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Agatha's heels clicked on the concrete floor, the lack of an echo thanks to her punching holes into the little 'secret base' they had. She stepped over bullet holes, wandered around the craters in the ground sizzling with dark magic, and kicked aside several corpses.
They thought that they could keep the pages of the Darkhold from her. They'd tried to construct some energy barrier around it to interfere with the magic output from the cursed papers. Clearly, it hadn't worked. Scientists are no magicians or sorcerers; they should stick to their own field of study.
Hell, she'd even tried to be polite. Agatha asked for the pages nicely—after kicking in their door—and they'd tried to fill her with lead! It was rather rude, all things considered. And amusing. What idiots tried to fend off a practitioner of the Dark Arts with bullets? Clearly, they didn't want to live much longer.
Agatha reached toward the pages of the Darkhold. She could hear their whispers encouraging her closer, to take them. To use them. The sound was familiar, almost comforting in a way, that let her know she was on the right path.
A terrified, horrific, wail sounded out from behind her, interrupting her. She narrowed her eyes, and turned, an annoyed huff slipping out of her. The screams continued. Cries of "Help me please!" or "Kill me!" or "Tell my dying daughter that I love her!" escaped the dying man. Terribly annoying things, really.
"Señor Scratchy," Agatha chided. "Come now, you know better. It's rude to eat when they're still alive. You're supposed to start with the head."
Her little white rabbit, Señor Scratchy, was not so little at the moment. A simple spell increased his size to that of a horse, apparently with an appetite to match. His meal? One of the men she'd passed off as dead. Apparently she'd missed one, and he survived having his arms melted off. Props to him, really, it was impressive.
The man thrashed and wailed unable to defend himself, forced to endure the flat teeth of the rabbit digging in and crushing his bones with sickening crunches. All he could do was curl and twist his torso around, slowly being pulled into the jaws of the rabbit with each bite.
Kind of like an adorable wood chipper.
It was both sickeningly cute and horrific.
Agatha raised her hands, palms facing the man, and closed her hands as if she was gripping something. Purple smoke oozed from between her fingers, dark magic obeying her will. With one hand remaining still, the other twisted to the side. A disgusting series of cracks sounded out, the mans body spinning around several times—once at his waist, another below his shoulders, and a final rotation at his neck.
Now that the man had more in common with a Twizzler than his formerly living coworkers, Agatha let the bunny eat in peace. Either the man was already dead, or he couldn't feel anything and would die of blood loss in moments anyway.
Really, she was too kind. If she hadn't raided their research facility someone else would have. Someone much worse, probably. Someone who would have toyed with them and given them hope that they could have lived, only to snuff out their lives moments from safety. But her? She didn't enjoy senseless violence, murder, or torture. Well… Maybe that last one if the person really deserved it.
These people did though. Their lives were forfeit when they decided to shoot at her, which, again, was incredibly rude. Not that she was surprised they were rude—their base felt a little too cultish for her tastes. The matching uniforms, bleak decorations, matching symbols, and the concerning willingness to throw themselves at her until they'd all perished.
Cults rarely had manners. They were all about "summoning demons" or "it's just one blood sacrifice what's the big deal?" and getting really stabby or shooty with anyone else. Honestly, if they practiced a little extra hygiene and didn't go straight for killing people, they'd have a much better reputation. But no, it's the crazies that make it weird to be in a cult nowadays.
Agatha glanced up at the shattered remains of the wall, her dark magic still sizzling away, eating at the material. Unfortunately, it was difficult to tell what the symbol was. She may have rendered the wall more holey than Swiss cheese. Good thing that wasn't the only symbol because these people seemed to be all for team uniforms.
Agatha glanced at one of the bodies and crooked a finger, causing one of the patches to tear off and fly toward her. She gazed at the floating symbol and narrowed her eyes. Something about it was chillingly familiar and tickled at the back of her mind.
It was a skull, sitting atop six tentacles.
HYDRA.
Suddenly, any remorse that Agatha may have harboured for killing these people evaporated—almost as fast as her mind was whiplashed seventy-some-odd years into the past. Not that she felt bad anyway. People hiding out in shacks in the middle of the woods were rarely up to something good. She should know.
But these people?
She remembered them a little too well. They'd been searching for the Darkhold like she'd been all those years ago. So had the Sorcerer Supreme, funnily enough. It was a three-person race to get the book, and that annoying baldie had done something to the pages.
