RUSSIA — ABANDONED WAREHOUSE — NIGHT
The warehouse was cold. A cavern of half-finished steel beams and concrete, windows nothing but holes in the dark walls, the only light coming from a bare bulb that swung lazily overhead. Outside, the unfinished railroad tracks stretched off into nowhere, glistening faintly under the moonlight.
Natasha Romanoff sat in the middle of it all, a single figure in a black dress, her legs crossed even though she was tied to a chair. Her copper-red hair hung in loose waves around her face, and though her lip was split from the latest hit, her eyes… her eyes were bored.
The taller thug landed another backhand across her cheek. The chair skidded an inch across the concrete floor. Natasha tilted her head back, hair falling out of her face as she smirked at him faintly.
Across the room, General Georgi Luchkov — a barrel-chested man in a Soviet-era uniform that strained at the buttons — growled in Russian.
"This is not how I wanted the evening to go."
Natasha let out a low, dry laugh in flawless Russian.
"Oh, I know exactly how you wanted this evening to go, General. Trust me — this is better."
The taller thug snarled, shoving the chair backward until it teetered dangerously over the edge of the floor's drop-off. Natasha kept her face calm, her eyes just a little colder now.
"I thought Solohob was running the export business," she added mildly, like she was discussing dinner plans.
Luchkov barked a laugh, stepping forward to loom over her. "Solohob? Your information is as outdated as your reputation. The famous Black Widow — nothing but a pretty face."
Natasha arched a brow, lips curling ever so slightly. "You really think I'm pretty?"
That earned her a glare. He strode to the table behind him, where a lineup of pliers, clamps, and other rusty implements sat waiting. He picked up a pair of pliers, squeezing them once for effect as the tall thug forced her jaw open.
"Tell him we do not need the Lermontov to transfer the tanks," Luchkov said coldly. "Tell him he's out. Well… you may have to write it down."
He leaned close, the pliers catching the light.
Then a phone rang.
Everyone froze.
The shorter thug glanced at Natasha's phone on the table and picked it up. "Da?" His brow furrowed. He held it out to Luchkov.
"It's for you."
Luchkov snatched the phone, already angry. "You listen here—"
Coulson's voice cut through, quiet, precise, deadly.
"You're at 1-14 Solenski Plaza. Third floor. We've got an F-22 circling eight miles out. Put the woman on the phone… or I blow the whole block before you make it to the lobby."
Luchkov froze. He glared at Natasha, then shoved the phone at her ear.
She leaned her cheek to balance it, blinking at nothing. "Hello?"
"Agent Romanoff," Coulson said lightly, voice crackling over the line. "We need you to come in."
Her brow creased slightly, like he'd just interrupted her dinner. "Are you kidding? I'm working here."
"This takes precedence," Coulson replied, perfectly calm.
"I'm in the middle of an interrogation. This moron's giving me everything."
Luchkov straightened, indignant. "I am not giving everything."
Natasha didn't even look at him. Her smirk deepened just a hair. "Oh, sweetie… you sure about that?"
"Natasha," Coulson's tone sharpened. "Barton's been compromised."
Her expression darkened. The smirk vanished, replaced by something colder and sharper.
She exhaled once through her nose.
"Let me put you on hold."
Natasha nodded faintly to Luchkov. The tall thug leaned forward slightly — confused — and she drove her heel into his shin, snapping him forward, and brought her forehead down into his nose with a crack. He went down hard.
She pivoted in the chair, still tied, and used the legs to trip the other thug, smashing him across the jaw with the chair back as he fell. Then she rolled her body sideways, kicked up and back, snapping the chair apart against the floorboards as she stood.
The taller thug came at her again. She swung a broken chair leg into his ribs, flipped onto his chest, and springboarded off, flipping through the air and landing behind him. Her dress tore at the knee as she dropped into a flying scissor move that brought him down with a satisfying thud.
