POV: Gerald Weston
[New York]
Fury's brow furrowed. "Strength to Victory?" he echoed, suspicion laced in his tone. "Sounds vague as hell. What does that even mean?"
I tilted my head, letting a thin smile crawl across my face. "Exactly what it sounds like," I said, my tone maddeningly calm. "It means when I fight… I win. One way or another."
He stared at me, waiting, clearly expecting more—but I gave him nothing else. Let the silence do the heavy lifting. Let the ambiguity gnaw at his thoughts.
Fury leaned forward slightly, his eyes sharp. "Is it enhanced speed? Strength? Invulnerability? Some kind of probability manipulation? What are we talking about here?"
"Does it matter?" I replied smoothly, my voice like silk over razor wire. "The result's always the same. They fall. I don't."
Fury's lips tightened into a line. "You're dodging the question."
"I'm protecting you from the answer," I said, almost kindly. "Trust me, it's better this way. The less you know, the less likely you are to do something stupid… like trying to test it."
He clenched his jaw, clearly unhappy with the response, but not willing to press further—yet. He scribbled something on a notepad, trying to make sense of it all.
"Let me put it like this," I added, folding my arms behind my head again, relaxing like we were two old friends catching up. "The first wish made people scream. The second? It makes them disappear."
Fury looked up from his notes, eyes hard. "Disappear?"
I winked. "Victory comes in many forms. Sometimes it's a knockout. Sometimes it's a lesson. Sometimes… it's silence."
That shut him up for a moment.
Fury sat there, stewing in his silence, his pen frozen above the notepad. His mind was clearly racing—trying to pick apart the words I said, dissect the hidden meanings behind "Strength to Victory." But that was the beauty of it. There was no single definition. No neat, little box to put me in.
The rules broke themselves around me.
"You're full of riddles," Fury finally muttered, breaking the silence like a man biting down on glass. "You sound like a damn fortune cookie from hell."
I grinned wider. "One with a bite."
He sighed, tapping the end of his pen against the folder beside him. "Alright, let's just say I play along. Let's say I believe this insane story of a genie granting you twisted wishes—where does that leave us now? Why are you here?"
"You called me," I replied simply, stretching my arms like I hadn't just mentally broken half the government over the past month. "I assume you had a reason. Or was it just for the entertainment?"
Fury glared. "You've destabilized half the East Coast's political structure. There are senators in therapy. A media mogul is missing two toes and his credibility. And don't even get me started on the Vatican incident."
"Oh come on," I said with mock innocence. "That cardinal asked for it. No one spends that much money on golden toilets without hiding something behind the choirboys."
"Jesus Christ," Fury muttered, rubbing his temples like I was giving him a migraine—and maybe I was.
I leaned forward, just enough for my voice to drop into something darker. "You brought me in because you know you can't stop me. You don't understand me. But you want to. You think if you can learn what makes me tick, maybe you can control me. Redirect me. Use me."
Fury didn't answer—but he didn't deny it either.
"Let me give you a little spoiler," I said, voice like velvet over a live wire. "You don't steer a storm. You survive it. Maybe."
He finally looked up at me, something steel-hard returning to his gaze. "Then why are you here, Weston?"
I paused. My smile softened—not in kindness, but calculation. "Because I chose to be. That's the real difference between me and the others you've tried to recruit, control, manipulate. I'm not here because you summoned me. I'm here because I'm curious. You are the anomaly now, Fury."
He blinked. "Me?"
"Yeah. The world's spinning off its axis and you're still trying to hold it together with duct tape and outdated morals. That either makes you the last sane man in a burning house... or the first fool too proud to leave."
Fury sat back, eyes narrowing, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
"You want to know what the third wish is?" I asked casually.
He didn't say anything, but I saw it—the flicker in his eyes. He wanted to know. Desperately.
I leaned in just a little. "Too bad," I said with a grin. "That's for another day."
He slammed his pen down. "You son of a—"
"Easy, Fury," I said with a smirk, standing from my seat. "You don't want to say something you'll regret. Or worse, something you'll remember."
I started toward the door, letting the tension hang in the room like smoke.
