The steady hum of the Quinjet filled the cabin as it cruised high above the clouds. Steve Rogers sat on the bench along the starboard side, tablet in hand, elbows resting on his knees. His broad shoulders were hunched slightly as he watched the shaky footage playing on the screen — green skin, raw fury, and carnage.
On the tablet, the Hulk roared and ripped a military jeep in half like it was made of tinfoil. Steve's jaw flexed slightly.
From up in the cockpit, the pilot's voice crackled over the intercom. "We're about forty minutes out from base, sir."
Steve gave a short nod, though no one could see it.
"Copy," he called back absently, not taking his eyes off the screen.
Across the cabin, Phil Coulson finally unbuckled and stood. He smoothed down his tie — still crisp, still professional despite the turbulence — and walked over to Steve, hands clasped behind his back.
"Captain," Coulson said lightly, "you don't exactly ease into things, do you?"
Steve looked up at him, lips quirking into a faint smile, and held up the tablet so Coulson could see the footage.
"So… this Doctor Banner was trying to replicate the serum that was used on me?" Steve asked, his voice calm but curious.
Coulson nodded, leaning slightly on the bulkhead.
"A lot of people have tried," he admitted. "You were… well. You were the world's first superhero, Captain. Banner thought gamma radiation might hold the key to recreating Erskine's original formula. Turns out…"
On the tablet, Hulk let out another thunderous roar and hurled a Humvee into the side of a building.
"…didn't really go his way, huh?" Steve finished for him, dry but not unkind.
Coulson allowed himself the faintest smile. "Not so much." Then he tilted his head slightly. "When he's not that thing, though? He's like…" He hesitated, searching for an analogy. "Like a Stephen Hawking."
Steve raised an eyebrow. "…Is that supposed to mean something to me?"
Coulson blinked, then actually chuckled softly. "Right. Sorry. He's… smart. Like, genius smart. You'd like him. Probably."
Steve finally closed the tablet and powered it down. "Maybe." He set it aside, then stood up and stretched his long frame to its full height. Coulson, though visibly shorter, didn't seem intimidated — just mildly impressed.
Coulson cleared his throat, straightening his jacket slightly. "I gotta say, sir… it's an honor to meet you. Officially, I mean."
Steve turned his head just enough to glance at him sidelong, eyebrow raised.
"I sort of already… met you. I mean," Coulson stumbled slightly, his usually perfect deadpan slipping just enough to be endearing, "I… I was there while you were still in the ice. I… watched you while you were sleeping."
Steve froze mid-step and gave him a look. "…You watched me?"
Coulson winced. "Not like that. I was just… present. I was on the team monitoring you. Making sure you stayed alive. You know. Standard procedure. And…" He exhaled, regaining his usual even tone. "…it's just a huge honor to have you on board."
Steve's expression softened. He looked Coulson in the eye and gave a quiet, reassuring smile. "Well. I just hope I'm the man for the job."
Coulson's gaze sharpened, and his answer came without hesitation. "Oh, you are. Absolutely. No question." He paused, then added with a faint, knowing smirk. "We even… uh. Made some modifications to the uniform. I… might've had a little design input."
That got an amused grunt out of Steve as he leaned against the wall, crossing his thick arms over his chest. "The uniform, huh? You mind telling me what's wrong with the one I got?"
Coulson shook his head quickly, holding up his hands. "Oh — nothing. Nothing at all. But, you know… the stars and stripes? Some people think it's a little…"
Steve cut him a look. "…Old-fashioned?"
Coulson didn't flinch. If anything, his faint smile widened slightly. "With everything that's happening now? And with what's about to come to light?"
He adjusted his tie, his voice dropping just enough to carry a quiet weight.
"People might just need a little old-fashioned."
Steve let that sink in. His jaw tightened a little, but his eyes softened. He gave a small, respectful nod.
"Fair enough," he said simply, the corner of his mouth quirking up.
Coulson allowed himself just the smallest breath of pride.
