Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Captain Steve Rogers fastened the straps around his forearm. Some days, he wondered the need, considering his habit of throwing the shield. It would need to come off easily. Luckily, Rogers was more than just any other man. He was a super soldier, intended to be the first of many. But the universe had other plans.

“Captain Rogers!” shouted the man over the intercom, “we’re approaching the drop in five minutes! Get your parachute fastened!”

Steve chuckled at the idea. But the smile faded. This was a battle he was dropping into. A battle in a war he wanted to fight for quite some time. When he was made a super soldier, he thought he was going to get his chance, but still no. Instead, they dressed him up and paraded him around the country. Called him Captain America and boasted about how he stood on the front lines giving the Germans the business. And all the while he had to smile as he held up a shield with painted on bullet marks and wore an outfit with meticulously painted wear and tear. People were dying in battles and he wasn’t. He was no soldier; he was a circus monkey. A caged animal.

So, eventually he broke out of that cage. And when his renegade actions saved countless lives, well, then he was allowed to fight alongside his fellow men. And Steve took that opportunity to heart. No man should take a bullet when he’s been given a shield to stop it.

“Drop in two minutes!” the words snapped Steve out of his thoughts and he fastened his helmet. As the hatch opened, Steve kicked aside the parachute meant for him. It would only slow him down.

The battlefield was a horrific symphony of detonations, shouting, and bullets ripping through the landscape. The rain was heavy and the mud was thick. The Red Skull had no intention of going quietly. He’d blow up his castle rather than surrender. Hell, he’d sink the whole island if it came to that. Steve wasn’t going to let it even get to that point. His landing took out a squad of men pinning down his fellow soldiers. With a single mighty throw of his triangle shield, he cleared out the threats ahead of them for the next forty feet.

“On your feet men!” he shouted, “Red Skull’s scared. And he ought to be! He knows this is the end of the line! We’ve fought too hard to just die here! So, let’s show the Skull that we’re only dying when we’re good and ready!” With his rallying cry, the good Captain pushed forward, storming the castle at the other side of the battlefield. As Rogers led his men, there was a newfound vigor that fueled each of his movements.

This was it.

Hitler was reported dead weeks ago, only Red Skull remained. They were so close to ending it. So close to preventing further bloodshed. So close to going home. So, Rogers charged into the castle, shattering its wooden doors with a shoulder ram and clearing out the entrance with a throw of his shield.

“I’ve never seen a man throw away his protection as much as you,” shouted a soldier from behind, “Got some serious balls on you, Cap!”

“Heh,” Steve chuckled, “I’m working under the assumption they need the protection more than I do!” He threw his shield again.

“At this point, that thing might as well be a frisbee!” said the soldier. Rogers quickly cleaned the dirt off of his shield.

“You’re not the first person to suggest such a thing, Nick.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, friend from Wakanda had similar sentiments.”

“Wakanda?”

“I’m supposed to meet up with him when this is all over!” shouted Cap as he smashed into the next room, “I’ll bring you along if you want, but for now, keep sluggin’!”

The battle raged on as Rogers pushed deeper into the castle. They were winning, but something wasn’t quite right. The enemy, Hydra, there were fighting, yes, but there seemed to be a noticeable lack of desperation to their efforts. This was the last stand, wasn’t it? Why aren’t they giving it their all? Rogers kicked down the door before him.

“Captain,” a voice emerged from the dark room, a voice that seemed to silence all the chaos around them.

“Skull,” grunted Rogers as he entered the room. As soon as he did, the door that he had previously kicked opened shut itself once again. The lights flickered, illuminating the decrepit chamber. “What is--?” asked Rogers as he looked all around him.

“What?” asked Red Skull, his voice coming from all around, “Wouldn’t you like to see what you’ve come so far to destroy? Or would it have helped you sleep better at night if you were able to merely destroy it all without a thought? I know your pitiful country would prefer the latter.” Rogers blinked, bewildered by the displays that surrounded him. Corpses sealed behind glass. Rotting, decaying, twisted in agony and rage, but they displayed a texture foreign to the captain. He had seen death, but not like this. Were they bio-experiments? More victims of Baron Zemo’s sadistic curiosity?

“What are these?”

“Asking questions? Must be the ‘super’ in you, American. You see, my forces fight you yes, but their spirit is not shaken by desperation. Because they, as I, know that this war means nothing.”

“Then why drag it all out?” asked Cap as he attempted to discern the source of Red Skull’s voice.

“Discovery always requires time. No, this war means nothing, because we fight merely over this world.”

“This world?”

“Zemo reached the revelation first. Our skeptical minds dismissed so much of it as legend and myth. But legend and myth have to be inspired by something, yes? Our world, inspired by the one beyond it. But Zemo thinks merely of harnessing the forces beyond to win our wars on this world, when we should instead be thinking of the wars this world will wage on others.”

“You’re insane, Skull.”

“AM I?!” Red Skull shouted, his voice right in Steve’s ear. Steve turned around with barely enough time to block the incoming punch. Red Skull’s fist made contact with the shield, denting it with a thundering clang as Steve was knocked to the floor. “Then let the whole world witness my madness!”

With his proclamation, the walls began to click and crumble. Steve could feel the hairs on his body begin to stand. From the center of the room, a pillar of brilliant and blinding light began to flicker into existence. Though both men seemed unaffected by it all, the room around them began to twist and shatter around them in response to the light’s presence. The walls separating Captain Rogers from his men fell to dust and their confusion and panic flooded into the room.

“Captain Rogers!” one shouted, “What is that!?” As Steve rose to his feet, he could feel the ground rumbling beneath.

“It’s Skull’s hail mary!” Cap shouted back, “Get our men out of the castle! Call for evac! Understand?! Save as many men as you can!”

“And what will you do, Cap?” the soldier asked as Rogers tightened the straps on his dented shield.

“I’ll try to do the same.”

Men rushed out of the crumbling castle, running on ground that was disappearing beneath them. The normal sounds of the battlefield were overpowered by the sound of the Earth cracking open. The water around the island crash and clawed onto the land as the castle fell apart, yet did not collapse, as if something was still holding it all together. Blinding lights flash from inside, trapping all the water and debris it touched suspended in mid-air. The ground the castle stood on tore from the ground as the last of the allied forces made it to safer ground. But that safer ground was vanishing.

The castle was rising. The remainder of the island was falling into the ocean with countless men trapped on it.

“Is it not magnificent, Captain?” belted the Red Skull, “To be seen by the gods themselves?! To be plucked from the Earth itself? To join their ranks as we rightfully deserve?!” Steve looked back, down at the island shrinking below them.

“It’s not magnificent, Skull.” Steve gripped the strap on his shield tightly, “It’s just the thing I gotta stop next.”

With his battered shield in hand, Captain Steve Rogers ran toward the light.

Down below, as the waters threatened to swallow the island, there was a bright flash above. Lights and every color in the rainbow. The castle, it was exploding. No, imploding. Exploding again? But then, it vanished from the sky in a burst of light. The waters settled and the ground stopped shaking. Was it over? As the soldiers began to hear the roar of their planes in the distance, it certainly seemed like it was over.

Miles away, Steve Rogers fell from the sky. He hit the water, it feeling like concrete shattering against his back. Steve could feel his senses fading as he sunk into the water. It was cold and growing colder. Too cold. As his vision blurred, he could’ve sworn he saw a man standing on the water above, looking down at him as the cold became numbing. This was it. This was the end of the war. This was when he got to go home.

But the universe had other plans.

Chapter Text

It was a scorching pain in his chest that shot consciousness back into Tony Stark. Such a searing, intense, and unimaginable pain. Like a salted finger jabbed into a bullet wound. He gasped for air, each breath burning and dry. As he choked on the air, his vision returned. He was… where was this place? What was this place? For a moment, the pain and discomfort subsided to make way for confusion. The last thing Tony remembered was… screaming, bright flashes, and the taste of blood in his mouth. But now? The room he found himself in seemed like one someone would find in a five-star resort.

The bed he lay in had silk sheets and covers and a mattress that felt like you were lying on a cloud. The room was massive, with large windows displaying a breathtaking view. But this view… this wasn’t the US. This wasn’t where he was making his weapons demonstration, this was—

“You are awake,” spoke a voice. Tony’s eyes shifted towards the man reading book at a nearby glass coffee table. It was a man, with a graying pointed beard and circular classes, who looked up from his book as he continued to speak, “I welcome you back to the land of the living, Mr. Stark.”

“Who are you, exactly?” Tony asked.

“Ho Yinsen. I saved your life.”

“Saved my—” the searing pain returned to Tony’s chest as he attempted to sit up. That’s when he noticed the bandages. Bandages caked in blood. “What is--? No, no… I was with the convoy and then—"

The doors to the room swung open and in walked two men. Both wore black suits and a stone-cold expression on their faces. “Mr. Stark,” one spoke, his voice like he chewed glass and gravel for years, “If you would be so kind, your host would like to speak with you. We will escort you to him.” The other man marched over to Tony and seized him by the arm, yanking him out of the bed. There was no strength in Tony’s legs, but the man would not let him fall. The first man, still at the door, produced a what looked like a golden silk robe, which he roughly dressed Tony in. Tony ran his thumb across the sleeves. Definitely silk.

With the room that Tony awoke in, he expecting the halls to be just as, if not more, lavish and he couldn’t help but feel some level of satisfaction when he saw they were a bit more modest. Sure, the wood used seemed luxurious, even with intricate carvings, but they didn’t quite make up the average size of these hallways and lack of complex lighting fixtures. Was he supposed to be impressed by paper lanterns? It reeked of false modesty.

But Tony and the suited men weren’t the only ones that walked the hallways. These men weren’t as sharply dressed as Tony’s entourage, but still maintained some level of class, even with the visible dragon tattoos. There were a lot of them, lugging crates or the weapons within. Tony eyed the firearms and smirked, satisfied with his understanding of his current situation.

The large wooden doors that stood at the end of the hall swung open with a loud creak and small gust of wind. Tony thought the doors appeared cumbersome and probably more of a hassle than they were worth. Tony entered, greeted by a room that dwarfed the one he had awakened in. The walls were lined with enough display cases to put a museum to shame. Each case held a weapon from various points in history, A simple bow and arrow in one case and a flintlock in another. Tony was begrudgingly impressed by the collection.

He heard the large doors close behind him. He didn’t even hear nor notice that the men who had escorted him had left. His attention was then captured by the opening of a side door. In rushed an army of men holding steaming platters of mouthwatering food. As they brought them to the large table that sat in the middle of the room, Tony finally noticed the man sitting at the desk positioned behind the table. He was an Asian man dressed in a simple business attire. His sleeves rolled up to reveal ten metallic rings or bands wrapped around his arms.

“So, you are the famous Tony Stark,” the man spoke, not looking up from the from the paper he was writing upon, “I must say, it is an honor to be in your presence.” He looked up and gave a gentle smile, “I must admit, and it is quite embarrassing, but I thought you’d be shorter.”

“And who are you supposed to be?” replied Tony as he walked towards the table, glancing over the selection before him.

“You may call me Wenwu.” The man stood up and walked towards the table. “I am the leader of this organization. We are called the Ten Rings and we… are your humble hosts.”

“Never heard of you.”

“Oh, I would be surprised if you had. It would have been a massive oversight on my part.”

“Hmm. Well, if I had, I would’ve thought you’d be taller,” Tony shot back, a smug smirk plastered on his face. Wenwu gave small sigh before gesturing to the table between them.

“Sit. Eat. You must be famished.”

“You wouldn’t happen to be a grandfather, would you? All this seems very…”

“Do you intend to starve?” asked Wenwu, raising an eyebrow.

“That.” Tony pointed at him as he plopped himself before the table. Tony shuffled a bit, struggling to make himself comfortable on the ground. “No chairs, huh?”

“I find that their absence grants a sort of, if you’ll forgive the play on words, a chance to ground oneself,” Wenwu explained as he slowly lowered himself to Tony’s level, “It’s often easy for men like us to lose sight of smaller things.”

“Men like us?” asked Tony. Wenwu only nodded in response. Tony snickered slightly before turning his attention back to the banquet before him, “So, what’s your recommendation, Mandarin?”

“You’ll find everything to be quite delicious.”

With that knowledge in mind, Tony began serving himself absurdly huge portions. It wasn’t that he was starving as he had no intention of finishing all of it. He just wanted a lot. Wenwu smirked in amusement.

“Anthony Edward Stark,” Wenwu declared, “Born to Howard and Maria Stark. Showed signs of an immense IQ at an early age, even managing to put together your first circuit board when you were only four. Hacked the pentagon during your high school years merely because you were dared to do so. Attended the best universities in the country, with top grades, rarely having to spend the whole four years, before going on to inherit your father’s company at age twenty-one and elevating it to heights your father could’ve only dreamed of. During your tenure, you designed and built weapons so advanced and destructive that Stark Industries has become the number one weapons contractor in the world. Does all of that sound correct?”

“Might be missing a few things,” Tony spoke with his mouth full, “You planning to eat? I left some for you.”

“And so, with the designs you’re created, you’ve managed to single handedly change the realm of modern warfare at an astonishing rate. Which brings you here today. You see, in the past, the Ten Rings has been nothing but adaptable. We’ve long been unopposed. But then came the weapons of Tony Stark and, suddenly, for the first time, the Ten Rings are to play on equal ground.”

“Ah, now I see. You’re hoping to…”

“Offer a proposition.”

“I was going to say beg. What I’m gathering is that I’m starting to squeeze your nuts and you want me to ease off. That’s understandable.”

“I think you misunderstand,” Wenwu replied with a chuckle.

“No, I don’t think I do,” Tony cut in, wiping his mouth with a napkin, “You’re starting to feel the pressure because your ten rings of glam just aren’t cutting it anymore. You’re seeing the future and you’re not a part of it.”

Wenwu stared back at Tony in silence, who made no attempt to hide the cocky smirk that his lips had curled into. Wenwu took a deep breath.

“What I am proposing is a life-long contract. I shall provide the resources, accommodations… persistent medical care, and in return, you shall create weapons for my Ten Rings. You will be allowed to join us in the new world. In essence, you will be able to continue doing what you do best, while we ensure that your legacy lives on. I am offering you a life that this world will never forget.”

“So… you still are begging, but not for me to stop. Just for me to switch teams.”

“I do hope you will consider it. It would be a shame for someone of your talent to—

“Let me just stop you right there, Mandarin,” Tony interrupted, “This is very… hmmm, ‘flattering?’ It’s not every day a maniac asks for your help. Oh, no… that’s not right, that’s every day. All sorts of sociopaths begging for the chance to throw themselves at my feet. To kiss the ground I walk on for the off-chance that it might lead to them getting their hands on the most advanced and effective weapons in the world. The same weapons, I might add, that are in the hands of the US Armed forces, who will no doubt be using said weapons to bust down your door and throw your little trinkets right into Mount Doom.”

At Tony’s words, the friendly demeanor that Wenwu had tried to maintain had finally dropped and Tony couldn’t help but be satisfied at this accomplishment, so he kept going, “I’m not just any high-value hostage you’re dealing with. Cooperation? You’d better start working on the groveling.” But Wenwu did not grovel, instead, he continued to stare at Tony, unblinking.

“And is that your final answer?” he finally asked.

“Did I stutter? You might think you hold all the cards just because I’m, technically speaking, your prisoner. Not to mention whatever these bandages are hiding. But without me, it sounds like you have nothing.”

“Prisoner?” smiled Wenwu, almost taken aback, “You’re my guest, so long as you choose to be.”

“And if I refuse, what? You’ll kill me?”

“Not immediately. First, we would have to notify your company about your decision. I assume, Miss Pepper Potts is the appropriate route, yes?” At the mention of Pepper’s name, the smug smile on Tony’s face faded. “She is your personal assistant, correct? I’m certain she’d be heartbroken.” Wenwu quickly shot Tony a knowing glance. He then rose to his feet, “I know everything about you, Stark. When this conversation started, you stated, quite arrogantly, that you’ve never heard about me. So, let me tell you exactly who I am. It was thousands of years ago when I found these rings. Thousands of years ago when I founded the Ten Rings. Thousands of years ago when I was at the mercy of others for the very last time. Since then, I have fought more battles than you have blinked in your lifetime. I have lost none. And I do not plan to lose any in the future.

“You are worlds away from where we acquired you. Your allies will not find you and those who are unfortunate enough to stumble towards our borders will not see another day. So, Mr. Stark, what is your life, to me? Well, right now, should you live, you will immediately tip the scales back in my favor. Should you die… without your consistent advancements, the Ten Rings will inevitably reseize the battlefield. Your life and death… they serve only me.”

Wenwu watched as Tony struggled to find something to say: a witty retort, an impressive defiance, something. But Tony had nothing and this fact was etched onto his face. Wenwu smiled, “So, when do you wish to start?”

****

“Vladimer Von Doom married Carmilla, begetting Kristoff,” the disheveled man cloaked in green muttered as he hunched over the dimly lit work bench. His hands worked the screwdrivers in a way reminiscent of a master painter wielding a brush, in spite of the meager resources he had scrounged together. He took scraps tossed aside and gave them new life. “Kristoff married Cneajna, begetting Mihnea…” he continued.

“Lord Doom!” an equally disheveled man with dirt smeared across his face announced as he entered his Lord’s tent, “More arrive at our Keep seeking sanctuary!”

Victor sighed as he gently placed his tools onto the workbench.

“It cannot be helped.” He replied, caressing his current invention like it was an abused animal, “I will inspect our visitors personally and I will determine if their goals are indeed their own.” Victor adjusted his hood, making sure his bandaged face remained hidden as he turned around to face his servant, “Then we shall either welcome them into our keep or we will defend what is rightfully ours.”

“Yes, Lord Doom!”

Victor Von Doom exited his tent, greeting the inhabitants of his modest keep. The inhabitants, in turn, greeted him back, with some singing their praises of him or bowing their heads in reverence. Victor offered them simple nods of his head and gentle gestures of his hands in return for their affection. He looked not in any of their eyes nor faces. He had no intention of being distracted.

Ahead of him, he saw his men guiding two others, battered and scruffy men, to the center of the crowd and tents. Upon seeing the man cloaked in green, the two men immediately knelt before him.

“W-we heard whispers in the mountains…” one of them spoke, “whispers of a man cloaked in green. Of his Keep right outside the borders of Latveria. Offering free food… free water… shelter to those who enter.”

“And I am to believe this is all you heard?” Victor spoke. All eyes of the inhabitants were on him.

“What?” asked the second man.

“You hear of free food, water, and power, yet we know in this world that nothing is truly free,” Victor stated in a cold, matter-of-fact tone as he walked towards them, “Did you truly make the journey here without ever once inquiring whether or not there was an exchange for such services?”

“I… we…” the second man stammered, looking at the first for direction.

“It is a simple yes or no question,” interrupted Victor, leaning in as if he were speaking to a child, “I am kind enough to ask you questions I know you are capable of answering. My keep has been here for years. There is no shortage on information. So, my question is simple: do you choose ignorance… or deception?” The first man glanced down, before darting at Victor, knife in hand, determined to inflict a fatal blow. Any lesser man would’ve met their end right there, but there was nothing lesser about Victor. He stood there, unblinking, the wrist of his assailant held tightly in the grasp of his bare hand. He glared at both men before him and spoke in a tone oozing with disappointment, “I see… you choose ignorance.”

Slowly, Victor twisted the wrist of his attacker. Even when the knife dropped to the floor, Victor did not relent. “Do you know… the history of the Von Dooms?” asked Victor, staring into the face of the man who attacked as his expressions were contorted by fear and pain. “When I was a child, my father would tell me countless stories of my ancestors. Vladimer Von Doom was a loyal knight. Defender of not just the rulers of Latveria, but of her people. Vladimer married a woman, Carmilla, begetting Kristoff. This son would also serve Latveria and her people. And so did all of the sons of Von Doom. But they serve no more… as those who now sit on the throne are not worthy of our service.”

“They are the rightful rulers of Latveria!” the man squealed out, pain stripping his voice of any strength he attempted to project.

“As they stood on our shoulders, they let the loyal knights of Latveria starve and die,” Victor responded, “But apparently, that is too slow a fate now. I stumbled around the borders of my home for years and the moment I begin to pick myself back up, the ‘rightful ruler’ becomes afraid.” Victor gave a final twist of the man’s wrist. Something snapped. Victor released the limp appendage. “As he should be.”

“He will have your head!”

“He will fail. I asked before: what would be the price of free food and water? The answer is simple: love and loyalty. I send you back with your lives as a token of peace. And as you leave, look around you and see how much love your ‘rightful king’ is incapable of achieving. And know that we do not seek war. But should he bring one, Doom will not lose.”

****

The crates were dropped on the ground with a heavy thud. Tony stared at each one brought in, his eyes focusing in on his own name emblazoned on every single one.

“And with a couple more shipments arriving later in the week,” Wenwu continued explaining, “you should have enough familiar materials to produce good work. In the meantime, we will make the necessary arrangements to establish a flow of proper resources and parts.”

“Tell me, Mandarin,” Tony mumbled, silently counting each of the crates that now filled his living quarters, “You obviously have backdoor access to my company. Why don’t you just kill me? You even said my death would still benefit you. So, why not?”

“Does one not always keep their best toys close to themselves?” asked Wenwu as he quietly did his own count of the crates, “Yes, we have a limited backdoor access to your inventory. But I must stress it is limited. If we were to want some of the more impressive and up-to-date weapons that the US Armed Forces have their hands on, well, wouldn’t that draw a couple eyes? But with an exclusive contract with the man, we can bypass that entirely.”

“You… So, the guns aren’t enough, you want your hands on—" Tony stumbled over his words as he quickly realized exactly what kind of weapons Wenwu was talking about, “You want the missiles, you want the--Some of that stuff is designed to move mountains!”

“Sounds impressive, I can’t wait to see such a weapon in action.”

“And who’s paying for the demonstration? Am I supposed to believe you just want more stuff for your displays? You attacked a military convoy on US soil to get to me! You used my weapons on young American soldiers, and if you think that’s something I’ll just let happen again—"

“Mr. Stark, if you expect me to believe that it is a bleeding heart that’s—"

“Do you even know their names?!”

“Do you?” asked Wenwu, an icy, yet amused glare in his eyes, “I’m a fair man, Mr. Stark. Provide me with the name of just one of the soldiers in your convoy… and I’ll provide the transportation to any location on Earth you desire.” Even as the color drained from Tony’s face Wenwu’s expression did not change. “Just one?” Wenwu’s voice was dripping with utter disappointment. He gestured for one of his men to bring him a tablet, to which Wenwu quickly searched for something on it, “How about Private Brian Hauks?” Wenwu flipped the tablet around and Tony was greeted by the gruesome image of the man’s remains. His first instinct was to look away, but some part of him forced him to keep looking at it. Wenwu went on, “He died when his jaw was shredded by a shot from your A6-48 shotgun. A personal favorite amongst my men.” He moved his finger across the tablet, showing the image of another, “Oh, what about Lieutenant Hilary Bryne? Two shots from your TS-63 punctured her lungs. She succumbed in a matter of minutes.” Another horrific image, “Maybe Corporal Frank Hickman? He was in the driver’s seat when the second shell from your S22 hit, ripping away his legs and fingers…” Tony had no words. He only stared at the images before him, burning every single detail into his mind. “Any of those come to mind?” asked Wenwu as he handed the tablet off to another. Tony’s eyes remained glued to the tablet, even as Wenwu resumed talking, “You’re just trading one faceless enemy for another. And now that we’ve established that it’s not morals holding you back…” Wenwu pat Tony on the shoulder as he walked past him, “I will be expecting results soon.”

Despite Wenwu having left the room minutes ago, Tony remained where he stood. Locked in place by the images of his handiwork swirling in his head. They were his handiwork, weren’t they? But he built those weapons to protect, didn’t he? Yet, each wound, each mutilation, that is what he designed each weapon to inflict. It was evidence that they worked perfectly. It’s what he built them to do…

“You said you saved my life?” Tony spoke suddenly, snapping out of his trance. Yinsen, looked up from the weapons crate he was inspecting.

“Yes,” answered Yinsen, “You were caught in an explosion. Shrapnel to the heart. I’ve tried to remove as much I can, but there’s still a lot left. Wenwu deemed you stable enough to work for the time being. In a couple of days, I’ll have to take another look—"

“Why’d you do it?” asked Stark as he stumbled towards a nearby chair, plopping himself down as if his legs had given out.

“Hmm?”

“Why’d you save me? You probably know what I’ve done.”

“In fact, I do, Anthony. Seen it first hand, actually.” Yinsen walked towards Tony, who didn’t even seem to register his presence, “When the Ten Rings came to my village, they did so with weapons adorned with your name. And for a time, I blamed you.”

“Then why didn’t you just let me die?” Tony spoke, staring on ahead like he was seeing ghosts.

“I imagine they would’ve killed me for doing so…”

“I’m sure you could’ve made it look convincing.”

“Is this where your mind goes? Faced with the consequences of your actions you… simply wish you could’ve avoided it all?”

“No, I… Why am I the one still alive?” Tony finally looked Yinsen in the face, showing him his red and watery eyes, like he had refused to blink for hours, “Those soldiers, they did nothing wrong and… But, I’m still here and they’re…”

“Why did fate spare you?”

“Yes.”

“Unfortunately, that is something you must figure out yourself. I was like you once. Not a weapons builder, but a man of the sciences. I always thought the next discovery is what allowed me to face each day with vigor. But, when I buried my wife, I couldn’t fathom a life beyond her. My work, what I had dedicated my life to, I couldn’t bring myself to continue it. I wanted nothing more than to join her. But I kept on living. I turned my mind away from the theoretical sciences and took up medicine. I found my second life helping others live theirs. So, I don’t think you were given another chance to merely keep living the life you already led. And I think you feel the same… So, Mr. Stark, why do you think you still live?”

Tony’s answer came minutes later: when he cracked open one of the crates. There was something in his eyes as he cracked open another crate, searching its contents for something specific. “Something I can help you find?” asked Yinsen as he strolled to Tony’s side.

“My dad nearly spent his whole life doing what I did… But in the years before I lost him, he had made a dramatic shift in gears. Moving away from weapons. In all my years, I’ve never seen my dad so frantic to figure something out… He never did. Most people never knew him past the weapons part...” Tony stopped, his words momentarily choking him. But his resolve returned. Reignited, almost. “You said I had a couple of days before my next check-up. How many days exactly?”

“Um, I would say… three days?”

Tony sighed, before scanning the corners of the room, observing the video cameras placed to keep watch on them. He took a deep breath, “Then it sounds like I got seventy-two hours to crack dad’s last riddle.”

And Tony intended to use those seventy-two hours to their fullest. Within the first hours, Tony had sketched the blueprints from memory, the crates were emptied, the weapons inside were disassembled and stripped of material. At times, Tony watched his partner, Yinsen, in awe: an older man slipping into the mind and body of his younger self to construct machines capable of miracles. By the end of the first day, they had discarded their malfunctioning first attempt. On the second day, the burning in Tony’s chest began to grow. His breathing became more labored. Two more attempts were produced and subsequently thrown out. On the third day, Tony could barely stand. Barely lift his arms. Barely breathe. Yet, he pushed on.

On until the final hour.

“I-I was optimistic at first, Anthony,” stammered Yinsen, “But we are nearing a point of no return. If we are to ready you for another surgery, the time is now.”

“Then let’s do it,” gasped Tony, tossing aside his arc welding helmet and placing their current prototype before Yinsen.

“I don’t understand, why not wait until after the procedure? We’ll have more time.”

“Because,” Tony grunted, a sharp pain exploding in his chest, “If we did this right, this will be the procedure.” Another pulse of pain. Tony grasped at his chest, seeking to soothe the pain in any way, “Okay! Okay, we got to get moving!”

Yinsen approached a keypad on the wall, punched in the necessary numbers, and waited as the wall opened up, revealing a shelf of pristine medical tools.

“Anthony,” Yinsen muttered, examining both the tools and contraption before him, “If this doesn’t work. That’s it.”

“I know,” spoke Tony as he made his finishing touches to his device, feeding the wires to a chest plate that Yinsen fastened on him, “We got this.”

Tony flipped the switch and the room darkened. The pain in his chest was almost numbing, with his heartbeat in his ears growing ever weaker. This was it. This was it. Then came the crackle, the screech, like the universe itself growled and cried.

Tony could no longer hear his heart beat.

The device began to illuminate, growing brighter until it became the sole source of light in the room. It hummed as the light within danced as though it were alive and full of a youthful grace. Tony let out a small sigh as he gazed upon it.

“Do you see it, dad?” Tony mumbled aloud.

“What is it?” asked Yinsen, his gaze transfixed on the device before them both.

“My dad called it the Arc Reactor. It’s going to keep my heart going for the foreseeable future.”

“It’s oddly… beautiful… wouldn’t you say?”

The numbing pain in Tony’s chest gave way for one far more searing and relentless.

“You said you blamed me, but you’ve been nothing but cordial and helpful for the past three days. What changed?”

“It has historical precedence, Anthony. Men, brilliant men, advancing our minds and progress, some even knew that they were building weapons, yet they remained unaware of what they truly had in their hands… that is, until someone else used what they had built. I don’t imagine it was your dream to hurt people.”

“No. But hurting people is my reality. And if I died, it’s all that would be left.” Tony gazed upon the Arc Reactor, the pain in his chest continuing to grow, but amongst that pain, he could hear it: A heartbeat. A heartbeat like a pulse traveling through metal. “But I’m not dead yet.”

****

“BURN IT ALL DOWN!” the commander ordered. His words were followed by the fwoosh of several flamethrowers lighting the tents of the Keep ablaze. “Find the man in green! Our lord wants his head on a pike!”

The Latverian soldiers marched through the burning keep, firing indiscriminately. Their garb not unlike most infantry, but it was the metal face masks that marked them as Latverian soldiers. These masks, sculpted into stoic and emotionless human faces, gave victims a cold and callous image to take to the grave. And with the quantity of bullets the soldiers rained down upon the fleeing inhabitants, many were going to take that image with them.

“Man in Green?” one of them muttered to another over the gunfire, “Is that really all the information we have on this man?” the soldier stepped over a body riddled with holes, “This one here wears green. How will we know which is the man we seek?”

As if to answer, Victor emerged from the flames, his green cloak charred and smoking, lugging a massive makeshift gun in his arms.

“The electric chair,” Victor spoke through gritted teeth, “is able to reduce the human body to lifelessness with a mere five-hundred to two-thousand volts.” Victor took aim at the armed soldiers slaughtering his subjects, “I had developed this generator to supply my subjects with free electricity and designed it to be able to produce a surplus of 200 million volts.” Huge arcs of lightning blasted from his weapon, disintegrating the soldiers closest to him and shredding through the rest of the bodies in its path. “You do the math.”

“There he is! The man in green! Kill him!” Ordered the commander. Victor retreated back into the flames as the soldiers opened fire on where he once stood.

“Speak my name! Speak it!” Victor shouted from behind walls of flame and thick pillars of black smoke, “You come here with your men in metal masks! Mockeries of Latveria’s knights!” An arc of electricity burst out from behind the smoke, burning holes through several soldiers, “Mockeries of my family! You kill my people! Burn my keep! Demand my head! Yet, you cannot even speak my name?!” Another arc of lightning. Another handful of charred bodies drop to the ground. The commander looked around with beads of sweat forming on his brow as he desperately attempted to count how many men he had left. “Is it ignorance or fear of my name?!”  Victor spoke from behind the commander. The commander swung around swiftly, gun in hand, and fired point blank right between Victor’s eyes. But as the smoke from the barrel cleared, he was greeted only by a bloody, bandaged face staring back at him with cold contempt.

“I had planned to use these shields to protect my keep,” explained Victor, as he closed his fingers around the barrel of the gun still aimed at his face, “but you have forced my hand.”

“What makes you think your name is even worthy of speaking?” the commander spat, pulling down the hammer of his pistol.

“Empty the magazine, if you so wish. It will not make me move. It will not even make me blink.”

“The Americans knew your name. Did they speak it with such reverence?” As the words left the commander’s lips, Victor’s eyes grew dark. “Did they drop to their knees in your presence? Beg you to recite your family tree as if it were a bedtime story?” the commander smiled as he observed the faintest twitch at the corner of Victor’s mouth. “Tell me a couple names, man in green.” Victor’s grip on the pistol’s barrel grew tighter. “I wonder… did they laugh… when you told them your name was Doom?”

With a shout like that of a gorilla’s roar, Victor pounced on the commander. A few more shots fired off from the pistol as the two fell to the ground. The commander clawed at Victor’s face as Victor brought down his fists, growling like a rabid dog. Then the growling became guttural roars as Victor’s assault continued and the struggling of the commander grew weaker.

Eventually, Victor snapped back to reality as he realized his fists were no longer meeting flesh, but instead dirt soaked with blood, brain, and shattered pieces of bone.

Victor knelt there, shaking, with blood dripping down his chin. As, he wiped it from his face, he made the realization. His eyes darted around, observing the gaze of his subjects upon his bare, scarred face. They were never meant to see him like this. Victor clawed at his shoulder, searching for his cloak, but it had fallen away during the scuffle. As if sensing his lord’s discomfort, a small boy approached Victor with the tattered and charred remains of his green cloak in hand.

“Milord,” spoke the boy earnestly, offering the rags to his lord. Victor looked into the boy’s concerned eyes and a wave of indescribable shame washed over him.

Victor quickly snatched the cloak from the child and wrapped it around himself, concealing his face yet again.

 Victor turned his attention to the felled Latverian soldiers and the metal masks they wore. He turned back to his subjects, “We must ask ourselves: why did they come for me? They refuse to even speak my name, yet they came for me. For what crime? For giving you shelter? For giving you what should be yours by right? These are what are considered crimes in Latveria. Is this the Latveria you would wish to return to?”

“No!” shouted his subjects.

“They will send more. They will send more men in metal masks to take me away. Will you allow that?”

