Chapter 58

Arc 5 - Ch 11: Worthy?

Date: Thursday, June 2, 2011.

Location: Shield field base, outside Puente Antiguo, NM

Amora the Enchantress stood under a magically conjured shield. The dome isolated her from the relentless downpour that had turned the surrounding desert landscape into mud. Through her scrying mirror, she observed Thor's progress as he fought his way through the human military encampment. The god of thunder's combat prowess was still evident, even stripped of his Asgardian powers.

Amora's gaze lingered on the broad-shouldered man that now barred Thor's path to his hammer. The man cut an imposing figure, clad neck to toe in black with a half-mask obscuring his features. She recognized him as the one referred to over the radio. The one ordered to guard Mjolnir.

Mirage.

Mirage engaged the diminished Thor, who remained a force to be reckoned with, even without his Asgardian might. But the masked man gave no ground and returned targeted strikes of his own. They appeared evenly matched, with Mirage landing more blows than he received.

Amora was more concerned about the archer, hidden above with an arrow nocked. He was under orders not to interfere, but stopping an arrow at a distance was a greater challenge than stopping a brawl. For now, the outcome of his trial seemed to rest solely on the clash between Thor and the dark soldier. Her scrying mirror focused on the escalating melee. The ensuing fight between Thor and Mirage was intense, but Amora soon realized Mirage was merely toying with Thor. As the fighting progressed, Mirage continued to outmatch Thor in hand-to-hand combat.

For a moment, Amora considered intervening, mistaking Mirage for an Asgardian due to his formidable fighting skills. She was poised to act, ready to ensure Thor's trial remained untampered, but hesitated as she watched Mirage knock Thor to the ground near Mjolnir.

She smiled at the sight of Thor approaching his enchanted hammer. This was the crux of his trial, the pivotal test of his worthiness. Amora watched intently, eyes fixed on the scrying mirror's surface, as Thor extended his hand toward the hammer, that symbolic embodiment of his power and rightful heritage. This was his defining moment, the culmination of his journey to prove himself worthy.

Amora's breath caught in her throat as she watched Thor, the mighty Asgardian prince, reach for Mjolnir. His eyes were wide with a desperate, fragile hope that made Amora's heart ache.

But despite Thor's mighty heaves, the legendary hammer did not budge from its resting place. It remained as immovable as the sadness now settling onto Thor's broad shoulders.

His hand dropped to his side, limp with defeat. Amora could almost feel the devastating loss reverberating through him. Where there had once been an aura of confidence and strength was now only a haze of despair. This was not the Thor Amora knew; the boisterous, unyielding warrior who laughed in the face of impossibility. The man before her was diminished, stripped of his power and purpose.

Even Mirage seemed affected by the solemn scene. Though his expression was partly hidden behind his mask, Amora detected a sympathetic tilt to his head.

When the human soldiers detained Thor, he offered no resistance. The prince allowed himself to be restrained and led away, head bowed under the staggering weight of this failure. Mirage watched pensively as Thor disappeared from view, then turned his attention to Mjolnir. He studied the immovable hammer with a contemplative air.

Amora kept her focus on Thor as he was escorted away, no doubt to be questioned by the human agents of SHIELD, according to their heraldry. The once invincible hero now laid low. She wished to reach through the mirror to offer comfort, but such contact was forbidden.

Thor sat handcuffed in the stark interrogation room, the very picture of defeat. His muscular frame seemed diminished, weighed down by the crushing disappointment of his failure. Across from him stood Agent Coulson, his posture relaxed yet professional, his keen eyes taking in every detail of the crestfallen figure before him. Though Coulson's expression remained impassive, he felt a twinge of empathy for the stranger's obvious distress.

Coulson broke the heavy silence, his tone conversational yet probing. "Not many people can do what you did back there. Taking down highly trained agents like that? Impressive." Coulson continued, "You made hardened professionals look like a bunch of mall cops. It takes serious skill to manhandle them so easily. The kind of skill that comes from specialized training. Care to tell me where you picked up moves like that?"

Thor stared straight ahead, offering no response.

Undeterred, Coulson persisted. "Let's see...Chechnya? Afghanistan? No, you look more like a soldier of fortune to me. Was it South Africa? Eastern Europe? Men with your talents can write their own paychecks these days."

Still, Thor remained silent, his eyes clouded and distant.

Coulson leaned in, his voice lowering. "Of course, there are certain organizations who pay handsomely for someone with your...expertise. The kind of groups that don't mind getting their hands dirty."

Thor continued to stare blankly ahead.

Coulson sighed and sat back, studying the unmoving figure before him. "Who are you?" he asked plainly.

After a long pause, Thor spoke, his voice leaden. "Just a man."

Coulson stood, adjusting his tie. His expression betrayed nothing as he delivered his parting words. "We have ways of finding out what we want to know. Do this the easy way. It'll be better for both of us." With that, he left Thor alone to wrestle with his inner turmoil.

Thor sat motionless, his head bowed under the oppressive weight of despair. The blank walls around him seemed to close in, mirroring the numbness that had settled upon his soul. Lost in contemplation, Thor did not register the arrival of another presence in the room. "I thought he'd never leave," said a familiar voice, pulling Thor from his brooding. He looked up sharply to see Loki standing before him, concern etched across his brother's pale features.

