The detention section was quiet at this hour, save for the faint hum of the forcefield encasing Loki's glass cell.
Inside, the God of Mischief paced, slow and deliberate, like a predator in a cage much too small for him. His long coat swirled behind him with each measured turn, boots clicking softly against the pristine floor. His eyes glimmered with something unreadable—boredom, perhaps. Or amusement.
Then he stopped.
His lips curled faintly, though he didn't yet turn around.
"Hmm." His voice, low and almost amused, carried through the quiet. "Not many people who can sneak up on me."
He finally pivoted smoothly on his heel, his emerald eyes flashing with recognition.
Natasha Romanoff stood a few feet from the cell, arms loose at her sides, her face schooled into neutral disinterest.
"But you figured I'd come," she said flatly.
Loki tilted his head slightly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Oh, of course," he purred. "After. After whatever crude little tortures Fury can conjure up, you would arrive. The… gentle touch. The balm for my wounded pride. You'd coax me to cooperate."
Natasha took a slow step closer to the glass, folding her arms.
"I just want to know what you've done to Barton."
Loki's smirk widened, his gaze flicking up and down her frame with calculated laziness.
"I'd say…" he murmured, sauntering closer to the glass, "I've expanded his mind."
Natasha's jaw tightened slightly, though her tone didn't waver.
"And when you win? When you're sitting at the top of the mountain… what happens to his mind then?"
Loki chuckled, a low, rich sound.
"Is this love, Agent Romanoff?" His eyebrows arched mockingly.
Natasha let out the faintest scoff, shaking her head.
"Love is for children," she replied coolly. "I owe him a debt."
That seemed to amuse him even more. He slowly sank into the sleek bench inside his cell, resting his forearms on his knees and regarding her with a predator's patience.
"Tell me," he said softly, gesturing for her to speak as though she were performing for his entertainment.
Natasha dragged a chair from the wall, the legs scraping faintly against the metal floor, and sat as well—mirroring his posture.
"Before SHIELD," she began, her tone even, "I made a name for myself. Very specific skillset. Didn't care who I used it for… or on. Got on SHIELD's radar in a bad way. Barton was sent to kill me. He made a different call."
Loki's head tilted.
"And what if I vow to spare him?" he asked smoothly.
Natasha's eyes stayed locked on his, cold and unflinching.
"Not letting you out."
Loki threw his head back and laughed—a sharp, delighted sound that echoed off the glass.
"Ah… no," he said, wiping at a phantom tear of mirth. "But I like this game. Your whole world hanging in the balance, and you… you bargain for one man?"
Natasha's arms stayed crossed, her gaze unwavering.
"Regimes fall every day," she said simply. "I don't weep for that. I'm Russian. Or was."
Loki's smile darkened.
"What is it you want, then?"
"It's not complicated," she said, her voice low. "I've got red in my ledger. I'd like to wipe it out."
That made him pause—for just a moment—before his grin returned, sharper now.
"Can you?" His tone dripped with mock sympathy. "Can you even begin to wipe out that much red? Dreykov's daughter?"
Natasha froze—only slightly—but it was enough. Her lips parted, her breath catching in her throat. Her eyes glazed, just for a second.
Loki stood, prowling closer to the glass, his smile feral.
"Sao Paulo," he continued, each word a dagger. "The hospital fire. Barton told me everything. Your ledger is dripping… gushing red. And you think saving a man no more virtuous than yourself will change anything?"
His voice rose, almost a roar now.
"This is the basest sentimentality! The desperate prayers of a child. Pathetic!"
Natasha flinched—just slightly—when he slammed his palm against the glass, the forcefield crackling faintly.
"You lie and kill in the service of liars and killers," he sneered. "You pretend you're separate. That you have a code. That you're something more than the horrors you've inflicted. But you're not. They're a part of you. And they will never go away."
His eyes blazed now as he leaned closer to the glass.
"I won't touch Barton. Not yet. Not until I make him kill you. Slowly. Intimately. In every way you fear. And when he wakes, just long enough to see what he's done… when he screams your name through his tears…"
He bared his teeth in a cruel grin.
"I'll split his skull. This… is my bargain, you mewling quim."
Natasha turned away, as though finally broken, her breath trembling as she muttered:
"You're a monster."
Loki threw his head back and laughed.
