whine that barely disturbed the cloud cover.

Below, the massive S.H.I.E.L.D. flagship floated like some impossible fortress in the air — floodlights cutting through the haze, rotors thundering faintly as the deck bustled with motion.

From the comms tower, a voice crackled through the static.

“661 Bravo, please relay your passcode. Confirm hull and manifest, over.”

Inside the cockpit of the approaching carrier, the pilot’s gloved hand calmly squeezed the mic button. His tone was flat, unhurried.

“Arms to ammunition,” he replied. “Over.”

There was a beat of silence. Then the Helicarrier’s comms cleared them, and the pilot adjusted his course slightly, bringing the craft into alignment for a landing.

---

The hold was dimly lit and thick with quiet tension.

Clint Barton sat on a steel bench, methodically checking his quiver, fingers ghosting over the smooth shafts of his arrows like a pianist across ivory keys. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Behind him, his strike team — a half-dozen men and women clad in tactical black — strapped on vests, buckled knives, loaded magazines. They moved like clockwork, the ritual of soldiers who’d done this a hundred times before. No one smiled.

Clint pulled his bow from the rack with a quiet click, unfolding it with a snap of his wrist. The limbs sprang into place, gleaming faintly in the carrier’s harsh light.

One by one, he selected arrows — a heavy broadhead here, an explosive tip there — checking each with the same dispassionate precision. As he slid each one into place in his custom quiver, a faint metallic snick marked their readiness.

He didn’t look up as one of his crew approached and murmured,

“Two minutes out.”

Clint gave the faintest nod.

Then, finally, he stood — tall, calm, eyes icy as the sky outside — and slung his bow across his chest.

Whatever came next, he was ready.

And someone on that ship wasn’t going to see it coming.

—

INSIDE BRUCE’S LAB

The silence was brittle, hanging heavy in the air.

Harry’s golden shield still shimmered faintly, like a last line of defense around Loki’s scepter. The blue gem inside the staff pulsed weakly — a dim reminder that its influence lingered.

Steve Rogers stood near the lab bench, arms crossed, jaw clenched like he was wrestling with a storm inside. His eyes didn’t meet anyone’s — just stared at the floor, as if it were responsible for all this chaos.

Tony Stark lounged on the edge of a table, arms folded tight, trying — and failing — to look unconcerned. His gaze flicked toward the scepter every few seconds, fingers twitching.

Bruce rubbed the bridge of his nose, silent but restless. He looked like a man fighting to hold himself together, trying to press the last tendrils of Loki’s manipulation from his mind.

Natasha leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, eyes sharp and assessing. She never blinked away from Bruce.

Thor stood with his hands clasped behind his back, face unreadable but eyes crackling with simmering storm clouds. His glare burned holes into the alien weapon.

Harry snapped his fingers, and the shimmering shield vanished in a flicker.

“There,” Harry said dryly, brushing invisible dust from his jacket. “Try negotiating without magical mind control next time. Might save you from looking like a bunch of rabid wolves.”

Steve’s lips twitched, almost a smile. Tony smirked. Natasha just raised an eyebrow. Thor’s jaw remained clenched.

“Too soon?” Harry added, amused.

No one laughed.

The room held its breath — fragile calm before the next storm.

—

OUTSIDE ON THE HELICARRIER

The rear ramp of the stealth carrier hissed open with a metallic groan.

Mist rolled inward, swirling like ghosts as the craft aligned itself against the thunderous roar of the Helicarrier’s turbine engine.

Clint Barton stood motionless, eyes locked on the massive blades spinning lazily, their dull roar filling the night air.

His strike team melted into the shadows behind him — silent, deadly silhouettes.

Clint didn’t flinch as he drew a sleek arrow tipped with a compact grenade warhead from his quiver. The small digital timer on the warhead glowed red, ominous.

Without a sound, he notched the arrow, drawing the bowstring taut with practiced ease.

For a moment, he aimed dead center at the turbine core. Then, his head tilted just slightly, eyes narrowing.

The target shifted a hundred feet off-center. That was the sweet spot.

His fingers relaxed. The arrow flew — slicing the night with a hiss.

Just before impact, the shaft veered sharply, burying itself deep in the turbine’s metal casing.

The timer began its merciless countdown.

Clint lowered his bow, voice steady and calm as he keyed his comm.

“Device armed. Timer set. Extraction in T-minus 90 seconds.”

Without waiting for a response, he melted into the darkness.

—

BACK INSIDE THE LAB

Bruce was mid-sentence, making a sardonic comment about Loki’s penchant for drama, when the world exploded.

The entire Helicarrier shuddered violently, floors pitching like a ship in a storm. Alarms screamed, lights flickered, and everyone grasped at tables and walls to keep their footing.

Steve was already moving, boots thudding hard on the floor as he barked orders.

“Everyone down! This is an attack!”

Harry’s emerald eyes snapped to life, fists glowing with simmering magic.

Tony jumped to his feet, already pulling up diagnostics on a wrist display.

“Yeah, this just got a whole lot worse.”

Outside, far below, the turbine sputtered and spewed fire, its once-steady roar now a faltering growl. Clint’s team vanished into the bowels of the Helicarrier, shadows among shadows — silent, lethal, and unstoppable.

—

The sirens wailed like banshees in the belly of hell.

The floor groaned and pitched violently as the Helicarrier's stabilizers fought a losing battle against the failing turbine. Red warning lights bathed the lab in harsh, strobing flashes, alarms screaming bloody murder about hull integrity and portside engines going critical.

Steve Rogers braced himself against the table, his knuckles white as he barked over the mechanical din.

"We've got boarders!" His voice cut through the chaos like a blade. "Stark — suit up! We need eyes and guns on the deck, now!"

Tony Stark shot him a withering look that could have melted steel, even as he tapped his comm to summon the Mark VI.

"Oh, thank you, Cap. Brilliant tactical insight there. You yell, I suit up. Don't worry, big guy, I'll take care of it. You just keep doing that whole 'inspiring leader' thing you do so well."

Steve stepped forward, his jaw set like granite, and growled back with enough force to shake the bulkheads.

"Just put the damn suit on and do your job, Stark."

Tony's smirk never faltered — if anything, it got sharper.

"Yes, sir. God bless America and apple pie. Should I salute while I'm at it?"

"Stark—"

"Relax, Rogers. I'm on it."

Meanwhile, Bruce Banner had gone deathly still. His hands gripped the edge of the table so tightly his knuckles had gone bone white. Beads of sweat rolled down his temple as he closed his eyes and muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the alarms.

"Not now... not now... please, not now..."

Harry Potter noticed it immediately — the faint green flicker beginning to crawl along Banner's skin like radioactive lightning.

"Oh, bloody hell," Harry muttered, rolling his shoulders and stepping closer. His emerald eyes locked onto Bruce's face. "Bruce. Talk to me."

Bruce opened his eyes, and they were already shifting toward that familiar, terrifying radioactive green glow.

"I can feel it... he's already pushing through," Bruce hissed, his voice low and tight with barely contained panic. "Not... much time left."

Harry glanced back at the others, then back to Bruce. He held up a hand, faint emerald energy already crackling between his fingers like controlled lightning.

"You want me to knock you out? Just say the word. Because once he's out..."

Bruce gave a single, grim nod, sweat now pouring down his face.

"Do it. Better me unconscious than the ship in pieces."

Harry didn't waste a second. He pressed his palm to Bruce's temple and muttered something low and ancient in a language that predated recorded history.

A flash of golden light — and Bruce slumped forward, unconscious but unharmed.

Harry eased him to the floor, muttering under his breath.

"You're welcome. Again."

Natasha Romanoff was already on her comm, her voice crisp and professional as she directed teams to secure lower decks. Steve glanced between the unconscious Banner and Harry, his jaw still tight.

"Nice work," Steve said gruffly, then turned to Tony, who was already stepping into his armor as the mechanical plates locked into place with satisfying clicks. "You — you and me, upper deck. Let's move."

Tony's visor snapped down with a sharp hiss, his voice dry through the external speakers.

"You're welcome in advance, Rogers. Try not to get in my way."

Steve just muttered, "Don't make me regret this."

---

THROUGHOUT THE HELICARRIER

Elsewhere on the Helicarrier, the real battle was already underway.

The invaders — mercenaries in sleek, military-grade armor — poured through breach points across multiple decks like a plague of locusts. The S.H.I.E.L.D. agents holding the lines were outnumbered three to one and already falling back in some sections, their standard weapons barely scratching the advanced armor.

That's when they arrived.

Fleur Delacour swept down the central corridor like a streak of silver and flame, her wand slashing through the air with deadly precision. A wall of brilliant blue fire erupted before a squad of mercenaries, the flames hot enough to melt their rifle barrels in seconds. Her hair, shimmering like spun platinum, whipped around her as she advanced, her blue eyes flashing with Veela fire.

"You picked ze wrong ship to attack," she said, her French accent thick with fury as she gestured elegantly. Another wave of fire consumed the corridor behind the retreating mercenaries.

Daphne Greengrass was all shadows and ice, cutting off a flanking team with precise, lethal curses. She moved like a phantom between cover, her smirk cool and calm even as enemies collapsed behind her, their limbs frozen solid.

"Honestly," she drawled, her voice like silk over steel as she froze another mercenary mid-charge, "did they really think this would be easy?"

Susan Bones was a whirlwind of glowing runes and protective barriers, anchoring a defensive line while calmly dismantling anyone stupid enough to charge her. Her red hair blazed like copper in the emergency lighting as she traced complex patterns in the air.

"Stay behind the barrier!" she called to the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, her voice steady and reassuring. "I've got this covered!"

On a parallel deck, Dacey Mormont and Val were a pair of northern fury incarnate. Dacey wielded a stolen shock baton like a warhammer, her wild hair flying as she brought it down on enemy helmets with bone-crushing force.

"Come on then, you southern pricks!" she roared, her voice carrying the authority of House Mormont. "Let's see what you're made of!"

Val moved with graceful savagery beside her, her platinum hair gleaming as she slit throats and shattered visors with clinical efficiency. She said nothing — she didn't need to. Her blade spoke for her.

In the engine maintenance bay, Allyria Dayne moved like a streak of silver and purple, her blade flashing faster than the eye could track. Sparks danced in her wake as she cut through the metal catwalk, dropping enemies into the abyss below.

"You dishonor yourselves," she said softly, her voice carrying the ancient authority of House Dayne, "attacking from the shadows like cowards."

Farther down, Shaak Ti's montrals twitched as she sensed the approaching squad through the Force. She ignited her lightsaber, the brilliant blue blade carving through armor like butter. She moved with serene precision, each movement flowing into the next like a deadly dance.

"I sense your fear," she said calmly, deflecting blaster bolts with effortless grace. "You should have stayed home."

Aayla Secura somersaulted over a group of mercs, her blue skin glowing faintly in the dim light as twin sabers spun in a deadly dance. She landed lightly, already sensing the next wave of attackers through the Force.

"Too slow," she said with a slight smile, her lekku twitching as she swept through her opponents with ruthless efficiency.

And finally, Riyo Chuchi — small, elegant, deceptively gentle — stood at the main stairwell, her staff glowing with controlled power. A ripple of telekinetic force sent a wave of mercenaries tumbling down like dominoes.

"This ends now," she said quietly, her voice carrying absolute authority despite her small stature.

Each of them moved as if choreographed, each attack flowing seamlessly into the next. And through it all, the invaders began to realize with growing horror: this was not just S.H.I.E.L.D. anymore.

This was Harry's family. And the odds had just turned catastrophically against them.

---

BACK IN THE LAB

Harry adjusted the collar of his jacket, glancing down at Bruce to make sure he was still breathing steadily, then straightened and rolled his shoulders with the fluid grace of a predator preparing to hunt.

"Well," he said, his voice carrying that familiar mix of dry humor and barely contained power, "sounds like the girls have already started without me."

Steve shot him a look — half irritated, half impressed, all business.

"You sure you don't want to... y'know, help?"

Harry smirked faintly, a glint of emerald magic sparking across his fingers as he stepped toward the door, his green eyes flashing with dangerous intent.

"Oh, I plan on it, Steve. Wouldn't want them having all the fun."

He paused at the threshold, glancing back over his shoulder.

"Besides," he added, his smirk widening, "someone needs to make sure you boys don't get yourselves killed while I'm gone."

And with that, he was gone, leaving only the faint scent of ozone and the promise of violence in his wake.

—

SHIELD HELICARRIER — BRIDGE

The world was tilting sideways.

Emergency klaxons blared through the steel ribs of the Helicarrier, flashing crimson strobes painting panicked faces in jagged light. The deck shook again, throwing several agents off their feet as the guttural whine of dying engines filled the air.

On the bridge, everyone was moving at once — agents shouting into headsets, tearing reports off printers, hammering consoles as if sheer force of will might keep the carrier aloft.

Fire suppressant foam hissed from ceiling nozzles around the perimeter, choking the air with a sharp chemical stink as it smothered localized fires.

Maria Hill stood at the center of the storm, boots planted, eyes sharp, barking orders over the din.

“Turn up that engine!” she snapped at a tech to her left. “We’re losing altitude!”

The man shot her a panicked look.

“Number 3 engine is down! The starboard stabilizer’s—”

“—Then work the damn stabilizers harder!” Maria cut him off, already moving toward another station where a young agent — the same kid she’d caught playing Galaga two days ago — stared wide-eyed at a monitor. She slammed a hand on the console to get his attention.

“Talk to me.”

The agent flinched, swallowed hard, and pointed at the screen.

“Turbine’s loose,” he said quickly. “Mostly intact, but it’s tearing itself apart. No way we can get out there and fix it while we’re still in the air.”

Maria’s eyes narrowed at the readout.

“We lose one more engine,” she said tightly, half to herself, half to the room, “and we won’t be in the air.”

She tapped her earpiece and spoke crisply.

“Hill to Director. Somebody’s got to get inside and patch that engine. Now.”

—

Nick Fury was already sprinting through the carrier’s corridor, his trench coat snapping behind him, comm pressed to his ear.

“Stark!” he barked into the line. “You copy that?!”

There was a burst of static, then Stark’s voice came through — dry, irreverent, with the faint whirr-click of his suit locking into place in the background.

“You had me at ‘engine about to fail catastrophically,’” Tony quipped. “On it. Don’t wait up.”

Fury didn’t slow down. He jabbed another comm channel and growled.

“Coulson! Initiate official lockdown on the detention section. Then get to the armory. We’ve got boarders inbound, and I need every available body on deck.”

Phil Coulson’s calm voice came back over the comms without missing a beat, though his breathing was already a little labored.

“Lockdown in progress. ETA armory in two minutes. I’ll be ready.”

Fury rounded a corner, three agents falling in behind him as he went. His one good eye swept the flashing red corridors and the frantic agents rushing past.

“You better be,” Fury muttered.

On the bridge, Maria’s voice crackled in his ear again, sharp and steady despite the chaos.

“We’re holding altitude, but not for long. You’ve got less than five minutes before we drop below five thousand feet.”

Fury’s lip curled in a thin, humorless smile as he hit another stairwell.

“Then Stark better earn that paycheck.”

—

HELICARRIER — DECK

The Helicarrier groaned under its own weight, the hull vibrating with the strain of missing engines and emergency counterthrust. Sirens wailed in the distance, their eerie harmony mingling with the roar of wind tearing past the open ports.

Smoke curled upward from shattered panels and sparking conduits as Clint Barton crouched at the edge of the deck, peering down into the dark air ducts below.

He held his bow in one hand, an arrow already notched and ready — even though he knew he wouldn’t need it just yet.

The carrier shifted under them with a violent lurch, but Barton didn’t so much as flinch.

“Go,” he murmured into his comm, eyes still forward.

The first man dropped into the duct below, his boots striking metal with a dull clang. The second followed a second later. Both moved fast, rifles raised, vanishing into the maze of ducts like shadows.

Barton swung down after them, landing in a low crouch, bow still in hand.

He straightened slowly, eyes narrowing, listening to the ship — every creak, every groan, every distant boom. He knew her rhythms now. And he could feel exactly where to cut.

Turning his head slightly, he spoke low and precise.

“Get that engine down,” he ordered one of the men ahead of him. His tone was flat, but carried an edge like a drawn blade.

The man ahead nodded and peeled off into a side duct without a word, his boots clanging once before silence swallowed him.

Barton moved down the corridor without breaking stride, his other two men falling in just behind him. His every motion was economical, fluid, lethal.

His voice dropped even lower now as they reached the first bulkhead junction.

“Detention,” he said, gesturing subtly with his bow toward a darker passage. “Get him through the dark.”

One of his men nodded, slinging his rifle across his chest and vanishing into the shadows of the detention level ducts.

Barton exhaled through his nose, adjusted his grip on the bow, and glanced toward the faint blue light spilling from the bridge at the far end of the corridor.

“Come with me,” he added, his words clipped, a predator closing in on prey.

Two sets of boots followed him into the chaos as Clint Barton led the way toward the bridge — his face calm, his aim steady, and his mind already calculating how many more seconds this floating fortress had left before he brought it all crashing down.

