New York stretched out beneath us—concrete canyons, glass towers, millions of lights in the pre-dawn haze. The city that never sleeps. The city that, in a few hours, would turn into a battlefield.
The Quinjet descended over Manhattan, invisible to radar. Barton piloted the craft with confidence, his hands moving automatically on the controls—the muscle memory of a professional. He knew the S.H.I.E.L.D. cloaking codes, the blind spots in the air defense system, and how to approach any point in the city unnoticed.
Stark Tower loomed over the horizon—a glass needle crowned with a landing pad. The letter "A" had not yet appeared on the facade—that would come later, after the battle. For now, the building bore the name of its creator, and the reactor on the roof glowed blue—Stark's Arc Reactor, clean energy capable of powering an entire neighborhood.
Or stabilizing an interdimensional portal.
"Landing," Barton said.
The Quinjet touched down on the pad softly, almost silently. The engines shifted to standby mode, and the ramp lowered.
I stepped out first. The wind at the height of forty stories was cold and sharp—it whipped the hem of my cloak and threw the smell of exhaust fumes and something chemical into my face. New York smelled different from Moscow. Different from Asgard. Different from the dead stone of Sanctuary.
Selvig was already there.
He had worked through the night—I could feel it through our weakened but still living connection. The portal device loomed on the edge of the roof: metal arcs twice the height of a man, thick cables snaking across the concrete, and flickering indicators on the control panel. The construction looked like a cross between a radio telescope and a medieval torture device—human technology attempting to harness a power it did not understand.
In the center was the mounting for the Tesseract. An empty socket, waiting for its heart.
"It's ready," Selvig said without looking up from the console. His eyes were red from lack of sleep, his hair disheveled, and there was a mark from a soldering iron on his cheek. But his voice rang with excitement. "The system is stable. Calibration is complete. All that's left is to insert the cube."
I took the container from the Quinjet. The Tesseract pulsed inside—a cold blue light, an ancient power encased in a perfect geometric form. The Space Stone. One of the six shards of primordial light.
The Mind Stone in the Scepter responded immediately. Warmth spread through my hand, and a vibration pulsed through my bones. The brothers felt each other—attraction, resonance, something akin to the joy of meeting after a long separation.
"How long until activation?" I asked.
"An hour. Maybe less. The system must synchronize with the cube's energy signature and build a stable field..."
"Begin."
Selvig took the Tesseract—carefully, almost reverently, like a priest taking a sacred relic—and placed it into the mounting. The cube fit perfectly, as if it had been created for this socket. A click. A hum. The blue glow intensified, flooding the roof with an ethereal light.
The device came to life. Indicators blinked, needles crawled across scales, and something inside the mechanism clicked as it gained speed.
I walked to the edge of the pad and looked down.
Forty stories. The people below looked like ants—tiny figures hurrying about their business. Cars crawled along the streets like beetles on glass. Yellow taxis, black limousines, multicolored buses. A typical morning in New York. The last typical morning for many of them.
The connection to Sanctuary pulsed at the edge of my consciousness—distant, but real. Thanos was waiting. I felt his presence like a weight on my shoulders, like a gaze on my back. He watched through the Mind Stone, seeing what I saw.
The Chitauri army waited on the other side of the portal. Thousands of soldiers. Dozens of Leviathans. A fleet capable of leveling the city.
The hour dragged on slowly.
The sun rose over the horizon, bathing the skyscrapers in gold. Shadows shortened. The city woke up—car horns, street vendors' cries, the roar of construction sites.
Barton patrolled the perimeter—silent, efficient. His bow was ready, his eyes constantly scanning the sky. A professional to the bone, even under control.
Selvig tinkered with the device, muttering formulas and equations. A part of him—the part I had left untouched—understood what he was doing. He understood the consequences. But the Stone's control muffled those thoughts, just as a pillow muffles a scream.
I stood at the edge of the roof, looking at the city.
"Ready!" Selvig finally shouted. His voice trembled with excitement. "The system is at full power. We can open the portal."
I approached the device. The Tesseract shone in the center—brighter than before. Energy flowed through the circuits, charging the arcs. The air around crackled with static electricity.
"Do it."
Selvig pressed the button.
A beam of light shot into the sky.
A blue pillar—pure energy, concentrated space—pierced the clouds, stretching into infinity. At the top, where the beam ended, reality began to tear. Folds, ripples, like water from a thrown stone. Blackness seeped through the blue sky, spreading like an ink stain on paper.