"Loki?" Thor uttered in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

Loki's green eyes were grave as he replied, "I had to see you." His tone held a sense of urgency that set Thor's mind racing.

Thor searched his brother's face, his own creased with confusion and worry. "What's happened? Tell me!" A sudden fear gripped him. "Is it Jotunheim? Let me explain to Father—"

"Father is dead," Loki interjected solemnly.

Thor froze, struck numb by Loki's words. He stared at his brother in stunned disbelief. "What?" he finally managed to choke out, the single word barely escaping his constricted throat.

"Your banishment, the threat of a new war... it was too much for him to bear," Loki continued, his voice heavy with implication.

The full impact of Loki's revelation slammed into Thor, forcing the air from his lungs. A swell of anguish rose within him as the notion took hold that he could be responsible for bringing about his father's end. Grief and guilt contorted Thor's features as he struggled to absorb the devastating news.

Loki approached, his expression sympathetic. "You mustn't blame yourself," he said gently. "I know you loved him." Loki's green eyes bored into Thor's. "I tried to tell him so, but he wouldn't listen."

With words chosen to deepen Thor's despair, Loki went on. "It was cruel to put the hammer within your reach, knowing you could never lift it again." Loki's voice held a note of consolation, even as his message sought to rob Thor of all hope.

Thor stared straight ahead, his eyes unfocused and haunted. Loki's words washed over him, threatening to pull him further into the dark abyss of despair. The god of mischief pressed on, twisting the knife. "The burden of the throne has fallen to me now," he declared.

At this, Thor lifted his head, some small ember of hope flickering in his electric blue eyes. "Can I come home?" he asked, his voice rough with emotion.

Loki firmly responded, "The truce with Jotunheim is conditional upon your exile. Mother has forbidden your return." the words struck Thor like a physical blow, their finality leaving the fallen prince feeling utterly defeated.

Thor lowered his head in acceptance, the reality of his permanent banishment from Asgard sinking in fully. He was well and truly beaten, both in spirit and circumstance.

Sensing the gravity of the moment, Loki added softly, "This is goodbye, brother. I'm so sorry."

Thor lifted his head once more to meet his brother's gaze, his expression etched with resignation. "No, I'm sorry," he replied heavily. "Loki... thank you for coming here." Thor's gratitude was sincere if tinged by sorrow.

Loki allowed his face to reflect the heartfelt emotion he did not feel. "Nothing could have stopped me," he said solemnly.

Just then, Agent Coulson re-entered the room. Thor looked up only to find that Loki had vanished as quickly as he had come. He was left to grapple with the harsh reality of his situation, alone and adrift in this strange mortal realm. Exiled, powerless, and now seemingly abandoned by his family and his home realm of Asgard. The weight of despair pressed down upon his broad shoulders, threatening to crush the fallen prince.

Amora's piercing green eyes narrowed in contemplation as she continued to peer into her scrying mirror, considering the implications of Loki's parting words to his brother Thor. Had some monumental events transpired in Asgard in the brief time since she came to Midgard, or was the god of mischief merely spinning an artful web of lies and deception? What possible motive could Loki have for misleading the banished thunder god in such a manner? Perhaps it was a calculated maneuver, intended to manipulate Thor's emotions; to give him the push he needed to prove himself worthy. Or was this what Heimdall was trying to warn Amora about? Was she a pawn in a sinister plot to ensure that Thor's exile from Asgard would continue indefinitely? If this golden opportunity for Loki meant Thor's permanent exile, would it lead to her exile as well should he fail?

With a wave of her slender hand, the Sorceress redirected her magic mirror's focus, turning its gaze away from the crestfallen Thor. The glass surface swirled with colors and runes as the scrying spell shifted, before clearing to follow Loki. Amora watched the prince-turned-king intently through the mirror, scanning for any telling sign or clue that might hint at Loki's genuine motives and the honesty of his words to Thor. Subterfuge and deception were well-known arts to the Enchantress, and she sought to discern the truth of the dark-haired Prince's motivations.

Inside the bustling SHIELD compound, agents and scientists worked diligently to repair the area surrounding Mjolnir. Amidst their activity, Loki casually approached the weapon, unseen by the oblivious mortals. An unreadable mix of curiosity and intrigue played across his features as he stood before Mjolnir, his gaze fixed on the hammer. He seemed to wrestle internally with an unspoken question, but Amora read his expression. Could he, as the acting ruler of Asgard, lift this hammer himself? Could he do what Thor could not?

Was Loki worthy?

Loki reached down slowly, almost hesitantly, and grasped Mjolnir. He exerted effort, straining to raise the hammer, but it remained motionless as if rooted to the very earth itself. Frustration and humiliation flickered across the dark prince's features as he released his grip and stepped back, eyeing the hammer with contempt and disappointment. After a lingering moment, Loki turned on his heel and strode away, leaving Mjolnir where it lay.

Observing this scene unfold through her enchanted scrying mirror, Amora was struck by the revelation that despite being the ruler of Asgard, Loki was deemed unworthy by Mjolnir. This realization raised intriguing questions in the sorceress's mind about the true nature of worthiness and power. But before she could contemplate further, Amora's gaze was drawn elsewhere. Amongst the agents and scientists busily working to repair the compound, one figure remained distinctly focused on Loki's surreptitious actions.