HELICARRIER — PORTSIDE

The door screamed under Steve Rogers’ grip as he forced it open. His boots dug into the scorched metal plating for leverage, shoulders straining against the twisted steel. Sparks hissed and showered around him like angry fireflies, but Steve didn’t flinch. With one final heave, the mangled door groaned and yielded, swinging open just wide enough for him to slip through.

The portside deck was carnage.

A whole section of the hull had been sheared away — jagged steel and shattered bulkheads framing nothing but empty sky. The wind roared through the breach, whipping smoke and embers into a frenzy. The air tasted like ozone and burning oil.

SHIELD techs in full oxygen masks fought the fires with extinguishers, ducking sparks as they tried to stay upright on the unstable deck. They were losing. One of the techs shot Steve a wide-eyed look as he passed, shaking his head helplessly.

Steve’s jaw clenched at the sight of Engine 3.

It was dead. Completely dead.

The massive turbine blades sagged motionless, blackened and warped beyond recognition. Smoke belched from its housing in lazy, choking plumes.

Steve slapped a hand to his ear, barking over the gale, “Stark! I’m here!”

Static crackled before Tony’s trademark voice came through his comms — calm, quick, and smug as ever.

“Good. Don’t touch anything, Grandpa — just stand there and flex. I’ll handle the scary tech bits.”

Steve rolled his eyes toward the sky, muttering under his breath, “Lord, grant me patience.”

A whine of repulsors cut through the din before he could respond.

Iron Man streaked in from above, a blazing streak of red and gold slicing through the smoke. Tony’s landing thrusters flared as he dropped into a perfect hover just beyond the broken deck, the suit’s polished plating glowing faintly in the haze.

“Cap, seriously. Don’t move. You already look like a motivational poster. Just keep it up. Morale’s important.”

Steve crossed his arms and glared at the hovering genius. “You done?”

Tony tilted his head inside the helmet, smirking. “Define ‘done.’”

“Define ‘motivational,’” Steve shot back, his voice hard and even.

“There it is. Love that fire, Cap. Don’t ever change.”

Steve didn’t reply — just stared him down with that steely blue-eyed glare of his. Tony let out a chuckle, toggling his HUD and turning his focus back to the turbine.

—

INSIDE THE SUIT

The HUD lit the destroyed engine in stark white lines, scanning, rotating, and feeding data streams faster than most human eyes could follow. Red warnings painted his visor like a Christmas nightmare.

The superconducting cooling system was fried. Half the rotor blades were bent to hell. The whole housing groaned under its own weight.

“Well. Ain’t she a beauty,” Tony muttered, voice dry as sand.

Steve’s voice came over the comms, clipped and sharp. “What do you need me to do?”

Tony couldn’t resist.

“Pray. Or — and this is just a thought — go back inside and knit me an American flag or something. I’ll let you know when the heavy lifting’s over.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. “You finished?”

Tony grinned in the dark of his helmet. “Finished? Rogers, I haven’t even started.”

“Then start faster,” Steve said flatly. “We’re running out of time.”

“Wow. The pep talks are really evolving,” Tony quipped as his gauntlet extended a multi-tool with a mechanical snap. “Coolant conduits first. If I can patch that, maybe we get enough power to spin the rotors before this thing falls out of the sky.”

“What happens if you can’t?” Steve asked.

Tony didn’t even look up. “Well… you’re a good swimmer, right?”

Steve just sighed and muttered, “You are impossible.”

“And you’re adorable when you’re cranky,” Tony shot back. He extended his left arm, spraying a stream of nanites over the mangled conduits. The metal hissed and sizzled as the self-repair swarmed over the damage.

“I said faster,” Steve growled into the comm.

“Captain, you’re gonna give yourself a stroke. Let me work my magic.” Tony’s grin widened as the HUD chimed, progress bars inching upward. “Besides. If this thing does go down… at least I’ll have someone down here to catch me.”

Steve just shook his head and muttered darkly, “I swear. The second we land, I’m knocking that smirk off your face.”

“Big talk. Love it. Keep it coming. Very inspiring,” Tony replied.

Outside the suit, the Helicarrier groaned again — a deep, metallic wail of a dying beast. The deck shuddered, sending another spray of sparks from the blown bulkheads.

Tony didn’t flinch. He leaned into his work, voice low but confident.

“Don’t worry, Cap. I got this. Always do.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed, watching him work.

“You better.”

Tony chuckled softly to himself as his fingers flew over the controls. “You’re welcome in advance.”

And for just a second — though he’d never admit it — Steve’s lips twitched in something dangerously close to a smile.

—

The turbine groaned as Tony braced himself against the massive rotors, repulsors flaring. The blades were warped and stubborn, resisting him with every ounce of twisted steel.

“Okay…” Tony grunted into the comms, his voice still managing to sound irritatingly breezy despite the effort. “These rotors don’t wanna play nice. Story of my life.”

He glanced back over his shoulder at Steve, who stood at the edge of the blown-out deck, gripping the railing as the wind howled past him.

“Rogers!” Tony barked. “If you’re done brooding heroically over there, feel like making yourself useful? There’s an engine control panel on the far side. I need eyes on which relays are overloading so I can actually fix this thing.”

Steve glared back with that trademark ice-blue stare of his.

“Could’ve just said ‘please,’” he shot back flatly.

“Oh, right,” Tony quipped, digging his gauntleted fingers deeper into the stuck rotors, sparks flying. “Please, oh please, Captain Handsome, save my billion-dollar ass.”

Steve rolled his eyes but crouched, springing cleanly over the broken railing without hesitation. The deck shuddered beneath him as he landed on the other side, boots skidding slightly before he caught himself.

He didn’t bother to answer Tony as he jogged toward the control panel — a scorched metal cabinet clinging to the edge of the portside wall. He yanked the panel open with a sharp tug, revealing a nest of wires, circuits, and glowing indicators.

Wind roared. Sparks hissed. Steve glowered into the mess like it had personally insulted him.

Tony’s voice crackled in his ear again, impatient now.

“What’s it look like in there, Cap?”

Steve exhaled slowly, his jaw working as his eyes scanned the incomprehensible circuitry.

Then he deadpanned:

“It seems to run on… some form of electricity.”

There was a beat of silence from Tony — and then a laugh, loud and smug enough to cut through the noise.

“Oh my God. Did you just make a joke? Did Steve Rogers just make a joke at my expense?”

“Wasn’t a joke,” Steve replied evenly, though the faintest curl of a smirk tugged at his lips. “Just an observation. This is your mess. You figure it out.”

Tony barked out another laugh, even as he strained against the stubborn rotor blades.

“See? We’re bonding. Next thing you know, you’ll be inviting me to Sunday dinners and knitting me matching tights.”

Steve grunted as he started scanning the relays, jabbing a finger at the panel as colored lights blinked in angry patterns.

“Looks like…” he squinted. “Top right relay’s blown. The others are overloaded but still holding.”

“Copy that,” Tony replied, his tone already drifting back into business. “Keep your fingers out of the box, Cap — unless you want the world’s worst perm. I’ll get these spinning.”

Steve shook his head, muttering under his breath, “You’re insufferable.”

Tony heard him anyway, his grin audible through the comms.

“And yet… you love me.”

Steve’s response was pure Captain America — low, dry, and perfectly unimpressed.

“Get to work, Stark.”

“Aye-aye, Captain Cranky.”

With that, Tony rotated his repulsors and began forcing the blades to turn, the tortured whine of metal echoing over the broken deck. Steve stood at the panel, monitoring the lights, his jaw set tight.

Even amid the chaos, the two of them — bickering and brilliant in their own ways — had already begun to drag the Helicarrier back from the brink.

—

HELICARRIER — MULTIPLE DECKS

The Helicarrier groaned and shivered under the weight of the battle raging through its veins.

Corridors shook with the sound of gunfire and spellfire alike. Mercenaries in black combat armor swept deck after deck, weapons raised, grenades primed — ruthless, methodical, certain of victory.

And then the air cracked like thunder.

He was here.

—

MAINTENANCE BAY

The squad barely registered the faint pop behind them before emerald light cut through the dim haze.

Harry stood there in his black bodysuit, burnished crimson-and-gold light armor clinging to his shoulders and chest like a second skin, his dark hair tousled, his emerald eyes glowing faintly in the smoke.

One mercenary swung his rifle up — too late.

Harry’s hand flashed up, fingers splayed, and a jagged crimson hex slammed into the man, sending him cartwheeling through the air.

The others froze — just long enough for Harry to smile faintly.

“Really,” he said, his voice low and amused, “you all thought this was a good idea?”

The next two screamed as their rifles liquefied in their hands, molten slag dripping through their fingers.

With a snap of his fingers, they were yanked upward, smashing into the ceiling with bone-crunching force before dropping in an unconscious heap.

Harry’s smirk deepened as he rolled his shoulders.

“Rookies.”

And with a sharp crack, he was gone.

—

BRIDGE LEVEL — CATWALKS

Fleur was poetry in motion — Margot Robbie with a wicked French smile and silver-blonde hair whipping behind her as she disarmed her opponent with a spin of her wand, then drove her knee into his chest.

“Ah… toujours so clumsy, non?” she teased, letting the man collapse at her feet.

Across the catwalk, Daphne moved like a blade, her wand sparking ice-blue light as she sent two mercenaries sprawling with precise, silent hexes.

“Left!” she called sharply, her voice carrying over the din.

A mercenary charged from the shadows, but before Daphne could turn, a streak of emerald light burned past her, dropping the man mid-stride.

Harry appeared beside her, leaning against the railing as if he’d been there the whole time.

“Really, darling?” he drawled. “You need me covering your blind spots now? You’re slipping.”

Daphne shot him a flat look — all Sydney Sweeney exasperation — before calmly blasting another attacker over the edge.

“Maybe I just like letting you feel useful,” she shot back, her lips twitching at the corner.

“Mm,” Harry mused with a faint grin. “And maybe you’re just adorable when you’re defensive.”

Before Daphne could retort, more mercenaries poured through the starboard hatch.

Harry didn’t even blink — he raised both hands, and a wall of emerald fire roared down the corridor, stripping the weapons from their hands and leaving them scrambling as Fleur and Daphne finished them with merciless elegance.

—

CREW QUARTERS

Susan stood at the heart of the choke point, her fiery red hair glinting in the light of her golden wards as bullets slammed into her shields and fizzled away.

Val moved beside her like a whirlwind — all Katheryn Winnick fury and northern steel, her axe cleaving through rifles and armor alike, her laugh low and dangerous.

Harry appeared between them mid-swing, leaning casually on the bulkhead.

“Ladies,” he greeted, emerald eyes glinting. “Tell me you’ve left some fun for me.”

Val snorted, wiping her axe on her thigh.

“If you can keep up, pretty boy.”

Harry’s smile turned feral as he stepped forward, cracking his knuckles.

“Oh, I’ll do more than keep up.”

He raised his hand, and the floor under the last group of mercenaries exploded upward, flinging them like ragdolls into the walls.

Susan arched a brow, though her lips twitched.

“Show-off.”

“Always,” Harry replied smoothly, already disappearing again.

—

HANGAR DECK

The hangar was chaos — and the women owned it.

Dacey moved like royalty, her dark hair wild and her strikes brutal and commanding, every swing of her blade dropping another foe.

Allyria was a shadow beside her — all dark grace and Alexandra Daddario eyes, her movements hypnotic and deadly, her blade a blur of silver.

Shaak Ti and Aayla danced through the carnage with preternatural calm, their Force senses keeping them a step ahead of every blaster bolt, every blade.

“On your right,” Shaak murmured coolly, spinning and disarming a mercenary without even looking.

“I saw it already,” Aayla replied dryly, her saber whirling.

Riyo darted past them, staff cracking ribs and knees with Sabrina Carpenter mischief in her smile.

Harry materialized at the center of it all — emerald flames licking from his hands as he amplified his wives’ attacks, throwing up shimmering shields and hurling enemies backward with effortless wandless strikes.

“You girls are making me look bad,” he quipped, sending one merc tumbling through the air with a lazy flick.

Riyo glanced at him as she flipped her staff behind her, knocking another man cold.

“You don’t need our help for that,” she called sweetly.

Harry laughed, stepping forward into the fight, his emerald eyes blazing.

“Keep talking, love. Let’s see who clears more.”

The battle turned into a deadly game — crimson light, steel and blaster fire, emerald flame and Force flashes blurring into one brutal, graceful dance.

When the last mercenary fell, silence swept over the hangar, broken only by the hiss of steam and the groan of metal.

Harry stood at the center, soot clinging to his armor, his wives gathering around him, every one of them breathing hard but smiling faintly.

He surveyed the field with calm satisfaction before brushing dust from his shoulder.

“And that,” he murmured with a small smirk, “is how you clean house.”

His wives just exchanged knowing looks — because of course he’d say that.

And already, they were preparing for the next wave.

—

The room vibrated with the dull roar of the stuck turbine just beyond the shattered bulkhead. Sparks crackled intermittently from exposed conduits, and the stale scent of burnt ozone hung thick in the air.

Steve Rogers stood braced by a railing, eyes locked on the massive rotors turning agonizingly slow but threatening to rip themselves free.

“Well,” Steve muttered, voice low but sharp, “if that thing gets up to speed, you’re toast. Or rather… shredded.”

Tony Stark’s voice crackled through the comms, deadpan as ever.

“Then stay put in the control unit and reverse the polarity long enough to disengage the magnetic lock.”

Steve blinked, clearly unimpressed.

“Speak English, genius.”

The faint whir of Iron Man’s suit filtered through as Tony hovered just outside the damaged chamber.

“Alright, Captain Obvious, see that red lever on your side? That’s your ‘slow-the-rotors-down-before-everything-explodes’ button.”

Steve’s gaze flicked sharply to the lever — bright red against the drab metal panel — like a screaming target.

Tony’s voice dipped into mock caution.

“I need you to stand by it like your life depends on it. Because it kinda does. Wait for my word, then yank that lever so hard you’ll wish it was your ex’s heart.”

Steve smirked, cracking his knuckles with the quiet confidence of a man who’d handled worse.

“Got it. Stand here, wait for you to say the magic words, then pull the big red thing. Simple enough.”

Without hesitation, Steve vaulted across the uneven deck, boots thudding against the grated floor as he landed with perfect balance beside the lever.

He gripped it firmly, fingers tightening around the cold metal like a lifeline.

“Ready when you are, Tony.”

A pause filled the comms, then Tony’s voice came back with that familiar mix of sarcasm and steel.

“Brace yourself, Cap. This ride’s about to get bumpy.”

—

Iron Man shot through the dense smoke like a streak of molten gold, stabilizers roaring as he came level with the crippled turbine. The enormous blades still groaned and spun erratically, sending sprays of sparks and heat out in jagged bursts.

Tony hovered for a beat, taking in the carnage through his HUD. Fractures in the main shaft. Cooling system fried. Debris jammed between rotor blades. Warnings blared across his visor in angry red letters.

“Yeah, yeah… you’re broken. Tell me something I don’t know,” he muttered to himself, voice tight but sarcastic.

He jetted forward, planting both armored boots on the outer rim of the turbine housing, gauntlets braced on the central rotor.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he grunted as he began to push. “Show Daddy how much you want to spin for me…”

The entire structure shuddered under the strain. Sparks spat in his faceplate. The rotors protested with an ear-splitting wail.

“Come on, baby… just a little more. Be good to me and I’ll buy you a nice oil change when this is over.”

Little by little, he felt the blades start to move, sluggish but yielding, as if they too feared the man inside the metal suit.

—

Steve Rogers stood at the control panel, his gloved hands gripping the red lever like he was trying to choke the life out of it. His blue eyes flicked between the flickering lights and the turbine outside, jaw set, every muscle taut.

“Stark,” he barked into the comm. “You better tell me when to pull this thing or so help me—”

Behind him, a metallic click.

Steve froze.

The sound of a gun being cocked was unmistakable.

He turned just as a mercenary lunged out of the smoke, rifle raised and bayonet flashing.

“Should’ve stayed in bed,” Steve muttered.

He caught the rifle in one hand and snapped it sideways, sending the weapon clattering to the floor. But the mercenary was fast — he slammed his shoulder into Steve’s chest, sending the Captain skidding toward the edge.

Steve’s boots screamed against the steel deck as he fought for purchase.

Then the next shove came, harder.

—

Steve crashed through the bent railing in a roar of wind and smoke, the world tilting violently as the abyss opened below him.

One hand shot out.

Fingers curled around a dangling wire.

The wire snapped tight, jerking him to a halt with a wrenching pain in his shoulder. His boots scraped uselessly at the slick, scorched metal. The wind howled around him, battering his body like a rag doll.

For a second, the only thing keeping him from oblivion was sheer will and five bloody fingers on a single cable.

“Not. Today,” he growled, eyes blazing, veins standing out in his neck.

Above him, the mercenary leaned over the edge, rifle in hand, lining up for a finishing shot.