"No," he hissed, still chuckling darkly, "you brought the monster."
But when Natasha turned back to face him… the tears were gone. Her expression was icy calm.
"So," she said evenly, "Banner. That's your play."
Loki's smirk faltered.
"What?"
Natasha pressed a finger to her earpiece, her eyes still locked on his.
"Loki plans to unleash the Hulk. Keep Banner in the lab. I'm on my way. Bring Thor."
She rose from her chair in one smooth motion and started toward the door. Then, just as she reached it, she glanced back over her shoulder, her lips curving into the faintest, mocking smile.
"Thanks for your cooperation."
Loki stood frozen where he was, his smug grin gone, his fists clenching at his sides as she strode out without another word.
The door hissed shut behind her.
And for the first time since being brought aboard the Helicarrier… Loki looked rattled.
—
The hum of machines and faint ozone of electricity filled the air, but the lab was… quiet. Too quiet.
Nick Fury's boots hit the floor with sharp purpose as he entered, his black coat snapping behind him like a banner in the wind. His one good eye swept the room — and stopped dead.
Stark lounged in a chair, feet up on a console, idly spinning a screwdriver like it was a cocktail stirrer. Banner stood at a terminal staring off into space, arms folded, his jaw tight in quiet thought. And Harry? Harry sat cross-legged on the workbench itself, lazily flipping a glowing golden coin between his fingers. He didn't even look up, but Fury swore he saw the faintest smirk curl the young man's lips.
"What the hell are you doing, Stark?" Fury's voice boomed through the lab like a gunshot.
Tony didn't even flinch. He twirled the screwdriver a little faster, then leaned back and gave him a lazy grin.
"Oh, funny," he quipped. "I've been asking myself the same thing about you, Nick. Small world."
"You're supposed to be locating the Tesseract," Fury bit back, his eye narrowing into a dagger.
Bruce finally spoke up, his voice calm but laced with steel.
"We are," he said firmly. "The model's locked. We're sweeping for the gamma signature now. Once it pings, we'll have it pinpointed within half a mile."
Tony gestured vaguely to the screens, fingers dancing lightly over the holographic keys.
"And then you'll have your shiny cube back. No muss, no fuss."
But even as he said it, his screen flickered, and a hidden directory opened up on its own. Tony's eyebrows shot up as schematics and classified files bloomed across the projection.
"Well, now, what's this?" he murmured. "Something you forgot to mention, Director? …'Phase 2?'"
Fury's lips parted, but the hiss of the doors opening cut him off.
Steve Rogers stormed in like a thundercloud, his broad shoulders stiff, his jaw set in a look that could crack concrete. He carried a strange-looking HYDRA weapon in his fist — and he slammed it onto the table with a metallic clang that rattled the tools.
"Phase 2," Steve growled, glaring at Fury with all the righteous fury of a man betrayed. "S.H.I.E.L.D.'s building weapons. With the Tesseract."
He threw Tony a quick glance, his mouth a hard line.
"Sorry," he added dryly. "Your computer was running a little slow."
Harry finally looked up then, emerald eyes glittering with quiet amusement. He lazily flipped his coin once more before catching it midair, leaning back on his hands.
"Well," he drawled in that velvety, dangerous voice of his, "of course. What else would you do with a godlike artifact? Build something shiny to blow each other up. Humanity's creativity never fails to… disappoint."
Fury turned his glare on him now, but Harry only smiled faintly, almost daring him to push it.
"We gathered everything related to the Tesseract," Fury began, voice tight. "That doesn't—"
"—mean you're building weapons? Really? Nick, come on," Tony cut him off, spinning his chair and swiveling the monitor toward Fury, the schematics glaring bright in his face. "Why lie? We're all adults here. Well… most of us."
Steve folded his arms over his chest, his voice low and biting.
"I was wrong about you, Director," he said. "The world hasn't changed a damn bit."
That was when Thor and Natasha arrived, stepping in just in time to catch the fallout. Natasha's sharp gaze immediately locked on Banner, and Banner… already looked ready to snap.
"Did you know about this?" Bruce demanded, his voice brittle.
Natasha stayed icy calm.
"You should think about removing yourself from this environment, Doctor," she said evenly.
Bruce let out a low, bitter laugh.
"I was in Calcutta," he shot back. "That was plenty removed."