"You know where to find me if you're ever ready for the truth," I called over my shoulder. "Just don't wait too long. The world's changing fast—and you don't want to miss the fireworks."
As I reached for the door handle, Fury called out one last time.
"Weston."
I paused, hand on the cold metal, not looking back.
"…What are you?"
I turned my head slightly, just enough for him to catch my grin from the corner of his eye.
"An inconvenience with style."
And with that, I walked out, leaving Fury to his thoughts and a room full of questions.
The storm had only just begun.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
POV: Nick Fury
The moment the door clicked shut behind Gerald Weston, the silence was louder than any explosion I'd ever heard.
I didn't speak. Didn't move. Just sat there in that room that felt a hell of a lot smaller now than it had a minute ago. My fingers were steepled in front of my mouth, eyes still locked on the chair he'd been lounging in like it was a damn couch in his living room. Bastard had the nerve to act like we were just two old friends catching up over coffee.
But that wasn't what this was.
This was a war room.
And Weston? He was a walking weapon with no leash, no manual, and no loyalty to anyone but his own chaos.
I'd dealt with monsters. Gods. Soldiers with broken minds and vendettas sharp enough to bleed the world dry. I'd sat across from the worst of the worst—and I never blinked.
But Gerald Weston?
He didn't scare me in the usual way. No, he unsettled me.
It was the way he spoke—like a jester in a king's court, throwing jokes like knives and never missing. The way he laughed after saying something so horrifying it would've earned anyone else a permanent black site cell. He didn't just wield power—he enjoyed the performance of it.
And that second wish of his—"Strength to Victory."
I muttered it to myself, rolling it around in my mind like a puzzle I couldn't quite solve. It wasn't physical strength. He didn't say "make me strong." No. He wished for the strength required to win.
Whatever victory meant to him… he would get the exact strength needed to achieve it. Not more. Not less.
Tailored power. Purpose-bound.
That's the kind of wish that slips through the cracks of conventional strategy. It's the kind of power that doesn't show up on a radar until it's too late. Doesn't care if you're stronger, smarter, faster—it only cares about winning. On his terms.
I leaned back and stared at the one-way mirror. I knew Hill and the others were on the other side, probably trying to dissect the conversation. Trying to find the tells, the weak points.
They wouldn't find any.
Weston didn't bluff.
He was the wild card.
And if I'm being honest with myself... he was having too much fun.
I reached for the file again—thicker than most, bloated with classified nonsense and half-redacted intel from agencies across the globe. Everyone had heard the name Gerald Weston, but no one had the full story
I flipped to the last incident report—an international summit gone sideways. One of the politicians, an old European minister with a spine of steel, suddenly collapsed mid-speech, screaming like an animal.
I don't know what Weston did. I don't want to know.
But I sure as hell believe he did it.
I exhaled sharply, rubbing the bridge of my nose. "I don't know whether I want to punch him… or recruit him," I muttered.
The door behind me creaked open, and Hill stepped in.
"You alright, Director?"
I gave a dry chuckle. "Define alright."
"He told you about the second wish?"
"Strength to Victory," I said, still staring at the table. "Not strength in general. Not physical power. Victory. It's… slippery. You don't know what shape it'll take until it's already in motion."
Hill folded her arms, clearly trying to stay calm. "That means we can't predict how he'll win."
"Nope," I said. "Only that he will."
She handed me a newer file—compiled within the last forty-eight hours. International panic. Unexplained resignations. One of the notes caught my eye: Subject G. Weston sighted in Berlin, 56 hours prior to incident. And another: Japanese Diet member hospitalized after sudden psychotic breakdown. Claimed to see "his soul peeled like an onion."
"He's been busy," I said grimly.
Hill nodded. "And unpredictable."
I tapped the file against the table once. "Unpredictable we can work with. It's the purpose I'm worried about. He's not some terrorist. Not some power-hungry lunatic. He's got rules. Humor. A system."
"That doesn't make him less dangerous."
"No," I agreed. "It makes him worse. It means he thinks he's doing the right thing."
I turned back toward the mirror and saw my own tired reflection. This job had aged me—this week had aged me.
And then, the silence broke again.
The door opened.