—

Inside his helmet, Tony’s HUD lit up with another warning. His breathing was fast now, controlled but strained.

“Cap?! You okay?!”

Static crackled in his ear.

Then Steve’s voice came back, rough, steady, and full of fire.

“Hung up… but holding. Don’t you worry about me — just fix that damn engine, Stark!”

Tony smirked behind his faceplate, even as he doubled down on the push, his thrusters screaming in protest.

“I’m trying, Grandpa. But if you don’t mind? Maybe keep your limbs on the ship while I save the day? I don’t have time to scrape you off Kansas.”

The rotors started to turn under his strength, finally, grudgingly spinning up to speed. The whine in his comms changed pitch as the power flow stabilized.

“That’s it, baby… sing for me,” he muttered with grim satisfaction.

—

The mercenary above sneered, sighting down his rifle at Steve’s vulnerable head.

Steve’s grip tightened on the wire, his jaw set, his gaze locked on his enemy with an almost feral calm.

“You really think this is enough to stop me?” he called up, voice cutting through the wind.

The mercenary fired — but Steve swung his legs up with a burst of strength, twisting the wire just enough to make himself a smaller target. Bullets sparked harmlessly against the hull.

The Captain bared his teeth in a sharp grin.

“Your turn.”

He heaved upward, using the wire like a whip.

The mercenary barely had time to gasp before Steve’s boot connected with his chest, sending him sprawling back into the smoke.

Still dangling over the drop, still fighting gravity, Steve exhaled slowly.

“Told you,” he muttered to himself. “Not today.”

But his knuckles were white, his arms burning, and the endless sky still yawned hungrily below him.

—

The doors at the far end of the corridor slammed open with a deafening clang, metal shuddering on its tracks.

Thor stormed through them like a thundercloud come to life, cape billowing, his boots striking sparks from the deck as he charged. His breath came in heavy bursts, his jaw tight with fury.

The chamber beyond was bathed in cool blue light, the containment cell humming faintly as the forcefield shimmered across its transparent walls.

And inside… sat Loki.

Languid, poised, with his legs crossed casually on the bench, as if he owned the place. He looked up at the sound of Thor’s approach, a slow, knowing smile curling his lips.

Thor didn’t slow.

“LOKI!” he bellowed, voice rolling through the chamber like thunder. “You will cease this madness, brother, or by Odin’s beard I shall—”

He didn’t bother finishing the threat. He lunged.

The forcefield dropped with a faint hiss as Thor crossed the threshold — his massive hand shooting out to seize his brother by the throat.

And…

Thor’s fingers passed straight through him.

Loki shimmered like a heat mirage, his smile widening in satisfaction just before the image dissolved completely.

Thor’s momentum carried him a step further before he realized what had happened. He spun around, muscles coiled, his expression darkening.

“Loki…” he growled, low and dangerous.

“Oh, dear,” came the silken voice from behind him. “Are you ever not going to fall for that?”

Thor whipped around.

There stood Loki, leaning insouciantly against the doorframe, his arms folded, his green-and-gold armor gleaming in the low light. Mischief danced in his eyes, mocking and sharp.

With a graceful flick of his fingers, he pressed something on the wall panel.

Behind Thor, the containment cell’s walls slammed shut, the forcefield snapping back into place with a satisfying hum.

Thor rushed to the barrier, slamming his fists against it with a crack of static. The field held firm.

Loki just tilted his head, watching him like a cat watches a cornered mouse.

“Really, brother,” Loki said airily, feigning disappointment. “All these centuries… and still you’ve not learned.”

He smiled wickedly, his eyes glinting like a blade in moonlight.

“You always were so terribly easy to trick.”

Thor’s fists clenched against the barrier, his jaw tight, his voice a low growl.

“When I get out of here, Loki… you will pray for mercy.”

Loki smirked.

“Ah, yes.” He tapped his chin theatrically, pretending to consider. “But then I’d have to believe in mercy.”

—

DETENTION LEVEL

The alarms wailed through the steel corridors as Thor barreled into the containment chamber, his boots striking sparks from the floor. His eyes were blazing with fury, Mjolnir already in his hand, the faint crackle of stormlight trailing behind him.

The great glass door to Loki’s cell slid open with a mechanical hiss.

And there stood his brother.

Calm. Smiling faintly. Arms clasped behind his back as though this were all some grand stage play and they were merely actors.

Thor didn’t hesitate.

“Loki!” he bellowed, his deep voice echoing in the chamber. “This ends now!”

He charged forward, swinging Mjolnir with a roar — and passed straight through his brother like smoke.

Thor stumbled, spinning on his heel.

Loki’s laughter rang out behind him, soft and mocking.

Thor turned, teeth bared, and there was his brother — leaning casually against the far wall, the faintest glimmer of green still fading from his illusion.

“Are you ever not going to fall for that?” Loki purred, tilting his head.

Thor growled, striding back to the glass wall.

“I will not be toyed with, brother. Enough of these petty tricks!”

“Oh, but they suit you so well,” Loki replied smoothly, stepping closer, his boots quiet on the steel floor. “You never could see beyond the obvious. It’s what makes you you. Adorable. Predictable.”

Thor raised Mjolnir and brought it crashing down on the edge of the cell. The entire structure shuddered, bolts squealing as fractures spiderwebbed across the thick glass.

Loki flinched slightly at the sound — just enough to reveal a flash of nerves — before that insufferable smirk slid back into place.

“Oh, please, Thor…” Loki’s voice was low now, almost intimate. “The humans think us immortal. Shall we… test that theory?”

He reached for the control panel at his side and pressed his palm flat against it.

Beneath Thor’s feet, the floor split with a hiss, metal panels retracting to reveal the dizzying abyss below — a howling shaft of air and steel, dropping away into nothingness.

The cage lurched violently, bolts tearing loose as it began to lower, the shriek of tortured metal filling the room.

Thor planted his feet and glared at his brother, lightning sparking along his shoulders.

“You’ll regret this, Loki,” Thor roared, slamming Mjolnir against the floor. “By the Nine Realms, I swear it!”

Loki stepped closer to the edge of the control platform, his green eyes gleaming with cruel amusement.

“Oh, brother,” he murmured, his lips curling in that familiar wolfish grin. “You really should learn to stop making promises you can’t keep.”

And with a final, mocking bow, Loki pressed the release.

The cage dropped.

Thor’s roar of defiance was swallowed by the roar of wind and steel as the cell plummeted into the abyss.

But before Loki could even savor his victory, a quiet click sounded behind him.

He turned slowly, his smirk faltering just a fraction.

Phil Coulson stood there, unassuming as ever — holding a massive, alien-looking Phase Two prototype weapon that hummed ominously in the dim light.

Coulson’s eyes were flat, unblinking, and full of quiet fury.

“You really weren’t built to win,” Coulson said coolly.

The chamber went still.

And everything hung on the next move.

—

CATWALK PASSAGE

The steel catwalk groaned and flexed under Clint Barton’s boots as he advanced, bow already drawn, an arrow notched and ready.

His eyes — sharp, calculating — swept the shadows of the passage ahead. Steam hissed from ruptured pipes. Overhead lights flickered, throwing jagged pools of illumination across the grated floor.

Behind him, the faintest whisper of a footstep.

His instincts screamed.

Clint spun on his heel, loosing the arrow mid-turn — fast as breath.

It cut the air in a blur of black fletching, whispering past Natasha’s cheek, so close she could feel it tear through a stray lock of her hair.

She didn’t flinch.

Instead, her lips curled into a cold half-smile as she closed the last few feet with a blur of motion.

Her palm struck his bow, forcing it down. The string snapped against his forearm as the shot went wide.

Clint didn’t miss a beat. He shifted, shoving her back with his shoulder and charging forward like a freight train.

Natasha ducked low, her leg sweeping out to hook his ankle — but he hopped the sweep and rammed his forearm toward her face.

She slipped to one side, her boot driving into his chest with a satisfying thud. He stumbled a step, but his eyes never left hers.

Natasha dropped flat to the deck, rolling beneath the overhead pipes like a serpent through grass.

She came up behind him, fluid and fast, and swung a vicious kick into the inside of his knee.

Clint grunted, his leg buckling — but his hand shot out, catching the railing, steadying himself even as he twisted and drew another arrow.

Natasha was already moving.

She vaulted the gap to the next passageway just as his arrow struck sparks off the metal where she’d been.

Clint growled low in his throat and followed, his boots pounding the steel grating as he leapt after her.

The next stretch of catwalk was narrow, claustrophobic — the kind of place where there’s no room to miss.

They collided again in a flurry of blows and parries.

Clint swung his bow like a staff, fast and brutal, aiming for her ribs.

Natasha caught it mid-swing, twisting the string around her wrist and yanking hard. The carbon fiber groaned under the strain.

“You’re slowing down, Barton,” she murmured, her breath hot against his ear.

Clint yanked the bow free with a snarl, swinging it up toward her head.

“Not slow,” he shot back, teeth gritted. “Just pacing myself.”

The carbon-fiber tip missed by a hair as Natasha slipped under it and drove her forehead into his jaw.

Clint staggered back a step — but countered with a brutal elbow that cracked against her temple, driving her sideways into the railing.

They paused just long enough to circle each other, sweat slicking their foreheads, their breath harsh in the narrow corridor.

Neither spoke this time.

Both knew how this went.

As if on cue, both reached for their knives.

Two flashes of steel glinted in the flickering light.

Clint held his blade low, point-forward, tight and ready. Natasha spun hers once in her fingers, grip reversing.

They closed again — fast, feral, silent.

Steel clashed in a spray of sparks as their blades met, locked, shoved apart, met again.

Clint hooked her wrist, trying to disarm her. She slipped free and slashed toward his ribs — barely parried by the flat of his blade.

They moved like a mirrored dance — neither willing to give, both willing to kill.

At one point, they locked blades at their hilts, faces inches apart, their breaths mingling.

“You’re still in there, Clint,” Natasha said under her breath, her voice a low growl.

Clint’s eyes flickered — just for a moment.

“Then take me out,” he rasped, shoving her back with a savage twist of his knife.

Natasha grinned faintly.

“Don’t tempt me.”

And with that, they broke apart again — blades flashing, boots sliding on the catwalk as the fight raged on.

Evenly matched.

Deadly.

—

Phil Coulson’s gaze never wavered as he stepped forward, the alien weapon humming softly in his grip, its eerie glow casting fractured shadows across the steel floor.

“Move away, please,” Coulson said quietly, voice steady, almost clinical.

Loki’s smirk faltered for the first time, eyes narrowing as he slid backward from the control panel, hands raised just slightly — a gesture of mock surrender.

“Do you like this?” Coulson asked, gesturing toward the ominous weapon. “We started working on this after you sent the Destroyer. Truth is? Even I don’t fully understand what it does.”

He cocked the weapon with a soft click, the hum intensifying.

“You wanna find out?”

Loki’s grin returned, sly and venomous.

Before Coulson could react, Loki vanished in a flicker of shadows — reappearing instantly behind the agent.

In a fluid motion, Loki raised his spear, the gleaming tip aimed at Coulson’s heart.

But just as he lunged, a sharp voice sliced through the tension.

“Bombarda!”

A burst of explosive magic erupted between them, blasting Loki backward into the air.

He blinked up in surprise to see Harry, clad in black and gold armor, stepping into the chamber, eyes gleaming emerald fire.

Harry’s presence crackled with power, his wandless magic already swirling in the air like a living storm.

Loki’s lips curled into a reluctant, calculating smile.

“Not the time for a duel, Potter.”

With a snap of his fingers, Loki vanished — disappearing into the shadows as quickly as he had appeared, unwilling to squander precious seconds on a magical fight that could unravel his plan.

Harry’s eyes narrowed, the faint afterglow of his magic flickering off his hands.

“We’ll finish this later, Loki.”

He turned to Coulson, voice low but firm.

“Are you alright?”

Coulson’s expression softened for a brief moment before steel hardened it again.

“Never better.”

The weapon’s hum faded, but the weight of the moment lingered — a breath held tight, waiting for the next move.

The field stretched wide and empty, green and gold beneath the dying sun — but already the light was failing, swallowed by the black clouds massing above.

At the heart of a fresh crater stood Thor Odinson.

His broad shoulders rose and fell with each breath, his red cloak torn at the edges and whipping wildly in the growing wind. His golden hair tangled around his face, catching faint sparks of static as the air thickened.

Slowly, deliberately, he raised Mjolnir to the sky.

Above, the clouds churned like a great sea, boiling black and silver, devouring the horizon. The warmth of the day was gone now — replaced by a sudden chill that sank into the bones.

The grass at Thor’s feet rippled and flattened, bowing as if in reverence.

Lightning licked across the cloudbank with a low crack, followed by a deep, rolling growl of thunder.

Thor’s deep voice rose, carried by the storm, low but commanding — a prayer and a challenge all at once:

“Heimdall!” His blue eyes flared as he spoke. “Watch well! Your prince calls upon the might of Asgard!”

A hush fell over the field as though the world itself listened.

And then —

With a sound like the sky being torn asunder, a jagged spear of lightning stabbed down from the clouds, striking Mjolnir’s waiting head with blinding fury.

Thor stood firm as the storm poured its power into him, arcs of lightning dancing down his arms, across his shoulders, wreathing him in an aura of raw energy. His cloak flared out behind him like a crimson banner. His hair lifted in a golden halo. His eyes burned white as moonfire.

Then the armor began to come to him — piece by shining piece, forged in stormlight and memory.

The greaves snapped onto his shins first, plates of gleaming silver etched with ancient runes.

The chestplate followed, slamming into place over his broad chest with a resounding clang, the great discs along its front crackling faintly as they settled.

Then the vambraces coiled down his forearms, locking with a sharp click, tiny forks of lightning crackling between his fingers.

One by one, the pieces of Asgard’s mightiest champion assembled around him until he stood fully clad — the unmistakable silhouette of a god of thunder.

The last strap buckled itself tight as the field darkened completely, clouds swirling in a great vortex overhead, faint silver light glinting through their edges.

Thor smirked faintly as he adjusted his grip on Mjolnir, rolling the haft in his palm as if reacquainting himself with an old friend. The hammer pulsed with its own faint glow now, eager to strike.

He lifted his chin, his eyes blazing white, his gaze fixed on the distant hills where his quarry fled.

“Run as far as you dare, brother,” he murmured, his voice low but carrying across the storm-lashed field, every syllable like the rumble of distant thunder. “But know this — there is no realm where you may hide from me.”

Lightning forked across the clouds in answer.

Thor rolled his shoulders and tilted his head until his neck cracked audibly, feeling the full weight and fury of his power coursing through him.

And then —

With a roar that shook the air, he hurled himself skyward, the field beneath him exploding into a whirl of dust and lightning.

Mjolnir struck the storm first, pulling him into the heart of the clouds, his cloak streaming behind him.

From below, he was little more than a streak of gold and stormlight, swallowed quickly into the churning black sky as thunder rolled in his wake.

A god unleashed. A hunter set loose.

The storm was his now. And his prey would feel its wrath.

—

The armory hummed with energy — faint vibration in the deck plates, agents hustling back and forth with crates of munitions and datapads, the buzz of repulsorlifts somewhere deeper in the bay.

Steve Rogers stood by his locker, strapping the shield onto his back with easy, decisive movements. His blue eyes scanned the room like a general on campaign — calm, but edged with intent. Every line of his body radiated quiet authority, like a coiled spring waiting for the signal to strike.

On the next bench over, Clint Barton was checking his arrows, one by one, his fingers quick and steady. He whistled softly as he pulled one free and twirled it between his fingers.

“Well,” Clint said, his voice dry as dust, “nothing says romantic evening on the town like apocalypse weather and matching team outfits.”

Natasha Romanoff, seated on the edge of the table across from him, didn’t even glance up as she fastened her Widow’s Bite bracers with a faint electric hiss.

“No one’s expecting you to match, Barton,” she said, her lips curling in the faintest, most dangerous smile. “We all know you’re a lone wolf.”

“Wolf,” Clint muttered, testing his bowstring, “or the stray mutt nobody asked for?”

“Does it matter?” Natasha replied coolly, twisting her wrist and letting blue arcs dance between her fingers. “We keep you around because you bite.”

Across the room, Tony Stark was hunched over a workbench, goggles perched on his forehead and a tiny arc-welder sparking against his battered helmet.

“Stupid thunder god…” he grumbled to himself. Bzzt. “…wrecking my faceplate like a diva with daddy issues…” Bzzt. “…swear I just fixed these circuits last week…”

An agent slowed as they passed, casting a curious glance at the helmet as the eyes lit up. Tony straightened, flipped the goggles up, and tapped the temple.

“Atta girl,” he murmured to the helmet, satisfied. “Back in business. Daddy’s home.”

Harry Potter stood a little apart from the rest, adjusting the crimson-and-gold light armor plates over his black bodysuit. The phoenix crest at his chest gleamed faintly in the overhead light, a subtle glow against the polished edges of his gear. His emerald green eyes swept the room, calm but keen, his jaw set with quiet determination.

