Washington, D.C., Tri-Wing Building. S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters.
A suffocating tension gripped the air in a certain office. Papers overflowed from overflowing inboxes, competing for space with blinking monitors displaying a chaotic mix of news feeds, security protocols, and classified schematics.
Director Fury, a man etched with the lines of countless battles, sat hunched over his desk, his brow furrowed as he stared intently at the glowing screen of his computer. The silence stretched, broken only by the rhythmic hum of ventilation and the distant clatter of hurried footsteps down the hallway.
"Melinda," Fury finally spoke, his voice a low rumble, "Any updates on the investigation?"
A sharp rap on the door preceded Agent May's entrance. Her usually stoic expression held a hint of urgency as she stepped forward and handed him a tablet.
"Reporting, Director Fury," she began, her voice clipped and professional. "Our investigation team has concluded this was a premeditated attack, possibly linked to the incident at the docks."
Fury accepted the tablet, and with a single touch the tablet displayed a video feed. The scene unfolded in a clamor of explosions and screams - the chaos of the dock attack. Grenades rained down, ripping apart the shipping containers, and the resulting casualties. It then showed someone effortlessly sweeping aside a small container and disappearing in a flash of light.
The second video clip was only a few seconds long, likely captured by an office surveillance camera, showing a similar flash of light as the dock incident.
The tablet clattered onto the desk as Fury slammed his fist down, the sound echoing through the tense room. "Is there a damn connection between these attacks and in Times Square?" he roared, his face darkening with a deep-seated anger.
"That seems to be the most likely scenario, Director," Agent May replied, her voice unwavering.
"I knew it!" Fury slammed the tablet against the desk. "Those sons of guns can't stay quiet for long. May, how long has it been since they tried to blow up Lady Liberty?"
"A few months, at most," Agent May answered promptly.
"And now they're staging a full-blown terrorist attack in Times Square?!" Fury's voice boomed in the enclosed space, his fury evident. He glared down at the growing stack of reports on his desk, each one detailing similar incidents of escalating violence.
Just then, the door creaked open, revealing a weary-looking official in his 50s, his bloodshot eyes betraying a sleepless night. "Nick, any progress on the investigation?" he asked, his voice laced with exhaustion. "The higher-ups are breathing down our necks."
Fury didn't waste words. He simply pushed the tablet across the desk, the incriminating evidence displayed on the screen. The weary man, Pierce, stood staring at the images, his face grim, as Agent May silently exited the office, leaving them alone with the weight of the unfolding crisis.
Pierce sank back in the chair with a sigh, the groan of worn leather echoing in the tense silence. "Why can't they ever just lay low?" he muttered, his voice laced with frustration. "They're a plague, a constant drain on resources."
His words echoed a widespread sentiment. Mutants, most of whom lived on the fringes of society, using their abilities to cause chaos. Outside of places like Hell's Kitchen and Brooklyn, at least two out of ten incidents of vandalism, robbery, or arson involved mutants or resulted from their powers going out of control.
Of course, there were exceptions. Many mutants used their abilities for good, even helping law enforcement by capturing criminal mutants. However, these instances were rare, with the X-Men being the most notable example.
This sentiment, unfortunately, reflected the prevailing attitude towards mutants. While exceptions like the X-Men existed, the vast majority faced prejudice and were blamed for societal ills.
"What are the higher-ups saying?" Director Fury asked, his voice a low rumble. He rose from his chair and walked towards a sleek, chrome liquor cabinet built into the wall. Selecting a bottle of amber liquid, he poured a generous amount into a crystal tumbler and offered it to Pierce.
"Drinking on the job, Fury?" Pierce chuckled, accepting the glass with a wry smile. "Careful, you might get a slap on the wrist. The higher-ups? Same old, same old. Budget cuts looming – 30% next year, they threatened. Apparently, there was even some pushback from a higher official on our behalf." He sighed, taking a long drink.
Fury knew Pierce was venting about the World Security Council. But there was a glint of worry in his friend's bloodshot eyes.
The situation was a tangled mess. Regular officers were no match for even a Class 1 mutant. For Class 2, you'd need heavy weaponry. Class 3 or 4? A whole different ball game, a logistical nightmare.
Missiles in the city center? The thought was absurd, even as Fury considered the chaos erupting in Times Square. Regular weaponry wouldn't be much better – gatling guns, grenade launchers, RPGs – the collateral damage and public outcry would be astronomical.
The problem was multifaceted. Powerful mutants existed on both sides of the line, heroes and villains, with a vast swathe of neutrals who only caused trouble unintentionally. These neutral mutants, more than any others, were the ones stirring the pot.
"We might need to brace ourselves for the worst," Pierce continued, his voice heavy. "Mutant activity is escalating, and a confrontation with the military seems like an increasingly likely prospect."