Mirage.

While the others continued their tasks oblivious to the dark prince's presence, Mirage seemed acutely aware, his attention fixed on Loki's arrival and failed attempt to lift the hammer. His perception marked Mirage as different from the other mortals.

As Loki vanished, returning to Asgard, Amora's intrigue only deepened. Acting on her burgeoning fascination, the sorceress employed her magical abilities to teleport atop the sturdiest structure in the makeshift SHIELD encampment. From this elevated vantage point, she could observe the unfolding events directly with her own eyes. She watched intently from her perch as Mirage finally moved from his stationary position below. He approached Mjolnir with purposeful steps.

As Mirage reached for the mystical hammer, a brilliant flash of lightning split the gloom, illuminating the night sky and lending an air of gravity to the scene.

Mirage paused, glancing upward as if sensing the moment, or questioning the meaning behind the sky's outburst. Then, resolve hardened his features as he wrapped his hand around Mjolnir's short handle and squeezed. Bracing himself, muscles cording in his arms, he pulled. To Amora's astonishment, the hammer shifted slightly, scraping over the muddy earth. Another crack of thunder roared overhead, as if in response to this monumental effort.

The SHIELD agents nearby, who had been engrossed in their tasks, now stopped and turned to watch the incredible scene unfolding. Their eyes were wide with awe and disbelief.

Mirage, perhaps spurred on by the very sky lending its support, tightened his grip and pulled again. The strain was evident in every line of his body. His muscles bulged, teeth gritted from the exertion. Once more, Mjolnir inched across the ground. The air surrounding the encampment seemed electric, charged with anticipation.

Shouting, Mirage summoned every ounce of strength in his mortal form. Gripping the hammer with both hands, corded muscles standing out, he pulled with wild abandon. Mjolnir shifted slightly again, but despite this herculean effort, the hammer remained rooted.

Amora found herself holding her breath. The sight of this Midgardian coming so close to lifting Mjolnir was wholly unexpected. It raised troubling questions about Mirage's true nature and the extent of his might, setting him apart from the other mortal men.

Mirage released his grip on Mjolnir, letting his arms fall limply to his sides as he stared down at the immovable hammer. His chest heaved with exertion and his muscles quivered from the intense strain. Though the object had shifted slightly under his efforts, it remained firmly stuck to the ground.

Failure.

The word reverberated through Mirage's mind as he contemplated the mystical hammer that had denied him. He had summoned every ounce of strength and will within himself, only to be found unworthy.

In the charged silence following his herculean attempt, the assembled agents looked on in awe and no small amount of wariness at this unexplainable feat. Though Mirage had not fully lifted Mjolnir, the fact that it had budged at all was astonishing.

No one spoke a word, perhaps afraid to break the spell of the moment. The night air still hummed with energy, as if the very sky was weighing what had just transpired.

Mirage stared down at his hands, flexing his fingers slowly. He leaned his head back, looking toward the night sky. The clouds still swirled and rumbled, echoing the tumult of emotions and questions stirring within him. He stared into the roiling expanse and wondered. A nearby rumble of thunder seemed to affirm his musings.

Though Mirage ultimately failed to lift Mjolnir, his ability to shift the hammer was no small feat. That he succeeded where gods had failed did not escape the notice and fascination of the Enchantress. There was more to this mortal than enhanced perception and impressive fighting skills. Much more. Amora watched Mirage depart, her emerald eyes tracking his movements until he was lost from view amongst the milling agents. She drew her powers close and vanished in a swirl of emerald mist, reappearing a breath later beside the legendary hammer where it lay dormant.

Alone now with the relic of legend, Amora reached out a slender hand to caress the worn leather grip. She could feel the thrum of power contained within the uru metal, like the heartbeat of a slumbering beast. The Enchantress knew the legends surrounding the hammer better than most. The weapon's true power came from the God Tempest. The stories say that the God Tempest was an elder god that took the form of a great cosmic storm. When it threatened to destroy Asgard, Odin battled the God Tempest for days, and once it was weakened, Odin trapped it in a block of uru granted by the dwarves of Nidavellir. Then, the dwarves forged the uru into Mjolnir in the heart of a dying star. Even her vast mastery of Asgardian magic paled in comparison to the primordial forces contained within Thor's hammer. She'd heard of the Allfather's enchantment from Loki, that none but the worthy could lift Mjolnir.

Amora eyed Mjolnir thoughtfully, contemplating if her vast mastery of Asgardian magic could override the Allfather's enchantment. Perhaps, just for a moment, she might provide the counter to Odin's spell. After all, the Allfather was not truly an enchanter or magic-wielder himself. Odin had full access to the Odinforce, an almost infinite power source. By channeling the Odinforce, he could perform feats akin to magic. However, Amora was a true sorceress, skilled from years of tutelage under Asgard's greatest mystics. She ranked among the most powerful spellcasters in the realm.

With her talent, could she hope to override Odin's brute-force magic with a more elegant solution?

