CATWALK PASSAGE
The metal catwalk vibrated faintly beneath their feet, the distant roar of the Helicarrier's engines a relentless backdrop to the lethal dance unfolding in the narrow corridor.
Natasha's gaze locked on Barton's, cold and calculating, as her fingers snapped tight around his wrist, twisting it with precision honed over countless missions.
Clint's breath hitched, pain flashing through his arm, but he was no rookie. With a grunt, he wrenched his dagger hand free, lightning-fast. Before he could strike, Natasha's other hand closed over that wrist, squeezing like a vice.
He struggled, muscles straining, then with a surge of raw strength, Barton yanked Natasha into him, slamming her back against the cold steel wall. The impact jarred her, but she didn't flinch—her teeth clenched tight, every nerve alive.
Clint's free hand snaked up, fingers tangling viciously in Natasha's hair, yanking sharply. Her throat was exposed—vulnerable.
A flash of teeth.
Natasha bit down hard on the tender flesh at the crook of his arm, a sharp cry of pain breaking from Clint's lips.
He loosened his grip, stumbling back, but his fight wasn't over.
Clint shoved forward, driving her toward the edge of the catwalk, seeking to pin her down.
With the fluid grace of a trained predator, Natasha twisted on her heel, pivoted, and spun free.
Her boot smashed into his ribs with bone-cracking force.
Clint staggered, eyes narrowing in both pain and respect.
She didn't hesitate. She grabbed him by the collar, yanked him forward, and slammed him hard into the railing. The clang of metal was deafening.
Clint hit the deck with a grunt, the breath knocked from his lungs.
He looked up, pain flickering across his features—but those fierce eyes never lost their edge.
"Natasha!" he rasped, voice hoarse but urgent.
Before he could recover, Natasha's fist rocketed forward—left hook snapping through the air with brutal intent.
The blow landed flush on Clint's jaw, and his eyes rolled back, darkness rushing in.
Natasha stood over him, chest rising and falling with controlled breaths, muscles coiled like a steel spring.
—
Iron Man planted his armored boots against the massive turbine rotors, muscles straining beneath the gleaming red-and-gold shell. The metal groaned and screeched under the pressure, sparks flying in wild showers as the blades fought back against him.
"Come on, baby... spin for me," Tony muttered through clenched teeth, sweat pooling inside his helmet. "We're not dying on my watch."
The rotors shuddered, then hesitated — then picked up speed. Slowly. Then faster. Thunder roared in Tony's ears as the whine climbed to a maddening pitch.
The heads-up display blinked red, systems warning. But Tony's focus was laser-sharp.
"Cap! Hit that damn lever, now!" His voice was sharp, urgent — the calm beneath the storm.
—
Steve Rogers hung by sheer willpower, gripping a frayed power cable with one hand, face smeared with grime and sweat. His legs kicked in the void below, desperate to find footing. Every breath burned.
"Give me a sec here, Stark!" he growled, hauling himself inch by inch.
Tony's voice broke through the static, almost a shout now.
"LEVER! I'm not running diagnostics here, Rogers!"
Steve slammed his hand onto the bright red lever just as Tony's armored frame was slammed backward by the roaring rotors.
The blades spun faster — too fast.
Suddenly, the turbine's magnetic pull caught Iron Man like a vortex, dragging him into a violent, twisting spin.
Tony's voice cut through the chaos with dry humor, barely hiding the tension.
"Uh-oh. And here I thought I was done with rollercoasters."
Tony spun like a maniacal pinwheel, metal flashing past, repulsors sputtering under the strain. The world blurred in a cacophony of noise and fire.
Then—Steve's hand closed on a nearby cable. With a grunt of raw strength, he yanked the lever hard again.
The turbine groaned, fighting the pull — then slowed just enough.
Iron Man was flung free, twisting through the air like a missile.
With a sharp snap, Tony righted himself mid-flight, repulsors flaring with precise control.
A mercenary trained his rifle on Steve, who was still dangling, grimacing but relentless.
