{Chapter: 273 Spacecraft Carrier}
"But... I thought you knew him," Eric Selvig muttered, his brow furrowed as he adjusted the dials on the Tesseract interface. Sparks flickered across the screen, reflecting blue light across his face. "Back then, your brother Thor was in Old Bridge City... and William was there too. He appeared out of nowhere, like a ghost from myth—except he didn't just fight. He destroyed. Thor and his warriors from Asgard were overwhelmed in minutes. I watched him walk away like it was a game."
Loki's expression darkened. His piercing green eyes narrowed as he repeated the name, "William... William..." He stood slowly, rising from his crouched posture like a predator preparing to strike.
Eric took a step back, instinctively wary. "I didn't expect him to reappear... and like this? He just leveled Kolkata. He's not just dangerous—he's catastrophic. If he's not stopped, he may become the enemy of all life on Earth... and possibly beyond."
Loki's voice was a low growl. "I know who he is."
From the corner of the underground laboratory, Hawkeye—silent until now—turned his head. "What do you know, boss?"
Loki's smirk returned, sharp and cold as a knife. "The thief who stole the Casket of Ancient Winters from Asgard... it must have been William. That power was never meant to fall into mortal hands. And now he dares to flaunt it. I will hunt him across every realm, tear every secret from his bones, and reclaim what's mine."
Eric looked doubtful. "You saw what he did to Thor, right? You think you can take him alone?"
Loki chuckled darkly, holding up the scepter with the glowing blue gem embedded in it. "Alone? Oh no. That would be no fun. Besides... I never fight fair."
Hawkeye stepped forward, a dark glint in his eyes—the effects of Loki's mind control clearly still in place. "We've got your back."
"For now," Loki said, amusement curling in his voice. "But first, we focus on the Tesseract. That portal must be opened. William's destruction can wait. He will feel my vengeance soon enough."
Loki turned to the humming cube of cosmic energy suspended within the containment chamber. It pulsed rhythmically, like a heartbeat of the universe, and filled the chamber with an otherworldly glow.
---
Far above the churning waters of the Pacific Ocean, a mammoth aircraft carrier floated unnaturally still on the surface. This was no ordinary naval vessel—it was S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Helicarrier, the crown jewel of their airborne fleet.
High overhead, an aircraft cut through the clouds and descended rapidly, landing on the upper deck with a hiss of pressure and the whine of cooling engines.
The hatch hissed open, and Natasha Romanoff emerged with the effortless grace of a storm still wrapped in silk. Still draped in a traditional Indian saree of deep crimson silk edged with gold, looking—cool and composed despite the long flight she looked both regal and lethal.
She was a vision that turned every head on the high-tech deck. The fabric hugged her form with elegant restraint, but it was the bare sliver of pale waist exposed between her blouse and the pleated folds that drew the agents' stares. Her smooth skin under the sun, glistening at the small of her back and the curve of her side, a stark contrast to the steel surrounding her.
A moment later, Bruce Banner descended behind her, his eyes scanning the sleek, high-tech hangar with wary precision.
ping the high-tech deck. He adjusted the strap on his bag, but his shoulders were tense, his face lined with grief.
"S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't do things halfway," Banner murmured, taking in the rows of jet fighters, the towers bristling with antennas, and the command staff running a dozen operations at once.
Natasha gave him a sidelong glance. "Cutting edge tech, the best minds, and the most dangerous secrets all in one place. Welcome aboard."
Moments later, another aircraft landed beside them. Out stepped Coulson, looking professional as always, and beside him—Captain Steve Rogers. His jaw was clenched, his fists trembling slightly as he looked out over the water below.
Coulson touched his shoulder lightly. "Captain, you can't blame yourself for Kolkata."
Steve's reply was bitter, his voice low. "If I'd killed him during the war... if I'd just finished the job—maybe none of this would've happened."
Natasha approached, her eyes scanning Steve's posture with the practiced ease of a spy. "Captain Rogers," she greeted. "I'm Natasha Romanoff."
Steve nodded politely, then turned toward Banner as the scientist walked up.
