Snow compressed beneath Nolan's boots with each step, creating soft crunching sounds that punctuated his rapid pace. The accumulation had reached ankle depth in places where pedestrian traffic hadn't yet compressed it into slush, making his progress slightly unsteady but not enough to slow him meaningfully.
His face remained expressionless, locked in neutral calm despite the tension coiling through his body. The tall figure moved through wind and snow with purpose, turning into a secluded side street that offered fewer witnesses and better sight lines for spotting followers.
One hand remained hidden beneath his woolen windbreaker, fingers wrapped around the plasma pistol's grip. The weapon felt solid, reassuring, ready to discharge at a moment's notice. His entire posture carried readiness, muscles primed for sudden violence if the situation demanded it.
The white-haired old man had appeared at that café table without warning, materializing as if from nowhere. The elderly gentleman had been careful, attempting to mask his presence through what might have been magic or simply exceptional subtlety. His voice had been controlled, deliberately pitched to avoid drawing attention.
But he'd made one critical error.
The mixed scent emanating from his body, herbs and metal combined in a distinctive signature, had been impossible for Nolan's enhanced senses to miss. In the winter air, with snow dampening most smells, that particular combination stood out like a beacon fire in darkness.
The old man wasn't human. Or at least, not entirely human anymore. Something about his fundamental nature had been altered, transformed by forces Nolan couldn't identify but recognized as dangerous.
And regardless of whether Faust was hero or villain, his presence in New York during this particular time period meant only one thing: he was hunting for Guardians of Terra.
Nolan stood motionless in the alley's shadows, waiting with predator patience. Minutes accumulated. Five. Ten. Fifteen.
Snow settled on his shoulders, creating a thin white layer that gradually thickened. Individual flakes caught in his hair, melted slightly from body heat, then refroze into tiny ice crystals. The cold seeped through his windbreaker despite the wool's insulation, making his skin prickle with goosebumps.
But no attack came.
No footsteps approached. No magical assault materialized. No sense of being observed or tracked registered on his heightened awareness.
The alley remained empty except for him and the falling snow.
Nolan's eyes narrowed, confusion mixing with lingering wariness. His mind worked through possibilities, analyzing the situation from multiple angles.
"Am I being paranoid?" The thought emerged unbidden, unwelcome. "Maybe he really is just a retired traveler. Some old hero or villain taking a final tour before age makes it impossible."
He reviewed his actions since leaving the underground base. The decision had been impulsive, driven by cabin fever after weeks of self-imposed isolation. He'd taken advantage of seeing off Blade, who'd politely but firmly declined any permanent placement with the team, to get some fresh air and experience the winter cityscape he hadn't properly appreciated in too long.
Now that impulse seemed dangerously foolish. Better to have stayed hidden, maintained security, avoided any chance of exposure.
His grip on the plasma pistol slowly loosened. The immediate threat, if it had ever existed, appeared to have passed. Perhaps the old man truly was harmless. Perhaps Nolan's paranoia had manufactured danger from innocent circumstance.
He turned toward the alley's exit, already planning his route back to the base. Multiple circuits through the city, random turns, doubling back to check for tails. Standard counter-surveillance protocols that would take hours but guarantee no one followed him home.
Minutes later, Nolan emerged from the alley into the broader street beyond.
He nearly collided with a woman.
She appeared from the side, moving with quick purpose, head down against the falling snow. Both of them jerked to a halt, that awkward half-dance of strangers trying to avoid physical contact in crowded spaces.
Nolan stepped aside reflexively, automatically murmuring an apology. His eyes tracked across her as they passed, taking in details despite himself. It was habit, ingrained awareness that catalogued potential threats even in mundane encounters.
She wore a hood pulled forward to shadow her face. A black mask covered the lower half, leaving only her eyes visible. What he could see of her build suggested athletic conditioning, the kind of lean muscle that came from serious training rather than casual fitness.
His gaze passed across her neck, pale skin exposed in the gap between mask and coat collar. Long red hair, vibrant even in winter's gray light, spilled from beneath the hood despite her attempts to keep it concealed.