Bullets shredded the air toward him.
Before they could connect, Iron Man shot forward like a comet, repulsors blasting with deadly accuracy.
The gunman exploded into sparks and twisted metal.
IRON MAN spoke over the comms, breathless but triumphant.
"Cap, you hanging in there? 'Cause this party's just getting started, and I'm coming home."
Steve grinned through the grime, jaw clenched like a man who refuses to quit.
With a final surge of strength, he hauled himself back aboard.
—
Amid the distant roar of alarms and the sickening groan of strained engines, a sleek, black jet slices through the smoky sky, its silhouette sharp and swift against the fading light.
The cavernous cargo bay hisses closed as massive hydraulic doors seal with a definitive thud, swallowing the outside world in shadow.
Loki stands near the rear, his posture relaxed, almost regal. His dark, silken cloak sways gently in the faint draft, and his emerald eyes gleam with cold amusement.
He tilts his head slightly, the ghost of a smile curling at the corner of his lips — that infuriating blend of mischief and menace.
"The mortals scramble and roar," he murmurs, voice like velvet dipped in poison, "but their pawns fall one by one."
He steps forward, fingers brushing the cold metal wall, eyes never leaving the shrinking Helicarrier below.
"Do they truly believe they hold the game in their hands? Oh, how quaint."
A subtle flicker at the edges of the cargo bay distorts reality — faint illusions swirling briefly, then vanishing as if never there. A demonstration of the trickster's subtle power, a silent threat.
Loki's smile deepens, dark and knowing.
"No, dear brother, the game is far from over."
He turns sharply, cloak billowing with a whisper of shadow, as the jet banks hard, diving into the grey wash of gathering clouds.
The jet's sleek form vanishes into the rolling mists, leaving only the distant, fading echoes of the Helicarrier's desperate alarms below.
—
The glass-walled prison screamed through the air like a comet, spinning wildly, the blue curve of the earth a blur beyond the fractured walls.
Inside, Thor stood firm despite the chaos, his broad shoulders braced against the sleek metal. His golden hair snapped around his face, his blue eyes blazing with fury and defiance. He tightened his grip on Mjolnir, the faint crackle of lightning already licking across the head of the hammer.
He glared at the spinning horizon through the spider-webbed glass and threw his head back, his deep voice booming over the howl of the wind.
"I am no mortal… to be caged like some beast!"
With a primal roar, Thor swung Mjolnir into the nearest wall of the cell.
CRACK!
The reinforced glass trembled and split under the godly blow, cracks radiating outward in jagged lines.
The cell tilted again, spinning harder as gravity pulled it closer to the waiting earth.
Thor planted his boots against the opposite wall and bellowed as he swung once more — this time pouring the full wrath of Asgard into the strike.
BOOOOM!
The wall shattered into a storm of glittering shards, instantly swept away by the roaring wind.
Thor wasted no time. He kicked off the inner frame, twisting his body midair with perfect, predatory grace. The spinning cell fell away below him as he launched himself into open sky, Mjolnir held high.
Behind him, the mangled prison plummeted the rest of the way, growing smaller by the second until it smashed into the earth in a plume of dust and metal.
The containment cell hit the ground like the fist of a god, tearing a crater into the earth, jagged steel and smoke curling into the air.
But that was not the only impact.
A streak of gold and stormlight streaked down from the heavens, hurtling toward the field like vengeance itself.
Thor struck the earth a heartbeat later, Mjolnir first, the impact rattling the distant hills. The ground split in a spiderweb of cracked stone, a shockwave flattening the nearby grass.
For a moment, the air was still save for the faint hiss of static and the whisper of falling dust.
Then a low groan of stone and earth gave way as Thor rose from the smoking crater.
He straightened, his red cloak torn and flapping in the wind, his chest heaving. His hands flexed around Mjolnir's hilt as faint arcs of lightning danced across his forearms and shoulders.
He turned his gaze to the distant horizon, his jaw set, his blue eyes hard as steel.
