HELICARRIER — PORTSIDE
The door screamed under Steve Rogers' grip as he forced it open. His boots dug into the scorched metal plating for leverage, shoulders straining against the twisted steel. Sparks hissed and showered around him like angry fireflies, but Steve didn't flinch. With one final heave, the mangled door groaned and yielded, swinging open just wide enough for him to slip through.
The portside deck was carnage.
A whole section of the hull had been sheared away — jagged steel and shattered bulkheads framing nothing but empty sky. The wind roared through the breach, whipping smoke and embers into a frenzy. The air tasted like ozone and burning oil.
SHIELD techs in full oxygen masks fought the fires with extinguishers, ducking sparks as they tried to stay upright on the unstable deck. They were losing. One of the techs shot Steve a wide-eyed look as he passed, shaking his head helplessly.
Steve's jaw clenched at the sight of Engine 3.
It was dead. Completely dead.
The massive turbine blades sagged motionless, blackened and warped beyond recognition. Smoke belched from its housing in lazy, choking plumes.
Steve slapped a hand to his ear, barking over the gale, "Stark! I'm here!"
Static crackled before Tony's trademark voice came through his comms — calm, quick, and smug as ever.
"Good. Don't touch anything, Grandpa — just stand there and flex. I'll handle the scary tech bits."
Steve rolled his eyes toward the sky, muttering under his breath, "Lord, grant me patience."
A whine of repulsors cut through the din before he could respond.
Iron Man streaked in from above, a blazing streak of red and gold slicing through the smoke. Tony's landing thrusters flared as he dropped into a perfect hover just beyond the broken deck, the suit's polished plating glowing faintly in the haze.
"Cap, seriously. Don't move. You already look like a motivational poster. Just keep it up. Morale's important."
Steve crossed his arms and glared at the hovering genius. "You done?"
Tony tilted his head inside the helmet, smirking. "Define 'done.'"
"Define 'motivational,'" Steve shot back, his voice hard and even.
"There it is. Love that fire, Cap. Don't ever change."
Steve didn't reply — just stared him down with that steely blue-eyed glare of his. Tony let out a chuckle, toggling his HUD and turning his focus back to the turbine.
—
INSIDE THE SUIT
The HUD lit the destroyed engine in stark white lines, scanning, rotating, and feeding data streams faster than most human eyes could follow. Red warnings painted his visor like a Christmas nightmare.
The superconducting cooling system was fried. Half the rotor blades were bent to hell. The whole housing groaned under its own weight.
"Well. Ain't she a beauty," Tony muttered, voice dry as sand.
Steve's voice came over the comms, clipped and sharp. "What do you need me to do?"
Tony couldn't resist.
"Pray. Or — and this is just a thought — go back inside and knit me an American flag or something. I'll let you know when the heavy lifting's over."
Steve's jaw tightened. "You finished?"
Tony grinned in the dark of his helmet. "Finished? Rogers, I haven't even started."
"Then start faster," Steve said flatly. "We're running out of time."
"Wow. The pep talks are really evolving," Tony quipped as his gauntlet extended a multi-tool with a mechanical snap. "Coolant conduits first. If I can patch that, maybe we get enough power to spin the rotors before this thing falls out of the sky."
"What happens if you can't?" Steve asked.
Tony didn't even look up. "Well… you're a good swimmer, right?"
Steve just sighed and muttered, "You are impossible."
"And you're adorable when you're cranky," Tony shot back. He extended his left arm, spraying a stream of nanites over the mangled conduits. The metal hissed and sizzled as the self-repair swarmed over the damage.
"I said faster," Steve growled into the comm.
"Captain, you're gonna give yourself a stroke. Let me work my magic." Tony's grin widened as the HUD chimed, progress bars inching upward. "Besides. If this thing does go down… at least I'll have someone down here to catch me."
Steve just shook his head and muttered darkly, "I swear. The second we land, I'm knocking that smirk off your face."
"Big talk. Love it. Keep it coming. Very inspiring," Tony replied.
Outside the suit, the Helicarrier groaned again — a deep, metallic wail of a dying beast. The deck shuddered, sending another spray of sparks from the blown bulkheads.
