"This is your fourteenth agency today. So let's skip the dance.
June 28, 11:52 a.m.
You appeared—no, let me rephrase that—you materialized in the most locked-down, triple-firewalled, vibranium-reinforced SHIELD facility on this entire goddamn planet.
We're talkin' a bunker buried so deep, so secure even Wakandian tech couldn't catch it. Ultron scoured and made all the tech in the world his bitch and even then it couldn't detect it. And you motherfucker, You didn't open a portal, didn't phase in with some Stark's nanotech bullshit, nor did you shrink up some agent's butt like Pym, didn't even trip the motion sensors. Just—poof—there you were. Like you owned the place.
Eighteen minutes.
That's all it took for you to rip through thirty-five of my elite agents like they were made of wet paper. They weren't some motherfucking mall cops I got for sale at the donut shop. These were operatives who've gone toe-to-toe with Hydra, Chitauri, Ultron bots, and one of 'em even made it out of a stare-down with THE Scarlet Witch.
Fifty-three dead. And we're still scraping what's left of them off the walls.
The rest? Most of them are in medical lockdown. One guy's got every bone in his body shattered, yet he survives. Another—highly trained telepath—just stares at the wall repeating a name. Ranger. And you sure as hell didn't speak it. As a matter of fact, we don't even know your name.
Then you strolled your ass into our central server room like you had some bloody reservations and a date with a snow bunny. You bypassed seven levels of quantum encryption, ghosted through AI firewalls designed by Stark, Reed, mutants and a fucking Racoon combined. With a finger.
One goddamn finger.
Just a spark—some kind of energy discharge—and boom. Every byte, every classified file, every failsafe we ever buried deep? Yours.
Arc Reactor, Extremis, the Quantum Tunnel, Iron Legion protocols, The Hunger Virus—even few files I can't say out loud without risking an orbital strike.
As if the prior events weren't enough of a red flag, you then proceeded to look directly into one of our security feeds—dead center—and said, clear as day:
"Go Turbo. Flight."
Yeah. That's what you said.
And right then, you morphed. Full armor deployment. Looked like Stark's next-gen suit—if he stopped caring about cost or physics and developed an obsession with the color white and blue.
Then came the laser. One sustained blast. No theatrics, no overkill. Just enough to cut a vertical shaft a mile underground. You stopped the beam exactly at ground level. Not one inch further.
That's what we in the business call intentional restraint—the kind that says, "I could've leveled this place, but I didn't feel like it."
And after all that? You ascended through the opening. No rush. No panic. No parting words. Just took off like you had an appointment to keep.
And then, all the electronics in 200 miles stopped working. And I will be damned if I believe you had no part in it.
I was one number away from unleashing the whole goddamn organization on you.
Then you went on live TV and ripped a member of the World Security Council apart like it was nothing. You didn't suit up. You didn't make a speech. You walked in the security convention, dropped a dozen trained bodyguards, pulled the man's eye out and made him chew it. Then you dragged his brain out through his nose.
His entire goddamn brain.
And after all that? You surrendered.
You didn't run. Didn't hide. You sat there and waited drinking some fucking Boba.
Right now, the whole damn world's upper hierarchy wants your head. And if you hadn't handed me what you did an hour before, I'd be at the front of that line.
But here we are.
You and me, now best friend.
So, from one friend to another—Black Widow's on you. The Neo-Avengers need a pair of eyes on whatever the hell you are.
You slip once—they don't send a team. They send the whole damn sky."