"Loki's manipulating you," she countered.
Bruce's nostrils flared.
"And what have you been doing?!"
Her tone sharpened.
"You didn't come here because I batted my eyelashes at you."
"And I'm not leaving because you got a little twitchy," Bruce barked back. Then his eyes snapped to Fury. "Why don't you explain, huh? Why is S.H.I.E.L.D. using the Tesseract to build weapons of mass destruction?"
Fury's gaze shifted — first to Thor, then to Harry.
"Because of them," he said flatly, pointing a finger between them.
Thor straightened, affronted.
"Me?!"
Fury's voice didn't even waver.
"Last year, your little family feud leveled a small town. We learned Earth isn't alone — and we're hilariously, hopelessly outgunned. And then there's you—"
His finger jabbed at Harry now.
"Fifteen years ago, you just show up. Black ship, harem of godlike women, and more power than I've seen in my entire career. You helped recover the Tesseract, sure… but I'd be a damn fool not to plan for the day you and yours decide you're done playing nice."
Harry finally straightened, hopping down from the bench. He caught his coin one last time and pocketed it, his green eyes glittering dangerously.
"Fair," he admitted smoothly. Then a smirk tugged at his mouth. "But useless. You couldn't stop me and my girls on our worst day, Nick. And you know it."
Thor's chin lifted, his voice like thunder.
"My people seek only peace with Midgard."
Fury's eyebrow arched.
"But you're not the only ones out there, are you? And you're not the only threat."
Steve stepped forward now, his presence towering.
"Like you controlled the cube?" he asked coldly.
Thor turned to him, his voice booming now with Asgardian fury.
"It was your work with the Tesseract that drew Loki here — and his allies. A signal to all the realms that Midgard is ready for war."
Steve's eyes narrowed.
"A higher form of war?"
Fury's jaw tightened.
"You forced our hand. We had to come up with something."
"Oh sure," Tony cut in, clapping his hands once, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Nuclear deterrent. Because that always ends well."
Fury turned on him now.
"Remind me, Stark — how did you make your fortune again?"
Steve snorted, his lip curling.
"I'm sure if he still made weapons, Stark would be neck deep in this too."
Tony shot up in his chair, spinning on him.
"Oh, how is this suddenly about me?!"
Steve glared back.
"Isn't everything?"
Harry let out a long whistle, raising both hands.
"And here we go," he quipped, voice dry as sandpaper. "Gentlemen, the inter-team dick-measuring contest continues."
Thor growled low in his chest.
"I thought humans were more evolved than this."
Fury's head snapped toward him.
"Excuse me? Did we come to your planet and start blowing things up?"
Thor drew himself up even taller.
"Do you always treat your champions with such mistrust?"
Natasha cut in at last, her tone flat and precise.
"Are you all really that naïve? S.H.I.E.L.D. monitors potential threats. Always has."
Bruce gave a sharp, bitter laugh.
"Captain America's on the threat watch list now?"
Natasha didn't even blink.
"We all are."
Tony pointed a finger at Steve.
"You? On that list? Above or below angry bees?"
Steve stepped forward, his shoulders squaring.
"Stark, one more wisecrack—"
Tony raised his hands defensively, smirking.
"Whoa, whoa — verbal threat! I feel very unsafe right now."
And then Harry froze. His eyes narrowed, emeralds glowing faintly. He raised one hand, and the room fell silent.
"Shut. Up."
Every head turned as his gaze locked on the scepter lying on the table — its blue gem now glowing brighter, pulsing like a heartbeat.
"Well," Harry muttered darkly. "There's your problem."
He flicked his wrist, and a shimmering golden shield sparked into existence, surrounding the scepter. The oppressive weight that had been pressing on all of them lifted, like clouds parting after a storm.
Everyone felt it — the rage, the hostility — gone.
Tony blinked, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Huh. So… turns out that was screwing with us."
Harry lowered his hand and smirked faintly.
"Obvious. But hey — you're welcome."
For once, no one had a comeback.
—
The evening sky was bruised purple and orange as the lone transport carrier crept closer to the Helicarrier, its engines a low, steady whine that barely disturbed the cloud cover.
Below, the massive S.H.I.E.L.D. flagship floated like some impossible fortress in the air — floodlights cutting through the haze, rotors thundering faintly as the deck bustled with motion.