Her fingers tingled as she drew forth her power, weaving the emerald strands of her magic to neutralize Odin's binding.

But try as she might, the hammer would not budge. Odin's magic held strong, far out of reach of her skills. Sighing in frustration, Amora released her spell and drew back her hand. For all her vaunted power, she could not make it budge even a fraction.

This failure ignited her curiosity. She found her thoughts returning to the masked man. What manner of man was he to possess such innate worth? Was it strength of character that allowed him to influence Mjolnir as no Asgardian could? Or had fate marked him for greatness in ways beyond her understanding?

Amora realized this was no longer a mere curiosity. Discovering Mirage's true nature had become imperative. This unremarkable mortal had done the impossible, and she needed to uncover his secret. The Enchantress now burned with the desire to peel away the layers of mystery surrounding the one called Mirage.

— Rogue Replacement —

Tyson trudged back into the base, not surprised, but still disappointed. The possibility of being deemed worthy enough to wield Mjolnir had sparked hope and excitement within him when the legendary hammer first shifted under his grip.

As he walked, his thoughts turned to his meta-knowledge from his past life. Others had lifted Mjolnir; Vision and Captain America. With Vision, it's unclear if it really 'counted' as lifting the hammer. It's possible that he was able to lift it because of his strength of character. However, it is nearly as likely that he could do so because he was an artificial being, not truly alive.

Captain America's first attempt to lift the hammer was a better metric to consider. Tyson believed that during Age of Ultron, Cap's initial failure stemmed from humility; he was worthy and capable, but didn't lift Mjolnir out of a desire to preserve Thor's self-worth.

But now, reflecting on his experience, Tyson was forced to re-examine that notion. Had it truly been a self-imposed restraint, or had Cap not been worthy then? If that was the case, what nuances of worthiness eluded Cap and now himself?

The true question was… What did being worthy even mean?

Tyson turned his thoughts inward, sifting through memories and meta-knowledge, attempting to unravel the mystery of Mjolnir's worthiness.

The obvious metric was Odin's judgment of whether someone was worthy. However, there was no way to know whether his, or Captain America's, existence had even been noticed by the Allfather, without speaking to Odin, which was off the table.

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Instead, Tyson focused on the qualities that might define one as worthy in Odin's eye. A warrior's spirit? An honorable heart? Tyson believed he reasonably fulfilled both criteria, though that couldn't be all. Thor possessed these qualities and was still, for the moment, not worthy.

So he considered the circumstances that led to Thor's banishment and those that would restore him to his full might.

Seeking battle with the Frost Giants led to Thor's banishment in the first place. Then, sacrificing himself to stop the Destroyer's rampage made him worthy.

This led Tyson to a few possible characteristics; not aggressively seeking war, humility, selflessness, sacrifice, restraint, and wisdom.

Tyson's thoughts circled back to Captain America's first attempt. Though honorable, and a consummate warrior, Cap had still been a soldier, moving from enemy to enemy; Loki and the Chitauri, HYDRA, Ultron, Tony, and ultimately the government itself. Captain America didn't have a life beyond the fight. If self-imposed restraint hadn't prevented Captain America from lifting Mjolnir, then it was likely that mindset.

This forced Tyson to reflect on his actions since arriving in this world.

He believed he had met many of the criteria to be considered worthy. Defending Xavier's Institute from Stryker's invading forces, though greatly outnumbered, and being captured and tortured, had shown selflessness, sacrifice, and battle prowess. He had killed, but so had Thor during his many years as a warrior, and presumably, Captain America had during World War 2.

Overall, Tyson felt his actions had been honorable. He had not sought battles, yet neither had he avoided them. He had shown restraint and mercy, sparing his enemies. This balance of humility and readiness to fight when needed seemed in line with the requirements for worthiness.

But then, he was forced to ask… had he behaved honorably throughout his time here?

Perhaps at first.

However, after gaining Jason Stryker's powers, he controlled and manipulated Ivan Vanko and Curt Connors. Perhaps turning them away from their paths was the right thing to do, but there were so many others he'd manipulated. He'd used his powers on Cindy Moon's mother, Lady Bullseye, that HYDRA CEO, so many others he couldn't count, and even Agent Sitwell, just earlier today.

Did he even possess wisdom? He'd stolen half a million dollars worth of gold, putting him on SHIELD's radar. He'd manipulated the Four Season's management into giving up their best suite for him to live in.

Yet, the hammer had allowed him to shift it briefly. Tyson wondered if that indicated something deeper. Unlike the others who tried to lift Mjolnir, Tyson contained multiple psyches… residing within him. Perhaps he was worthy. But containing Sabertooth, Jason Stryker, or even Rogue was holding him back.

Or maybe… Tyson was overthinking things.

Captain America may have been worthy during the events of Age of Ultron, just as he was during Endgame, and always had been. And the simple truth might be…

Tyson was not.

These thoughts occupied Tyson's mind as he made his way toward Coulson. The concept of worthiness was not straightforward and would continue to gnaw at him for some time. He replayed the moment he wrapped his hands around the hammer's handle making him wonder what inner virtue he lacked that had made the mystical hammer deem him unworthy.

It seemed there were things he needed to atone for. Virtues he needed to cultivate. And maybe even, his own power he needed to learn to control before he could be considered worthy.

