Marvel Cinematic Universe – Non-Sacred Timeline New York – Assassin Brotherhood HQ – Textile City
Night had fallen over the skyline of New York, the city lights twinkling like distant stars. Deep within the industrial district of Textile City, hidden behind the façade of an abandoned factory, the Assassin Brotherhood maintained their headquarters—a place where ancient traditions and modern technology merged in service of their sacred mission.
Sloan stood alone in the dimly lit chamber where the Sacred Loom of Fate was kept. The ancient device hummed with subtle energy, its threads shimmering with an otherworldly glow that cast long shadows across his weathered face. The Loom's mechanisms clicked and whirred as new threads were woven into its intricate tapestry—each representing a life destined to be cut short by the Brotherhood's justice.
He peered through an antique magnifying glass at the loom, studying the emerging threads with practiced precision. As a new coded message began to form, his fingers moved deftly, decoding the patterns that had guided the Brotherhood for millennia. Soon, a name revealed itself on his notepad.
Sloan.
He stared at the decoded name, frozen in shock, his pen clattering to the floor.
"No way," he murmured, his voice barely audible even in the silence of the chamber. "How could it be me?" "The loom must've made a mistake…"
But then, his training reasserting itself, he said more firmly, "The Loom of Fate doesn't make mistakes."
Sloan paused and looked around, his ears straining for any sound that might indicate another member's approach. The Brotherhood's rules were absolute—only he, as the current leader, was permitted to view the Loom's pronouncements. Then, with trembling hands, he cut the piece of cloth that bore his name, the sacred scissors making a soft snipping sound in the stillness.
Holding the fabric in his hand, Sloan slumped into a nearby chair, his mind racing to understand why his name had appeared. In over a thousand years since the Brotherhood's founding, no member had ever appeared on the Loom of Fate. And yet, anyone whose name did appear was destined to die by their hand—judged to be a future threat to humanity's wellbeing.
Was he really destined to become some kind of unforgivable villain? Had the power of life and death corrupted him without his knowledge?
According to the immutable rules of the Brotherhood and the Loom of Fate, he should take out his ceremonial pistol and end his life right then and there. His finger traced the ornate silver handle of the weapon holstered at his side.
But Sloan didn't want to die. Not like this—not without understanding why.
As he wrestled with the thought, the night sky outside the high windows suddenly illuminated with a brilliant flash. A beam of light, pulsing with energy, streaked across the heavens from outer space toward Earth, leaving a trail of cosmic dust in its wake.
Inside the glowing beam was an infant, his tiny form cradled within a sphere of protective energy, surrounded by seven glowing Dragon Balls, each pulsing with its own internal power.
The light shot down over New York with impossible speed, homing in on the Brotherhood's textile factory—right above where Sloan sat contemplating his fate—and crashed through the reinforced roof with a thunderous impact that killed him instantly.
BOOM!
The massive explosion rocked the entire building to its foundation. The Sacred Loom of Fate, which had guided the Brotherhood through centuries of their grim work, shattered into countless pieces, its ancient threads scattering like dying embers. The seven Dragon Balls flew outward like shooting stars, smashing through walls and vanishing into the distance. After they disappeared into the night sky, each turned to stone and fell to the ground in different places around the world, waiting to be discovered anew.
Three floors below, in the Brotherhood's common area, X looked up sharply at the ceiling as dust and small debris rained down. His hand immediately went to the blade hidden in his sleeve, his combat instincts taking over. Cross, whose real name was known only to Sloan himself, was already moving toward the stairs, his characteristic silver cross necklace glinting in the emergency lights that had flickered on.
The Apothecary, busy mixing compounds that could heal or harm with equal efficiency, abandoned his work station without a second thought. The Gunsmith and the Butcher emerged from the armory, already carrying weapons appropriate to their code names.
They all rushed to the stairwell, taking the steps three at a time.
"Sloan! Sloan! Sloan!" they called out in unison, their voices echoing in the narrow passage.
They called his name three times, following the ancient ritual of the Brotherhood, but there was no answer. Unable to wait any longer, they broke another sacred rule and stormed into the Loom chamber without permission.
According to the Brotherhood's most stringent protocols, members only ever visited the Loom of Fate once—when they first became assassins and swore their lifelong oath. After that, only the leader was allowed inside, to protect the sacred knowledge from corrupting those who might not be ready to bear it.
The group froze at the scene before them, the floor littered with debris and illuminated by the night sky visible through a massive hole in the ceiling.
A giant crater marked the center of the room where the Loom had once stood. In the middle of the wreckage lay a baby, somehow unharmed, wrapped in strange fabrics marked with symbols from no earthly language. And not far from him, Sloan's lifeless body, still clutching a piece of cloth in his hand, his eyes open but unseeing.
The Apothecary gasped, his usual calm demeanor shattered, "What the hell happened here?!"
Cross rushed over to Sloan's side and checked his vitals, his fingers pressing against the neck of the man who had been his mentor and friend for decades. After a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity, he looked up at the others and shook his head, his expression grim behind his customary mask.
"He's gone."
With gentle reverence, he pried the cloth from Sloan's stiff fingers, careful not to tear the sacred material.
Conference Room – Later
Hours later, when the immediate crisis had been contained and the building secured against any further intrusion, the top leaders of the Assassin Brotherhood gathered around the ancient oak table in their conference room. The baby had been taken to a secure location within the compound, under the watchful eye of junior members.
The room was heavy with tension, the loss of their leader and the destruction of their guiding artifact hanging over them like a shroud.