He rolled his neck, letting it crack, then spoke into the wind with a growl of grim promise:
"Run as far as you like, brother… but know this — there is no place in this realm or any other where you can hide from me."
Thunder rolled across the sky in answer, and for just a moment, the clouds above swirled with light.
Thor lifted Mjolnir, resting it on his shoulder as he stepped out of the crater, a god on a mission.
—
The whine of the engines was gone now, leaving only the faint hum of auxiliary power and the distant chatter of damage control teams. The bridge lights burned low, casting long shadows over the cracked consoles and scattered debris.
Steve and Tony stood at the main table, a projection of the Tesseract's last known coordinates flickering weakly in front of them. Neither spoke.
Steve's jaw was tight, arms crossed, his eyes on the map but not really seeing it.
Tony leaned back against the table, arms folded too, his head bowed slightly, a rare stillness about him.
To the side, Maria Hill stood near the railing, silent, her hands clasped behind her back.
The door slid open.
Fury strode in first, his coat flaring around him like a dark shadow. He was followed by Harry, who trailed a step behind, his black and crimson armor still streaked with soot, his emerald eyes sharp.
Harry's gaze swept the room instantly — Steve, Tony, Hill — reading them all in a glance before resting on the bloodstains that still marred the table.
Fury didn't waste a second.
"We dropped Coulson at Medbay. He's alive. Stubborn. But alive."
Harry gave a faint, approving nod, but Fury's face remained grim. He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small stack of cards.
"These," Fury said, his voice low, deliberate, "were in Phil Coulson's jacket."
He strode to the table, and with a sharp flick of his wrist, scattered the cards across it. They fanned out — old Captain America trading cards, edges worn soft, a faint smear of blood on the corner of one.
"Guess he never did get you to sign them," Fury added, his one good eye fixed on Steve.
Steve stared down at the cards, unmoving. His hands flexed at his sides.
Fury straightened, his tone hardening, louder now so it filled the room.
"We're dead in the air up here. Our communications? Gone. The Cube? No idea where it is. Thor? Off the grid."
He swept his gaze over them both.
"I got nothing for you. Hell, I almost lost my one good eye tonight. Maybe I had that coming."
The room stayed quiet, only the faint buzz of failing monitors breaking the silence.
Fury began to pace around the table, his steps slow but heavy, his presence growing with each word.
"Yes, we were gonna build an arsenal with the Tesseract. You're damn right about that. But I never put all my chips on that number, because I was playing something even riskier."
His boots stopped between Tony and Steve. He planted his hands on the table, leaning forward, his voice dropping into a deadly calm.
"There was an idea…"
He let the pause hang, his eye cutting toward Stark.
"Stark knows this. It was called the Avengers Initiative."
Harry folded his arms, staying silent, his expression unreadable — but his eyes glinted faintly as he studied each man in turn.
Fury straightened to his full height now, his coat settling around him like a cloak of authority.
"The idea was to bring together a group of remarkable people. See if they could become something more. See if they could work together when we needed them to. To fight the battles that we never could."
He exhaled slowly, his words soft now, but no less sharp.
"Phil Coulson was prepared to die today still believing in that idea. Believing… in heroes."
Tony finally stirred. He pushed off the table, his movements sharp, controlled. Without a word, he turned and walked out, his footsteps fading into the quiet.
Fury watched him go, his expression unreadable.
Then he looked back at Steve. At Harry. At Hill.
"Well," Fury muttered dryly, gathering the last of his cards and tucking them back into his pocket. "It's an old-fashioned notion."
He turned his back to them and started toward the windows, staring out into the void beyond as thunder rumbled faintly in the clouds below.
—
The Medbay was alive with motion — the constant beep of monitors and hiss of respirators underscoring the shuffle of boots and the occasional grunt of pain. Agents sat on cots with bloody bandages and pale faces, their usual stone-cold professionalism replaced with quiet fatigue.