And in the quiet hum of the Quinjet's cabin, they both stood there for a moment — one a living legend from another time, the other just a man who'd never stopped believing in what that legend stood for.
—
The underground lab was a hive of frantic, mechanical movement. Soldiers — their eyes glassy and unnatural under Loki's spell — marched briskly between workstations, checking rifles, strapping on gear, unloading crates of ammunition. A faint metallic hum filled the space, punctuated by the sharp clatter of boots and the hiss of compressed air as Selvig fussed over the alien CMS device in the corner, mumbling to himself.
In the middle of it all sat Loki.
Perched languidly on a metal crate, clad in his simple leather coat and shirt, he spun the scepter lazily in one hand, its blue gem shimmering faintly with cold, hungry light. His green eyes watched Selvig for a moment — faintly amused, faintly bored — then drifted shut.
He let himself fall inward.
The cold darkness coiled around him, pulled him in — and when his eyes opened again he was no longer sitting in the lab.
He stood now in the great stone throne room beyond the stars. Black marble gleamed like oil underfoot, and the air crackled faintly with alien energy. His armor materialized around him as he straightened: gold and green plates gleaming, horned helm rising above his head like a crown.
On the steps of the great throne, the Other appeared, slithering into view with a grin that was all too many teeth and none of them kind. He moved with an almost predatory calm, his robes whispering over the stones.
"The Chitauri," the Other said, his voice drawling, soft and menacing, "grow restless."
Loki's lip curled into a faint smirk. He didn't even look directly at him, instead dusting a fleck of phantom ash off his shoulder.
"Let them go at each other's throats if they like," Loki said idly. "I will lead them when it suits me — into a glorious battle."
The Other's grin widened, showing still more teeth. His pale, milky eyes glimmered faintly as he took a step closer.
"Battle?" he repeated, voice dripping with condescension. "Against… the meager might of Earth?"
Loki finally met his gaze, his smile as sharp as a blade.
"Glorious," he replied evenly, "not lengthy. Assuming your… force is as formidable as you so love to claim."
The Other tilted his head, a chuckle rattling from his throat like dry leaves in a storm. "You question us? You question him?"
His grin fell away like a dropped mask, and suddenly his eyes were fire, his tone venom.
"He who put that pretty little scepter in your hand… who gave you knowledge, gave you purpose… when Asgard cast you out, and you crawled away defeated, little prince?"
Loki stiffened, the smirk faltering for just a fraction of a second. Then his shoulders squared, and his voice came out low, dangerous.
"I was a king," he hissed. "The rightful king of Asgard. Betrayed. Mocked."
The Other gave a slow, mocking clap, each smack of his hands echoing in the vast chamber. "Oh, yes," he sneered. "And soon, no doubt, you'll be defeated again. This time… by a gaggle of frightened mortals."
Loki's smile returned then — brittle and cruel. "Mortals are weak," he said, almost to himself. "They mistake selfishness for spirit. And when the sky falls, they'll scatter like ants. Every man for himself. No banners. No brotherhood. No heroes."
The Other's grin twisted into something darker. He stalked down the steps, eyes glinting.
"And how," he said, his voice lowering into a near-growl, "do you propose to rule them then… little king?"
Loki didn't flinch, even as the Other loomed close. His smile was almost serene now.
"Unmercifully," he said.
The Other chuckled again — but there was no mirth in it. He straightened, circling Loki like a wolf circles its prey.
"Your ambition is small, Asgardian," he said with a hiss. "Childish. You crave a throne when there are whole worlds to claim. When the Tesseract opens the doors… you'll see."
Loki's eyes narrowed. He tilted his head, the scepter's tip glowing faintly as he lifted it and leveled it at the Other's chest.
"But you don't have the Tesseract yet," Loki said, his voice cutting through the room like ice.
The Other's grin vanished.
In a flash he lunged forward, fingers curled like claws — but froze when the head of the scepter flared bright and hot inches from his throat.