From the comms tower, a voice crackled through the static.
"661 Bravo, please relay your passcode. Confirm hull and manifest, over."
Inside the cockpit of the approaching carrier, the pilot's gloved hand calmly squeezed the mic button. His tone was flat, unhurried.
"Arms to ammunition," he replied. "Over."
There was a beat of silence. Then the Helicarrier's comms cleared them, and the pilot adjusted his course slightly, bringing the craft into alignment for a landing.
---
The hold was dimly lit and thick with quiet tension.
Clint Barton sat on a steel bench, methodically checking his quiver, fingers ghosting over the smooth shafts of his arrows like a pianist across ivory keys. He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
Behind him, his strike team — a half-dozen men and women clad in tactical black — strapped on vests, buckled knives, loaded magazines. They moved like clockwork, the ritual of soldiers who'd done this a hundred times before. No one smiled.
Clint pulled his bow from the rack with a quiet click, unfolding it with a snap of his wrist. The limbs sprang into place, gleaming faintly in the carrier's harsh light.
One by one, he selected arrows — a heavy broadhead here, an explosive tip there — checking each with the same dispassionate precision. As he slid each one into place in his custom quiver, a faint metallic snick marked their readiness.
He didn't look up as one of his crew approached and murmured,
"Two minutes out."
Clint gave the faintest nod.
Then, finally, he stood — tall, calm, eyes icy as the sky outside — and slung his bow across his chest.
Whatever came next, he was ready.
And someone on that ship wasn't going to see it coming.
—
INSIDE BRUCE'S LAB
The silence was brittle, hanging heavy in the air.
Harry's golden shield still shimmered faintly, like a last line of defense around Loki's scepter. The blue gem inside the staff pulsed weakly — a dim reminder that its influence lingered.
Steve Rogers stood near the lab bench, arms crossed, jaw clenched like he was wrestling with a storm inside. His eyes didn't meet anyone's — just stared at the floor, as if it were responsible for all this chaos.
Tony Stark lounged on the edge of a table, arms folded tight, trying — and failing — to look unconcerned. His gaze flicked toward the scepter every few seconds, fingers twitching.
Bruce rubbed the bridge of his nose, silent but restless. He looked like a man fighting to hold himself together, trying to press the last tendrils of Loki's manipulation from his mind.
Natasha leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, eyes sharp and assessing. She never blinked away from Bruce.
Thor stood with his hands clasped behind his back, face unreadable but eyes crackling with simmering storm clouds. His glare burned holes into the alien weapon.
Harry snapped his fingers, and the shimmering shield vanished in a flicker.
"There," Harry said dryly, brushing invisible dust from his jacket. "Try negotiating without magical mind control next time. Might save you from looking like a bunch of rabid wolves."
Steve's lips twitched, almost a smile. Tony smirked. Natasha just raised an eyebrow. Thor's jaw remained clenched.
"Too soon?" Harry added, amused.
No one laughed.
The room held its breath — fragile calm before the next storm.
—
OUTSIDE ON THE HELICARRIER
The rear ramp of the stealth carrier hissed open with a metallic groan.
Mist rolled inward, swirling like ghosts as the craft aligned itself against the thunderous roar of the Helicarrier's turbine engine.
Clint Barton stood motionless, eyes locked on the massive blades spinning lazily, their dull roar filling the night air.
His strike team melted into the shadows behind him — silent, deadly silhouettes.
Clint didn't flinch as he drew a sleek arrow tipped with a compact grenade warhead from his quiver. The small digital timer on the warhead glowed red, ominous.
Without a sound, he notched the arrow, drawing the bowstring taut with practiced ease.
For a moment, he aimed dead center at the turbine core. Then, his head tilted just slightly, eyes narrowing.
The target shifted a hundred feet off-center. That was the sweet spot.
His fingers relaxed. The arrow flew — slicing the night with a hiss.
Just before impact, the shaft veered sharply, burying itself deep in the turbine's metal casing.
The timer began its merciless countdown.
Clint lowered his bow, voice steady and calm as he keyed his comm.
"Device armed. Timer set. Extraction in T-minus 90 seconds."
Without waiting for a response, he melted into the darkness.
—
BACK INSIDE THE LAB
Bruce was mid-sentence, making a sardonic comment about Loki's penchant for drama, when the world exploded.