“We won’t let them take you!”

“Then stand with me as we tear this unjust regime down.” Victor knelt down and peeled the metal off of a felled soldier’s head, “They wear these masks to hide their faces as they fight for a ruler who will not even speak my name! These masks are a symbol of the cowardice that has taken root in our once great home. So, I will forge a new one.”

First, it was only a handful of subjects who immediately began looting the corpses closest to them, but more and more, like wildfire spreading, did the inhabitants of the keep join it on stripping the bodies of metal. As the metal became molten, Victor dismantled the machines he had built to power his keep and, from their pieces, built weapons of great power to arm himself and his followers.

Soon, there was no more metal left to melt down. There was certainly not enough for a complete set of armor, but enough to send a message. As the pieces drew to completion, Victor’s subjects began to fasten the pieces onto his body. Two gauntlets. A chest plate. And…

“Bring me the mask,” Ordered Victor.

“But, master, it has not completely cooled yet!” warned one.

“It’s his orders. He cannot wait as others can!" another spoke, hushing the first.

And so, the still scalding and steaming mask was brought before Victor, who looked upon it, unblinking. He stretched out his arms, gesturing as if the mask itself was a gift that he must openly accept. Yet, his expression remained that of a cold and unfeeling stare.

“Never again will mortal eyes gaze upon Victor Von Doom,” he muttered as the mask pressed, and burned, into his skin.

The searing pain was such that even Victor was caught off by its sudden overtaking of his body. He curled forward, his hands reached for his face, almost like he desired to pry the mask off of his face, but he stopped short of doing so. Within a few short moments his hunched posture relaxed and his haggard breathing grew steady. He looked up at the darkened sky and let out a content sigh.

“Latveria,” he spoke, “Your loyal knight returns…”

****

The guard didn’t even hear the door to the surveillance room open nor close. He wasn’t even aware that Wenwu had entered the room until he spoke.

“Mr. Stark is doing well?”

“Oh, sir! I, uh, he—” the guard flipped a couple switches, bringing the security camera feed of Stark’s room to the main screen. “As you can see, they are both hard at work.” Indeed, the feed showed Stark and Yinsen, clear as day, working, building, and conversing. Whatever they were building, they appeared too early in its construction for anyone to properly make out what it was. Wenwu stared at the feed in silence for a while.

“Three weeks since his last procedure,” Wenwu muttered, “Yinsen has apparently outdone himself. Stark appears to have made a full recovery. It’s a shame that we won’t be able to use his health to our advantage,” Wenwu turned to leave, muttering, “but we will find other avenues.” However, as he approached the door, he stopped just short. He quickly turned around, staring intently at the main screen once again.

“Sir?” asked the guard.

“Remind me: Our guests are forbidden to possess blades, as they might bring harm upon themselves. The only access our guests have to blades is with the surgical equipment kept behind a safe, which requires Yinsen to input a code to open. And once open, we will be notified of its usage, so we may ensure that our guests use them responsibly.”

“Yes.”

“In addition, the safe is on a timer. Should the safe stay open past the timer, the entire facility would be alerted and we would immediately enter the room to give our medical assistance.”

“Yes.”

“And Yinsen has not input the code in the last three weeks?”

“Have I overlooked something, sir?”

“Well, if what you say is true, and Stark and Yinsen have had no access to any blades for three weeks, then tell me…” Wenwu pointed a finger at the screen, directly at Tony Stark’s face, “Why hasn’t Stark started to grow a beard yet?”

The guard stared at the screen, his heart sinking into his stomach as Wenwu sounded the alarm.

Hordes of men, armed to the teeth, rushed down the hallways as the alarms blared. Soon, each horde would meet, converging down a singular hallway towards a single door. Wenwu marched at the front. “Stark and Yinsen have played us for fools,” spoke Wenwu, “And until we figure out how, we must assume that the two have been able to build uninterrupted for three weeks. There’s no telling what will be waiting for us on the other side of that door.” Wenwu ran his fingers along the rings on his forearm, with the inscriptions carved along the rings’ surfaces glowing and humming at his touch, “But whatever it is, we shall put it down.”

But as Wenwu approached, the doors blasted open with a thunderous BOOMF! The force flung Wenwu against the nearest wall, knocking the wind out of him completely. Guards coughed, choking on the clouds of dust and smoke created by whatever blew the doors out. Even with their ears ringing, the men could still hear the faint sound of heavy footsteps.

“You were right, professor!” shouted Tony as he stepped out from behind the cloud of smoke, his body encased in a towering body of moving iron and scrap with a brilliant light shining from his chest, “They took the bait.” From the smoke behind Tony emerged another mech, similarly built and just as functional. Another light beaming from its chest. “Come on, Yinsen, let’s go find where they’re stocking my weapons.”

Onward marched the two unstoppable engines of metal power. The sound of panicked gunfire filled the halls. The darkest corners were lit by the muzzle flashes of guns and the sparks of deflected bullets. The men foolish enough to rush the two armored scientists were literally tossed and thrown aside like ragdolls.

“How’s the suit working for you?” asked Tony as the two cleared another corner.

“I will admit, I doubted this suit would be able to carry us even this far, but, truly, this arc reactor technology is phenomenal! Feeling no delay between inputs and action!”

As the two continued on, unstoppable in their approach, their opposition began to come to terms with their situation and would scatter and regroup.

The two escapees turned a corner and a large metal door came into view, a sign reading "Authorized Personnel Only" in red Chinese characters was emblazoned upon it.

"That has to be their primary weapons cache!” shouted Yinsen as he worked a mechanism equipped to his forearm. As he pressed it into the metal door, it became superheated, melting through the door as if it were butter, “We must work quickly – Wenwu's men will regroup." In response, Tony switched on the flamethrowers equipped on his armor, but Yinsen was quick to discourage, “Save them, Anthony. You will need it for the pyre!” Yinsen upped the output and within moments, the two walked over the oozing molten metal into the armory. Yinsen quickly switched on his own flamethrowers, “Let’s be done with it, Anthony!” However, Tony stood amidst the shelves of weapons as if he were in a trance. “Anthony?” Yinsen called out.

“Since I was twenty-one.” Tony spoke, “I spent every year since I was twenty-one on these.” Tony’s flamethrowers then switched on and the weapons burned in the all-consuming fire.

Wenwu stirred awake, a bursting pain in the back of his head introduced itself before even his hearing returned. An attempt to massage the pain left his fingers feeling sticky. He examined the blood that stained his fingers and sneered at the thought of having to get it stitched when the situation was over. Back on his feet, Wenwu entered the room that had housed his guests. His sights immediately landed on the camera that was supposed to keep them monitored and the contraption wired into it. Something to delay the footage? Loop it? A combination of both? It was far too late to figure it all out now. He glanced over at the empty crates, the scraps of metal littering the floor, the very weapons he had supplied stripped of material. Even with the surveillance footage tampered, it was clear the two were in a hurry. Wenwu couldn’t help but imagine what the two could’ve built with the proper resources and time. A thought unlikely to become reality. The rings on his forearms began to hum once again.

“Come on, Professor,” shouted Tony, “We’re nearly there, I know it!”

“Surely,” Yinsen responded, “Wenwu’s men will be waiting for us at the compound’s exit. And I have my doubts that we have enough in our reserves to match their firepower!”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it!”

“Mr. Stark!” Wenwu called out from behind. Before Tony could even react, Yinsen pushed him aside as a ring pulsating with energy ripped through the metal chest plate of his armor, shattering the arc reactor powering his suit. As Yinsen crumpled to the ground, the ring returned back to Wenwu, sliding up his forearm along the other rings wrapped around it. Wenwu let a smug smirk creep onto his face.

Tony’s chest burned again as he gritted his teeth and felt as though his ribcage was about to collapse. As Wenwu readied another quick strike, a beam of sparks and plasma burst from Tony’s chest with an unrelenting might. Quickly, Wenwu changed tactics, and, with the rings on his forearm, deflected the incoming blast as best he could. Even without taking the full brunt of the blast, Wenwu was knocked off his feet. As he hit the ground, the ceiling above where he once stood caved in. Tons of debris came crashing down, a massive barrier separating Wenwu and Stark.

Wenwu snarled at the delay before ejecting the rings from his forearms into the debris with a thundering blow that shook the foundation they stood on. But on the other side, Tony dropped to his knees, smoke erupting from his chest accompanied by the faint smell of burning flesh. An itching pain seared through his sternum. But Tony’s attention was on Yinsen. “No, no, no!” he shouted, “It shouldn’t have been you.” Tony’s hand hovered above the molten metal surrounding the splintered and flickering arc reactor in Yinsen’s chest plate. Yinsen’s armor was dead in the water and Tony had to do something fast. As soon as the thought occurred to Tony, he attempted to act on it. “We can switch it out!” Tony shouted, armored hands fumbling around his chest attempting to get a grip of his own reactor.

“Anthony…” Yinsen said weakly.

“You’re almost there!” Tony continued, as if Yinsen had said nothing.

“Anthony!” Yinsen shouted, mustering just enough strength to place his heavy metal hands on Tony’s. Yinsen needn’t say any more. Tony slowly relaxed his arms. He stared down at Yinsen: a man immobilized by the very armor he had built to protect him. Guilt, shame, regret, anger, frustration, and sadness swirled within Tony before he could finally muster a single sentence:

“Thank you for saving my life.”

“Don’t waste it. Don’t waste it, Anthony.”

As Tony solemnly rose to his feet, Yinsen flipped a couple switches on his waist in sequence: a failsafe he and Tony had decided upon to keep the armor out of the wrong hands.

“Goodbye.”

As Wenwu hammered away at the debris, nearly breaking through to the other side, he stopped suddenly. More men gathered behind Wenwu as he sniffed the air.

“Pull back,” he grunted as he walked past them, “Get our remaining men to the courtyard entrance. Keep Stark there until I arrive.”

Moments later, the halls were filled with flame as Yinsen’s suit detonated. And it was that same brilliant gust of flame that blew the doors off of the courtyard entrance. Reflexively, a number of men immediately fired into the columns of thick black smoke, only to stop once it was clear there was nothing to hit. Not yet, as the thundering footsteps came moments later. As soon as he emerged from the smoke, every gun in that courtyard fired at the iron man wreathed in flame. Tony looked on as the men unloaded every bit of lead they had into him and simply breathed in. Out came the flame from his forearms as he marched through the courtyard. With his own hands he tore down the doors that blocked his path to freedom and then he kept walking. Walking and walking until he completely vanished from sight…

****

“My liege!” the masked soldier shouted as they stumbled into the throne room, “He is at the gates!”

The tired tyrant barely stirred in his seat as he heard his soldier’s panicked words. His fingers played with the golden chain between the clasps of his emerald cloak.

“Do we have enough men to hold him at bay?” spoke he, down from his elevated throne.

“My liege,” the soldier quickly knelt before the massive dais, “We have men, but… they are letting him pass. He will make it to you with minimal resistance.”

“Then it is lost,” the tyrant sighed.

“Are we to surrender then?”

“No.” spoke the tyrant, his eyes not even on the man before him, but rather the large doors that led into his chamber, “If he enters this room. Kill him. That is an order.” There was little the soldier could do to hide the fear that had overtaken his body, but he nodded in acceptance. So, they waited, for what felt like hours, for the doors to the chamber to blast open and for the usurper to make his grand entrance. But, instead, the doors slowly creaked open, as if being given only a tender push, and in walked the man cloaked in green. “You have your orders,” spoke the tyrant from his throne.

Trembling, the soldier approached the intruder with his weapon raised, but his nerves kept him from striking. Victor reached out, gently capturing the man’s wrist in his iron grasp.

“The men before you were ordered the same. Yet, here I am.” He spoke, his voice cold and metallic, yet oddly comforting. “I imagine you have family, yes?” The soldier nodded. “Then go to them. Tell them everything shall be alright and understand that this time it will no longer be a comforting lie.” He released his grasp and the soldier scurried out of the room.

“A pity,” the tyrant muttered from his throne, “It would have been enlightening to see the power that earned you such notoriety in the past weeks.”

“You have made the knights of Latveria disposable,” The hooded intruder spoke as he began to ascend the steps to the throne.

“And you have disposed of many, Victor.”

Victor halted his ascent.

“So, you do know my name. Or is it that you merely learned of it in the preceding weeks?”

“Do I look like a fool to you, Victor?”

“There are many words I would use to describe you.”

“But do you think me a fool? Or do you think that every thought you have is the first time anyone has ever had it?” Victor did not respond, so the tyrant kept going, “Disposability? What is it that you’re wearing right now?” Victor remained silent, “Let me tell you what I did hear over the past couple weeks,” he rose from his throne, descending only a couple steps, “Latveria’s finest and bravest stripped of their weapons, armor, and status… all melted down to become the pieces of your armor. And it looks like you have a complete set. So, how many pieces are stained with disposable blood?”

“You sent them to their deaths.”

“And you granted it to them. We can keep going in circles all night if you wish,” he turned to return to his throne, “But, I imagine you have other things you would rather accomplish.”

“How perceptive.”

“Perceptive enough to recognize you never answered my previous question,” he sat back upon the throne, “Do you think yourself so unique, just so above us all? Just… our perfect savior?”

“Better than you.”

“Ah, but that is not an answer.” The tyrant smirked, “But you are right, I did not know your name until after I gave the order to burn down your little hovel. I knew of the Von Dooms, certainly, but of you? What reason did I have?”

“I would choose your next words carefully,” growled Victor, taking another step.

“Did you not come here to kill me? To remove me from where I belong? What do you threaten me with now?”

“How slowly do you wish to die?”

“Ha! An empty threat,” the tyrant leaned back in his seat, “I say the right words and I’ll be dead before you’d even realize your fingers were wrapped around my throat. Isn’t that what happened to one of my disposable men? Is that what happened back in America?”

“What?” Victor halted his ascent yet again, taken aback by the question. The tyrant leaned forward.

“Well, when I finally did bother to learn about you, your time at Empire State stood out to me the most. What a collection of minds. Stark was there too, yes? Did you take the same classes? I simply couldn’t imagine what it was like for you to be in the presence of someone like him.”

“Stark is an imbecile.”

“Really? I didn’t come across any story of him being… removed… from the institute. Just you. It was just you that they kicked to the side of the road.”

“I’ll have your tongue.” Victor spoke through gritted teeth, taking two more steps.

“For what reason? I speak of your misfortunes and you take it as a personal afront. I pity your situation! Stark builds an empire of riches and power, all while you attempt to make a kingdom from scrap and leavings.”

“You dare pity me?” Another step, “You think you can speak as though you are separate from my own history?” And another step, “Your petty ego has starved my home! Beaten down its spirit and when I gave it a helping hand, you sought to end me! Just like you had done my family years ago!”

“You think me a villain for how I treat your family. For not knowing your name. But you are to me, as you are to the rest of the world. In Latveria, the name Von Doom might mean something to those still clinging to a bygone era, but to the rest of the world? To them it is a silly name. I can imagine those in America couldn’t help but chortle upon first hearing it. Did they laugh, Victor?” Victor stopped in his tracks. “Did they laugh at your proud family name?” the tyrant smirked as he watched Victor’s body tremble slightly at his words, “Did the Americans make you feel small, Victor?” And with that, Victor broke off the eye contact, looking down at the steps before him. “They told me you made the mask first,” the tyrant continued his taunting, “Is that why you did it? To hide the shame on your face? Or is it to grant you some air of mystery? Begging others to take notice of you? To take your family name seriously? Doom?!”

Victor only stared at the ground in complete silence. Doing so for what felt like an eternity. But eventually, he resumed his ascension of the steps, and while doing so, he never once broke eye-contact with the tyrant.

“When I was only fifteen years of age, my mother fell ill,” Victor spoke softly, “All whom we sought help from informed us that she was not long for this world. Even if you had loosened your grasp and allowed her the medical attention she needed, there was supposedly little that could be done to help. Everyone told me her death was inevitable. But I did not believe such a thing. I scoured not just the country, but the continent, seeking the means to heal my mother. Science, mysticism, anything that I thought might allow her to see another sunrise. To see her boy become a doctor who could solve or fix anything. And two years later, I could build machines that could power entire continents… mastered magic that could move mountains. But what could it do for my mother?” Victor reached the top of the dais and muttered softly, “Nothing.

“She died. Died feeling cold and hollow. And I do not know if she ever truly believed I could save her. Perhaps, she knew, from the very start, that she was doomed… But I do not feel small. All I feel is that I had been slighted by a world that had doomed me to fail. And that is not the world I deserve.” Victor lunged forward, his cold iron fingers grasping and squeezing the throat of the man before him, “Not the world my people deserve!” the man clawed at Victor’s wrists for a brief moment until his strength abandoned him. The world around him fell to darkness as his life began to ebb away. Victor’s voice became more of a comforting whisper, “So, I will take your life, I will take back my home, and I will take this world and make it what it should have been. So, rest easy, knowing that you leave this world in good hands…” As the body went limp, Victor yanked the adorned cloak from the corpse. He tossed the body aside and paid no attention to it as it tumbled down the steps. Victor fastened the cloak around himself, unsurprised by how well it fit. He sat upon the throne and proclaimed, “And that I, Doctor Doom, shall save the world.”

Chapter Text

Asgard. Asgard was in flames. Earth. Earth was decaying and crumbling.

“I am disappointed and ashamed, boy! Through your actions, your arrogance, and your stupidity, you have killed us all! So blind that you cannot even see it! You are unworthy of your power! Unworthy of the realms! You are UNWORTHY!”

Thor’s eyes gently fluttered open. Though only a dream, the words of his father still rang in his ears. He ran his fingers along the ground he lay on, feeling the dirt and rocks beneath the fabric of the tent and took a deep breath. It was still dark out and, based on the crackling of the campfire, the fire itself had only just died down. It was going to be another one of those nights.

Jane Foster awoke a couple hours later, just as the sun was beginning to peak over the horizon. As she left her tent, only with a quick glance at the tent across from hers, she knew Thor was already awake. Knowing him, he wouldn’t have gone far. Sure enough, she found him less than half a mile away from the campsite, running his hands along aged tree bark.

“Bad dreams again?” she whispered.

“Aye,” Thor replied.

“Feel like talking about it this time?”

“Mulling over what we lack the power to change sounds like quite a fruitless endeavor.”

“You know, it’s thoughts like that that can prevent us from changing anything.”

“Verily. Then let us wake the others and turn our minds towards what we can change.” Thor smiled as he walked past her. She flashed an amused smirk, but her gaze let him know that he had not changed the subject so easily. They would discuss it at another time…

A couple hours later, the protestors gathered before Roxxon's entrance. The heavily armored guard stood at the forefront, “Disperse!” he demanded in a deep gravelly voice, “disperse or be prosecuted!” He held his rifle in the air, making a show of it. However, neither Jane nor Thor nor any of the protestors behind them budged an inch.

“We are not the trespassers!” Jane shouted back, “Roxxon has no business doing what they are to our land! This is our home!”

“Not anymore.” The guard growled back as more armored men appeared behind him, “The Norwegian Division of Roxxon owns this land by law and by right.” He leaned down, his face only inches from hers, “Now, disperse, before things get ugly.” Before Jane could utter another word, Thor stepped between her and the towering guard.

“How repulsive,” Thor groaned, “These people come here with nothing but their words and signs, yet, you perceive them such a threat that you would strike us down?” The man smiled a yellow toothed grin at Thor as he slowly cocked his riffle.

“I could shoot you and your little girlfriend and never see the inside of a cell, goldilocks.”

“While I doubt the validity of your claim, I am appalled by more threats of violence. Is your constitution so utterly fragile that—” The butt of the man’s rifle slammed into Thor’s temple, causing him to nearly bite his own tongue. He dropped down to one of his knees as he clenched the side of his skull.

“Got any more big talk, tough guy? Or do you finally get the hint?” Thor gazed down at his hand, now red with a light coat of blood from his fresh wound.

“You hit hard…” Thor remarked as he stood back up, “For a mere mortal.” The guard swung his rifle again, but this time Thor was ready. With a swift motion, Thor evaded the incoming strike with a sidestep before breaking the guard’s nose with an open palm.

CLI-CLACK! The sound of several guns loading penetrated the air. Thor stared at the barrels pointed at him and then at the ones pointed elsewhere. He glanced at Jane and then at those who stood behind him. All of them in range. It was a familiar feeling that took hold within Thor. The first guard staggered back to his feet, clutching his bloodied nose and staring daggers at Thor. His free hand fumbled at the nightstick to his side before he finally clutched it and raised it above this head.

“Your funeral won’t be open casket.” He growled, pressing the end of the nightstick against Thor’s open wound. Thor did not blink nor flinch. His eyes dared the man to strike him again.

BANG! From behind the bloodied thug, one of the men had discharged their weapon into the air: a response to the smear of red paint across his eyes. He wasn’t the only one, as similar smears of paint plagued the eyes of the others, who lowered their weapons as they tried to get the paint out of their eyes. As the first guard swung around, startled by the shot into the air, he was immediately greeted by the sight of Jane Foster, a paint covered knife in one hand and a punctured can of paint in the other.

“How did—” the guard bit his tongue as a wad of paint splashed against his face as well. Jane rushed past him, grabbing Thor’s hand and pulling him away like he was a child.

“Move! Now!” she shouted to the others behind Thor. And they did exactly that. A whole crowd of people scurrying away like a disturbed ant-hill. A few of the guards futilely fired their weapons in random directions as they attempted to scrape the paint out of their eyes. By the time the first person was able to clear their vision, their targets had completely evacuated.

Back at the campsite, Jane steadied her hands as she attempted to stitch the side of Thor’s head. “Thor, I’m starting to think hitting things and getting hit is about all you’re good for,” she grumbled.

“You speak like there should be more to me.”

“Thor, just listen,” Jane snapped, smacking his shoulder, “Imagine how much worse that could’ve gone. People could’ve died today. Not just you. Not just me.”

“Jane, they struck first.” Thor replied calmly, gently massaging his struck shoulder, “And is not our mission to show that we will not be pushed around? Should we not stand our ground?”

“There are different ways of showing that.” Jane resumed work on Thor’s stitching, “These people, they fear our words; that is why they resort to violence. To silence us or to bring us down to their level. Act like they’re the victims when we strike back. It isn’t strength, they just want to be seen as strong.”

Thor waited for a moment, digesting Jane’s words. Not because he didn’t understand them, but merely because they sounded so familiar. Not words he had heard her state before, but words another had spoken. “I cannot help but feel my father might have enjoyed meeting you, Jane,” he finally muttered.

“You don’t talk about him much.”

“We parted on… quite unfavorable terms. Shortly before I met you.”

“He’s not the reason you were in prison, right?” Jane quickly quipped. Thor chuckled.

“No, that was a simple misunderstanding on the part of the law enforcement. Same as you.”

“So, you say.”

“So, you say.”

“What?” Jane turned to face Thor directly, “You think there was any justifiable reason they had me share a cell with you?”

“Verily, you are a dangerous maiden, Jane Foster.” Thor smiled. Jane returned it.

“Yes, I am...” Jane went back to Thor’s wound, cleaning it of any lingering blood. Her smile began to fade, “When I lost my father, I found myself wishing over and over that we could’ve just spent the last few years not fighting. It felt like he never understood me and I resented him for it… all until his final days…”

“You think I should make amends with my father?” asked Thor, catching on to Jane’s intent.

“I think that’s what’s keeping you up. In my opinion.”

“Is that what you call ‘homesickness?’”

“Are you homesick, Thor?”

“I…These dreams I have been having; they have been of home. Images of it falling to ruin in my absence.”

“And would you feel that’s homesickness?”

“Perhaps.”

“Well, then maybe you should pay them a visit.” Jane cupped Thor’s chin to better inspect her work, “None of your recent dreams look pleasant to have.”

“It has been two years since I was cast out. If there was a possibility to return, I fear I have missed it. So, I think, perhaps it is better to accept the circumstances we have been given. Your saying of lemons into lemon juice.”

“Lemonade.”

“I still do not understand. Oranges make orange juice. Grapes for grape juice. What favor have your lemons acquired to attain a unique title?”

“They felled many adversaries.” Jane suddenly looked over her shoulder, the warmth on her face drained, “You don’t think Roxxon managed to follow us this time, right?”

“If they seek battle, we shall—"

“No, and I’ll admit I’m too paranoid to risk it. I don’t like the look these goons had. Bad people. So, let’s take the tents down and start moving.”

And so, the tents were packed and the group started moving, with Jane leading at the front, and they walked until the sun set. Once that happened, Thor got to working helping the others set up their tents using the methods he had learned as a boy. His help could not be refused. However, Jane was successfully able to fend off his attempts to cook.

Though a warm fire was made, exhaustion from the day’s events had caught up with everyone. Even Thor found himself fatigued, something he thought he’d be used to by now. So, as everyone turned in, Jane compelled herself to stay awake. It was her idea to move; it should be her responsibility to keep watch. No easy feat with the gentle life of the woods surrounding her… the soft crackle of the fire… and the mumbles of Thor in his sleep.

Asgard. Asgard was in flames. Earth. Earth was decaying and crumbling. The light of the sky was a blood red. His father screaming a battle cry until blood tore from his throat. A swarm of frost giants blocking out the sun. His sister swallowed by the decaying ground around her. His brother laughing a tune of madness as he drowns in thick black blood. His father dropping to his knees as his body had been hacked to pieces. And then a mountain so tall its icy peak pierced the clouds, accompanied by a single word in the voice of his father:

“CLIMB.”

Thor jolted upward screaming and with beads of sweat running down his face. With a few panicked breaths, he came back to reality, running his fingertips along the dirt on the ground. He glanced up, his eyes meeting the concerned gaze of Jane Foster. Something was to be done this time…

****

Tony Stark stirred to consciousness. How many hours was tonight? Six? Four? He glanced over at the clock on his nightstand. 4:32am. Just under four hours. Tony stared at the digital numbers for a moment before throwing aside his covers.

At the speeds he was moving, the sound of the wind blasting by him should’ve been deafening, but he had worked around that issue with the Mark IV of his armored suit. With the Mark’s V and VI he achieved greater power efficiency and faster speeds. It felt as though, when the sun rose over the horizon, he could outrace the sunlight.

“Tony?” a female voice sounded in his helmet.

“Pepper?” he replied.

“Where are you?”

“Morning jog.”

“You’re already in the suit?”

“You weren’t planning on using it, were you? Besides, I put the finishing touches on the Mark XI this morning, I want to see it can handle the new—”

“Tony, you’re not going to like what the infrared picked up...” Within Tony’s helmet, satellite footage played on his Head Up Display. It was arms deal and one where the goods being sold bore his name. There was a slight twinge in the corner of Tony’s eye as he reviewed the footage.

“Son of a bitch. Location?”

“Marked on your map.”

With the speed of a bat out of hell, Tony adjusted his direction and blasted on ahead.

Hidden in a canyon several miles out, a cloaked woman looked over the selection of weapons. She occasionally scoffed upon seeing a great number of them brandishing Stark’s name. The seller, perhaps sensing some level of hesitance, attempted to persuade his customer.

“There are many that would fear Latveria’s prosperity,” he began. He gained her attention immediately and was not prepared for the piercing cold of her gaze, “Many that would feel threatened by it,” he continued, “I find that in this world, many feel safer with a gun underneath their pillow. We are happy to supply that comfort to every citizen in Latveria.”

KRA-KOOM! Something heavy cratered the ground; a plume of dust and dirt burst into the air. Men who stood by either the buyer or seller drew their weapons as they saw a circle of bright light pierce the dust cloud.

“Y’know,” Tony spoke, teeth gritted, “I figured that when I told everyone that I was the one piloting the walking armory that people would wise up to stop selling my stuff. But I guess this little situation is why they consider me a genius…” BRAKA-BRAKA! Everyone person holding a gun opened fire on the Iron Man. Not a single bullet touched him; the armor’s shields sought to that. “…And you-- not so much.”

Within seconds, Tony’s armor had identified every armed threat in the vicinity. In the next few seconds, Tony began picking them off. The one closest to him got an uppercut to the gut that sent him flipping into the air. The second and third got upgraded repulsor blasts. But that was just one of many improvements that came with the Mark XI. When Tony first began working on a new suit, it was the flight capabilities that truly irked him like an itch. A flight ready suit would’ve made his escape much easier. Perhaps, it could’ve saved Yinsen.

However, learning that his weapons were still being sold under his nose compelled Tony to start designing the Mark VII with combat scenarios in mind. Tony would return from each outing with pages of mental notes on what to fix with his next model. With the previous model, Tony had noted a lack of precision in his targeting system, but for the Mark XI? When he spotted a man near the buyer produce a grenade, his repulsor fired, the energy a tiny, hyper-accurate needle that caught the pin, warping it into a curve that would not release. Living up to the remark Tony had made earlier, the man still attempted to yank the pin out with no avail. Tony quickly pushed him aside as he approached the cloaked woman.

“I’ve got a message for the big guy: You deal in my weapons; you answer to me. Even him.”

“He is not interested in your toys,” she replied softly, unimpressed, “Mr. Stark.” She departed. As she left, Tony glanced down at his hand, observing the flickering bulb on his palm.

“Looks like it’s not liking having to switch potencies on the fly,” he muttered to himself, “Needs better adaptability.”

A whirring sound cut through the air, growing louder with each passing second. Tony whipped around, repulsors at the ready, as the black helicopter loomed above. Reinforcements? How were they able to get so close without him picking up anything beforehand? He got his answer when a ladder dropped from the hovering vehicle and down came a lone man clad in a black leather overcoat and with an eyepatch covering his left eye.

“Nick Fury,” Tony lowered his arms as things began to make more sense to him, “I’m guessing you aren’t here by coincidence.”

“Who do you think tipped your girl off?” replied Fury as he approached Tony with a level of camaraderie that hadn’t been earned, “Latveria meeting with sellers. With what we know about their current leader, something like that definitely registers as a threat to our national security. Same as whenever you upgrade your suit.”

“Are you here to arrest me, Nicholas?” Tony grunted as he brushed past Fury.

“I just want to talk.”

“Then make an appointment,” Tony muttered as he shot a small needle-like device onto a nearby weapons crate

“You have no idea how easy you’ve made it to arrest you.”

“I have some idea,” replied Tony as he hit another crate.

“You come home, recall your toys and shut down your weapons division, then you go dark for a year and a half, only to suddenly start indulging in unsanctioned activities across the country for the second half. You start sticking your nose in foreign regions and then, you go and announce to the world that you’re Iron Man, spawning a handful of copycats who think they can do what you do. At best, the US government tolerates you.”

“Your point being?” Another crate hit.

“Make it easy on all of us, Tony,” spoke Fury as he observed the contents of a nearby crate, “Work for S.H.I.E.L.D. Make a difference on a national scale. Show the copycats there’s a right way to do all this. Get back to doing what you do best.” A needle shot into the crate, only inches away from Fury’s hands.

“Which is?”

“Keeping the public safe.”

“Hmm… How’d that pitch work with Hank and Janet?” Tony waited for an answer, but it didn’t take long for him to conclude that Fury wasn’t going to give him one. “Thought so.” Tony fired one more needle before signaling to Fury that the conversation was over.

“Stark.” Fury spoke up before Tony could depart, “You’re making a lot of enemies.”

Tony glanced at Fury over his shoulder, “Right.” DEET! DEET! BOOM! All the weapons crates marked by the needles burst into flames. Neither man flinched. Tony couldn’t help but chuckle at the fact, “Maybe if you can sweeten up the details, I’ll give it a second thought and…,” Tony’s propulsion systems came online with a boom that cracked through the air, “And give Banner my regards. And tell him… Betty misses him.”

And with that, Iron Man was gone. Nick Fury kept his gaze on the skies, even after Stark was no longer in sight. After a couple moments he glanced around at the crates of burning weapons and the columns of black smoke erupting from them. He took a deep breath before he tapped his earpiece.

“Get me back to HQ,” he spoke into it.

Hours later, he was greeted by Maria Hill at the entrance of the Triskelion, a 20-story artificial island was built on to Theodore Roosevelt Island shortly after the end of the second world war. It shared its design with a sister building located in New York. But the Washington D.C. one had a few more upgrades to its infrastructure added during the 80’s.

“How’d things go with Stark?” Maria Hill asked, not even glancing up from her tablet.

“How do you think?” Fury grumbled, marching past her like he had just finished a ten-hour shift at the office.

“The council has voiced some displeasure at the current pace we are making.”

“Did they convene?”

“They’re waiting on you, sir.”

“Tell them I’ll be late.”

Fury took his sweet time making it to the top floor. The top floor being unmarked and generally inaccessible helped a great deal in prolonging the trek. The floor itself was a single room no bigger than twelve feet across. It was not a room meant to feel liberating. The numerous screens along the walls only added to the feeling of claustrophobia. The faces projected on each screen grumbled as they watched Fury stroll into the room.

“Is this all a joke to you, Director?” asked one of the darkened faces.

“I just spent my morning trying to lure in a man wearing a metal suit,” Fury retorted, “If there’s a joke, I’m not the one telling it.”

“The Iron Man is not a top priority,” declared another darkened face.

“And why shouldn’t he be?” asked Fury as he folded his arms.

“Director,” the voice of the darkened silhouette facing Fury cut through the air, “we have more pressing matters: a possible resurgence in the mutant population, the still unidentified energy signature detected in Norway two years ago—"

“I know and that is my point,” Fury interrupted, “Every time we convene, there’s discussions about how the world will end. Paranoia about the world filling up with people we can’t control. So, why wouldn’t we want some of those people on our payroll?”

“The world will not put their trust in mutants.”

“I’m not talking about mutants. We spent years overseeing super soldier projects to create remarkable people, but when those remarkable people actually show up, we’re supposed to ignore them?”

“Director,” another voice, this one coming from behind Fury, who did not turn to face it, “you of all people should know that it is not in our interests to ever ignore such people.”