Loki's emerald eyes blazed.
"I don't threaten," he murmured. "But until the Tesseract is mine… until your precious armies are mine to command… you are nothing but words."
The Other stared at him for a long, taut second, then slowly… slowly relaxed, and smiled again.
"You'll have your war, Asgardian," he said softly, stepping back. "But if you fail… if the Tesseract is kept from us…"
His voice dropped to a whisper, deadly and cold.
"There will be no realm… no barren moon… no pit deep enough to hide you. You think you know pain? He will make you long for something as sweet as pain."
The Other's clawed hand reached up and pressed lightly to Loki's forehead — and in a blink the black marble dissolved into air.
Loki jolted, his eyes snapping open back in the lab.
The faint hiss of Selvig's work greeted his ears, but for a moment he didn't move. His grip tightened on the scepter, knuckles white.
His eyes darted to the shadows of the lab, almost… cautious. Almost afraid.
Then, ever so slowly, his smirk returned.
And the game went on.
—
The Quinjet's wheels thumped against the landing deck of the Helicarrier, the roar of engines swallowed by the wind whipping across the sprawling metal behemoth. The carrier stretched on and on, two massive runways cutting along its spine. Steve stood near the open ramp, shoulders squared, eyes scanning the expanse with quiet wonder. He muttered low enough no one heard, "That's one hell of a boat."
Coulson stood just behind him, hands clasped neatly, a faint smile on his face as though he'd heard anyway.
As the ramp lowered with a hiss, the pair stepped out onto the deck. Planes were being strapped down, crews ran drills, and the whole place buzzed with an energy Steve hadn't felt since… well, since his war.
Natasha was waiting halfway down the runway, leaning casually against the railing like she owned the whole damn ship. She straightened at their approach, her dark red hair glinting in the sunlight.
Coulson spoke first, nodding to her. "Agent Romanoff. Captain Rogers."
Steve gave her a curt, automatic nod. "Ma'am."
Natasha's lips curved faintly at that, like she'd just bitten down on a laugh. "Hi." Her gaze flicked to Coulson. "They need you on the bridge. They're starting the face-trace."
Coulson's expression tightened with purpose, but he still allowed himself a glance back at Steve before he left. "See you up there," he said.
"Looking forward to it," Steve replied, though his eyes were still roaming the deck, taking it all in.
Coulson's footsteps faded as Natasha fell into step beside Steve, hands in the pockets of her sleek tactical jacket. They strolled toward the railing.
"You know," she said lightly, voice carrying just enough over the din, "it was quite the buzz around here… finding you in the ice. Like Christmas came early. I swear Coulson almost swooned."
Steve glanced at her, one blond brow arching in bemusement. "Swooned?"
"Oh, yeah. Big time. Has he asked you to sign his Captain America trading cards yet?"
Steve blinked. "Trading cards?"
Natasha shot him a sly sideways look. "They're vintage," she said smoothly, with just enough bite to make him wonder if she was talking about the cards… or him. "He's very proud."
Steve shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his mouth despite himself. "Right."
A few paces ahead, a man in a loose shirt and jeans was weaving through the crew, trying — and failing — to keep out of everyone's way. He adjusted his glasses absently and kept his gaze down, looking very much like he'd rather be anywhere else.
Steve's eyes caught him and brightened. "Dr. Banner."
Bruce looked up in surprise. He gave Steve a shy little smile as they met halfway and shook hands.
"Oh. Yeah. Hi," Bruce said, rubbing the back of his neck once they let go. "They, uh… they told me you'd be coming."
"Word is," Steve said, his voice warm and good-natured, "you can find the cube."
Bruce's brows lifted at that, something wry glinting in his eyes. "Is that the only word on me?"
Steve's grin widened just a touch, almost boyish. "Only word I care about."
Bruce regarded him for a second longer than he probably meant to, then dropped his gaze and nodded, a faint smile on his lips. "Thanks. That's… kind of nice to hear."