Tony didn't flinch. He leaned into his work, voice low but confident.
"Don't worry, Cap. I got this. Always do."
Steve's eyes narrowed, watching him work.
"You better."
Tony chuckled softly to himself as his fingers flew over the controls. "You're welcome in advance."
And for just a second — though he'd never admit it — Steve's lips twitched in something dangerously close to a smile.
—
The turbine groaned as Tony braced himself against the massive rotors, repulsors flaring. The blades were warped and stubborn, resisting him with every ounce of twisted steel.
"Okay…" Tony grunted into the comms, his voice still managing to sound irritatingly breezy despite the effort. "These rotors don't wanna play nice. Story of my life."
He glanced back over his shoulder at Steve, who stood at the edge of the blown-out deck, gripping the railing as the wind howled past him.
"Rogers!" Tony barked. "If you're done brooding heroically over there, feel like making yourself useful? There's an engine control panel on the far side. I need eyes on which relays are overloading so I can actually fix this thing."
Steve glared back with that trademark ice-blue stare of his.
"Could've just said 'please,'" he shot back flatly.
"Oh, right," Tony quipped, digging his gauntleted fingers deeper into the stuck rotors, sparks flying. "Please, oh please, Captain Handsome, save my billion-dollar ass."
Steve rolled his eyes but crouched, springing cleanly over the broken railing without hesitation. The deck shuddered beneath him as he landed on the other side, boots skidding slightly before he caught himself.
He didn't bother to answer Tony as he jogged toward the control panel — a scorched metal cabinet clinging to the edge of the portside wall. He yanked the panel open with a sharp tug, revealing a nest of wires, circuits, and glowing indicators.
Wind roared. Sparks hissed. Steve glowered into the mess like it had personally insulted him.
Tony's voice crackled in his ear again, impatient now.
"What's it look like in there, Cap?"
Steve exhaled slowly, his jaw working as his eyes scanned the incomprehensible circuitry.
Then he deadpanned:
"It seems to run on… some form of electricity."
There was a beat of silence from Tony — and then a laugh, loud and smug enough to cut through the noise.
"Oh my God. Did you just make a joke? Did Steve Rogers just make a joke at my expense?"
"Wasn't a joke," Steve replied evenly, though the faintest curl of a smirk tugged at his lips. "Just an observation. This is your mess. You figure it out."
Tony barked out another laugh, even as he strained against the stubborn rotor blades.
"See? We're bonding. Next thing you know, you'll be inviting me to Sunday dinners and knitting me matching tights."
Steve grunted as he started scanning the relays, jabbing a finger at the panel as colored lights blinked in angry patterns.
"Looks like…" he squinted. "Top right relay's blown. The others are overloaded but still holding."
"Copy that," Tony replied, his tone already drifting back into business. "Keep your fingers out of the box, Cap — unless you want the world's worst perm. I'll get these spinning."
Steve shook his head, muttering under his breath, "You're insufferable."
Tony heard him anyway, his grin audible through the comms.
"And yet… you love me."
Steve's response was pure Captain America — low, dry, and perfectly unimpressed.
"Get to work, Stark."
"Aye-aye, Captain Cranky."
With that, Tony rotated his repulsors and began forcing the blades to turn, the tortured whine of metal echoing over the broken deck. Steve stood at the panel, monitoring the lights, his jaw set tight.
Even amid the chaos, the two of them — bickering and brilliant in their own ways — had already begun to drag the Helicarrier back from the brink.
—
HELICARRIER — MULTIPLE DECKS
The Helicarrier groaned and shivered under the weight of the battle raging through its veins.
Corridors shook with the sound of gunfire and spellfire alike. Mercenaries in black combat armor swept deck after deck, weapons raised, grenades primed — ruthless, methodical, certain of victory.
And then the air cracked like thunder.
He was here.
—
MAINTENANCE BAY
The squad barely registered the faint pop behind them before emerald light cut through the dim haze.
Harry stood there in his black bodysuit, burnished crimson-and-gold light armor clinging to his shoulders and chest like a second skin, his dark hair tousled, his emerald eyes glowing faintly in the smoke.
One mercenary swung his rifle up — too late.