The portal was opening.
The hole in the sky widened—ten meters, twenty, fifty. A black abyss rimmed with blue fire. Through it, something was visible—not stars, not a void. Another sky. Another world. Sanctuary.
And the army.
The first Chitauri poured through the portal—on gliders that looked like mechanical rays. Gray figures in chitinous armor, with energy spears in their hands. Dozens. Hundreds. A continuous stream.
They filled the sky over Manhattan—dark silhouettes against the morning sun. The screech of engines pierced the ears. The first shots—blue beams—hit buildings, cars, and people.
Panic erupted below.
Screams. Thousands of screams merging into one continuous howl of terror. People ran through the streets, pushing each other, falling, rising, then falling again. Cars crashed into poles, storefronts, and each other. Some tried to hide in buildings, some ran toward the bridges, and some just stood there, heads tilted back, unable to believe what they were seeing.
Through the connection with the Chitauri commanders, I began to issue orders.
Not with words—but with images, intentions. The Mind Stone amplified the signal, broadcasting my will to hundreds of primitive minds.
Northern sector—industrial zone. Warehouses, factories, empty docks. Attack.
Western sector—port. Container ships, cranes, freight terminals. Attack.
Central sector—residential neighborhoods. Apartments, schools, hospitals. Fly past. Do not touch.
The orders went out, but the army was vast. Not everyone heard—the link to the Chitauri rank-and-file was weak, mediated through commanders. Not everyone obeyed—the instincts of predators seeing prey took precedence over orders.
Somewhere below, something exploded. A pillar of black smoke rose over the street.
A Leviathan passed through the portal.
Enormous—the size of a submarine, perhaps larger. An armored hull covered in chitinous plates, each a meter thick. The creature swam through the air like a whale through water—slowly, majestically, unstoppably. Chitauri clung to its sides, dozens of small figures against the giant hull, jumping onto the roofs of buildings, bursting through windows.
After the first Leviathan, a second appeared. A third. A fourth.
One of them—the largest, with scars on its snout—turned toward the city center. Toward the residential neighborhoods.
I concentrated, putting all my will into the command. The Mind Stone flared, amplifying the signal.
An image: water. The river. The Hudson. Go there.
The Leviathan froze in mid-air. Its primitive mind—if it could be called a mind—struggled with the command. Instinct said: prey is here, plenty of prey, easy prey. The command said: no, there, to the water.
I pushed harder. Not a request—a demand. Not an image—an imperative.
THERE.
The Leviathan emitted a low roar—a sound that made the windows in nearby buildings vibrate—and turned. Slowly, reluctantly, like a dog being pulled away from its bowl. But it turned. It headed toward the river, carrying the Chitauri away from the residential houses.
Stark appeared first.
The red-and-gold silhouette dived out from behind a skyscraper, his repulsors leaving contrails behind. He moved fast—faster than the Chitauri gliders. A bank, a turn, a blast—three gliders exploded, turning into balls of fire.
"JARVIS, how many of them?" Stark's voice cut through the static on intercepted frequencies.
"Sir, the numbers continue to grow. Current estimate—over a thousand units. I recommend focusing on the source."
"Easier said than done."
Iron Man dove between buildings, evading pursuit. Five Chitauri on gliders tried to get on his tail. Stark braked sharply, turned in the air, and fired a series of mini-missiles. Five became zero.
He was good. Very good. But one man against an army—even a genius in flying armor—could not manage.
Fortunately, he was not alone.
A S.H.I.E.L.D. Quinjet broke through the chaos—a black silhouette among the gray beasts. Romanova was at the helm, her hands steady on the controls. Rogers was at the open hatch, shield on his arm, ready to jump.
They landed at the intersection of Park Avenue and 42nd Street—right into the thick of the fight. Rogers landed first, his shield taking the hit of an energy spear. A ricochet—the vibranium sang, reflecting the energy—and the shield smashed into the nearest Chitauri, throwing it back five meters.
Romanova jumped out next. Two pistols, continuous fire. She moved like a dancer—gracefully, economically, every movement calculated to the millimeter. Chitauri fell before they could understand what had happened.
Barton appeared beside her—bow in hand, quiver on his back. His eyes were clear. The blue glow of control was gone.
I felt the moment of the break—like a snapped string, a sharp click in the mind. Twenty minutes ago, when he took a sniper position on one of the high-rises. Romanova had found him—because she knew how he thought. Years of partnership, hundreds of joint operations. She read his choice of positions like an open book, and I had not rewritten those pages. I didn't change how he evaluated fire angles, height, or escape routes. I left the professional a professional.