Next to him, Daphne Greengrass was smoothing a hand down her dark, tailored combat robes, the wand already in her sleeve. She gave him a sideways glance and a faint, knowing smirk.

“You’re staring again,” she murmured under her breath.

Harry shot her a deadpan look and buckled the final strap on his vambrace.

“Not at you,” he said smoothly.

She arched a perfect brow. “Mm-hm. Keep telling yourself that, Potter.”

Fleur Delacour strode over to Bruce Banner, all grace and smoldering confidence, tossing a folded black bundle into his hands. Bruce blinked at it, holding it up like she’d just handed him a dead rat.

“What exactly…” Bruce began hesitantly.

“Is enchanted,” Fleur interrupted in her honeyed French accent, her lips curving into a wicked little smile. “Will stretch indefinitely. Even when…” She tilted her head playfully. “How do you say? When zee other guy comes out to play.”

Bruce unfolded the bodysuit gingerly, holding it by the shoulders.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Well. That’s… considerate. Thanks, I think.”

Val, already strapped into dark gleaming armor and testing the balance of her twin daggers, leaned over to Allyria Dayne and murmured something with a smirk. Allyria, cool and beautiful and lethal, gave a low chuckle as her violet eyes flitted toward Bruce.

Dacey Mormont caught the exchange and barked a laugh from across the bench, twirling her baton lazily.

“Oh, you’ll thank her,” she called to Bruce, flashing him a wink. “Way better than waking up naked in a crater. Ask me how I know.”

Bruce’s cheeks flushed faintly. “I… won’t.”

Natasha glanced at Harry as she rose to her feet, her boots clicking softly against the deck.

“You good?” she asked coolly, just the faintest flicker of warmth in her green eyes.

Harry nodded once, his expression steady. “Always.”

Shaak Ti stood by the exit, perfectly composed, her lekku draped gracefully over her shoulders, her robes whispering faintly as she adjusted her belt. Her dark gaze moved across them all, serene but penetrating, as though seeing far beyond the here and now.

Aayla Secura moved to her side, her blue skin and lithe frame catching the light as she clipped her lightsaber into place. The two Jedi exchanged a faint, wordless nod, a ripple of the Force shimmering around them like an unseen current.

When Steve finally moved to the front of the group, he paused, turned slightly, and took them all in at a glance.

“All right,” he said, his voice low but carrying. “We’ve got one shot at this. Stay sharp. Watch each other’s backs. And don’t stop moving forward.”

He started walking, every line of him radiating strength, his shield catching the light as it swung slightly over his shoulder.

“Let’s move.”

One by one, they fell in behind him.

On Steve’s left, Natasha strode with quiet, predatory grace, the Widow’s Bite alive on her wrists.

On his right, Harry’s green eyes scanned ahead, the phoenix at his chest a glimmer of crimson fire.

Behind them, Clint fell in, twirling an arrow between his fingers, his lips quirking into a faint grin.

Daphne and Fleur flanked the center, Fleur’s wand already in her hand, Daphne’s smile sharp and sly.

Val and Allyria followed side by side, blades ready, dangerous and poised.

Dacey sauntered just behind them, her baton spinning lazily, her smirk daring anyone to try her.

Shaak and Aayla brought up the rear, their calm presence and the faint ripple of the Force a steady anchor.

The heavy doors of the lower hangar yawned open before them, the air beyond sharp with the promise of battle.

You could feel it then — the hush before the storm, the weight of what was coming, the hum of anticipation running like a live wire through them all.

They moved as one — a line of warriors, predators, legends in the making.

Somewhere ahead, their quarry waited.

And they were ready to strike.

—

The hulking cargo bay doors ahead gleamed under the strip lights, painted with stark RESTRICTED ACCESS warnings. Steve led the way, broad shoulders squared, his boots heavy against the deck. The rest of the team followed in a loose but purposeful line.

Clint veered slightly ahead, his fingers idly drumming against his bow. His smirk was already forming as he glanced sideways at Steve.

“Tell me again, Cap — are we even supposed to be down here? Because I’m not seeing a ‘welcome aboard’ mat.”

Steve didn’t so much as look at him.

“You’re welcome,” Steve deadpanned.

Before Clint could respond, a SHIELD engineer — young, freckled, with a helmet slightly askew — came running from a side corridor, waving his arms like his life depended on it.

“Hey! Hey, hey! This section’s restricted!” the kid barked breathlessly, planting himself square in Steve’s path. “You can’t just—”

Steve didn’t even break stride. He slowed just enough to glance down at the man, his blue eyes like ice, jaw set.

“Son…” Steve rumbled, in a voice that could quiet thunder. “Just don’t.”

The kid froze mid-word, swallowed hard, and stepped aside without another sound.

The massive bay doors groaned and began to open. Cold night air and stars spilled in as the platform extended. Clint stepped to the edge, peering out at the empty black.

“Okay…” he muttered, leaning on his bow. “So where’s this big, fancy ride you promised? Because unless that’s a magic carpet out there, I’m not seeing anything.”

Harry stepped up beside him then, emerald eyes glinting faintly. The light from the deck caught the phoenix emblem on his crimson-and-gold chestplate. He folded his arms, calm and assured.

“You’ll see,” he murmured.

Clint snorted. “What is it with you people and cryptic one-liners?”

The air outside shimmered suddenly, like the heat rising off pavement. A low hum built into a thrum, and with a soft pulse of golden light, something massive appeared.

A sleek black assault corvette, bristling with cannons, its hull etched with glowing red-and-gold markings, dropped its stealth field and hovered silently just beyond the platform. Its engines purred, casting faint ripples across the steel.

Clint’s jaw actually dropped for half a second.

“Well… damn.”

Harry let a faint smirk curl his lips.

“Gentlemen. Ladies.” He extended an arm gracefully toward the ship. “The Marauder. Marauder-class Assault Corvette. Enhanced.”

Daphne stepped forward on his left, twirling her wand between her fingers and arching a brow.

“We do like to travel in style,” she said, her voice low and silky.

Fleur glided up on his other side, all dazzling smile and lethal poise.

“And she is très magnifique,” she added with her French lilt, “when we feel like making a scene.”

Val appeared at Harry’s shoulder, spinning a dagger lazily in her fingers.

“Fast, quiet, and hits like a dragon,” she said with a sly smirk. “My kind of ship.”

Allyria’s calm violet eyes glimmered faintly as she murmured, “She never fails.”

Dacey shouldered her baton and flashed Clint a cheeky grin.

“Told you you’d look good in this ride,” she teased.

Clint squinted at her. “You sure you people aren’t a cult?”

From the back, Natasha’s dry voice cut in: “Don’t encourage them.”

Shaak Ti stood near the platform edge, serene, her lekku shifting faintly in the wind. Aayla, at her side, smiled faintly, her fingers brushing her lightsaber hilt.

The Marauder rotated, its rear cargo bay doors opening with a hiss. Inside, Susan Bones and Riyo Chuchi stood waiting in the soft glow of the bay lights, already armed and ready.

Steve wasted no time. He crouched slightly and leapt, super-soldier strength carrying him effortlessly through the gap. His boots landed heavy on the Marauder’s deck.

Shaak and Aayla shared a glance. Without a word, they leapt as well, the Force guiding them as they landed light as feathers beside Steve. Together, they reached out — and both Clint and Natasha suddenly lifted into the air, carried across by invisible hands.

“Okay, this—” Clint yelped mid-air. “This is definitely weird. Not a fan!”

He landed with a slight stumble. Natasha, of course, landed perfectly, brushing a strand of red hair behind her ear.

“You’re fine,” she said flatly.

Fleur offered her arm to Val with a wink. “Ready?”

Val grinned. “Always.”

Daphne extended her arm to Allyria on the other side.

“Hold tight,” she said sweetly.

With two sharp pops, all four witches and warriors vanished, reappearing in a swirl of magic on the Marauder’s deck just behind Clint and Natasha.

Clint blinked at them. “Oh yeah. Cult.”

Just then Bruce jogged into the hangar, tugging the collar of his new black bodysuit awkwardly.

“Wait! I’m here—” he panted. “This… actually fits. That’s… weirdly considerate.”

Fleur tossed him a dazzling smile over her shoulder.

“Trust me, mon cher,” she purred, “you will thank me later.”

Bruce looked at her, then at the Marauder, then at Harry still waiting.

“Yeah, okay. Let’s… just get this over with.”

Harry clapped a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, the other on Dacey’s.

“Relax, Doc,” Harry said, smirking faintly. “First time’s always the worst.”

With a loud crack, the three of them vanished and reappeared on the Marauder’s deck. Bruce immediately staggered forward, clutching his stomach.

“Ohhh,” Bruce groaned faintly. “Okay. Nope. Never doing that again…”

Susan was already at the console, her fingers flying over the controls as the bay doors began to close behind them.

“Sealed,” she called crisply.

From the cockpit, Riyo’s calm, musical voice came through the intercom.

“Piloting droid acknowledges,” she said. “Course plotted. New York City. ETA six minutes.”

The deck thrummed as the Marauder’s engines roared to life, its sleek frame cutting forward into the starry black.

Harry glanced around the deck at the assembled team — Steve already posted at the front, his shield gleaming under the lights; Natasha adjusting her bracers, her green eyes calm and deadly; Clint leaning against the wall, spinning an arrow between his fingers with his trademark smirk; his wives standing at ready, a wall of quiet, lethal elegance.

Harry smirked faintly, emerald eyes glinting.

“Next stop,” he said quietly, “one hell of a fight.”

And the Marauder surged forward, slicing through the night like a blade.

—

The wind screamed across the air deck, cold and sharp, carrying with it the faint scent of jet fuel and ozone. Nick Fury stood at the edge, one gloved hand gripping the railing, his long coat flaring behind him. The other hand held a stack of trading cards, stained with blood.

His one good eye glared down at them like they’d betrayed him somehow. The corners of his mouth were pressed into a line of stone as his thumb slowly flicked over the top card — Captain America, smiling in a bright, hopeful pose. The crimson smear across it glistened in the deck lights.

“You stupid, stubborn son of a…” Fury muttered under his breath, low enough for only himself to hear.

Footsteps approached, quiet but deliberate, and Fury didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

“Sir,” came Coulson’s voice — calm, measured, and just a little wry.

Fury didn’t look back.

“Coulson.”

Coulson stopped a few paces behind him, hands clasped neatly behind his back. He studied the back of Fury’s head for a moment, then the cards in his hand.

“Those cards,” Coulson said evenly, “were in my locker. Not… in my jacket.”

Fury’s thumb paused. His jaw flexed, but his gaze stayed on the cards.

“They needed the push,” he said flatly, the words sharp enough to cut steel.

Coulson raised his eyebrows faintly, then allowed himself a soft, dry chuckle.

“Of course they did,” he murmured, almost to himself. Then, after a beat: “You know, next time you want to desecrate my personal effects, you could at least buy me dinner first.”

Fury’s lips twitched — not quite a smile, but close.

That was when the sound hit them — a low, rising roar, growing louder, deeper, impossible to ignore. Both men lifted their heads, eyes turning to the far end of the deck just as a shimmer rippled in the night air.

And then it appeared.

The Marauder.

Sleek and black as sin, its hull gleaming faint red-and-gold like a predator’s eyes in the dark. The massive corvette roared out of Bay Six, the stealth field dropping in a shimmer of refracted light. It rolled forward like it owned the sky, engines blazing, leaving streaks of fire in its wake.

Fury’s good eye narrowed.

“Damn,” he breathed, his voice carrying just enough grit to mask the faint edge of nostalgia.

Coulson tilted his head slightly, watching the ship climb into the clouds.

“That thing still purrs,” he said softly, and then added with a little smile, “Eighteen years. Hell of a long time.”

Fury’s lips curved upward into a rare smile — cold, dangerous, and maybe even proud.

“They found it,” he muttered.

That was when the sharp voice of the intercom cut through the moment:

“We’ve got unauthorized departure from Bay Six!”

Fury’s smile didn’t falter as he slowly turned his head toward the control tower.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice low and lethal. “No kidding.”

And louder, with a snap of command:

“Somebody get me comms back online! I don’t care if you have to duct tape a squirrel to an antenna — I want my eyes on every street, every rooftop, every rat hole. I don’t care if it's from the cellphone of someone drowning himself in a martini glass. We’re not missing this.”

From behind him came the brisk click of boots. Maria Hill stepped up next to them, tablet already in her hands, dark hair whipping in the wind, her expression set in a scowl halfway between irritation and begrudging admiration.

“Yes, sir,” Hill said crisply, her fingers already flying over the screen. “I’ll have visuals back in three minutes.”

Coulson smirked faintly, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.

“Three minutes?” he asked, deadpan. “What, you taking your time to enjoy the view?”

Hill arched one perfect eyebrow, not even looking at him as she replied:

“Someone had to enjoy the view while you were busy bleeding all over your collectibles.”

Coulson chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Touché.”

Fury finally looked down at the cards one last time, thumb brushing over the bloodstain on Cap’s smiling face. Then, with deliberate care, he slid the deck into his coat pocket and squared his shoulders.

His gaze followed the Marauder as it climbed higher, its engines blazing, vanishing into the distant clouds over New York.

“Show me what you can do,” Fury growled under his breath, more to himself than anyone else.

The Helicarrier deck behind him lit up like a war machine coming alive — klaxons blaring, lights blazing, and comms sparking back to life as agents scrambled to stations.

And for the first time all night, Fury actually looked like he was enjoying himself.

—

The city stretched out below like a living circuit board, pulsing with life. Sunlight glittered on glass and steel, casting long sharp shadows in the crisp morning air. Street vendors hawked hot dogs, taxi horns blared, and somewhere a saxophone played an old jazz tune.

Above the urban symphony, a red-and-gold streak cut through the clear sky — a comet blazing a trail of fire and metal.

Tony Stark soared over the East River, the thrusters in his palms sputtering warnings. The HUD’s glow flickered intermittently, blinking like a dying light.

“Sir,” JARVIS intoned, smooth as ever with a hint of dry British patience, “your suit’s power reserves are critically low. We’re operating at eight percent capacity and dropping steadily.”

Tony squinted through the helmet’s HUD, a crooked grin ghosting his lips beneath the faceplate.

“Eight percent?” he said, voice laced with that patented Stark charm. “Well, that’s an improvement from the seven-point-five we had last week. At this rate, I’ll make it to lunch... maybe.”

His flight path arced toward Stark Tower — the pinnacle of his ego and genius — where his name blazed like a neon crown atop the penthouse.

On the rooftop, Dr. Erik Selvig paced nervously around the Tesseract containment device. The swirling blue cube pulsed with eerie light, encased within a shimmering, humming field of pure energy. The setup looked like a blend of mad science and arcane ritual.

“Sir,” JARVIS reported, “I have disabled the arc reactor supplying power to the containment field. The device is now self-sustaining.”

Tony’s brow furrowed beneath his visor. “Self-sustaining, huh? Sounds like my last relationship.”

With a metallic clang, he landed squarely on the platform, sparks flickering down his chest plate as his boots settled on the concrete.

“Selvig,” Tony called out, voice low but cutting through the charged air, “shut it down. Now. This ends here.”

Selvig spun toward him, eyes wild with fevered conviction, his voice trembling.

“It’s too late, Tony! She—it—won’t stop. This device… it’s opening a gateway, a new universe, a new reality. We’ve been blind to the possibilities—”

Tony held up a hand, stopping the man’s frantic speech midstream.

“Save the TED Talk, doc. Plan A, coming right up.”

With a smooth, practiced motion, Tony raised his palm, repulsor glowing bright blue.

A beam fired, slamming into the swirling barrier.

The energy exploded back in a violent rebound. A shockwave knocked Selvig off his feet and sent Tony skidding backward, sparks flying from his gauntlet and chest plate.

JARVIS’s voice returned, tinged with mild concern and an edge of irony.

“The barrier is composed of pure energy, sir. It is impervious to all known offensive measures.”

Tony wiped the soot off his gauntlet, sighing with mock exasperation.

“Yeah, no kidding. Well, that’s a plot twist.”

His gaze dropped to the platform below the penthouse — where Loki leaned casually against the railing, a smirk curling beneath his dark eyes, scepter in hand.

Tony’s voice hardened, the grin fading into something sharper.

“Plan B.”

JARVIS replied, ever the courteous assistant, “Sir, the Mark Seven armor is not yet fully operational. Deploying now may result in suboptimal performance.”

Tony’s eyes glinted behind the visor, voice dripping with defiance.

“Then ditch the frills. No spin rims, no champagne service. We’re on a schedule.”

His fingers curled, repulsors humming with lethal promise.

“Let’s dance, god of mischief.”

With that, Tony stepped forward into the unknown — the city unaware, the calm before the storm.

—

The sleek hum of Stark tech filled the penthouse, cool sunlight flooding through shattered floor-to-ceiling windows. Tony Stark stood in the center, the last pieces of his Mark Seven armor sliding back into their compact form with mechanical grace. He was human now—vulnerable, but no less sharp.