“It is precisely why we have accepted Trask’s offer to replicate the Iron Man’s technology to the best of their ability,” explained another silhouette, “It is precisely why we will continue our super soldier programs and research. And it is precisely why S.H.I.E.L.D. exists as it does today.”

The voice of the one facing Fury boomed again, “The last time we put our faith in these ‘remarkable people’, we—”

“I don’t need a reminder,” Fury scowled.

“Then continue our mission, director: We need response units we can control and who will put down what we can’t. And do it fast, director.” Fury stared back at the large darkened faces for a while, contemplating what he could say or perhaps what he could get away with saying. Finally, he relented.

“I’ll make sure Banner gets the memo.”

Banner’s lab had been moved off of the Triskelion premises three years ago. Far from the Triskelion in Washington D.C., he operated out of a dingy lab near Chelsea Piers. A lack of results warranted the decision. Banner himself would say that the development hadn’t gotten to him, but the perpetual bags under his eyes told a different story. The frizzy hair barely maintained by a couple brushes of a comb only made his true feelings more obvious. Those who interacted with him would wonder when he would realize the futility of maintaining such a façade. Perhaps, no one pondered that question more than Bruce himself.

“Morning, Alexander!” he attempted to chirp as he glanced at the frog sitting in the glass tank, “Oh yeah, you and me both,” he went on as if the frog was speaking with him, “Eight years! Can you believe that?” Bruce roamed the lab as he continued talking, waking up the computers and recalibrating the systems, “What? Well, things need to be ready, buddy, and unfortunately, I am a slow worker. Too slow! Each night I go to bed, and as the ideas and new innovations swarm my head like a bunch of bees, I wonder if I could ever get to the point where I could unveil these things to the world?” Banner paused, the faux cheeriness evaporating completely, “Do I even have enough time left? Was science something I ever really enjoyed or did it just distract me from how messed up things are?” Banner took a deep breath, “Sorry to dump all that on you, Alexander. A bit too heavy for the early morning, right?”

“Talking to frogs now, huh?” asked Fury, making his presence in the lab known to the distracted doctor. Fury continued, observing the glass tank that housed Alexander, “Normally, that would be a worrying sign, but for you, I know it’s part of the process. A loud thinker. Used to be the same. Then I took this job and every word I said aloud was yanked apart by two hundred linguistics professors beneath a coffee shop in downtown Oregon.”

“Did I do something wrong, sir?” Bruce mumbled, fidgeting with the sleeves of his lab coat, “What do I owe this visit?”

“The council has convened,” Fury began, “They’ve made their expectations very clear this time. They want their super soldiers.” A chuckle escaped Bruce’s lips. “Something funny, doctor?”

“With the splash Tony made with his garish Iron Man costume, I figured that’s where all the money would be pouring into,” Bruce smiled, “Yet, it’s my field that we keep pursuing.”

“Don’t get it twisted, doctor; the only reason the tech side of things isn’t getting this little pep talk is because they’re on track and at the speed they need to be. You seem to be the only one forgetting where his money is coming from.”

“Hmm. Tony seemed so certain no one would be able to replicate his tech. Guess it shows how much he knows…”

“The tech boys at Trask know I’m flexible, as I’ve been with the super soldier program for years. I don’t care how you go about it, just as long as there are results. Your nano-meds are the closest we’ve gotten to anything in years. But that’s the only thing we’ve gotten. And it’s only going to take you so far.”

“Because if Pym had accepted your offer, this would be his lab right now, something like that?” Bruce grumbled. All fight had left his body.

“That’s putting it a bit simply,” Fury replied, looking around the decrepit state of the lab he stood in.

“I’ll have something, Fury. I’m close. I know it. Just thinking about all of the diseases and injuries we’ll be able to just… make a non-issue? That’s motivation enough. Once I crack this, the world changes forever.”

“Bold statement, given what’s already happening out there.” Fury’s earpiece began to beep and he answered, turning his back towards Bruce, “This is Fury… yes… really… And you’ve double checked? No hick-ups on the machines? Hm… Alright, extract and bring him in. I’m in New York, so grab a location close by.” Fury hung up, a look of pure smug satisfaction creeping on his face, “Banner! You have any good shit lying around? Anything you’ve been saving for an important milestone?”

“I don’t really drink, actual—I’m sorry, what’s happening?”

“Pop something open, Banner. Sparkling water, sprite, a bottle of apple cider, whatever suits your tastes. Your job is about to become a whole lot easier.”

“Why? What happened?”

“The world just changed.”

****

“Finally heading home, Steven?”

Steve Rogers looked up from his meager knap-sack. It had only a couple books, newspaper clippings, and articles of clothing placed within it. Steve figured that’s all he’d need. He quickly shoved it under the cot and, presumably, out of the sight of Doctor Erskine.

“Just about, Doctor,” Stever replied, sitting down on the cot, “I wanted to see everyone off. I’d hate to see anyone get stranded after the fight they put up,” he remarked, looking around the empty barracks. Erskine chuckled as he could still see Steve’s bag peeking out from underneath the cot. For a moment, he contemplated why Stever would deem it even necessary to hide it at all, given its contents. Perhaps it was a potential sting of embarrassment? What would he be embarrassed of? Erskine decided against pursuing that train of thought.

“Do you have anyone waiting for you?” Erskine asked, taking a seat on the empty cot across from Steve.

“Can’t say that I do.”

“I myself am the same,” Erskine solemnly admitted.

“Really?” Steve chuckled, “A lady killer like you?”

“A lifetime ago, perhaps.” Erskine smiled, running his hands along the bald top of his head.

“I bet. No, don’t have someone yet. But a good hotdog while watching the game? That’s something worth coming back to.” Steve’s smile faltered for a moment, but he forced it to persevere, “I’m glad to see you walking around, Doctor. Thought we really lost you.”

“And I you.”

“Oh, come on now,” Steve couldn’t help but laugh, “shrugging off an ice bath doesn’t compare much to shrugging off a few shots to the chest. Maybe you should’ve taken the serum.”

“The thought has crossed my mind,” Erskine mused, “but perhaps that is why I am unsuited to do so. I’ve told you before how the serum works.”

“Yeah, amplifying what’s on the inside.”

“So, a man tempted by the opportunity to gain strength; what kind of superior man would they become? A man fearful of not being able to protect what they have, what do they become?” Erskine leaned forward and pressed his finger against Steve’s chest, “This is why you were chosen. Why we have so much trouble creating more.”

“Well, the war’s over,” Steve smiled weakly, “Do you really think there’s a point to having more people like me running around?” It was then that Steve noticed the three splotches of blood soaking through Erskine’s shirt, “Doctor?”

“Perhaps…” Erskine muttered as he grew deathly pale and the barracks began to fall away into darkness, “Perhaps, someday, you will be able to answer that question.”

Steve slowly stirred awake.

“Doctor?” he mumbled as his strength began to return to him. He was… where was he? He looked around the tiny room. A recovery room, perhaps? He knew that such rooms needed some level of sterility, but there was this artificial feeling to it all that he couldn’t shake. He sniffed at the air. Something about it reminded him about the streets back in Brooklyn, but there was something else there too, like some tiny foreign tinge of metallic embedded within it. He sat up and glanced out the window. He could spot the bar he used to visit, McCorely’s Ole Ale House, down the street. But the streets were too quiet and the buildings around it, there was something off--

The door swung open.

A pale woman with long scarlet lochs entered the room. She wasn’t a nurse, but she dressed like she had the authority to be there.

“You’re awake,” she spoke and smiled earnestly, “We were afraid we lost you for a moment.”

Steve stared at her intently for a moment, “Where am I?” he asked.

“Recovery room. Back in Brooklyn. We just have a few more tests to run before we can release you. And I imagine you’d want to join the festivities—”

“Where am I really?”

“Excuse me?” the woman’s smile began to fall.

“If I’m really back in Brooklyn, then McCorely’s is in the wrong place.”

“You have been out for a while, Captain Rogers,” A sly smile crept onto her face, “But, maybe you just need a bit more rest.”

“Who are you?!” The door swung open once more and in came four men, all armed and clothed with weapons and materials that Steve didn’t recognize, but they wouldn’t have stopped him even if he had.

KROW! Steve sent the first man through the wall, tearing away the window, causing the streets outside to flicker and flash. With a knee to the chin, the second man shattered the flickering streets like they were glass; the illusion falling away completely. The third man fired his weapon, but just from the sound of the discharge alone, Steve could tell they weren’t using live rounds. That fact made using the fourth man’s body as a shield weigh far less on Steve’s conscious. Before the third man even knew his magazine was empty, Steve threw the fourth man towards his way and made his escape. Steve leapt through the broken window with no trouble, landing in a black room like something out of a sci-fi novel. It was enough to cause a momentary pause in his movements, but he pushed on through, bowling through the nearest set of doors and ripping them straight off their hinges.

“Ma’am?” the third man coughed, helping the woman to her feet.

“Our orders are to let him run,” she muttered.

“What?! You saw what—”

“Let him run!”

Steve exploded out of the building and into the streets, but he didn’t find freedom just yet. HONK! It was a busy street he had found himself in, one filled with odd looking vehicles; he had to keep running. So, he ran and ran, but couldn’t shake the thought screaming inside of him that this was New York, that this was his home in spite of the things he did not recognize. But, if this was really New York, and if these were really the same streets, he thought as he made a turn, then Times Square would be just up ahea-

Steve stopped. This was Times Square alright, but not as he knew it. Moving pictures the size of buildings, projected in a bright colorful display in spite of it being in the middle of the day. It felt as though he was on another planet.

“At ease soldier!” A voice called out from behind him. Steve spun around, coming face-to-face with Nick Fury. Steve’s body was still tense, ready to put up another fight, but it was clear that the sights around him were throwing him off. Fury took a step forward. “Sorry about the earlier theatrics, but we couldn’t be sure about the toll this whole ordeal might’ve taken on you. That being said, it looks like you’re as sharp as ever—"

“What ordeal? Where am I?”

“It’s more about when,” Fury sighed, contemplating the best way to break the news to him, “You’ve been asleep for a long time, Captain. Asleep for years.”

“Years? Did,” Steve stammered, overwhelmed by this new information and the world around him. Eventually, he was able to mutter, “Did we win?”

“We did.” Fury answered. Steve blinked before gazing at all that surrounded him once again. The world grew silent and distorted around him, the sound of his own heartbeat becoming deafening. His breathing, while heavy, never became labored. Fury could still tell that this was a lot for him, “You think you’re going to be alright?”

“What?” Steve muttered, momentarily snapping back to reality, “Oh, I… um…” Steve glanced back at the flashing buildings, recognizing the old structures buried underneath layers upon layers of what he did not understand, “I thought I was going home…”

Chapter Text

“Unbelievable,” Bruce Banner muttered, “Frozen solid for decades and he’s outpacing a racehorse hours after being thawed.”

“It sure is something, Doc,” muttered Nick Fury as he joined Bruce in the observation deck. Both of them looked on from behind the glass screen at Captain Steve Rogers, who gazed upon his surroundings with the same energy as a small kid running unsupervised in a mall. After Fury grew up hearing all manner of stories about this man and his accomplishments, he couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight before him.

“We already knew the serum was a biochemical marvel beforehand,” Bruce continued, “But this? Erskine might’ve cracked the cure for mortality.”

“Let’s ease up on that a bit. After the boys are done drawing up samples from the good Captain, I want you working on isolation and recreation immediately—"

“Recreation?” Bruce interrupted, looking as though he had just stopped himself from falling over.

“Yes?” Fury replied, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, I just thought that given the work we’ve done on the nano-meds, the funding we’ve poured into it, we-we could do something beyond just simple recreation. We could improve upon it, better control its effects—"

“I told you that your job was getting easier, there’s no reason to go and re-complicate it,” Fury stated, placing a non-gentle hand on Bruce’s shoulder, “You’ve got a blueprint now,” Fury spoke, staring Bruce dead in the eye, “Follow it.” Fury marched past Bruce, making his way towards the exit, “If you’re the man who cracked the super soldier serum, no doubt funds for your nano-meds will come rolling in. Do the necessary steps first. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.” As Fury departed, Bruce looked back through the glass and sighed. “Breakthrough, nonetheless.”

Steve was laying in his bed, fixated on the details of the recovery room and the years of advancement hidden in its modest design, when he heard the door open. As Bruce entered the room, Steve glanced back at the feed protruding from his arm.

“That’s a lot of blood,” he commented, “I’m certain most folks would be lightheaded at this point.”

“Erskine didn’t write a lot of his formulas down,” Bruce explained as he checked his tablet, “Might’ve been paranoia. And what he did write down, well, thanks to the inept record keeping standards of 1940, that stuff is worth about slightly less than nothing. And while there were couple samples of your blood remaining in cold storage, we unfortunately ended up losing a number of them before we realized that blood synthesis was off the table. So, right now, your blood holds the key to recreating the super soldier serum.”

“Super soldier? The program’s still active?”

“You sound so surprised. Yes, it’s still active. Went through a couple transformative phases, but it still has the same bones.”

“That’s… something,” Steve mumbled. He couldn’t stop his thoughts from wandering. Bruce seemed provoked by the silence that was creeping into the room.

“Y’know, I-I was a big fan growing up,” he stammered, "A-actually, I still am. Your story resonated with me. Sickly and frail, yet you still pushed on until you became Captain America. I found hope in that story. A lot of people found hope in your story. People all over the world wishing they could be just a little bit like you. I mean, take a moment to consider where—when you are right now. What you are is revolutionary!”

“Revolutionary? Doctor, I just wanted to serve my country and then, perhaps, live a normal life.”

“Captain, my goal is to make you the new normal,” Bruce beamed, “Allow me to explain,” Bruce quickly loaded a visual aide on his tablet and flipped it towards Steve, “The way our muscles grow stronger is through stress. We shred muscle fibers and our body repairs them to be even stronger. Our bodies are built to naturally improve upon themselves and the super soldier formula was one of the first and, possibly, only successes in regards to being able to intentionally tap into that capability.”

“It amplifies what’s already inside,” Steve recited.

“In layman’s terms. And clearly, it’s been able to push you far past what many of us would consider to be humanly possible. It’s essentially superhuman. But, as I’m certain you know, Erskine’s notes stress the importance of a suitable subject, with the actual success also hinging on whoever is receiving it. That is, where I was hoping to, I suppose, make some improvements.”

“Improvements?” Steve raised an eyebrow.

“Well, um, I wasn’t the only one who looked at Erskine’s notes and saw the caveat of the serum being, um, quite picky of who it goes into. You were the only success for more than one reason. But people latched on to the serum’s main idea: merely amplifying what’s already inside the human body. It’s not a new theory in that the human body already has what it needs to survive and overcome almost anything. Our muscles, our immune systems are designed to adapt and grow stronger in response to what we encounter. Doctor Richard Parker speculated this capability could extend to what we currently consider terminal illnesses. That’s where my nano-meds would’ve come in. If the human body, any human body, regardless of strength, values, and brain chemistry, could be just programmed, told what kind of virus it’s facing, and how to kill it with precision and within minutes… Well, isn’t that the kind of world you’d want to pave the way for, Captain?”

Steve stared at Bruce, a gentle smile forming on his face as he heard the good doctor speak. It appeared that some things indeed never change. He glanced down at the feed in his arm.

“If that’s the case, take as much blood as you need.”

****

“What the hell could be at the top of Galdhøpiggen?” asked Jane as she watched Thor stuff supplies into a backpack.

“I am not sure what awaits me,” Thor replied, not even turning to look at her as he spoke, “but I shall never know if I do not make the journey.”

“Thor, when I said I wanted us to try to deal with the nightmares, I meant something a bit more... well, I meant talking about it. But you’re honestly going to up and leave?”

Thor turned to face her, “Jane, I have to,” he spoke, his gaze locked on hers, “The images come in clearer and clearer as I sleep. The voice…” Thor broke off the eye contact and resumed packing his bag, “You spoke to me about making amends with my father. Should not the first step be following as he says?”

Jane massaged her temples, “Never mind that he told you in a dream, but when have you ever done what someone has asked you to do?”

“Jane…”

“When?”

“You are not going to stop me from doing this,” Thor spoke, spinning back around and slinging his bag over his shoulder. Jane didn’t even flinch. She continued to stand between him and the exit of the tent. Though Thor was easily a head taller than her, he knew better than to try and move her physically.

“I know,” Jane mumbled, “because you never do what someone asks you to do.” Jane paused, expecting a reply or retort, but Thor didn’t have one. She took a deep breath as she searched for the right words to say. “I know there is nothing I can do to stop you,” she sighed, eyes to the floor, but then her gaze locked with Thor’s, “So, at least take me with you.”

“Jane, this may not be the simple ask you believe it to be. As I do not know what waits for me. If I were to put your life in danger, I… This journey was asked of me, not you.”

“A dream told you to go up a well-traversed hiking trail? Fine. Maybe you do need to stretch your legs. Do some soul searching. But I want to be there for you if you reach the top and find nothing. Something-someone to remind you that you aren’t alone in this world.”

Thor continued to gaze upon Jane, digesting her words as best he could and contemplating the best course of action. Perhaps, he should merely speak true. “Jane Foster,” he began, “since the day I have met you, you have been nothing but honest, forthcoming, and strong. A will to impress many Aesir. Because of you, Jane, I have not spent many days in this realm alone. I owe a debt to you. So, if this be how you wish for repayment, then so be it.”

“So dramatic. Even further proving my point on why you shouldn’t be left alone on an icy peak.”

“We leave at dawn.”

And that, they did. When they had arrived at the base of the mountain, they wasted no time. Using one of the public hiking trails, they scaled the mountain at an envious rate. And they would’ve continued making that kind of progress if Thor had not caught something in the corner of his eye. “Jane?” he muttered, stopping in his tracks, “You see that as well, yes?” It had completely evaded Jane’s attention at first, but once Thor spoke, she heard the sound of wood creaking gently in the wind.

Not far from where they stood was a rickety bridge that extended far, disappearing into a thick wall of fog.

“This,” Jane stammered, “I-I don’t… this isn’t supposed to be here.”

“How could you be so certain?”

“Can’t you just feel it?”

“Aye…” Thor paused, tilting his head as if he were listening for something, “But I feel something else.” Thor placed a foot upon the bridge, the wooden step loudly creaking. For a brief moment, images flashed in his head, images from his dreams. He took another step. “We are supposed to be here.” Jane was hesitant, but her objections would not leave her mouth. Thor continued onward, further into the fog, until he nearly disappeared from sight. Panic seized control of Jane and she hastily followed after him.

For the first few steps, she could not see him at all. Impossible, she thought, he was not that far ahead. Part of her felt compelled to run after him, but the consistent creaking of the wood beneath her kept that urge at bay. Eventually, she saw him ahead. She called out to him, but he did not respond. Her nerves got the better of her and she sprinted after him.

“Thor!” she called again. He glanced at her over his shoulder, startled. “What are we doing?” she asked, “I thought we needed to reach the top, this feels like a complete detour.”

“There is a slight slope to this bridge; it does lead up,” he replied.

“And in what direction? Thor?”

Thor stopped, glancing around, “There is something familiar about all this, Jane. Like, from the dream. Or another. But something calls to me. Like a song…”

“Thor, are you okay?” asked Jane after a far too long moment of silence.

“Do you hear that?” he asked as Jane took a couple steps closer.

“The song? No. But at least the bridge has stopped creaking.”

“Not just the wood. Listen.” Jane did just that. The two stood in silence for a moment, listening intently.

“I don’t hear anything,” Jane finally mumbled.

“Exactly. No breeze. No footsteps. No… life. And you can hear it in our words. Like traps of silence failing to ensnare them.” Jane listened once more, and it was true. The realization, at any other time, would’ve proven disconcerting for her, but at this moment, there was an odd comfort in it. Perhaps, some sign that Thor was truly on to something. So, as soon as Thor resumed his movement, so did she.

However, as they kept on walking, with no end in view, the smallest seeds of doubts crept back into Jane’s mind. Perhaps, it was the same repetitive sights that planted the perception of slow progress, especially in contrast to the accelerated rate in which they had scaled the mountain previously.  It was likely that not even a minute had passed since she and Thor spoke. She glanced at her watch to confirm her theory and stopped dead in her tracks.

“Thor,” she muttered. He ceased his movements, “When did we start hik—no… no, no, no, th-this isn’t—"

“What is it, Jane?”

“I don’t know what time it is.”

“Did you not bring a watch, Jane,” Thor chuckled as he marched toward her, “Perhaps, the altitude has—”

“Look!” Jane exclaimed as she held her watch up to Thor’s eyes. He saw exactly what Jane had found so vexing. The hands of the clock spun at a furious speed, with hours passing by in seconds.

“By Odin’s Beard…”

“Thor, even if this is some kind of magnetic phenomenon, something is happening.”

Thor glanced out into the fog, searching for some kind of answer. He observed the light behind the unnaturally slow fog flickering every so often. He shuddered to imagine what that sight suggested. “Jane…” he whispered, “the world moves past us… I believe we are best suited moving forward.”

“Thor…” Jane said weakly. But Thor did not heed her words and continued into the fog. It did not take long for her to follow after.

****

Steve Rogers walked past the row of headstones, taking note of each and every name and every bit of recognition they carried. He’d catch himself, numerous times, looking at the dates of their passings and calculating how many years each of them were allowed to enjoy after the war. For the first couple weeks after he was discharged, any time he attempted to look up the whereabouts of someone he knew, someone he ate with, fought with, or bled with; he would get the same address. He found himself directed to the cemetery so often that, eventually, Steve stopped looking and would simply visit the cemetery daily. Figured he save himself some time. As if time was something he was running short on. Eventually, he had visited every headstone, paid respect to each and every one. But he still kept coming back. Like he belonged there.

Steve had no means of transportation, so he traveled everywhere on foot. Perhaps, it was better this way. He at least thought so. In the beginning, Steve paid far more attention to the buildings and architecture during his walks, but as of late, he began paying more attention to the people. To him, the people were the real indicator of change. Their clothes, their skin tones, their words, their slang, every single thing managed to be so unique. So colorful. So bold. So alive.

Every so often, he’d get a glimpse of a sports game in the window of a bar or restaurant and he’d stop just so he could watch in awe of the skill players these days displayed, regardless of the sport they were playing. But what the hell was a Met? In none of his briefings with Fury did anyone explain what a Met was and why they were New York’s baseball team. And that wasn’t the only thing tripping him up. He caught himself referring to one of his doctors as “nurse” a couple times after he had been corrected. There were other things too. The food all tasted off, his bed felt too soft. Some days he just didn’t feel like eating and some nights he just didn’t feel like sleeping.

Both he and Fury thought it best to break things down to him in incremental briefings. Keep him from being overwhelmed. Didn’t feel like they were succeeding much. Every so often, Steve would catch a glimpse of the news networks and each and every time, there wasn’t a single positive or uplifting word muttered within the broadcast. Horrific tragedies occurred on the daily and were spoken about in a casual manner as if that was how things were supposed to be. Steve always had trouble stomaching it, each time wondering how things got this way. How they were allowed to get this way. Every single station had an answer, but he didn’t like a single one being offered. Things didn’t seem this complicated growing up.

He found himself wondering, too often, if this was truly what he and his soldiers fought for.

Maybe he just needed a familiar face to turn to...

Bruce Banner placed another empty vial onto the rack. Another wasted sample. Another failure. Blood isolation isn’t a new science. He had done it before. To great success even. This was supposed to be easier than before. That’s what Fury said. So, why was he still hitting a wall? Why couldn’t he still do anything right? Why? WHY? WHY?!

“Doctor Banner?” Steve asked, standing at the entrance of the lab. Bruce snapped out of his trance.

“Captain Rogers!” he exclaimed, startled and unprepared, “What brings—what are you doing here?”

“Fury said your lab was around here,” Steve said, still standing at the doorway, as he had yet to be invited in, “I was, um… I don’t mean to overstep, uh, we haven’t talked beyond our initial meeting and...” Steve sighed, “There aren’t many people I can talk to.”

“Oh, um… Yeah, I was just—” Bruce stammered, “Why don’t you come in? I could, uh, I-I think I have some coffee made.” With an invitation officially given, Steve walked away from the door into the lab.

“I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important.”

“No, no. I needed a break. I was getting too much in my head. There wasn’t anything useful coming out of it. I’d say your timing couldn’t be any more perfect.”

Though the outside world had changed so greatly for Steve, there was a sense of familiarity to Bruce’s dingy and dusty lab. It reminded him of the one Doctor Erskine had. Of course, every so often there was a gizmo that baffled or intrigued Steve, but nothing gained his attention more than the machine that sat at the far end of the room. There was something about it that he quite couldn’t put his finger on; something that reminded him of his own procedure.

“So, is that what we’re going to use for when we start making more of me?” Steve asked, pointing at the machine.

“That? Oh no, that’s um…” Bruce paused. There was a flash of enthusiasm on his face, but it was quickly squashed, “That’s how I ended up on Fury’s radar. Out of college, Betty and I worked on something called the nano-meds. They actually owe a lot to the procedure you underwent, which is probably why you’d mistake it for the rebirth chamber that made you. Erskine’s formula relied on a saturation of vita-rays to activate as well as stabilize cellular growth and change. The nano-meds work similarly but vita-rays can be volatile in certain situations and, well, we don’t want to jeopardize the health of people we want to help, so instead the nano-meds are activated and stabilized by something a bit more medically proven: gamma rays. So, using a gamma pulse to activate the nano-meds, they could assist the body in diagnosing and terminating foreign bodies while encouraging accelerated, yet safe, cellular regeneration,” the enthusiasm was returning to Bruce’s face, “Slower aging, stronger and faster bodies, minds staying sharp, amputees potentially being able to grow back entire limbs, children being able to spend more years with their grandparents—"

“And it works?”

“Only when it wants to. We had some very promising results when we started. But, not a lot since.”

“And this… Betty, she was your assistant?”

Bruce sighed like he was about to rip off a band-aid, “She was my partner,” he explained, “She made all of this just so much easier. Things didn’t hurt so much when she was here because we knew we were going to change the world and we were going to do it together. But the setbacks, years of degrading reputations… our only donors by that point were Fury and her father and her father pressured her to move on. And I suppose, she thought it best too, because when Stark offered her a position, she took it. She left me for Stark, her father’s funding disappeared… and I’ve been operating at the whims of Fury ever since.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Your eyes lit up when you talked about it.”

“Could you blame me?” Bruce smiled weakly, “Y’know, I remember how much I wanted to be like you. Strong and confident. Able to do what was right with no hesitation. That meant a lot to a kid like me. I got pushed around a lot growing up and I guess the nano-meds started as a means of making myself better. But as Betty and I worked on it we saw the chance to make the world better! We saw something beyond us…” Bruce’s smile faded as he stared at the machine like it was the tombstone of a loved one, “And if it was beyond us, it certainly is beyond me.”

“If it’s based off of the same formula Erskine used on me, perhaps the answer lies in—”

“Your blood?” Bruce cut him off, knowing exactly where he was going, “Yeah, Fury didn’t want me near this machine until I was able to deliver a clean isolation from your blood. Which, given the nature of your cellular overhaul, doesn’t look to be happening any time soon.”

“Damn.” Steve sighed, scratching the back of his head, “I should know full well what I’m saying when I tell a story like this, but I know what you feel. I had wanted to serve my country for such a long time, but I was never what the boys at the recruitment offices were looking for. I was too small. Too scrawny, y’know. Then Erskine picks me for his project and I think ‘this is my chance.’ I come out of the machine feeling like a hundred bucks. I tell ya, I was ready to put on a uniform in that very room. But someone shot the Doc and I became the only successful trial. And they were never going to let someone as valuable as me go on to the battlefield. So, there I was, strong enough to tow a bus with my bare hands with a make-up team making me look all hardened up, as if they’d ever let me throw an actual punch. Let alone take one. People were dying and I thought I could do something about that. So, I went against orders. Brought a lot of men home. Only then did they let me fight the battle I was made for.”

“So, I should disobey orders?” scoffed Bruce.

“I’m saying I understand what you might be feeling. I did what I thought was right, but the situations are clearly different,” Steve uttered, eyeing the empty vials in the rack, along with the few remaining vials of his blood, “Either decision you make, there will be consequences to it. I won’t deny that.” Steve picked up a device, similar to the one Bruce had previously used to draw his blood, “I won’t tell you what call to make. It’s not my place. But whatever choice you make, stand by it.” He tossed the device to Bruce, who caught it. Steve then rolled up his sleeve, “Do that and whichever choice it is, I’ll stand by it too.”

Moments later, Bruce grinned at the fresh rack of blood samples Steve had gifted him. Steve had departed with warm smile. As Bruce drew a new vial, he could feel a newfound energy rushing through him. He glanced over at his previous work, his nano-meds, and his decision was made…  

****

The fog of the mountain appeared to clear up just ahead of where Thor and Jane trekked. It should’ve been a relief to both of them, and both tried to make it so, but there were still questions left unanswered. As the two crossed through the edge of the fog, the sound of the world returned as their boots crunched on the snow of the mountain. Thor looked up. The peak was in sight. They were close. Without a word, he continued on.

“Thor,” Jane said weakly, realizing as she spoke that her words would not slow him. She glanced out on the horizon, taking in the orange glow of a setting sun.  A sun, she was certain, was setting far too early. She glanced at her watch, remembering the sight of its hands spinning rapidly, and observed that its functions returned to normal. But it stated that it was indeed the proper time for the sun to set. She followed after Thor. “The sun is setting,” she informed him.

“I can see.”

“The temperature will drop.”

“Then we must make haste.”

“Thor, if we don’t turn back, we’re going to still be on this mountain when night falls! We might not survive that! Is all that worth what might be up there?!”

“Yes.” Thor muttered with no hesitation. Jane was taken aback by how quickly he spoke, but understood that there was truly nothing she could say further. Quietly, she followed him.

The two continued, walking in silence until they reached the summit. Thor clenched his fists in anticipation, with Jane noticing that his breathing became far more audible, like he was actually nervous. She wondered if it was the possibility of there not being anything at the top finally hitting him or if it was something specific that he was expecting, or dreading, to encounter. A few more steps and…

Nothing.

The two stood there in silence for a moment, rarely even blinking. According to the hiking details, there should’ve at least been a hut nearby, but even that was absent. Merely snow and rocks and nothing else. The thick walls of fog, similar to the ones that plagued the bridge, surrounded the summit so that not even a proper view could be found at this icy peak.

“No hut,” Jane mumbled, “I guess we are just at the wrong summit. We did take that bridge. Maybe it brought us somewhere else.” She glanced at Thor, hoping for some kind of response, but Thor just stared on ahead, like he was trapped in a trance. “Hey, we might’ve just taken the wrong path and wasted a day. There might still be something waiting for you atop Galdhøpiggen. We can try again.”

“No,” Thor whispered just loud enough for Jane to hear, “No, this is it,” he murmured, “This is the peak I saw. This is where I am supposed to be… Yet…” He dropped to his knees. Quickly, Jane rushed to his side, “I do not understand. Where did I misstep?”

“Hey,” Jane spoke softly, taking Thor’s face in her hands, “Hey. It’s okay, remember? That’s why I’m here. I’m up here with you.”

“Jane, I…” Thor glanced over Jane’s shoulder, watching as the sun began to disappear over the horizon, “I am so sorry I brought you to this. I am so sorry.” Thor was trembling.

Jane brought Thor in close, hugging him tightly as the sky grew dark. She knew what was waiting for the both of them now. She had made no plans to die. She did not fear it, but she was never one who’d simply welcome it. Yet, at this very moment, her defenses were falling. If it meant that a friend would not die alone…

The sun set, but sky did not darken. It took a moment for either Jane or Thor to notice. What claimed their attention first was the scattered snowflakes slowly ascending into the air. They turned their gaze upwards, inviting in the sight of several colors, an aurora, swirling in the sky in a vortex of light. The two rose to their feet, their gaze unblinking towards the display above them. It was not like a powerful storm, blasting the sky into folding upon itself, but rather what seemed like the gentle stirring of colors, light, and sound that began to pour down from the sky like a thick celestial sap. It dripped to the ground before Jane and Thor, illuminating them with its starry glow. Bits flaked off of it, like smoldering and sparkling embers. Slowly, as if poured into a mold, it began to take humanoid shape. First legs, then arms, and then horns…

“So, you are alive after all,” a voice, smooth like honey, came from the mass, “Brother.”

“Loki!” Thor exclaimed as the familiar visage of his brother leapt forth from the celestial mass and embraced him. “I have missed you greatly, brother.”

“And I you, Thor.”

Jane stood there, astonished and bewildered at the extravagantly dressed man who had suddenly appeared. Thor quickly took notice, “Oh, of course. Jane Foster, this is Loki, God of stories. My brother.”

“Loki,” she repeated, still dazed, “Right. Of course.”

“I’m surprised, brother,” Loki remarked as he looked Jane over, “Bringing another into the heart of danger so readily.” Gently, he took her hand and placed a kiss upon it, “And for them to be such a fair maiden at that.”

“She insisted on accompanying my person,” Thor explained.

“And you let her?” Loki laughed, “Would have thought you’ve learned your lesson.”

“Loki,” Thor spoke, hastily attempting to steer the conversation, “I thank you for meeting me here. For months, I have been plagued by dreams in which—”

“I know. That was me,” Loki shrugged.

“You?”

“Provocative imagery, yes? I’m quite partial to our dear sister being swallowed whole by the ground. Imagine her allowing such an absurdity to pass.”

“You—why are we here, brother?”

“Here? Because I thought it amusing to see you climb a mountain if you simply believed father told you to do so. Perhaps, I should have made it the ocean floor to see if you were willing to swim.”

“Was there no grander purpose to calling upon me?”

“I couldn’t just see you again? Afterall, I’ve been feeling rather quite lonely since Asgard has fallen.”

“What?” asked Thor, incredulous. Loki cocked his head to the side, giving Thor an amused smirk.

“Oh, come now, brother. Do you forget so easily why you were cast out? You started a war. As sister says, ‘war is death and decay at an accelerated rate.’”