Luchkov was already fumbling for a weapon when she caught his ankle with a length of chain, yanked it out from under him, and sent him sprawling. She knocked his head into the steel railing once — hard — then wrapped the chain around his ankle and let him dangle over the edge of the drop-off like a sack of potatoes.
She dusted her hands off, picked up her heels, and plucked the phone off the ground.
"Where's Barton?" she demanded.
On the other end, Coulson sounded almost apologetic. "We… don't know yet."
Her green eyes narrowed. "But he's alive."
"We think so. I'll brief you when you're back. But first—" There was the faintest pause, just long enough to make her grimace. "—we need you to talk to the big guy."
Natasha blinked at the wreckage she'd left behind. "Coulson, you know Stark only trusts me about as far as he can throw me."
"No, Stark's mine. You're getting the big guy."
She stopped walking. Her eyes swept over the groaning thugs and the dangling general.
She muttered something under her breath in Russian — a dry, bitter laugh at her own misfortune — and tucked the phone against her ear as she strode for the exit, a hole in her tights, her heels clicking across the cold concrete.
"My God," she murmured, shaking her head.
On the other end, Coulson smiled faintly, already thinking about how to break the next piece of bad news to Fury.
—
INDIA — KOLKATA — NIGHT
The streets of Kolkata were alive with noise and color even in the dead of night. Hawkers cried half-heartedly from behind their carts, cows meandered lazily through throngs of people, and the smell of spice hung thick in the humid air.
A little girl darted through the press of bodies, barefoot, her dark hair plastered to her cheeks. She pushed through the door of a crumbling building, a makeshift hospital.
Inside, the air was worse — hot and heavy with sickness. Cots were crammed into every corner, people coughing into rags. A man in an apron shouted at her in Hindi.
"Who are you? Get out! There's sickness here!"
The girl ignored him and darted further in, spotting the man she was looking for.
Bruce Banner stood near a corner, his thin frame blending into the shadows, his hands shoved in his pockets, watching quietly as a nurse adjusted a boy's bandages.
The girl skidded to a stop in front of him, breathless.
"You're a doctor," she said in rapid-fire Hindi, tugging at his sleeve. "My father won't wake up. He has fever. He's moaning."
Bruce crouched down, his gentle face creasing into concern.
"Slow down," he said, his Hindi calm and patient. "Is he… like them?"
He glanced over at a man hacking blood into a rag on the next cot.
The girl shook her head, her little fingers fumbling for a handful of crumpled rupees. "Please."
Bruce sighed, ran a hand down his face. "Should've gotten paid up front," he muttered in English. But he stood anyway, following her out.
They moved through the narrow alleys, Bruce keeping his head low, always glancing behind them. At one point, a black government car rolled past on the main road. Bruce stopped, his breath catching — but the car drove on. He exhaled and ushered the girl onward.
Finally she led him into a shack on the very edge of the city. But as soon as he stepped inside, she slipped out through the back window like smoke. Gone.
Bruce froze. His eyes narrowed.
"Clever little actress," he murmured to himself. "Should've known."
That's when he heard the click of the door behind him.
"You know," came a smooth, accented voice, "for a man who's supposed to be avoiding stress…"
He turned.
"…you picked one hell of a place to settle."
Natasha Romanoff leaned casually in the doorway, scarf draped loose around her neck, her red hair catching the dim light. She looked completely at home in the cramped, dusty shack.
Bruce sighed through his nose and rubbed the back of his neck.
"Avoiding stress isn't the secret," he said dryly.
Natasha quirked an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? Then what is it? Yoga? Breathing exercises? Knitting?"
Bruce gave her a sidelong look. "You brought me to the edge of the city," he said, glancing to the window. "Smart. I assume the whole place is surrounded?"
Natasha stepped further in, unwinding her scarf as she went.
"Just you and me," she said evenly.
Bruce's eyes flicked to the window again. "And your little actress buddy? Is she a spy too? Do they even let them start that young?"