The air shifted. Loki appeared at the entrance, his presence like a shadow in the light, his smirk slow and knowing. The god’s robe swirled as he advanced, scepter gleaming ominously.

Loki’s voice was silk dipped in ice.

“Please tell me you intend to appeal to my humanity.”

Tony didn’t miss a beat, stepping behind the bar with the casual swagger of a man who owned this fight.

“Uh, actually, I’m planning to threaten you.”

A flicker of amusement crossed Loki’s eyes.

“You should have kept your armor on for that.”

Tony chuckled, the corner of his mouth twitching as he poured himself a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light.

“Yeah, this old thing’s seen better days. But hey, you’ve got the blue stick of destiny—want a drink? Might help with the mood swings.”

Loki’s gaze hardened, unmoved.

“Stalling won’t change the inevitable.”

Tony grinned wider, swirling the whiskey.

“No, no, no—this isn’t stalling. It’s threatening. No drink for you? Your loss. I’m having one.”

The god’s lips curled in disdain.

“The Chitauri invasion is coming. You can’t stop what’s coming. What is there to fear?”

Tony raised an eyebrow, voice dropping to a sardonic murmur.

“The Avengers. We’re what you’d call a team. ‘Earth’s Mightiest Heroes,’ to be precise.”

Recognition flickered in Loki’s eyes. “Yes, I have met them.”

Tony’s fingers snapped sharply as sleek bracelets locked around his wrists, the tech humming with power.

“Takes us a while to get traction, I admit. But let’s do a roll call: your demi-god brother, a super soldier who actually lives up to the hype, a guy with the world’s worst anger issues, two deadly assassins, a bona fide wizard with a harem of nine powerful women... and you. Big guy, you’ve managed to piss off all of them.”

Loki’s smirk deepened, eyes glittering with mischief and menace.

“That was the plan.”

Tony’s stride closed the gap between them, voice low and steady.

“Bad plan. When they come, and they will, they’ll come for you.”

Loki’s tone dropped, deadly and cold.

“I have an army.”

Tony’s grin sharpened into a razor’s edge.

“We have a Hulk.”

Loki’s eyes narrowed. “I thought the man was afraid to unleash the beast.”

Tony cocked his head, voice dropping to a fierce growl.

“You’re missing the point. There’s no throne, no scenario where you win. Maybe your army overwhelms us. But it’s on you. ‘Cause if we can’t protect Earth, you better believe we’ll avenge it.”

Loki closed in, scepter’s tip clicking against the glowing arc reactor embedded in Tony’s chest.

“This usually works,” Loki whispered, venom lacing the words.

Tony shrugged, smirk unwavering.

“Performance issues.”

In a blur, Loki’s grip tightened with godlike strength and slammed Tony across the room. The impact sent sparks flying from Tony’s damaged suit plating as he skidded into the far wall.

“JARVIS, now,” Tony growled, teeth clenched.

Loki advanced, fingers like steel clamps around Tony’s neck.

“You will all fall before me.”

Tony’s voice was calm, commanding.

“JARVIS. Deploy.”

Glass shattered as Tony was hurled through the window, the city rushing up to meet him.

“Deploy!” he shouted, voice echoing over the roar of wind.

The Mark Seven armor streaked after him, a missile of gleaming red and gold. With flawless precision, it locked onto Tony mid-fall, unfolding with mechanical grace. Moments before impact, his descent stopped, repulsors flaring as he rocketed back toward the penthouse.

Hovering at the shattered window, fists glowing, Tony snarled:

“And there’s one other person you pissed off.”

“His name’s Phil.”

With a blast of repulsor energy, Tony sent Loki sprawling, the god crashing hard onto the marble floor, stunned but far from beaten.

—

The air hummed — no, screamed — with rising energy as the Tesseract flared in its cradle. Blinding blue light erupted, and Tony instinctively squinted even through his visor. A sharp whine cut through the air as the beam of pure energy stabbed the sky and kept going, higher, higher, until the clouds ripped open like fragile silk.

“Okay,” Tony muttered under his breath, boosters whining as he hovered above the rooftop, “that… is definitely not in the user manual.”

Above Manhattan, the impossible yawned open. A massive, swirling vortex of black and blue, its rim alive with jagged streaks of power, tore reality apart. Beyond it — just waiting — hung the Chitauri fleet. Thousands of them. Hovercrafts bristling with weapons. Armored warriors lining up in perfect formations. And behind them, somewhere deeper in the darkness of that alien maw… massive, undulating leviathans the size of subway trains twisted and coiled like predators waiting to strike.

“Right,” Tony said aloud, his voice calm even as his pulse quickened. “Army.”

He boosted forward, metal screaming, and streaked toward the portal just as the first wave dove through.

Blaster fire lanced past him immediately — hot bolts of orange and blue slicing through the air. Tony corkscrewed between them, letting out a clipped laugh.

“You guys really don’t do subtle, huh?” he called over his external speakers, not that they’d understand him. He twisted upside down, let loose a double blast of his repulsors, and sent three Chitauri spinning end over end into the abyss below.

“Come on, come on,” he muttered through clenched teeth, climbing higher, dodging debris as a building behind him belched smoke and flames, a chunk of stone whizzing past his helmet.

“J.A.R.V.I.S.,” he barked, firing another shot. “Any idea if alien insurance is a thing? Because we’re about to bankrupt Manhattan.”

“Sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S. replied in that unflappable tone, “I believe this counts as an act of god. Or gods. Plural.”

“Helpful as ever, buddy.”

Suddenly, a Chitauri hovercraft screamed in from his blind side — BAM! — slamming into him with enough force to crack his shoulder plating.

“Okay! Rude!” he barked, tumbling through the air as warning lights flared across his HUD. He grit his teeth, kicked his thrusters, and righted himself mid-spin.

“Alright,” he growled, flexing his fingers as targeting reticules flared. “You get the special treatment.”

He loosed a swarm of mini-missiles. The hovercraft detonated in a fiery burst, debris raining down over Fifth Avenue.

—

The streets of Manhattan descended into chaos.

Taxis screeched to a halt. Drivers and passengers craned their necks at the gaping hole in the sky — just in time to see the nightmare pour through. Hovercrafts strafed the streets. Chitauri soldiers leapt down onto rooftops and fired indiscriminately into the crowds. Cars flipped. Glass shattered. People screamed and ran.

Ashley — the waitress from the corner café — stood frozen on the curb, mouth open, tray still in her hands, as an alien bolt of energy incinerated a taxi right in front of her.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, legs locked as a hovercraft swooped low, its cannon spitting fire into the buildings.

“Move!” one of her coworkers shrieked, grabbing her arm and dragging her down.

Ashley stumbled, ducking low as a second blast tore through the restaurant window, spraying glass and flames.

“They’re—oh my god, they’re everywhere,” someone whimpered.

Ashley gritted her teeth, heart hammering, and pushed two customers ahead of her toward the back. “Go! Go! Move, move, move!” she shouted, shoving them behind the counter. “Stay low!”

Through the shattered window, she could see them — dozens of Chitauri landing on the street, weapons raised, firing at anything that moved. Cars burned. Sirens wailed. Smoke curled into the morning sky.

—

Above it all, Loki emerged.

He walked with measured grace, as though the earth itself obeyed him. His Asgardian armor shimmered into place, green and gold plates flowing over his body like liquid light, his horned helm snapping into being with a faint crack. The wind caught his cape, making it billow like a banner of conquest.

The scepter glowed faintly in his hand as he stepped to the edge of the platform and looked down.

Chaos.

Fire.

Screams.

Magnificent.

Loki’s lips curved into a smile as he raised his head to the portal above and let the wind carry his quiet murmur:

“All this… because of me.”

His gaze dropped to the streets, his emerald eyes glinting as his army descended. One hand stretched lazily out to his side, fingers flexing like a maestro conducting an orchestra.

“And it’s only just begun.”

Behind him, another massive leviathan began to snake through the portal, its armor-plated hide catching the light as it let out a roar that echoed across the skyline.

Loki tilted his head, savoring the sound.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Magnificent.”

The sky above churned with otherworldly fire, the Chitauri portal a gaping wound bleeding light and death into the world below. New York was a canvas of flame and shadow, its streets littered with debris and running figures, the howl of sirens drowned beneath the roar of alien warcraft.

At the platform’s edge, Loki stood tall, cape streaming like a banner of conquest, his golden horns gleaming in the harsh blue light of the Tesseract’s beam. The screams from the streets rose to him, a symphony of chaos he conducted with the faintest smile. He shifted his grip on the scepter, feeling its crackle of power run up his arm, and closed his eyes for a moment to savor the devastation.

Then —

A thunderclap.

It split the sky in two, reverberating through the steel of the tower. Mjolnir came spinning down from the heavens in a blur of silver, and with it, Thor.

The God of Thunder slammed onto the platform hard enough to dent the deck, the shockwave knocking loose a few bolts from the railing. He rose from his crouch, eyes blazing, cape whipping in the storm winds that followed him.

“Loki!” he bellowed, voice like rolling thunder.

Loki’s eyes flicked open lazily, as though he’d been expecting no one else. He turned slowly, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk.

“Ah,” he purred, drawing the word out like fine wine. “Brother.”

Thor began to advance, his boots loud against the metal, every muscle coiled and ready.

“It ends now,” Thor growled. “Turn off the Tesseract. End this madness. Or I swear — by Odin’s beard, Loki — I will destroy it.”

Loki arched one perfect eyebrow, head tilting. His reply was quiet, but all the more cutting for it.

“You can’t,” he said simply, almost pityingly. “Even you, with all your righteous fury, cannot stop what has already begun. The Tesseract is beyond your reach. And the war…” His lips curved wider. “The war is already won.”

Thor stopped, nostrils flaring, knuckles white around Mjolnir’s handle.

“You have learned nothing,” he said, voice low. “Even now, you choose vanity over wisdom. Very well then—”

He lifted Mjolnir, lightning crackling across his shoulders. “So be it.”

The words were still echoing when Loki lunged.

A blur of green and gold and deadly grace, he came at Thor with the scepter hissing, its tip glowing with Tesseract energy. Thor raised Mjolnir to meet it with a deafening CLANG, sparks showering the deck.

The two gods collided like storm fronts.

Loki ducked low, swept his scepter in a sharp arc for Thor’s knees — but Thor stepped into him, using his gauntleted forearm to block, then slammed the hilt of Mjolnir hard against Loki’s ribs.

Loki stumbled back, coughing, but still grinning.

“You really ought to thank me, you know,” he sneered. “I’ve given Midgard something to believe in again. A glorious cause to unite them—”

“You’ve given them ruin,” Thor roared, charging forward.

Loki whipped around, stabbing out with the scepter’s blade. Thor caught it, their arms straining, and with a roar shoved Loki back several paces. The edge of the blade sparked as it scraped against Mjolnir’s head.

“You always did enjoy breaking my toys,” Loki said darkly, and suddenly whipped the scepter toward the giant R in STARK, sending a bolt of energy ripping through it.

The letter groaned, cracked, and tore free.

“Loki—!” Thor shouted as the glowing metal plummeted down the side of the tower, shattering windows on its way to the streets far below.

Loki twirled the scepter once in his hand, smirking through the blood running from the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, come now,” he said, his voice almost playful. “What’s one more piece of rubble in a city that’s already crumbling?”

Thor’s breath came hard, his shoulders squaring, Mjolnir spinning in his hand as the storm above thickened and blackened.

“You speak of glory,” Thor said, his voice deadly quiet now. “But you are nothing more than a coward in golden armor.”

Loki’s smile thinned into something sharper.

“Careful, brother,” he hissed. “You sound almost like Father.”

Thor’s eyes flashed with lightning.

“Then let me remind you—”

He lunged forward, and this time it was Thor who struck first, swinging Mjolnir wide in a dazzling arc. Loki blocked, but the force sent him skidding across the deck, sparks flying from his boots. Thor closed in, blow after blow, Mjolnir hammering against the scepter, driving Loki back with every strike.

Loki gritted his teeth, his grin finally faltering as he found himself pressed to the very edge of the platform. He looked down briefly, at the swirling chaos below, then back at Thor — his eyes alight with fury and desperation now.

“This isn’t over,” he snarled.

“It ends,” Thor shot back, “now.”

And with a roar, he swung Mjolnir once more — sending Loki flying off his feet, crashing hard into the far railing.

Loki slumped for a moment, dazed, his armor cracked in places — but even then, even broken and cornered, he managed a low chuckle, his voice hoarse.

“You really are… predictable.”

Thor stalked toward him, Mjolnir still humming with lightning, his jaw set like stone.

Loki just raised his eyes, lips curling into one last wicked smile, and whispered:

“Come on, then, brother. Let’s finish this.”

And the storm raged on.

—

MIDTOWN MANHATTAN — 42ND STREET & 6TH AVENUE

The streets were chaos.

Civilians screamed as they ran, dodging overturned cars and falling glass. Smoke and fire rose from half a dozen nearby buildings, and the air was filled with the ear-splitting shriek of Chitauri hovercraft roaring past, their cannons cutting bright orange scars into the streets. Taxi doors swung open mid-block as their drivers abandoned them; mothers clutched their children and ducked behind whatever wreckage they could find.

Somewhere overhead, Iron Man streaked past in a blur of red and gold, firing into the sky at yet another wave of alien soldiers diving through the portal. His blasts lit up the avenue briefly — but the Chitauri kept coming, pouring through in endless numbers.

At the corner, tires screeched as two black-and-white NYPD cruisers swung into the intersection. Their sirens wailed uselessly against the din of war. The doors swung open and uniformed officers spilled out, some drawing sidearms, others staring upward in mute horror.

A hovercraft zipped overhead, strafing the street and blowing a yellow cab clean off its wheels. The cops ducked instinctively as debris clattered around them.

A grizzled Police Sergeant, his hat askew, shoved his door shut and stood with his hands on his hips, glaring up at the sky as though he could chew the invaders out of it if he just tried hard enough.

Beside him, a wide-eyed Young Cop, maybe mid-twenties, took off his cap and just gawked.

“Holy…” he whispered, voice lost somewhere between awe and terror.

The Sergeant spat on the sidewalk, scowling.

“That ain’t holy, kid. That’s something else.”

Another hovercraft roared low, its cannon sparking as it peppered the block. Shop windows shattered. Sparks danced across parked cars. The young cop ducked down behind the cruiser door and looked at his boss like he was insane.

“What the hell do we even do against that?” he shouted over the din, waving his hand at the carnage above. “We got nine-millimeter! That thing’s a goddamn spaceship!”

The Sergeant didn’t answer immediately. He just squinted into the smoke and fire, his jaw working.

Then, slow and deliberate, he drew his service revolver and checked the cylinder, spinning it with a click before snapping it shut.

“What we always do,” he said, voice low but steady. “We hold the line.”

The young cop blinked at him like he’d just declared war on the sun.

“You serious?”

The Sergeant shoved his cap back into place, nodded once, and stepped out from behind the car.

“Damn right I’m serious.” He raised his voice, turning on the other officers who were still taking cover. “Alright, boys! You heard me! Get the barricades up, get the civvies out of here! You see one’a those ugly bastards on the ground, you put it down. Move!”

The other cops exchanged nervous glances — then one by one, they straightened, drew their weapons, and started hauling orange barricades into place.

The young cop stayed crouched, staring after his sergeant for a beat longer before muttering under his breath:

“…gonna get us all killed, man…”

But he stood anyway, checked his sidearm, and followed him into the street.

Overhead, another leviathan roared as it slithered out of the portal, blotting out the sun as it descended toward the city.

And still, the New York cops held the line.

—

The sky above Manhattan was nothing short of hell on fire.

The blue beam from the Tesseract burned through the clouds, punching open the swirling portal from which the Chitauri poured in waves — sleek hovercrafts, shrieking fighters, even one of those armored sky-beasts that looked like a giant metal eel with teeth. The city below was a war zone, car alarms wailing beneath the chaos of falling debris, fires spreading street to street.

And slicing through the maelstrom, roaring like a predator in its prime, came the Marauder.

The black-and-gold corvette banked hard left, its engines screaming a brilliant orange as it wove between skyscrapers. On its bridge, Daphne Greengrass sat cross-legged in the co-pilot’s chair, her blonde hair pulled back into a loose braid that still managed to frame her cool, porcelain face. She twirled her wand idly between her fingers while her other hand adjusted the fire-control console like it was a game.

Beside her in the pilot’s chair, Riyo Chuchi’s slim hands moved with fast, elegant precision over the controls, her pale blue cheeks just faintly flushed as her eyes darted between readouts. Her blonde  hair, trailing over her shoulders swayed as she leaned into the throttle and pitched the corvette to avoid a falling hovercraft carcass. She was sweetness in a pilot’s seat, with nerves of steel.

Daphne tilted her head lazily, then pressed her comms.

“Stark, we’re on heading northeast. Looks like your little invasion party’s running a few minutes behind.”

Somewhere below, a flash of scarlet-and-gold armor weaved through the horde — Tony Stark, alive and snarking through it all. Alan Ritchson’s grin practically audible in his voice.