— Rogue Replacement—

Coulson stood with several agents around him, conversing with a newcomer as Tyson approached.

"Donald Blake," Coulson said, a hint of skepticism flavoring his words. "That's his name?"

The newcomer nodded, "Doctor Donald Blake. He's part of my research team."

Coulson's expression remained neutral, but the set of his shoulders, the way his weight shifted slightly back on his heels. He wasn't buying it. "You seem to have some dangerous coworkers, Dr. Selvig," Coulson remarked mildly.

Selvig held up both hands in a placating gesture. "Oh no. Donald isn't dangerous, just...troubled." He dropped his hands and his expression turned regretful, sympathy in his voice. "The seizure of our work hit him hard. It was years of his life, gone in an instant when SHIELD took over the site. He got depressed, and started drinking heavily... well, I'm sure you know how it goes." Coulson said nothing, silently prompting Selvig to continue explaining. "He's a good man," Selvig insisted earnestly. "Brilliant physicist, one of the most insightful minds I've worked with. But this whole situation has been hard on him. His actions today were... out of character." He spread his hands, appealing to Coulson's reason. "Surely you can understand the turmoil he's going through?"

Coulson's expression remained noncommittal, giving no indication of his thoughts. But he weighed the scientist's words. Selvig resisted the urge to fidget under that assessing look, keeping his expression open.

Coulson did not indicate that he accepted Selvig's explanation. "Uh-huh. You mind if we take a moment to verify his identity?" he asked politely, though his tone made it clear it was not a request. He motioned to a technician stationed at a nearby computer terminal to run a search on the name Donald Blake.

Selvig acquiesced with a small sigh, realizing he had little choice. "Certainly," he said, spreading his hands in a conciliatory gesture. As the technician initiated the search, Selvig continued his earnest attempt to explain Blake's perspective. "You can understand how a man could go off like that, can't you?" Selvig appealed to Coulson's reason. "I mean, a big, faceless organization like yours, coming in with their jack-booted thugs and just taking private property..." he trailed off for a moment, then added, "Well, that's how he described it, anyway."

After a thoughtful pause, Coulson pointed out, "That doesn't fully explain how he managed to tear through our security so easily," he said, leaving the implicit question open.

Selvig scrambled for an explanation, offering somewhat facetiously, "Steroids. He's a bit of a fitness nut, you know." He gave a small shrug, trying to rationalize how Blake could have exhibited such extraordinary fighting ability.

On the technician's monitor, a DMV record from the State of New York appeared, showing "Dr. Donald Blake" as the name and displaying a license picture of Thor. It was obvious that the photo had been taken on a cellphone. A flashing graphic appeared on his screen.

'SHIELD Security Analysis in Progress...'

Coulson watched over the man's shoulder, scrutinizing the information as it appeared. A security alert flashed over the image.

'Security Alert: Falsified Data.'

After a long moment, he turned back to face Dr. Selvig. "It says here he's a medical doctor," Coulson stated flatly, referencing the details on the DMV record still displayed on the technician's monitor. But he didn't give any indication of the security analysis results.

Selvig nodded slowly, his mind racing to adapt to the unexpected situation. "He is...or rather, he was," Selvig explained after a brief hesitation. "He recently made a career change. Switched over to physics instead. He's quite brilliant in the field, truthfully." Selvig's response was an attempt to weave a plausible narrative around Thor's assumed identity.

Selvig then made a tentative request, his tone earnest and hopeful. "If you would just release him to me, I promise to keep a close eye on him."

Agent Coulson considered Selvig's words for a long moment, his sharp gaze sizing the scientist up as he deliberated over the decision. Finally, he gave a curt nod to one of the nearby agents.

"Release Dr. Blake to Dr. Selvig," Coulson instructed briskly.

The technician looked up sharply from his monitor, visibly surprised by Coulson's decision. Coulson, however, was quick to add a condition to his order. "Make sure he stays in town for the next few days, in case we need to speak with him again," Coulson said.

Relief washed over Selvig's anxious features. "Thank you," he said earnestly, shaking Coulson's hand. This had gone far better than he could have hoped.

As the heavy metal door shut behind Dr. Selvig as he was escorted to Thor, Coulson turned to Tyson. "Impressive work out there," he remarked. "A dozen of my best men couldn't bring that guy down, but you managed it without breaking a sweat."

Tyson shrugged, "Just doing my job, sir. I'm not sure if Director Fury informed you, but I'm an expert at handling weird shit."

Coulson studied him a moment longer before jerking his head toward the hallway. "Let's go keep an eye on them."

Tyson mumbled, "Damn, not even a smile."

They emerged just as Selvig guided the muscular 'Donald Blake' toward an old pickup truck. Coulson called out, halting their progress.

"Keep him away from the bars, Doctor. The last thing we need is a repeat of that brawl."

Selvig called back, "I will. You have my word."

As the two men piled into the vehicle, Tyson saw an opportunity. "I can trail them for a while. With my abilities, they'll never know I'm there."

Coulson considered it briefly before nodding. "Not a bad idea. Go ahead, but keep your distance. With Barton in place, the camp is secure."

