The sun was a merciless, white-hot coin in a vast, bleached-blue sky. The highway stretched before them, a ribbon of asphalt shimmering with heat haze, cutting through a landscape of ruddy mesas, scrub brush, and endless, empty space. After the constant, curated ambiance of Lux, the raw, untamed openness of the New Mexico desert was a shock to the system.
Purring along the road was a vintage 1967 Chevrolet Impala, its black paint gleaming like a shard of obsidian against the dusty browns and reds of the desert. Inside, the atmosphere was a study in contrasts.
Alex lounged in the passenger seat, his arm resting on the open window, feeling the dry, oven-like wind rush past. He watched the hypnotic repetition of the landscape, the occasional lonely farmhouse, the fields of struggling cultivation. There was a stark, simple beauty to it that he found strangely meditative. This was a world away from the complex desires and neon-lit intrigue of Los Angeles.
Behind the wheel, Patrick was a portrait of impeccable order. Dressed in a full suit that remained miraculously unwrinkled despite the long drive, his hands were positioned at a perfect ten-and-two. He navigated the empty highway with the same solemn, focused duty he applied to managing a multi-million dollar nightclub.
Sprawled across the entire back seat like a disgruntled panther was Maze. She had one boot propped on the window frame, the other dangling over the seatback. A sleek, silver dagger danced between her fingers, spinning in the air before she caught it by the tip with unnerving precision, over and over.
"This is hell," she announced to no one in particular, her voice dripping with boredom. "It's all just... brown. And empty. Where are the people? The fights? The screaming?"
"Peace is a commodity, Maze," Alex replied without turning, his eyes still on the passing mesas. "Learn to appreciate its value. It's often the prelude to the most interesting storms."
"Commodity. Prelude. Boring," she shot back, flicking the dagger so it stuck, quivering, in the headrest of Alex's seat, a hair's breadth from his ear. "If I don't get to stab something soon, I'm going to start cutting up the seats."
Patrick's calm voice cut through the tension. "Estimated time of arrival in Puente Antiguo is twenty-seven minutes, barring unforeseen delays. The local meteorological service reports clear skies and a negligible chance of precipitation."
Maze groaned, pulling her dagger free and slumping back into the seat. "Great. More brown."
....
The shift in the atmosphere was subtle at first. A military transport truck rumbled past them, heading in the opposite direction. Then another. Soon, they saw the distant, dark specks of helicopters circling a specific point on the horizon. The air itself seemed to grow thick with a silent, watchful tension.
"Unforeseen delays appear to be materializing, sir," Patrick noted, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror.
Ahead, the reason for the military presence became clear. A formidable roadblock had been established.
Dark SUVs and jeeps were parked in a defensive semicircle, their doors emblazoned with a familiar eagle logo.
Men and women in tactical gear and dark sunglasses stood with a disciplined alertness that screamed something far beyond regular army. This was the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division. S.H.I.E.L.D.
A stern-faced agent with a clipboard stepped onto the road, raising a hand. Patrick brought the Impala to a smooth, silent halt.
"This is a restricted area, folks," the agent said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "You'll have to turn back."
Alex sighed, the peaceful interlude officially over. "I'll handle this."
He stepped out of the car, the desert heat pressing in on him. In an instant, his relaxed posture shifted. His shoulders straightened, and an aura of unshakable authority settled around him like an invisible cloak. He approached the agent, a charming, disarming smile on his face.
"Agent," Alex began, his voice a low, confident murmur. He locked eyes with the man.
[Influence Desire Activated!]
He didn't see grand ambitions or dark secrets. He saw a dedicated professional, a man who took pride in his work, whose deepest desire in this moment was to follow protocol perfectly and avoid a messy incident on his watch.
Instead of trying to fight this desire, Alex decided to use it. He layered his words with a subtle, yet potent, [Minor Compulsion].
"We're not tourists," Alex said, his voice resonating with convincing certainty. "We're consultants. Your superior, the agent in charge—I believe it's the one with the remarkably calm demeanor—is expecting our assessment. The energy signatures from that object you've cordoned off are... unique. We're here to help. Just make the call. It'll simplify everything."