And his enhanced senses caught something else: the faint scent of blood. Not fresh, but recent. Hours old at most. The metallic tang mixed with cordite residue and something chemical, probably cleaning solvents used to remove evidence.
Nolan's expression remained carefully neutral. His posture carried polite apology as he spoke. "Sorry, wasn't watching where I was going."
"It's fine, big guy. Just be more careful on snowy days." Her voice emerged slightly muffled by the mask, carrying a soft, somewhat husky quality. She shook her hooded head in dismissal, already moving past him.
They separated without further interaction, two strangers whose paths had crossed by accident, each continuing in opposite directions through the snow.
Nolan didn't look back. Didn't allow himself any sign that the encounter had registered as significant. He simply continued walking, maintaining his casual pace until the next corner allowed him to turn and disappear from potential sight lines.
The woman in the hood and mask showed no indication that the brief collision had made any impression. She walked with brisk efficiency through New York's snow-covered streets, navigating the winter landscape with the ease of someone intimately familiar with the city's geography.
But her path wasn't random.
Every few blocks, after covering sufficient distance, she would duck into a store. Sometimes a clothing boutique. Sometimes a convenience shop. Occasionally just a public restroom in a fast-food restaurant.
When she emerged, her appearance had changed. Different coat. Different shoes. Different bag slung over her shoulder. The transformations were subtle, nothing dramatic enough to draw attention, but cumulatively they created distinct personas that would be difficult to track through security footage or witness testimony.
The only constant was the black mask, perpetually covering the lower half of her face regardless of other alterations.
An hour passed. The woman crossed the Brooklyn Bridge on foot, moving among the scattered pedestrians brave enough to walk in the winter weather. Snow had accumulated along the bridge's railings, creating white barriers that framed the gray water below.
She descended into Brooklyn proper, navigating side streets until reaching an office building positioned at the district's edge. The structure was unremarkable, exactly the kind of anonymous commercial space that filled every major city. Aging but maintained. Occupied but not prominent.
Security guards stood inside the entrance, visible through glass doors, conducting their duties with the bored efficiency of people performing routine tasks. They chatted with each other, glanced occasionally at their monitors, maintained presence without particular vigilance.
The red-haired woman walked directly past them, moving through the lobby as if she owned it.
Neither guard reacted. Their gazes tracked across her position without registering her existence, eyes sliding past as if she'd activated some perception filter that rendered her invisible to casual observation.
She reached an elevator bank, selecting one car that bore a prominent "OUT OF SERVICE" sign. Yellow caution tape had been stretched across the entrance, warning people away.
She ducked under the tape without hesitation and stepped into the car. Her hand moved to the button panel, but instead of pressing floor selections, she activated a concealed scanner.
A panel slid aside, revealing biometric verification systems. She placed her hand flat against the reader, held still while lasers traced across her palm, measuring the unique patterns of her fingerprints and the blood vessels beneath her skin.
"Fingerprint match confirmed," a synthesized voice announced. "DNA match confirmed. Retinal scan match confirmed. Access granted."
The elevator car shuddered, then began descending. Not to a basement level, but considerably deeper. The sensation suggested traveling down multiple stories, far below the building's apparent foundation.
The woman finally removed her black mask, peeling it away to reveal delicate features. Her skin was pale but healthy, touched with natural color at the cheeks. The face belonged to someone in their late twenties or early thirties, beautiful in a way that seemed almost weaponized, designed to draw attention and lower guards.
The elevator continued its descent, creating that peculiar floating sensation that came from rapid downward motion. Finally, after perhaps thirty seconds, it began to slow.
The doors opened with hydraulic precision, parting to reveal a corridor beyond.
The hallway was utilitarian, designed for function rather than aesthetics. Gray walls, fluorescent lighting, doors positioned at regular intervals along both sides. Each door bore designation numbers but no identifying information about what lay beyond.
The red-haired woman, Natasha, strode through the passage with the confidence of someone who'd walked this route countless times. Her boots made soft sounds against linoleum flooring, echoing slightly in the confined space.