Steve glanced around at the sprawling activity. "Must be strange for you. All this."
Bruce chuckled under his breath. "Well, you know. Strange and me… we're kind of old friends at this point."
Steve let out a small laugh of his own. His eyes lingered on a squad of men running in formation across the deck. For half a second, he was back in the camps, hearing barked orders and the rhythm of boots pounding dirt.
Natasha's voice cut through the memory.
"Gentlemen," she called, her tone dry and faintly amused, "you might want to step inside in a minute. It's about to get a little… hard to breathe."
Steve blinked, glancing at her. "What?"
The Helicarrier shuddered under their feet. Around them, agents moved with mechanical precision, strapping down Quinjets and securing oxygen masks to their faces.
Steve frowned, leaning closer to the railing as the whole deck seemed to tremble with power. "Is this… a submarine?"
Bruce's laugh this time was short and incredulous, his expression somewhere between disbelief and amusement. "Really?" he said, cocking his head at Steve. "They wanted me in a submerged, pressurized metal container? That's adorable."
Steve's frown deepened — right up until the lift fans roared to life.
Massive turbines mounted at the sides of the carrier unfurled with a mechanical shriek, spinning faster and faster until the whole deck lifted from the sea.
Steve's jaw actually went slack as he watched the ocean drop away beneath them.
Bruce stepped up beside him, sliding his hands into his pockets, and shook his head slowly, a faint grin tugging at his lips.
"Oh, no," Bruce murmured, his voice quiet, dry, and just a little dark.
"This," he said, glancing sideways at Steve, "is much worse."
Steve kept staring out at the rising horizon, breath catching in his chest, his smile faint but growing.
"I don't know," he muttered. "Feels like home already."
Natasha's smirk from behind them said she heard that.
—
The Helicarrier's turbines roared like titans as the deck continued to rise, ocean shrinking to a glittering smear below. The massive bay doors yawned open, and Steve, Natasha, and Bruce stepped through into the interior.
Steve's sharp blue eyes swept over the space as they walked, noting everything — the agents rushing to stations, the banks of glowing screens, the low murmur of clipped orders. The place thrummed with controlled chaos, like the command tents of his past… if someone had handed the command tent to a god of technology.
They entered the bridge proper and Steve slowed, his tall frame filling the entryway as his gaze took it all in.
The bridge was alive. Agents sat in neat rows, fingers flying across consoles as data streamed across wall-sized displays. Voices overlapped in efficient, military rhythm.
Maria Hill strode across the center aisle like she owned it, tablet in hand, her tone brisk and cutting.
"Get me those readings now," Hill snapped at one of the techs. "And clear the aft deck. If I see one more unsecured Quinjet back there, someone's getting written up."
Natasha leaned in, her voice a low purr. "Try not to look impressed, Captain. They'll eat you alive."
Steve cracked a faint grin, eyes still on the screens. "Bit late for that," he muttered.
At the heart of the bridge sat Nick Fury, his presence more commanding than the chair he occupied. He didn't even look up when he spoke, his gravelly voice cutting through the noise.
"Captain Rogers. Doctor Banner. Agent Romanoff."
Steve instinctively straightened, boots clicking on the deck as they approached.
Hill glanced over from her station. "We're at lock, Director," she reported crisply.
Fury finally looked up, his single eye sharp and unamused. "Stealth mode," he ordered.
Hill gave a single nod. "On it."
But before she could relay the command, a voice from the back of the bridge cut her off.
"Director! We've got bogeys! Ten… unidentified craft, closing fast!"
The hum of the bridge went dead. Agents stiffened, hands hovering over controls as the central screens lit up with tactical data.
On the display, a formation of sleek, angular starfighters streaked toward them — black hulls edged in crimson and gold, moving in perfect synchronicity. They looked predatory.
Hill snapped to her team immediately. "Weapons hot. All batteries stand by. Give me firing solutions."