The Gunsmith was the first to break the silence, his voice rough with emotion but steady:
"Alright, talk to me. What do we know so far?"
Mr. X, his face half-hidden by shadows as always, began:
"The Loom of Fate is destroyed. Completely. Not just damaged—obliterated. And Sloan..." he paused, swallowing hard, "Sloan's dead."
"We tried everything," he continued, looking at the Apothecary who nodded solemnly. "Every technique, every compound, every method we know. But it was too late. We've lost our leader... and the loom that has guided our Brotherhood for generations."
The Butcher, his massive frame leaning forward, hands clasped on the table, chimed in with characteristic directness: "Who was the enemy? Who targeted us?"
Cross answered, his voice low and troubled: "There wasn't one. At least, not in any way we can identify. No breach in our security systems. No magical signatures except those related to the... arrival."
Those who hadn't seen the scene firsthand looked at each other in stunned silence, trying to process this information.
It was then that Cross tossed a file onto the center of the table. Inside it was a piece of cloth—the very fabric Sloan had been holding—alongside the decoded result that Cross had worked out himself, using the Brotherhood's ancient cipher.
He said firmly, his voice cutting through the murmurs that had begun around the table, "This is the fabric Sloan was holding when he died."
Everyone picked up the file in turn and began reading through it, expressions of disbelief and horror dawning on their faces as they understood the implications.
"God..." "No way." "How could Sloan's name be on this?"
X spoke in a low voice, his words carrying the weight of absolute certainty, "It's true. Sloan had this cloth in his hand when we found him. Even in death, he never let go."
Hearing this, the room fell quiet again. No one could deny it now—Sloan's name had really appeared on the Loom, and he was gone, exactly as the ancient prophecies had always foretold would happen to those judged by fate.
X continued, his gaze sweeping across the assembled assassins, "Aside from that... there was something else at the scene. A baby. It was like he fell from the sky. Anyone have any thoughts?"
The group looked around at one another, stunned. Everyone had something to say, but no one knew where to begin. The implications were staggering—not just for the Brotherhood, but potentially for the world.
Finally, the Apothecary broke the silence, his scholarly voice carrying surprising conviction:
"That child ended the past of the Assassin Brotherhood... and made the choice that Sloan couldn't.
He's heaven-sent. A divine child."
Cross nodded slowly, his initial skepticism giving way to a grudging acceptance as he remembered the scene—the child, unharmed amidst destruction that had killed their leader and destroyed an artifact of immense power.
"I'm with him," he said, gesturing toward the Apothecary. "That kid? He really does feel like a gift from above. Or somewhere beyond our understanding, at least."
X thought for a moment, his fingers steepled before him, then said with quiet authority:
"Then from now on, this child will be named Smith Doyle. His title will be... God."
Cross looked serious, his eyebrows raised at the audacity of the name. "God, huh? You're really putting your hopes into this kid."
The Gunsmith added, leaning back in his chair with arms crossed, "You really believe in this little guy. Let's just hope he can carry that weight without breaking under it."
But the Butcher interrupted with a blunt question, cutting through the philosophical discussion with characteristic pragmatism:
"Forget about the kid for a second. What I wanna know is—what do we do now that the Loom of Fate is gone?"
He looked around the table, his scarred face twisted with concern.
"Before, the loom gave us a list of evil names, and we judged them through death." "Now there's no loom—just this 'God'—so what's the plan? How do we fulfill our mission?"
All eyes turned to X and Cross, the two strongest members of the Brotherhood and the natural successors to leadership now that Sloan was gone.
X took a deep breath and said, his voice steady but heavy with the responsibility he now carried:
"We pause all missions for now. Call everyone back in. No exceptions." "As for what comes next... we take our time figuring it out. We've operated one way for centuries—we won't find a new path overnight."
Cross, however, had clearly been thinking about this already. He stood, pacing around the table as he spoke, his words measured and deliberate:
"Yes, we need to regroup. But I've got a suggestion about how we operate going forward."
He paused by the window, looking out at the city lights before turning back to face his comrades.
"We used to rely on the Loom of Fate's names. Some targets were preemptive—others were beyond redemption." "Now, without the loom, we build an intel network. When someone's proven to be truly evil, we act. We deliver justice."
The Gunsmith raised an eyebrow, a wry smile playing at the corner of his mouth: "So what are we now—Robin Hood? Or like Captain America? Avenging wrongs rather than preventing them?"
X chuckled slightly and nodded, his expression lightening for the first time since the tragedy, "Actually, that's not a bad comparison. It's worth considering. Perhaps this is how we evolve—maybe this is what the arrival of the child means."
And just like that, the Brotherhood's future began to take shape. They had lost their divine guide, but in its place stood a new hope—Smith Doyle.
A child born from the heavens. The one who fulfilled the Loom's final prophecy by ending its reign. A being wrapped in mystery, carrying with him artifacts of tremendous power that had scattered to the winds.
Whether he would truly become the "God" of the Brotherhood... that would depend on his journey, and how he was raised in this world so different from wherever he had come from. But one thing was certain: the Brotherhood would give him everything he needed to become great.
After all, a child who fell from the sky and ended the old ways deserved nothing less than the chance to shape the new.
As the meeting concluded and the members dispersed to begin implementing their immediate plans, X remained behind, looking at the strange symbols they had found on the child's blankets. Something about them seemed familiar, yet utterly alien—like a language he should know but couldn't quite recall.
Whatever power had sent this child, whatever the seven glowing orbs had been—they represented a new chapter in the Brotherhood's ancient history. And perhaps, he thought as he traced the symbols with his finger, a new chapter in the history of their world as well.