Harry's hand flashed up, fingers splayed, and a jagged crimson hex slammed into the man, sending him cartwheeling through the air.
The others froze — just long enough for Harry to smile faintly.
"Really," he said, his voice low and amused, "you all thought this was a good idea?"
The next two screamed as their rifles liquefied in their hands, molten slag dripping through their fingers.
With a snap of his fingers, they were yanked upward, smashing into the ceiling with bone-crunching force before dropping in an unconscious heap.
Harry's smirk deepened as he rolled his shoulders.
"Rookies."
And with a sharp crack, he was gone.
—
BRIDGE LEVEL — CATWALKS
Fleur was poetry in motion — Margot Robbie with a wicked French smile and silver-blonde hair whipping behind her as she disarmed her opponent with a spin of her wand, then drove her knee into his chest.
"Ah… toujours so clumsy, non?" she teased, letting the man collapse at her feet.
Across the catwalk, Daphne moved like a blade, her wand sparking ice-blue light as she sent two mercenaries sprawling with precise, silent hexes.
"Left!" she called sharply, her voice carrying over the din.
A mercenary charged from the shadows, but before Daphne could turn, a streak of emerald light burned past her, dropping the man mid-stride.
Harry appeared beside her, leaning against the railing as if he'd been there the whole time.
"Really, darling?" he drawled. "You need me covering your blind spots now? You're slipping."
Daphne shot him a flat look — all Sydney Sweeney exasperation — before calmly blasting another attacker over the edge.
"Maybe I just like letting you feel useful," she shot back, her lips twitching at the corner.
"Mm," Harry mused with a faint grin. "And maybe you're just adorable when you're defensive."
Before Daphne could retort, more mercenaries poured through the starboard hatch.
Harry didn't even blink — he raised both hands, and a wall of emerald fire roared down the corridor, stripping the weapons from their hands and leaving them scrambling as Fleur and Daphne finished them with merciless elegance.
—
CREW QUARTERS
Susan stood at the heart of the choke point, her fiery red hair glinting in the light of her golden wards as bullets slammed into her shields and fizzled away.
Val moved beside her like a whirlwind — all Katheryn Winnick fury and northern steel, her axe cleaving through rifles and armor alike, her laugh low and dangerous.
Harry appeared between them mid-swing, leaning casually on the bulkhead.
"Ladies," he greeted, emerald eyes glinting. "Tell me you've left some fun for me."
Val snorted, wiping her axe on her thigh.
"If you can keep up, pretty boy."
Harry's smile turned feral as he stepped forward, cracking his knuckles.
"Oh, I'll do more than keep up."
He raised his hand, and the floor under the last group of mercenaries exploded upward, flinging them like ragdolls into the walls.
Susan arched a brow, though her lips twitched.
"Show-off."
"Always," Harry replied smoothly, already disappearing again.
—
HANGAR DECK
The hangar was chaos — and the women owned it.
Dacey moved like royalty, her dark hair wild and her strikes brutal and commanding, every swing of her blade dropping another foe.
Allyria was a shadow beside her — all dark grace and Alexandra Daddario eyes, her movements hypnotic and deadly, her blade a blur of silver.
Shaak Ti and Aayla danced through the carnage with preternatural calm, their Force senses keeping them a step ahead of every blaster bolt, every blade.
"On your right," Shaak murmured coolly, spinning and disarming a mercenary without even looking.
"I saw it already," Aayla replied dryly, her saber whirling.
Riyo darted past them, staff cracking ribs and knees with Sabrina Carpenter mischief in her smile.
Harry materialized at the center of it all — emerald flames licking from his hands as he amplified his wives' attacks, throwing up shimmering shields and hurling enemies backward with effortless wandless strikes.
"You girls are making me look bad," he quipped, sending one merc tumbling through the air with a lazy flick.
Riyo glanced at him as she flipped her staff behind her, knocking another man cold.
"You don't need our help for that," she called sweetly.
Harry laughed, stepping forward into the fight, his emerald eyes blazing.
"Keep talking, love. Let's see who clears more."
The battle turned into a deadly game — crimson light, steel and blaster fire, emerald flame and Force flashes blurring into one brutal, graceful dance.