She climbed to the roof. He aimed his bow at her. And she struck—quickly, accurately, without hesitation.
A hard blow to the head. Exactly the loophole I had left.
Barton was free—and he was angry. At me. At himself. At everything his hands had been forced to do.
Arrow after arrow found their targets. Ordinary, explosive, electric—an entire arsenal in one quiver. Chitauri fell faster than they could understand where death was coming from.
Now there were four of them below. Stark was in the air. And soon there would be more.
Thor fell from the sky.
Literally—he crashed onto the roof of the tower like a meteorite. The impact was so strong that the concrete cracked, forming a crater three meters in diameter. Debris flew in all directions. Lightning danced across his body, flowing from shoulder to shoulder, sparking at the tips of his hair.
Mjolnir shone in his hand—an ancient weapon forged in the heart of a dying star.
"Loki!"
I turned to him, Scepter ready.
"Brother. Glad you survived. The fall was... impressive."
"Stop this!" He stepped toward me, hammer raised. "Close the portal!"
"Why?"
"People are dying!"
"Humans are mortal. It is their nature. They are born, they reproduce, they die—like flies. Today will not change the statistics."
"This is not you!" Thor stopped three steps away. His eyes searched for something in my face—the brother he knew. The brother he had lost. "Not the Loki I knew."
"That Loki was weak. Sentimental. He believed in a family that betrayed him. I do not."
He swung.
I created three copies—solid, dense, the result of weeks of training in the Sanctuary chamber. They were almost real: the same clothes, the same face, the same arrogant smirk. Only slightly transparent if one looked closely. But who would look closely in the heat of battle?
The copies attacked from three sides while the real me retreated into the shadows.
Mjolnir slammed into the first copy. It took the hit—not disintegrating immediately like a normal illusion, but flying back, crashing into the parapet. Thor hesitated for a fraction of a second, surprised by the resistance.
The second copy used this pause. An ice blade—the heritage of the Jotun, not magic—materialized in its hand. A strike to the side, into the gap between armor plates. The blade slid over the metal, leaving a white trail of frost.
Thor spun, swinging the hammer. The copy dodged—but not fast enough. Mjolnir clipped its shoulder, and it dissolved into green sparks.
The third copy attacked from behind—a strike with the Scepter (a copy as well, of course) to the back. Thor felt the movement but didn't have time to react. The tip scratched the armor between his shoulder blades.
"Illusions!" he roared, turning around. Lightning shot from Mjolnir, incinerating the third copy. "You always hid behind tricks!"
"Tricks work," I replied from the shadows.
He turned toward the voice—and I attacked.
Scepter against hammer. The shaft crossed with the handle of Mjolnir. Metal clanged, sparks flew.
Thor was stronger—much stronger. Every one of his strikes carried the power of a storm, thousands of years of training, the divine strength of the Son of Odin. I felt it through the vibration in my hands, through the hum in my bones.
But I was faster. And I knew how he fought.
A thousand years of training together. A thousand years of sparring, tournaments, real battles side by side. Body memory remembered his every move, every habit, every weakness.
A horizontal strike from the right—I moved left, slipping under his arm.
A vertical strike from above—a step back, Mjolnir slammed into the concrete, sending up a fountain of shards.
A counterattack to the exposed side—the Scepter's blade scratched the armor. It didn't pierce it but forced him to retreat.
"You've gotten better," Thor admitted, rubbing his side.
"I had a good teacher. And plenty of time for practice."
He struck again—faster, angrier. I created an ice shield on my left arm. The cold of Jotunheim flowed through my veins, familiar, almost pleasant. The ice formed instantly—a round shield, a palm's width thick, hard as steel.
Mjolnir slammed into the ice.
The shield shattered—but it took the hit. Shards flew, one cutting my cheek. Blood—warm, dark, almost black—flowed down my face.
I rolled to the side, evading the next strike. My left arm went numb from the impact, but the bones were intact.
"Surrender," Thor said. "While you still can."
"Surrender?"
I changed tactics. Direct combat was not my style. Never had been. Even with body memory and reflexes honed over centuries, I could not defeat Thor in a fair duel. He was a warrior. I was a mage.
Shapeshifting.