“You started a war?” asked Jane.

“Oh, didn’t he tell you?” replied Loki, strolling up to Jane, “Perhaps he did and you dismissed it as the ramblings of a madman. See, Thor gathered a merry band of warriors and marched towards certain death on Joutenheim. Fear not, he had reason: They sent assassins into our realm to kill our father. And Thor was not to let that be…” Loki turned his sights to Thor, his smirk having disappeared completely as he continued to recount, “Slaughter… Slaughter… until only Thor and a handful remained. And the cycle continued, as the Joutens would not let this be either. War started. Thor… banished.”

“I…” Thor stammered, “how did it… did father—"

“Father is dead,” Loki spoke softly, his eyes beginning to water, “That-that is why I wished to speak to you again, brother. So that I may not grieve alone. And to tell you, with our father feasting in Valhalla, the Odinforce is gone. What was taken cannot be returned… I am glad you have found purpose amongst mortals… for you shall be mortal until your final breath. Though, penance… I am sorry, brother.”

Loki’s words hit Thor like a truck. He staggered back, almost collapsing, as this new reality sunk in. He looked at his brother, teary eyed, “No, I am sorry, brother. I am sorry…” Thor opened his mouth, but he felt as though there was truly nothing more he could say beyond more apologies. And no matter how many times he could apologize, none of it would feel like it was enough. So, instead he muttered, “Thank you for calling to me.”

“Nothing could have stopped me,” Loki replied with a weak smile, “The sun shall shine on us again.” The sky above began to whirl once again. Loki took a step back as the sky above began to pull his essence into the above, “Farewell, brother,” he spoke.

“Goodbye, brother.”

As soon as Loki vanished, Thor dropped to his knees with his eyes fixated on the ground. He remained so still that one would need to look hard to notice his breathing. Or his trembling.

FWSSSS! The whistling of the wind pulled the entranced Jane back to reality as she watched the fog surrounding the peak fall away like it was called down into the earth. Then she heard the faint creaking of rope and wood. She saw the bridge they had taken. Saw its beginning and end clearly. It looked as though it would take no longer than two minutes to cross, yet it felt like they walked it for at least twenty. Jane glanced at her watch again, something in her screaming that this was all connected. Or maybe it wasn’t and she was desperately searching for some level of clarity in the recent events. Was she ever going to find any? Exasperated breaths tore from her mouth. She looked back at Thor. She needed questions answered.

That’s when a whirring sound cut through the air, growing louder with each passing second. Jane knew this sound. Reflexively, she rushed to Thor, attempting to bring him to his feet as the black copters emerged from the sky’s dark. But Thor would not move. It was as if he was bolted to the ground.

Down from the copters came men in black with weapons trained on the two at all times. Jane looked around frantically as the men surrounded them, cutting off any hopes of escape. Then down came another with a blonde buzzcut and stubble on his chin.

“Jane Foster?” he asked, “I’m Agent Quartermain with S.H.I.E.L.D. Recently, we’ve been monitoring a foreign energy signature that first showed up here a couple years ago,” Out of the corner of her eye, Jane spotted an Agent approaching them with what looked like a Geiger counter. “Then a couple weeks ago, it started creeping up on our scanners again, until tonight when we just got a massive pulse of it.” CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! Went the Geiger counter, “And here you two are.” CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! Agent Quartermain took a step forward, “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, now, would you?”

****

Already, Bruce was down to his last few remaining vials of Steve’s blood, only this time, it did not bother him. Over the past couple days, he had become reinvigorated; like he was seeing clearly for the first time. His prior work on the nano-meds coupled with what little work he had managed on Steve’s blood was getting him results.

For years, it felt as though he was building a ship without a keel, but now everything felt as natural as breathing. It was like a firehose of ideas and inspiration was pouring into his head and flooding his entire being. He was on to something. He had never been more certain of what he was doing.

And Fury was going to see it too.

“The time is now, Alexander,” Bruce told the frog, eyeing the open wound along its back, “I know it hurts, but soon you’re going to feel better than you ever have before.”

“A bold promise to give to something you stabbed in the back,” spoke Nick Fury, having entered the lab as silently as ever, “You said you had something you wanted to show me?”

“Okay, don’t get mad—”

“That’s not a great start.”

“—But I’ve been running some tests with the nano-meds,” Bruce explained as he removed Alexander from his tank and placed him into a translucent container.

“Banner, I thought I told you to keep your nano-meds on the back burner while you work on the super-soldier—”

“I did both!” Bruce exclaimed as he brought Alexander into the nano-med chamber.

“What?!”

“Fury! It’s the answer!” Bruce exclaimed as he typed away on the chamber’s keyboard, loading its procedure, “I ran some tests and the confidence levels jumped by 6.2% in the last hour.”

“…The last hour?” asked Fury. Bruce could see it in his face. He got him.

“Yeah,” Bruce spoke, guiding Fury to a spot where he could properly observe the results of the demonstration, “We went from a confidence rate of 23.9% to 76.8% in a matter of days. And with the samples Captain Rogers has given, we could be looking at something even greater, think… bulletproof skin, the ability to outrun a high-speed train, all of it controllable—”

“I’m hearing a lot of promises.”

“Here, I’ll show you.” Bruce grabbed his tablet and activated the nano-med chamber. “Watch closely.” The machine worked as designed, as the two watched the nano-meds be dispersed into chamber and be absorbed by Alexander. Once there was a full saturation, the gamma projector came online. A pulse of green light illuminated the lab and Bruce let a smile creep on his face as he watched everything neatly fall into place. With the nano-meds activated, the wound on Alexander’s back began to knit and stitch itself shut, sealing and repairing with no evidence of a cut being left behind. Bruce couldn’t contain it anymore. He cupped his mouth so that Fury could not hear him cry or laugh at the sight. He knew it wasn’t professional to display such intense emotion, but he didn’t care. It liberating. At that moment, he felt-

Alexander’s back began to swell. Then his right arm. Then his eye. “No,” Bruce whimpered pitifully. The swelling continued, bubbling. And then the tumors broke Alexander open and he splattered all over the interior of his container. Bruce and Fury stood there in silence, staring at the boiling remains.

“Banner…” Fury said softly, breaking the unbearable silence.

“I-I can fix this,” stammered Bruce as he frantically swiped at his tablet, desperately clawing for a hint of what might’ve gone wrong.

“Banner,” Fury repeated, unphased.

“I just need to run a few more test—”

“I gave you a simple order!” Fury shouted, roughly seizing Banner by the collar, “Isolate the serum from Captain Rogers’ blood! That’s all you had to do! And once you’ve done that, you could get back to exploding your damn frogs!” he threw Banner to the ground, “It was a matter of simple priority, Banner! But no! You had to waste both our time and money! Waste the most valuable blood samples on the planet--!”

“I could draw more!” Banner bargained as he struggled back to his feet, “If I could just bring Rogers back in—”

“Rogers is preoccupied. Right now, Pym is getting him fitted for tonight—"

“Pym? I thought he—”

“He did,” Fury snarled, “Then he heard that we found Captain America and rolled right over. So, read the writing on the wall, Banner. Do your job or start looking into a new career. Understood?” Suddenly, Fury turned away, tapping his earpiece, “What?!” he shouted into it. As he listened to the person on the other line speak, he quickly calmed himself, “And they’re our only leads? Really… Interesting. Keep them in the holding cells within the sub-levels of the building. If there’s any questions asked, words spoken, I want a complete transcript of it. If we’re not too tired, I’ll take a crack at them after the party.” Fury turned back to Bruce, jabbing a finger at his chest, “You’re lucky I got somewhere to be. But I want to make it clear: no more chances, Banner.” And with that, Fury departed.

Banner stood in his lab, alone, in silence. Moments later, he was scraping Alexander off the walls of the container. Fury’s words were swirling in Bruce’s mind with such ferocity, it felt as though his skull would cave in. There was anger at his decision to resume work on the nano-meds. Anger at his confidence and how stupid he must’ve looked. Anger at how pathetic he must’ve looked begging to Fury. Anger at how inevitable it was that Fury would drop him for his incompetence. Anger at how when Fury kicks him to the curb, he’ll have nowhere to go. Anger at what a joke his career and life had been. Anger… at how, in spite of it all, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about trying again.

For years, it felt as though he was building a ship without a keel, but now everything felt as natural as breathing. It was like a firehose of ideas and inspiration was pouring into his head and flooding his entire being. He was on to something. He had never been more certain of what he was doing.

And Fury was going to see it too.

Bruce shuffled over to the few remaining vials of Steve Rogers’ blood and got back to work. His career was over. He had finally accepted that it had been so for years. What he had been doing as of late amounted to life support. Had his career limping for years. This was the only chance he had left. The chance to do something that mattered. The chance to make all of his hardships and losses mean something. The chance to show everyone, Betty, that he wasn’t a mistake. This was it.

A couple hours had passed. Bruce remained hunched over his desk at work, not even bothering to turn on the lights as the world around him darkened. Even at the pace he worked, Bruce had laboriously rationed the remaining vials of blood until he had only one left. At this point, Bruce had felt like a toddler smashing two things together. A literal combination of his nano-meds and Rogers’ blood? It was clear desperation. The last hopes of a deluded man screaming that he wasn’t out of ideas. Stupid Banner. To think that a simple mishmash could possibly—

96.3% Confidence Rate.

Bruce stared at the text on the screen blankly, taking what felt like all the time in the world to process what he was looking at. In this moment of desperation, smashing things together like a brute… did he finally figure it out? Finally?

Bruce turned and stared at the single remaining vial of Captain Rogers’ blood. He took it in his hand and continued to stare. This was it. This was all that remained. His last chance. Either to make it all worth it or turn back.

He glanced back at the screen and wondered where his prior enthusiasm had gone to. This was the closest he’d ever gotten. Yet, why didn’t he feel anything? Maybe, he thought, because those numbers didn’t mean anything. The numbers were the highest they ever were when he showed off for Fury and that resulted in disaster. What was hiding in the missing 3.7%? How would it allow the world to spit in his face yet again?

Even if he wanted to pursue it, he didn’t have any test subjects. At this point, he had no means to find more. Was he willing to truly risk everything and test it on himself? Willing to step into the armor like Stark? Into the chamber like Rogers? Or was he going to stay in the dirt, like always? Cower in the face of potential failure, like always? Be left behind, like always?

He glanced at the stacks of notes and papers that covered the cobweb riddled desks. How much time did he foolishly put into those? How many years did he waste? How much of that time should he have instead spent with Betty? Oh, Betty… Bruce could only think about how he squandered his chance. He and her were going to change the world. She believed in him and his ideas. It was just up to him to reward her faith. But he couldn’t. He never could. Instead, he let her faith be eroded by years and years of failure until she left him. Until she left him to work for Stark. STARK! No, it wasn’t his old friend's fault. Banner knew it wasn't.

All his research—the nano-meds, the gamma pulse—they were all to help the world around him. Give the world and its people a better chance to live longer and stronger lives. But Fury wanted soldiers. He wanted weapons. Weapons like Stark would make. Was that how Banner was supposed to survive? Was that what Fury wanted him to be? To be a cheap replacement? To be a soulless manufacturer of death? Stark made a fortune doing that. He has the fame, the spotlight, the breakthroughs… Betty…

What would Rogers think of him now? Another one to see him as the failure he was? Why wouldn't he? Bruce was someone who wasted years on the same ideas, never going anywhere. Someone to be left behind by everyone. Someone who couldn’t stop failing. A loser who was too weak to fight for the life he wanted. He was worthless. Irrelevant. Puny!

But he saw…

Insignificant.

The improved confidence rate…

Invisible.

It could work. It wouldn’t have to be for nothing.

Small!

It could work. Then they’d see. They’d see his worth.

Weak!

Banner’s grip around the last vial of Captain Rogers’ blood tightened. It WILL work…

As the gamma projector powered up, Banner could feel the anxiety, the nervousness, like a river boiling under his skin. It will work. The nano-meds. The gamma pulse. The blood. It will work. Banner felt the concoction flow throughout him. A revision of his life’s work mixed with the blood of a living legend.

It will work.

The green glow of the gamma pulse illuminated the empty and decrepit lab.

It will work.

He could feel it. He was getting stronger. He could feel it! This time it was going to work! He was getting stronger! He could feel it! But then he could feel something in his stomach. His limbs no longer his own as he stumbled through his lab. His mind, his thoughts, they were going, like water down a drain. He grasped at them. Grasped at what little of his mind he could feel. Betty… StaRK. FURY! He screamed their names. A scream of anguish distorted and twisted into a roar.

His mind was going, like an acid was flowing through his skull, dissolving every thought and idea. His bones clicked sickeningly, popping out of their joints and snapping back in. He could barely breathe, like his lungs were pressing against his ribs, forcing them further apart. With each step he took, the pain was like his bones were nothing more than crushed gravel. It felt as though a swarm of wasps and hornets covered his entire body, stinging and crawling without end. His skin was boiling. Burning. Distending. Shifting as the bones and organs underneath threatened to explode to the surface.

His eyes burned like he had been deprived of sleep for weeks. His vision was blurry and red. Flashes of his mangled hands knitting themselves back together, a desk collapsing under his weight when he attempted to steady himself, a table being launched across the lab with animalistic ferocity. Out came another scream, another roar, from him as his increasingly wild movements shattered beakers, tossed aside heavy equipment like they were softballs, and shredded computers and machines like paper. He wanted out. OUT!

He burst out of his lab; a lumbering mass of muscle, erratically clawing at himself to ease the pulsating pain and discomfort of his own body. His teeth gritted, his fists clenched, and his muscles tightened as rain began to pour down upon his bare skin. For years, a battle had raged on within Bruce. Moments ago, it felt as though his body itself was a literal battleground as his insides tore each other asunder. But in that moment, those battles appeared to had come to an end and a victor had emerged.

As he stared at the flickering city lights, he felt, for the first time in years, free…

Chapter Text

The music from the Triskelion could be heard all the way from the harbor. The lights were bright enough to trick one into thinking that the sun had not yet set. To anyone not following the news, it looked like a Hollywood Red Carpet event. That’s how the gala was pitched to Fury. The intent was a massive and extravagant show of confidence in the public unveiling of Captain America to the modern world. And the guys in Public Relations went all out: Live music, food flown in from all over, reporters from every reputable news outlet, award-winning speakers, the president himself on the guest list, the works.

Fury thought the whole thing was excessive, but he already felt that the New York Triskelion was known for this kind of pageantry and propaganda. It was a secure location, but to pretend that it was on the same level as the one located in Washington D.C. was delusional. It was practically a tourist location in the same way the White House and Pentagon were. Sure, Fury found there to be some tactical advantages too. There were a number of people who wouldn’t consider a place so open to contain anything of real value in it. But that also got Fury to thinking about how many people it might embolden instead. It was a headache and because of that, he didn’t like spending a lot of time in New York.

He strolled past the guests, passively inspecting and assessing. For the politicians, it was nothing more than ego stroking and self-congratulation. One could see how proud of themselves they were for simply being there. Fury felt disgusted just looking at them. And then there were the reporters. Each and every single one of them was hungry, either for the potential exclusive interviews or the opportunity to lay their eyes on something they weren’t supposed to. Fury was always wary of these types of people. Perhaps, this was why a number of them described him as a misanthrope. As more and more guests entered the main atrium, Fury began to wonder how many of them recognized the party for the choreographed smokescreen it was. However, none of them, with all their self-importance or keen skills of observation, were able to see it. So, Fury decided he needed a drink.

“Pappy Van Winkle, neat,” Fury told the bartender. As his drink was prepared, he momentarily considered the optics of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s director drowning his sorrows at a gala, but found that this line of thinking thoroughly justified his drink. However, as soon as he brought the glass to his lips, a hand pat him on the back.

“You nearly had me fooled, Fury,” a familiar voice spoke from behind.

“Stark,” Fury replied, not taking his eye off his glass, “Given how our last interaction went, I didn’t think you’d show.”

“I had to stop by to see if it was nearly as desperate as I thought,” Tony replied, leaning against the counter of the bar, “If only you looked this pathetic when you made your sales pitch…”

Fury chuckled, “Got it all figured out?”

“I know a circus when I see one, Fury,” Tony turned to the bartender, gesturing for the same drink as Fury, “And given how our last interaction went, it just makes sense. ‘Don’t worry about those other guys running around because we got your grandpa’s favorite batting for us!’ I’ve been in the business, I understand how it works,” Tony quickly downed his drink, “What I don’t understand is how they’re even considering putting him back on active duty. It’s like entering the last living unicorn into a flat race,” Tony signaled the bartender to prepare another.

“Did you bring your plus one?” Fury grumbled.

“Pepper was busy. But Betty did want to visit her old place of work.”

“Your plus one is Betty Ross?” asked Fury. Tony, with the smuggest of grins on his face, pointed to her mingling in the crowd. Immediately, Fury downed his drink.

It had been years since Betty had last set foot in the Triskelion. As far as she could tell, very little had changed, which was a bit disappointing for her. She was the daughter of a man who was both a general and an overprotective father, so she was all too familiar with the song and dance of S.H.I.E.L.D. and organizations like it. A simple glow up wasn’t going to change her mind regarding it. Maybe that’s how she rationalized working with Tony. There were always going to be strings attached to whatever work she did, but she had always trusted Tony more than Fury.

“Betty?!” a voice called out. Betty swung around and had only moments to react before Janet Van Dyne threw herself onto her, latching herself around Betty with a ferocious hug like they were still in high school.

“Janet!” Betty exclaimed, “god, it’s been so long!”

“Too long!” Janet smiled, “How have you been? I didn’t think I’d catch you here!”

“I didn’t think I’d be here either. I was considering the whole thing a mistake before you showed up.”

“Oh, it’s that bad, huh?”

“It’s not that bad; it’s just the same kind of bad. It’s not the most comforting feeling to see people—important people—running in place. Fighting the same fights, speaking the same lies. Making tomorrow the same as today.”

“Well, your yesterday didn’t have me, did it?”

“Oh, you haven’t changed either,” Betty chuckled.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I can shrink now.”

“You can shrink now?” Betty repeated, incredulous, “What did Hank do this time?”

“Well, he learned how to make himself shrink too!” Janet replied in earnest, “He’s been on a roll, lately. Now with all this Captain America stuff, it’s like watching a little tyke play dress up with his action figures.”

“I can’t imagine he’s the only one who’s ecstatic about the captain’s return. Back then, Captain America was the only thing Bruce and the general could agree on. Bruce is probably glowing, being able to work with his hero. Like a kid on Christmas morning.”

“Hmm, makes me wonder how we both fell for the same flavor of dork manchild.”

“It’s what happens when your taste is as good as mine.”

“Doctor Ross,” spoke Fury as he approached the two, “Didn’t think I’d ever see you back within our walls, let alone at such a shameless public display.”

“It could be worse,” Betty mused, “Afterall, I don’t have to come back here tomorrow.”

“Heh, the labs really haven’t been the same without you. You gave our program some hutzpah. How’s the general?”

“I’m sure you can ask him yourself. Or did he turn down the invite?”

“Well, you know him better than most,” Fury spoke, unblinking.

“I know both of you pretty well,” Betty replied, unamused and unmoved, “Did you swamp Bruce so he couldn’t make it tonight? Or was he just not on the guest list?” Fury chuckled at the brazenness of her words.

“Enjoy your evening, Ms. Ross,” said Fury as he walked away. As Betty watched him depart, Janet grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her in.

“Well, I think we’ve both earned a drink after that,” muttered Janet.

“Both?” asked Betty, puzzled, “You didn’t do anything.”

“I stood by as moral support,” Janet replied as she led Betty through the crowd, “C’mon, I can see your boss at the bar.”

However, as the party went on, in the sublevels below the atrium, Thor sat slumped in the corner of the containment cell. In the cell across from him stood Jane Foster. Restlessly, she paced around her cell. The sub-level seemed designed to specifically make someone like her uneasy, with sterile tile walls, recycled air thick with the scent of disinfectant, and cold iron bars to keep her locked in. Every so often, Jane would glance at Thor’s cell, waiting for any movement or reaction from him, but he seemed to be lost in his own world.

Jane couldn’t tell how long they had been there, as she was still disoriented to the natural passage of time, but it must’ve been at least a couple hours. Within that time frame, she had been interrogated twice: once with Thor and once without, and with a different interrogator for each instance. For each one, her answers were the same. If Thor had also been interrogated alone, she assumed he remained silent for that session as well.

“Do you hear that? It sounds like a party up there,” Loki chirped as he paced around Thor’s cell, “Reminds me of old times. Our cages were better though. There was more artistry put into them. More effort. And it’s missing the grates that allowed the grease and oil of our feasts to drip into their cells. What’s the point of having a party up above if those below don’t know it?” Loki ran his fingers about the rough-textured walls, his fingers flickering and passing through the tiles like a ghost, “Though, I’m glad my marker appears to be working. A couple years out of practice. But the connection is made.” Loki glanced at Thor, awaiting a response. Nothing. So, Loki went on, “You remember how the markers work, don’t you? Is that why you won’t speak? You don’t want her to see you talking to thin air?” Once again, Loki waited for a reply. But when he continued to be met with only silence, he let out a sigh, “Brother, as much as I enjoy the sound of my own voice, I do not enjoy seeing you in such a despondent state. I know the news I brought was distressing, but this… this is not the Thor I know.”

“And what is the Thor you know?” Thor finally mumbled.

“A warrior. Proud. Defiant. Boldly laughing in the face of death, sometimes in person. And certainly not someone who would willingly sit in such a meager cage.” Loki paused to see if his words stirred anything in his brother, but found nothing yet again. Loki returned his gaze to the cell they occupied, “I could get you out. I just need to hear the words, brother.” Once again, Loki was met with silence. “Or do you think this is how you atone, hmm? Your prison is your mortal body; you don’t need this. Or… is it something else?” Loki turned and observed Jane pacing in her cell, “I’m sure she will forgive you in time.”

“Have you?” Thor asked, glancing up at his brother.

Loki smiled, before vanishing in a flicker of green light.

Back at the atrium, the majority of the guests had arrived. It was now time for the main event to begin. And no one waited more impatiently than Captain Steve Rogers. He stood around a corner, cloaked in shadow, waiting to step onto the mezzanine elevated above the ground floor and its guests. Like a nervous tic, he pulled on and tightened the straps of his heater shield. Steve never thought himself one to succumb to stage fright. He recalled the first time he had the feeling. The first time he was on an actual stage. The first time he was called Captain America.

And he was a sideshow. Living propaganda. A circus monkey.

While brave men died defending those without the strength to defend themselves, he, with more strength than any of them, posed for the cameras and shook hands with those who profited off of the death of men more courageous than they. They told him this was how he could help. Morale was important, even crucial, to winning the war. He’d never have to throw an actual punch to fight. And in time he’d lead his own platoon. That’s what they told him.

They made movies of adventures he never had. Sold comics of battles he never fought. Carried around a pristine shield painted to look like it had seen battle. Pristine like the one he now held.

There was a shame in that. He had thought that after fighting in the real thing, with the real victories he had racked up, and the real sacrifices he had made, it would be enough to wipe away that old shame. But here that shame returned. Because they told him they didn’t plan to put him back on active duty. Not completely. They were going to put him on lower risk missions where the camera could get a good look at him. Lower risk missions where he wouldn’t get so much as a scratch. They couldn’t afford to lose any of his blood or to have the symbol of the country lying dead on the evening news.

“Ladies and Gentlemen!” Steve heard over the loudspeaker, “I’d like to reintroduce an old friend! A friend not just to me—” Steve couldn’t help but scoff. He might’ve met this speaker only three hours ago, “—But a long-time friend to this great nation! A friend who has inspired a generation of strong and courageous Americans and defined the American Way for generations to come! A friend who has returned to duty after a long and well-deserved rest! Please, welcome back the STAR-SPANGLED MAN WITH A PLAN: Captain Steven Rogers! Your Captain America!”

Steve smiled as he stepped into the blinding spotlight. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but once they did, Steve saw the crowd that waited for him. Cheering men, swooning women, cameras flashing and amongst them all… he spotted a display case. A display case holding the uniform he had once worn into battle. The uniform he was frozen in. Worn away by countless battles. Behind a sheet of glass and out of reach. He had fixated on it for so long, he had not realized the room had fallen silent. The crowd waited for him to speak.

Steve cleared his throat, “It’s good to be back!” he announced. The crowd roared. Amidst the cheering, Steve glanced at his old uniform once more.

As Steve walked down into the atrium and began shaking hands with politicians and posing for photos, Nick Fury’s phone started to buzz, “Yes?” Fury answered.

“Sir,” replied the voice on the other side, “Something’s going on in the city.”

“You want to be a bit more specific?” Fury replied as he plucked an hors d’oeuvre off a passing platter, “Something before we lock down a building with Capitol Hill and every major news outlet in it?” As Fury broke away from the crowd, Steve, who was still in the densest area of the crowd, began to notice the ever so subtle decrease in chatter. At first, he figured he was overthinking things, his enhanced senses making something of nothing, but then the quiet grew, scattered throughout the atrium.

“We’re trying, sir,” the Agent continued, “But no-one’s been able to ID or tag it.” That’s when Fury started to notice what Rogers was noticing: A handful of guests had pulled out their buzzing phones and checked them, only for their brows to furrow in confusion as they read the messages on their screens. “It’s moving too fast.” More and more phones were going off. The laughter and chatter of the crowd began to die down, replaced by anxious murmurs. “It just looks like a…” Guests glanced at each other, hoping someone could offer them a sense of clarity as more and more phones went off. “…Like a large man…” Fury and Rogers’ eyes met. “We—DIRECTOR IT’S INBOUND!”

Fury tapped his earpiece, “This is Director Fury, initiate full lockdown procedures!” The lights of the room went red as an alarm blared. In the sub-levels below, Thor and Jane became bathed in the crimson light as they heard the mechanisms behind the walls whir to life. Back in the atrium, the heavy, three-foot-thick steel shielding came slamming down, sealing off the exits with a loud, metallic thud. The sounds of tumblers shifting and locking underneath the floors reverberated throughout the atrium as the Triskelion shifted into an impenetrable fortress.

KROW! The instant the mechanisms came to a stop, a cratering crash sounded outside, shaking the foundation. Dust fell from above and the lights flickered. Even in the sub-levels, the impact was felt. There was now a deathly silence within the atrium as its occupants waited for what was to come next. Fury silently turned his gaze to where Captain Rogers stood within the crowd. Steve stood motionless, waiting and ready. There was a slight rumble, like the Earth itself was shifting and groaning behind those steel doors. Then came the agonizing scream of steel bending and tearing. It sounded truly unnatural, unnatural enough to momentarily shake Fury.

Then came the roar. The inhuman and deafening roar that seemed to shake everyone to their bones. The guests were screaming now, covering their ears and letting panic dictate every single action. And then, in a blur of movement, the doors burst open, the steel shielding flying into the atrium with unfathomable force and with a hail of broken glass following in its wake. And despite the blinding speed in which these events unfolded, Steve Rogers was faster still. He rushed ahead of the crowds, shield at the ready, and with a single strong and precise movement, he slammed it into the both of the sailing steel sheets, pushing them upwards and redirecting their momentum, allowing them to safely flip over the panicked crowd. Steve winced, feeling a slight tug in his deltoids; he was out of practice.

But he didn’t have time to worry about that now. The crowd was a sea of frightened faces, screaming and running in every direction. Fury was shouting orders, trying to get everyone to safety. But then he felt it. Like the air went cold. He wasn’t the only one to feel it. The screams faltered and movement hesitated as everyone felt a presence of something not meant to be.

The eyes of everyone in the atrium snapped towards the blown-out entrance. For the first time in a long time, Steve felt a shiver run down his spine. The air seemed to thicken, becoming heavy and oppressive. The lights flickered, casting eerie shadows on the walls. Then, behind the dust, sparks, and darkness, appeared a pair of green, carnivore-like eyes and the slight glistening of gritted teeth. The body they belonged to lumbered closer, staggering and erratically clawing at its skin. The weak flickering of the red lights obscured the true size of their massive frame as they emerged from the darkness.

Then it let out a roar like the hell itself was clawing out from the ground below. A roar that felt as though it rippled through reality itself. The windows shattered, the foundation shook, and the lights flickered intensely, strobing all movement, but finally illuminating the beast in all its horrific glory. Sickly, green skin with muscles tensing and rippling underneath it, its bare chest unnaturally heaving like air was constantly being forced in and out of its body to maintain the inhuman roar. Then, without warning, the beast lunged forward and the atrium immediately descended back into hysteria.

It leapt into the air, rocketing across the atrium and towards Fury. Reflexively, Fury leapt out of harm’s way before the beast crashed into the ground. Fury hit the floor hard; his gun clutched in his hand as he scrambled to get into position.

“All men not working evac; priority is to put this damn Hulk down!” Fury shouted into his earpiece. BANG! BANG! BANG! Fury unloaded the magazine, with each shot aimed at the head. The Hulk flinched and turned away at the first couple shots, but when the pistol started clicking, he turned back to Fury, snarling. By the time it lunged towards him again, Fury had already loaded and started firing. But this time, the Hulk proceeded, unbothered and unfazed by the bullets bouncing off his skin. He raised his massive fists above his head, ready to bring them down when—

KLANG! The Hulk’s head was rocked back by the impact of Captain America’s shield. As the shield ricocheted back into Steve’s hands and the Hulk shifted his attention to him, Steve found himself momentarily taken aback by the expression the Hulk wore. It was a faint look of betrayal, sadness, and regret that flickered across its face. A look that hinted at something deeper, something more human. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, as the Hulk’s face twisted and contorted back into a blinding rage.

It leapt at Steve, arms raised. Though Steve had intended to block the impact with his shield, his instincts screamed that he avoid it. So, Steve bolted, mere moments before the Hulk’s fists smashed where he once stood. The ground shattered and splintered as if it were made of glass. The floor caved and collapsed at the point of impact, and Steve quickly turned his attention towards rescuing the guests stumbling and falling into the sub-levels below.

Quickly, Steve made out the panicked silhouettes within the clouds of dust and debris. As he stuck his shield to his harness, he planned his play and then sprang into action. With superhuman athleticism, Steve maneuvered through the room, running across and around the remaining floor as it fell away, and yanking the guests out from the expanding crater. To the untrained eye, it looked as though Steve was running on air and swinging from nothing as he moved from person to person, saving them all with expert efficiency, making it look as though he had practiced this exact same scenario countless times.

But Steve’s luck was sure to run out, for as he pulled the last guest to safety, the massive green hand emerged from the crater, clutching the leg of a blindsided Captain America and pulling him in deep. Though blindsided, Steve was not helpless. A strong cross to the Hulk’s jaw loosened its grip enough for Steve to break free, but he only had a mere second before the Hulk was on him again. Another swing from the Hulk shattered the floor, and they fell to the level below them yet again. And down into the next one. As they disappeared from sight, Fury barked orders to get everyone out of the building.

When Steve finally hit solid ground, he found himself struggling to get to his feet. His body ached and he was choking on the dust that filled the room. He looked around, attempting to reorient himself amongst the clouds of debris. But there was barely any light in the room, as the only source of light seemed to be coming from the hole they had just created. But where was the Hulk? Even as Steve’s hearing returned, he couldn’t properly detect him. How does one lose something that big? Steve fastened his shield as he scanned for any sign of the Hulk.

Someone coughed. Steve spun around, coming face-to-face with a woman coated in dirt and dust, standing behind a door of mangled iron bars. He glanced over his shoulder, spotting a man in the cell across from her, and looked back at her. Were these civilians? If that Hulk was down there with them, they’d be at its mercy. He had to make a call. But then, Steve spotted the pair of carnivore-like eyes peeking out from the darkness. Immediately, the Hulk rushed him. Steve acted swiftly and, with a strike of his shield, the iron bars of Jane Foster’s cell crumbled.

“Get to safety!” Steve ordered as he lunged for the bars of Thor’s cell. But it was too late. With his shoulder, the Hulk rammed into Steve and even though Steve had managed to brace himself with his shield at the last moment, he felt the crushing force of Hulk’s impact, the sensation of the ceiling above breaking against his back as the Hulk propelled the two of them back towards the surface. Jane staggered back against the wall of her cell, but soon snapped out of it. With a chunk of debris in hand, she raced to Thor’s cell and slammed it into the control panel beside it.

“C’mon, Thor!” Jane grunted through her teeth.

“Jane,” Thor mumbled softly.

“No alarms went off when—whoever that was supposed to be broke me out. Things must be really bad up there!”

“Jane…”

“So, we’re going to do what he says.” With a final smash, sparks rained from the control panel. Within moments, the bars to Thor’s cell retracted into the ground. Satisfied, Jane dropped the chunk of debris, and turned away, expecting Thor to follow, “We’re going to run, lay low, and then, when we can, we’ll try to get back to Nor—”

“I am not leaving, Jane,” Thor spoke, his words breaking through all the chaos. Jane halted, turning back to see that Thor had not moved a muscle.

“What?”

“I am not leaving. Now get to safety.”

“Thor, now is not the best time to have a—”

“You should not have even been here, Jane Foster!” Thor shouted with a fury that Jane had never witnessed before, “But alas, I do not learn. You heard my brother’s words, did you not? I am the destroyer. The bringer of ruin to those I was meant to cherish and protect. And I once thought myself a god! But I was only ever a fool. A fool unworthy of the power he wielded. A fool unworthy of the people he hurt… A fool who the realms shall not miss once gone.”

“Thor, listen to me. I—" The ceiling caved in. Without even thinking, Thor rushed out of his cell and moved Jane to safety before she could be crushed by the falling rubble.

“Are you okay?” Thor asked. Jane didn’t answer and, instead, grabbed the collar of his shirt and yanked him towards the nearest exit.