“Well, would you look at that,” Tony muttered to himself, eyeing the Marauder as it cut clean through the sky. “Wizard gets himself a flying fortress. Figures. Guy always gets the coolest toys.”

Another voice joined the line — rich, warm, and impossibly calm. Harry Potter.

“You’re literally wearing a flying suit of armor, Stark,” Harry said dryly. “Maybe sit this one out before you hurt yourself.”

Tony scoffed into his mic.

“Yeah, yeah, Merlin. But tell me — does it have cup holders? Don’t answer that.” He cut hard right, taking a few potshots at a pursuing squad. “Marauder, feel like joining the party? Swing by the park — I’m about to lay out a buffet.”

Riyo’s lips twitched faintly as she toggled the comms. “Copy that, Mr. Stark,” she said, her voice as soft and sugar-edged as it was cool and businesslike.

Daphne just smirked faintly and leaned back, murmuring,

“It’s adorable when he thinks he’s the main character.”

Below, Iron Man caught sight of Thor and Loki still clashing on Stark Tower’s platform — a godly lightshow of hammer and scepter. He boosted past, chuckling.

“Hey, don’t kill each other while I’m gone!” he called out, banking at an impossible angle that sent half the Chitauri tailing him crashing into each other.

The horde swarmed after him like angry bees — exactly what he wanted.

Behind him, the Marauder dove into the chase, engines screaming.

On the gunnery deck, Clint Barton sat at the primary cannon yoke, his fingers already twitching with anticipation. He leaned forward, his crooked grin spreading wide across his face.

“Alright, Red,” he called over his shoulder. “You’re on starboard. I’ll take port. Try not to ruin my high score.”

Natasha Romanoff, red hair pulled tight and eyes cool as ice, didn’t even look up as she powered up her station. “You’d have to set one first,” she replied flatly, her deadpan voice cutting through his bravado.

“Cute,” Clint muttered, grinning anyway. “Watch this.”

The Marauder’s forward double turbolasers spat blazing white fire into the sky. The first salvo ripped through three Chitauri riders in a single pass, disintegrating them into scrap and ash.

“Ho-lee hell,” Clint whooped. “This thing’s got kick!”

“Focus,” Natasha murmured, her own cannons lighting up as she neatly bisected a fighter that tried to slip past them.

Above them, Iron Man zipped back into their field of fire.

“Alright, kiddos,” Tony quipped over comms, looping above their line of fire to let the pursuing horde overcommit. “Line ’em up, knock ’em down. Mama’s hungry.”

The Marauder’s cannons roared again, fire raining down through the Chitauri ranks. One hovercraft exploded in a flash of blue fire; another clipped a building and spun out into the street below.

Daphne’s cool voice came over comms.

“You’re welcome, Stark.”

Tony chuckled, looping higher.

“Love you too, Ice Queen. Don’t chip a nail.”

Below, Clint punched another burst through a larger Chitauri squad and grinned wildly.

“Oh yeah,” he crowed. “I’m getting one of these when this is over. Just gonna park it in the driveway.”

“You can’t even parallel park,” Natasha deadpanned, her next shot splitting another alien craft into flaming pieces.

“Details!” Clint called back, adjusting for another volley.

Together, Iron Man and the Marauder swept through the chaos side by side — scarlet and gold and black and gold, slicing through the invasion like two blades. Smoke billowed in their wake. Below them, fires burned, but the skies…

For the first time all morning, the skies started to look like they might belong to Earth again.

—

The Marauder tore through the gray Manhattan sky like a blade, twin turbolasers shrieking as another squad of Chitauri ships erupted into burning shrapnel. The city below was fire and screams and ruin, but from up here… it was just another battlefield.

On the bridge, Riyo Chuchi leaned into the yoke with predatory precision, her hair swaying with the motion, blue eyes sharp and bright beneath her golden hair. Sabrina Carpenter sweetness had been replaced by cold command.

Harry Potter stood beside her, long black coat unbuttoned, emerald green eyes catching the light as he watched another Chitauri leviathan slither through the portal above the city. His jaw flexed.

“Riyo,” he said, his voice calm but with an edge. “You’re in charge here. Find me somewhere to drop the team. And make sure it’s a place we don’t get shot to pieces the second we step off.”

Riyo shot him a quick, sly little smile as her fingers danced over the throttle.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll find something. Try not to break too many buildings before I pick you back up.”

Harry’s lips curved in a faint smirk.

“Not making any promises.”

He pivoted and strode out, coat flaring.

“Everyone—cargo bay. Now,” he ordered, not raising his voice. He didn’t have to.

Boots thudded on the deck behind him as the rest followed: Daphne, icy and perfect, glancing at her nails as though this was just another evening at the Ministry; Susan, checking the charge on her wand-blade; Fleur, that radiant Margot Robbie grin sharpening with the rush of adrenaline, hair wild; Val, a golden-haired wolf with a predator’s gait; Dacey Mormont, tall and smirking with a faint growl of excitement under her breath; and Allyria Dayne, every step dangerous, dark curls wild and her gray-blue eyes glittering like knives.

Steve Rogers, broad-shouldered and steady, fell in behind them, his sharp jaw set, blue eyes wary but unflinching.

“Care to explain what exactly we’re walking into?” he called over the roar of the ship’s guns.

Harry didn’t even glance back. He just fished a small silver key from his pocket.

“We’re about to show Loki and his bugs what overkill really means.”

That earned him a quiet, skeptical grunt from Bruce Banner, trudging along at the rear. “Oh good,” Bruce muttered. “Because nothing about this has been overkill already.”

Natasha Romanoff only raised an eyebrow, her feline smirk hidden under her scarlet hair. Clint Barton muttered something about how he still hadn’t seen a quiver on board yet, but nobody listened.

The cargo bay doors hissed open, and the group stepped inside.

Aayla Secura and Shaak Ti were already at work, crouched over a massive metallic chamber set in the floor. Aayla’s amber eyes flicked up at Harry, Anya Chalotra’s smoky voice cutting through the noise.

“All systems are primed. Final unlock sequence underway.”

Shaak, sleek and deadly even in a jumpsuit, finished punching in the last string of commands, her British accent clipped and even.

“Whenever you’re ready, Commander.”

The chamber opened with a hiss of vapor, and the lights in the bay dimmed just slightly as something inside powered up.

It was a robot.

Burnished bronze plating, joints polished to a deadly gleam, its frame skeletal but somehow… imposing. Its clawed fingers flexed faintly, and its head—narrow and skull-like—lifted in a mechanical twitch.

Steve stopped in his tracks, staring up at it.

“That’s… a robot.”

Harry stepped forward, turning the key in the panel at its chest.

“That,” he corrected, “is HK-47.”

Bruce squinted. “And HK stands for…?”

“Hunter-Killer,” Harry replied, almost lazily.

The robot’s optics flared crimson. It straightened, joints whining, and a low, gleeful laugh issued from its voice modulator.

“Ahhhh. Master,” it purred in silky menace. “It has been too long since my servos were lubricated with the precious fluids of meatbags. Please… please tell me it is time.”

Clint tilted his head, arms crossed. “Okay, I’m officially creeped out.”

HK’s head swiveled unnaturally, red optics fixing on Clint.

“Observation: New meatbag. Archery-based. Likely inferior to blaster technology. Catalogued.”

Harry tapped his wrist, projecting a glowing hologram of the city skyline—the portal, the Chitauri swarming like ants. He pointed at the army.

“These. The Chitauri only. No civilians, no friendlies. Clear?”

HK’s optics brightened even further, almost hungry.

“Statement: Master. This veritable banquet of inferior organisms shall be reduced to steaming chunks of carbon. It is… delightful.”

Natasha arched an eyebrow. “You’re unleashing that on a city?”

Harry smirked, emerald eyes glinting as he clasped HK’s shoulder.

“Relax. HK only kills what I tell him to.”

Daphne, from the sidelines, added lightly, “Most of the time.”

Harry shot her a glare over his shoulder.

The comms crackled, Riyo’s calm voice breaking through.

“Landing zone locked. Cargo ramp in thirty seconds.”

Harry leaned in, speaking quietly to the droid.

“You heard her. Time to earn your keep.”

“Eager acknowledgment,” HK-47 hissed, claws flexing with a faint snikt. “Commencing meatbag extermination protocols. Ohhhh… so many meatbags. So little time…”

Clint looked at Natasha, then Steve.

“I think I liked it better when our toys just shot arrows.”

Bruce rubbed the back of his neck and mumbled, “This… will go great. Definitely.”

The ramp lights turned red as alarms chimed and the Marauder shuddered, thrusters kicking in for descent. HK stalked forward to stand beside Harry at the lip of the ramp, its claws flexing in anticipation as it murmured to itself:

“Ahhh… the meatbags will scream so sweetly…”

Harry just smiled faintly.

“Welcome to New York.”

And as the ramp lowered, firelight spilling up into the bay, they prepared to make Loki’s invasion a whole lot messier.

—

The Marauder banked hard over a rising column of smoke, Riyo Chuchi’s hands dancing across the controls with sharp precision. Her blue skin gleamed in the red light of the cockpit as she weaved the corvette between burning skyscrapers and weaving skiffs.

Below, the streets of Manhattan boiled in chaos—screams and sirens mixing with alien roars and the crack of blaster fire.

“Closest I can give you,” Riyo called back into the comms, her usually honey-smooth voice edged with wry humor as the ship bucked under enemy fire. “I can’t exactly land without carving a few more craters in your precious city, and you’ve already made enough of those.”

At the edge of the ramp, Harry just grinned, emerald eyes glinting, his long coat snapping in the wind.

“Don’t scratch my ship while we’re gone,” he called over his shoulder.

Riyo’s lips twitched as she fired back, sweet and dry.

“Your ship? Please. I fly her.”

“And I paid for her,” Harry shot back, already stepping into position.

“Jump!” Riyo barked, cutting through their bickering.

One by one, the team leapt into the chaos.

Fleur landed first, her blonde hair like a ribbon of gold as she rolled gracefully, wand in hand. “And zis, mes amis,” she murmured with a wicked little grin, “is where we dance.”

Val crashed down next, a thunderous impact that cracked the pavement beneath her boots. She rose like a Valkyrie, rolling her shoulders and already scanning for targets. “Let’s move. They won’t kill themselves.”

Dacey and Allyria dropped next, each moving like predators—Dacey’s dark braid swinging behind her, Allyria’s eyes like daggers as she unsheathed her twin knives.

Natasha and Clint followed, landing light and sharp, already syncing up without a word.

Bruce came last, thudding down in a crouch, his hands flexing as he straightened with a grimace. “Still not a fan of jumping out of perfectly good ships,” he muttered.

Harry, Steve and HK-47 landed together, the droid unfolding smoothly, claws flexing, optics already scanning as it murmured:

“Statement: Ah. The smell of burning meatbags in the morning.”

Above, the Marauder roared off into a wide circle, Riyo’s voice crackling over comms.

“Perimeter established. I’ll keep their skiffs contained. Try not to die before I come back for you.”

“Love you too,” Harry replied lazily, already striding ahead.

“Alright,” he called over his shoulder, voice dropping into that deadly calm. “Let’s clean up.”

They barely made it to the next intersection when a pack of Chitauri foot soldiers rounded the corner, their armor clattering, rifles up.

Steve instinctively stepped forward, shield raised. “On me—”

“Statement: Master, allow me,” HK interrupted coolly.

Then he was gone—nothing but copper and claws.

The first Chitauri barely had time to raise its weapon before HK was on it. He ripped the rifle out of its hands, spun it like a club, and crushed the alien’s head with a wet crack. The body crumpled like paper.

“Observation: Inferior skeletal structure. Noted.”

Two more charged him. HK ducked low, moving with unnerving fluidity, driving one claw through one’s chest plate while his other arm shot up to catch the second by the throat. He smashed them together, then flung them aside like broken toys.

“Amusement: Meatbags. So… delicate.”

One tried to flee down an alley, but HK’s optics flared. He raised one thin arm and fired a tight red bolt, blowing a hole clean through the alien’s back.

Fleur let out a soft gasp and muttered something sharp and very French.

Daphne only arched a perfect blonde brow and said,

“Well. That’s one way to make an entrance.”

Clint whistled low and shook his head. “Yeah… definitely afraid of their toys now.”

Val smirked faintly. “Then stay out of the way, archer.”

Steve lowered his shield slightly, watching the droid with a wary frown. “It doesn’t even hesitate…”

Harry passed him with a smirk. “That’s the point.”

The last two Chitauri rushed HK together. He sidestepped them both with mechanical grace, caught one in a chokehold, and drove his claws through its ribs while shoving the other face-first into the street. The sound of crunching metal and bone filled the air.

HK straightened, his red optics glowing, and turned back to Harry.

“Statement: Area cleared of active meatbags, master. Awaiting further slaughter directives.”

Harry clapped him on the shoulder as he passed.

“Good droid. Keep it up.”

“Satisfaction: Oh… I intend to.”

Bruce muttered, “We sure it’s on our side?”

Harry shot him a wolfish grin. “He’s on my side. That’s good enough.”

Above, the Marauder’s turbolasers ripped through another skiff. Over comms, Riyo’s voice came again, sweet but urgent.

“Perimeter’s holding, but streets ahead are looking thick. You might want to hurry it up.”

Harry rolled his neck, cracking it with a faint grin, and kept moving.

“Then let’s make this quick.”

Behind him, HK flexed his claws and murmured to himself with dark glee.

“Ah… so many meatbags. So little time.”

Natasha fell into step beside Harry, glancing back at the trail of broken Chitauri in HK’s wake. “You know,” she said dryly, “I think I like him.”

Harry just smirked faintly, emerald eyes hard as they fixed on the burning city ahead.

“He grows on you.”

And with the ground shaking beneath their feet and the sky still tearing itself apart above, the team advanced—an unstoppable force, with one homicidal droid already humming merrily about the carnage yet to come.

—

The team pounded up the shattered on-ramp, boots crunching glass and concrete as smoke curled skyward. Around them, the city burned. Stark Tower’s beam still tore through the clouds like a divine spear, and the hole in the sky only grew wider, vomiting yet another wave of Chitauri into the chaos below.

At the top of the ramp, they stopped. Even Harry, for a heartbeat, let his eyes narrow in awe.

It came through.

A Leviathan.

The massive, armored war-beast dropped through the rift with a roar that shook the steel bones of the city. Its jagged, metallic fins cracked open like a bird of prey’s wings as it glided down, crushing an entire rooftop with its bulk. Its hide shimmered with alien runes, its flanks bristling with gunports and warriors clinging to its armor like barnacles. Skiffs flitted around it like wasps around a predator.

Steve squared himself and muttered, his voice a low growl:

“We’ve gotta get back up there…”

The Chitauri responded to the beast’s arrival like ants to a signal, soldiers leaping from skiffs into windows, blasting civilians still trying to escape.

At Harry’s side, HK-47 tilted his head, his crimson optics fixed on the Leviathan’s monstrous silhouette. The sound of its guttural roar made the overpass quake underfoot.

“Query,” HK said, his voice as calm and chilling as ever, “master… shall I be adding that to my kill list?”

Harry’s emerald eyes glimmered as he smirked. “If you can bring it down, HK… be my guest.”

HK’s optics flared with something close to joy.

“Acknowledgment: Delightful. Commencing… creative targeting analysis.”

Steve raised his comm and keyed the Avengers frequency. His voice was clipped, commanding:

“Stark — you seeing this?”

Overhead, Iron Man streaked past, banking to keep the Leviathan in sight. His voice crackled through comms, full of wry disbelief.

“Seeing it, Cap. Still working on believing it. Banner’s there with you, right? Tell me the Big Guy’s ready to make his entrance.”

Steve glanced over his shoulder at Bruce, who stood a few paces back. His hands were clenching and unclenching, his breathing already heavier, his skin beginning to flush faintly green around the edges.

“Banner’s here,” Steve replied grimly.

Tony’s laugh was a short, sharp bark in his ear.

“Good. Keep me posted. Feels like we’re gonna need our secret weapon sooner rather than later.”

He boosted upward after the beast, engines roaring as his HUD painted the Leviathan in layers of red schematics.

“JARVIS,” Tony barked, his tone darker now, “find me a soft spot.”

“Analyzing structural weaknesses now, sir,” came JARVIS’s dry, perfectly polite reply.

Above, the Leviathan smashed through another office tower, sending glass and rebar tumbling in a deadly cascade.

On the ground, Val drew her sword in a hiss of steel, her long blonde braid snapping behind her as her blue eyes locked on the creature. “That thing’s not just for show,” she muttered.

Fleur stepped into place next to her, wand already raised. Her feral grin was at odds with her elegant features as her French accent cut through the din:

“Zen we should stop admiring it, no?”

Dacey crossed her arms, expression flat. “Anyone else get the feeling this day’s not done kicking us in the teeth?”

Allyria gave her a sidelong look, one dark brow arching. “And here I was hoping it’d get fun.”

HK’s head swiveled toward the women, his claws flexing with an audible snikt.