The Director scoffed, the sound echoing sharply in the sterile office. "We've bent over backward for them already," he countered, his voice bouncing off the rows of filing cabinets lining the far wall. "Remember that disastrous 'supersoldier' program a few months back? Nearly leveled a base. Do we owe them any more favors after that stunt?"
Pierce remained silent, a furrow etching itself between his brows. He was well aware of the tense relationship between S.H.I.E.L.D. and the military, particularly the ever-volatile General Ross.
"The Council's message is clear, Nick," Pierce finally stated, his voice carrying the weight of authority. "If this mutant situation isn't resolved, and fast, our funding will take a significant cut next year. Even Ms. Carter has tried to reason with them, but their resolve seems unwavering."
Nick's eye twitched involuntarily at the mention of the American faction of the Security Council. They held the most sway, not just politically, but financially as well. Their gleaming headquarters, a manifestation of their power, sat just across the Potomac.
"Really, is that so? Just give us a bit more time, and we can definitely handle this," Nick said sardonically
"They want results, and they want them now," Pierce continued, his gaze flickering across the blinking monitors displaying a cacophony of news feeds. "No more waiting. Two national landmarks have been attacked, and the public is demanding answers."
"This time, the target isn't Ross and his pet project," he added, a serious flashing in his eyes. "This time, they are going after William Stryker."
Surprise marred Director Fury's face, momentarily replacing the cold anger. As he contemplated this new information
"And get the X-Men involved," Pierce added with a sharp nod. "No more of their peace talks and hiding behind Professor X's skirts. This is a full-blown crisis, and it requires all hands on deck."
Pierce knew Director Fury had agreed, and with a final word, he left to deal with the bureaucracy of the Security Council.
...
Squeal-shhh. The metal door to my Tech Forge slid open, revealing my underground domain. Ava, once again in her humanoid form, walked in. "Incoming call, Ma'am."
I was fiddling with a chunk of vibranium—Ava didn't seem too interested in what I was doing. I couldn't blame her, but I could blame her for something else, though. "You know, I am Sarah, right? I'm not your 'Ma'am' or whatever. That b*tch dumped her stupid plans on me and went for a holiday in Kamar-Taj!"
I strode toward the exit and snatched the phone from her hand. "I gotta hand it to you. This new look—intimidating much? You're giving me major T-X vibes. But I like it. You wouldn't happen to be into, well, women, right?" There was a mix of amusement and a hint of curiosity in my voice.
Ava was about to respond.
"Hold that thought, hottie. Hello? Who is this?" I asked.
An awkward silence stretched out, and then a sigh broke the quiet. "Miss Vasilissa," the voice sighed again. "Fifth call this week. Daily explanations aren't exactly high on my priority list."
I let out a humorless chuckle. "Oh, Jeri Hogarth! Just messing with you." I grinned sheepishly, though I was fighting the awkwardness. My brain felt like a cluttered hard drive, and between research, materials acquisition, and equipment procurement, I was practically living in my Tech Forge.
"Alright, alright," Jeri's voice softened. "Listen, I'm dropping by tomorrow afternoon. We have a mountain of paperwork that needs your signature, and then a notary public. Don't worry, I get it. Startup chaos." I could hear her sympathetic sigh through the phone. She really understood what I was going through—building a company from the ground up while juggling everything else.
"Sounds good, I should be free around 3 PM. How's Krypton Technologies doing these days?" I asked.
There was a rustling sound like papers being shuffled. "The company's skeleton is built," Jeri replied. "Just need to finalize a small manufacturing plant acquisition, but we have most of the necessary permits. We're also dropping some of the military product lines."
"What are the others up to?" I asked.
"Anderson and Browne are testing prototypes. Hall is out securing a steady metal supply, and Schmidt's leveraging his military connections, sniffing out potential contracts."
"Excellent," I said with a smile.
"Everything else needs signatures and confirmation. Let's discuss it tomorrow afternoon."
Jeri hung up, and I cradled the phone thoughtfully. Turning to Ava, who stood silently by my side, I asked, "Any luck tracing the source of that hundred-million-dollar donation?"
Ava tilted her head slightly. "Negative. Navi and I both worked on it, but there's no trace of the donor."
I sighed. "No worries. I think I know who's behind this. The only ones skilled enough to use the internet as effectively as us—if not more so—are, well, the other clones. We can get pretty creative, and they've been here for over sixty years."
Placing my phone onto the workbench, I added, "Alright, Ava, while I'm out for lunch, see if your nanites can replicate the vibranium. And don't even think about just absorbing it—I know that's your default setting. Vibranium's too precious for that. Try to replicate the structure and integrate it. It'll be a challenge, but I have faith in you."
Ava straightened, a newfound seriousness replacing her usual playful demeanor. "Understood, Sarah. Replication in progress."
...