My form flowed, changing. Bones shifted, muscles rearranged, skin changed color. A second later, it was not me standing there, but him. An exact copy of Thor Odinson, down to the last detail. Height, weight, facial features, even the scar on the chin from the battle with a dragon three hundred years ago.
And the voice. The voice was perfect—deep, booming, with a slight Asgardian accent.
The God of Thunder froze.
"What..."
I hit him with his own face. A fist—heavy, hard—slammed into his jaw. Thor recoiled in surprise, more from shock than from the force of the blow.
"How does it feel?" I asked in his voice. "Fighting yourself?"
"Tricks!"
"Effective tricks."
He swung—but I was already changing form again. Romanova. Small, fast, elusive. Mjolnir flew over my head, where my chest had been a second ago.
A roll. Another change—Captain America. Tall, broad-shouldered, with the face that stared from 1940s propaganda posters. I caught the hammer with my hand—not lifting it, that was impossible, but deflecting the trajectory—and hit Thor with an elbow to the face.
He backed away, blood on his split lip.
"Enough!"
Lightning.
He summoned it without warning—a pillar of white fire descended from the sky, striking the center of the roof. Thunder rolled over the city, drowning out the sounds of the battle below.
I jumped back, but the energy wave still threw me against the parapet. My form dropped—it was me again, the real me, in charred clothing.
Thor walked toward me, Mjolnir sparking with lightning.
"Enough games, brother."
I stood up, leaning on the Scepter. My body protested—lightning, even a glancing blow, was no joke.
"Then kill me."
He stopped.
"What?"
"Kill me." I spread my arms. "If you are ready—do it. One strike. The war ends."
Thor looked at me. Mjolnir trembled in his hand.
"You are my brother."
"I am your enemy. Look around."
The city was burning. Smoke rose over the streets, black pillars against the blue sky. Chitauri flew between buildings, shooting at everything that moved. Somewhere in the distance, a Leviathan roared.
"This is my doing," I continued. "I brought the army. I opened the portal. I brought war to this planet. Kill me—and it ends."
"The portal will not close with your death."
"But the army will lose its commander."
He hesitated. A struggle in his eyes—duty against love, warrior against brother.
"No," he said finally. "I will not kill you, Loki. But I will stop you."
"Leviathan!" a shout came from below. Rogers' voice, amplified by some device. "Thor, we need help!"
We both looked. A giant beast was hurtling toward the tower—straight at us. Its maw was open, rows of teeth, each the size of a man.
Thor raised Mjolnir.
"This is not finished, brother."
"It never finishes."
He soared into the air, spinning the hammer. Lightning hit the Leviathan's snout, forcing the creature to turn away with a roar of pain. Thor landed on the beast's armor and began to crush it from the inside—every strike of Mjolnir pierced the chitin like cardboard.
I remained on the roof.
A respite. Brief, but necessary.
The Hulk appeared twenty minutes later.
First—a roar. A sound that made the windows in the tower vibrate, a sound that was more like a clap of thunder than the voice of a living being.
Then—a green figure jumping between buildings. Each jump—hundreds of meters. Each landing—a crater in the asphalt.
Hulk crashed into a Leviathan at full speed.
The armored hull—tons of chitin and muscle—stopped as if it had hit a wall. The Leviathan howled, trying to shake off the green figure, but Hulk clung to the creature's snout with a death grip. Fingers—each as thick as a log—plunged into the chitin, tearing the armor like paper.
The Leviathan crashed onto the street. Buildings shook from the impact. A cloud of dust rose to the sky.
Hulk jumped off the carcass and ran toward the next target, leaving chaos and destruction behind him. Chitauri who happened to be in his path simply ceased to exist—one blow, and only a wet spot remained of them.
The Avengers were working together.
Stark in the air—coordinating attacks, shooting down gliders, directing strikes at large targets. Rogers on the ground—directing the evacuation of civilians while simultaneously fighting off waves of Chitauri. Romanova and Barton covered narrow streets, preventing the beasts from breaking through to the shelters. Thor threw lightning at Leviathans, knocking them to the ground one by one.
Six people against an army.
And they were winning.
The Chitauri fell faster than new ones arrived. The portal was working, but its throughput was limited—the changes Selvig had made to the device worked.
Stark ascended to the tower an hour after the battle began.
His armor was battered—dents, scratches, one repulsor was sparking. Paint had peeled off in several places, exposing the titanium alloy. But he was still flying, still fighting.
"Hey, Rudolph!" a voice came through the speakers. "Ready to surrender?"
"Why should I?"
"Look around. Your army is melting."