Through it all, Fleur Delacour cut a swath like a queen surveying her realm. Her black-and-crimson light armor shimmered faintly in the sterile light, her golden hair perfectly in place despite the dust and soot that clung to everything else.
Her wand darted and danced, weaving invisible threads that knit broken bones, soothed torn muscles, and banished pain with the flourish of a master.
"Breathe, monsieur… oui, like zat… bravo," she murmured to one agent, her voice silky yet commanding. She barely even glanced at the wide-eyed SHIELD medic standing behind her. "Fetch me ze poultice in ze green vial. Quickly, s'il vous plaît. And do not drop eet."
The medic scrambled off with a squeak.
Across from her, Aayla crouched by another cot, her blue skin catching the light in pale ripples. The Jedi's long fingers moved with calm precision, using the Force to soothe burns and stabilize vitals.
"Pain is just fear, manifest," Aayla murmured to her patient without looking up. "Let go of it. Good."
Val leaned casually against a pillar nearby, arms folded, watching the two women work with a faint smirk. The sleeves of her tactical shirt were rolled to the elbow, showing strong, scarred forearms.
"Watching you two is like watching a spa day crossed with a hurricane," she remarked dryly.
Allyria, standing beside her with a tray of bandages balanced perfectly in her hands, tilted her head, her pale eyes glittering with faint amusement.
"It's effective. That's what counts."
Coulson sat stiffly on the edge of one cot, tie loosened, jacket off but otherwise pristine. His lips were pressed into a thin line as a SHIELD nurse tried — and failed — to get his blood pressure.
"You know I'm fine, right?" he said mildly, eyeing the cuff. "Fury just likes pretending he still has authority over me. Keeps him young."
Fleur glided past, one arched brow rising ever so slightly.
"And yet… here you sit."
"Yes," Coulson muttered as she passed. "Because apparently I don't have authority over her."
That earned a snort from Val and a faint smile from Allyria.
But the moment's levity faded when Fleur finally turned her attention to the last cot — tucked into the corner like a dangerous animal in its cage.
Bruce Banner lay still, his shirt torn half open, his chest rising and falling steadily. Even unconscious, something about him radiated barely-contained chaos. There was a faint green sheen to his skin — just enough to set everyone on edge.
Val let out a low whistle as they approached.
"So this is the guy? Mister Smash?"
Aayla crouched slightly, studying him with detached curiosity.
"And very dangerous… if he wakes wrong."
Allyria set her tray down gently, her expression calm but her shoulders tense.
Fleur, of course, just eyed him coolly, as though he were any other obstinate patient. She crouched beside him and tapped her wand idly against her thigh.
"We cannot leave 'im like zis," she said matter-of-factly. "Waking later… alone… zat is asking for trouble."
Aayla inclined her head.
"Do it."
Val rolled her neck and muttered, "Guess I'll get ready to tackle the big guy, just in case."
Allyria, lips curling faintly, murmured, "I'll aim for his knees. Do those work on him?"
"Shhh," Fleur silenced them with a tiny motion of her fingers, her eyes never leaving Bruce. "If he wakes, he will see… me."
She flicked her wand with her trademark effortless grace and intoned, her accent smooth and sharp all at once:
"Ennervate."
A soft golden glow suffused Banner's body, like sunlight breaking through a stormcloud.
He inhaled sharply, his back arching off the cot as his eyes shot open — blazing emerald green.
Val and Allyria immediately flanked Fleur, both ready to strike.
Aayla simply raised a hand and murmured:
"Wait."
The green light faded almost instantly, replaced by familiar human brown, tired and confused.
Bruce blinked several times, his breath uneven, his hands twitching slightly.
Fleur was already leaning closer, one hand brushing his.
"Shhh," she murmured softly, her voice suddenly warmer than anyone had heard all night. "It is all right. You are safe. You are Bruce Banner again."
His eyes darted from her to Aayla, then Val and Allyria. Finally, he slumped back into the pillow, closing his eyes as the tension bled from his body.