Natasha's lips tightened, just slightly. "…I did."
Bruce studied her for a moment, then straightened. "Who are you?"
"Natasha Romanoff."
He snorted faintly. "Of course you are." His tone darkened as he added, "You here to kill me, Miss Romanoff? Because… that's not gonna work out for everyone."
Her green eyes met his, calm and unflinching. "No. Not here to kill you."
"Then what?"
She let the corner of her mouth tick up. "Here on behalf of S.H.I.E.L.D.," she said lightly, like it explained everything.
Bruce's jaw tightened. "S.H.I.E.L.D. How the hell did they find me?"
She gave him a look like she was surprised he even needed to ask. "We never lost you. We've… kept our distance. Helped keep some other interested parties off your scent. You're welcome."
"Why?"
"Nick Fury trusts you," she said simply. Then her tone sharpened. "But now I need you to come in."
Bruce folded his arms, leaning against the table. "And if I say no?"
Natasha's smile turned ever so faintly… suggestive. "I'll persuade you."
Bruce tilted his head, his sad, quiet smile returning. "And what if the… other guy says no?"
Her smile faltered just slightly. "You've been more than a year without an incident," she said carefully. "I don't think you want to break that streak."
Bruce's fingers brushed a cracked wooden cradle near him, rocking it gently. He didn't meet her eyes. "I don't always get what I want," he said softly.
She hesitated — then pulled a slim phone from her coat and set it on the table, flipping it around. The screen lit up, showing a glowing blue cube.
"We're facing a potential global catastrophe, Doctor."
Bruce's eyes stayed fixed on the photo, his frown deepening. "Those," he muttered, "I actively try to avoid."
"This is the Tesseract," she pressed, her tone colder now. "It's been taken. Emits a gamma signature too weak for us to track. There's no one alive who knows gamma radiation like you. If there was… that's where I'd be."
He let out a short, dry laugh, finally looking up. "So Fury doesn't want the monster?"
"Not that he's told me."
"And he tells you everything?"
Natasha smiled faintly. "Talk to him yourself. He needs you on this."
"He needs me in a cage," Bruce shot back, voice suddenly edged.
"No one's putting you in a—"
"STOP LYING TO ME!"
The table rattled under his fists as he slammed them down.
In the blink of an eye, Natasha's hand was under the table, and she came up with a gun trained squarely on him. Her eyes were flat, her breath just a little too fast.
Bruce stared at her. Then he softened, raising his hands slightly. "I'm sorry," he said gently. "That was mean. I just… wanted to see what you'd do."
He smiled faintly. "Why don't we do this the easy way? You don't use that…" he tapped his chest, "…and the other guy doesn't make a mess. Okay? Natasha?"
She stayed like that for another long, tense beat — then slowly lowered the gun, her face schooled back to calm as she pressed a finger to her earpiece.
"Stand down," she murmured. "We're good here."
Outside, he heard the faint shuffle of dozens of agents retreating, their weapons lowering, boots crunching in the dirt.
Bruce gave her a dry little smile. "Just you and me, huh?"
Natasha gave him a look — faintly embarrassed, but not enough to admit it — and pulled her scarf back on.
And Bruce… just chuckled softly to himself.
—
THE S.H.I.E.L.D. ANALYTICAL ROOM — NIGHT
The walls were lined with giant monitors that glowed an icy blue, filling the darkened chamber with just enough light to cut sharp edges into Nick Fury's frown. He stood alone at the center of the room, hands clasped loosely behind his back, his long coat hanging heavy on his shoulders.
On the screens above him, half a dozen shadowed faces glimmered like specters, the World Security Council in all its sanctimonious glory. Their outlines were sharp, but their features conveniently hidden by layers of encryption and ego.
Councilman #1 was the first to speak, his voice crisp, clipped, and already managing to annoy Fury.