At a nearby Chinese restaurant, I scanned the menu, and when my choices landed on the table, they clattered with unceremonious impatience. The first bite hit my tongue with an overwhelming sweetness, and I couldn't help but mutter, "Is sugar suddenly free in the US or something?" The taste overwhelmed everything else, drowning out the usual savory notes I expected.
Then—CRUNCH!—a car barreled through the restaurant's facade, sending shards of glass and splintering wood flying as it disappeared into the kitchen. Debris rained down around me like some chaotic confetti storm. Unfazed, I shook my head. "Guess the food here is so bad, angry customers want to destroy the place."
Suddenly, black-clad figures armed to the teeth poured through the breach, all guns and fury.
"Their food must've really offended some hardcore customers, huh?" I muttered under my breath.
Before I could blink, the kitchen exploded in a fireball. Flames roared, smoke billowing from the wreckage like a monstrous genie escaping a lamp. As the stench of gas hit my nose, I reacted on instinct—no hesitation. In one swift motion, I flipped a heavy sofa, creating a makeshift shield, and huddled into the corner farthest from the blast.
With debris and smoke swirling, I surveyed the wreckage. "Just another Tuesday in Brooklyn. Luckily I don't take food so seriously," I said with a smirk, brushing dust from my jacket. "Why doesn't it surprise me that others might?"
I spotted one of the black-clad figures near the door, struggling to rise. No time to waste. I moved toward him like a black panther, my kick landing squarely in his balls and sending him crashing into a parked car, probably a field goal if I was playing football.
Flipping out my phone, I dialed the police. The phone rang once before a voice crackled through.
"Possible terrorist situation. Some moron just detonated his own car," I said dryly. "Brooklyn, Chinese joint at the street's end. Don't rush. Looks like our friend here is going to take a nap for a while."
I hung up before they could respond. "Seriously, why am I such a trouble magnet," I muttered, eyeing the debris clinging to my clothes. "They should give me the Good Citizen Award for New York. I'm the one who got covered in blood."
After hitting a few shops, I figured it was time to walk back to my brownstone. As much as I hated to admit it, walking was supposed to be healthy, right?
"Does that apply to me though?" I mused aloud as I stepped outside, the almost eerie quiet of the street making me pause. It was an hour before sunset, but the streets felt deserted.
"Something seems off," I thought, scanning the surroundings. "Did I wander into the rough part of town again?"
Turning a corner, I heard fighting—loud and chaotic. I found six thugs taking a nap on the pavement, groaning and clutching various body parts. It was the usual mess, more nuisance than threat.
"Looks like lil' ol' fragile me got herself in trouble again," I remarked with a chipper smile.
One thug, a skinhead, charged at me, roaring like a bull on steroids.
"Is he seeing red?" I wondered, glancing down at my dark brown attire. "Probably, a protanopic bull."
Before he could make a move, I met his charge head-on. With one effortless kick—combat protocols were all I needed—he went down hard, clutching himself in agony, howling like a puppy caught in a thunderstorm.
"Damn," I muttered to myself, dusting my hands off. "Why do I keep attracting these clowns? Reminds me of an old saying I once read, Μπο πορ σάκα ουν μπουρικου φόι μοντι, πέρο νο μόντι φο'ι σου καμπέσ! At first, I thought it was nonsensical Greek, but as it turned out it wasn't Greek. Basically, when it comes to me, I want mayhem because mayhem is my nature, and fate will provide!"
A voice rang out from above, full of amusement, cutting through the chaos.
"Not bad, not bad at all… for a newbie." I looked up and saw Ghost-Spider perched on the edge of a fire escape, clearly impressed. I hadn't seen her around since my first day in town.
"And who might you be?" I asked, intrigued, playing along for now—after all, we hadn't officially met.
She dropped down with ease and landed gracefully, her mask muffling her voice slightly. "The name's Ghost-Spider."
"Spider, you know you are short on legs, right?" I couldn't resist, a smile tugging at my lips.
She sighed, exasperation evident in her posture. "Look, now's not the time for this. You need to get out of here. It's going to get dangerous."
I waved her off, unfazed. "Alright, alright. You're such a nuisance," I teased, turning and strolling away.
Behind me, I could hear the sounds of her grunts as she rounded the corner. The city noise began to fade, replaced by the sounds of the ongoing fight. A smirk tugged at my lips as I thought to myself, "Maybe some combat pointers wouldn't hurt."
As I slipped away, a thought wormed its way into my mind. "If she keeps going like this," I murmured, "she's in for a wild ride."
The past month had seen a significant rise in Osborne's involvement in the military contracts, while Stark had opted out of the arms race. Both tech giants were raking in government cash, but Hammer Industries was a distant third. Still, Osborne had a knack for creating walking disasters—Goblin, the second Goblin, and a whole menagerie of unstable supervillains.