The guests of the gala poured out of the Triskelion and into the unrelenting rain. Transport across the water and back into the city had already been called and ordered to pick up the guests at the hangar, which safely stood at the other side of the artificial island and far enough from the carnage. But many weren’t willing to wait for a shuttle across the island and booked it, not caring who was trampled along the way. Betty Ross, Janet Van Dyne, and others, attempted to guide the scattered clusters of people across the rain-drenched compound. But no matter how many helping hands there were, there never seemed to be enough.

Amidst the chaos, Betty watched as an older reporter lost his footing amongst the slippery concrete and disappeared into the sea of panicked guests. Betty rushed in with no hesitation. It was the aspects she had inherited from her father that allowed her to move people aside so that she could help the trampled man.

“Are you alright?” she asked as she helped them stand, “Can you walk?” As he shook his head, Betty let him lean against her as they continued to move along with the rest of the crowd. But as Betty and the guests surged towards the hangar, the Earth beneath them split apart. Captain America, followed by the Hulk, exploded to the surface.

Betty watched as Steve hit the ground like he had been thrown, the wind knocked out of him as he skid across the wet pavement. As his shield spun wildly into another direction, the Hulk came down with a thundering crash. Quickly, Betty helped the old reporter to his feet and shuffled him away from the immediate danger. However, there was something about this creature that Betty couldn’t shake. Despite having never encountered it before, there was an odd sense of familiarity to it. But she couldn’t let that distract her now, so she pushed those thoughts down and made her way towards the hangar.

Though Steve’s vision was blurred, he couldn’t deny that this beast was getting faster. Stronger, perhaps. In a single movement, Steve swung his feet upward, striking the Hulk’s chin and rocking his head back while also launching Steve back to his feet.

“Don’t think I’m out of your weight class just yet!” Steve remarked as he swung a right cross into Hulk’s jaw, following up with a strike to a nerve bundle in his deltoids. As the Hulk staggered back, clutching his arm, Steve continued his assault, striking the Hulk at various parts of his body, such as his nose, ribs, and joints, before sweeping the Hulk’s legs out from under him. The instant the Hulk was down, Steve made a bee-line towards where his shield must’ve landed.

“Cap!” one of the bystanders shouted in the distance, holding the triangle shield in the air, “I got it!” Steve made haste towards the man. While he admired their willingness to help, he couldn’t let them get caught in the crossfir—The Hulk slammed down before him and swung at the unprepared Steve with his massive, green fist. Steve felt his shoulder pop out of his socket as he was launched through a wall of concrete. As Steve rolled to a stop, he felt the blood run down from his nostril. Before Steve could even rise, the Hulk had already closed the distance, bringing down his fists against Steve’s spine, cratering the ground below them. As the Hulk let out a haggard roar, Steve felt his strength begin to leave him. He ordered his body to rise, but it would not obey.

The Hulk had raised his fists once again when the triangle shield bounced off against the back of his head. Slowly, the beast turned, eyeing the man that dared to throw it. He snarled as he lumbered over, limping only slightly and rolling his shoulder. In spite of the state the captain had left the beast in, the man didn’t think to run; he was paralyzed with fear. Desperately, Steve mustered whatever strength he had left to rise to his feet. Performing a quick shoulder check, Steve rushed towards the two as the Hulk brought down his fists.

CLANG! The Hulk’s fists met the triangle shield with thunderous force and Thor, who had rushed in to defend the man with the captain’s shield, crumpled beneath it.

“NO!” Jane Foster shouted as she ran towards Thor. She didn’t even realize what was happening. It all went by so fast. They were only following the crowd of people when Thor spotted the Hulk, then the shield, the man in danger, and then Thor was— “Stupid! Stupid!” Jane shouted, trying to override her fear and panic with anger. She was failing to do so. She held Thor in her arms as the man he defended suddenly found the strength to flee. Thor’s legs bent in ways they shouldn’t and the skin on his arms was quickly turning a deep purple.

The Hulk staggered back, like he himself was taken aback by what had just transpired. BRAKA! BRAKA! S.H.I.E.L.D. Agents open fired at the motionless Hulk, whose rage reignited immediately. As the Hulk lunged at his new attackers, Steve dove for his now dented shield and protected the defenseless Jane and Thor from any stray bullets. Steve silently cursed under his breath as he watched Jane cradle the broken Thor. As this was supposed to be just a gala, Steve wasn’t given any means of communication. No earpiece, no walkie, nothing. Instead of being able to call for medical attention, he now had to watch this brave man die.

“I’m sorry,” Steve muttered to the two, “I should’ve been faster.”

“Why?” Jane sobbed, “Why would you—Why, Thor?!” Jane’s words distorted as Thor’s sight grew blurry. It was like he was underwater. Everything started to go dark.

“Do you truly not understand the gravity of what you have done?!” A voice echoed in the darkness. Not Jane’s voice. Someone else’s.

“I did what was needed!” Another voice echoed. Thor knew this one all too well: it was his. “The Joutens had to pay for their actions!” Thor knew this conversation. In an instant, his vision returned to him. He was… he was back on Asgard. Was it all a dream? A premonition of what was to come? No. His clothes were what he wore on Midgard.

“The actions of the Joutens were the actions of a few, doomed to fail!” the first voice bellowed. Thor turned to where he remembered his father stood. There was Odin, weary and enraged, bellowing at him from atop the dais, “You are the prince! That is not something that can be overlooked!”

“I am the future king!” Thor heard his own voice from behind him. He turned to see himself standing at the bottom of the dais, scowling and tightly gripping the hammer, Mjolnir, as he pointed it at his father. He was adorned in a familiar Asgardian armor stained with Jouten blood, which Thor looked upon with melancholic recollection. He must be dead, he concluded, forced to relive the moment where everything went wrong as his eternal penance. “The Joutens must learn to respect me as they once did you!” his younger self shouted.

“Respect?!,” his father shouted as he descended down the steps, “Is that what you think you have achieved today?”

“Look at me, father; in spite of what they unleashed upon me, they did not manage a single scratch!”

“But it was not just you on that battlefield, was it, boy? What of the men felled by Frost Giant hands?!”

“That is what our soldiers do! They fight until their last breaths for the glory of Asgard! And more will do the same until Joutenheim falls by my hand!” Thor turned away from his younger self, knowing what his next words would be, “I will win you this war, father. I swear it.” Thor continued to look away, not daring to look upon the oblivious righteousness that plastered the face of his younger self. Instead, he looked upon the face of his father, his expression just as crestfallen as he had remembered it.

“I am disappointed and ashamed, boy,” Odin spoke softly, his voice almost trembling, “Through your actions, your arrogance, and your stupidity, you have killed us all. So blind that you cannot even see it!” The room shook as Odin suddenly shouted the words, “You are unworthy of your power!” Mjolnir tore from the young Thor’s grasp and sailed into the waiting palm of Odin, “Unworthy of the realms!” The young Thor’s armor fell away, like it itself was recoiling at the physical presence of his body, “You are UNWORTHY!” Odin bellowed, raising Mjolnir into the air, “So, I, Odin Allfather, cast you out!”

Thor watched as, in a brilliant and blinding burst of lighting, his younger self was struck in the chest. As space itself folded around him, the young Thor’s face was frozen in shock and disbelief. Time began to slow to a crawl as Thor looked upon the pitiful state of his younger self.

“My son,” Odin’s voice. Thor turned around and there his father stood, adorned in robes, unlike what he wore moments ago. In his hands, he still held Mjolnir, “You have returned,” he continued, with the room falling away and shifting around them until they stood in a great ornate hall, “As I hoped you would.”

“So, it’s true then?” Thor spoke softly as he walked towards his father, taking little note of the change of scenery, “I brought ruin to Asgard. In my arrogance and stupidity… I killed us all.”

“You did,” Odin nodded, “Yet, here you are now. Valhalla. I wonder what that might mean for you.”

“Tis a mistake,” Thor turned away from his father in shame.

“If it is a mistake, then let me ask why you ran to defend a mere mortal. You know not even his name. And after your deed, he fled as you lay dying. What possibly could you have owed him to throw your life away like that?”

Thor glanced back at Odin, “Need I owe anything to preserve life, father?” In response to these words, Odin silently held out the hilt of Mjolnir to Thor.

“Come, son. Valhalla awaits…”

The rain was coming down harder back at the Triskellion. Jane hadn’t moved, as she was unwilling to abandon Thor’s broken body, in spite of Captain America’s insistence that they had to move. And just like Jane, Thor remained motionless at the entrance of Valhalla as he stared back at his father. Then, Thor glanced back, as if he could hear Jane’s pained cries from behind him. His eyes then went to Mjolnir, then back to his father.

“I cannot…” Thor spoke, “I made a grand mistake: I led one realm to ruin. I cannot allow another to meet the same fate. There is much more I wish I could say, father. But time is short. So, I decline your invitation and, instead, ask only for your guidance.”

Odin smiled, “You do not need it—" Jane looked up as the sky above the Triskellion lit up as though it had been cracked open. A sight reminiscent of the mountain top, but with far more power pulsating through it. Jane believed it could not be a coincidence.

“If that is the decision you make—" An aurora swirled in the sky in a vortex of stars and storm clouds. The aurora then spiraled downward, like a drill made of wind and lightning, towards Jane, Thor, and Steve. Quickly, Steve pulled Jane away, despite her protests, leaving Thor’s lifeless body lying on the ground.

“Then, I, Odin Allfather…" Odin held out his palm and Mjolnir flew to Thor as if it was a leaf caught in a gentle breeze. Thor did not immediately agree with the gesture, but he understood it. As he grasped the hilt of the hammer, Odin spoke his final words: “…I cast you out.”

A bolt of lightning burst downward from the twisting skies, with a thunderclap like the rumbling of heaven itself, and struck the lifeless body of Thor. A sight and sound so homeric seized the attention of the Hulk, who roared in utter rage at the notion of another interloper. He closed in, his movements erratic, like each limb sought to outrace the other. He leapt into the air, ready to tear apart the lightning itself.

Then, out from the light, Mjolnir flew like a comet and struck the Hulk. As the Hulk went tumbling, the hammer halted in the air, before retreating back towards the pillar of lightning, which dissipated as Mjolnir flew into the grasp of the reborn Thor. A wide grin stretched across the face of Jane Foster as she witnessed the sight.

Thor stood tall and firm, adorned in Asgardian armor, but not the one he once wore. What he once wore, while more regal and more lavish than anything he wore during his time on Midgard, was that of a high-class warrior. Of a prince. This set was more reminiscent of what his father once wore. For Thor, the most noticeable aspect of his new armor were the six discs that ran from his torso down to his waist, something that had only ever been present on his father’s armor and the armor of previous kings of Asgard. Thor knew of their meaning and significance, and therefore did not quite agree with their presence on his attire, but perhaps it was another thing he had to prove to be worthy of.

Thor pointed Mjolnir at the Hulk, who was scrambling to his feet, “That was a warning.” Thunder crackled, as if to punctuate his words, “We have both exchanged equal blows. Our conflict can end here, without further bloodshed. But, ask for another taste of Mjolnir and I will oblige.”

The Hulk raged forward, as if personally slighted by Thor’s words. Thor made good on his promise, swinging his mighty hammer upwards and knocking the beast into the air. He swung again, the impact like thunder, and the Hulk rocketed into the skies above. For a moment, even Thor was shocked by his strength. Perhaps, in his rebirth, he had come back more powerful than he ever was. Or perhaps he had merely forgotten how it felt to wield his own power.

But the Hulk was not so easily defeated. It was back on its feet faster than any foe Thor had faced. It slammed its fists on the ground and smacked its own temples in a fit of rage before attempting to close the distance with a leap.

Thor spun his hammer then let it fly. Still gripping the lanyard of the hilt, Thor sailed into the sky to meet the Hulk and slammed his hammer down upon its head. The Hulk’s body shot downward like a cannonball, shredding the concrete and glass off the face of the Triskelion’s main tower. The Hulk hit the ground hard, with Thor landing not far from it. Once again, Thor pointed Mjolnir at the beast.

“You wield immense power…but you allow it rule you.” Thor spoke somberly, “You will find only pain on this path.”

Thor’s warning fell upon deaf ears, as the Hulk lunged at the thunder god once again, swinging at him wildly. Thor evaded his attacker with less ease than he would’ve hoped for, but he still found himself able to land precise strikes against the Hulk when the beast left itself open. With each strike, the Hulk staggered back, shocked and enraged by the strength behind them. There was no mistaking that each strike from Thor cracked bone.

But despite each mighty blow Thor managed to land on him, the beast did not seem to slow, instead its movements were becoming faster, all while the expressions on its face grew more manic. As Thor saw his opportunities for attack dwindle, it was becoming clear to him that he was now completely on the defensive. But, eventually not even Thor’s defenses were enough to keep the Hulk at bay. A single, lucky shot to Thor’s head was enough to compromise his defenses. Soon enough, Thor was taking hits he should’ve been able to avoid.

In the past, Thor had faced foes bigger than he. He had faced foes stronger than he. But his body never ached like this. His senses were never overwhelmed like this. But he could not allow his body to submit, even as the Hulk tackled him to the ground. Thor got one more solid strike in before the Hulk wailed on him, slamming his fists down on him in rapid succession, cratering the ground around them. The Hulk screamed in Thor’s face. The Hulk had been powering through all the pain, but now it all had crept up on it. As it staggered back slightly, grasping its side, it reared back for one last attack before—FOOM! A brilliant beam of energy hit the Hulk square in the chest. The beast reeled back as a metallic figure shoulder rushed him, knocking the wind out of him and sending him back.

“Sorry to keep you all waiting,” spoke Iron Man as he hovered above the green goliath, adorned in the new Mark XII, “The paint only just dried.”

Upon seeing Stark, a deep rage reignited within the Hulk. Its attempt to close the distance was met with a quick blast to the face. As the Hulk clawed at its face, as if it could wipe the burning sensation away, Iron Man tackled them through the ground and into the floors below.

Thor continued to lay in the crater for a moment, if only to recollect his strength. A leather clad glove entered his line of sight.

“You good, soldier?” asked Steve.

“Just a bit weary,” replied Thor, accepting Steve’s helping hand, “Is this a familiar enemy?”

“I have my guesses,” Steve replied, “Questions, too.” Steve glanced at Thor, indicating that a handful of those questions would be for him. Thor understood.

“And the new warrior?”

“If I’m to go off the briefings; that’s Iron Man.”

Iron Man rocketed across the artificial island, smashing the Hulk through structures and floors along the way. Tony wasn’t kidding with his earlier remark. The suit was hot out of the assembler and flew across the country to be there. And as far as Tony could tell, the targeting system was in need of recalibration because every shot fired from his left arm was consistently off by a couple centimeters. Tony couldn’t reboot the targeting systems in his left arm without rebooting the rest of the armor. Perhaps, that was something he could rectify if he survived.

The Hulk was much more turbulent than before, growling and shouting as he clawed and swiped at the armored avenger. In order to evade the Hulk’s grasp, Tony stayed airborne, weaving throughout the openings of the Triskelion’s structures while the Hulk followed suite, climbing or bulldozing through every obstacle. Any chance he got, Tony unloaded his arsenal into the Hulk.

Flamethrowers set the beast ablaze, singing their hair and charring its skin, but did little to actually slow it down. Now, it was a burning and smoking mass that chased him. Thought-Scramblers debilitated it considerably, but the amount of power it required, in spite of the more energy efficient Mark XII, made it a non-viable option. The wrist darts might as well have been spitballs for all the impact they had. The wrist rockets were only marginally better. They were built to take down tanks, but each time they took the Hulk down, it would just get back up. The shoulder mounted air-to-air mini-missiles whistled through the air, striking the Hulk’s skin, bursting and burning with fire and smoke. It riddled the Hulk’s body with a searing and stinging pain that the beast couldn’t hide. But the missiles were a one-and-done as Tony had no immediate means of reloading them. The Hulk wasn’t too fond of the respulsor blasts, which was easily the most viable weapon in the arsenal, but no progress was going to be made with them. Eventually, the efforts resulted in a Hulk with charred and smoking patches of skin and blood dripping from its eyes, ears and mouth; looking like he had just burst out from the pits of hell, still relentlessly pursuing a man running out of options.

“Fall, damn it! FALL!” Tony shouted, rapid firing repulsor blasts. However, this action left him stationary for just a second too long. The Hulk wrapped his fingers around his right forearm, crumpling the metal, and flinging him through the air. The flight stabilizer in his forearm was shot; if he wanted to stop the momentum from the throw, he had to time it and activate his propulsion at just the right moment. But as he spun through the air, hurtling towards disaster at an insane velocity, the Hulk tackled him. The two crashed through several walls of steel and concrete. Commanded by his own instincts, Tony grabbed onto the face of his attacker and unleashed the searing power of his repulsor at point-blank range. The Hulk roared in pain and responded with an attack of his own. The resulting punch from the Hulk shredded the metal of Tony’s helmet and faceplate and brought distance between the two as they crashed into the R&D hub of the Triskelion.

Static filled Tony’s HUD as he stumbled to his feet. He could hear the Hulk roaring in the background, rummaging as if taking its rage out on the environment now. As Tony stood up, the Hulk turned his attention back towards him. But it did not immediately engage, instead it stood there, growling and clawing at the scorched patch of skin Tony had left behind. Tony tried to stand tall, attempting to make it look as though he still had options or that he wasn’t moments from keeling over.

Then the sound of thunder crashed in from above. As Tony felt his legs fail him, he also felt a pair of hands catch him.

“Easy, soldier,” Steve muttered as Thor appeared and approached the Hulk, Mjolnir in hand. The Hulk went off again, roaring and lunging at the interlopers. With a massive arc of lightning, the R&D hub was ripped apart and the Hulk went sailing into the air with Thor following closely.

“Man, I need a drink,” Tony muttered, witnessing the sight before him, “Initiate system reboot and recalibration!”

Thor brought down the might of Mjolnir upon the Hulk with a divine fury. With each blow, the island shook, but the Hulk still refused to go down. Not even when a repulsor blast caught him from behind. As Iron Man and Captain America joined Thor, the Hulk grew visibly more frustrated, like he was plagued by mosquitos that wouldn’t stay squished. So, for each blow they received, the Hulk was sure to dish one back out. Each drop of blood or bone broken would be returned in kind.

But just as before, the Hulk showed no signs of fatigue and, instead, demonstrated the opposite. For Thor, Iron Man, and Captain America, they realized that they were once again running out of time and options; they needed to put this creature down and fast. Thor struck first with lightning that split the sky, striking the Hulk with a blow that cracked its ribs and punctured one of his lungs. Almost by reflex, the Hulk returned the favor, hitting the thunderer with a strike so ferocious that it seemed impossible in spite of what they were already encountering. Within seconds, Thor had already been sent two miles away from the location of the brawl without showing any sign of descent.

As the Hulk grasped its side in pain, Steve capitalized on Thor’s attack. A throw of his shield staggered the Hulk as he closed in. The anger in the Hulk’s eyes flared up upon seeing Steve, yet Steve, despite the battered and bruised state he was in, was still able to evade the Hulk’s wild swings. The moment he saw an opening; Steve slammed his dented shield against the top of the Hulk’s skull. But, just like with Thor, the Hulk’s response was immediate, and a punch sent Steve crashing through the floors above.

Now, it was just the Hulk and Iron Man. With only one functioning repulsor, Tony kept his distance. But, once again, Tony knew this wasn’t going to put the monster down; he needed to figure something else out and do it fast. But the Hulk was not going to give him such an opportunity. The Hulk closed the distance, powering through Tony’s subsequent repulsor blasts. With a shoulder charge, Tony felt the back of his armor give out as he was pinned down. The Hulk wailed on him, his fists tearing apart the Mark XII like it was made of paper mache. Then, for a moment, the onslaught ceased, as the Hulk seized Tony’s helmet and tore it from his head, revealing the bleeding and bruised flesh underneath. Tony stared back at the Hulk, eye to eye, knowing full well that the next punch would kill him. But there was something in Hulk’s eyes. Not quite satisfaction, but—

“Hey!” Steve shouted as he came down from above, “We’re not finished yet!” The Hulk staggered back as Steve closed in and landed a solid right hook against its jaw. Hulk swung at him. A miss. Another hook to the jaw. But a hammer fist sent the captain tumbling. Before Steve’s body even rolled to a stop, the Hulk was back on him with a fist raised into the air, ready to bring it down when a voice pierced through the chaos:

“Bruce?!” Betty Ross shouted. The Hulk turned to her immediately, spotting her watching from a distance. In an instant, what seemed like boundless rage appeared to evaporate and, in its place, came shame. “Bruce, is that you?!” asked Betty as she came closer, “What did you do to yourself?”

“Bruce?” Tony repeated in disbelief, but when he saw the Hulk’s face, no longer twisted in rage, he understood. The Hulk glanced at Tony, back to Betty, then down at the felled Captain America. And in that moment, the Hulk muttered a single word:

“Alone.”

And with that, the Hulk leapt into the skies and vanished from sight.

****

The following week, every news station was saying their piece on the same story. Every news station showcased footage of the Hulk’s attack on the Triskelion and the chaos that ensued. Every news station had the faces of Captain America, Iron Man, and Thor somewhere in the broadcasts. Some believed that these heroes banded together and successfully vanquished the beast. Others believed the Hulk to still be at large. And others believed the entire thing to be nothing more than a publicity stunt. Part of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s damage control was to ensure that none of them knew the entire situation. Still, even they couldn’t deny the magnetic allure of the footage depicting Captain America saving lives and taking the fight to the Hulk. Nor the footage of Thor bringing down the heavens. Nor Iron Man unleashing his arsenal. But, amidst all of this news, the name Doctor Robert Bruce Banner was not mentioned once.

Betty Ross let the news play in the background as she stared out the window of her apartment, wondering where Bruce had gone to. No one had seen him since that night and, though it hadn’t been reported on, his lab was found in a state of disrepair the following morning. There was an obvious link between the Bruce and the Hulk.

For a moment, she had considered sharing what she believed with the media: that the Hulk may have been Bruce. But there were complications to doing something like that. There was no doubt that S.H.I.E.L.D. would show up at her doorstep. Either to silence her, interrogate her, use her to draw Bruce out, or all three. But then there was the question on whether or not she was just wrong. What if the stress and chaos of that night caused her to see something that wasn’t there? She seemed so certain the night of and she knows that the creature responded, but as she watched the footage on the news, she became less so. What would happen if she was wrong and inadvertently tied Bruce to the legacy of this beast forever? The man who worked to improve tomorrow would be forgotten and replaced by the man who became a monster. A monster who might’ve killed him.

So, as she looked out the window, Betty could only mutter, “Be safe.”

Somewhere, in the wilderness on the other side of the country, Bruce Banner sat hunched over and shaking in a dark cave, clothed only in a pair of tattered pants, asking himself, “What the hell did I do?”

****

“Zero casualties. Zero,” Nick Fury chuckled, “Can you believe that? That bastard didn’t even know it was bulletproof until I shot it, but somehow it had collateral damage in mind as it did Manhattan.”

“And you bring us this assessment because…?” asked the silhouetted council member on the screen before him. Fury looked around at the darkened faces on the screens that surrounded him, almost in disbelief at the question.

“We can’t be treating this thing like it’s some kind of mindless animal,” Fury elaborated, “It thinks. It might’ve been after something. Or someone. Perhaps—"

“We’ll keep that assessment in mind as work is made to detain it,” interrupted the council member to the left of Fury.

“I would say good luck with that, but—"

“Have we confirmed the link between Banner and this… Hulk?” interrupted another council member.

“We found Banner’s lab an absolute wreck,” Fury explained, “Computers and hardware were practically turned to powder. Security footage is still being salvaged. But, at this point, either Banner’s dead or soon-to-be public enemy number one.”

“Perhaps,” spoke the first council member, “In any case, our connection with Banner cannot be made public.”

“Establish a registry of those who know,” spoke the silhouette on the screen behind Fury, “Monitor them… and be prepared to neutralize them.”

“Already done,” Fury replied, “But as for the others--”

“Steven Rogers is still too valuable an asset to risk in combat… but, he has also proved himself useful in such a scenario. Update his status to standby.”

“And the other, the one who proclaims himself to be Thor?” asked the council member to the right of Fury, “Even if his claims are false, he is another variable on the field which we must account for.”

“That is, unless we dust off a previous proposal,” Fury replied. Though his words were met with silence, Fury felt the implied, collective groan of the council.

“Fury…” one of the members began.

“Check the numbers again,” Fury quickly cut them off, “We have zero fatalities on our hands. Plenty of injuries, but zero deaths. That’s a success in the eyes of many. But many are wondering what’s still out there, wondering how they’re going to be able to sleep peacefully ever again. We can give them an answer…” Fury paused, expecting a council member to cut in. But, they didn’t, so Fury went on, “If you recall, there was an idea to bring together a group of remarkable people who could fight the battles that we never could. And though they were unable to detain the Hulk, if we want anything resembling a snowball’s chance in hell when it ever decides to come back, our variables are more likely to give us that chance than any of our current agents.”

The council members continued their silence, but Fury could tell that, for the first time, they were actually giving this idea some serious thought. Eventually, one of them broke the silence:

“Refresh our memories on your proposal, Director.”

****

“So, what exactly is it that Fury is proposing?” asked Tony Stark as he took a sip of wine.

Tony, Steve, and Thor sat at the dining room table of Tony’s mansion. There was chatter between the three after their experience the previous week, but, after that, the three seemed to go their separate ways. That didn’t sit right with Tony, so he invited them to his mansion in Malibu for a private dinner. He even offered to pay for their flights.

Thor declined the offer of transport and instead appeared at Tony’s residence in a bolt of lightning. His entrance was heavily contrasted by his appearance. Calling it casual would be wrong, but calling it business casual would be a bit too generous. Steve dressed a bit similarly, definitely nicer, but there was a certain lack of personality in his attire, like he merely replicated a look he found in catalogue. Tony, on the other hand, had business casual down to a science.

Tony had the best food money could buy prepared for them and it was somewhere after the second course that Steve mentioned Fury’s proposal to the others.

“He wants a response team,” Steve elaborated, “One with us on it.”

“Just us?” asked Thor.

“He’s looking at other candidates as well.”

“People he wants to keep an eye on, no doubt,” remarked Tony as he poured himself another glass.

“Fury thinks too much oversight would get in the way,” Steve replied, “I happen to agree. If this gets approved, he’s looking at a very loose leash.”

“But a leash nonetheless,” muttered Thor, taking a sip from his wine, “I admit, I do see an appeal in fighting alongside fellow men of valor, but what if I were to refuse… what then? Would Jane and I have to spend our days watching over our backs?”

“Y’know, there was a reason why Fury wasn’t invited to this little meetup,” Tony interjected, “Having to still talk about his plans is going to spoil appetites.”

“There is no ultimatum here, Thor,” Steve reassured him, “Just men making offers.”

“Or, so he says,” Tony added. Steve quickly shot Tony an unamused look and Tonys only replied with the raise of an eyebrow as he downed more wine. Steve turned back to Thor.

“Thor?”

“I…” Thor paused, giving the whole thing a good amount of thought, “With my power returned, there is still much I must do. My home is fallen and whatever people are left are scattered. It is my duty to bring them to a new home, wherever it may be…” Thor paused before downing his entire glass of wine, “In between that, who knows?” Tony chuckled at the display and quickly poured the man another glass, “And where do you stand on this, friend Stark?” Tony’s amused smirk faded as he sat back in his chair.

“Fury’s been trying to get me on the payroll for a while,” Tony sighed, “It was a no from me every time. Didn’t like the strings that came attached,” Tony swished the wine around in his glass, “But then, only a week ago, the most advanced piece of tech I’ve ever been able to put together got ripped apart by someone’s bare hands. All while one of the people sitting at this table threw lightning.” Tony paused, debating on whether or not to be vulnerable for just a moment. “Look, I’m not used to being behind in the race. Thinking on it, it might not be the worst idea to have people watch my back while I catch up. So, it’s a very conditional yes.”

“As I have stated, I have obligations that supersede this team,” Thor remarked, “But, should danger, true danger, come lurking… you may rely on my strength.” Thor turned to Steve, “And you, Captain?” Steve sat in silence. Contemplating. Having brought up the topic, Tony and Thor were certain that Steve already knew his answer, but in that moment, they realized had not yet made up his mind.

Finally, Steve asked, “Stark, was that actually Banner?”

“No concrete evidence,” Tony replied, “but… But there was definitely something off about it all… And Banner’s disappearance doesn’t help things.”

“We should’ve helped him…” Steve muttered, “Not… When Fury came to me with this idea, I can imagine he was certain that I was already onboard. I would’ve thought the same, but now… Now, I wonder if any eagerness I had to get back into the uniform came from needing something familiar. I don’t have anything left and I’m looking around this new world for where I fit in. And, maybe I don’t. I… I gave Doctor Banner the push to do what he thought was right. And I told him I’d stand by whatever choice he made… So, if that thing was Banner, we’ve seen what good Captain America is to this new world.”

The other two sat in silence, digesting Steve’s words. They were all too familiar with the sentiment behind them. Thor decided to speak true: “We have seen, good Captain. That good is why many families did not share a collective loss that day. Though we have made mistakes, there must be reason for why we are still here. Why we still live.” Tony glanced at Thor like he had shot him. He glanced back at Steve and took a deep breath.

“You do have something here, Cap,” Tony spoke, “You got us.” Tony then grabbed his glass and stood up. “How about a toast? To Bruce Banner, wherever he may be.” A smile gradually made its way on to Steve’s face as he and Thor joined in on the toast. As their glasses clinked together, Tony turned to Steve, “So, this team… does it have a name yet?”

Steve smirked, “We got a couple ideas...”

Chapter Text

Peter Parker stopped in his tracks. His lungs were burning and his limbs were aching. All sound around him felt almost muffled. The exhaustion was forcing his body into dry heaves. He was not built for this, Peter thought, if only the bus driver just waited a couple seconds more. No, the driver was never going to give him those extra seconds, Peter concluded as he adjusted his glasses. He rarely ever made the bus, even if he arrived early. This was just the way the world treated him.

The sound of a powerful engine roared overhead, pulling Peter’s gaze, allowing him to catch just a glimpse of Iron Man flying by. Peter couldn’t help but be enraptured by the sight. Not only was he witnessing a technological marvel, he was also witnessing a man who was able to use his own smarts to allow himself to stand alongside an actual god. Someday, Peter would be like that. Or be like Captain America. Someday, he’ll matter. Someday, people will realize they should’ve treated him better.

Peter started running again. He wasn’t going to let something like missing the school bus get him down. Not today.

****

“I don’t get it, Peter,” Harry mumbled, his voice low and puzzled as he leaned in across the lunch table, “Why is this so important?”

“This guy works for your dad,” Gwen Stacy responded, “How does it not register as important for you?”

“Do you know how many geniuses have worked with my dad by this point?” Harry replied, gesturing with a french fry as if it furthered his point, “Unless we get Tony Stark, and we won’t, Otto remains the high point. I don’t get how this guy stacks up.”

“Okay,” Peter began to explain, “So you know how most radiation is invisible to the human eye because it’s on a different wavelength on the electromagnetic spectrum?”

“Let’s assume I do.”

“See, for a lot of invisible light to be visible to us, it’s usually through things like cloud chambers, but that’s closer to vapor trails, in that what we’re really seeing is something more akin to—”

“Pete, you’re about to lose the plot,” Gwen cut in.

“Point being, cloud chambers: have caveats. Vita Radiation: still elusive. Real main point: Doctor Schwinner’s accelerator has been able to finally and safely visualize Vita radiation. Like, we’ll be able to actually see beams of concentrated radiation with our own eyes. And it won’t even need to be kept behind a sheet of glass!”

“That… doesn’t sound possible,” replied Harry.

“Exactly! That’s what makes this such a breakthrough! We can’t miss it!”

“I actually can. The last two exams have been kicking my ass and I thought, for once, I’d actually try studying.”

“Good, you should. But Mr. Lieber said that a quick paper on the demonstration could earn us some extra credit, so—"

“Why would you need extra credit, Parker?” asked Flash Thompson as he strolled up to the lunch table, “You’re already the teacher’s pet. What, you want a higher peak to look down on us?”

“Wow,” Peter couldn’t help but chuckle, “that’s really what you think it is?”

“Yeah, we’re just a bunch of idiots, aren’t we? Never change, Parker, you &%#@ loser.” Flash smacked Peter on the back of the head before walking away.

“Doesn’t seem like it’s going to be a popular venue,” Gwen grumbled.

“Not great at science,” Harry went on, “but good enough at math to know the extra credit’s not gonna help a whole lot. Can’t study in my sleep like you do. I need the extra time.” Harry looked over his shoulder, “On the bright side, I doubt you’ll be the only ones there. Can’t imagine Max has anything better to do with his evening.” Both Peter and Gwen glanced at the back corner of the school cafeteria, where Max Dillon sat alone. A faint grimace appeared on Peter’s face.

“That’s very comforting, Harry,” he remarked.

“Well, I don’t need the points,” Gwen chirped, “Unlike someone,” she side-eyed Harry, “But that just means I don’t have to write a paper… Unlike someone,” she side-eyed Peter.

“You’re missing out,” Peter retorted.

“No, I’m not.”

SPRAT! A paper cup filled to the brim with soda splattered against Peter’s face. The dark cola immediately soaked into his clothes as Peter’s eyes stung and burned. His poor and uncoordinated reflexes caused him to stumble out of his chair and onto the floor.

“Oh!” Flash shouted from across the cafeteria, his arms shooting into the air, “And for the first time in his life, the egghead’s involved in a perfect half-court three-pointer!” A chorus of laughter erupted throughout the cafeteria, far more than anyone was expecting. Peter’s teeth grit and his fists clenched as he curled up on the floor. He could feel his face getting hot as his drenched clothes stuck to his skin. Gwen offered Peter a hand up, but he brushed it aside, and opted to instead scurry out of the cafeteria with his tail between his legs.

Even as Peter and Gwen walked toward the demonstration hours later, remnants still clung to Peter’s person, “You think they’d still be laughing in two years when they’re serving me at a drive-thru?” Peter asked.