Steve squinted at the screen, arms crossing over his broad chest. "Those aren't anything I've seen before," he muttered.
Bruce shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels. "Well," he murmured dryly, "that can't be good."
Natasha's eyes narrowed, a faint smirk ghosting her lips. "Definitely not Air Force. I'll give them points for style, though."
Hill barked another order. "Vector me in on the lead ship. We take it down, maybe the others scatter."
"Belay that!" Fury's voice cracked across the bridge like a whip.
Everyone froze.
Fury stood, his long coat settling into place as he stepped toward the main screen. His good eye narrowed as he studied the lead fighter, which banked lazily across their bow like a shark sizing up prey.
"They're friendly," he said flatly.
Hill turned to him, her eyes sharp with disbelief. "Sir? They're running dark. No transponders, no comms, nothing. We don't even know what they are."
Fury's smirk was faint, but unmistakable. "Trust me. I know."
Steve gave Natasha a sidelong look, brow raised. She only quirked one of her own.
Bruce sighed, mumbling just loud enough to be heard, "Of course he does…"
Fury straightened his coat and faced the screen, his tone like gravel wrapped in steel.
"Patch me through to the lead ship," he ordered.
One of the techs jumped to comply, fingers flying. "You're live, sir," the agent reported.
The comms crackled to life, and Fury didn't waste a second.
"This is Director Nick Fury of S.H.I.E.L.D.," he said, his voice dry, deliberate, and just this side of annoyed. "Mister Potter… if you're listening, I'd appreciate it if you brought your birds in closer and saved me the damn dramatics."
On the main screen, the lead starfighter tilted in acknowledgment — a slow, taunting roll — before breaking formation and gliding toward the Helicarrier with effortless grace.
Steve's brow furrowed. He muttered to no one in particular, "Potter?"
Fury's smirk deepened, his good eye glinting like a man who'd just won a bet.
"Oh," he drawled under his breath, "you're about to find out."
Behind him, Hill arched one perfectly sculpted brow. "You know," she murmured dryly, "one of these days, you'll let the rest of us in on the joke before the punchline."
Fury didn't even glance back. "No fun in that," he shot back.
Steve's gaze stayed locked on the screen as the strange ships banked again, their black-and-gold hulls glinting like blades in the sun, moving in perfect, predatory unison.
Bruce, beside him, exhaled long and low. "Definitely not Air Force," he muttered.
Natasha, her arms folded, only smirked. "Well," she said lightly, "at least they're punctual."
—
The bridge held its breath.
On the main screen, the lead starfighter banked slightly, gliding toward the deck like it owned the very concept of gravity. Fury didn't move, just stood there with his hands clasped behind his back, his coat hanging perfectly still despite the hum of tension in the room.
Steve's jaw worked as he watched the formation outside the viewport, arms folded tight. Then he reached into his pocket and dug out a crisp ten-dollar bill.
He held it out toward Fury, two fingers pinching it like an admission.
Fury turned his head slightly, his one good eye narrowing in dry amusement. "What's this now?"
Steve's grin was faint but boyish. "I said I'd never be surprised again. Looks like I was wrong."
The corner of Fury's mouth ticked upward just enough to be dangerous as he plucked the bill from Steve's hand and slipped it into his coat. "Damn right you were, son. Don't make a habit of that."
Behind them, Natasha glided past like a shadow, her smirk sharp enough to cut steel. "Some of us knew better than to bet against him," she said as she passed, her voice velvet and thorn.
Bruce trailed after her, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, head down but his tone dry. "I'm beginning to see why," he muttered, half to himself.
Fury finally stepped away from the command chair, his boots clicking against the metal as Hill fell into step beside him. She was already snapping orders into her earpiece, her gaze glued to the screens.
"Keep the deck clear, keep your weapons holstered," she instructed as they walked. "Let's not start an incident we can't finish."
They moved as a group through the corridor toward the blast doors. Steve kept pace with long, easy strides, his hands swinging at his sides like he'd just come off the field. "You really think these are friendlies?" he asked over his shoulder without slowing down.