As annoying as it was, Agatha respected the decision at the very least. Keeping it out of HYDRA's hands was the second best solution—the first being her getting that damned book she'd struggled to get. She was fully aware she wasn't any saint, and she wasn't opposed to killing people to gain power in the end. It wasn't her preferred method, but hey, something about the ends justifying the stabbing and face-melting magic.
No, she wasn't what she considered a good person.
HYDRA though? Complete maniacs. They slaughtered anything and everything in their path. They performed horrific experiments on people—innocent people that had nothing to do with their war, and weren't in their way. They did it for 'science' and cruelty. They'd performed those horrible experiments on children.
Agatha hadn't intentionally sought them out in the forties, but whenever she ran into them she was more than happy to end their miserable existence. Taking power from the underserving and all that—kind of her thing. She'd absorbed nearly a dozen magic artifacts the group managed to collect. After she ripped them out of their cold, dead hands, however.
They were supposed to have been wiped out. Yet, here they were, back again almost seventy years later. And they were still after her book. Persistent little fuckers.
That wouldn't do.
Agatha grabbed the pages of the Darkhold, holding maybe ten of them in total. Still, it wasn't an all-powerful magic book for nothing. Even these little scraps sent a thrill up her spine, and her magic surged in response. Her eyes trailed over the pages, memorizing anything and everything she could.
The Darkhold had a will of its own—it longed to be whole once more. She could feel that desire pressing down upon her mind, trying to wriggle its way in to make her seek out the rest of them. It took little effort to shut that down, her practice and experience more than enough to overwhelm the corruption of some sentient paper.
The tug toward the other pages of the Darkhold she allowed to stay, however. It merely enhanced her own magic sensing abilities and told her roughly where the other pages were. There was a reason she was being tasked to find the pages, after all.
That asshole in Latveria likely couldn't even sense them. Victor Von Doom, that bastard. He didn't have the finesse needed for real magic. He just pumped power into some gravity or electricity spells, there wasn't anything clever about that!
But he wanted the pages. Oh, she'd bring him the pages alright. Them, and whatever magic artifacts she could gather. She'd continue her quest to gain power, and she was going to show that metal-faced asshole who the real master of magic was.
He'd caught her off guard, and she'd been cocky. She wasn't going to be making that mistake again.
Agatha huffed and glanced down at the pages. Already her fingers were starting to turn black and look corrupted, thanks to the properties of the paper. A flick of her wrist sent them into her claimed portion of the ether, and a flare of magic returned her digits to normal. Much better. She might be several hundred years old but that was no excuse to look like a wrinkly old hag.
Professionals have standards.
Being a professional also meant she had to keep her activity a little on the quiet side. It seemed that the closest section of the Darkhold to her was somewhere on the eastern half of the United States. Specifically, New York City.
Lovely. Nothing like wandering into the home of the Sorcerer Supreme to collect pages of an evil book from right under her nose. That's not to mention all the other super-powered weirdos that happened to reside in that massive ugly sprawl of humanity. No matter, she could handle whatever came her way. She'd just be on her best behaviour so that baldie wouldn't need to invite her for tea.
Though… Tea time did invite the opportunity for poisoning. That could be fun. Maybe…
"Come on, Señor Scratchy, we've got a little trip to make." Agatha fearlessly approached the blood-stained bunny, who still had little bits of hair and meat in his teeth. She grabbed the massive rabbit by the jaw and pried it open. Agatha plucked a rabbit treat from her pocket and flicked it into his mouth in a fluid motion.
The bunny shrieked in agony, its bones twisting and snapping. It writhed and flailed about on the ground, thrashing as its fur began to fall off, and out of the bare flesh sprouted oily black feathers. Legs thinned, and stretched out. Toes broke and extended. His muzzle shattered and jutted forward, forming into a sharp beak with a wicked hook to it.
In place of the bunny was a massive raven, its intelligent eyes flicking about the room, before falling on her. Its eyes immediately went blank and hazed over, and the bird slumped forward slightly.
Agatha grabbed a handful of feathers and swung herself up onto the back of the bird, settling herself into place. A couple uses of magic had her more-or-less strapped to the bird. She needed to be secure. She'd fallen off one-too-many times by catching a stray bird to the face. Annoying feathery fucks. Geese were the worst—they'd run into her and then act offended as if it was her fault they weren't paying attention.