“I don’t think they nor you are going to remember this in two years,” Gwen shrugged, “And that’s a pretty reductive view of service workers, isn’t it?”

“I just—I was really looking forward to this and… and now I—”

“No, I get it. On the bright side, I think people are going to be more distracted by the fact that there’s high school students in the room rather than how your clothes are. Eddie told me to expect a lot of science majors from ESU.”

“But no Eddie himself?”

“Nope.”

“Why does everyone hate science?”

As the two entered the building that housed the demonstration, they were both immediately greeted by the massive device that would be the main star. Its design brought back images of the space age, yet with a couple touches here and there that allowed it to fit naturally in the design of the modern world. Anyone who would lay eyes upon it would no doubt have their attention drawn to the two globes held in the air by what looked like mechanical appendages. Peter couldn’t take his eyes off of it even as the doctor behind its creation took to the stage and introduced his triumph.

Peter tried to let his troubles slip away as the wonders of the device before him was explained, yet, at the back of his head, like an itch, was the dream that one day it would be him that would be giving the explanation behind such a revolutionary device. He’d have his name up there with the other modern-day greats, like Tony Stark, Hank Pym, Franklin Storm, Norman Osborn… and his father… Peter snapped back to reality as the device began to whirr to life.

A sharp burst of crackling power pierced the air as energy pumped out from the two globes. It was unlike anything Peter and Gwen had ever seen, as the radioactivity made visible was like a collection of charged particles and dots colliding and twisting over each other. The very light surrounding it appeared to vibrate and warp, projecting afterimages in various bright colors. It perfectly captured the danger of radioactive waves, but also conveyed a feeling of serene to it, like an aurora where the lights were at war with one another.

But as the demonstration went on, no one paid any attention to the tiny spider descending from the ceiling on an almost invisible strand of web. A spider that descended straight through the beams, bathing itself within the waves of astounding energy. It was such a shock through the arachnid’s body, that it was sent into a state of frenzy. It fell from its web, down into the oblivious crowd below, and, in its erratic state, sank its fangs into the nearest thing it could find before life ebbed away from its irradiated body.

“GAH!” Peter yelped, grasping his hand. He looked down at the dead spider in his palm as his entire arm began to go numb. The world around him was growing distorted and blurry. As the rest of his senses began to fail, he mumbled, “…Spider… bit… me… why..?”

Everything went dark.

When Peter came to, he was in the back seat of a moving car. A familiar car.

“Too much excitement, kiddo?” asked Ben Parker from the driver’s seat.

“Huh?” Peter replied, still feeling a bit woozy, “W-what happened?”

“You blacked out,” Ben explained, “Gwen called us in a panic after you wouldn’t wake up for a couple minutes. But I knew you’d pull through.” Peter stayed silent, attempting to recall exactly what had happened or what he had felt before he went unconscious. “I think she likes you,” Ben stated, pulling Peter out of his concentration.

“Who? Gwen?”

“Of course.”

“Well, we’ve known each other since we were eight, so—”

“You know what I mean.”

“I’d like to veto this conversation.”

“Sorry, kiddo. Only May holds the executive veto powers and every countersuit I’ve tried to file has been vetoed.” Peter chuckled, but it wasn’t long before he retreated back into silence. Ben glanced back at Peter through the rearview mirror, taking note of the state of his clothes, “What happened to your shirt?” Peter didn’t answer. “We don’t need to call someone’s parents, do we?”

“No, Ben. It’d only make it worse.”

“Ah, so it was someone else. Probably shouldn’t let May know. I pity anyone who has to suffer her wrath."

Peter smiled.

As soon as the two arrived back at their house, the smallest hints of fatigue began to hit Peter. Though he had been feeling better whilst in the car, it was becoming evident that he wasn’t quite out of the woods just yet. First, it was a light nausea, then it was a stinging pain where he had been bitten by the spider.

“May, we’re home!” Ben announced as he swung open the door.

“Great!” Aunt May proclaimed from the kitchen, “You two are just in time for dinner.” Ben moved in to embrace his wife, but stopped short as he sniffed at the air.

“May Parker, what is that smell?”

“I made a banana bread,” May answered proudly, practically puffing her chest.

“A banana bread? What’s wrong with a meatloaf?”

“You’ve given quite the extensive list of what’s wrong with one over the years,” May responded, lightly slapping Ben on the shoulder.

“Yeah,” Ben pulled her in close, “but that’s only because I know the next time you make it, you’re gonna nail it.”

“I, um,” Peter stammered, “I’m actually not feeling very well. I’m gonna go to sleep.”

“Right now?” May asked, “You don’t want a bite?”

“No, I-I think I might’ve actually lost my appetite. I’ll see you in the morning.” Peter then scurried to his room. May shot Ben a bewildered look.

“What’s that all about?”

“Kiddo’s had a rough day,” Ben sighed, “He’s probably exhausted.”

The moment Peter closed the door to his room; his limbs became unimaginably heavy. Fatigue had been creeping up on him since he had come home, but now it was crashing down upon him. His head was pounding and burning. All over his body, it felt as though his skin was diving below and his muscle fibers were bursting to the surface. And no matter how hard he breathed, his lungs never seemed to fill. Then, his body began to convulse and his eyes rolled back into his skull and then…

Peter’s eyes opened slowly.

It was morning.

Peter looked around him. Did he just sleep on the floor all night? Evidence pointed to the answer being yes. Peter attempted to shake off the lingering sleep, but, to his confusion, despite the unreal fatigue he experienced the night before, he somehow felt…rejuvenated. Refreshed, even. More refreshed than he had ever felt in his life.

He looked around him again, taking in the familiar sights of his room. But something felt off. The shadows seemed…different. The lights seemed… brighter? Peter couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Perhaps, it was—Peter stared blankly at his glasses sitting on the nightstand. Peter's eyes flicked to the clock sitting next to them and stared at the numbers. He didn’t care what time it was. Instead, he was more invested in the fact that he could see the numbers clearly.

He blinked, once, twice, but the numbers didn't change. He could read them without glasses. A slight tinge of euphoria rushed through Peter as he processed this development. He didn’t need glasses anymore! He could see! He kept staring at his clock, completely lost in the excitement of his newfound clear vision. But then, something shifted, and it dawned on him what the numbers on his clock meant: School started in forty minutes.

He sprang into action, moving through his morning routine in a blur of activity as he scrambled to get ready for school. He brushed his teeth, splashed his face, and grabbed his backpack, all in a frantic whirlwind of motion.

But, like his vision, everything felt off. He felt lighter, like he could walk on air. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but he knew he didn’t have the time to figure it all out. He had no plans of being late to school today.

“Peter,” Aunt May chirped as he rushed through the kitchen, “Feeling better this morning?”

“Better?” Peter repeated, snatching a handful of breakfast food as he made a beeline for the front door, “I feel great!”

“Peter, you forgot your–” Peter rushed out the door with a piece of toast dangling from his mouth. May ran after him, “Peter, you forgot your glasses!” May stood in the doorway, baffled and wondering what could cause Peter to willingly make himself visually impaired.

“Probably a girl he wants to impress,” Ben remarked nonchalantly from the breakfast table.

Peter rocketed down the street. Within minutes, he could see the yellow school bus. Then, like clockwork, the bus took off before Peter could reach it and, like the day before, Peter gave chase. However, the fleet footedness he had felt all morning did not abandon him as he chased down the bus for blocks on end. There wasn’t even a hint of fatigue as Peter caught up with the bus and shouted for someone to stop it. However, just as he was about to reach out and grab the door handle, the bus suddenly swerved to the left, taking a sharp turn.

It was then that a bizarre sensation surged throughout Peter. It was an outlandish mixture of anticipation, anxiety, and stimulation, all while it felt like his spine planned to leap out from his body. And then came a hushed whisper at the back of his skull: “Look Out!”

Acting on pure reflex, Peter leapt into the air as a car screeched by. It almost certainly would’ve hit Peter had he not gotten out of the way at the last second. Peter looked on as the car continued on its way, likely oblivious to the fact that they were only moments away from running someone over. “Jerk,” Peter grumbled to himself. But then, his attention was pulled away from the car, as something else had gained it: He was sticking to the wall of a building.

He glanced down at the street multiple stories below, then back at his fingers adhering to the brick wall. Peter mumbled to himself in disbelief. With trepidation punctuating each subtle movement, he pulled one hand away from the wall, placed it higher, and pulled himself upwards. Then he did the same with the other hand. Then back to the first hand. Peter couldn’t believe it. Was he really scaling a wall as easily as one could walk? After a couple moments, he looked down again and his feelings of trepidation were replaced with a familiar euphoria.

Peter hollered as he leapt across the rooftops with wild abandonment. Every action, every movement, felt weightless. He’d jump and wouldn’t care if it felt like he might never come down. He felt like a million dollars.

Even from up high, Peter recognized the area around him: he was still heading towards Midtown High. In a flash, the euphoria drained from Peter’s being as the rest of the world came back to him. He had forgotten that he even had his backpack still on. “Right,” he mumbled to himself.

For the first time in Peter’s life, school was a slog for him. In each and every class, he sat at his desk with his leg bouncing and his eyes on the clock. School was rarely hard for him, but Peter would take pride in that. It felt good to do well academically. It felt good to learn new things about the world. But today, Peter was feeling nothing but monotony. Every question was just too easy, every problem was just too simple, and every lesson was too obvious. Why was he wasting so much time doing this?

By the time gym class rolled around, Peter was visibly agitated. He stood there, staring at the basketball hoop above him like it personally insulted him. Maybe he should just throw caution to the wind and do a slam dunk in front of everyone. He was certain that he could pull it off now. He was jumping across rooftops earlier, now he’s supposed to have a problem with putting a ball in a basket?

THUNK! A basketball bounced off of Peter’s back like it would a brick wall. Peter blinked, not in pain, but in surprise. He didn’t turn around to see who the perpetrator was. He already knew.

“Wow,” Flash Thompson snickered, “Didn’t even budge, huh? Maybe that spine finally grew in, eh, puny Parker?” Flash pat Peter hard on the back before going to retrieve the basketball. Peter didn’t even acknowledge the gesture nor the remark. He was used to rolling with Flash’s punches, but today, they felt particularly fangless. Or maybe Peter merely cared less. “Probably a good thing. Wouldn’t want you to break those pencil arms before finals.” A couple of Flash’s cronies laughed at the remark. Not all of them, but enough.

Then Peter heard a yelp and a clatter. He turned and saw Max Dillon, on the ground and surrounded by scattered towels he had been carrying for the coach, with Flash standing over him. “Didn’t see you there, Dillon,” Flash remarked, “But you’re probably used to that.”

Peter’s fists clenched. Not because Max was a friend—Peter barely knew him. But the way Max scrambled to his feet, the way he tried to pretend like he wasn’t bothered or hurt, the way no one helped, the way Flash fed off the attention; Peter knew that feeling.

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” shouted Peter.

“You say something, Parker?”

“Oh, you’re deaf. I just thought it was a thick skull.”

“Oh,” Flash let out an amused chuckle, “Parker’s got jokes now.”

“I’ve got a lot more than jokes now,” Peter retorted as he picked up the basketball.

“Careful, Parker. You don’t even know how to use that thing.”

“Bet I know how to use it better than you.” Peter glanced around the gym, taking note of the number of eyes on the two of them. “Y’know what? How about a wager? I’m gonna walk to the other side of the court and do a slam dunk. All you got to do is stop me,” Peter smirked, presenting the ball before Flash, inviting it to take it right there, “And if you do or the slam dunk doesn’t happen, I’ll… I dunno, I’ll show up on Monday dressed like a cheerleader.”

“Better start working on your crowd work.” Flash reached out for the ball in Peter’s outstretched hand. In a blur, the ball switched to Peter’s other hand. Peter started walking at a snail’s pace, really giving Flash plenty of time to snatch victory.

“Well, now you’re traveling,” remarked Flash.

“I didn’t say I’d dribble the whole way. Read the fine print!” Peter pivoted and spun around Flash before bouncing the ball off of his back, “Too slow, Flash. But you’re probably used to that. Now, c’mon, reset.” Peter motioned Flash to walk back around him so that he could again stand between him and the hoop. A couple kids snickered at the gesture.

Flash’s jaw flexed as he circled back around. Peter waited, ball spinning on his fingertip, before suddenly jolting forward. It was bait and Flash took it. Peter dribbled the ball nonchalantly as Flash lost his footing and stumbled. “Wow, second best in academics and now second best on the court,” Peter spoke, strolling back around Flash, “No, it’s third in academics. No, fifth.” Flash lunged at Peter, trying to body-check him and brute force his way to victory, but Peter played the same game and bulldozed through Flash, making a beeline for the hoop.

Then Peter leapt, higher than any normal kid should, and slammed the ball through the rim. The metal rim snapped off the backboard which shattered into thousands of pieces. Peter’s landing was ungraceful, a stark contrast to the newfound physical coordination he had displayed the past couple minutes, as he joined the rest of the gym in their disbelief of what had just happened. He stared at the shattered board, then down at the metal rim deformed by his grasp.

“Parker!” The coach’s voice cut through the silence, “Office. Now.”

Flash rose to his feet with an expression plastered on his face that Peter recognized almost instantly. Flash didn’t look angry at all. Instead, he looked small. But that’s what Peter wanted, wasn’t it? To make others feel as he had for so long. The thrill was already gone. What was left was something else. It wasn’t guilt nor was it remorse. And perhaps that was the problem. It was a somber moment of realization.

He hadn’t just embarrassed Flash.

He enjoyed it.

****

CLICK! Ben hung up the phone and stood still for a moment, staring into the distance as he collected his thoughts. When he finally did, he let out a slow breath and dialed another number. After a couple rings, May picked up on the other end.

“The school just called,” Ben explained, “Peter never showed up today.”

“What?” asked May, “But he left this morning, didn’t he?”

“He did. He said he had a big test too. Took off early. Guess that was a lie.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Second time in three days I’ve gotten a call about him. First, the thing with the Thompson kid and now this.”

“Something’s going on with him. He’s barely talked to us over the past couple of days.”

“That’s probably because he’s barely been home, May. He’s just been…” Ben sighed, uncertain of the words he was searching for.

“Have you talked to him yet?”

“I just got home.”

“I’m worried about him, Ben. You don’t suppose he… y’know, got ‘hooked’ on something?”

“I don’t think so. Could just be those years. We were young and stupid once. It’s easy for us to forget that. All those raging hormones.”

“I suppose it was a bit foolish to think our boy would never change.”

“What he needs now is–” Ben paused. What was that noise he just heard? As far as he knew, he was the only one home at the moment. Then he heard it again. Ben’s eyes flicked towards Peter’s room. “May,” Ben spoke back into the phone as he approached,” I’ll call you back.” Ben moved down the hallway. The door to Peter’s room was shut, but faint sounds, like footsteps, echoed from behind it. Ben hesitated, then knocked gently. “Peter?” he called out.

No answer.

He called again. Still no answer. “Okay, well, whoever’s in there, you better be decent!” Ben spoke as he creaked the door open.

Peter sat at his desk, headphones blaring music into his ears, tinkering with a device and stirring a beaker of white bubbling fluid. Once he had achieved the desired viscosity, Peter attempted to pour the concoction into a small narrow pouch. He hadn’t even noticed that Ben had walked into his room until his uncle pulled the headphones off his head.

“Uncle Ben!” Peter exclaimed.

“You didn’t go to school today?” Ben asked, placing the headphones on the desk.

“I, um, I–there were some errands I needed to run.”

“Errands?” Ben repeated, only partially buying the excuse, “What kind of errands? They couldn’t wait until after school?”

“They–School’s not exactly the party you guys think it is.”

“It’s not meant to be a party. It’s meant to be where you learn–”

“Learn what? I could teach half of the classes I’m taking!”

“Even if that were the case, you have to go to school. Believe me, I never liked it. And during these years? What, with growing pains? Peter, I know, I went through exactly the same thing at your age.”

“No, not exactly.”

“But these are the years where a man changes into the man he’s going to become for the rest of his life. So, when I get calls about you skipping school or that whole ordeal with the Thompson kid, I get worried. May gets worried.”

“I know.”

“Then why do it?”

“I–” Peter stammered, struggling to find the right things to say. Or perhaps, he did know what words he should say and was merely unwilling to speak them. Ben waited for an extended period of silence before letting out a deep sigh.

“May should be home in an hour or so,” he said finally. “We’ll talk more then. Maybe the three of us can figure this out together.” He turned to leave, “I’ll start dinner,” he said over his shoulder, “Tell May you’re home when she gets back.”

“I— “, Peter stammered once again, the words forcing their way out, “Ben, I—Ben just look!” As Ben turned back around Peter leapt from his chair and on to the ceiling. He stuck there, staring down at his stunned uncle, awaiting his response.

“Okay,” Ben finally muttered, his unblinking gaze still on Peter, “okay… listen, I’m going to walk outside and close the door. When I come back in, my boy won’t be on the ceiling and will instead be sitting at his desk like he always is. Sound good?” Peter nodded and Ben creaked the door close, not once taking his eyes off Peter.

When Ben re-entered the room, Peter told him everything. He told him about the bite, about what he could do now. Ben sat and listened, holding off all his questions until the end. “So, this spider gave you powers?” he asked, trying to work through the information he had just received.

“That’s the current theory.”

“So, you can crawl up walls, jump far and… you’re strong?”

Peter picked up a screwdriver and bent it between his fingers, “Very.”

“Please put that back to how it was.” Peter did. Ben sighed, “I feel it’s crazy to say that things are starting to make sense now.”

“But you get it now? You get it, right?"

“Maybe,” Ben mumbled, eyeing the clothes laid out on Peter’s bed: a red sleeveless hoody with a crude spider inked onto the front, dark blue undershirt and jeans, a red leather patchwork mask, and a pair of goggles. Ben furrowed his brow, “What are those for?”

“Those? Oh, I, um…” Peter grabbed the mask, “I had been thinking about how we got guys like Iron Man and Captain America running around, so I figured people would be hungry for more of that sort of thing, so I sorta came up with my own thing. I was thinking like this sort of trash-talking urban ninja with a spider theme. Something that sticks out in people’s heads. There’s also the plus side that if things went sideways, I could ditch the costume and no one would know it was me.”

“And you plan to, what? Audition as this…Spider-Man?”

“I was actually thinking of something like the Human Spider.”

“I think Spider-Man rolls off the tongue better.”

“Sure,” Peter remarked dismissively, “but the point is… I’ve already been auditioning for the past couple days! I already got booked for a show next week, they want to shoot a promo tonight!” Peter was giddy, “Isn’t that great?!”

“It’s, um…”

“Ben?” Peter’s smile faltered, “Th-this is good. They’re going to pay me more money than we get in a year! This is good news!”

“Yeah, it’s news, alright.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“The spider bite was…” Ben’s words trailed off as he did the math in his head, “You’ve only had these powers for four days?”

“I believe so–”

“And in that amount of time, you’ve lied to me… you’ve lied to me and your aunt, skipped classes, snuck out, got into fights—”

“Hey, whoa, that wasn’t a fight–”

“—and now you want to put on a mask and-and turn yourself into a spectacle?”

“No,” Peter replied, almost offended, “No, I’m not turning myself into a spectacle. I’m-I’m trying to turn this into something useful. Ben, am I just supposed to ignore all of this?”

“No, but you need to think about this–”

“I am thinking. For the first time in my life, people want to pay attention to me. I can help you and Aunt May with the bills, I can get us out of this old house, I can actually matter out there—”

“You do matter, Pete.”

Peter shook his head. “Why does this have to be a bad thing? I’m not robbing banks. I’m not hurting anyone. I’m just showing people what I can do. I mean, look at Iron Man. The guy’s a billionaire. He’s got fans and merch. Why is it wrong when I do it?”

Ben nodded slowly, as if weighing the words. “Pete, I’m not going to tell you you’re wrong for being excited. You’ve been given a great gift. But I want you to think about something.”

“And that is?”

“Do you remember Mr. Jameson? He and I used to work together. We both started out as paper boys. Jonah and I loved writing. We loved writing about the world. Shedding light on its uglier side at times, but making sure the good wasn’t overlooked or overshadowed. So, we took what little money we had and invested it into our own paper.” A small smile crept onto Ben’s face, “It was just us. Writing, editing, and delivering. But we didn’t care. We just wanted the little guys to feel looked after. We weren’t huge but people trusted us. A lot of the city trusted us. And that… that’s a lot to give to a pair of thirty-year olds. Before we knew it, we had advertisers, investors, countless people willing to pay for a piece of our pie. You should’ve seen the zeros on the checks they wrote us. I thought someone oughta slap me each time I laid eyes on it. They were going to make our paper a nationwide name and put more money than ever in our pockets.”

“So, what happened?”

“For a couple months, exactly what they said would happen. Our readership exploded, we had our own delivery drivers. Heck, the first check I got under the new regime I used to buy this old house for me and May. I was going to make sure she’d never have to worry about money ever again.” Ben’s smile faded, “It’s actually quite easy for people to convince themselves they’re doing things for the right reasons. It didn’t take long for the strings to appear. Soon, they started to tell us what to write and what we couldn’t write. Started to tell everyone what stories mattered. Jonah thought they were cowards. Cowards who used our words because they didn’t have the guts to put their own names on the byline. I didn’t think that extreme, but I didn’t like being told to just keep looking the other way. The little guys weren't looked after anymore. So, I talked to Jonah, I talked to May... and I talked to your dad. The next morning, Jonah and I cleared our offices. Never looked back.”

“So, you’re telling me I should just… throw it all away?”

“Peter, you know what’s not what I’m saying. I’m just saying you need to be careful.”

“I am being careful. That’s the whole point of the mask.”

“I’m not talking about protecting your identity, Peter. I’m talking about your intentions. You've got power, Pete. Real, scary, world-changing power. And if you start thinking it’s just about what you can get out of it…” Ben stopped. He didn’t want to get worked up. He took a deep breath, “When I quit, your dad was the last person I called. And I called him last because I was certain I already knew what he was going to say. He always thought about the bigger picture. Even when we were kids and your grandpa got sick—Richard never stopped asking why. Why the doctors couldn’t do more. Why there wasn’t a cure. And instead of being angry at the world, he decided to do something about it. Spent the rest of his life trying to help people—not for attention, not for a paycheck, but because he could. You’re a lot like your dad, but your dad lived by this one thing. We both did. When you have great power—and believe me, you do—then you have a responsibility to use it right. Not for applause. Not for money. But because you can.”

Peter looked away, “That’s not fair,” he said, a slight tremble in his voice.

“Pete, life is rarely fair. Very few of us get what we deserve or what we’re owed.”

“That’s your advice?!”

“I wasn’t finished. Yes, the world's unfair, but it’s how we react in the face of that unfairness–all that ugly–that we show the world what we’re made of.”

“Roll with the punches because it’s the right thing to do. Y’know what that’s taught me? If you roll with the punches, people figure that they can just keep on punching and get away with it! And–what–now you’re going to talk about how my dad was this guy who took the world on his shoulders because he thought it was his responsibility, but he didn’t ever think it was his responsibility to be here for me?!”

“Peter, how dare you?”

“How dare I?! How dare you!? You’re going to sit here and tell me about how great he was and he was never here!” Peter snatched the clothing off of his bed and a couple contraptions from his desk.

“Peter…” Ben stood up as Peter cracked open the window, “Pete, what are you doing?” Peter looked out the window. He didn’t dare look his uncle in the eye. He placed a foot on the window sill.

“I do have power, Ben. And I’m going to use it to make things right.”

And with that, Peter left.

****

“And cut!” the director shouted, “Beautiful, beautiful stuff!”

“You sure?” Peter shouted from the ceiling of the auditorium, “I actually have webs now that I wanted to try out–”

“It’s showbiz, buddy. No need to spoil the money shots on a promo. Now get down here, let’s not shout too much!” Peter dropped down and looked around the auditorium, really taking in the scale of it. The director continued, “Though, I do have to ask: you’re not married to the name, are you?”

“Human Spider’s a pretty accurate name.”

“Accuracy doesn’t always sell. But we’ll work on that. Have something that pops for the live show next week.”

“And next week’s payday?”

“Once we fill out the proper paperwork, yes. Next week’s payday.” The director’s phone buzzed in his pocket, “Hold on, I’m getting a call. Don’t go too far. Green room’s through the door backstage.”

As the director walked off, chatting away, Peter went back to taking in the scale of where he stood. He imagined all the seats filled with people chanting his name and shouting in awe of what he could do. That’s when Peter’s own phone began to buzz. Peter looked down at it: a call from Uncle Ben. He can wait until he gets home, Peter thought as he sent the call to voicemail. Peter took one more look at the seats around him before figuring a nice breath of fresh air would do him good. Or, perhaps, that’s what he told himself. As soon as he stepped outside into the alleyway next to the venue, he pumped his fists into the air and jumped like a kid at a birthday party. It was going to happen! It was finally going to happen!

“Hey!” Someone shouted. Peter spun around as a man burst into the alleyway. Another man followed after him, “Help!” the pursuer shouted, “Someone grab him! That guy just robbed my deli! Don’t let him get away!” As the man on the run approached, Peter quickly moved out of the way. Both men passed Peter, and the pursued quickly hopped the fence at the end of the alleyway. The deli owner wasn’t nearly as limber.

“Thanks!” the man called out from the other side of the fence as he kept running. The deli owner slammed his fists against the fence as he turned to Peter.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked.

“What’s wrong with me?” Peter repeated, baffled.

“You just let him go! All you had to do was stick your foot out! Grab him by the collar or–”

“Whoa, buddy. I’m the talent, not a cop.”

“All you had to do–” The door to the alley swung open. The director, still clearly on the phone, stuck their head out.

“Ah, there you are!” they chirped, “They loved the promo and they want us to film a couple quickies out front for word of mouth and socials.”

Peter glanced at the deli owner before walking back inside, “Sounds good,” he said.

Peter strolled out to the front of the venue and, within moments, a small crowd started to form around him. After a couple feats displayed by Peter, that crowd grew. Even in costume, Peter couldn’t help but feel like he was showing off to all the creeps at his high school who thought so lowly of him for years. Each bit of chatter or phone pointed his way was like another dose of adrenaline pumped into his body.

Peter started to exaggerate his movement, truly putting on a show for the crowd and taking the time to pose just long enough for someone to snap a picture before springing back into action. Though, as it went on, Peter grew less concerned about getting the money shots. He just wanted to show off. The praise, applause, and attention–It was intoxicating. For once, he wasn’t Peter Parker. He was someone people noticed. Someone who mattered. It was all he ever wanted and now it was his. This was the rest of his life.

Peter had it in him to perform for a couple more hours, but soon he was ushered back into the lobby by the director. “No, no, leave them wanting more!” He said to Peter. Though he attempted to appear professional, signs of giddyness were impossible for him to hide completely, especially when he said to Peter, “We are going to make bank!”

****

Peter walked home with a pep in his step. He had it all figured out. Ben and May weren’t going to have to worry about money anymore and he was going to matter on a scale he had never imagined. That was fine for him. And Gwen and Harry? He’d figure something out to bring them along with him. They and his aunt and uncle were the only people who were ever kind to him. The only people who treated him like he was somebody before he got his powers. He’d see to it that they were all taken care of. The rest of the world could go hang for all he cared.

But as Peter approached his house, he noticed the police car parked outside. As he drew closer, he spotted a couple more. Peter picked up the pace. Standing at the doorway was a cop. Peter recognized him instantly.

“Captain Stacy?” Peter called softly. Stacy turned, his face tight with concern but controlled, eyes scanning the street.

“Peter,” he said quietly, nodding. A wave of relief washed over Peter. He knew Captain Stacy. He was Gwen’s dad. Perhaps, if Stacy was here, it wasn’t as bad as it looked. Maybe—

Peter looked inside the house. The interior was dim, illuminated only by a couple weak scattered lamps and the flashing light from the squad cars outside flickering through the windows. As Peter stepped inside, the murmur of voices grew quiet. "That’s the nephew," Peter heard one of them say. Peter could hear his heartbeat hammering in his ears as all sound in the world seemed to fade away as he approached the living room.

Then he saw it.

A dark, glistening stain on the floor and the unmistakable outline of a body.

Peter’s chest tightened. The breath caught in his throat. The world blurred at the edges.

“Peter!” Aunt May’s voice cried out. She ran to Peter and hugged him tight like she had never hugged him before, “Peter! Thank goodness, you’re alright!

“May!” said Peter, his words choked by the oncoming flood of emotions, “What happened?” he asked, hoping in vain that his aunt’s words wouldn’t confirm what he was already thinking.

“Peter! Ben, he’s–” May continued to speak, but Peter couldn’t hear her voice. It was muffled beyond recognition, but he knew what she was saying. It was as if the volume of the world was turned down to nothing. Peter stood in that world of silence, watching as his aunt broke down before him. He embraced his aunt and held her close for what felt like years. And as emotions overtook the two of them, it became impossible to tell who held the other together.

“We’ve spotted the shooter!” sound returned to Peter as he overheard the voice coming from the police radio, “License plates match missing vehicle from the Parker homicide. Headed south on 5th Avenue. Three cars in pursuit.”

Peter pulled away from May as he processed what he just heard. As he watched a handful of the cops return to their vehicles, the feelings of regret and loss were overtaken by something sharper.

“Peter?” May’s voice was faint, still clutching at his sleeve, but he didn’t respond. The words repeated in his head over and over. They found the shooter. They were in pursuit. They weren’t going to let them get away. They were going to pay. Yet, this brought no sense of satisfaction to Peter. Even if they caught them in the next two seconds, Uncle Ben would still be dead. Even if they shot this murderer where they stood, Uncle Ben would still be dead. No matter what happened, Uncle Ben would still be dead.

All because of this one person.

And whoever it was, Peter wanted them first.

Peter broke away from May’s grasp. She called after him as he bolted out of the house. Her voice was frantic and pleading, but Peter did not hear it. Captain Stacy rushed to her side, holding her steady. “It’s going to be okay, May,” he reassured her, “Kids take this the hardest…”

As Peter leapt across the rooftops, he tore away at his civilian clothing. There was no grace nor fluidity in his actions, only fury. Buttons snapped, seams split, and fabric snagged on fire escapes and jagged brick. He slapped on his red hoodie and pulled his patchwork mask over his head with a rough yank. His breath was ragged and his chest was on fire. Nothing was going to stop him.

The rooftops were a blur beneath his feet as he leapt and ran towards the last spotted location of Uncle Ben’s killer. As he approached, Peter could hear the faint sounds of tires screeching and sirens blaring. But though Peter was previously able to navigate the rooftops with relative ease, as he surged further into the city, he saw the buildings grow taller and further apart. It was going to slow him down. Slow him down enough for the killer to get away. Unless he did something.

As he skid towards the ledge of a rooftop, he reached into the front pockets of his hoodie and pulled out the contraptions he had finished earlier that night and fastened them onto his wrists. Immediately and instinctively, Peter extended his wrist, activated the device, and a rope of experimental synthetic webbing shot out with a satisfying THWIP and stuck to the building across the street. Then, for the first time since he heard the sirens, Peter’s momentum ceased. He glanced down at the rope of webbing he held in his hand.

He hadn’t tested this at all.

His eyes flicked to the building across from him, to the webbing that clung to it, then down to the street below, then back to the silver line in his hand. He had intended for this synthetic webbing to be able to support his weight, but would it? This thing could break. It could fail. Hell, he could possibly just swing and slam right into the building and plummet to his death.

But then, he noticed the sounds of the sirens fading: They were getting away.

Peter took a deep breath and jumped.

For one awful second, there was nothing. Nothing, but the strident shriek of wind in his ears and the gut-wrenching sensation of freefall. But then the web went taut, and suddenly Peter found himself yanked forward into a terrifying arc. The world spun sideways. His stomach was in knots.

But he was swinging. He wasn’t dead just yet. But the exhilaration was drowned by terror. He was swinging towards the opposite building fast. Peter screamed as he approached the building faster than any human should. So, in another act of pure instinct, he extended another arm and out shot another line of web. With haste, Peter shifted his weight towards the second strand and let go of the first. Peter cleared the building by mere inches, with bits of brick scraping the sole of his sneaker. Aiming with his hips now, he fired another line and swung. He plunged towards the street before arching straight into the sky.

He was flying.

THWIP! Another shot of webbing. Then another. Left, right, and left again. The blaring of sirens was back in his ears again, growing louder and closer. The person who killed Ben was still running. But now, Peter was faster.

Within seconds, Peter recognized Ben’s car recklessly weaving through traffic. Peter couldn’t help but shout at the sight. Here this monster was, having just killed a man and now driving that man’s car like it was nothing. Like none of it mattered. As he closed in, Peter’s swings grew sharper, more desperate. They were angry, wild, and lashing ropes that flung him forward with raw power. He cut tighter corners and launched himself faster until he landed on the roof of the car with a heavy thud. The driver swerved, and Peter’s fist cracked through the roof.

“Pull over!” he roared, yanking up at the roof panel. The killer panicked and the car swerved into an intersection and bolted up the ramp toward the Queensboro bridge. Horns blared, drivers scattered. The chaos spilled out like a chain reaction. But Peter clung to the vehicle like a magnet. Peter vaulted over the windshield and landed on the hood; his eyes locked with the masked man inside. “I said pull over!” Peter drove his fist through the windshield, spiderwebbing it. The killer screamed and jerked the wheel, causing the vehicle to veer out of control. Peter felt the odd tingle in his spine and the whisper at the back of his skull: “Behind You!” Peter refused to listen to it as he instead attempted to reach for his uncle’s killer through the fractured windshield.

CRASH! The car slammed straight into a sedan. The sedan jolted forward, breaking through the bridge’s railing as Peter was thrown off the car and hit the windshield of another like a meteor. He rolled off, dazed, ears ringing, and struggling to stand. Through his cracked lenses, he could still see the stolen car crumpled and smoking. The driver door burst open and the killer stumbled out, clutching his shoulder, eyes darting for a way to escape.