He landed on the pad. The helmet folded back, revealing a face—tired, covered in sweat and soot, but with burning eyes.
"You know what I think?" Stark stepped toward me. "You don't want to win."
"An interesting theory."
"You chose New York. The most defended city on the planet. Where the Avengers are. Where I am. Where, damn it, the entire population is armed with smartphones and filming your every sneeze." He spread his hands. "That's not a conqueror's strategy. It's the strategy of an idiot. Or someone who wants to lose."
"Or the strategy of someone who wants an audience."
I raised the Scepter.
"Shall we test it?"
Stark raised his hand—the repulsor charged, a blue glow.
I struck first.
The Scepter's beam—concentrated energy of the Mind Stone—slammed into the armor. Stark flew back, hit the parapet, and rolled.
"Ouch," he said, standing up. "That was rude."
A return shot—I stepped aside, creating two solid copies. They ran in different directions, distracting him.
Stark fired at the left copy—it dissolved. The right one attacked, hitting him in the back with an ice blade. Jotun ice cut through the outer layer of armor, leaving a deep furrow.
"Solid illusions and cryo?" He turned, knocking the copy down with a repulsor blast. "A lot of tricks for one villain."
"I have a whole arsenal."
I attacked myself—the Scepter aimed at the reactor. Stark deflected the blow with his forearm and counterattacked. A fist in an armored gauntlet whistled past my face.
We fought among the debris—concrete, glass, pieces of metal from destroyed furniture. Armor against magic. Technology against ancient power.
He was inventive—every time I thought I had predicted his move, he threw something new at me. Mini-missiles from the shoulder. A laser from the chest. Some kind of disc that exploded at my feet, throwing me back.
But I was faster. And I knew his weakness.
The reactor.
An ice blade formed in my hand—long, sharp, cold. I struck—right at the center of his chest. Not to pierce the armor, but to freeze it. Ice spread over the metal, systems blinking red.
Stark recoiled, brushing frost from his chest.
"You depend on this machine," I said.
"And you—on your stick."
He grabbed the Scepter and jerked it toward himself. I hadn't expected it—my grip loosened, and the weapon slipped from my hands.
A punch—an armored fist—to the face. I flew back, the taste of blood in my mouth.
Stark picked up the Scepter, weighing it in his hand.
"Interesting thing. JARVIS, scan it."
"Sir, incoming object. Ballistic trajectory. Nuclear warhead."
We both froze.
"The Security Council has sanctioned a nuclear strike on Manhattan. Time to impact—three minutes."
Stark looked at the sky. A small dot, growing every second.
"Damn it."
He threw the Scepter—the weapon clattered against the concrete—and soared into the air. The armor worked on its last reserves, carrying him toward the missile.
I watched as he caught it—with both hands, repulsors at maximum. How he changed the trajectory—slowly, painfully, every meter a struggle. How he carried it up, toward the portal.
Iron Man flew into the hole in the sky.
The missile—along with him.
A second. Two. Three.
A flash—on the other side of the portal. Bright, blinding. Nuclear fire devouring the Chitauri command ship.
Through the connection with the Stone, I felt the contact break. Thousands of minds extinguishing simultaneously—like candles blown out by the wind.
On the streets, the Chitauri fell—puppets whose strings had been cut. Gliders crashed into buildings, Leviathans collapsed where they stood.
"Close the portal!" Romanova's shout came from below.
Selvig was at the console. His hands moved confidently—the part of him I had left untouched knew what to do.
The portal began to narrow.
Stark was falling back—unconscious, armor dead. The red-and-gold figure tumbled through the air, getting closer to the ground.
Hulk jumped.
He caught him in the last second, landing on the roof of a neighboring building, cushioning the impact with his body.
The blue light went out. The Tesseract went silent.
The portal closed.
Hulk found me five minutes later.
I stood by the panoramic window in Stark's penthouse, looking at the ruined city. The Scepter lay on the floor—where Stark had thrown it.
Heavy footsteps behind me. The floor shook.
I turned around.
Hulk stood in the doorway—three meters of green rage, muscles rippling under his skin. His eyes—small, bloodshot—looked at me with something resembling anticipation.
"Puny god," he growled.
I raised my hands:
"Wait. We can..."
He didn't wait.
A green hand shot toward me faster than I could react. Fingers—each as thick as my wrist—clamped around my ankle.
A jerk.
I was lifted into the air and slammed down. My back hit the marble floor—the stone cracked, shards biting into my flesh. Pain shot through my spine.