"Director," he said, leaning into his own self-importance, "S.H.I.E.L.D. operates under the direct authority of this Council. We should have been informed of all the details regarding this… Tesseract incident."
Fury's good eye narrowed slightly. He took a long, deliberate moment to let silence stretch uncomfortably across the airwaves before replying.
"The Council's interest in our work," he said at last, his voice low and steady, "has always been about one thing: results. Not procedure. Y'all never gave a damn about procedure before, don't pretend now."
Councilman #2 spoke next, with all the condescension of someone who'd never been punched in the face — which, in Fury's opinion, was a damn shame.
"And yet, we now learn," he said, voice dripping disdain, "that one of your own agents — Clint Barton — is working with the enemy. A man who, I might remind you, was once considered intimate with S.H.I.E.L.D. procedure."
Fury's frown deepened. For a second he wondered how the hell they even knew Barton's name already. Natasha wouldn't have snitched, Coulson sure as hell wouldn't have… which left Hill. He filed that thought away for later.
The second councilman continued, leaning forward as though he'd scored some grand point.
"This man," he sneered, "whose singular talent appears to be—"
"—killing," Fury cut in smoothly, his voice slicing through the man's words like a razor.
The shadow froze mid-sentence. Fury raised his head, staring directly into the camera.
"Yeah," Fury said. "Barton's good at killing. That's why I recruited him. But you know what he didn't do? He didn't kill me. He didn't even go for the headshot. Man's been compromised. Brainwashed. Don't act like you don't know how that game's played."
His gaze swept the room as he continued.
"I won't write Barton off. Not yet. Not when we're already on Loki's trail. We've got eyes on him, and we're scrambling a response team as we speak."
There was a scoff from another screen — this time from a woman's silhouette. Her tone was sharp, almost gleeful.
"The Avengers," she said, the words curling out of her mouth like an accusation.
Councilman #1 jumped back in, his voice like a hammer on glass.
"The Avengers Initiative," he said coldly, "was shut down for a reason, Director. It was a volatile concept even at the best of times — which, I think we can all agree, this is not."
Fury stood there in silence for a moment, his expression calm, unbothered. Then a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"This," he said lazily, "is just a response team."
The councilwoman snapped back, her irritation cutting through the speakers.
"Then I suggest you make your response rapid, Director. We all know what's at stake."
And with that, the screens blinked off one by one, leaving Fury standing alone in the dim room, the hum of the monitors fading into quiet.
He let out a long breath through his nose, muttering under his breath.
"Yeah," he said to no one in particular, his tone wry, almost bitter. "We do."
His hand drifted instinctively to his pocket, where he kept the battered little mirror. He didn't pull it out. Not yet. But his thumb brushed over it like a habit as he stared up at the empty screens.
"Guess it's time to start callin' in favors."
—
BROOKLYN GYM — NIGHT
The old gym smelled of leather, chalk, and sweat. It was empty, quiet except for the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of fists pounding into canvas.
Steve Rogers stood alone under a cone of light, shirt clinging to his back, sweat running down his neck. The punching bag swung violently on its chain, straining with each hit, groaning against the force of him. He wasn't just fighting the bag — he was fighting memory.
He was running through a forest again, artillery screaming overhead, mortars sending dirt into the air. Hydra soldiers fired wild blue streaks of Tesseract energy that melted the trees around him.
There's not enough time! I gotta put her in the water!
The memory of his own voice — young, desperate — echoed in his skull.
His punches became more brutal.
He saw himself in the Red Skull's chamber, watching Schmidt grab the Tesseract before vanishing into a blinding flash of light.
Peggy's voice followed, softer, warmer:
You won't be alone.
He'd believed her then.
He hit the bag so hard the chain finally snapped, sending it hurtling across the room in an explosion of sand and torn canvas. The noise brought him back to the present — back to this strange new century, to a world that felt more alien than anywhere he'd fought before.