Peter staggered towards him, with his entire focus narrowed on him. The rest of the world was just noise.

The parent of the sedan, now teetering over the side of the Queensboro Bridge, scrambled from the passenger door just as the car groaned and tilted further toward the edge. As they fell back onto the asphalt, he shouted in horror as his vehicle pitched forward. Inside it, a child screamed.

THWIP! A strand of webbing shot out from Peter’s wrist, catching the back of the dangling car and anchoring it to the bridge.

But Peter’s eyes didn’t leave the killer. Not for a second. He didn't check to see if it held. Didn’t hear the father crying out or the child’s sobs. He only saw the man who had taken Uncle Ben from him.

Terror took over the body of the masked killer as he saw Peter approach. But the moment he took half a step, Peter was on him. The first blow from Peter cracked a rib, the second launched the killer back against the crumpled hood of the car. Peter pinned him against it, with his forearm pressed hard against the man’s throat as he raised another fist into the air.

“Please!” the killer choked out from behind the mask, “Please, just one more time!”

“What?!” Peter asked, confusion not quite overriding his burning anger.

“Y-you let me go before…” the killer coughed, “you can do it again!” Peter stared into the eyes behind the mask. With a rough yank, he pulled the mask from the killer’s head, revealing the face underneath. Peter's eyes widened in shock as he took in the familiar features. He knew that face.

"No," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not you." It was the crook from the venue. The one he could’ve stopped. The one he should’ve stopped. Peter gritted his teeth and pulled back his fist. Everything in him screamed to finish it. To make him pay. To make him feel what it meant to take a life. Peter’s fist trembled as he looked his uncle’s killer in the eyes, searching for every bit of validation that Uncle Ben’s death was because of this man and this man alone. But he couldn’t. He knew this man wasn’t the only one to blame.

“Someone, please!” the pained voice snapped Peter back to reality. The father leaned over the railing and cried as they stared at their child trapped in the sedan, suspended over water by a single, long line of webbing. “Someone! My kid’s still in there!”

Peter looked back at his uncle’s killer before webbing him to the hood of the car, “Don’t go anywhere,” he hissed before he swung down to the dangling car. Peter’s presence didn’t calm anyone’s nerves. The father demanded he get away from his boy and the boy, in turn, panicked even more than before. Peter tore away the rear window, which also didn’t make him appear less threatening. The kid was crying harder now. His tiny hands were flailing, he was kicking at the door, and backing as far from Peter as he could in the cramped space. As far as he knew, a masked man had just burst through the glass like a monster in a nightmare.

“No, no! It’s okay!” Peter said quickly, raising his hands. “I’m not here to hurt you, I swear—” The boy only screamed louder. Peter’s voice cracked with urgency. “I’m here to help you! I just—just need you to stop moving around so much, okay?” But nothing was getting through to them. Finally, in a moment of desperation, Peter peeled the mask off his face. “See?” he said, voice softer now. “I’m just a guy.” The child’s eyes locked with his. He hiccupped a sob. The fear didn’t vanish, but something shifted. His hands dropped slightly from his face.

Peter held the mask out to him. “Here. Take it. It’s a little sweaty, but… it’s just something that made me feel strong. It’ll make you strong too.” The boy stared at the mask, then at Peter. Slowly, the child reached out, grasping the mask as if it was a lifeline “What’s your name?”

“My name?” asked the boy.

“Yeah.”

“Ollie.”

“Ollie. Let's get you out of here, okay?” Peter held out his hand, a sudden metallic groan cut through the moment—the web that had caught the car was starting to stretch dangerously thin. Peter’s eyes snapped to the web line and then back to the boy. “Okay, we gotta move fast.” He reached out carefully. “Listen, I’m going to get you out of here, but I’m going to need you to climb up here. Can you do that?” The boy nodded, still hugging the mask like a talisman.

Peter watched him closely as he gradually climbed towards him, mindful not to jostle the vehicle too much. As he reached Peter, the rear of the car dipped again. Peter reacted quickly, firing a fresh web up to the bridge to stabilize the dangling car. “It’s okay! It’s okay,” Peter reassured him. “You got this.”

Peter pulled him in, then stepped backward through the shattered rear window and crouched on the rear bumper. “Okay, now you see that ledge? Your dad’s right there. I’m going to climb up there and I want you to hold on as tight as you can, alright?” The boy didn’t answer. His eyes were locked on the river far below. “Hey, hey,” Peter spoke, reclaiming his attention, “Remember what I said. The mask is making you strong. Just like a superhero, right?”

A quiet moment passed—and then the boy nodded. Peter fired another web to the upper scaffolding of the bridge, the line catching tight with a SMEKK. Then, carefully but quickly, he began to climb. Peter could feel every vibration and every shift of weight along the webbing, but he couldn’t let it bother him. Step by careful step, they ascended, until eventually they reached the ledge. The father, who had been leaning dangerously far over the railing, grabbed his son and pulled him close, collapsing to his knees as he sobbed into the child’s hair. He held his son like he was never going to let him go ever again.

Keeping his face hidden from sight, Peter slid his mask back on. As Ollie reunited with his father, Peter’s gaze returned to the hood of Uncle Ben’s car, where the man who had stolen everything was still tangled and struggling beneath the webbing. But as he heard the police sirens grow closer, Peter glanced back at Ollie and his father’s tearful reunion. As he watched their glassy-eyed exchange, Peter could hear the last words Ben spoke to him replaying in his mind. He was never going to have that moment again and he was going to have to live with that. A knot twisted in Peter’s chest: a bundle of grief, rage, and guilt. But beneath it all, something else had taken root.

Ollie’s father turned to Peter, tears still filling his eyes, “Who are you?” he asked. Peter looked at him, Ben’s words ringing through his head.

“I’m Spider-Man.”

****

Peter sat atop the skyscraper, lost in his thoughts. He glanced down at the cracked screen of his phone. It wasn’t a surprise that he’d have a bunch of missed calls and unread messages from Aunt May and Gwen. But he focused on the voicemail left behind by Uncle Ben.

“Peter, I know things have been rough,” the voicemail started, “And I’m sorry about that. What you’re going through, there’s no guide for it. And it’s scary to not know…But even in the face of that unknown, you aren’t going to face it alone for some time. I have faith you’ll be ready when that time comes. You’re a good kid with an amazing gift. And if anyone’s going to go on to do great things, it’s you. Even if you might stumble along the way… I haven’t told May about it. I figured that should be something you’ll do when you’re ready. And I’ll be there to back you up when you do. Because no matter where life might take you, I’ll always love you.”

Peter landed near the Stacy residence. Amongst the messages he had been sent, one from Gwen stated that her dad was offering for them to stay the night or at least until they felt safe to enter their own home again. Peter didn’t expect anyone to still be up waiting for him, but Gwen was waiting on the porch. She gave a gentle smile upon seeing him.

“Aunt May’s gone to sleep,” Gwen remarked, “You just missed her.”

“I figured,” Peter replied from the bottom of the porch steps.

“Dad said they got him,” Gwen muttered, hoping it would bring some level of solace to her friend. But it didn’t appear to do so. She walked down the porch steps to Peter, “Are you doing okay?”

“I…” Peter began, but his face crumpled and his eyes began to well, “No. No, I’m not.” As Peter dropped to his knees, Gwen was there to catch him. She held him tight and didn’t let go.

Peter didn’t go back to school for the next couple days. When he finally did, people steered clear of him. The last time they saw him, he was gleefully humiliating Flash Thompson. Now, he looked like he might tear them apart with just a look. No one, sans for Gwen or Harry, was willing to approach him. That made it all the more surprising when Flash gave him his condolences for his uncle. And Peter could tell he meant it.

As lunch period rolled around, Peter walked towards his usual table, where Gwen and Harry were already seated. But something else was tugging at him. He looked towards the back corner of the cafeteria, where Max Dillon always sat alone. Uncle Ben’s words rang through his head one more time, “When you have great power—and believe me, you do—then you have a responsibility to use it right. Not for applause. Not for money. But… because you can.”

Peter walked over to Max’s table and offered a quiet smile. “Hey. Mind if I sit with you?” he asked. “I don’t think anyone should have to eat alone.” Max blinked, clearly surprised. But slowly, he nodded.

And for the first time that day, Peter Parker smiled.

Chapter Text

At 0600 hours, Bruce Banner was detained by military personnel in Reno.

Per request from higher up, Banner was transported to a secure facility located in INFORMATION REDACTED.

At 0800 hours, General Thaddeus Ross arrived at the facility. Ross requested he interrogate Banner personally and privately and ordered all cameras and recording devices go dark. At 0840 hours, Bruce Banner was escorted to interrogation room 12. Ross entered interrogation room 12 only moments later.

“Betty’s going to be relieved to see you,” Ross spoke, almost begrudgingly, “She’s been worried about you since you went missing two months ago.” Ross waited for a response, but Bruce would not give him one. “Don’t be like this, Banner,” Ross sighed as he strolled around the room. He glanced at the garish white walls that surrounded them and pondered for only a moment how things got to the way they were. “At some point in time, I was lined up to be your father-in-law, so don’t act like I’m other people.”

“Even then,” Banner mumbled, “we weren’t exactly on the friendliest of terms.”

“Yeah,” Ross made his way to the chair across from Banner. He placed a hand on the top back of the chair, “You never made it easy.”

“Sir,” Banner’s eyes remained on the table before him, “you disliked me from the day we met.”

“I knew your father, Banner. You can forgive someone for their trepidation after meeting someone like that.”

Bruce’s eyes flicked up towards Ross, “Why am I here, General?”

“Two months ago, your lab became ground zero for an event, the likes of which we haven’t seen since the eighties. You walked into your lab, something else walked out. Surveillance for your lab went dark and the footage salvaged has validated very few conclusions. You are here because what little scraps we’ve pieced together along with the working theories S.H.I.E.L.D. has put forward, well, they don’t look good for you. So, let’s clear the air.”

Bruce’s eyes slowly turned towards the lone screen that sat in the corner of the room, “What are the charges against me?”

“That’s to be decided. Right now, it’s a heap of vandalism and destruction of property, but that’s the small stuff,” Ross took his seat and leaned forward over the table, “What happened that night, Banner?”

Bruce’s gaze returned to the ground, “I actually don’t remember a whole lot about that night.”

“Seems awfully inconvenient.”

“I’ve been trying to piece it together for the past couple months, but, it’s… it’s not quite like repressed memories. It’s more like… trying to remember a dream from a week ago. There are a few details you recall pretty easily, but sometimes your recollection is just impaired by all the things that don’t make sense.”

“Well then, let’s take some baby steps. Talk about what you should know, like, why were you in Reno?” Ross paused, studying Bruce’s face for the slightest flicker of guilt or recognition. But Bruce only stared down at the table. There was no deception on display, just a hollow confusion that looked almost pitiable. So, Ross went on. “Seems awfully out of the way for someone who’s spent most of his work life on the East Coast.”

“I remember only waking up somewhere in the mountains,” Bruce mumbled, eyes still on the table, “I was miles out from Stateline, probably on the California side.” His brow furrowed as the memories began to sharpen in his mind, “It was cold. For the first couple minutes, I thought I was dead. My hands were shaking so much, I couldn’t even check my pulse. And my ears were ringing so much I thought I had gone deaf. It took me some time to figure out where I was and by that point I was starving. I don’t think I had any money on me, but people were kind.”

“And then, what? Reno airport isn’t a short stroll from where you were, but it’s not a two month walk either. And I’m sure a simple phone call to S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ would’ve gotten you a free ride.”

“I needed time to figure out what happened. That’s what I kept repeating — ‘figure it out, piece it together.’ Reno was the closest airport, so I drifted there. Picked up cash jobs, slept in some awful motels. I wanted to have my head on straight by the time people found me. It’s clearly still not on straight.”

“So, you wake up in the mountains, half-frozen, no idea how you got there… That's not exactly an ordinary business trip. How’d you get there in the first place?”

Bruce shook his head, “…I don’t know.”

“You don’t know how you traveled across the damn country?”

“I… Like I said: it’s like trying to remember a dream.”

“Even so, it’s not the kind of gap a man forgets easily. Makes me think you weren’t the one calling the shots.”

Bruce’s eyes flicked to the General, “You mean like I was… brought to the mountains?”

“Considering the green behemoth that emerged from your lab, it’s possible. More possible than any of us would like. But that raises more questions: Why would it bring you to the mountains? What reason would it have to keep you alive?”

“Are we married to this theory?”

“Give me an alternative.”

“I… I don’t have one,” Bruce looked down once again, as if the answers would be found on the table or floor. But the clarity he sought truly eluded him, so he spoke the only truth he knew: “I just know… I never saw him.”

“Banner...”

“I could feel him in the same room that night, but I never saw him.”

“Him?”

“The Hulk,” Bruce looked up, his gaze like that of a lost child, “He did bad things, didn’t he?” As soon as the words left his mouth, a single moment of realization flickered across his face, “I caught a couple glimpses on the tv, but I didn’t really see him.”

Ross leaned back in his chair, replaying Banner’s words in his head. Though he had caught on to Bruce’s flicker of realization, that was not that which held his attention. “It’s funny, Banner. For the past couple months, whenever anyone would talk about the Hulk, be it the news or S.H.I.E.L.D., they’d call it an ‘It.’ Every time. But you called it ‘him’ right away.”

“Yeah, it, um, it looked like a guy.”

“Banner, don’t play stupid, you can’t pull it off,” Ross leaned forward, “So, let me repeat: you walk into your lab, the Hulk walks out. Trying to hide behind a foggy memory and what you claim to be educated guesses isn’t going to be a winning strategy for you. Betty wants me to bring you home and I can’t do that if you’re considered a threat to national security. So, tell me: what happened in that lab? What did you create?”

“Create?” Bruce spoke, sounding more lost than he had the entire conversation prior.

Ross stood up and pulled a small remote out from his pocket. A click of a button and the screen that sat in the corner lit up. On the screen played footage of the night the Hulk first appeared and of his rampage at the Triskelion. Every bit of footage Bruce had seen prior had been captured from someone’s phone, its imagery distorted by panicked hands fumbling with the device. But the footage on display was captured from S.H.I.E.L.D.’s own security camera network, providing a clear visual perspective to the carnage unseen on any of the news networks. It was footage mercilessly precise and crisp.

Bruce watched as steel doors bent and tore apart like clay. He saw the atrium filled with people scatter in blind terror, their faces no longer blurred but clear enough that he could see the tears streaking down their cheeks as the monster roared. He saw men and women clawing over one another to escape, their mouths open in screams he could almost hear through the silence of the recording. He watched his own body strike his hero, Captain America. Watched Steve’s body buckle under the weight of blows that should’ve broken him in two. He watched his own body devastate the body of the blonde one, Thor, in a gruesome and explicit display of how little a threat humans posed to the Hulk. He watched as his own body peeled apart Stark’s armor with his bare hands, with Tony’s exposed face pale with a fear Bruce had never seen on him before.

Bruce’s breath caught. His chest tightened with something colder than fear: Realization. Even now, watching the footage unfold before him, Bruce’s memories from that night remained a haze, like he had been in a drunken stupor. His memory still came in fragments: the sound of his own pulse in his ears, flashes of vile green hands, then nothing but the cold of the mountains. As much as he tried, he was still unable to form any meaningful or coherent narrative of that night. Yet, that was his body running amok onscreen. But it was like watching a stranger, some unholy thing let loose wearing his skin: He was gone. Replaced. It was like watching someone puppet his corpse.

The Hulk didn’t hesitate. It didn’t think. It just destroyed. Every blow, every crash, was made with Bruce’s hands, his muscles, his body. If the Hulk wanted to hurt someone, nothing—nothing—could stop him. Not S.H.I.E.L.D. and not even the superhumans who had thrown themselves in his path. If the Hulk came out again and wanted to kill, Bruce would have no power to stop him. No amount of shame, or guilt, or desperation would matter. He wouldn’t even be there to try. 

Ross watched Bruce’s reaction with the faintest hint of remorse inching on his face. He saw clear as day the effect the footage was having on Banner, but he made no attempt to switch it off as he sat back in his seat.

“I’ve watched this footage more times than I would care to count.” Ross remarked, “I’ve combed through it, asking myself over and over if there was a better way to handle it. Asking myself if it’s something we could ever properly train for. I tend not to like the answers I reach…” he let out a heavy sigh, “Banner, I’m trying to be charitable. From what I’ve been told, you were a lifetime away from human trials, so maybe you turned a frog into a Frankenstein. I don’t know, but I can tell you what it looks like! And it looks like you went ahead and created something no one can even hope to–”

“I don’t think I was aiming to create anything that night,” Bruce replied, eyes still glued onto the screen.

“Oh, memories flooding back?” Ross switched off the screen, “Delightful.”

“It’s not that, I just…” Bruce mumbled, his eyes still on the screen as if the horrific footage was still playing, “I just don’t… remember much after,” Bruce’s gaze dropped back to the table, “But before? Yeah. Some of it’s still there. I was… I didn’t see a way out. Fury was breathing down my neck and my life was circling around the drain. It didn’t feel like I had any options left, so I made a call I can’t take back.” Bruce’s eyes flicked up toward Ross, his gaze raw and unguarded, “I didn’t go into that lab trying to make the Hulk, General. I went in trying to fix something. Myself, maybe. I don’t even know anymore.”

“Banner,” Ross’s tone was uncharacteristically gentle, with a softness that almost didn’t belong to him. He leaned forward slightly, as though he intended to extend a helping hand across the table, “What did you do?”

“I did something really stupid. I thought it was all over, so I did something stupid. I had a sample of Captain America’s blood, I had all my notes, all my work from the past years and I just slammed them all together, trying to figure something out. Then one configuration looked promising and I just… I think I rationalized it as my only option. Because that’s what we do, right? We do awful things and then we tell ourselves there was no other way. We try to get back the sleepless nights. And then we sit there, years later, and try to lament how life wouldn’t give us the chance to do what we should’ve done in the first place.”

“Dirty hands keep the rest of the world clean, Banner.”

“But I didn’t do it to keep the world clean!” Bruce shouted suddenly, slamming his palms against the table, “I didn’t go into that building intending to make a hard decision. I didn’t look at my data thinking it’d create what it did. I didn’t make the decision to test it because I thought I could fix the world! I tore my own body apart because I was sick of seeing it in the mirror!”

Bruce’s words hollowed out the room. The air seemed to grow heavier, pressing in around them and leaving no space for them to breathe. For a moment, there was nothing but the raw, ugly truth sitting between them, impossible to look at, yet impossible to ignore. 

Finally, Ross was able to break the silence with a deep sigh, “It was you. Wasn’t it, Banner?” Bruce looked as though he could weep. Shame tore through his body and twisted his face.

“It amplified what was already inside,” Bruce mumbled, “It didn’t make me a monster, it just… brought out the one already there.” Bruce leaned back in his chair, “I’ve done stupid and awful things, General.”

“You’re the Hulk.”

“Every part of me.”

“Alright…” Ross sat back in his chair, scratching the back of his head as he attempted to collect his thoughts, “Alright... And with that, you’re now looking at added assault and attempted murder charges.”

“Only attempted murder?” Bruce was surprised, “No actual murder charges? Manslaughter?”

“That’s the one angle the media isn’t talking about. You may be in a heap of trouble, Banner, but you’re no killer. And thank goodness for that.”

“Is-is there going to be a trial?” asked Bruce, bracing himself for the consequences that awaited him.

“As of right now, we have no intention of making this information public. Given your ties to S.H.I.E.L.D., the public learning of your role in the creation of its new flagship program would definitely be a headache for their PR team. I expect that Fury would rather we skip the boring side steps and get right back to work.”

“Work?”

“Of course. There’s a whole lot that we have to do if we want to figure out this… Hulk situation.”

Bruce’s body loosened up, “Well, for starters, I’d imagine we would want to see what is salvageable from my lab. Servers and notes. I wasn’t able to get a lot of thoughts down in the past two months. The tests I’ve done with the kind of equipment I had access to, I… I think I know even less than when I started. I have no idea what’s in me, or if it’s still there–and if it is, whether or not it can be triggered by exposure or a chemical reaction or… The point is: if any of my old notes remain, it’d make a good foundation. I’m certain they’ve already been confiscated so it’s just a matter of un-confiscating them.”

An uncomfortable silence crept back into the room. Ross stared at Bruce like he was studying him. There was a glint of recognition in his eye, but it was accompanied by an unmistakable somberness. Ross tilted his head, “You know, you’re more like your father than I would like. There are differences, sure, but you two are so alike.”

Bruce’s body tensed up once again, “You have no idea what kind of a man he was like.”

“Oh, you think he was a professional?” Ross chuckled, “Think he was good at hiding who he was? He was brilliant, but that was one of his only redeeming qualities. He was a worm of a man who kept everything bottled up until he found something defenseless enough to let it out on. You’ve known my daughter since you were seven, you think a child that age would even consider hiding their bruises?”

Bruce retreated into the back of his chair, “He said I deserved them.”

“Tell me how a seven-year-old deserves what he did.”

“I was a smart kid,” Bruce remarked, almost remorsefully. His eyes began to wander the room once more, “Too smart for a four or five-year-old, but when I turned six, well, he didn’t think I was too smart for a six-year-old. He’d sit me down with some lessons and if I blasted through all the equations and problems, everything was fine. Pat on the back if he was really impressed. But… If I took too long on a single problem, he’d…” Bruce’s eyes flicked back to Ross, his eyes once again raw, but now with a years-old pain, “…Well, you know this already, don’t you?”

“I do. And the most impressive part of it all is that you kept going. Even after all he did, you never stopped learning. I figure a kid growing up like that, they’d hate what their father was. I remember how relieved I was the day you and Betty went to Fury. It meant I didn’t do that piss-poor of a job raising her. And then there’s you working under Fury. All because you wanted to change the world, you took a curse that your father put upon you and turned it into a gift. That’s why, no matter how similar you and your father seemed to be or no matter how far you seemed to fall behind, I never wrote you off. Not completely. A man like you doesn’t stay down. He carries the fire out of the mountain.” Ross let a small smile creep on his face. He almost looked proud. “Tell me, Bruce, have you been reading the good book as of late?”

“I don’t have the time,” Bruce admitted.

“There are times when I think of Exodus. Verse 33:22, I believe. Could be wrong, it’s been a while, but… ‘There are clefts in the rock where we see the backside of god and tremble.’ When I look at the Hulk, I think back to it. I kept wondering what kind of training we would need to be prepared for something like that, but I realized that to think like that is to treat it like an enemy and it isn’t one. It’s a new power let loose through a crack in the rock. I believe every so often something slips through the cracks. Fire. The splitting of the atom. Every so often, the universe unveils a new secret and people cower before it out of fear and awe. They tremble. But then comes the man who stops trembling. He steps forward and seizes the flame and says ‘I am your master.’ And Bruce, it’s those men that write the course of human history.”

“General?” 

“Bruce… you mean a lot to my daughter. You always have. You make her smile like she’s seven years old again and that kind of joy—you don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve seen it in her. And what you have inside you, what you are now… it doesn’t have to be a curse. It could be a gift too. So, let me help you. Let me help you be the man worthy of walking her down that aisle.”

“You… you would do that?”  Bruce leaned forward, attempting to glean Ross’s intentions from his words. Or perhaps, he already understood and instead hoped that he had misinterpreted.

“Betty’s happiness means a lot to me, Bruce.”

“That’s all I ever wanted: to not be a burden to her… but, that’s not what this is, is it? You don’t want to get rid of the Hulk.”

Ross chuckled, “Bruce, you have to understand what you’re sitting on—”

“No,” Bruce stood up from his chair, “you need to understand what I’m sitting on, General, it's a bomb waiting to go off!”

“Any bomb is better in our hands than our enemies—”

“A bomb doesn’t care whose hands it’s in when it goes off!”

“Then you help us turn it into a better one!” Ross rose to his feet, “We have glimpsed at the backside of god and if we want a snowball’s chance in hell to preserve our way of life in any meaningful way, you will do the right thing and help us put a harness on it!”

“You and I both know this is not about doing what’s right! You want to act like nuclear weaponry made the world a safer place?! That firebombs and mushroom clouds brought us peace?!”

“Oh, bleeding heart Banner,” Ross shook his head, his words oozing with condescension, “You weak, cowardly, milksop—"

“You think it’s a gift from up high, but it’s not! It’s pandora’s box! And–and you want to take another peak at what’s inside?!” Suddenly, Banner’s body jerked backwards, like a jolt of electricity blasted up his spine. His palms slammed on the table as he felt his bones twist and click. Thoughts of panic and frantic investigation flooded Bruce’s mind as he scrambled to figure it all out before it was too late. Was it anger? Was that the catalyst? Was that what knocks on the devil’s door? Was that really all it took? He then felt the unfortunately familiar feeling of his mind slipping away. He gazed upon the General standing across from him and spoke in a suddenly deep and gravelly voice, “There is no gift, Ross!”

Only a minute later, the whole facility trembled as the Hulk exploded into the nearest corridor. The facility’s alarms shrieked and wailed in unison while red light strobed across the walls as the monster barreled forward. General Ross’s voice, which was noticeably raspy yet still thunderous, cut across every radio, “Under no circumstances does the Hulk leave this facility! I want the whole place on lockdown immediately! Contain it by any means necessary!”

Men poured down the hallways, armed to the teeth with heavy artillery. The moment they saw a single glimpse of the monster lurking in the strobing red lights, they opened fire. They’d seen the footage. Every man there had watched the shaky recordings and seen the grainy stills. Some of them had even seen the footage from S.H.I.E.L.D. But nothing prepared them for the reality — for how big it was. And worse, how fast. Their trigger fingers panicked and the rhythm of their fire broke down as the Hulk closed the gap between them in the time it would take someone to blink. The impact was like a car crash. Bodies flew in every direction, slamming into walls, ceilings, and each other. The impact rang out with the wet, brutal chorus of snapping bones and shredded armor.

“#$%@ it!” Ross’s voice cracked through the comms, cutting across the cacophony of gunfire and alarms, “Get the Stark tech we have in reserves! He does NOT make it out!”

Since Stark had shut down the weapons division of his company nearly two years ago, Ross had been stockpiling a cache of Stark Industries' arsenal, secretly storing away the weapons Stark had recalled. He had been holding onto them for a rainy day, but it appeared that now was the time to empty the reserves.

The armories cracked open, and soldiers wheeled out Stark’s old ghosts. Crates were dragged into the halls and inside each of them were Ross’s hail marys: shoulder-mounted concussion blasters, rotary launchers loaded with micro-rockets, and shoulder-carried sonic rifles that could pulp a cinderblock at twenty yards. These were weapons meant to break apart armies and as these men moved down the hallways, scrambling to set up firing lines, they prayed that these were enough to break apart the Hulk.

The men dragged the heavier rigs into position while others set up firing nests in the corners of the flickering corridors. Their faces were pale yet full of resolve. Ross planted himself in the firing line. In his good hand he clenched a rifle he knew he couldn’t fire, while his right arm hung uselessly at his side, blood soaking through the sleeve and dripping right onto the floor. Ross ignored the pain and kept his gaze locked on the end of the hall. He wanted to look the beast in the eye when it broke through.

They waited, guns trained with steady grips, as they heard the approaching chaos. The dispersed shouts of panic, the bending of steel and shattering of concrete, the inhuman roar, all coming together into a symphony of encroaching destruction. Then, amongst the smoke and flicking red of the alarms, they saw the pair of glowing, green orbs and the glistening of gritted teeth. The symphony of destruction was then met with the chorus of ruinous weapons discharging. Sparks showered the hallway as the sonic blasts shrieked through the air, followed by the bone-shaking thump of heavy rounds slamming into concrete.

The Hulk braced himself as the hail of devastation showered his body. The walls around him tore away like paper, the ceiling crumbled down upon him, all while his sight became clouded with smoke and fire as rockets detonated one after another. Soon, the raging inferno swallowed him whole and the monster’s silhouette was lost in a blinding haze. Yet, the soldiers pressed their assault, not content until they were certain they had the upper hand. As one line fired, another reloaded, resulting in a constant onslaught of lead, sonics, and incendiaries that drowned the hall in calamity. The demolitions detonated against the far wall, burying the spot where the Hulk had stood beneath a cascade of rubble. 

Then came silence, disturbed only by the scattered sounds of spent shells hitting the ground. The smoke lingered, thick and heavy like a fire had been suddenly quelled. One soldier lowered his rifle. Another dared a nervous laugh as if trying to break the tension.

But hope lasted only as long as the smoke.

“Ross,” the Hulk growled, its green eyes piercing the dark and its voice a low, menacing rumble, “Bad man.”

As the men scrambled to reload their weapons, the Hulk’s roar tore through the air with a renewed vigor. The soldiers’ attention snapped to the ground beneath them, which began to shudder and convulse as if the very earth itself was trembling in fear. At first it was only hairline cracks, but in seconds, those cracks split wide, ripping across the hall and tearing concrete and steel apart with deafening snaps. The walls cracked, the ceiling creaked, and then, in an instant, the earth gave way. A tsunami of concrete, steel, and debris tore through their line, launching anything unfortunate enough to be in its path into the air. Soldiers slammed into the walls and ceiling while artillery rumbled and broke apart like twigs as the concrete tidal wave raged through.

Ross hit the ground hard and everything went dark. 

At 0900 hours, Bruce Banner, with the aid of the Hulk, escaped custody.

Ross roamed the devastated corridors of the facility, examining each dent and crack like they were brushstrokes of paint on a canvas. Medical personnel insisted he give himself time to rest and heal, but their advice fell on deaf ears. It was a fractured arm, Ross thought, not even the first nor the worst that he’s sustained, but he got it through the simple action of the Hulk tossing him aside. It was such unthinkable power, yet it was wasted on someone who used it like a toddler. It was inexcusable.

Only mere hours later, Ross stood in the stark light of the briefing room. He stood proud at the head of the table. His arm was bound tight in a sling, his uniform still stained with smoke and dust, but he wore it all like it was a medal. The room was packed with officers, agents, and staff, the air heavy with the weight of what had happened.

“At 0850 hours, this facility was attacked by the biological weapon known as the Hulk. And you, the brave and honorable men that you are, risked your lives to contain this monster for the safety of our country. But you all deserve to know why. At 0800 hours, the former S.H.I.E.L.D. scientist Bruce Banner was brought into our custody and would not speak unless the conversation was off the record. During our conversation, Banner confessed to the crimes he enacted as the Hulk. Understand that this is a man that S.H.I.E.L.D. trusted—this is a man that our nation entrusted—and now he is out in the wild, armed with knowledge he has stolen from the United States.

“But Banner does not view his actions under the same lens that we do. He sees this new power and would rather cling to it than place it in the hands of his country. He would rather run than put his trust in his fellow countrymen. He would rather abandon you, his colleagues, and every citizen outside these walls than admit what he has become. I’ve known Banner for a long time. He was a man pushed around by the world and a man who longed to be big and important. So, I feel confident in telling you that he has no real regrets and would do it all again if given the chance because his actions have made him the deadliest man alive. So, with that in mind, as long as he runs, every second he breathes is another second of danger for the United States. That makes him more than a fugitive. That makes him the greatest liability this country has ever faced. And liabilities get contained.

“So, gentlemen—prepare yourselves. We are not hunting a man. We are hunting a weapon that refuses to be owned. We are hunting a new power that threatens to reshape not just our nation, but our world. And we are going to bring him in, one way or another. So… Let’s go catch our brave new world."

Meanwhile, miles away, the Hulk ran across the barren desert. He tore across dirt and stone, each stride leaving craters in the earth, but there was no anger commanding his movements this time. No roaring, no smashing. Nothing as the creature fled into the wilderness. For he was driven by something colder and heavier than rage. 

Bruce Banner had torn himself open and unleashed what should never have been. In doing so, he lit a fuse he could never put out.

The Hulk ran long into the night, but there was no escaping the truth: The world had changed. In another moment scattered across history, Pandora’s box had opened once again, but this time, what spilled out wasn’t fire or atomic death, but a monster, green and raging, whose body pulsated with an uncontainable atomic fire. And there were men, far too many men, who would see this sight and not tremble. Those who would not run, but step forward and seize.

The Hulk ran harder, farther, as if he could run to a place where no one would ever find him. But, deep down, he knew, with a sharp clarity: there was no running far enough.

For the first time, the Hulk was scared.

Chapter Text

At first, there was only a numbing dark and then a sudden flood of red and pain.

The cryotube cracked open with the sound of tearing cartilage, and the room was instantly flooded with a stench like burned hair and antiseptic. A human shape slumped forward, soaked in viscous preservative fluids. Its skin sizzled and cracked like porcelain. Tubes feeding into its torso pumped air into its previously vacated lungs. It looked at its limbs like it was seeing them for the first time.

Agony surged through him in waves. Every breath tore at his throat. One bloodshot eye fluttered open, while the other remained sealed beneath jagged scars and roughened flesh. His muscles jerked spasmodically, relearning motions lost to time and oblivion. One leg jerked sharply, slamming against the floor with a sickening crack, not the type of sound normal bone would make. Each movement forced out a garbled and guttural shout from his frame. Metal staples held his skin together in cruel patches, raw muscle grafted with cold precision.

But then, the body began to steady and the single bloodshot eye glanced around.

It was an utterly pitiful chamber the body found himself in. The dim overhead lights flickered and swayed, casting dancing shadows on the cold steel walls and wet cement floors. The air was musty, yet carried a tiny metallic tinge in its scent. Along the edges, beneath peeling paint and tangled cables, there were symbols etched into the walls and into scattered stones. Old, weathered shapes that whispered of forgotten language, too faint to read but impossible to dismiss. A surge of contempt shot through the mangled body.

“Who…” his raspy voice clawed out from his throat, “Who dares play with my flesh like a child?!”

The words echoed unanswered through the cold chamber. Then, from the shadows came a voice carrying a dissonant calm.