Another strike. Right to left. The floor cracked again.
Left to right. Something snapped—ribs? shoulder?
I tried to create an illusion—to distract him, to gain a second. A green flash, a copy appeared nearby.
Hulk didn't even look at it. He just hit me again, and my concentration broke. The copy dissipated.
An ice blade—one last attempt. I put everything I had left into forming the weapon. Cold flowed down my arm, ice began to crystallize...
Hulk caught my hand and squeezed.
The ice crumbled. Bones crunched. I screamed—for the first time in the whole fight, a real scream of pain.
"Puny," Hulk repeated with satisfaction.
He picked me up by the leg—I hung upside down, the world spinning—and began to slam me against the floor methodically, like beating a rug.
Impact. Concrete. Pain.
Impact. Concrete. Pain.
Impact. Concrete. Pain.
I lost count. Lost the sensation of my body. Only the rhythm remained—up, down, impact, up, down, impact.
Somewhere at the periphery of my consciousness, the Mind Stone tried to say something. A warning? Advice? It didn't matter. I couldn't concentrate.
Finally, Hulk stopped.
He threw me into a corner—I hit the wall and slid to the floor. Every bone in my body screamed. Blood flowed from a dozen wounds—from my nose, my mouth, my cut forehead.
"Puny god," Hulk said for the third time. And he left, stomping so hard that the chandelier on the ceiling swayed.
I lay in the crater of my own making. The ceiling floated before my eyes—cracks spreading from the impact point like a spiderweb.
My body was regenerating—slowly, painfully. Asgardian physiology plus Jotun heritage. Bones were mending, wounds were closing. In an hour, I would be able to stand. In a day—I would be as good as new.
But for now...
For now, I just lay there and breathed. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
The Avengers found me ten minutes later.
All six of them. Battered, tired, covered in dust and blood—but victorious.
They stood in a semi-circle, looking down at me. Stark—armor dented, but on his feet. Rogers—shield in hand, ready for a fight. Romanova—face inscrutable as always. Barton—bow lowered, but an arrow on the string. Banner—human again, wrapped in some rags. And Thor—hammer in hand, pain in his eyes.
"Ready to surrender?" Stark asked.
I sat up with difficulty. Every movement echoed with pain.
"I'll have that drink now." My voice was raspy.
Thor approached first. He dropped to one knee to be on the same level as me.
"You will come with me," he said quietly. "To Asgard. To face judgment."
"As you wish, brother."
Handcuffs clicked onto my wrists—Asgardian, heavy, magic-blocking. A muzzle covered the lower part of my face—a metal grate preventing speech.
They picked me up—Thor on one side, Rogers on the other—and led me toward the exit.
Past the ruined furniture. Past the blown-out windows. Past the crater Hulk had left.
Romanova watched me. Her eyes expressed nothing—but I knew what she was thinking. Analyzing. Looking for patterns. Trying to understand what was wrong here.
Let her look.
The battle was over.
The invasion had failed. The Avengers had won. The Chitauri were destroyed.
And I—had lost.
Exactly as I had planned.
They gathered in Central Park the next day.
The sun shone brightly—mockingly bright for a city still smoldering after an alien invasion. The grass was green, the trees rustled with leaves. Somewhere, birds were singing.
I stood in handcuffs, the muzzle still on my face. Beside me—Thor with a container. Inside the container was the Tesseract, peacefully glowing blue.
The Avengers surrounded us—not as guards, but rather as an honorary escort. Stark in a suit, without armor. Rogers in uniform, shield behind his back. Romanova in black, arms crossed over her chest. Barton beside her, silent. Banner off to the side, nervously rubbing his hands.
"Ready?" Thor asked.
I nodded.
He activated the Tesseract. A blue light enveloped us both—warm, soft, not at all like the chaos of the portal.
The last thing I saw were the faces of the Avengers. The team I had helped create. The defenders of Earth, who now knew that threats came from more than just their own planet.
Stark raised a hand—either a farewell or a greeting.
The light swallowed us.
When it dissipated, we were standing on the Rainbow Bridge. The very bridge I had fallen from an eternity ago.
Asgard shone ahead—golden spires, white walls, an eternal sky. The home that had never been my home.
Next stop—Odin's throne room.
Next act—trial and sentencing.
But that was not a problem.
It was an opportunity.
--
100 power stones= 1 Bonus Chapte
advance chapters available on{P@treon/Anna_N1}