“Observation: Messy meatbags produce the most satisfying splatter patterns, mistresses. Requesting permission to engage the Leviathan directly.”

Harry clapped him on the shoulder as he passed, his smirk sharp.

“You’ve got the green light, HK. Just… try not to flatten the whole block while you’re at it.”

HK gave a mechanical chuckle that sent a shiver up Susan’s spine as she muttered to Daphne, “Is it… smiling?”

Daphne, her ice-blonde hair whipping in the wind, deadpanned: “If it is… I don’t want to know why.”

HK’s optics flared.

“Statement: I shall endeavor to contain my enthusiasm, master. No promises.”

Steve squared up, adjusting his shield, eyes on Iron Man as he arced up toward the creature, his voice dropping into that quiet, steady leadership tone.

“Eyes up. When Banner’s ready, we hit it hard and fast. No hesitation. Understood?”

“Oui,” Fleur said.

“Got it,” Clint muttered.

Natasha just murmured, “Always.”

Bruce exhaled through gritted teeth, his hands trembling now as his voice deepened faintly.

“Oh, I’m getting there…”

Dacey leaned in toward Daphne, voice pitched low. “If he hulks out before that thing lands on us, we’re calling that a win, right?”

Daphne’s lips curved ever so slightly. “Don’t jinx it.”

Above them, Iron Man locked his targeting systems on the Leviathan, muttering to himself, “Alright… you ugly son of a—”

“—let’s dance.”

And as his repulsors flared to full burn, and the Leviathan roared its challenge to the city below, HK’s claws flexed in giddy anticipation as he hissed under his breath:

“Oh yes… the hunt begins.”

The overpass shook as the team spread out, and the war for New York climbed to a whole new level of chaos.

—

The storm above roared like a wild beast uncaged.

Black clouds churned, forked lightning lashing through the heavens as if summoned by Thor’s own fury. Rain slicked the fractured rooftop in silver streaks, soaking the brothers as they grappled in the eye of their shared storm.

Thor had Loki pinned now, one massive hand gripping his brother’s tunic, the other clamped around the wrist still clutching that cursed scepter.

Below them, Manhattan writhed in flame and ruin — streets choked with smoke and ash, alien warships carving the skyline apart, screams rising from every corner. It was Midgard’s darkest hour. And still Loki smiled.

“Look at this!” Thor bellowed, shaking his brother violently, his voice booming louder than the thunder above. “Look around you, Loki! Is this what you wanted? Is this your glorious purpose?!”

Loki’s green eyes flicked lazily toward the burning city, then back to Thor, his mouth curling in a faint, mocking smirk.

“Glorious… isn’t it?” he murmured, his voice dripping venom.

Thor snarled, his rage barely contained as he wrenched Loki closer until their foreheads almost touched.

“You think this madness will end with your rule?” Thor demanded, his tone raw with hurt beneath the anger. His grip on the trickster’s lapel tightened as lightning crackled across the head of Mjolnir, still clenched in his other fist.

Loki’s smile widened, sharp as shattered glass.

“You still don’t see, do you?” he whispered. “It’s too late. Too late to stop it. The world bends now… and it bends to me.”

For the briefest moment, Thor’s eyes softened. His voice dropped, heavy with desperate conviction.

“No, brother. It doesn’t have to be this way. We can still stop it… together.”

That — for a heartbeat — gave Loki pause. His breath hitched, his gaze faltered. For an instant, the mask of arrogance cracked, and something old and broken shimmered behind his eyes.

But just as quickly, it was gone.

The grin returned, colder than before, and his voice turned to silk and steel.

“Together?” Loki echoed, almost sweetly.

Then his hand twitched.

Thor’s eyes went wide as cold steel slid between his ribs.

“Sentiment…” Loki hissed against his ear, twisting the blade.

Thor roared in pain, staggering back as the knife wrenched free. Lightning leapt from his shoulders, scorching the air. His knees buckled, but he didn’t fall — not yet.

By the time he looked up, Loki was already standing, scepter in one hand, dagger still slick in the other.

Thor tore the blade from his own side with a guttural growl, blood dark against the storm-soaked steel.

“Loki!”

Loki’s only reply was a mocking bow, low and theatrical, his grin cutting through the rain.

“Long live the king,” he murmured.

And then he was gone — spinning on his heel, cloak snapping behind him as he dashed for the edge of the roof.

“Stop!” Thor barked, lunging — but too late.

Loki leapt, cloak billowing, arms spread wide as though the air itself bowed to him. The wind caught him, spinning him gracefully as a Chitauri skiff swept beneath him in perfect synchrony.

He landed in a crouch on the hovering craft, hair plastered to his face, emerald eyes blazing.

The Chitauri surrounding him hissed and bared their weapons, flanking their master as the skiff banked away from Stark Tower.

Loki straightened slowly, turning to face Thor still silhouetted against the lightning-struck tower.

He raised one hand in a lazy little wave, his grin cruel and triumphant.

“You’re welcome to try, brother!” he called through the storm, his voice carrying despite the howl of wind and fire.

And then he laughed — a rich, manic laugh that echoed off the ruins of Midtown as the skiff carried him back into the chaos, the alien horde closing ranks around him like wolves around a black king.

Thor stood at the edge of the rooftop, chest heaving, blood and rain running down his side, watching Loki disappear into the smoke and ruin he’d made.

He gritted his teeth, fingers curling so tight around Mjolnir’s handle that lightning sparked between his knuckles.

The storm above seemed to growl with him, thunder rolling as though the very skies shared his rage.

“So be it,” Thor muttered darkly, his jaw set, his eyes blazing as he lifted Mjolnir high.

The hammer began to glow with white-hot light, arcs of power snapping and hissing in the air around him.

The god of thunder stepped forward, ready to bring down the fury of Asgard upon his wayward brother.

And the storm roared its approval.

The city screamed.

Sirens wailed beneath the howling shriek of Chitauri skiffs tearing the sky to ribbons. Fires licked upward from shattered windows, casting the overpass in a hellish orange glow.

On the cracked asphalt, a battered yellow taxi cab served as the team’s barricade. Behind it, Clint Barton crouched low, drawing another arrow from his quiver with a wolfish grin and a glint in his eye. Beside him, Natasha Romanoff was already up on one knee, twin pistols cracking with cold precision. Her face, framed by red hair and framed by smoke, was a mask of calm focus.

On either side of the cab, Val and Allyria moved like wolves on a hunt — swords flashing silver as they darted between cover and struck down anything that dared get close. Dacey flanked the rear, her heavy iron mace already slick with ichor as she swung it with satisfying, skull-crushing weight.

And crouched just behind Clint, Bruce Banner pressed his hands into the pavement, his breathing rough, controlled… but only just. There was already a faint, unsettling green shimmer to his eyes.

The cab shuddered as another blast from above rattled it.

And then, with a metallic clank of boots against the concrete, Steve Rogers vaulted into view.

“Status?” he barked as he dropped behind the cab.

Clint didn’t even glance up as he notched his next shot. “We’ve got civilians pinned on that bus,” he said, jerking his chin toward a smoking vehicle halfway down the block. His tone was dry, but there was a sharp edge of urgency to it.

Steve’s bright blue eyes darted across the chaos — a Japanese family sprinting for their lives as a skiff strafed the street behind them, the twisted wreck of a Dr. Pepper truck still hissing steam, and further down, the unmistakable green silhouette of Loki atop his Chitauri craft, cloak snapping in the wind like some royal banner of conquest.

Steve’s jaw clenched. “Loki…” he muttered under his breath.

The trickster god and his escort of skiffs dove low, peppering the avenue with plasma fire. Cars and storefronts exploded as civilians and NYPD officers scrambled for cover. A young patrolman and his sergeant braced themselves behind a burned-out cruiser, shouting orders, trying to form some kind of line against the unstoppable tide.

Behind the cab, Natasha suddenly stood, her black silhouette framed by firelight, pistols blazing as she dropped two Chitauri mid-charge before ducking back down with a faint smirk.

“We’ve got this,” she said flatly. Her green eyes met Steve’s without a hint of fear. “It’s good. Go.”

Steve looked between them — between Clint’s wolfish grin and Natasha’s deadly calm — and raised his shield slightly.

“You sure you can hold them?”

Clint finally looked up from his bow, his grin widening just a little.

“Captain,” he said, drawing his arrow to full extension, “it would be my genuine pleasure.”

With a twang, the arrow shot forward, embedding itself in a Chitauri’s skull before splitting midair into three, each razor-tipped shard burying itself in another soldier.

Val and Allyria were already moving — Val’s sword hacking through an armored chest plate with brutal efficiency, Allyria’s blade darting in and out like silver lightning. Dacey followed, her mace whistling through the air and crushing a soldier straight through the hood of an abandoned car.

Behind them, Bruce hunched lower, his knuckles white. His breathing was faster now. His hands trembled as green began to pulse faintly beneath the skin.

Steve gave them all one last, approving nod. Then he vaulted the barricade, his boots slamming down on the roof of a crushed city bus before rolling off the other side, shield raised, charging straight into the fray.

“Clear that bus!” he called back.

“On it,” Clint muttered, already moving with Natasha in seamless tandem. The two of them slipped through the battlefield like a pair of ghosts — Clint firing with mechanical precision, Natasha weaving between cover and dropping Chitauri one by one, each bullet finding its mark.

As they moved, Natasha smirked faintly. Her voice was cool but edged with nostalgia.

“Just like Budapest all over again,” she murmured, reloading one of her pistols with a satisfying click.

Clint snorted as he fired another arrow, watching it split midair and take down three more enemies.

“You and I,” he said, deadpan, “remember Budapest very differently.”

They both ducked as another skiff roared overhead, plasma scorching the pavement where they’d just been standing.

Behind them, the street lit up.

On the far side of the block, Harry Potter — emerald eyes glowing like fire — raised both hands, his palms sparking with raw, wandless magic. The air around him shimmered as a shimmering barrier of golden light flared up, blocking another Chitauri barrage from cutting down a line of fleeing civilians. Fleur stood at his side, her wand flashing as arcs of silver-blue frost carved through three more soldiers.

“Fleur!” Harry shouted through the noise, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Left flank!”

“Oui!” she called back, her French accent curling like velvet around the word as she pivoted and unleashed another deadly sheet of ice.

Further down, Daphne and Susan wove their own shields over another family huddled in a doorway, striking down enemies with precise, brutal hexes whenever they drew too close.

And beyond them, Shaak Ti and Aayla Secura were already in the Chitauri ranks, their lightsabers slashing arcs of green and blue through the smoke, each step cutting down another alien.

Through it all, HK-47 stalked like a copper nightmare — claws dripping ichor, optics glowing. His laughter carried over the roar of battle, disturbingly cheerful.

“Statement: This… is delightful!” he crowed, tearing another soldier’s head clean off. “Request: More meatbags, please.”

Val, wiping her blade on her thigh, shot him a dry look.

“Don’t get greedy, droid.”

“Observation: Greed is merely ambition in its finest form, mistress,” HK replied, crouching to rip another Chitauri’s rifle from its hands and use it to bash its skull in.

And still the battle raged.

On this one block — at least for now — Earth was hitting back.

—

The street was a warzone.

Car horns blared endlessly, glass crunched underfoot, and the acrid smell of ozone and burning fuel hung heavy in the air. Overhead, a Chitauri skiff screamed through the smoke, strafing the ground with plasma fire and sending civilians scrambling for cover.

And then—cutting through the bedlam like a force of nature—came Captain America.

Steve Rogers ran full tilt down the middle of the street, his boots hammering the cracked asphalt, his shield raised to deflect the occasional blast. He vaulted onto the hood of a half-crushed taxi, then leapt clean over another car, hitting the ground in a crouch and springing back up without missing a beat.

Ahead, two NYPD officers were pinned behind their cruiser, exchanging desperate shots with Chitauri on a nearby rooftop.

The younger cop cursed as another bolt blew apart a mailbox near his head, sending letters fluttering like dying birds.

“It’s gonna be an hour before they even scramble the National Guard!” he shouted to his partner, voice cracking.

The sergeant—older, broad-shouldered, salt-and-pepper hair—just shook his head, ducking low as another blast shredded the asphalt beside them.

“National Guard?!” he barked back, voice equal parts anger and disbelief. “Hell, does the army even know what the hell’s happening here?! Do we?!”

They never saw the shadow until it landed.

THUNK.

Steve dropped from above, landing square on the hood of the car in front of them, the shield gleaming even under layers of soot. The cops froze mid-breath as he straightened to his full height, blue eyes sweeping the chaos around them.

“Alright,” Steve said evenly, his voice carrying over the din, sharp but not harsh. “You’ve got civilians in these buildings. People still inside who could run right into the line of fire.”

He gestured sharply toward the nearest cross-street.

“Get them down. Basements, subway tunnels, anywhere underground. Keep them off the streets.”

The young cop just gawked at him, while the sergeant narrowed his eyes, still crouched low.

“I need a perimeter,” Steve continued, already turning his head, scanning for the next hotspot. “Far back as Thirty-Ninth Street. If they try to break through here, you stop them. Everyone who can hold a weapon holds it here. Got it?”

The sergeant finally found his voice, though it was edged with disbelief.

“And why the hell,” he demanded, standing up straighter, “should I take orders from you?”

Steve didn’t even flinch.

At that exact moment, a guttural hiss sounded from behind, and two Chitauri dropped from a skiff, landing hard and already raising their weapons.

Steve was on them before either cop could blink.

He surged forward in a blur of motion, smashing his shield into the first Chitauri’s chest so hard it crumpled like a tin can, ricocheted it into the hood of a delivery truck, then spun low, hooking the second’s legs out from under it. It crashed to the ground, snarling, and Steve drove his knee into its throat before standing, shield raised.

Both creatures lay twitching on the pavement as Steve straightened, calm as if nothing had happened.

He glanced back at the sergeant and tipped his head slightly.

“That good enough for you?”

The younger cop’s jaw dropped. The sergeant just blinked, then barked a short laugh under his breath and grabbed his radio.

“You heard the man!” he shouted to his squad, snapping back into command. “We need men in those buildings, clear out the civilians! Lead ‘em down, keep ‘em off the streets!”

He pointed toward the next corner.

“And set up a perimeter! All the way to Thirty-Ninth! Move it, move it!”

The young cop shot Steve one last awestruck glance before running to join the others.

Steve gave a small, satisfied nod, adjusted his grip on the shield, and took off at a run again, disappearing into the smoke and fire, already moving toward the next fight.

Behind him, the sergeant muttered to nobody in particular as he pressed his radio to his mouth again:

“…Who is that guy…?”

And thunder rumbled faintly over the skyline in reply.

—

The air was a choking soup of smoke, ash, and heat as Iron Man banked hard over the jagged skyline. The world below him was on fire — cars burning in the streets, civilians scattering like startled ants, Chitauri skiffs streaking overhead like locusts.

Inside the helmet, Tony Stark’s eyes flicked between HUD readouts, red blips blooming on the display like angry hornets.

“Alright, let’s see…” he muttered to himself, fingers flexing as the suit hummed in response. “Six… no, seven… nope. Eight bogeys. Okay, that’s adorable. Nothing I can’t—”

And then he saw it.

The big one.

His voice caught for half a beat as his eyes went wide.

“…Ohhh, mama.”

The Leviathan emerged from the portal in the sky like some ancient, armored god, its massive, serpentine form coiling through the air. Its hide was plated in black and cobalt, lined with jagged spines and faintly glowing glyphs of alien design. Its head alone was bigger than most city buses, serrated tusks flaring as it roared loud enough to rattle the glass in nearby skyscrapers.

Tony hovered for a moment on thrusters, staring.

“You are… a very big fish,” he said under his breath, his mouth curling into a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

JARVIS chimed into the helmet, voice dry and perfectly calm.

“Sir, you appear to have attracted its attention.”

Tony’s grin sharpened.

“That’s the idea, J. Big fish bites bait, big fish chokes on shiny metal man. Everybody wins.”

He raised his gauntlets, locking on.

“Showtime.”

Twin shoulder cannons folded forward and opened fire, spitting a blinding stream of armor-piercing rounds that stitched across the Leviathan’s plated skull. Sparks and scales flew.

The creature shrieked — a guttural, metallic bellow — and swung toward him, six burning eyes narrowing.

“Oh, yeah,” Tony murmured, watching the beast pivot in midair. “We got its attention. That’s good. Attention’s good. That was…”

The creature’s wings snapped wide as it lunged forward, faster than anything its size had a right to be.

“…that was definitely the plan,” Tony finished weakly as warning tones blared in his ear.

The Leviathan plowed through a pair of office buildings as it accelerated, glass exploding outward, steel beams crumpling as the skyscrapers groaned and leaned.

“Okay!” Tony barked into comms, his voice pitching up as the creature gained on him. “Okay, well, we got its attention!”

He broke into a dive, thrusters screaming, zig-zagging between towers as the beast’s sheer bulk tore a deadly path behind him.

JARVIS spoke up, maddeningly calm.

“Might I inquire, sir… what exactly is step two?”