The entire Helicarrier shuddered violently, floors pitching like a ship in a storm. Alarms screamed, lights flickered, and everyone grasped at tables and walls to keep their footing.
Steve was already moving, boots thudding hard on the floor as he barked orders.
"Everyone down! This is an attack!"
Harry's emerald eyes snapped to life, fists glowing with simmering magic.
Tony jumped to his feet, already pulling up diagnostics on a wrist display.
"Yeah, this just got a whole lot worse."
Outside, far below, the turbine sputtered and spewed fire, its once-steady roar now a faltering growl. Clint's team vanished into the bowels of the Helicarrier, shadows among shadows — silent, lethal, and unstoppable.
—
The sirens wailed like banshees in the belly of hell.
The floor groaned and pitched violently as the Helicarrier's stabilizers fought a losing battle against the failing turbine. Red warning lights bathed the lab in harsh, strobing flashes, alarms screaming bloody murder about hull integrity and portside engines going critical.
Steve Rogers braced himself against the table, his knuckles white as he barked over the mechanical din.
"We've got boarders!" His voice cut through the chaos like a blade. "Stark — suit up! We need eyes and guns on the deck, now!"
Tony Stark shot him a withering look that could have melted steel, even as he tapped his comm to summon the Mark VI.
"Oh, thank you, Cap. Brilliant tactical insight there. You yell, I suit up. Don't worry, big guy, I'll take care of it. You just keep doing that whole 'inspiring leader' thing you do so well."
Steve stepped forward, his jaw set like granite, and growled back with enough force to shake the bulkheads.
"Just put the damn suit on and do your job, Stark."
Tony's smirk never faltered — if anything, it got sharper.
"Yes, sir. God bless America and apple pie. Should I salute while I'm at it?"
"Stark—"
"Relax, Rogers. I'm on it."
Meanwhile, Bruce Banner had gone deathly still. His hands gripped the edge of the table so tightly his knuckles had gone bone white. Beads of sweat rolled down his temple as he closed his eyes and muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the alarms.
"Not now... not now... please, not now..."
Harry Potter noticed it immediately — the faint green flicker beginning to crawl along Banner's skin like radioactive lightning.
"Oh, bloody hell," Harry muttered, rolling his shoulders and stepping closer. His emerald eyes locked onto Bruce's face. "Bruce. Talk to me."
Bruce opened his eyes, and they were already shifting toward that familiar, terrifying radioactive green glow.
"I can feel it... he's already pushing through," Bruce hissed, his voice low and tight with barely contained panic. "Not... much time left."
Harry glanced back at the others, then back to Bruce. He held up a hand, faint emerald energy already crackling between his fingers like controlled lightning.
"You want me to knock you out? Just say the word. Because once he's out..."
Bruce gave a single, grim nod, sweat now pouring down his face.
"Do it. Better me unconscious than the ship in pieces."
Harry didn't waste a second. He pressed his palm to Bruce's temple and muttered something low and ancient in a language that predated recorded history.
A flash of golden light — and Bruce slumped forward, unconscious but unharmed.
Harry eased him to the floor, muttering under his breath.
"You're welcome. Again."
Natasha Romanoff was already on her comm, her voice crisp and professional as she directed teams to secure lower decks. Steve glanced between the unconscious Banner and Harry, his jaw still tight.
"Nice work," Steve said gruffly, then turned to Tony, who was already stepping into his armor as the mechanical plates locked into place with satisfying clicks. "You — you and me, upper deck. Let's move."
Tony's visor snapped down with a sharp hiss, his voice dry through the external speakers.
"You're welcome in advance, Rogers. Try not to get in my way."
Steve just muttered, "Don't make me regret this."
---
THROUGHOUT THE HELICARRIER
Elsewhere on the Helicarrier, the real battle was already underway.
The invaders — mercenaries in sleek, military-grade armor — poured through breach points across multiple decks like a plague of locusts. The S.H.I.E.L.D. agents holding the lines were outnumbered three to one and already falling back in some sections, their standard weapons barely scratching the advanced armor.
That's when they arrived.
Fleur Delacour swept down the central corridor like a streak of silver and flame, her wand slashing through the air with deadly precision. A wall of brilliant blue fire erupted before a squad of mercenaries, the flames hot enough to melt their rifle barrels in seconds. Her hair, shimmering like spun platinum, whipped around her as she advanced, her blue eyes flashing with Veela fire.