She reached a door near the corridor's end, this one marked with a shield emblem, eagle and stars arranged in a distinctive pattern. SHIELD's logo, recognized by anyone with security clearance high enough to know the organization existed.
Natasha didn't knock. Her hand simply pushed the door open, and she stepped inside without ceremony or announcement.
The smell hit immediately.
Cigar smoke filled the office, thick enough to see in the dim lighting. The acrid, burning scent of tobacco mixed with whatever chemicals the cigars contained, creating an atmosphere that would make most people's eyes water.
Natasha's brow furrowed reflexively, nose wrinkling in automatic distaste. "Director, why did you break your promise again? Those things are going to kill you eventually."
Her hands moved to her coat's zipper even as she spoke, pulling it down in one smooth motion. Beneath, she wore minimal clothing, light layers that wouldn't have provided much warmth in New York's winter.
She reached into her jacket's interior pocket, fingers finding the folded paper concealed there. The rough parchment had been tucked against her chest for warmth and security, kept close during her journey across the city.
Without ceremony, she tossed it toward the figure sitting in shadows behind the office desk. "This is a detailed portrait of the Blue Devil, drawn by a slum survivor who happened to possess exceptional artistic skill."
She moved to settle onto an old sofa positioned against one wall, the leather cracked from age and use. "I have to admit, his technique far exceeds our sketch artists at the bureau. I'm half-tempted to recruit him for SHIELD Academy."
A thick hand emerged from the darkness, catching the thrown paper with practiced ease. The motion revealed dark skin, powerful fingers that unfolded the parchment with surprising delicacy.
The cigar's burning tip provided the only light as the figure examined the drawing. Orange-red glow pulsed with each breath, creating intermittent illumination that revealed details in flashes.
The artwork was remarkable. Rendered on rough paper with what appeared to be charcoal and colored pencils, it captured its subject with photographic clarity. A blue metal giant, humanoid in general shape but clearly armored in technology that didn't belong to any known military. The figure wielded an enormous scythe, the blade glowing with sickly green light. Around it, suggested by artistic technique rather than explicit detail, were torn bodies and destroyed structures.
Even as a still image, the drawing conveyed tremendous violence. Blood and brutality radiated from the page, the artist's skill transforming static art into something visceral and immediate.
"Well, Natasha." The voice emerged deep, gravelly, carrying the particular roughness that came from decades of smoking and shouting orders. "You weren't exaggerating. Whoever drew this is genuinely talented. If there's opportunity, send him to the new SHIELD Academy. The one we established last month."
More cigar smoke curled upward as the figure straightened in his chair. A black head emerged from shadow, bald and gleaming slightly with natural oils. The face was weathered, marked by years and stress. Above the left eye, three distinctive scars ran diagonally across the skin, reaching from forehead to cheekbone. An eyepatch covered that eye, black leather stark against dark skin.
Nick Fury, Director of SHIELD, studied the drawing with his remaining eye, his expression giving nothing away.
"Besides this," he said without looking up, his attention still fixed on the artwork, "is there any other intelligence worth reporting?"
His other hand raised the cigar to his mouth, taking a long pull before lowering it again. Smoke wreathed his features, making him look almost demonic in the office's dim lighting.
Natasha leaned back against the sofa, crossing one leg over the other. A slight smile touched her lips, there and gone in an instant, carrying unmistakable sarcasm.
"A name. Or possibly a designation." She paused, then continued. "I heard it from a young boy, maybe eight years old. He was one of the civilians rescued by these so-called terrorists before the fire."
"Astartes." She pronounced the word carefully, emphasizing each syllable. "Mean anything to you?"
Fury's brow furrowed slightly, the visible side of his face showing concentration as he searched his considerable mental database of classified information. After a moment, he shook his head.
"Never heard it. Could be a code name. Could be a mistake, some word the kid misheard in all the chaos."
His gaze finally lifted from the drawing, fixing on Natasha with that penetrating one-eyed stare that had intimidated countless operatives. "But, Natasha, don't bring personal emotions into operational assessment. That's a fatal error for agents in our line of work."