The worst part? They were surprisingly resistant to having their necks twisted. Annoying to deal with too.
Agatha dug her heels into the side of the bird, and it lurched forward, leaping from the shattered remains of the Hydra base, and taking to the skies. As an afterthought, she tossed a blob of dark magic behind her. It was just a little send-off to those rude cultists. It's not like anyone is going to miss them, and she wasn't going to feel bad when that blob grew to eat everything there, including the building.
She was recycling, it was good for the environment.
With a chuckle, Agatha settled herself in. She was rather excited for this trip. Not only was she going to be gathering more pieces of the Darkhold, but she was going to try to see something rather exciting. If it was real, that is. Considering how much of a stir the world had been in though, it was at least taking a look at.
"What do you think, Señor Scratchy? Is that wolf really a Goddess?" Agatha pat the birds neck, and chuckled. "If it's real, she might be a fun challenge. And, if she's not, you get a nice snack. Doesn't that sound great?"
A shrill cry from the raven was her only response.
~{O}~{O}~{O}~
Nick Fury wasn't an idiot; he knew full well that the circumstances around Brock Rumlow were suspicious. The job in general fell outside the agent's area of expertise, at least on the surface level. Why would someone running an anti-terrorism task force and strike team be investigating AIM? By himself, no less? That's not something he does.
Then, coincidentally, Agent Rumlow wound up going on a mission halfway across the country a day later. Out of reach, radio silence, because he was dealing with a terror group that just popped up. Of course, with him gone, there was no one to directly confirm the details of the meeting with AIM.
Which is why Fury thought the whole thing smelled like bullshit.
The written records were targeted, and the details of the conversation, including the recordings, were wiped. Amaterasu's file was locked without his knowledge and her tracking collar was disabled. There would have been no telling where Amaterasu went, or why, because Rumlow couldn't have been reached.
Fury didn't believe in coincidences—things don't just happen without a reason. There was something going on, and Fury was going to get to the bottom of it.
Unfortunately, due to the actions of a certain wolf—whom Fury was certain was the Goddess of Chaos, not the sun—and the blistering temperatures of the Extremis users, Killian's mansion was destroyed. The servers in the basement? Gone. Any backup files on their computers? Melted with the rest of the hard drives. The only thing they had to go off of was a single ping from their servers.
It looked like it was a simple slip-up from whoever was in their system. Only, the people that could get into their systems in the first place didn't make mistakes. Not ones like that. It was sloppy. Amateur. His folks had called it embarrassing.
That's why he knew it was meant to throw him off—to keep his attention elsewhere.
And it worked too. At least, for a short time. Countless hours had gone into tracking every money transfer, bank statement, text, call, and anything else AIM or Killian had gone through in the last five years. They were still pouring through things, but…
Unless Killian had a metric fuckton of cash stashed away somewhere, and had used burner phones and in-person meetings with someone that could hack into SHIELD, it couldn't have been them. There was no one on Killian's payroll that had the ability to get into SHIELD's systems.
Not that Fury thought it was an external attack. His gut told him it was something else—someone inside SHIELD did it.
Things lined up a little too perfectly for it not to.
Captain Rogers was meant to take on a mission in Europe, until Fury reassigned him to investigating that small town event. He'd passed that mission off to Agent Romanoff, which caused Rogers to come back three days earlier than he would have otherwise. They'd been planning on doing this while Steve, the person around Amaterasu the most often, was away.
The only reason they knew it was AIM in the first place was because Rogers found that card. Because Amaterasu left it behind. Because Steve was back early, felt bad, and offered her to stay with him while the rest of the city lost their collective fucking minds over a magic dog. No one would have known where Fido was if Steve hadn't tried to find her, leading to one thing after another.
It was a series of chances that they managed to figure out what was happening. They wouldn't have even received the distress call from the collar if Fury hadn't tasked his people with getting it online. They managed it maybe an hour before it was used.
Fury didn't believe in coincidences, which is why this whole thing pissed him off so much. Someone was running laps around him and his agents, and it was embarrassing how far they managed to go.
No, it was someone inside of SHIELD, it had to be, and he was going to find out who had the fucking balls to betray the organization.
So, he started at the beginning. He checked the logs and had his teams see when and where the files were accessed. There was nothing. It was all wiped. There wasn't even a trace of the wipe. All that existed was the log of a ping from AIM's servers—a clear misdirection.