Tyson headed toward an SUV leisurely, sliding behind the wheel and cranking the engine. He knew Selvig's destination; there was only one town for miles. As long as he hung back out of sight, neither the doctor nor his companion would suspect a tail, plus he had illusions to mask his presence if necessary. Tyson pulled out slowly, following in Selvig's tracks.

— Rogue Replacement —

Thor and Dr. Selvig sat across from one another at the bar, each with a mug of beer and a shot of whiskey before them. Without hesitation, Selvig tipped his shot into his beer and drank deeply, eager to dull the edges of recent events. Thor watched his companion closely and mimicked the action, pouring the harsh liquor into his ale and drinking it down in one long pull.

Selvig regarded Thor with a wry twist to his lips. "Seems Darcy's a terrible intern, but a talented hacker," he remarked, acknowledging the unconventional way they had managed to free Thor from SHIELD custody.

Thor met Selvig's gaze, his blue eyes earnest. "Thank you for what you've done," he said sincerely.

Selvig waved away the thanks with a shake of his head. "Don't thank me. I only did it for Jane's sake," he replied gruffly.

Curiously Thor asked, "Are you in love with her?"

"Of course not!" Selvig scoffed, quick to dismiss such notions. "Jane is like a daughter to me. Her father and I taught together at the university. He was a good man." Selvig's voice held a note of old sadness. "But like Jane, he never listened to reason."

Thor absorbed this quietly, ruefully reflecting, "Neither did I." He thought of all the times he had stubbornly ignored good counsel.

"I don't know if you're just delusional or if there's something to all this. Frankly, I don't care at this point." Selvig said skeptically, "I just care about Jane's welfare. I've seen the way she looks at you."

Thor met the older man's gaze. "I swear to you, I mean her no harm."

Selvig searched Thor's face for a long moment before giving a gruff nod, apparently satisfied. "Good. In that case, I'll buy you one more drink, and then you'll leave town tonight."

The Asgardian prince considered Selvig's terms, his stormy eyes clouded in contemplation. After a prolonged silence, Thor inclined his head in acquiescence and took a long draught from his mug.

"I had it all backward. I had it all wrong," he mused, his resonant voice tinged with revelation. Thor's countenance was grave as he reflected upon the humbling journey that had brought him to this bar.

Selvig studied him closely, noting the subtle transformation. This was not the same cocksure man Darcy had hit with their truck. The man before him now was more introspective.

Selvig offered, "It's not a bad thing, finding out that you don't have all the answers. That's when you start asking the right questions."

Thor took in the scientist's words, recognizing their fundamental truth. "For the first time in my life, I have no idea what I'm supposed to do," he confessed plainly.

Selvig said, "Anyone who's ever going to find their way in this world has to start by admitting they don't know where the hell they are."

The simple profundity of the statement resonated with Thor, who acknowledged it with an inclination of his golden head. Their meaningful exchange, however, was interrupted by the unwelcome approach of a drunk and belligerent townie. The man recognized Thor from the diner earlier that day. Swaying tipsily, he leered, "Hey, I know you, man... You were in the diner with that hot girl." he said crudely.

Visibly irritated by the man's inappropriate comments, Thor maintained his composure. Rising to his full imposing height, he stated firmly, "I have no quarrel with you. But she's a lady. You should be more respectful."

The drunk's aggression went undeterred by Thor's warning. "And you should shut the hell up, princess," he spat mockingly.

Selvig watched the exchange unfold with growing concern, expecting the towering Asgardian to react violently to the insult. But to his surprise, Thor remained calm and resolute. "I will not fight him," he declared, showing a restraint that impressed Selvig.

Emboldened by Thor's nonviolence, the sneering drunk pressed further. "Then it'll be easy to kick your ass," he slurred, swaying unsteadily on his feet.

Before the situation could deteriorate into a brawl, Selvig quickly intervened. Rising from his seat, he placed himself firmly between Thor and the posturing townie. Holding his hands up in a pacifying gesture, he urged, "Gentlemen, please. Let's keep our heads here."

In a sudden, unexpected move, Selvig, bolstered by his beer-balls, swiftly headbutted the drunk. Thor looked on with newfound respect, clearly impressed by the scientist's bold action.

— Rogue Replacement —

Coulson had instructed Selvig to keep Thor away from bars and predictably, that was exactly where they went first. Finding the seedy bar where Thor and Selvig had gone for drinks proved no challenge for Tyson. He'd even taken the time to change from his wet costume into his normal clothes. But upon approaching the garish neon sign emblazoned 'Cheeks,' he couldn't help muttering sardonically under his breath, "Classy."

It wasn't just a bar… It was a strip club.

Stepping inside, Tyson was immediately met with a concerning scene. Dr. Selvig had just headbutted an aggressive local unconscious, an uncharacteristically forceful act from the mild-mannered physicist. Tyson paused in the doorway, puzzling over what could have led to such an altercation. Before he could process the situation further, the downed man's companions rushed toward Thor and Selvig.

Tyson watched in dismay as the first local's meaty fist collided with Selvig's jaw, knocking the physicist back into the dingy bar. He dashed forward to intercept the impending brawl. The man who had struck Selvig received a swift punch to the face from Tyson, crumpling unconscious to the floor.