“Step two?” Tony shot back, weaving past a skiff so close he could see the pilot’s snarl before the craft exploded behind him. “Yeah, funny story about that, J…”

“Sir, I await with bated breath.”

“…working on it!”

The Leviathan roared and lashed out with a wing, missing his suit by mere feet as Tony corkscrewed through a narrow gap between two towers.

“You know what they say,” Tony muttered under his breath, eyes darting between his trajectory and the monster’s shadow looming over him. “If you can’t impress them with brilliance…”

“…then dazzle them with reckless endangerment?”

Tony grinned behind the faceplate.

“Bingo.”

He spun into another dive, repulsors flaring brighter as he streaked through the canyons of midtown with the Leviathan barreling after him — a deadly wall of teeth and steel and rage.

Below, the people of New York could only watch as a streak of gold and red danced ahead of the monster tearing their city apart.

The chase was on.

And if Tony Stark didn’t have step two yet…

Well, he’d improvise.

He always improvised.

—

The street was a furnace of fire and steel. Smoke belched from burning wrecks, storefronts shattered from the shockwaves, sirens wailed in the distance — and the air was thick with the acrid stench of ozone and Chitauri ichor.

But the fight never stopped.

Not for them.

Clint Barton was already moving before the next skiff screamed overhead. He tripped a Chitauri with a sharp sweep of his bow, planting a foot on its chest and driving an arrow into its throat. It shrieked, claws scrabbling at him before going limp.

“Stay down, ugly,” Clint muttered, already pivoting, drawing another arrow.

A few feet away, Natasha Romanoff straddled another Chitauri’s neck, her Widow’s Bite sizzling and sparking as she jammed it into the side of its skull. The creature convulsed once beneath her and collapsed. Natasha rolled lithely to her feet, swept her crimson hair out of her face, and snatched up its jagged rifle.

“You’re welcome,” she purred to no one in particular, and unloaded a burst into the next wave.

Behind them came Bruce Banner, hunched forward in his black bodysuit, clutching a stolen Chitauri rifle like it might explode in his hands. His breath came measured, deliberate — but his eyes glowed faintly green now, his control fraying with every passing second.

Ahead, Val cut through the horde like a golden storm. She spun on the balls of her feet, twin swords flashing as she cleaved two warriors at once, her voice rising in a battle cry as her blonde braid whipped around her shoulders.

Allyria, dark and dangerous, fought with a quieter, more predatory grace — every movement precise, every strike calculated. Her blade buried itself in a warrior’s neck, and she wrenched it free without even blinking, her blue eyes cold as ice.

And then there was Dacey. Dacey was a force of nature — a hammer in a sea of scalpels. Her mace smashed another Chitauri into a wrecked taxi, leaving a dent the size of its ribcage as she roared:

“WHO’S NEXT?!”

Further back, Shaak Ti and Aayla Secura held the rear. Their twin lightsabers carved through the smoke in arcs of blue and green, each strike sizzling and sparking as it met alien steel.

And HK-47—oh, HK-47—just laughed. His copper frame glinted in the chaos as his claw punched clean through a warrior’s chest and he fired his blaster into another’s face.

“Statement: Organic combatants remain every bit as fragile and amusing as I recall! Delightful.”

To their left and right, magic flashed — brilliant and defiant. Harry Potter moved through the chaos like a green-eyed juggernaut, cloak whipping behind him as his emerald gaze swept the battlefield. With a flick of his wandless hand, a skiff was hurled sideways into a building.

“You lot really don’t learn, do you?” he muttered, his grin flashing briefly before he shielded another cluster of fleeing civilians with a shimmering wall of light.

Beside him, Fleur Delacour was elegance and fire — her blonde hair wild, her French accent biting as she dispatched two Chitauri with a burst of blue fire.

“Zut alors,” she hissed, ducking under a blade. “Do none of you ‘ave manners?”

Daphne moved more deliberately — cold, calculating precision as she transfigured debris into spears and sent them sailing into the horde, her blonde hair streaked with soot. And Susan Bones stood firm, red hair flaming in the light as she shielded children behind her and fired off stunning spells with deadly accuracy.

Clint slammed another warrior to the ground, his bow striking hard enough to crack its helm, then loosed an arrow without even looking.

Natasha was already swarmed by three more — her rifle barked once into the first’s chest before she spun, stabbed the next in the throat, and back-kicked the third square in the knee.

“You’re getting sloppy,” Clint called over, even as he got slammed against the hood of a car.

“Watch your mouth, Barton,” Natasha growled, gutting another warrior and cracking the next over the head.

Clint was tackled hard to the asphalt by another one. He groaned, twisting and driving his arrow into its neck before throwing it off him. Another caught him off guard and slammed his head into the roof of a cab.

Natasha caught sight of him just as she was backed onto another taxi, two warriors pressing her. One tore the rifle from her hands and threw her flat on her back with a hard thud. She screamed, pain blooming in her ribs — but her eyes stayed sharp.

“Nat—!” Clint shouted, even as another warrior bore down on him.

“I’ve got it,” she hissed back, breathless.

She surged back up, kicking one warrior’s knee out and tearing her rifle free as Clint slid across the street on his side, loosing another arrow and taking two more down.

The two of them came back-to-back in the middle of the chaos, gasping, bruised, bleeding — but still swinging.

The circle was closing now. Val and Allyria cut their way toward them, their swords flashing; Dacey’s mace smashed through two more, but even she was slowing now, her breath ragged.

And then the air shifted.

Steve Rogers charged back into the fray, his silhouette cutting through the smoke like a blade. His shield slammed into one warrior’s face, ricocheted into another’s chest, and came spinning back into his hand. His voice was low, but it carried:

“Nobody falls here. Not today.”

Clint groaned as Steve hauled him back to his feet, and Natasha gave a faint, sardonic smile as Steve planted himself between them and the horde, shield raised.

“Took you long enough,” Natasha drawled, firing a burst into the crowd.

Steve just smirked faintly.

And then the heavens split.

A blinding bolt of lightning crashed down in the middle of the street, lighting the wreckage blue-white. Chitauri screamed and scattered as the air boomed.

And when the light faded, Thor stood there, cape snapping in the wind, Mjolnir crackling with stormlight in his fist.

“MIDGARDIANS!” he bellowed, his deep voice carrying above the chaos. “HOLD THE LINE!”

Another bolt. Another clap of thunder. The street shook as the ranks of Chitauri faltered, stunned by the sheer fury of the storm god.

Natasha slid a fresh clip into her pistol. Clint straightened, his bow already notched again. Harry raised a hand, magic flaring bright in his palm.

The team re-formed in the center of the burning street — shoulder to shoulder, weapons raised, eyes blazing.

The fight wasn’t over.

But neither were they.

—

The battle lulled — but only slightly. Sirens wailed through the smoke as the air filled with heat and ozone, and debris still fell from the fractured skyline. Fires burned high in every direction, but for the first time in what felt like hours, the team found themselves back in formation, shoulder-to-shoulder.

Steve Rogers planted his shield into the pavement, the clang echoing like a war drum as he scanned the ruins with those flinty blue eyes. His jaw was set tight, his voice even tighter when he raised it over the comms.

“What’s the story upstairs?”

Thor strode forward through the haze like a god should, Mjolnir already alive with electricity, his long blond hair catching the light. He sniffed disdainfully at the sky as another ripple of energy shimmered above the tower.

“The power surrounding the cube,” Thor intoned, “is impenetrable.”

Tony’s voice crackled through their earpieces next — casual as ever, but with just enough clipped urgency to tell them he was working on borrowed seconds.

“Yeah, Goldilocks is right,” he drawled. “We gotta deal with the bugs crawling all over your streets first. Not a fan of the infestation vibe. Very ‘New York slumlord chic.’”

Natasha holstered one of her pistols and glanced around at the horde gathering in the periphery, already rearming themselves. Her hair was dark with sweat and ash, but her smirk was cool as a knife’s edge.

“And… how exactly do we do this?” she asked, dry as cracked earth.

Steve stood straighter, his shoulders squaring. He glanced around the circle of battered, bloody, unbowed teammates and said it simply — with a certainty that left no room for argument.

“As a team.”

Harry leaned lazily against a half-crushed taxi, one knee bent, arms folded. His emerald green eyes glinted from beneath a few dark strands of soot-streaked hair as he chuckled softly.

“Way to point out the obvious, Cap,” he said, his voice smooth, deep, almost amused. “Next you’ll tell us to breathe.”

Thor’s nostrils flared, and a wolfish grin spread across his face.

“I have… unfinished business with Loki,” he said, his voice low, dangerous.

Barton notched another arrow without even looking up, his mouth tugging into a humorless smirk.

“Oh yeah? Get in line.”

Daphne twirled her wand lazily between two fingers, blonde hair streaked with soot and glowing faintly gold in the firelight. She didn’t even glance up as she added, her tone droll:

“I’ve heard it’s a long one.”

Steve cut through the chatter with a sharp gesture.

“Save it. Loki’s gonna keep this fight focused on us — and that’s exactly what we need. Without him at the center, these things run wild. Stark’s up top. He’s gonna need us to—”

He stopped mid-sentence. His gaze slid past Clint, catching sight of Banner — still in his black bodysuit, calmly discharging two Chitauri rifles with surgical precision, each shot sending another alien tumbling into the rubble.

HK-47 stood next to him, his copper plating streaked with gore and his claws dripping. The droid hummed almost cheerfully as he drove one claw into a warrior’s throat and shot another clean through the chest.

Thor’s eyes widened just slightly at the sight of him.

“By Odin,” he murmured under his breath. “I am… glad he fights on our side.”

HK’s glowing photoreceptors swiveled toward him.

“Observation: Flattery will get you nowhere, Odinson. Though your endorsement of my efficiency is… noted. Commendable carnage always deserves applause.”

A few of them chuckled despite themselves, and even Steve’s mouth threatened a faint smile.

Banner surveyed the wreckage around them and finally muttered, more to himself than anyone:

“So… this all seems horrible.”

Natasha didn’t even glance at him, her mouth quirking faintly.

“I’ve seen worse.”

“Sorry,” Banner said flatly.

“Don’t be,” Natasha shot back. “We could… use a little worse.”

Fleur, idly spinning her wand, gave a musical laugh, her French accent curling through the air.

“Ah… amen to zat,” she murmured, her blue eyes sparkling despite the grime.

Steve pressed his hand to his earpiece.

“Stark. Where are we on taking down the Leviathan?”

HK suddenly straightened, claws flexing with an audible scrape.

“Query: When, exactly, am I authorized to dismantle that insufferable slab of armor-plated meat? Clarification: My trigger finger grows… restless.”

“Soon,” Steve promised, his mouth twitching faintly.

Tony’s voice came back over comms, smooth and sardonic.

“Banner in play yet?”

Steve glanced at Bruce — who gave a faint, grim nod.

“Just like you said,” Steve confirmed.

“Good,” Tony replied. “Then tell him to suit up. I’m bringing the party to you.”

They didn’t even need to look. The roar of repulsors and the sound of screaming metal announced Tony’s arrival — and his problem.

Around the corner came Iron Man at full burn, pursued by a Leviathan the size of a city block.

“And by party,” Tony added dryly, “I mean nightmare alien caterpillar. I’ll be sure to save you a dance, Rogers.”

Natasha stared at the thing bearing down on them.

“I… don’t see how that’s a party,” she deadpanned.

Susan tucked a loose strand of fiery red hair behind her ear, smirking faintly.

“Depends on your definition of party.”

The Leviathan roared and dropped lower, its wings shredding air, its tusked head swinging toward them.

Bruce inhaled slowly… and began walking forward.

Steve called after him, voice calm but urgent.

“Doctor Banner. Now might be a really good time for you to get angry.”

Bruce paused, turned his head just slightly, and smiled faintly.

“That’s my secret, Cap,” he said softly. “I’m always angry.”

And then he exploded — the bodysuit stretching and tearing as the Hulk surged forward in all his green, furious glory.

He met the Leviathan head-on, slamming his massive fist into its jaw and sending it crashing into the street with a deafening impact.

“Hold on!” Tony barked, circling back.

Iron Man fired a salvo of micro-missiles into the creature’s flank. On the ground, HK raised his blaster and fired in perfect rhythm.

“Commentary: Ahhh, yes. That’s the good stuff.”

The Leviathan screeched, staggered — and then Harry stepped forward. His emerald eyes blazed as he raised his palm, magic swirling around him like a storm.

“Bombarda Maxima,” he intoned, his voice low, dangerous.

The spell struck the creature dead center — and vaporized it in a flash of red-gold brilliance. The ground shook. The Chitauri screamed in confusion and fear as their behemoth disintegrated into ash.

When the dust settled, the team stood together in a circle at the heart of the wreckage.

Hulk roared, baring his teeth.

Hawkeye raised his bow, arrow drawn.

Thor spun Mjolnir, lightning crackling.

Black Widow loaded another clip, her smile razor-thin.

Harry stood in the center, his black-and-crimson armor glowing with magic.

Daphne, Susan, and Fleur flanked him, wands raised.

Shaak and Aayla ignited their lightsabers, their blades hissing.

Val and Allyria crossed their swords, deadly and unflinching.

Dacey hefted her mace over her shoulder, her smirk promising pain.

Steve straightened, raising his shield, eyes blazing with resolve.

Iron Man dropped to the ground beside Hulk with a metallic thunk.

Above them, the Marauder swept into position, Riyo’s bright voice chiming over the comms.

“Hope you boys left me something to shoot,” she teased.

And up on a crumbling ledge, Loki watched them — his smile faltering, his eyes narrowing as he finally seemed to realize… he might have underestimated this team.

For the first time, the trickster god looked… unsure.

—

The circle of heroes held, weapons at the ready, eyes skyward. Overhead, the portal flared brighter — like a second sun tearing through the clouds — and Loki’s smug baritone floated down from his perch on a crumbling ledge.

“Send the rest.”

And then the sky darkened.

Another Leviathan slid through, then another, and another — massive armored behemoths slithering between skyscrapers, their roars rattling the windows. Hundreds — no, thousands — of Chitauri warriors followed in their wake, ships blotting out what little light remained.

Natasha’s pistols lowered an inch as she stared upward, her voice flat.

“Guys…?”

The comms crackled, Tony’s voice cutting in with perfect timing, dry as desert sand.

“Call it, Captain.”

Steve exhaled, shoulders squaring, and planted his shield against the cracked asphalt like a battle flag. His voice cut through the roar of engines and war cries, crisp and unyielding.

“Alright. Listen up!”

They all turned to him — eyes sharp, hands flexing around steel, wood, hilts, wands, and glowing blades.

“Until we shut that portal,” Steve barked, “our job is containment. Keep them here. Keep them off civilians. Fight smart. Fight as a unit.”

He jabbed a finger at Clint.

“Barton — up high. Eyes on everything. You see a pattern, you call it. You see a stray, you kill it. Every damn one.”

Clint gave a crooked grin, stringing his bow as he glanced at Tony.

“Wanna give me a lift?”

Tony’s visor gleamed as he smirked under the faceplate.

“Right. Better clench up, Legolas.”

And with that, Tony wrapped an arm under Clint’s ribs and rocketed skyward, the archer already nocking an arrow before his boots even left the ground.

Steve’s gaze moved to Thor next, who was already rolling his shoulders and twirling Mjolnir lazily, sparks crackling in the haze.

“Thor — bottleneck the portal. Slow them down. You’ve got the lightning — light them up.”

Thor’s answering grin was positively wolfish.

“With pleasure.”

He launched himself skyward in a boom of thunder, his laughter mingling with the peal of the storm.

Steve’s eyes found Harry next — black bodysuit, gold-and-crimson armor plating, and a faint shimmer of raw magic already crawling over his fingers. He stood calm as ever, emerald eyes locked on the portal above.

“Potter,” Steve ordered. “You’re our power play. Stay center. If a Leviathan breaches the line — you vaporize it.”

Harry’s lips quirked into an infuriatingly calm grin, his deep voice even.

“Don’t worry, Cap,” he said. “I was planning on showing off anyway.”

Steve allowed himself the faintest of smiles and moved on to Shaak and Aayla — who stood on opposite ends of the circle, their lightsabers casting twin glows in the dark.

“Shaak. Aayla. Flanks. Nothing circles behind us. If it tries, cut it down.”

Shaak’s dark gaze didn’t flinch.

“As you wish.”

Aayla tilted her head, lips curving into a dangerous smile.

“Let’s make this interesting.”

Next, his eyes fell on Val and Allyria — both crouched slightly, swords at the ready, their hair already wild from the wind.

“Val. Allyria — sweep the streets. Every civilian gets out alive. If they can’t run, you run for them.”

Val cracked her neck and let out a sharp little laugh.

“That’s my kind of order.”

Allyria just smirked faintly, her voice low and smoky.

“You really do know how to charm a girl, Captain.”

Steve ignored the jab and swung his attention to Dacey, her mace resting across her shoulders like it weighed nothing.

“Dacey — hold the line. Nobody gets past you.”