The agent's brow furrowed. The compulsion, perfectly aligned with his own desire for a clean, by-the-book resolution, took root. The order to turn them back suddenly felt... complicated. Simplicity lay in making the call. He nodded, a bit confused, and raised his radio.
"Base, this is Perimeter Delta. I have a... civilian vehicle. Three occupants. Claim to be expected consultants. A Mr...." He looked at Alex.
"Alex Morningstar," Alex supplied smoothly.
A burst of static, then a reply. The agent listened, his expression shifting from confusion to acceptance. He lowered the radio. "Proceed straight ahead. Don't deviate from the main track."
He gestured for his team to move a barricade, creating a temporary gap.
"Told you," Alex said, sliding back into the passenger seat as Patrick guided the car through the perimeter."Peace has its uses."
Inside the restricted area, the scene was anything but peaceful. It was a hive of controlled, scientific urgency. Temporary structures and mobile labs formed a small village around the epicenter: a massive, raw crater scarred into the desert floor. Scientists in white coats hurried between tents, while armed agents maintained a vigilant watch.
And there, in the very heart of the crater, embedded in solid rock as if it had grown there, was the hammer.
Mjolnir.
It looked deceptively simple, a tool for a blacksmith or a warrior from a bygone era. Yet, an invisible pressure radiated from it, a hum of dormant, divine power that made the air taste of ozone and ancient storms.
"Fascinating," Patrick murmured, his analytical mind whirring. "The object displays no visible energy emission, yet its gravitational or metaphysical anchor is absolute. It defies conventional physics."
Maze was suddenly upright, her boredom vaporized, replaced by a sharp, predatory interest. Her eyes gleamed as she stared at the hammer. "Now that looks like a worthy weapon," she purred, already reaching for the door handle. "Let me try to pull it out."
Alex placed a gentle but firm hand on her arm. "You can try, Maze," he said, a quiet, knowing smile playing on his lips. He could feel the enchantment woven around it—a magic of worthiness, of divine right, so fundamentally opposite to their own infernal natures. "But I can already tell you, you're not its type."
Before Maze could retort, a familiar, pleasantly bland voice cut through the desert air.
"Mr. Alex. I have to admit, your name coming over the wire was a surprise."
They turned to see Phil Coulson approaching, his signature mild smile firmly in place, though his eyes were sharp and calculating. "Consultants,' was it? You have a remarkable talent for being where the interesting things are."
Internally, Alex's mind raced. Coulson. Top S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. Can't let on that I know who he is. He kept his expression neutral, a mask of polite recognition.
"Agent," Alex replied, carefully omitting the name. "A small world. Or perhaps just a small planet for things of consequence." He gestured with his chin towards the crater. "We heard you had a... grounding issue."
Coulson's smile didn't waver. "You could say that. Since you're here as 'consultants,' care to share any insights? We've found it to be remarkably stubborn."
The polite game of chess had begun. Coulson was probing, trying to triangulate Alex's knowledge and motives. Alex was playing the enigmatic outsider, hinting at a deeper understanding without revealing the cosmic truth.
"The most stubborn things often are, until the right key is found," Alex said cryptically, his gaze drifting back to the hammer. "It's not a matter of force, but of... qualification."
He was about to elaborate when a sudden commotion erupted from the direction of the perimeter. Shouts of alarm, the crackle of disrupted radios, and the unmistakable sound of bodies hitting the ground.
An agent sprinted up to Coulson, slightly out of breath. "Sir, we have a situation! Sir, an intruder has broken through! It's a powerful blonde man, heading straight for the hammer in the crater. Our men can't stop him—he's defeating them all easily!"
Alex's knowing smile widened into a grin of pure, anticipatory delight. He turned to watch the chaos unfold, a lone, powerful figure storming through the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents with effortless, god-like strength.
"The assessment," Alex said to Coulson, his eyes fixed on the approaching storm of blonde hair and righteous fury, "is about to begin."
The Fallen King had arrived.