Vientiane World, Lounge.
Weak. Powerless.
Nick Fury lay motionless on the sofa, his face pale under the faint glow of the fluorescent lights. His eyes were closed, but his mind was far from idle. Every sensation from his battered body—the tingling of his fingers, the dull ache in his chest, the pervasive weakness that seemed to sap his very will—reminded him of one irrefutable truth: he was human, and humans broke.
But this wasn't new to him. No, this was a familiar pain, an old companion. Before he became the enigmatic Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., Fury had endured countless dangerous missions. He had stared death in the face more times than he cared to count, narrowly escaping its grasp. This feeling of being gravely injured yet alive was one he knew well.
Despite his battered state, his mind raced with thoughts of recent events. The figure with the golden antlered helmet loomed large in his memory—a self-proclaimed king, brazenly declaring dominion over Earth and the Nine Realms. Fury's instincts screamed that this Asgardian was nothing more than a pawn, a puppet dancing to the tune of some unseen hand.
Then there was Kamar-Taj. For centuries, the Sorcerer Supreme and its mystic defenders had shielded Earth from magical threats beyond mortal comprehension. Their powers, their traditions—it was all so alien to Fury, yet undeniably vital. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s top analysts had spent years piecing together profiles of the Sorcerer Supreme based on scant mentions in ancient texts. Still, their understanding was a drop in the ocean compared to the reality of Kamar-Taj's might.
Fury frowned. That Asgardian fool—the one who didn't even seem aware of Kamar-Taj's existence—posed an unpredictable threat. Smart enemies could be calculated, their moves anticipated. But the recklessness of an arrogant fool? That was far more dangerous.
He clenched his fists weakly at the thought of the Asgardian's smug demeanor, his haughty words dripping with condescension. Fury's sharp mind painted a clearer picture of the figure—Loki, the second prince of Asgard.
Yet the real danger wasn't Loki himself. It was the game being played behind him. The puppet master pulling the strings.
As these thoughts consumed him, the quiet of the lounge was interrupted by the soft click of a door opening.
"Director Fury, are you feeling better?"
Fury's eye fluttered open to see Professor Gilderoy Lockhart standing at the foot of his bed, a faintly condescending smile gracing his features. The man's robes shimmered faintly, the fabric betraying the arcane power he wielded.
"Natasha has briefed me on the situation," Lockhart continued smoothly. "Rest assured, we'll handle this matter."
Fury mustered what little strength he had, pushing himself upright against the headboard. His voice, though hoarse, carried a weight of authority. "Thank you, Professor Lockhart. I believe S.H.I.E.L.D. and Kamar-Taj working together can swiftly eliminate this threat."
Lockhart's smile deepened, his tone carrying a subtle hint of mockery. "Director Fury, I've already informed the Sorcerer Supreme of the situation. The Vientiane World will maintain contact with you. However, Kamar-Taj has more pressing matters to attend to."
Fury's lips tightened, but he nodded. "Of course. Still, to neutralize these intruders, we need to consolidate our resources. S.H.I.E.L.D. has extensive experience with extraterrestrial threats, but we lack expertise in the mystic arts. Having sorcerers as consultants would be invaluable—yourself included, Professor."
Lockhart's wand moved in a fluid, graceful arc, summoning a glowing portal. Through it stepped another figure clad in black robes, his sharp features and cold demeanor instantly commanding attention.
"Allow me to introduce Professor Severus Snape," Lockhart said. "He will serve as a temporary magical consultant to S.H.I.E.L.D. Any concerns can be directed to him."
Fury's gaze flicked to Snape, his sharp eye assessing every detail of the man's posture and expression. Extending his hand, he said, "Welcome, Professor Snape. I look forward to our collaboration in capturing these invaders."
Snape's lips curled into a faint sneer, though he shook Fury's hand briefly. "Of course," he replied curtly.
"Director Fury," Lockhart interjected, his tone turning serious, "based on the information we've gathered, we believe the culprit is none other than Loki—the second prince of Asgard."
Room 702, Condon Building – Formerly a S.H.I.E.L.D. Safe House
Loki stood at the window, gazing down at the glittering expanse of New York City. The faint hum of life below—the glow of streetlights, the distant sound of honking cars—brought a fleeting smile to his lips. But it vanished as quickly as it came.
Turning away from the window, he addressed the group of enthralled agents standing silently before him. "The Cosmic Cube must provide a stable energy output to open the space channel," Loki said, his voice cutting through the stillness. "What methods do you have to accomplish this?"
The enthralled men exchanged uncertain glances before Erik Selvig stepped forward. "With the known coordinates, it is possible to harness the Cube's power," Selvig began, his voice steady. "However, stabilizing the space channel requires immense energy—and iridium, which is both rare and difficult to procure."
Loki's eyes narrowed. "And where do we acquire this iridium?"
Selvig hesitated. "S.H.I.E.L.D. holds significant reserves, but their location is classified. Acquiring it may take time."
Loki's grip tightened on his scepter. Time was a luxury he could not afford. The Chitauri army awaited his signal, and every moment of delay risked his carefully laid plans.
As frustration bubbled within him, a low, velvety voice broke the tension.
"I know where you can find iridium—and much more," the figure said, stepping from the shadows.
Loki's gaze snapped to the source. A man with a cane, his face lined with age but exuding a sinister charisma. Mephisto.
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