Breathing hard, Steve rubbed his face and grabbed a fresh bag from the rack. He hoisted it one-handed, like it weighed nothing, and hooked it up before starting over.
That was when he heard the door creak open.
Nick Fury stepped into the gym like he owned the place — which, for all Steve knew, he did. Dressed head-to-toe in black, long coat sweeping behind him, Fury watched the soldier for a moment before speaking.
"You know," he called out, "there are easier ways to keep a bag company."
Steve didn't even slow his punches. "Trouble sleeping?"
Fury smirked. "You could say that. But then again, I'm not the one beating the hell outta an innocent sandbag."
Steve landed one last heavy shot before stepping back, shaking out his fists. "I slept for seventy years," he said evenly. "Pretty sure I've had my fill."
Fury's good eye glinted as he strolled closer. "Then you oughta be out celebrating. Checking out the sights. Brooklyn's got some fine nightlife these days. Lotta pretty girls. Couple decent bars."
Steve sat on the bench, starting to peel the tape from his knuckles. "I went under, the world was at war. I wake up, and they tell me we won. Nobody bothered to tell me what we lost."
Fury paused. That one hit closer than he'd expected. He tilted his head, then leaned casually on the bench.
"Yeah," Fury admitted. "We lost a lot. Still do. Made some mistakes along the way. Some of 'em real recent."
Steve looked up at him then, suspicion flashing in his eyes. "You're not here to make small talk, are you?"
Fury grinned faintly. "Not my style. I'm here with a mission."
"Trying to get me back in the world?"
Fury shook his head. "Nah. Trying to save it."
That earned a raised eyebrow from Steve, but Fury didn't flinch. He produced a slim folder from his coat and handed it over. Steve flipped it open, scanning the contents — Tesseract schematics, energy readings, photos of blue light tearing through a S.H.I.E.L.D. lab.
Steve's jaw tightened. "Hydra's secret weapon," he muttered.
"Howard Stark pulled it outta the ocean while he was lookin' for you," Fury said, folding his arms. "Thought it might be the key to clean, unlimited energy. Lord knows this planet needs it."
Steve snapped the folder shut and handed it back. "Who took it from you?"
Fury hesitated just a beat, then: "Name's Loki. And before you ask — no, he ain't from around here. He's what we'd call… an off-world problem. And trust me, Cap, the world's gotten a helluva lot stranger since you last took a stroll through it."
Steve's lip curved slightly. "Stranger than me?"
Fury chuckled dryly. "Ten bucks says you're wrong. But don't worry — we'll bring you up to speed if you're in. There's a debrief packet waiting for you back at your place."
Steve stood, towering over Fury as he reached for another punching bag and slung it over his shoulder. His voice was calm, but there was steel under the words.
"You got anything else to tell me about the Tesseract? Anything I should know right now?"
Fury stared back at him, his smirk fading to something more serious.
"You should've left it in the ocean," Steve said flatly.
Fury didn't argue. He just watched as Steve walked out of the gym, bag slung over his shoulder, footsteps heavy in the quiet.
Then Fury muttered under his breath, just for himself:
"Hell of a thing about the ocean, Rogers. Sooner or later, everything we bury down there washes back up."
—
ATLANTIC OCEAN — UNDERWATER
The cutting laser on Iron Man's gauntlet burned through steel like butter, sparks fizzling into the murky dark as Tony Stark hummed to himself inside the suit.
"Almost there… don't rush me. Good things come to those who… well, me," he quipped, watching the pipeline split.
He slid the gleaming Stark Energy Core into place with a flourish, fingers steady as the reactor came to life, a bright glow radiating out.
"Boom. You're good on this end," he said aloud, water sloshing as he straightened up. "Rest is up to you."
Pepper's voice crackled over the comms, dry and impatient. "You disconnected the transition lines? Are we off the grid yet?"
"Pepper," Tony said, already powering up his thrusters, "Stark Tower is about to become the single most self-sustaining, eco-friendly, clean-energy beacon on the face of this planet. You're welcome. Cue applause."