Gerald Weston walked back in like he never left, brushing invisible dust from his shoulders, wearing that same damn smirk that said he knew exactly what he was doing.
"Miss me?" he asked, grinning.
God help us all.
"Why are you here?" I asked, leveling my gaze at him.
Gerald grinned, hands casually stuffed in his pockets like this was a damn coffee run. "Well, I was having a bit of fun talking to you, and it completely slipped my mind that you're here to recruit me. So…" He gave a mock bow, flashing teeth. "Here I am. Consider me officially intrigued."
Before I could respond, his eyes slid past me—drawn to the woman now standing just behind my shoulder.
Hill.
His gaze flicked up and down, unhurried, assessing. Not with the usual crude arrogance men like him wore like cologne, but with something more dangerous: the curiosity of a cat that knew it could reach the birdcage.
"Well now," he said, smile deepening. "And who is this beautiful woman gracing the room?"
Hill raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Agent Maria Hill. Deputy Director."
Gerald nodded appreciatively, like she just handed him a drink. "Of course you are. Strong posture, sharp eyes, and you haven't pulled a gun on me yet—which means either you're patient… or you're packing something far worse." He tilted his head. "I like that."
"You assume I haven't already marked your vitals," Hill replied coolly. "Keep testing your luck, and you'll find out just how efficient I can be."
Gerald chuckled, clearly enjoying himself. "See? I knew this place would be fun."
I cleared my throat, bringing the attention back where it belonged. "This isn't a playground, Weston. You made it clear you're not someone who plays by anyone's rules. So why the sudden change of heart? You said you were joining us. I want to hear why."
He sighed, running a hand through his hair like he was about to launch into a heartfelt confession—but the devil's grin never left his face.
"Let's call it... mutual convenience," he said. "After my little performance with the terrorists, it's safe to say the whole 'quiet life' option is off the table."
"You mean the part where you murdered supervillain?" Hill asked, arching a brow, arms crossed.
Gerald's smile widened, unbothered. "Is that a problem for you, Miss Mountain?"
Hill didn't flinch. "Not even slightly."
I stepped forward, arms crossed, observing the exchange with a hardened stare. Gerald Weston—chaos incarnate with a smile that didn't quite reach the eyes. He was unpredictable, reckless, and obscenely powerful. The kind of person you didn't want on your team… unless you really needed him.
"Glad we're all so morally flexible," I muttered, voice dry. "But let's get one thing straight, Weston—this isn't a playground. You're in SHIELD now. There are protocols. Chains of command. And I don't care how flashy your powers are—you cross a line under my watch, and I will put you down."
Gerald gave a low whistle and mockingly slow clap. "Wow. That almost sounded like a threat. I'm touched."
I stared him down. "It wasn't."
His grin twitched, like he was actually enjoying himself. He turned to Hill again, tilting his head slightly. "And you're sticking around too, Agent Mountain? Or are you just here to keep Fury from exploding a vein?"
"It's Hill," she replied flatly. "And I'm here to make sure you don't burn the place down on day one."
"Charming," he said, offering a two-finger salute.
"Enough," I cut in. "We're assigning you to a task force. Temporary placement. You'll be evaluated every step of the way. Step out of line—once—and you're gone."
Gerald's eyes gleamed, but the smile faded just a little. "Task force, huh? Sounds exciting. Who's the lucky team that gets stuck with me?"
"You'll be briefed soon," I said, turning away. "For now, we need to run an assessment. Hill, get the files ready. And have medical run a full baseline—physical, psychological, everything. I want to know what kind of walking time bomb we just invited through the door."
"Charming," he echoed with a smirk, this time directed at me. "Feels good to be wanted."
He didn't protest, though. That was the thing about Gerald Weston—he always acted like he had a choice, but deep down, he knew this was his only real shot. He'd burned too many bridges to walk away now.
As Hill walked off to coordinate the next steps, Gerald followed with a lazy stride, hands in his coat pockets, humming some unrecognizable tune like he was out for a casual stroll rather than being processed into a high-security intelligence agency.
I watched him go, jaw tight.
This was going to be a goddamn mess.
But sometimes, in a world full of ticking bombs… you needed one of your own.
[Power Stone]