When the last mercenary fell, silence swept over the hangar, broken only by the hiss of steam and the groan of metal.
Harry stood at the center, soot clinging to his armor, his wives gathering around him, every one of them breathing hard but smiling faintly.
He surveyed the field with calm satisfaction before brushing dust from his shoulder.
"And that," he murmured with a small smirk, "is how you clean house."
His wives just exchanged knowing looks — because of course he'd say that.
And already, they were preparing for the next wave.
—
The room vibrated with the dull roar of the stuck turbine just beyond the shattered bulkhead. Sparks crackled intermittently from exposed conduits, and the stale scent of burnt ozone hung thick in the air.
Steve Rogers stood braced by a railing, eyes locked on the massive rotors turning agonizingly slow but threatening to rip themselves free.
"Well," Steve muttered, voice low but sharp, "if that thing gets up to speed, you're toast. Or rather… shredded."
Tony Stark's voice crackled through the comms, deadpan as ever.
"Then stay put in the control unit and reverse the polarity long enough to disengage the magnetic lock."
Steve blinked, clearly unimpressed.
"Speak English, genius."
The faint whir of Iron Man's suit filtered through as Tony hovered just outside the damaged chamber.
"Alright, Captain Obvious, see that red lever on your side? That's your 'slow-the-rotors-down-before-everything-explodes' button."
Steve's gaze flicked sharply to the lever — bright red against the drab metal panel — like a screaming target.
Tony's voice dipped into mock caution.
"I need you to stand by it like your life depends on it. Because it kinda does. Wait for my word, then yank that lever so hard you'll wish it was your ex's heart."
Steve smirked, cracking his knuckles with the quiet confidence of a man who'd handled worse.
"Got it. Stand here, wait for you to say the magic words, then pull the big red thing. Simple enough."
Without hesitation, Steve vaulted across the uneven deck, boots thudding against the grated floor as he landed with perfect balance beside the lever.
He gripped it firmly, fingers tightening around the cold metal like a lifeline.
"Ready when you are, Tony."
A pause filled the comms, then Tony's voice came back with that familiar mix of sarcasm and steel.
"Brace yourself, Cap. This ride's about to get bumpy."
—
Iron Man shot through the dense smoke like a streak of molten gold, stabilizers roaring as he came level with the crippled turbine. The enormous blades still groaned and spun erratically, sending sprays of sparks and heat out in jagged bursts.
Tony hovered for a beat, taking in the carnage through his HUD. Fractures in the main shaft. Cooling system fried. Debris jammed between rotor blades. Warnings blared across his visor in angry red letters.
"Yeah, yeah… you're broken. Tell me something I don't know," he muttered to himself, voice tight but sarcastic.
He jetted forward, planting both armored boots on the outer rim of the turbine housing, gauntlets braced on the central rotor.
"Alright, sweetheart," he grunted as he began to push. "Show Daddy how much you want to spin for me…"
The entire structure shuddered under the strain. Sparks spat in his faceplate. The rotors protested with an ear-splitting wail.
"Come on, baby… just a little more. Be good to me and I'll buy you a nice oil change when this is over."
Little by little, he felt the blades start to move, sluggish but yielding, as if they too feared the man inside the metal suit.
—
Steve Rogers stood at the control panel, his gloved hands gripping the red lever like he was trying to choke the life out of it. His blue eyes flicked between the flickering lights and the turbine outside, jaw set, every muscle taut.
"Stark," he barked into the comm. "You better tell me when to pull this thing or so help me—"
Behind him, a metallic click.
Steve froze.
The sound of a gun being cocked was unmistakable.
He turned just as a mercenary lunged out of the smoke, rifle raised and bayonet flashing.
"Should've stayed in bed," Steve muttered.
He caught the rifle in one hand and snapped it sideways, sending the weapon clattering to the floor. But the mercenary was fast — he slammed his shoulder into Steve's chest, sending the Captain skidding toward the edge.
Steve's boots screamed against the steel deck as he fought for purchase.
Then the next shove came, harder.
—
Steve crashed through the bent railing in a roar of wind and smoke, the world tilting violently as the abyss opened below him.
One hand shot out.
Fingers curled around a dangling wire.