Fury's voice behind him was calm, smooth as black ice. "Boy didn't fly halfway across the damn galaxy to start a fight with me. If he wanted one… you'd already know."
Natasha chuckled softly at that, her arms folded. "That's comforting," she said dryly.
The heavy doors ahead groaned open, letting in a blast of sunlight and wind. The deck stretched out before them — wide, gleaming, and now dominated by a formation of black-and-gold starfighters that shimmered in the sun like blades of obsidian.
Steve stepped out first, squinting slightly as the wind tousled his hair and the light caught the sharp line of his jaw.
The ten ships descended in perfect synchronicity, engines purring like caged predators. They landed two by two, their cockpits still sealed, the air around them shimmering from the heat of their thrusters.
Steve took a slow breath, his lips curling into an incredulous half-smile. "Okay," he muttered under his breath, almost as if he didn't want anyone to hear. "Now that's impressive."
Natasha came up beside him, black leather catching the light, her eyes on the ships as her own smile crept in at the edges. "Careful, Rogers," she murmured. "You're starting to sound surprised again. Not a good look for you."
Steve shot her a look, his grin widening a little. "Yeah? You sound impressed yourself, Romanoff."
"Please," she said, voice a drawl as she crossed her arms. "I don't impress easy. But… they've got style. I'll give 'em that."
Fury stepped up on Steve's other side, his eye fixed firmly on the lead fighter as its canopy began to hiss and slide open.
"Let's see what kind of show the boy brought us," he said lowly, almost to himself.
Behind them, Coulson finally caught up, slightly out of breath but trying very hard not to look it. He edged closer to Natasha and murmured, "For the record, I never doubted him either."
Natasha's eyes flicked toward him, a single brow arched. "You collect trading cards of this guy too?"
Coulson gave her a perfectly straight look, then muttered, "Don't judge until you see the holographic set."
Bruce stood just behind them all, his hands still deep in his pockets, looking at the ships like a man who already had a migraine forming. "I feel like I should be more worried about this," he murmured. "And yet here I am."
Hill stood a pace behind Fury, tablet in hand, her voice crisp as she issued final deck instructions. "All clear. Crew in position. No one makes a move unless the Director gives the word."
Fury didn't so much as glance back. "Damn right."
The air on the deck was taut, every pair of eyes on the rows of black-and-gold ships as they sat there like sleeping beasts.
Then — with a hiss of hydraulics and a plume of steam — the canopy of the lead fighter slid fully open.
Steve's breath caught without meaning to. Natasha's head tilted in interest. Coulson's fingers itched for his camera. Bruce sighed quietly, like a man resigned to the fact that nothing was ever simple.
Fury's lips curled just slightly as he muttered, "Showtime."
And the figure inside the ship began to climb out.
—
The cockpit canopy hissed open, and a figure rose — boots clanging lightly against the wing of the sleek black-and-gold fighter.
The man stood there for just a moment, letting the wind whip through his untamed black hair. His black bodysuit caught the light — gold accents at the shoulders and crimson plating over his chest and forearms giving him the look of a soldier who'd been sharpened into a weapon.
Harry Potter leapt down to the deck in a fluid motion, the metal echoing under his boots. He straightened to his full height, broad shoulders and long frame filling the space, green eyes glinting like polished emeralds as they swept over the waiting crowd.
Even at a distance, he wore a grin that was part charm, part challenge.
And then he called out, voice cutting easily through the howl of the turbines:
"Bloody hell, Fury! What happened to your hair? Don't tell me Earth's been so stressful it just gave up on you?"
For a beat, the deck went silent.
Natasha pressed two fingers to her lips, hiding a smirk. Steve actually snorted, his arms crossing as his lips twitched upward.
Bruce just muttered, half to himself: "Oh boy. This guy's a lot."