"Wow," she replied, deadpan. "So maybe our reactor takes over and actually works?"
"Excuse you. Of course it works," Tony shot back, banking upwards toward the surface. "I assume. Light her up."
As he burst from the ocean and streaked toward the Manhattan skyline, the faint glow of his tower flickered to life behind him — the gleaming arc reactor in its heart blazing to full brilliance, the STARK letters across the top illuminating the night.
"How does it look?" Pepper asked.
Tony tilted his head slightly inside the HUD, smirking. "Like Christmas. But with more… me."
"We need to go wider on the public awareness campaign," Pepper continued, because she was Pepper and could never let him bask. "You need to do press. I'm in D.C. tomorrow. I'm working zoning for the next three buildings."
Tony sighed theatrically. "Pepper, you're killing me here. Remember the moment? Enjoy the moment. The world needs to sit back and appreciate this fine bottle of Stark they're lucky enough to sip from."
"Then get in here, and I will," she replied smoothly.
Tony grinned. Touché.
—
STARK TOWER — PENTHOUSE
The gauntlet of sleek gadgets and robot arms stripped the Iron Man suit from him piece by piece as he walked toward the penthouse.
JARVIS chimed in dryly: "Sir, Agent Coulson of S.H.I.E.L.D. is on the line."
"Tell him I'm not in," Tony said, stepping out of the last piece of armor and straightening his shirt. "Matter of fact, tell him I'm out. Way out. Maybe even dead. Definitely unavailable."
"I'm afraid," JARVIS replied in his infuriatingly calm voice, "Agent Coulson is insisting."
Tony rolled his eyes. "Grow a spine, J. I've got a date with destiny. Or Pepper. Or both. Not necessarily in that order."
Pepper was standing by the monitors, watching the tower's energy readings like a proud parent.
"Levels are holding steady," she said, tapping a display. "I think."
"Of course they are," Tony replied, striding in. "I was directly involved. Which brings me to my next question — how does it feel to be a genius?"
Pepper barely glanced at him. "I really wouldn't know, now, would I?"
Tony feigned offense. "What do you mean? Look around. All this?" He gestured dramatically at the vast expanse of glass and light. "This is you."
Pepper arched an eyebrow and tapped the reactor in his chest. "No, that's where it came from."
"Uh-uh. Twelve percent you."
Pepper slowly turned her head. "Twelve?"
Tony nodded sagely. "An argument can be made for fifteen."
Pepper poured herself a glass of champagne, her expression flat. "Twelve percent… for my baby?"
"I did all the heavy lifting," Tony reminded her, with a smirk. "Literally. And I seem to remember the security snafu…"
Pepper gasped. "Oh, no you didn't."
"My private elevator," Tony pressed.
"Our elevator," she corrected.
Tony leaned closer. "I'm gonna pay for that comment later in some subtle way, aren't I?"
"It won't be that subtle," Pepper promised.
"I'll tell you what," Tony said, lifting his glass. "Next building says Potts on the tower."
"On the lease," she shot back, clinking glasses with him.
JARVIS cut in, his tone mildly apologetic. "Sir, the telephone. I regret to inform you my security protocols are being… overwritten."
A beat later, Coulson's dry voice came through: "Stark. We need to talk."
Tony snorted and picked up the phone, not even glancing at it. "You've reached the life-model decoy of Tony Stark. Please leave a message."
Coulson's voice remained perfectly level. "This is urgent."
"Then leave it urgently."
And right then the elevator door opened, and Phil Coulson stepped out.
Tony froze. "Security breach," he deadpanned, gesturing toward Pepper. "That's on you."
Coulson didn't miss a beat. "Mr. Stark."
Pepper brightened. "Phil! Come in!"
Tony waved his hand. "His first name is Agent, thank you."
Coulson held up a file. "I can't stay. We need you to look this over."