The wire snapped tight, jerking him to a halt with a wrenching pain in his shoulder. His boots scraped uselessly at the slick, scorched metal. The wind howled around him, battering his body like a rag doll.
For a second, the only thing keeping him from oblivion was sheer will and five bloody fingers on a single cable.
"Not. Today," he growled, eyes blazing, veins standing out in his neck.
Above him, the mercenary leaned over the edge, rifle in hand, lining up for a finishing shot.
—
Inside his helmet, Tony's HUD lit up with another warning. His breathing was fast now, controlled but strained.
"Cap?! You okay?!"
Static crackled in his ear.
Then Steve's voice came back, rough, steady, and full of fire.
"Hung up… but holding. Don't you worry about me — just fix that damn engine, Stark!"
Tony smirked behind his faceplate, even as he doubled down on the push, his thrusters screaming in protest.
"I'm trying, Grandpa. But if you don't mind? Maybe keep your limbs on the ship while I save the day? I don't have time to scrape you off Kansas."
The rotors started to turn under his strength, finally, grudgingly spinning up to speed. The whine in his comms changed pitch as the power flow stabilized.
"That's it, baby… sing for me," he muttered with grim satisfaction.
—
The mercenary above sneered, sighting down his rifle at Steve's vulnerable head.
Steve's grip tightened on the wire, his jaw set, his gaze locked on his enemy with an almost feral calm.
"You really think this is enough to stop me?" he called up, voice cutting through the wind.
The mercenary fired — but Steve swung his legs up with a burst of strength, twisting the wire just enough to make himself a smaller target. Bullets sparked harmlessly against the hull.
The Captain bared his teeth in a sharp grin.
"Your turn."
He heaved upward, using the wire like a whip.
The mercenary barely had time to gasp before Steve's boot connected with his chest, sending him sprawling back into the smoke.
Still dangling over the drop, still fighting gravity, Steve exhaled slowly.
"Told you," he muttered to himself. "Not today."
But his knuckles were white, his arms burning, and the endless sky still yawned hungrily below him.
—
The doors at the far end of the corridor slammed open with a deafening clang, metal shuddering on its tracks.
Thor stormed through them like a thundercloud come to life, cape billowing, his boots striking sparks from the deck as he charged. His breath came in heavy bursts, his jaw tight with fury.
The chamber beyond was bathed in cool blue light, the containment cell humming faintly as the forcefield shimmered across its transparent walls.
And inside… sat Loki.
Languid, poised, with his legs crossed casually on the bench, as if he owned the place. He looked up at the sound of Thor's approach, a slow, knowing smile curling his lips.
Thor didn't slow.
"LOKI!" he bellowed, voice rolling through the chamber like thunder. "You will cease this madness, brother, or by Odin's beard I shall—"
He didn't bother finishing the threat. He lunged.
The forcefield dropped with a faint hiss as Thor crossed the threshold — his massive hand shooting out to seize his brother by the throat.
And…
Thor's fingers passed straight through him.
Loki shimmered like a heat mirage, his smile widening in satisfaction just before the image dissolved completely.
Thor's momentum carried him a step further before he realized what had happened. He spun around, muscles coiled, his expression darkening.
"Loki…" he growled, low and dangerous.
"Oh, dear," came the silken voice from behind him. "Are you ever not going to fall for that?"
Thor whipped around.
There stood Loki, leaning insouciantly against the doorframe, his arms folded, his green-and-gold armor gleaming in the low light. Mischief danced in his eyes, mocking and sharp.
With a graceful flick of his fingers, he pressed something on the wall panel.
Behind Thor, the containment cell's walls slammed shut, the forcefield snapping back into place with a satisfying hum.
Thor rushed to the barrier, slamming his fists against it with a crack of static. The field held firm.
Loki just tilted his head, watching him like a cat watches a cornered mouse.
"Really, brother," Loki said airily, feigning disappointment. "All these centuries… and still you've not learned."
He smiled wickedly, his eyes glinting like a blade in moonlight.
"You always were so terribly easy to trick."
Thor's fists clenched against the barrier, his jaw tight, his voice a low growl.
"When I get out of here, Loki… you will pray for mercy."
Loki smirked.