"You picked ze wrong ship to attack," she said, her French accent thick with fury as she gestured elegantly. Another wave of fire consumed the corridor behind the retreating mercenaries.
Daphne Greengrass was all shadows and ice, cutting off a flanking team with precise, lethal curses. She moved like a phantom between cover, her smirk cool and calm even as enemies collapsed behind her, their limbs frozen solid.
"Honestly," she drawled, her voice like silk over steel as she froze another mercenary mid-charge, "did they really think this would be easy?"
Susan Bones was a whirlwind of glowing runes and protective barriers, anchoring a defensive line while calmly dismantling anyone stupid enough to charge her. Her red hair blazed like copper in the emergency lighting as she traced complex patterns in the air.
"Stay behind the barrier!" she called to the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, her voice steady and reassuring. "I've got this covered!"
On a parallel deck, Dacey Mormont and Val were a pair of northern fury incarnate. Dacey wielded a stolen shock baton like a warhammer, her wild hair flying as she brought it down on enemy helmets with bone-crushing force.
"Come on then, you southern pricks!" she roared, her voice carrying the authority of House Mormont. "Let's see what you're made of!"
Val moved with graceful savagery beside her, her platinum hair gleaming as she slit throats and shattered visors with clinical efficiency. She said nothing — she didn't need to. Her blade spoke for her.
In the engine maintenance bay, Allyria Dayne moved like a streak of silver and purple, her blade flashing faster than the eye could track. Sparks danced in her wake as she cut through the metal catwalk, dropping enemies into the abyss below.
"You dishonor yourselves," she said softly, her voice carrying the ancient authority of House Dayne, "attacking from the shadows like cowards."
Farther down, Shaak Ti's montrals twitched as she sensed the approaching squad through the Force. She ignited her lightsaber, the brilliant blue blade carving through armor like butter. She moved with serene precision, each movement flowing into the next like a deadly dance.
"I sense your fear," she said calmly, deflecting blaster bolts with effortless grace. "You should have stayed home."
Aayla Secura somersaulted over a group of mercs, her blue skin glowing faintly in the dim light as twin sabers spun in a deadly dance. She landed lightly, already sensing the next wave of attackers through the Force.
"Too slow," she said with a slight smile, her lekku twitching as she swept through her opponents with ruthless efficiency.
And finally, Riyo Chuchi — small, elegant, deceptively gentle — stood at the main stairwell, her staff glowing with controlled power. A ripple of telekinetic force sent a wave of mercenaries tumbling down like dominoes.
"This ends now," she said quietly, her voice carrying absolute authority despite her small stature.
Each of them moved as if choreographed, each attack flowing seamlessly into the next. And through it all, the invaders began to realize with growing horror: this was not just S.H.I.E.L.D. anymore.
This was Harry's family. And the odds had just turned catastrophically against them.
---
BACK IN THE LAB
Harry adjusted the collar of his jacket, glancing down at Bruce to make sure he was still breathing steadily, then straightened and rolled his shoulders with the fluid grace of a predator preparing to hunt.
"Well," he said, his voice carrying that familiar mix of dry humor and barely contained power, "sounds like the girls have already started without me."
Steve shot him a look — half irritated, half impressed, all business.
"You sure you don't want to... y'know, help?"
Harry smirked faintly, a glint of emerald magic sparking across his fingers as he stepped toward the door, his green eyes flashing with dangerous intent.
"Oh, I plan on it, Steve. Wouldn't want them having all the fun."
He paused at the threshold, glancing back over his shoulder.
"Besides," he added, his smirk widening, "someone needs to make sure you boys don't get yourselves killed while I'm gone."
And with that, he was gone, leaving only the faint scent of ozone and the promise of violence in his wake.
—
SHIELD HELICARRIER — BRIDGE
The world was tilting sideways.
Emergency klaxons blared through the steel ribs of the Helicarrier, flashing crimson strobes painting panicked faces in jagged light. The deck shook again, throwing several agents off their feet as the guttural whine of dying engines filled the air.
On the bridge, everyone was moving at once — agents shouting into headsets, tearing reports off printers, hammering consoles as if sheer force of will might keep the carrier aloft.