More angry locals closed in, hungry for vengeance. Tyson pivoted as the second man swung wildly, dodging the blow. In a blur of motion, Tyson drove his elbow into the man's soft gut before chopping the back of his neck. The man collapsed like a sack of bricks. The next pair rushed Tyson in unison. He ducked under a wild haymaker, fist thudding into the first man's abdomen. As the man doubled over wheezing, Tyson spun, channeling his momentum into a crushing roundhouse kick. His foot connected with the second man's chest. Both assailants hit the ground hard.

The last of the townies stood motionless, eyes widening as he witnessed his friends swiftly dispatched by Tyson's devastating strikes. Raising his open palms in surrender, he stammered "Alright, we get it." Tyson dismissed the man, allowing him to help his groaning friends away.

Throughout the brief but intense skirmish, Thor had remained alongside Selvig, a spectator. For once, it was not the thunder god at the center of the battle, as the newcomer efficiently dispatched the unruly locals. Thor watched, impressed by his competence at aggressive de-escalation. Patrons slowly resumed their drinking and the atmosphere began to settle. Selvig, gradually recovering from the punch to his jaw, lifted his head to survey the aftermath. The aggressive locals were scattered and moaning on the floor around them.

The stranger sat beside them at the bar, casually placing several hundred-dollar bills on the worn wooden surface. The bartender's attention was instantly drawn, no doubt by the money and the recent bar fight. "I'll cover their drinks and the cost of damages. Bring another round on me," the man said.

Thor nodded in acknowledgment, gratitude evident in his blue eyes. He turned to face the newcomer, taking in his muscular frame and direct gaze. "Thank you, friend," Thor rumbled.

The man extended a gloved hand in introduction. "Tyson," he said. Thor grasped the proffered hand in a firm handshake, feeling the strength coiled in Tyson's grip.

Responding, "Thor."

The bartender quickly returned with three more boilermakers, the glasses hitting the scarred wooden bar with heavy thuds. Tyson's mismatched eyes met Thor's over the drinks. "Now I believe you owe me a story," he said with a hint of humor. "The one about the guy you fought that was bigger than me."

Thor paused, momentarily confused. Then a flicker of recognition lit his bearded face as pieces fell into place; the man's mismatched eyes, height, and strong build. "You were in the mask earlier at the camp," Thor rumbled. Tyson nodded.

Thor studied him for a long moment, appreciation replaced with wariness. This newcomer had helped against the locals, yet his motives were unclear. Thor asked directly, "Why are you here?"

Tyson answered, "I'm a consultant. The military brings me in for weird… situations. And this qualified as weird." His explanation was straightforward, yet still left much unsaid. Thor remained guarded, unsure if this man was friend or foe. Then Tyson's somber face cracked into a grin. "But to answer your question… I'm here to drink, fight if needed, and see beautiful women… if any ever take the stage." He lifted his boilermaker in salute as Thor chuckled, some tension easing from his broad shoulders.

Tyson's amiable, straightforward answer had shifted the atmosphere from strained to almost companionable. Nearby, Erik Selvig gently probed his bruised jaw, still recovering from the powerful blow dealt to him only minutes earlier.

Tyson, leaning forward with interest, prompted, "So, what about that tale you promised?"

Thor's face crinkled into a grin. Grabbing his mug, he launched into a vivid narration of his invasion of Jotunheim, the icy realm of the frost giants. He described leading the charge into the frozen wasteland, his compatriots battling the towering, ferocious giants by his side. Thor recounted with pride how he had fearlessly confronted Laufey, the king of the giants, provoking chaos that had nearly ignited a war between Asgard and Jotunheim.

As Thor concluded his tale, Tyson stared back, clearly impressed. "How big are these frost giants exactly?" he asked.

"Easily three times your height," Thor replied matter-of-factly.

Tyson let out a low whistle, envisioning the scale. Signaling to the bartender, he casually placed another hundred-dollar bill on the worn wooden bar. "Another round, please," Tyson requested.

When the drinks arrived, Tyson lifted his mug in a toast. "To you, Thor Odinson," he proclaimed. "May you find whatever you're searching for here on Earth." His words marked a gesture of respect for the Asgardian prince stranded in a world far from home.

Thor raised his mug in response, the Asgardian and human warriors toasting one another in a show of newfound camaraderie. As the night wore on, they continued to share stories and drinks, their boisterous laughter filling the dive bar. Selvig's eyes grew heavy, either from the alcohol or the blow he took earlier, his head drooping closer and closer to the worn bar top.

When it seemed the astrophysicist was nearing the point of collapse, Thor extended his hand to Tyson in a gesture of gratitude and respect. "Thank you for the drinks, tales, and aid this night, Tyson the Mirage," Thor rumbled, his voice resonating with sincere appreciation.

Tyson firmly grasped the proffered hand, returning the sentiment. "The pleasure was all mine, Thor Odinson," he replied. "I wish you well on your sojourn here on Earth."

Effortlessly, Thor gathered the inebriated Selvig in his arms, hoisting the smaller man over one broad shoulder. Selvig offered no protest in his current state, head lolling as Thor carried him from the bar. The prince strode into the night, bearing his friend.