"Ah, yes." He tapped his chin theatrically, pretending to consider. "But then I'd have to believe in mercy."
—
DETENTION LEVEL
The alarms wailed through the steel corridors as Thor barreled into the containment chamber, his boots striking sparks from the floor. His eyes were blazing with fury, Mjolnir already in his hand, the faint crackle of stormlight trailing behind him.
The great glass door to Loki's cell slid open with a mechanical hiss.
And there stood his brother.
Calm. Smiling faintly. Arms clasped behind his back as though this were all some grand stage play and they were merely actors.
Thor didn't hesitate.
"Loki!" he bellowed, his deep voice echoing in the chamber. "This ends now!"
He charged forward, swinging Mjolnir with a roar — and passed straight through his brother like smoke.
Thor stumbled, spinning on his heel.
Loki's laughter rang out behind him, soft and mocking.
Thor turned, teeth bared, and there was his brother — leaning casually against the far wall, the faintest glimmer of green still fading from his illusion.
"Are you ever not going to fall for that?" Loki purred, tilting his head.
Thor growled, striding back to the glass wall.
"I will not be toyed with, brother. Enough of these petty tricks!"
"Oh, but they suit you so well," Loki replied smoothly, stepping closer, his boots quiet on the steel floor. "You never could see beyond the obvious. It's what makes you you. Adorable. Predictable."
Thor raised Mjolnir and brought it crashing down on the edge of the cell. The entire structure shuddered, bolts squealing as fractures spiderwebbed across the thick glass.
Loki flinched slightly at the sound — just enough to reveal a flash of nerves — before that insufferable smirk slid back into place.
"Oh, please, Thor…" Loki's voice was low now, almost intimate. "The humans think us immortal. Shall we… test that theory?"
He reached for the control panel at his side and pressed his palm flat against it.
Beneath Thor's feet, the floor split with a hiss, metal panels retracting to reveal the dizzying abyss below — a howling shaft of air and steel, dropping away into nothingness.
The cage lurched violently, bolts tearing loose as it began to lower, the shriek of tortured metal filling the room.
Thor planted his feet and glared at his brother, lightning sparking along his shoulders.
"You'll regret this, Loki," Thor roared, slamming Mjolnir against the floor. "By the Nine Realms, I swear it!"
Loki stepped closer to the edge of the control platform, his green eyes gleaming with cruel amusement.
"Oh, brother," he murmured, his lips curling in that familiar wolfish grin. "You really should learn to stop making promises you can't keep."
And with a final, mocking bow, Loki pressed the release.
The cage dropped.
Thor's roar of defiance was swallowed by the roar of wind and steel as the cell plummeted into the abyss.
But before Loki could even savor his victory, a quiet click sounded behind him.
He turned slowly, his smirk faltering just a fraction.
Phil Coulson stood there, unassuming as ever — holding a massive, alien-looking Phase Two prototype weapon that hummed ominously in the dim light.
Coulson's eyes were flat, unblinking, and full of quiet fury.
"You really weren't built to win," Coulson said coolly.
The chamber went still.
And everything hung on the next move.
—
CATWALK PASSAGE
The steel catwalk groaned and flexed under Clint Barton's boots as he advanced, bow already drawn, an arrow notched and ready.
His eyes — sharp, calculating — swept the shadows of the passage ahead. Steam hissed from ruptured pipes. Overhead lights flickered, throwing jagged pools of illumination across the grated floor.
Behind him, the faintest whisper of a footstep.
His instincts screamed.
Clint spun on his heel, loosing the arrow mid-turn — fast as breath.
It cut the air in a blur of black fletching, whispering past Natasha's cheek, so close she could feel it tear through a stray lock of her hair.
She didn't flinch.
Instead, her lips curled into a cold half-smile as she closed the last few feet with a blur of motion.
Her palm struck his bow, forcing it down. The string snapped against his forearm as the shot went wide.
Clint didn't miss a beat. He shifted, shoving her back with his shoulder and charging forward like a freight train.
Natasha ducked low, her leg sweeping out to hook his ankle — but he hopped the sweep and rammed his forearm toward her face.
She slipped to one side, her boot driving into his chest with a satisfying thud. He stumbled a step, but his eyes never left hers.