His tone became more serious, carrying the weight of superior officer delivering necessary correction. "Evil cultists are evil cultists. Terrorists are terrorists. One group committing atrocities doesn't become heroes just because they opposed another group committing different atrocities. And the blood debt of hundreds of thousands of innocent civilians can't be erased by good intentions or tactical necessity."
Natasha's expression hardened slightly, but she didn't argue.
Fury's visible eye tracked across her form, taking in her state of partial undress, and he sighed with the particular exasperation of someone who'd had this conversation multiple times before.
"Natasha, it's winter. Keep some clothes on. You'll thank me for this advice when you're older and your joints start aching in cold weather."
"Oh, you're so annoying." But there was no real heat in the complaint. Natasha rose from the sofa with fluid grace, her body moving with the controlled precision of someone whose physicality was a weapon as important as any gun.
She walked to a locker positioned in the office's corner, opening it to reveal hanging equipment. Her hand selected a black bodysuit, form-fitting leather armor that gleamed dully in the low light. She began putting it on without concern for privacy, years of field work having eliminated any residual modesty about changing clothes in front of colleagues.
As she worked the armor into place, adjusting straps and checking equipment pouches, she continued speaking. "When I transmitted my report from the border, I had a close encounter with Hydra agents. Professional courtesy, but they were definitely on the same hunt we are."
She paused, securing a weapons holster to her thigh. "And I've heard through back channels that Leviathan's Zodiac division deployed three constellation-level operatives from Europe. They arrived in the U.S. two days ago."
Her hands moved to her hair, pulling it back and securing it efficiently. "Even after reaching New York, I nearly collided with someone on the street. Big guy, moved like he knew how to fight. Just from his eyes, I could tell he'd killed people. Recently."
Natasha turned to face Fury, now fully equipped in her operational gear. Her expression had shifted from casual to genuinely concerned. "Fury, this is turning into a clusterfuck. We're already stretched thin dealing with Hydra's infiltration of our own organization. Adding Leviathan operatives to the mix, plus independent hunters and probably half a dozen superhero teams? This could spiral into something that destroys SHIELD's credibility entirely."
Nick Fury remained silent for a long moment, his one eye distant, processing everything she'd said while working through scenarios and contingencies. He took another pull from his cigar, the tip flaring bright orange before fading back to dull red.
Finally, he spoke. "I think it's time."
Natasha's head tilted slightly. "Time for what?"
"Time to tell Rogers the truth." Fury's voice carried finality, the tone of someone who'd made a difficult decision and committed to it completely. "About SHIELD. About Hydra. About everything we've been keeping from him while he adjusts."
He leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk, the cigar held between two fingers creating smoke trails in the air. "Steve's been awake for months now. He's had time to process being seventy years displaced from his own era. He's been patient, cooperative, following our lead while he learns about the modern world."
A pause, then continuing. "But underneath that patience, there's anger. Grief. He lost everything. His entire life, everyone he knew, the war he was fighting, all of it gone in what felt like moments to him. That kind of loss creates rage that needs an outlet."
Fury's smile was thin, carrying no humor. "And now we have countless enemies for Captain America to direct that rage toward. Hydra agents infiltrating the organization he helped found. Leviathan operatives conducting operations on American soil. Terrorist organizations burning cities."
He stubbed out the cigar in an ashtray already overflowing with previous remains. "Captain America needs a mission. Something that matters. Something worth fighting for."
Natasha absorbed this, her expression showing understanding mixed with concern. "You think he's ready? He's still adjusting. Still processing."
"He's Captain America." Fury's tone suggested that answered all questions. "He'll be ready because he has to be. Because that's who he is."
The office fell silent except for the soft hum of ventilation systems circulating the smoky air. Outside, winter continued its patient work, covering New York in white while darker things moved beneath the surface.
The hunt for Guardians of Terra intensified.
And Nolan, unaware of the forces gathering against him, continued preparing for the worst while hoping it wouldn't arrive.
But hope, as always, was a poor foundation for strategy.