Chronologically, his next step was to talk to Rumlow.
"Sorry I didn't answer your calls, Sir, I was undercover. Those terror cells are full of paranoid little fuckers."
…
"Nothing on file? I swear up and down I wrote everything. Maya Henson; took photos of the card; wrote the details of the meeting down. All that jazz. Even submitted the paper copies, they should be in the archive."
…
"Even the paper copies? Shit. I'll do my best to remember everything and get it down again for you, Sir."
…
"Oh, I was just following up on info from Mr. Garrett. Biological super-ish stuff is his department, hey? He told me to look into it, something about a possible terror threat from the organization. Nothing came up though, they were pretty clean other than one run-in with the law years ago. I joined Poochy to make sure everything was up to snuff. Did they delete the recording too? Damn, they were thorough."
Fury didn't buy it. The terror organization that Rumlow was investigating? They hadn't been active in nearly eight years. There hadn't been a single peep since Barton took care of them all that time ago.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Bull. Shit.
Unfortunately, other than a feeling in his gut, Fury had nothing to go on. So, he followed that lead.
John Garrett—dedicated agent of SHIELD for decades, injured in the field of duty, and transferred to a high-level desk job. His department was indeed 'biological super-ish stuff'. Ever since the creation of the Super Soldier Serum, there have been dozens of attempts to recreate it.
That, and weird super-insects. Why science insisted on creating super spiders was beyond his understanding. Spiders were already super enough, they didn't need to shoot lasers or fly, thank you.
Still, Fury followed that thread and had a chat with Agent John Garrett.
"I did pass the case to Agent Rumlow. I'd received word from an anonymous source that AIM was turning their attention to Amaterasu. They'd mentioned something about bombs and explosions in the public. That seemed to fit his typical duties, and AIM has been relatively clean, so I figured his people skills would help out."
…
"No idea, Sir. They took great lengths to keep their identity hidden. The information was passed on to me by one of my agents. I can get them to come in or give you their contact information if you'd like."
…
"No, Sir. I submitted the information and files, then turned my attention to a little town in Russia. They're a hotspot for super-soldier attempts. They're stubborn, but we're keeping on top of them."
…
"Yes, Sir. I'll let you know if anything else comes up."
What a fucking coincidence. An anonymous source just happened to bring information about AIM to an agent associated with biological threats.
Fury didn't believe in coincidences. There was something going on here.
Inactive terror organizations that suddenly jump into being threats again? The chain of dead-ends? The lack of leads? How the 'anonymous source' managed to get into contact with Garrett's department? How everything just conveniently slotted into place?
Someone planned things thoroughly and was running laps around everyone. Fury wasn't a big fucking fan of that.
How does one deal with an unknown person running where you don't want them to? You could always stay up and vigilant in the hopes you manage to spot them. You could set up signs and little notices to scare them away. You could tear up the paths they took and ruin everything you'd worked so hard for.
All those were pretty standard.
Standard wasn't how he dealt with things. Someone was running laps around SHIELD? Fury was going to set a bear-trap for the fucker. There was something going on, and AIM was involved, but not the way that someone was trying to make him think.
He was going to get the truth.
And, when he did, there would be hell to pay.
It would be some time until Killian, his goons, and the scientists were securely locked up. In the meantime, there were some people he needed to talk to. Some old friends-turned-enemies of Victor Von Doom.
The Fantastic Four—just another super-powered pain in his ass. At least none of them seemed hell-bent on driving Fury to the brink of insanity. That job was reserved for a certain dog-wolf-goddess-thing.
And Stark, the smug bastard.
~{O}~{O}~{O}~
Alexander Pierce was a cunning man. He was paranoid, thorough, and dedicated—he had to be. It wasn't easy running a secret organization within a secret organization. Especially when the person in charge of said secret organization was Nick Fury, the most paranoid man alive.
He paced in his office, the tapping of his dress shoes on the floor echoing around the empty room. His hands were folded behind his back, fingers of one hand drumming anxiously on the other.
Somehow, Fury managed to throw a wrench into his plans. Again. It likely wasn't even intentional, the son-of-a-bitch was just lucky, infuriatingly so.