Fire suppressant foam hissed from ceiling nozzles around the perimeter, choking the air with a sharp chemical stink as it smothered localized fires.
Maria Hill stood at the center of the storm, boots planted, eyes sharp, barking orders over the din.
"Turn up that engine!" she snapped at a tech to her left. "We're losing altitude!"
The man shot her a panicked look.
"Number 3 engine is down! The starboard stabilizer's—"
"—Then work the damn stabilizers harder!" Maria cut him off, already moving toward another station where a young agent — the same kid she'd caught playing Galaga two days ago — stared wide-eyed at a monitor. She slammed a hand on the console to get his attention.
"Talk to me."
The agent flinched, swallowed hard, and pointed at the screen.
"Turbine's loose," he said quickly. "Mostly intact, but it's tearing itself apart. No way we can get out there and fix it while we're still in the air."
Maria's eyes narrowed at the readout.
"We lose one more engine," she said tightly, half to herself, half to the room, "and we won't be in the air."
She tapped her earpiece and spoke crisply.
"Hill to Director. Somebody's got to get inside and patch that engine. Now."
—
Nick Fury was already sprinting through the carrier's corridor, his trench coat snapping behind him, comm pressed to his ear.
"Stark!" he barked into the line. "You copy that?!"
There was a burst of static, then Stark's voice came through — dry, irreverent, with the faint whirr-click of his suit locking into place in the background.
"You had me at 'engine about to fail catastrophically,'" Tony quipped. "On it. Don't wait up."
Fury didn't slow down. He jabbed another comm channel and growled.
"Coulson! Initiate official lockdown on the detention section. Then get to the armory. We've got boarders inbound, and I need every available body on deck."
Phil Coulson's calm voice came back over the comms without missing a beat, though his breathing was already a little labored.
"Lockdown in progress. ETA armory in two minutes. I'll be ready."
Fury rounded a corner, three agents falling in behind him as he went. His one good eye swept the flashing red corridors and the frantic agents rushing past.
"You better be," Fury muttered.
On the bridge, Maria's voice crackled in his ear again, sharp and steady despite the chaos.
"We're holding altitude, but not for long. You've got less than five minutes before we drop below five thousand feet."
Fury's lip curled in a thin, humorless smile as he hit another stairwell.
"Then Stark better earn that paycheck."
—
HELICARRIER — DECK
The Helicarrier groaned under its own weight, the hull vibrating with the strain of missing engines and emergency counterthrust. Sirens wailed in the distance, their eerie harmony mingling with the roar of wind tearing past the open ports.
Smoke curled upward from shattered panels and sparking conduits as Clint Barton crouched at the edge of the deck, peering down into the dark air ducts below.
He held his bow in one hand, an arrow already notched and ready — even though he knew he wouldn't need it just yet.
The carrier shifted under them with a violent lurch, but Barton didn't so much as flinch.
"Go," he murmured into his comm, eyes still forward.
The first man dropped into the duct below, his boots striking metal with a dull clang. The second followed a second later. Both moved fast, rifles raised, vanishing into the maze of ducts like shadows.
Barton swung down after them, landing in a low crouch, bow still in hand.
He straightened slowly, eyes narrowing, listening to the ship — every creak, every groan, every distant boom. He knew her rhythms now. And he could feel exactly where to cut.
Turning his head slightly, he spoke low and precise.
"Get that engine down," he ordered one of the men ahead of him. His tone was flat, but carried an edge like a drawn blade.
The man ahead nodded and peeled off into a side duct without a word, his boots clanging once before silence swallowed him.
Barton moved down the corridor without breaking stride, his other two men falling in just behind him. His every motion was economical, fluid, lethal.
His voice dropped even lower now as they reached the first bulkhead junction.
"Detention," he said, gesturing subtly with his bow toward a darker passage. "Get him through the dark."
One of his men nodded, slinging his rifle across his chest and vanishing into the shadows of the detention level ducts.
Barton exhaled through his nose, adjusted his grip on the bow, and glanced toward the faint blue light spilling from the bridge at the far end of the corridor.
"Come with me," he added, his words clipped, a predator closing in on prey.
Two sets of boots followed him into the chaos as Clint Barton led the way toward the bridge — his face calm, his aim steady, and his mind already calculating how many more seconds this floating fortress had left before he brought it all crashing down.
---
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