“The world demands your return, Helmut Zemo. The world demands that you finally kill Captain America.”

****

Captain America’s breath remained steady as the wind blasted against his face. While plummeting towards the ground at terminal velocity without a chute might send any other person into a panic, to Steve, the wind in his ears felt like a greeting from an old friend. And when he hit the water, it felt far more familiar than the bed he slept in. Steve then swam three miles until he reached point zero: a decrepit and barely held together compound that, many decades ago, would’ve been swarming with heavily armed HYDRA agents. But even as a far cry from its glory days, the grounds were suspiciously barren.

“Stark?” Steve muttered into his earpiece.

“Yeah, there’s some life signs,” Tony Stark replied on the other end, “Scattered around the grounds. Main compound is shielded from thermal scans. My guess is you’re going to find the bulk of your problems in there.”

“Anything you can tell me for certain?”

“I’m already in,” came another voice on the earpiece, “Want me to take a look around?”

“Stay on point, Doctor,” Steve replied, “If you’re spotted, the mission itself is compromised. If I’m spotted, I’ll deal with it. HYDRA rarely had anything I couldn’t handle.”

“You sound a bit too comfortable, Cap,” Tony remarked.

“HYDRA’s nothing new.” Steve tightened the straps of his shield and entered the compound.

Once inside, Steve was only met with more silence. The halls were too still and the air was thick with dust and oil. Faded HYDRA insignias peeled off the walls like dead skin. Once, this place might have been a nerve center of war machines and fanatic scientists, but now it felt like nothing more than a rotting corpse on display.

Through cracks in the ceiling above, Steve could see them: the last of HYDRA’s faithful, scrambling to organize themselves, on the upper floors. They armed themselves to the teeth with standard weaponry as well as volatile contraptions cobbled together from meager scrap. They moved like they were panicked and rushed, their hands shaking as they attempted to jam the magazines into their rifles. The metallic skull-like helmets they wore, like the rest of their crumbling compound and armory, had been decimated by time, with visible cracks and chipping paint. If no one had known better, one would assume that these soldiers had been buried with their weapons and uniforms and only recently did they claw out from their graves.

“<Where the hell are all of our alarms?!>” One soldier barked in rapid-fire German.

“<You think any of us have the faintest idea?!>” shouted another, “<We’re lucky to have noticed that our security systems went dark when we did because at least now we can put this trespasser down before—>”

“<Wait, do you hear that?>”

POP! POP! A swarm of missiles the size of needles detonated in the air in rapid succession, creating a burst of blinding light. Few men discharged their weapons in the succeeding second of panic, as most recognized the disorientation tactic for what it was: a distraction. They aimed to keep themselves steady as they shielded their eyes, however, none of them were prepared for what came next. The floor beneath them exploded and from the shards of splintered wood emerged a blur and blue and red and the glint of a triangle shield catching the overhead light.

Before the first shot could be fired, Captain America was already moving.

“<No!>” an agent shouted, discharging his weapon, “<We don’t need this!>”

“<And the world doesn’t need you, punk>,” Captain America replied, making quick work of the HYDRA agents. Steve weaved through the muzzle flashes with a fluid precision. A rifle was twisted free, with its magazine ejected before the HYDRA agent could blink. A second gunman raised his weapon, only for Steve to plant a boot in his chest and send him flying into the wall hard enough to crack plaster.

Every strike had purpose, every motion economized. The sound of shattering helmets, clipped cries, and groaning floorboards blurred together into the rhythm Steve had known his whole life. Shield to knuckles, knuckles to shield, no pause between.

Another squad spilled into the corridor with rifles raised and backpacks bristling with jury-rigged gear. Steve smirked; HYDRA was smarter than this, but he could see in the way they all moved and the way they had their weapons trained: the presence of Captain America was to them like a red cape to a raging bull.

“Looks like they got their hands full,” Steve discreetly remarked into his earpiece, “Doctor Pym? You’re up.”

Deep in the sub-levels of the compound, Hank Pym, “the Ant-Man”, ran along a line of thick, dust-caked cables, the bundle creaking faintly under his tiny weight. To him, it was like sprinting across a suspended bridge that stretched forever into the shadows. Below him, HYDRA agents stormed through the concrete corridors, looking like giants carrying weapons the size of coffee shops as they rushed toward the chaos above. Never in a million years would it occur to them to look for something the size of an insect scurrying right over their heads.

Of course, that was why he had been put on the team. With Thor absent, hoping to restore Asgard in some shape or form, S.H.I.E.L.D.’s so-called “premiere superhuman team” was little more than Steve Rogers and Tony Stark. Two men, though competent and formidable, didn’t exactly project stability—or calm the public’s nerves in the wake of the Hulk. Pym was meant to fill that gap, a quiet third note in the melody, proof that this team wasn't just a duo with mismatched egos and philosophies. Pym, however, felt his inclusion instead made this team a trio of mismatched egos and philosophies. Pym was a pacifist, which the press liked, which S.H.I.E.L.D. liked. But, if everything went right, his job wouldn’t require throwing a single punch.

The compound was a weapons cache, left over from WWII. In spite of their aged materials and their archaic designs, HYDRA science was still years ahead of most contemporary weaponry and, with the vacuum Stark created after shutting down his weapons division, many people were starved for that sort of thing. So, while Steve and Tony made the noise upstairs, Pym was to slip into the data room and lift whatever HYDRA had squirreled away—locations of other caches, supply routes, black-market clients. Anything S.H.I.E.L.D. could use to choke out the organization for good.

Hank slowed as he reached a junction. Ahead, the corridor split—one path toward the data vault, the other toward a recessed hangar space. A flicker of movement below caught his eye.

HYDRA agents scrambled to move their inventory, loading weapons of all sorts into crates. Before their mission, Pym had studied the works of HYDRA as best he could, not just because it made for good preparation, but for academic curiosity as well. He had become quite familiar with the precise, almost obsessive refinement that permeated all of their designs. But what he was observing now, even from a distance, he could tell that their construction was all wrong. There was an element of spite and savage maliciousness in the way these weapons were put together, yet they still had an evident method to the madness that kept it from being in the same league as hobbled together experiments. And there was another element to them as well, something that carried an uncanny familiarity, but Hank couldn’t put his finger on it. Nothing like this showed up in his research or briefings. Fury would want to see this.

Hank dropped into a crouch, keeping pace as the trolley of crates rattled deeper into the hangar. The trolley squealed to a stop at the far end, where a pair of guards swung open a heavy side door. The soldiers hauling the crates pushed the load inside, which Hank continued to pursue through a crack in the wall. He waited silently, as the HYDRA guards muttered to each other before leaving. Once the heavy doors sealed, Hank dropped to the ground. He stared back at the door, expecting it to open at any moment. When it didn’t, Hank got to work.

With the tap of a button near the knuckle of his pointer finger, the room snapped back to scale as Hank grew back to full-size. Quiet as a mouse, Hank opened the nearest crate and removed one of the illusive weapons.

“Cool,” Hank mumbled to himself as he inspected the weapon in his hands, taking note of every hidden nuance that he hadn’t noticed prior. Up close, Hank got a better idea of the philosophy that guided the weapon’s construction. Spite was, perhaps, too gentle of a word to use to describe it. Resentment seemed to fit the bill better. Even still, to Hank, the weapon he held in his hands was the mechanical equivalent to a bloody-knuckled brute reciting poetry. But then, the familiarity he’d felt earlier sharpened and sat at the edge of his mind like a word on the tip of his tongue.

A metallic clunk echoed behind him.

Hank spun around, weapon still in hand, and was greeted by the sight of two HYDRA agents snapping their rifles to their shoulders. They inched closer. “Gentlemen,” Hank spoke, “Hi.” Four more armed HYDRA agents entered the room. “<I don’t suppose any of you would be interested in talking—” Hank’s words were cut off by the hum of the agents’ weapons powering up. “<That’s very disappointing.>”

The first blast lit up the room, but Hank’s body was already gone, with the weapon clacking onto the ground. Moments later, the weapon itself began to shrink rapidly until it was no longer visible to any of the agents. In a panic, the remaining agents began to open fire at the ground and all around, hoping a stray shot would be able to catch their now miniscule intruder.

Back to the size of an ant, Hank darted between cover as beams and bullets the size of mini-vans ricocheted off steel and concrete. The heavy doors swung open as more goons flooded into the room. Hank’s breath was growing heavy and rapid. His mind was racing. This wasn’t supposed to happen—he wasn’t supposed to be caught. He should’ve been able to slip out. His hands hovered over the regulator on his belt as a sudden spray of gunfire slammed into the far wall beside him, spraying concrete dust all over him. In a moment of desperation, Hank slammed his hand down.

Back on the surface, bullets bounced off of Steve’s shield as he barreled through the compound. Heavy steel doors tore from their hinges, walls crumbled and fell away, HYDRA agents were bulldozed through as Captain America moved like an unrelenting wrecking ball. He had to keep moving. At first, Steve took satisfaction, and perhaps a familiar comfort, in throwing HYDRA off their game. But that satisfaction was steadily turning into concern. This wasn’t the HYDRA he knew. It was no longer as if he was being pursued by a raging bull, but rather he was the last scrap of meat in a den of starving wolves.

Stray gunfire ripped away at allies, explosives crumbled the foundations on which comrades stood upon, and agents yanked ammunition from the hands of others to load their own weapons, all in a desperate effort to take down HYDRA’s greatest enemy. To Steve, and anyone who could think clearly, any victory HYDRA would achieve on that day would be a pyrrhic one.

“Pym!” Steve shouted into his earpiece, “It’s getting hot in here, what’s your status?” Steve’s question was met with the immediate hiss of static. “Stark, do you have eyes on Pym?”

“Umm,” Tony mumbled through the earpiece.

“Yes or no?”

FWOOM! The ground exploded from underneath Stever, sending him spiraling through the air as a massive hand tore to the surface. It slammed down, the concrete cracking under its massive fingers as it pulled the rest of its gigantic body out into sight.

“Um,” Hank’s voice boomed from his giant frame, momentarily putting a stop to the ever-escalating chaos, “Perhaps, now, you would be interested in talking this out rather than—” Hank had barely gotten the words out before all of HYDRA’s artillery shifted to him and showered him with a hail of bullets. “No, see–With my current size and density, your ballistics will have minimal effect on me. This doesn’t hurt. <Does. Not. Hurt!>”

As Steve watched HYDRA’s attention shift to Hank, his eyes flicked to the hole he had created when he emerged, “Stark, cover Pym!” Steve spoke into his earpiece as he rushed towards the hole.

“What are you doing?” asked Tony.

“Keeping us on track.” Steve dove into the hole, plummeting straight down through the darkness, shield ready, until he slammed into the ground below, concrete cracking under the force. Without missing a beat, he rolled into a full sprint, rolling his shoulders to ease the lingering discomfort from his landing as he made beeline for the data room. Pym’s display was too loud and too close to the data for him to not have accidently shown HYDRA their hand. If they wanted any hope of completing their mission, Steve had to secure the data room. With a shoulder rush, the doors blocking entry fell into the room, sliding along the floor before coming to a stop against two bloodied bodies. One’s weapon was still clutched tight, safety off, finger frozen around the trigger.

Steve paused, scanning. The data room wasn’t just compromised—it was gutted.

Steve stepped over the bodies, eyes sweeping the area. Both bodies wore HYDRA uniforms and both were shot clean through the chest. No burn marks, no stray rounds. Two bullets, two kills. And they weren’t the only bodies in the room. Steve took note of where the bodies lay, noting that their placement indicated the victims likely didn’t even realize that they were being picked off, let alone that there was an intruder in the room.

Then Steve’s attention shifted to what his team had come there for: the data banks. Rows of servers stood blackened, their surfaces scorched and warped from external heat. Every drive slagged beyond recovery.

“Stark,” Steve said into his comms, voice low, “The room’s been compromised. The data’s gone. Looks like… an extraction followed by a total burn.”

“That can’t be right,” Tony replied. “I’ve been watching thermal—no one’s left the compound.” Steve’s eyes flicked to the cracked screen before him. That’s when he saw her in the reflection: a woman clad in black with scarlet red hair standing motionless in the doorway behind him, eyeing him like a predatory animal.

“You got in here without anyone noticing,” Steve spoke, “I imagine you could’ve left just as easily.” His gaze shifted to her pistol still sitting in its holster, “But you didn’t. Any reason for that?”

“Curiosity,” she replied, the barest hints of an accent in her voice.

“And you seem confident you’ll walk out of here,” Steve replied, shifting his stance. Her expression didn’t change.

“Confidence isn’t the word I’d use.”

Steve’s gaze flicked to the burnt servers, “You erased the data.”

“Relocated,” she corrected. “Erasing is just a professional courtesy.”

Steve raised his arms and turned slowly, “Who are you working for?” he asked. There was no answer. She was already gone. Steve stared at the empty doorway and sighed, steady but unmistakably frustrated. He spoke into his earpiece, “Stark, where are we?”

“Mosquitos are off of Pym,” Tony replied, “Data’s a loss?”

“A complete loss.”

“Wish I could’ve been there.”

Miles away—in another country—Tony Stark sat before a wall of glowing screens, the feeds from his remote-controlled MK X and MK XI flickering across the glass. His eyes drifted to the crumpled notes on his desk, the half-finished armor on his workbench, and the mangled remains of the MK XII hanging from its rig like a monument to failure.

“Well, personally been there,” Tony clarified after a pause. “Not in… spirit...”

Tony’s voice faded over the comms as Hank Pym glanced down at the smoldering compound and then at the miniscule HYDRA agents scattered around his feet. With a click of a button on his belt, Hank returned to human size as the MK X and MK XI armors landed beside him with a heavy thud. He let out a heavy sigh and shook his head. These empty machines were probably the only ones there that did their job correctly. Well, perhaps, Captain America acted in the most logical way he could given the circumstances. No, it was probably just Hank himself who screwed up the whole thing. And for what?

He didn’t remember boarding the transport. One moment, he was in the ruins; the next, he was watching the clouds roll beneath him. His reflection stared back from the window—tired, distant. Hands folded, thoughts dulled, he just sat there and stared…

****

The doors to the UN chamber creaked open and in marched Maria Hill. Her presence sparked a buzz of murmurs from the delegates who represented each nation. She stepped forward to the podium, her posture crisp, every inch the consummate agent and diplomat she needed to be. Her dark eyes scanned the room, steady and unflinching. She took note of which delegates avoided her gaze—and found a quiet satisfaction in it. “Director Fury regrets his inability to join us today,” she spoke, “I have been dispatched on the behalf of S.H.I.E.L.D. to lay your concerns to rest.”

“And how do you intend on accomplishing that?” asked one of the delegates, “I imagine there are a great number of people within this room who share the same fears regarding the US’s new superpower, if you’ll forgive the play on words. Perhaps, you can address our concerns regarding how approximately thirty-six hours ago, the S.H.I.E.L.D. team officially known as ‘The Ultimates’ were dispatched overseas into French borders—"

“The Ultimates are a global initiative,” Maria Hill cut in, “They are sanctioned under S.H.I.E.L.D.’s extended charter, ratified by the Security Council in—

“Operating out of the US. Lead by a man representing the US. Or are we supposed to believe that ‘A’ on his head stands for France?” A brief, shared chuckle filled the room before the speaker continued, “But jokes aside, your nation has deployed a weaponized superhuman task force on foreign soil without prior consultation or consensus. Justified or otherwise, it shouldn’t be hard to see why any of us might be apprehensive.”

“I understand how it may look,” Hill replied, her voice measured. “But the Ultimates were not created to be a bigger stick, they were created to respond to threats that the world is currently unprepared for. They are intended to protect the international community, not destabilize it. You have my word and Fury’s that S.H.I.E.L.D. will ensure this initiative is executed responsibly.”

“You must understand how hollow that sounds from the mouth of the world’s only superpower.”

“Ms. Hill,” Another delegate spoke up from the far side of the chamber, “several nations here are now considering reactivating dormant World War II protocols—such as Captain Britain and Weapon Plus, to name a few. Our shared consensus is: if your Ultimates represent the new normal… well, we must have the means to meet that reality.”

Murmurs spread through the room once again. Only one delegate remained silent, eyes fixed and unblinking, taking in every word with careful attention. Where others whispered and exchanged nervous glances, he sat poised, yet deep in contemplation, weighing each statement, measuring both intent and implication as his fingers fiddled with the kimoyo beads fastened around his wrist. He understood both the burden she bore and the precarious balance the Ultimates represented. Understood what it meant to command forces that could shape the world yet remain accountable to few. His eyes flicked to the sole empty seat of the assembly: Latveria, then back to Hill.

The smoke was rising. Soon, so would the fire…

****

Thor trekked through the frigid caverns of Helheim. If it were a mortal trekking through these landscapes, their bodies would be flayed by the wind alone, which felt like shards of glass blasting against Thor’s face. Fortunately, he was mortal no longer. When his godhood had first returned, Thor imagined it would be like slipping back into old robes. But, as the days went on, it became clear to Thor just how much he had grown accustomed to mortality. The utter lack of certain sensations felt wrong and perhaps that was for the best. Perhaps, Thor believed, it would be important to remember those feelings and sensations, lest not repeat past mistakes. He was at the realm of the dead to atone for one already.

Loki, his brother and God of Stories, had told him not too long ago that Asgard had perished. With that information, Thor sought out what remained and his journey began in Helheim.

“You still think so little of us, Thor,” came a whisper carried by the frigid wind, “For any of our people, our family, to be here, would stand against what we are.”

“Is that so,” Thor replied, “Then why are you here, sister?”

“And you still speak as though others are ignorant of their lot,” the contemptuous words, like the wind, swirled around Thor, “I have been charged to rule this realm, as is my trial to the throne. So, here I remained as the foundations of our home came crashing down. But I was not the only one absent, was I, brother?”

“You…” though the words came from all around, Thor turned his gaze toward a singular direction, “You still speak with a vicious tongue, the envy of our brother.”

“He could only hope.” The wind slowed to a crawl, as if even the storm itself dared not intrude. Silent as the grave, shadows collected along the walls of stone structures previously hidden by the snow, deepening and thickening into shape until they took form—her form. Hela stepped from the shadows, the darkness peeling away from her like cowering hands, her dark cloak billowing like smoke in the frozen air. “Hel greets you, brother.”

“Sister Hela.” Thor inclined his head, his gaze unblinking, “It is… a relief to see that you are well.”

“Well?” Hela repeated, spitting the word like it was an insult, “Perhaps you are ignorant of my lot. The souls of the dead that lurk here are gentle ones, some having never seen the horror and honor of battle.” Hela moved closer, circling her brother like an animal stalking prey, “As such, Valhalla does not call for them. But the Aesir know battle as they know the names of their own children. Valhalla claimed all but who remain. You. Brother…” Her eyes turned to the snow falling gently upon the ground, “Me…” Her eyes flicked back to Thor, cold and sharp as steel, “If I wish to see those who made Asgard a home, I must be willing to find a battle that shall make me breathe my final breaths. Now tell me—who do I hold responsible for that?”

“Me,” Thor lowered his head as he spoke, “There is much I must atone for. That is my lot.”

“So, why are you here?”

“I seek to rebuild Asgard. And such a feat begins with us.”

“Rebuild?” Her voice curved into mockery. “Upon what foundation?”

“Midgard.”

“Amongst the mortals?”

“There is a stretch of land west of the sub-realm they call Oklahoma City. The soil is rich and—”

“You blur the lines between realms,” Hela interrupted, “And many begin to lose sight of what belongs to whom. Even now, I feel the crude hands of mortals invading my realm.”

“Mortal hands in your realm?”

“Someone seeks to play with my domain of death. Hands have reached into my realm and did not leave empty.” Hela stopped, almost lost in a tranquil fury, before her eyes darted toward her brother, “You wish to atone? I wish to know how that happened.” The air around them thickened and the frost beneath their feet began to shudder. A sound like cracking bone echoed throughout the land as the snow split apart, and jagged, skeletal shapes began to rise: an armory called from the grave.

Blades and spears, shields and axes, all half-consumed by frost, their edges blunted, their handles splintered. Some still bore the faint impressions of the hands that once gripped them—far smaller than they should be, fragile, trembling. Each weapon was held in the air by skeletal hands caked in frost, but held not as though they were being proudly presented, but instead clutched close, as though they were the last line of protection against certain oblivion.

These were the arms of the unfortunately gentle and non-glorious souls of Helheim.

Hela’s gaze swept across them, her expression unchanging. Her eyes, however, told a different story as her hand hovered above one blade longer than the rest. A flicker of something—recognition, perhaps pity—crossed her features, gone before it could settle.

Then she reached out. The weapon turned toward her as if in relief. When her hand closed around it, the decay melted away. The metal blackened, sharpened, reshaped into something dreadful, divine, and yet… mournful.

“I will accompany you,” Hela muttered finally.

Thor’s brow lifted, “How unlike you. I imagine you would make this burden mine alone.”

“I watched you stumble in circles for the past handful of hours,” Hela remarked, her voice flat with the smallest hint of annoyance, as she let her blade fall to her side. She brushed right past him, “There is no more entertainment to be found. Follow.”

Thor watched his sister march forward into the snow, not once looking back to check if he was following after. Thor remained still for a long moment, letting the wind whip against his face. Even here, in Helheim’s frozen breath, smoke clung to the air.

****

“…but the question remains,” the woman on the tv spoke, “was this merely a calculated display of power masquerading as humanitarian intervention? The creation of the Ultimates, S.H.I.E.L.D.’s response in the wake of the Hulk incident, came under fire this morning. Some see them as a necessary precaution. For others, it is nothing more than reckless showboating by the world’s only superpower.”

The words pulled Hank’s attention away from his work, but only for a moment. The moment he started hearing the same talking points spouted by the previous news anchors, he turned his focus back to the work in front of him. It was an idea that had nagged at him for some time, but after the last mission, it grew louder in his skull. So, in his lab he remained for the past two days.

“…and while S.H.I.E.L.D. insists the Ultimates are a defensive force, questions still linger, with some asking if this mission overseas was nothing more than an expensive display to remind the world of America’s might, without offering any proof that they’re capable of protecting us? Critics argue this is less about safety and more about optics—”

“I wonder why they’d think that?” Hank muttered to himself as he typed in a few more lines of code. The keyboard clacked sharply and loudly. Perhaps, Hank had intended for the sound of his work to drown out the monotonous newscast. The thought occurred to him that he could simply turn it off or change channels, but he had lost track of the remote a day ago.

“And then there’s Dr. Hank Pym,” the newscaster’s voice cut through the air, “Put forward as the third member of this so‑called premiere superhuman task force, Pym was billed as a pacifist, a scientist, and a voice of restraint. But now several voices now call into question Dr. Pym’s competence and his ability to stand beside the likes of Captain America and Iron Man. If the Ultimates are to be the face of global defense, perhaps the world deserves more than what many are calling—” The screen switched off.

Janet Van Dyne stood in the doorway, remote in hand. She waited a moment for Hank to acknowledge her presence, but when it didn’t happen, she strolled up behind him as he hunched over his desk.

“I know it sucks,” she remarked, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, “And it sucks knowing how excited you were about it.”

“Hmm?” Hank replied, like he was snapped out of a trance, “Oh, Janet! Yes, the recent modifications I’ve made to the firmware are very exciting.”

“Hank…”

“And, I think, with a couple more tweaks, I can start the preliminary mapping process and—”

“Hank. Don’t do this.”

Hank sighed, “Janet, what do you want me to do? I mean, you heard what they said. And worse yet, I might agree with them.”

“With what part?”

“Janet, think about it. You have history’s greatest soldier and a specimen of perfected human biology. And then, you have who many consider to be the smartest man in the world piloting what many consider to be the most revolutionary piece of tech ever built. And the guy who was supposed to stand with them would’ve been a guy who can throw lightning, not… not a guy in a bug suit who won’t even throw a punch.”

“Well, it’s a really cute bug suit.”

“I’m being serious, Janet.”

“So am I.” Janet strolled over to where the Ant-Man suit sat folded on, perhaps, the cleanest table in the lab, “That suit’s saved lives. It’s clever, it’s kind. It’s you. And maybe that’s what people need. Something that doesn’t scare people so much.”

“They might just laugh at it instead.”

“Since when did you start caring about people laughing? You filled your freshman dorm with pink, cubed bubbles and I’ve never seen you tell that story without giggling to yourself.”

“That was different. No one got hurt there. So, maybe I build something like that. Something incapable of hurting others.”

“Is that what this is supposed to be?” Janet jabbed a finger at the screen sitting atop a pile of jumbled wires on Hank’s desk.

“It’s not much yet, but yeah. It’s a peacekeeping program. It wouldn’t know fear, couldn’t be bribed, fatigued, corrupted, or compromised... It could be something better than us.”

“Better than us? Hank, half of those descriptors apply to Terminators.”

“Skynet’s actions were the result of self-preservation, I’m certain if humans had pursued other avenues, they could’ve avoided such a cataclysmic outcome.”

“Sure,” Janet said, inspecting the Ant-Man suit. “Maybe I just liked it better when you built things that made you laugh.” Her fingers lingered over a seam, a panel, and then paused. “Hang on.”

Before Hank could respond, Janet had shrunk down until her only clothes were left behind, only to reappear moments later, back to human size in a sleek morph top and pants. In her hands was something small, metallic, unfamiliar.

“What’s this?” she asked, holding the HYDRA weapon aloft.

Hank’s head snapped up. His eyes narrowed for just a fraction of a second, then widened in recollection as he quickly snatched the weapon from Janet’s arms. With a messy swipe of his arm, he cleared space on a nearby desk and immediately got to work on disassembling the weapon.

“Wait,” Janet spoke, observing the fluidity of Hank’s disassembly of the weapon. It was like he put it together himself. “Hank, how are you…”

“I had a hunch and, so far, it’s being proven correct,” Hank removed the last piece, exposing the weapon’s inner workings, “And now it’s…” Hank’s words trailed off, as if he expected Janet to finish his sentence.

“What?”

“Janet, tell me,” Hank gestured to the guts of the weapon, “What do you see?”

“Well, the connections aren’t soldered the way I’d expect—they’re more like… interlocking nodes. And these micro-emitters—they’re tuned for precision, but the energy flow… it’s almost identical to—Hank, is this—”

“No.”

“Then, how’s—”

“Exactly. And that’s the big question. It was only a hunch, but if you see it too… then someone’s figured out how to replicate Stark tech…”

****

Steve Rogers walked the familiar path between headstones. He greeted each tombstone as he passed them, nodding in respect. It had been months, yet Steve still found himself coming back. Like he was drawn to it.

There was a stillness here that he couldn’t find anywhere else. The world outside the gates moved too fast—too loud, too bright, too much. Here, everything stood still. The trees swayed with the same patience as the men buried. Even the air seemed to hold its breath.

“Y’know,” a voice broke through behind him, “most people come here to visit, not to move in.”

Steve turned to see Tony Stark standing at the gate, one hand in his pocket and a paper held in the other. He didn’t look out of place exactly, but he certainly didn’t belong. His sunglasses reflected rows of marble headstones.

“You following me, Stark?” Steve asked.

“Not necessarily. I was just following breadcrumbs. Figured I’d check you weren’t digging your own plot yet,” Tony said, strolling closer. “Coffee?”

Steve hesitated, then accepted the cup. “You always this subtle?”

“Only on my days off.”

“You been here before?”

“Just a handful of times. I’ve made some mistakes and wanted to make sure they were remembered appropriately. But my family’s buried elsewhere.”

“And how often do you visit them?”

Tony smiled, “C’mon,” he gestured toward the exit, “You’ve been hanging around ghosts long enough. Let’s go where the people breathe.”

Steve exhaled through his nose. “I’m fine here.”

“Yeah,” Tony said, glancing around, “that’s the problem.” Tony placed a playful slap onto Steve’s shoulder after an agonizing moment of silence, “C’mon, we’ll get lunch. Or brunch. Whatever we call food at this hour.” Tony was already at the exit by the time he realized Steve had not followed. Tony spun around, “You coming?”

Steve looked back at the headstones. “I was just—”

“Paying your respects. Yeah, I get it. But the thing about the living is—they still need to eat.”

Steve took one more look at the row of headstones before following.

They ended up in a small diner not far from the river—one of those places with too many chrome fixtures and too few people inside. Tony knew they could eat in peace there and ordered without even looking at the menu. Steve kept his eyes on his coffee, turning the cup slowly in his hands.

The food came quick. Steve picked at his plate, tried a bite, and let it sit in his mouth for a moment before swallowing. It wasn’t bad. It just didn’t taste right. Nothing really did anymore.

Tony filled the silence whenever he felt it was appropriate, perhaps going on a bit too long about the specifics and processes regarding his suits, but for the most part, he tried not to speak too much for the both of them. As soon as the bill was paid, Steve departed, leaving behind a couple crumpled dollars on the table.

He made his way to his apartment. There was nowhere he needed to be and nothing he needed to do. Perhaps, just wait for the next mission. It was when Steve pulled his keys from his pocket as he stepped up the stoop leading to his apartment that he sensed the presence of someone else, as if they had just appeared.

“Captain Rogers?” They spoke. Steve turned around and standing at the bottom of the stoop was a man. A sharply dressed man with a composed, yet commanding posture. Tucked under his arm was a circular bundle wrapped in an ornate cloth.

“Can I help you, son?” asked Steve, an eyebrow raised.

“You fought with my grandfather,” the man explained. Steve’s body relaxed.

“I see,” Steve moved a step lower towards them, “Did they make it home alright?”

“They did. They spoke highly of you when the topic arose. They told us you fought bravely for our people and country.”

“I’m certain they deserve to be spoken about in the same way.”

“We do,” the man replied, presenting the circular package, “He had wished to deliver it in person, but… he was laid to rest two days ago.”

“I’m sorry. What was his name?”

“King T’Chanda, son of King M'Teli.”

Steve was silent. His gaze fell to the object the man presented him and then to the man himself.

“And that would make you?”

“Prince T’Challa. Son of King T’Chaka.” Steve took a moment, weighing the title. There was something familiar in the way the young man carried himself and in the steadiness in his eyes—it reminded him of another lifetime, another friend who’d once stood just as proud. Steve smiled. It was a small smile but a genuine one.

“Would you like to come in?”

“I think I would prefer to see the sights.”

They walked without much direction, letting the city set the pace. The sounds of the city filled the spaces between them—car horns, voices, a distant street musician playing saxophone somewhere around the corner. For a while, neither spoke.

“I sat in during the UN hearing,” T’Challa said at last.

Steve glanced at him. “That right?”

“Yes.”

“And what was your stance on it all?”

“They say inaction is complicity. So, many act—not out of understanding, but to ease the fear of appearing idle. The matter of the Ultimates demands conversation, yet before we even convened, many nations had already begun weighing their means of counterbalance.”

Steve walked beside him in silence for a moment, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets. “People don’t like feeling afraid,” he finally said. “When someone’s afraid, they do what they think will keep them safe. Some lock their doors. Others arm themselves. But a world of locked doors isn’t a world where community thrives. And once everyone’s armed, you start to worry about what the other guy is carrying.”

“It rings true,” T’Challa said quietly. “For generations, my people have placed our faith in extraordinary individuals to guard our borders and our secrets. Long ago, we encountered another land with wonders that rivaled our own. They too had a protector—a warrior sworn to defend their people and their secrets. They did nothing more than we did, and yet, we spent too long preparing for the day that protector might become our enemy, imagining threats where none existed. Sometimes, we spend so much time preparing for war that we fail to see not everyone wishes for one.”

“So, other than that, how are things in Wakanda?”

“They are well. They still hide, but they are well.” T’Challa paused, taking moment to truly take in the city surrounding them, “I imagine it was quite difficult… to know the world as you did, only to one day wake up to all of this,” T’Challa said, his eyes sweeping over the streets, the noise, the modern bustle around them.

Steve shrugged lightly, hands in his pockets. “Yeah… it’s different. The world moves fast. Much faster than it used to. Things change while you’re… gone.”

“Very few men have the luxury of returning to a home they recognize.”

“Yeah… I sometimes wonder if it’s still my home at all.” An uncomfortable chuckle escaped Steve’s lips. Against his own wishes, his mind had become flooded with a surge of sudden mourning. He thought of the promises he had left unfulfilled. The farewell’s he never gave. He turned to T’Challa, “Your grandfather was a good man. Had a hell of a right hook too.”

“He told me you were a warrior of great skill as well,” T’Challa smiled, “and that it took him up to two minutes to render you unconscious.”

“Only two minutes?”

T’Challa nodded, his smile still present, “He waited for you. Waited for you even long after he heard that you were gone. He wouldn’t believe it for the longest time. Didn’t think someone like could ever run out of luck. And by the stories he’d tell me over the years, I’d understand why he’d think that way. But the years passed and he stopped waiting…” T’Challa eyes fell to the ground. He sighed, “In Wakanda we do not believe that death is the end. Bast waits for us on the other side, yes, but we also live on through what we leave behind. My grandfather once told me the most difficult part of witnessing change is recognizing your own part in it. The world does not always change on its own, rather, it is often changed by those who live within it. Those who lived before and those who remain.”

Steve smiled at the words, but his thoughts were interrupted by the buzzing of his phone. Incoming call from Nick Fury.

“This is Captain Rogers,” Steve answered.

“There’s a priority situation,” Nick Fury’s voice spoke over the line, “Report to the Triskellion. Now.” Steve looked down at his phone, disappointed.

“I’m sorry, T’Challa. I would’ve loved to speak more, but…” Steve’s words trailed off he turned to around, his attention captured by the glowing display projected from the kimoyo beads fastened around T’Challa’s wrist. At first Steve was taken aback by the technological display, but T’Challa gestured for him to instead take note of what was being projected. Once Steve did, he understood exactly what he was being called in for.

On display was the image of a grisly aftermath, with lifeless bodies strewn across the burning wreckage of a small European village. Accompanying the image was a headline baring a simple accusation:

“Ultimates Rampage Leaves Village of 120 Dead!”