John Garrett had called him—let him know that Fury was snooping around. They'd been so thorough and careful, trying to make things seem like an accident, or a little tech glitch. Just iffy and experimental technology, nothing to worry about.
But then Fury had to send Captain America of all people to wedge his way unwittingly into Hydra acquiring what could very well be the next advancement in super-soldier technology. Current attempts were extraordinarily unreliable and for every super-human they managed to create, one hundred others were a complete failure and had to be put down.
Mutants were an option, but with how nosey Charles Xavier was, collecting a large number of Mutants within HYDRA would likely lead to their exposure.
Thus, the Extremis serum. The odds for success were nearly equal to that of a coin flip. Those that weren't accepted would explode and make convenient bombs to destroy targets. Those that were… Well, near-unkillable humans with the strength of three people and the ability to cut through metal with their bare hands?
HYDRA was very interested.
So was SHIELD.
Still, it was better to continue working from within SHIELD to get results than it was to send Fury into a manhunt if they managed to free Killian. If, however, the man managed to escape on his own, that was a different story.
As of now it was all a waiting game. Killian would be locked up and be tested on by HYDRA whenever SHIELD had its back turned. The scientists could be exploited for their knowledge, and the ones that were a threat would end up in prison. Some of HYDRA's contacts inside the prisons could deal with them a little more permanently.
No, Fury's investigation wasn't worth worrying over. Some false documents and lack of evidence will let his suspicions run dry. His agents were well trained and already had cover stories made up. They could afford to throw an agent or two under Fury's boot if it meant the survival and success of HYDRA.
And, even if Fury's snooping brought up a little trouble, it wasn't worth worrying over. After all…
The Winter Soldier was only a call away.
~{O}~{O}~{O}~
The Other strode into the command center of Sanctuary II, his eyes falling on his master, Thanos. Beside his throne stood the little Kylosian girl he'd 'adopted' after his latest conquest. The two appeared to be engaged in conversation. Well, Thanos was speaking, showing the child why things were the way they were. The child couldn't possibly comprehend the scale or true meaning behind Thanos's plans.
Not yet, at least. But she'd learn, like they all did.
Gamora stood on the other side of his throne, the woman looking impassive. How she managed to look so unpleasant while standing next to her father, his master, he'd never know.
The Other's steps caught the attention of Thanos, whose eyes fell on him with the weight of an impossibly vast will and power that was nearly impossible to comprehend. The Other averted his gaze, and stopped at the foot of the stairs to his master's throne, inclining his head in a bow.
"Gamora, take Kamaria to her room. Clean her bandages, and get her a new arm. I'm putting her under your care for now," Thanos spoke.
Gamora looked startled, the green-skinned woman's eyes widening for but a moment, before she returned to her cool neutral, almost angry expression. "Yes, Father." Her strides brought her around the throne, and Gamora held out her hand for the girl. "Come."
The terrified Kylosian reached out with a shaky hand, not at all the firm fearlessness her species was known for. No doubt that too would be fixed in time, like the others were. Thanos had a certain way of moulding people into perfection. Everyone fell into line… eventually.
Gamora led the one-armed Kylosian girl down the steps, the duo passing right in front of the Other. He flashed them a grin, to which Gamora sneered, and this 'Kamaria' flinched away. Once the two women were out of sight, and no longer in earshot, the Other turned his attention back to Thanos.
"My lord. There is news from the Nine-Realms." He took a step and planted a foot on the lowest stair up to the throne. "The Asgardians… They may be more powerful than we believed."
"… Explain," Thanos rumbled out. The titan sat back on his throne, gazing down at the Other, sitting regal and imposing as anyone on a throne should.
The Other held up his hand, a projector spinning to life. "The Marauders. With the Bifröst destroyed, they attacked the Nine-Realms." The projector spun up faster and let out a quiet whine, starting to hover. "Asgard repaired the Bifröst faster than we thought possible. They have a new weapon."
Both Thanos and the Other looked up, watching the orb fly higher, until there was a flash of light, projections showing several different angles of a battlefield. It encompassed them, various sights from electronic eyeballs, or starships and fighters surrounding filling the room. Bright flashes of light appeared on several of the images at once, showing various viewpoints of the Bifröst sending down troops to the battlefield.
Everything seemed about as Thanos likely expected it to. Asgard had incredibly annoying accuracy with deploying troops where they were needed, and in positions that would render their enemies helpless. That wasn't anything to be concerned over.