Fury didn't flinch. Didn't even blink. He just smirked slow and dangerous and called back:
"Boy, if you're really about to talk hair to me with that mop, you better take a damn good look in a mirror first."
Harry laughed — a deep, easy sound that filled the deck as he strode forward like he owned the place.
"Fair play," he called back, still grinning.
When he reached Fury, they clasped forearms — not a handshake, but something with weight behind it. Something that said: we've both seen things.
"Been a long time," Harry said, tilting his head just a fraction, studying him. "Last I saw you was what… '95? Back when you had a full head of hair and thought pagers were cutting-edge tech."
Fury's smirk deepened. "And you thought you were only marrying one girl. Guess we were both young and dumb."
That earned a bark of laughter from Harry — low and warm but with a dangerous little edge.
"Well," Harry said, letting go of Fury's arm and glancing over his shoulder, "speaking of…"
Behind him, the other starfighters' canopies hissed open all at once.
Steve's brows furrowed and his arms folded tighter. "Oh boy," he muttered.
Natasha leaned forward slightly, head tilted, her eyes narrowing as she cataloged everything.
Bruce shoved his hands into his pockets. "Definitely worse," he murmured.
Coulson, standing just behind them, visibly tried not to beam like a kid meeting his favorite comic book hero.
And then… one by one, the women emerged.
The first was tall, blonde, and devastatingly elegant — her blue eyes cut across the deck like she'd been born to command it. Fleur Delacour's smirk was as French as her strut, her voice as soft and dangerous as silk.
"Still charming the locals, 'Arry?" she murmured in that unmistakable accent as she joined him.
Next came Daphne Greengrass — all icy poise and cool detachment, her platinum hair catching the light as she adjusted her gloves like this was just another boardroom she intended to dominate.
Susan Bones followed with quiet confidence, her red hair bright against the black deck as she dropped to her feet, shoulders squared, a small, wry smile tugging at her lips.
Then came Val — clad in fur and leather, her golden hair braided back, a long sword slung across her back. She moved with the calm, predatory grace of a Northman sizing up a battlefield.
Beside her, Allyria Dayne glided down, her dark hair and luminous violet eyes giving her an ethereal presence — like a star come down to earth.
And Dacey Mormont — tall, muscular, her braid snapping in the wind — stepped down last of the Westerosi women, arms crossed, gaze as sharp and unflinching as a drawn blade.
And then… the aliens.
Shaak Ti descended with quiet dignity, her crimson skin and lekku giving her the kind of presence that silenced even the murmuring crew.
Aayla Secura followed, her blue skin and piercing eyes sweeping over the Helicarrier with a subtle, feline curiosity that dared anyone to challenge her.
And finally Riyo Chuchi — delicate and deceptively fragile-looking, her blonde hair catching in the breeze as she tilted her chin just high enough to remind everyone she belonged here too.
Harry threw a hand out, sweeping toward them all with a grin that practically dripped confidence.
"So," he said, voice carrying over the deck. "You remember my wives, don't you, Fury?"
Fury's good eye moved slowly down the line — from Fleur's smirk to Daphne's cool stare, from Val's faint grin to Shaak Ti's serene composure.
For just the smallest moment, his poker face cracked — a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth that could almost have been a smile.
"Hell," he finally drawled, slipping his hands into his coat pockets, "how could I forget?"
Harry chuckled under his breath. "Good man," he said, then turned slightly to glance back at the nine women arrayed behind him like the world's deadliest honor guard.
They assembled in a perfect V at his back — nine queens behind their king, the wind whipping through their cloaks and hair, sunlight catching on steel and jewel-toned skin, like a scene torn straight from a prophecy.
Steve, who'd been quiet for a moment, muttered low enough for just Natasha to hear:
"Well. That's… something."
Natasha smirked, sidling closer and leaning in just enough to whisper back, voice dry as desert sand:
"Told you to stop being surprised."
On the Helicarrier deck, the wind howled around them, and for just a moment, it felt like the entire world tilted further into Harry Potter's orbit.
---
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