"I don't like being handed things," Tony said immediately.
"That's fine," Pepper interjected smoothly, already walking over. "Because I do."
In one graceful move, she handed her champagne to Coulson, took the file, and swapped glasses between the two of them like a magician. "Thank you."
Tony raised an eyebrow. "Official consulting hours are between eight and five every other Thursday."
"This isn't a consultation," Coulson replied.
Pepper gave him a knowing glance. "This is about… the Avengers?"
Tony shot her a look. "Which you know nothing about."
"Right. Nothing."
Tony tilted his head at Coulson. "Pretty sure the initiative was scrapped. Didn't even qualify. Apparently, I'm volatile, self-obsessed, and don't play well with others."
Pepper took a slow sip of her drink. "That I did know."
"This isn't about personality profiles anymore," Coulson said flatly.
Pepper leaned closer to Tony as he flipped through the file, the holograms of heroes, monsters, and gods sparking to life before them.
"You know," Tony murmured, watching the images scroll past, "I thought we were having a moment."
"I was having twelve percent of a moment," Pepper replied sweetly. Then, in a quieter voice, "Phil's rattled. That worries me."
Tony squinted at Coulson. "How can you even tell? And why is he Phil now?"
Pepper just smiled faintly and kissed his cheek before turning to grab her bag. "I'm taking the jet to D.C. tonight."
"Tomorrow," Tony corrected automatically.
"You've got homework."
Tony smirked. "What if I didn't?"
She leaned in and whispered something that made Tony's eyes widen in mock offense.
"Well," he said, adjusting his collar. "Square deal. Last date."
She kissed him one more time before heading for the elevator.
"You work hard," she called.
"Always do."
Pepper turned to Coulson with a faint smile. "You driving by LaGuardia?"
"I can drop you."
"Fantastic."
As the elevator doors closed, she shot Coulson a sly look. "Tell me about the cellist. Still a thing?"
"She moved back to Portland," Coulson admitted.
Pepper groaned. "Boo."
Left alone, Tony stared at the hologram of the Tesseract floating above his palm. The cold blue light shimmered on his face, and for once, his smirk faded just a little.
—
DEEP SPACE — EDGE OF THE SOLAR SYSTEM
The Marauder tore out of hyperspace with a ripple of golden starlight and a low, resonant boom, her black, crimson, and gold hull gleaming against the void. Ahead of them floated Earth — still small, still distant — wrapped in clouds, busy with satellites and orbital clutter.
Harry Potter lounged in the captain's chair like a man who owned the stars. His tall, broad-shouldered frame was angled just so, his emerald eyes bright under the console's glow. The Marauders would've approved of the smirk playing across his face.
"Well," he drawled, tapping his palm as the blue-green planet grew larger in the viewport. "Home sweet… whatever the hell that's supposed to be these days."
Daphne Greengrass, standing at navigation, didn't so much as glance back. The pale blonde's hair — straight and silky, falling over her shoulder — shimmered like moonlight as her fingers danced over the controls.
"We're cleared through the Kuiper Belt," she replied coolly. "Course is stable. No need to sound so… sentimental."
On the opposite side of the bridge, Susan Bones was slouched in the gunnery chair, her vivid red hair catching the console lights. She idly twirled a blaster rifle as she looked up with a crooked, knowing grin.
"Yeah," Susan piped up. "Still looks loud and messy to me. Still blue. Still ready for us to clean it up."
"And still theirs to wreck," Fleur added, leaning one hip against the bulkhead with an almost feline ease. She was weaving her braid, and her French accent wrapped around every word like silk. "We're just here to… pick up the pieces, non?"
Harry shot her a sideways grin. "Oh, love, you know me so well."
Then his eyes found Shaak Ti, poised at the co-pilot's station, lekku draped over her shoulder like ink on snow. A quiet gravitas radiated from her, calm and serene even here.