"Are you Banner?" Steve asked, narrowing his eyes.
Banner smiled, but it was the smile of a man whose soul was fractured. "That's me. The guy who destroyed a city."
"You're not the one who did that," Steve said firmly. "William did. All of it was his choice."
"We have something in common then," Banner said. "We both want to see him stopped."
"Stopped?" Steve's voice rose slightly. "No. Ended."
Natasha raised an eyebrow. "Gentlemen. If we're done declaring vengeance, let's move inside. It's about to get... windy."
Suddenly, the Helicarrier began to shudder beneath their feet. Alarms sounded softly, warning systems humming to life. Around them, sea water roared and twisted in unnatural whirlpools, and the skies darkened as if anticipating a storm.
"What the hell's going on? Is this thing diving?" Steve asked, backing up slightly.
"No," Natasha said with a faint smirk. "It's rising."
With a groan of mechanical might, the ship lifted off the ocean. Four enormous turbines emerged from hidden bays on each side of the carrier, spinning faster and faster. Waves exploded outward as the ship levitated into the air like a titan casting off the bonds of Earth.
"Flying... aircraft carrier," Steve said, stunned. "That's new."
"Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D.," Banner added.
They entered the interior command deck through reinforced sliding doors. Inside, glowing displays lit up walls of data, and dozens of agents worked in silent coordination.
"Fury's waiting," Natasha said, already leading the way toward the command center.
Unseen by any of them, a ripple moved across the floor—a shimmer of silver sliding like spilled mercury. A small ball of liquid metal, no larger than a fist, rolled silently toward an air vent and disappeared inside. It had no scent, no sound. Just one purpose.
It was watching, still admiring Natasha in such a traditional Indian saree dress, salivating as if he could pound on her at any time.
But William wasn't watching it. His gaze had locked elsewhere — transfixed on the vision before him.
Natasha Romanoff stepped out of the hatch, clad in a blood-red saree that clung to her curves like silk draped over flame. The traditional fabric wrapped her form with deceptive modesty, yet the bare sliver of her pale waist, adorned in glistening sweat from the humid air, struck William like a blade of temptation.
A slow, crooked smile spread across his face.
"A goddess draped in culture, yet made for sin," he mused.
His mind wandered—twisted, hungry.
William's eyes followed every movement, his tongue brushing over the corner of his lips. His pupils dilated, and a low, primal hunger curled in his gut.
It was watching her, yes… but so was he.
He swallowed, hard. Thoughts boiled.
"Damn… I should buy a few sets of these for my wiveys. Sarees in every color. No, wait—why stop there?" His gaze darkened, imagination spiraling like a storm. "Every nation's traditional dress… every ceremonial outfit, every sacred garment… all of it."
"Cheongsams that cling like second skin, hanboks whispering innocence, kimono sashes begging to be untied. And the wedding dresses…"
Sarees, hanboks, cheongsams, dirndls… wedding dresses from every land, every creed. Why limit myself? My wives, my queens — they'll wear history itself, just to be ruined by me. We'll turn every tradition into a ritual of pleasure. Every culture, one by one, devoured on the altar of desire.
His breath hitched slightly.
"wiveys, I've always wanted to love you all in wedding dresses."
His eyes glinted, feverish.
Cosplay. Roleplay. Obedience dressed in elegance. A world of silk and lace, all stitched for conquest. What greater throne than one built from beauty itself? What a divine corruption."
He inhaled slowly, as if savoring the thought.
His stare lingered on Natasha's exposed waist, the slight curve of her hip, the sheen of sweat trailing along the small of her back. He felt himself twitch with need.
"Let them call it obsession. I call it devotion... dressed in blood and desire."
Natasha, unaware of the silent chaos she had just sparked in her future husband's mind, glanced around with tactical poise. But the damage was already done — her choice of attire due to the mission had just changed the wardrobe of her sister-wives permanently.
Natasha walked ahead — composed and unaware, a perfect storm wrapped in six yards of silk — while behind her, William's mind burned with visions too wicked for the light.
*****
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