Thanos narrowed his eyes when several of the perspectives were cut off.
An impressively tall ice wall exploded into existence, sharp spikes skewering multiple Marauders as it grew. Their bodies froze over and hung from the wall like gruesome ornaments while it continued to rise and expand. So thick was the wall that even with several spacecraft impacting it and exploding, it didn't so much as crack.
"We know Odin has the Casket. That is nothing of concern," Thanos sat back and appeared to grow bored.
"It was not the Casket that did this, but a creature." The Other raised a hand and spread his fingers, enlarging several points of view. "It appears to be of Terran or Asgardian origin."
As the battle progressed before their eyes, the viewpoints started to focus on something above them. There was a four-legged creature on an arch, sprinting its way up the sheer surface at high speeds. It avoided gunfire, leapt over ships trying to hit it head-on, and fought back in violent strikes.
Huge streams of fire lashed out from the creature, lighting up the battlefield in bright flashes. Passing ships caught in the blast had holes punched in their side, the metal left glowing red-hot and sizzling. Those that weren't struck to the ground became victims of its next attack—waves of thick ice shards. They impaled various parts of the spacecraft, and those that missed fell upon the side of the Marauders in deadly waves. Several more perspectives were cut off, replaced with others, able to see the resulting humanoids impaled with razor-sharp ice, pinning them to the ground through their bodies.
Thanos leaned forward, resting his elbows upon his knees, and his eyes narrowed.
The battle progressed as expected, the Asgardians making short work of the Marauders. There was a particular perspective that tried to impale the small wolf on the front of the ship. That perspective ended, and another one revealed that the spacecraft had simply been torn in half. Nothing showed what happened, or why. It just simply was, ripped in twain, like an act of a God.
That wasn't even the most shocking part. Multiple perspectives caught the wolf looking up, gazing at the smoke-filled sky. Then, there was a shift, and the sky rapidly darkened. The sun simply disappeared from view, causing everything to come to a grinding halt. The only light left on the battlefield came from the fires around the Marauders.
Then, even that began to disappear. It was pulled away from the ground, and willed upwards, like it had been possessed by a serpent. The stream of fire curled around the arch and worked its way higher and fire, curling into itself above the glowing form of the wolf. From the distance poured an absolutely massive river of fire, the flame pouring into the ball, growing brighter, larger, like a miniature sun.
The sole source of light hovered above the arch, just over the wolf that seemed to be orchestrating all the movements of the world around it. Then, it threw its head back and howled. It was a deep, powerful, commanding sound, carrying a weight and presence behind it that seemed to reach through the projections and press down on the command center.
Thanos remained silent as the miniature sun shot into the sky, a brilliant streak of white climbing higher and higher, punching through the smoke and the clouds. Once above the layer of smoke, the sky started to grow brighter, light pouring in through the hole punched in the cloud cover. The sun had been put back into the sky, with a beam of light filtering through the smoke and chaos to land on the wolf.
The spacecraft they were viewing from turned tail and took off as fast as they could within the atmosphere. Those on the ground either threw down their weapons and surrendered, or turned tail and fled, pushing their fellow Marauders to the ground to get away.
The projector whirred to a halt and plummeted downward, the images vanishing in an instant. The Other caught the projector and held it up in his hand, gesturing with it.
"These have started to spread. People are fearing Asgard may return to their conquering. Others are calling it a hoax—propaganda that Asgard-"
"Fools, all of them. Asgard has no need for bluster." Thanos stood and made his way down the stairs to his throne. Each step was slow, heavy, unhurried. "If Asgard were to return to war, they would first have to win over the Nine Realms. There is no shortage of animosity between each world." Thanos held out his hand, and the Other set the projector in his massive palm. "Odin is old, but he is more powerful now than ever. He would be fighting a war on all sides. The Nova Core; the Kree; Ravagers, Marauders, and the Sovereign. Countless groups, all would want to keep Asgard from carving a piece out of their empires. The foolish would try to take Asgard. The smart would ally themselves with Asgard." Thanos grinned, and turned to face the viewport, gazing out into the stars, and, below, the recently balanced planet. "The ones who want to live will keep away at all costs."
"Is this nothing to be concerned over?" the Other asked, keeping himself rooted to the spot, respectful of the Mad Titan.