"Shaak," Harry said lazily. "Get the droids online. She's their girl while we… stretch our legs."
Shaak Ti inclined her head slightly. "At once." Her hands, elegant and precise, began issuing melodic commands to the maintenance deck.
Below them, the droid bay lights flared to life, astromechs and maintenance droids rolling into motion with cheerful whistles and clunks.
"You sure you trust those little tin cans to keep her flying?" Dacey's low, dark voice rang out as she leaned against the holo-chess table.
Val — light armor gleaming, long blonde braid swinging — just smirked at her sister-wife, already buckling her vibroblade to her hip.
"Relax," Val replied smoothly. "They kept her alive through a black hole. You think Earth's orbital debris scares them?"
Aayla Secura — arms crossed, lekku curling faintly — chuckled softly from her spot near the viewport. Her smile was sharp, her lilting voice edged with wry humor.
"You two impress me," she said, eyes narrowing faintly. "For women raised in castles and chainmail… you took to the stars faster than most younglings."
Shaak Ti allowed herself the faintest of smiles without turning from the console. "Indeed. Even Jedi need years to fly at your level."
Val exchanged a glance with Dacey, who just raised one dark brow, unbothered.
"We've been out here eighteen years," Dacey replied evenly, her Northern accent clipped but not unkind. "And if you haven't noticed…" she adjusted her vambrace with a dry glare, "…flying is just another kind of war. You pick it up fast, or you die."
Allyria Dayne — lounging lazily on the corner of a console, datapad glowing in her pale hands — spoke without even glancing up. Her violet eyes sparkled faintly.
"We had very good teachers," she murmured. "And even better reasons to learn."
Harry let out a low laugh, warm and dangerous all at once, filling the bridge. "That's my girls," he said, straightening at last. "Always making the Jedi look like slow learners."
Aayla smirked faintly at him, lekku twitching ever so slightly. Shaak Ti didn't even dignify the remark beyond the faint curve of her lips.
Harry pushed himself to his full height, stretching until his knuckles cracked. "Alright, ladies. Time to suit up. Cargo hold in five."
Susan was already halfway up, rifle slung over her shoulder as she shot him a cheeky grin. "Starfighters warm and ready?"
Harry's grin turned wicked. "ETA-2s prepped and waiting. Just you, the stars, and a loyal astromech riding shotgun. You know… the perfect recipe for chaos."
Fleur passed him on her way to the door, her golden hair catching every spark of light. She let her fingers trail down his arm as she passed, her smile full of promise.
"Mon amour," she said, her French accent melting around him like honey. "And you wonder why we followed you."
Harry caught her hand just long enough to lift it to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. His emerald eyes glinted up at her.
"Oh, darling," he murmured. "I never wonder. I just thank the stars every bloody day."
Daphne, already at the hatch, cleared her throat pointedly, though there was the faintest smirk tugging at her lips.
"Captain," she said crisply. "We do have a war to crash. Try to focus."
Harry winked at her as he fell in behind them. "Oh, Greengrass, I am focused. Always. On exactly the right things."
Val and Dacey were already striding down the corridor, their easy banter echoing off the walls as Shaak Ti and Aayla followed with measured calm. Riyo Chuchi brought up the rear, her soft chime of laughter barely audible as she adjusted her gloves.
Behind them, the Marauder thrummed like a living thing, runes along her hull glowing gold. Below, the sleek Jedi starfighters waited in neat rows, canopies open, engines purring, astromechs trilling eagerly.
Harry paused just at the threshold of the hold, glancing once more at the stars beyond the viewport.
His grin was sharp now. Bright and dangerous.
"Let's make Earth remember," he said softly, to no one and everyone all at once, "what it means when we come home."
And with that, he strode into the hangar, his wives flanking him — queens, warriors, witches, and gods.
The Marauder hummed louder behind them as the Jedi starfighters roared to life, a chorus of engines and anticipation rising together.
Earth didn't stand a chance.
---
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