Triskelion – S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters
The command center was chaos. Agents ran between stations, shouting updates, screens flickered with damage reports from Manhattan. Smoke from burnt-out circuits still hung faint in the air, the smell of ozone sharp.
Nick Fury stood at the holotable, one hand pressed against it, the other clenched behind his back. His single eye flicked across the endless streams of data: dead civilians, collapsed buildings, Chitauri corpses, nuclear launch logs.
But none of it was what held his attention.
On one grainy feed, paused mid-frame, was the blur. The black armored figure. The man who wasn't supposed to exist.
"Run it again," Fury ordered. His voice was quiet, but it cut through the noise like a blade.
An agent hesitated. "Sir, we've run it ten times already. The system can't—"
"Run it again."
The video rolled. One second, Thor was swinging Mjolnir at Rogers. The next, he was flying across three blocks, his jaw snapping sideways from an invisible strike. Hulk followed a heartbeat later. The blur appeared only for a flicker, then reappeared behind Amora, dropping her like she'd been shot.
The room was silent.
Fury leaned back, his jaw tight. "That… wasn't one of ours."
Maria Hill folded her arms, staring at the frozen image. "Not Stark tech. Not Hydra, AIM, or anything on the books. Whoever he is, he just took out an Asgardian executioner like it was nothing. Sir… if he's not with us—"
Fury cut her off, his tone sharp. "Then he's a problem. A very big problem. I don't like ghosts, Hill. Find him. I don't care if you tear every satellite out of orbit. I want a name. I want a face."
Hill hesitated. "…And if we can't?"
Fury's eye narrowed at the flickering screen. "Then God help us when he decides to stop playing nice."
—
Westchester – Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters
The war was over, but the echoes lingered. In the mansion's lower levels, the Cerebro chamber was quiet, its great dome humming faintly. Professor Charles Xavier sat in his chair at the center, his hands steepled under his chin, his eyes closed in deep thought.
Footsteps echoed. Logan leaned against the doorway, cigar unlit between his teeth, arms crossed over his chest. Behind him, Hank McCoy adjusted his glasses, blue fur singed in places from battle, his expression contemplative despite the exhaustion in his eyes.
"You felt it too," Logan said flatly, voice rough. "That… whatever the hell he was."
Xavier opened his eyes slowly. "Yes. Even without Cerebro, I felt it. A presence unlike any I have known. A void where there should have been thought. A silence in the mind… as though I were staring into an abyss that stared back."
Logan's brow creased, his jaw tight. "That's not a man, Chuck. That's a damn weapon walkin' around in a suit. If he can toss Thor and the Hulk like ragdolls, what's he gonna do when he decides he doesn't like us?"
Hank folded his hands behind his back, his voice calm but heavy with thought. "Weapon or not, Logan, the fact remains: he intervened. Thor and Banner were compromised. Without him, the losses would have been catastrophic."
"That's one way to look at it," Logan muttered, lighting his cigar at last, the flame briefly illuminating the scars on his knuckles. "But Fury? He ain't gonna see it that way. S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't like wild cards. You know what they do with things they don't understand."
Xavier wheeled forward slightly, the glow of Cerebro's interface painting his face in silver light. "That is what I fear. Men like Fury see only weapons, only threats. But I see something else. A man carrying a burden no one else could carry. A man standing alone."
Logan exhaled smoke, gaze lowering. "…And men who stand alone too long?"
Xavier's voice was quiet, almost mournful. "They often become the very thing the world fears."
Hank looked between them, his tone soft but resolute. "Then perhaps it falls to us—to ensure he does not stand alone."
—
Atlas Biotech – Penthouse Office
The city outside was still scarred. Smoke rose from distant ruins, sirens wailed faintly, and helicopters hovered over the skyline. Sam sat in his office, lights dimmed, staring at the axe lying across his desk.Sam leaned back in his chair, elbows resting on the armrests, eyes fixed on it.
For a while, he didn't move. He just sat there, quiet, thinking.
Then the air shifted.
It wasn't sound. It wasn't sight. It was presence—like space itself had turned inside out. He didn't need to look up to know he wasn't alone.
"You found me," Sam said flatly.
Across from him, standing as though she had always been there, was a bald woman in flowing yellow robes. Her hands were folded, her expression calm. Her eyes, though, carried weight. The kind that saw too much.
"I did," the Ancient One said softly. "You wear a veil over yourself, clever and heavy. No mortal eye would pierce it. Not even the sharpest gods could find you." She tilted her head. "But I am not searching through time, or through fate. My affinity lies with space itself. And in space… there is nowhere you can hide."
Sam finally raised his eyes to her. He wasn't shocked, not really. "Figures," he muttered. "Space affinity. That explains it."
Her gaze sharpened, studying him, the faintest trace of curiosity tugging at her calm tone. "What are you?" she asked. "Three years ago, you were… ordinary. A man with nothing. Now you are a void. I look into your future, and I see nothing but an abyss."
She hesitated, just for a second, before finishing.
"An abyss with eyes. Huge, violet eyes… staring back at me."
The room went still. The faint hum of the city below seemed distant, drowned out by the weight of her words.
Sam didn't answer. He leaned back in his chair again, eyes returning to the axe on his desk, fingers tapping once against the armrest.
"…Yeah," he said quietly. "That sounds about right."
"You stand beyond fate," she said at last. "That makes you dangerous. To the world, to yourself… to everyone. I cannot interfere in the course of humanity, nor dictate its path. But I will warn you, Samuel Jackson."
She stepped closer, her presence filling the room like a storm held in silence.
"Do not become a threat to this world. Do not test the line between protector and destroyer. Because if you do…" Her voice softened, but the weight in it was iron. "…I will be forced to find a way to stop you. Even if it costs me everything."
Sam's eyes didn't waver. He glanced once more at the axe, then back at her.
"I'm not planning on destroying the world," he said evenly. "But if it tries to destroy me first… I won't just sit and take it."
The Ancient One studied him for a long, long moment—then gave a small, knowing nod, as if the conversation had only just begun, yet also already ended.
And with a ripple of space, she was gone.
The room was silent again, save for the hum of the axe on the desk.
—