"The opposite. Odin and the Asgardians are powerful adversaries. If they have restored the Bifröst, that's reason enough to avoid the Forge. But with this..." Thanos turned from the massive expanse of space, and began his steady march back toward his throne. "We need to accelerate our plans."
The titan climbed the steps to his throne and sat down, his seat to watch the universe fall to his will. He idly tapped at a panel beneath his right hand, inputting coordinates on the controls. Moments later they appeared on a holographic display.
G52 22C848T12F+E16UC22
Beneath the coordinates was what looked to be a bright, vibrant planet. The red-coloured atmosphere was broken up by large swaths of blue light that seeped from the planet, illuminating entire continents in a blue glow.
"This creature… Asgard may have exceeded even the High Evolutionary in biological manipulation—created the perfect being to funnel the Odin Force through. However… I believe this to be a new deity. A young creature, borne of the Earth's own desire for something more. Innocent, pure, corrupted by the perversion of Asgard." Thanos explained. "Humanity may have spawned this creature, but Asgard has likely twisted it for their own gain. A safeguard—Odin's paranoia allows no room for what could be. We cannot combat two beings that can manipulate the cosmos. Not yet. We need to subjugate our own. And, if it does not comply, we will turn it into a living factory for our own needs."
"My lord?" the Other asked.
"Tell Ronan that Kylos was the last planet he will balance. His full efforts will be put toward finding the relic. Nebula will be at his side to assist him, or, kill him if he refuses." Thanos explained. "As of now, the Nova-Core is of no concern. Ronan's perpetual tantrum will be delayed."
"As you wish," the Other complied with a bow.
"Have Midnight, Glaive, and Obsidian hunt for enemies of Asgard. Any weaknesses that can be exposed, any allies that can be gained, will be needed. As for us…" Thanos sat back in his chair, his hands clasped together in thought. "This 'Celestial' has had free reign for far too long. Replacing the universe with himself—a vain pursuit. Selfish. It will not bring the balance the universe needs." Thanos grinned, and clenched a fist in front of himself. "The universe is growing restless. We will ensure it remains prosperous and merciful as it was meant to be. Alert the armies—we set out in a day's time."
"Yes, my lord."
~{O}~{O}~{O}~
Steve stepped back and took a breath, wiping the sweat from his brow. Still exhausted from pushing himself hard for the last two hours, he shook it off. He had to train and test out this new equipment R&D had provided him.
With one hand he hefted up the SHIELD specialty equipment and took it off the chains. He unceremoniously tossed it to the side, where it landed hard enough to shake the floor. There was one more bag to go, and he'd been told this was the toughest one yet—something that even an Asgardian should be able to wail on without causing too much damage.
Then again, they said that about the last one too, and it was oozing impact gel onto the floor. Sure, it wasn't anything a normal person could break. Heck, he was sure that Thor could hit it a few times without any significant damage. But, Steve had been beating the thing silly for over an hour, and it had failed.
Steve was definitely no Asgardian. Then again, he was far from normal.
Speaking of Asgardians—there wasn't any realistic way for Steve to find Amaterasu if Thor had taken her off planet. And wasn't that a weird thing to think about? Some alien from another planet, worshipped as a god with lightning powers, abducted a wolf who is supposedly the goddess of the sun, and took her into space through a magic portal.
If Steve hadn't seen it for himself, he would have been certain he'd lost his mind.
Yet, that seemed to be the new reality he found himself in. Aliens from space portals, Gods, Goddesses, snarky billionaires in metal suits, super spies, and secret organizations. Gone were the days he could just punch Nazis in the face, destroy a research facility, and call it a day.
Steve heaved the last 'Asgardian-Proof High-Strength-Polymer Blow-Absorbent Punching Bag' (ASPHISPOBA Bag, name and patent pending) upward and secured it to the thick chains overhead. With a quick step back, Steve shook out his hands, clenched his fists, and dropped into his natural fighting stance.
He lashed out with a powerful blow, shaking the bag, the chains above rattling violently. A step forward and a quick rotation allowed him to slam his other fist into its side on the downswing, sending it upward once again.
Steve hopped backward, avoiding the downswing. He stepped forward, planted his foot firmly, and whirled around, lashing out with his heel to catch the bag hard. It folded dangerously around his leg and launched upward, slamming into the metal support beam hard enough to make the entire thing rattle in place.