Natasha dropped flat to the deck, rolling beneath the overhead pipes like a serpent through grass.
She came up behind him, fluid and fast, and swung a vicious kick into the inside of his knee.
Clint grunted, his leg buckling — but his hand shot out, catching the railing, steadying himself even as he twisted and drew another arrow.
Natasha was already moving.
She vaulted the gap to the next passageway just as his arrow struck sparks off the metal where she'd been.
Clint growled low in his throat and followed, his boots pounding the steel grating as he leapt after her.
The next stretch of catwalk was narrow, claustrophobic — the kind of place where there's no room to miss.
They collided again in a flurry of blows and parries.
Clint swung his bow like a staff, fast and brutal, aiming for her ribs.
Natasha caught it mid-swing, twisting the string around her wrist and yanking hard. The carbon fiber groaned under the strain.
"You're slowing down, Barton," she murmured, her breath hot against his ear.
Clint yanked the bow free with a snarl, swinging it up toward her head.
"Not slow," he shot back, teeth gritted. "Just pacing myself."
The carbon-fiber tip missed by a hair as Natasha slipped under it and drove her forehead into his jaw.
Clint staggered back a step — but countered with a brutal elbow that cracked against her temple, driving her sideways into the railing.
They paused just long enough to circle each other, sweat slicking their foreheads, their breath harsh in the narrow corridor.
Neither spoke this time.
Both knew how this went.
As if on cue, both reached for their knives.
Two flashes of steel glinted in the flickering light.
Clint held his blade low, point-forward, tight and ready. Natasha spun hers once in her fingers, grip reversing.
They closed again — fast, feral, silent.
Steel clashed in a spray of sparks as their blades met, locked, shoved apart, met again.
Clint hooked her wrist, trying to disarm her. She slipped free and slashed toward his ribs — barely parried by the flat of his blade.
They moved like a mirrored dance — neither willing to give, both willing to kill.
At one point, they locked blades at their hilts, faces inches apart, their breaths mingling.
"You're still in there, Clint," Natasha said under her breath, her voice a low growl.
Clint's eyes flickered — just for a moment.
"Then take me out," he rasped, shoving her back with a savage twist of his knife.
Natasha grinned faintly.
"Don't tempt me."
And with that, they broke apart again — blades flashing, boots sliding on the catwalk as the fight raged on.
Evenly matched.
Deadly.
—
Phil Coulson's gaze never wavered as he stepped forward, the alien weapon humming softly in his grip, its eerie glow casting fractured shadows across the steel floor.
"Move away, please," Coulson said quietly, voice steady, almost clinical.
Loki's smirk faltered for the first time, eyes narrowing as he slid backward from the control panel, hands raised just slightly — a gesture of mock surrender.
"Do you like this?" Coulson asked, gesturing toward the ominous weapon. "We started working on this after you sent the Destroyer. Truth is? Even I don't fully understand what it does."
He cocked the weapon with a soft click, the hum intensifying.
"You wanna find out?"
Loki's grin returned, sly and venomous.
Before Coulson could react, Loki vanished in a flicker of shadows — reappearing instantly behind the agent.
In a fluid motion, Loki raised his spear, the gleaming tip aimed at Coulson's heart.
But just as he lunged, a sharp voice sliced through the tension.
"Bombarda!"
A burst of explosive magic erupted between them, blasting Loki backward into the air.
He blinked up in surprise to see Harry, clad in black and gold armor, stepping into the chamber, eyes gleaming emerald fire.
Harry's presence crackled with power, his wandless magic already swirling in the air like a living storm.
Loki's lips curled into a reluctant, calculating smile.
"Not the time for a duel, Potter."
With a snap of his fingers, Loki vanished — disappearing into the shadows as quickly as he had appeared, unwilling to squander precious seconds on a magical fight that could unravel his plan.
Harry's eyes narrowed, the faint afterglow of his magic flickering off his hands.
"We'll finish this later, Loki."
He turned to Coulson, voice low but firm.
"Are you alright?"
Coulson's expression softened for a brief moment before steel hardened it again.
"Never better."
The weapon's hum faded, but the weight of the moment lingered — a breath held tight, waiting for the next move.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
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