Left alone at the bar, Tyson lingered for a moment longer, finishing his drink as he mulled over the evening's events. He had decided it was time to take his leave, then, the atmosphere underwent an abrupt transformation.

The overhead lights dimmed while spotlights mounted along the perimeter of a small stage flickered to life, redirecting the attention of all those present toward the elevated platform. Tyson realized his assumption that the strip club operated solely as a bar on this particular night had been mistaken. As the opening notes of a sultry melody began to play from hidden speakers, a figure emerged from the curtains and made her way onto the stage, undulating with the music. The spotlight captured her, demanding the focus of every lingering patron. Tyson found himself momentarily transfixed, his plans to depart temporarily forgotten.

She was striking, so much so that she seemed almost out of place in the seedy club. An emerald bikini with accents of shimmering gold adorned her slender yet shapely frame, accentuating every curve. Her long, golden hair cascaded down to her hips in gentle waves. As she moved, her dance was both seductive and mesmerizing. Each movement flowed effortlessly into the next as if she were an integral part of the melody. The most captivating aspect of her performance, however, was her eyes. They locked onto Tyson with an almost tangible intensity, as if she could reach out and caress his soul with nothing more than her gaze. The hint of mystery within those emerald depths drew Tyson in, holding him captive in a near-hypnotic trance.

Tyson found himself utterly enchanted by her presence. The rest of the seedy bar seemed to fade into the background, becoming the backdrop of her flawless performance. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as he watched her dance, unaware of the moment he had risen from his barstool and sat at the edge of the stage. With the gap between them closed, Tyson was completely captivated by the lithe, blonde dancer. Each sway of her hips and arch of her back drew him deeper into her siren's enchantment.

Her body bent and twisted in time with the provocative rhythms in a display that was both athletic and intensely erotic. Yet underneath the raw sensuality in those hypnotic motions, there was an undercurrent of something more.

Something… magical.

It lurked there in her eyes, in the coy smile that teased the corners of her full, red lips. Tyson leaned forward in anticipation, hungry to catch another glimpse of that primal essence behind the facade. She had him now, heart and soul, and they both knew it. He was already hers for the taking.

As she danced, the woman leaned down towards Tyson, her presence managed to be commanding yet inviting. Despite the pounding music filling the room, her voice was clear as it reached him. "What's your name, handsome?" she asked in a playful tone.

"Tyson," he replied, momentarily unable to form more complex thoughts.

As she continued to dance, her eyes never left him, and Tyson could not look away from her hypnotic stare. "Hello, Tyson. What brought you here tonight?" she asked casually, though her question held an undercurrent of true interest.

Tyson responded openly, "Oh, just some weird shit out in the desert earlier today. Found a magical hammer lodged in the ground that belongs to a fallen Norse god named Thor. No big deal, pretty normal day for me," he answered breezily, the words flowing effortlessly from his lips under her spell. As soon as he finished speaking, he blinked, unsure where this sudden urge to reveal his secrets had come from. But the dancing woman just laughed, a rich, musical sound that returned his thoughts from surprise solely to her presence.

"Is that so? You certainly lead an exciting life, Tyson," she purred, regarding him now with unveiled fascination lighting up her exotic eyes. Tyson wondered what about this woman compelled him to lower his guard and speak so freely.

Amora the Enchantress smiled subtly as she listened to Tyson's candid response, pleased at his willingness to divulge information. Though she appeared merely a dancer, her guise was proving effective at gathering intelligence from this intriguing man. Seamlessly weaving her questioning into the hypnotic rhythm of her dance, Amora probed gently, "And the hammer. Could you lift it?"

Tyson's expression became visibly troubled for a second time, his willpower straining against her enchantment. Sensing his internal struggle, Amora raised her hand in a graceful flourish that blended seamlessly into her dance, yet channeled a reinforcement of her magic's hold over him. Unnoticed by Tyson, the renewed strength of her spell eased the tension within him once more.

"I thought for a moment that I could, but I couldn't. I'm not sure why," he confessed, a flicker of remembered hope and subsequent disappointment in his voice as he revealed his brief belief that Mjolnir would yield to his grasp. She maintained the hypnotic cadence of her dance, ensuring her magics kept Tyson's guard lowered and his secrets flowing freely.

"Don’t be disappointed, you’re very impressive for this… place," Amora reassured him. As the sultry melody of Amora's dance ended, she leaned in, her body undulating sensuously. Her voice was a siren's whisper, intrigued and beguiling. "I'll be seeing you soon," she murmured, her lips nearly brushing his ear. With a coy smile, she turned and sauntered gracefully off the stage, hips swaying.

Tyson shook his head as if emerging from a daydream. His memory of the past few minutes was hazy, lost in a fog of magic and desire. He recalled only impressions. A dancer of such stunning beauty she rivaled, perhaps surpassed any other woman in his mind. And the sense that she had taken a particular interest in him.

With a nonchalant shrug, he left a hundred-dollar bill on the stage for the nameless enchantress.

Stepping out into the night, Tyson walked away briskly. The memory of the incredible stripper lingered, her beauty and magnetism imprinted in his mind. But the details of their encounter, her true identity, and the subtle workings of her magic remained hidden, lost in the sensual haze of her performance.