It still didn't feel like enough. Not after New York, where it was all he could do just to try and slow the endless tide. Not after Killian, and being unable to do anything to stop the Extremis users for more than a minute or two. The Extremis soldiers weren't as strong as Steve, nor as fast, but that meant little if he couldn't stop or even touch them.
Steve threw another series of harsh jabs at the punching bag, each one harder than the last, the strain of pushing himself burning in all the right ways. Each impact was thunderous in the quiet room.
His saving grace against Killian was his shield, and even that hadn't been enough. Killian didn't stop. He kept swinging, and fighting, and wearing them down. Steve couldn't touch him, and wound up playing the distraction while Stark dealt damage. He still didn't know if they could have won unless Amaterasu stepped in.
But, what could he do against threats that needed a maybe-deity probably-magic wolf to step in? He couldn't fly, shoot lightning, breathe fire, or regrow lost limbs. He was just one man with a shield. There was only so much he could do.
He threw another shot to the middle. A sidestep, and he lashed out with his leg. He ducked to the right, leaned in, and delivered an overhand blow that sent the bag swinging to the roof again with a horrendous bang. He had to be careful, avoid the lethal points unless absolutely necessary.
Yet, in that fight, those hits hadn't done anything to the soldiers—stunned them or put them down for a couple minutes before they were back on him. What could he have done differently if Ammy hadn't rescued the civilians? If Stark hadn't been able to fight Killian at range? Martial arts did nothing when he couldn't touch the guy, and there was next to nothing he could have done other than throw things had he lost his shield.
Steve growled and wailed on the bag; his breath ragged. He had to keep pushing himself, keep training, so he could protect others. Others that fell victim to those trying to copy what had been done to him.
Sixty years later and people were still trying to recreate it. People with poor intentions and even worse morals. Banner had tried and wound up with a split-personality rage-beast affliction. Then Killian and his soldiers had done it, and they wound up either exploding or becoming a near-unkillable super-weapons.
Who knows how many others went unnoticed. How many others had died, or killed for it?
His fists rained down blow after blow, lungs screaming for air, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. His hands had long gone numb, but that was nothing. Nothing compared to what others had to deal with, and continued to. Echoes of a single decision, his desire to help, rippling through time. And he'd been frozen, unable to stop any of it.
And still, even as his arms felt like lead, and his muscles burned from overuse and exertion, he couldn't keep the thoughts from swirling in his mind. No amount of pushing himself to his limit could keep him from the questions he was too afraid to ask.
How many had he inadvertently killed by just taking that one extra step? Was Captain America just the start of something worse? Did his existence just lead to another power struggle? More pain, more suffering, more deaths?
His hands were a blur, his torso leaning into every strike. His whole body was put into each hit, straining just that little bit harder. Pushing himself just a step further. Doing as much as he could—his absolute best.
What if, eventually, his best wouldn't be enough?
Something gave in, snapped, and caved. Steve blinked, and looked down, pulling himself from his thoughts. His fist was buried up to the forearm inside the punching bag. The impact gel was hot around his hand, and the metal weave of the bag dug into his skin.
Steve sighed, and slowly extracted his arm from the bag. Several of the wires inside seemed to have scratched him deeply enough to start bleeding. He shook the impact gel from his hand, and unchained the bag. Now properly exhausted, he dragged the bag along, lugging it over to lie with the others.
Maybe he was done punching things for one day. A run seemed more his speed—something to help him wind down and get out of the building.
After he was done that… Maybe he should visit Stark. He wasn't going to call the guy, especially since SHIELD's communications were so recently breached. It was just one of the many reasons he wasn't a fan of modern technology. But, griping about it would make him sound old, and Stark would comment on it, and Natasha would say something equally insulting and embarrassing and it would just be a whole thing he would regret.
Still, visiting Stark seemed like a good idea. He'd taken off in a hurry after everything went down. They might not see eye-to-eye on some things, but Steve wasn't going to leave a teammate struggling with something on their own.
That, and, Steve had something to ask of him. It was just a little idea in the back of his mind for now, but… if Tony's suit could hold up against something like Killian, at least for a little while, then that meant he could hit him. Something Steve couldn't do.
Maybe, just maybe, he'd see if Tony could whip up some fancy gloves, or some temperature reactive suit, or… well, he didn't really know. Something that would help him out if this ever happened again.
And it would.
Ever since Captain America, it never seemed to stop.
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