"Thanks," he rasped, his voice dry and rueful. "I… didn't hurt anyone, did I?"
Fleur smiled faintly — a touch of mischief in it now — and shook her head.
"Non. Not even ze nurse, though he deserved it."
Bruce gave a weak laugh that faded into a groan.
Coulson, still perched on his cot, called over dryly:
"Don't worry. You'll get another chance, Doc. This ship seems to have a knack for bringing out everyone's worst."
Bruce grimaced faintly but didn't open his eyes.
The women exchanged glances — Fleur's poised confidence, Aayla's patient calm, Val's sharp readiness, Allyria's cool watchfulness — before stepping back from the cot as Bruce finally, fully sagged into sleep.
One more saved.
But somewhere beyond the Medbay's walls, alarms still wailed.
And they all knew this was far from over.
—
Clint Barton woke with a start.
He didn't open his eyes right away — he didn't have to. He could feel the weight of metal at his wrists and ankles. Restraints. Sharp and cold and impersonal.
And he could feel the eyes.
Four pairs of them. Watching. Waiting. Judging.
When his eyes finally snapped open, the room was white and humming and far too still.
On his left stood a blonde — young, but her stare was sharp, practiced, and utterly unflinching. Her wand hung loose in one hand, and her blue eyes bored into him like she could see more than just his face.
Next to her was an alien woman, tall and regal, with orange skin and black facial markings that only emphasized her intensity. Her lekku shifted faintly as if sensing the air currents. Her stillness was eerie — not empty, but coiled. Like she already knew what he'd do before he did it.
On his right sat Natasha, legs crossed at the ankle, arms folded. She looked like she hadn't moved in an hour. Or maybe a lifetime. Her green eyes followed his every twitch.
Beside her leaned a broad-shouldered brunette in tactical black, her hair loose, her baton lazily spinning in her hand as she leaned back in her chair. She smirked faintly at him, like she was just waiting for an excuse.
Clint tested the bonds, metal clinking, his breath coming hard.
"Alright. Fun's over. Let me out," he rasped, yanking at the straps. "I'm good. I'm good, okay?"
Natasha didn't even blink.
"You're gonna be fine, Barton. Just… sit tight for a second."
"Oh yeah?" Clint scoffed, his laugh bitter. "That what you know? 'Cause I gotta go in there, Nat. Gotta flush him out before he comes crawling back. You don't—" His voice cracked slightly. "You don't know what it's like…"
The blonde finally spoke, her voice as precise and smooth as the wand she held, her French accent lilting but controlled.
"Daphne Greengrass," she said, stepping closer, her gaze locked on him. "I am what your people call a… Legilimens. I can see inside your mind. He is gone, Agent Barton. I checked. There is nothing of him left in you."
The orange-skinned woman added in a voice like velvet-wrapped steel:
"Shaak Ti. Jedi Master. I also checked — before you even opened your eyes. There are no more shadows in you. He can't touch you now."
Clint gave her a long look.
"Force mumbo-jumbo, huh?"
Shaak's lips curled into something faintly amused.
"Call it what you will. You're free."
Then the brunette leaned forward, smirking wickedly, tapping the baton against her palm with an audible smack.
"Dacey Mormont," she drawled. "They brought me in as the… muscle. Y'know, in case you needed another 'cognitive recalibration.'"
Clint's brow furrowed.
"A what now?"
Natasha finally broke her stillness just enough to smirk faintly, though her eyes stayed hard.
"That's what I did to get Loki out of your head. Hit you really hard. Cognitive recalibration."
Dacey twirled the baton and gave him a shark's grin.
"So don't give me an excuse. Or I will ring your bell again."
But Shaak raised a hand before Clint could respond, her eyes narrowing slightly as though she already knew what he was about to say.
"You don't need it. He's clear," she repeated firmly.
Clint sagged back into the bed, his breath finally slowing, though his eyes stayed haunted.
"Well…" he rasped after a long moment. "Thanks. All of you."
Natasha finally started unfastening the restraints, her fingers deft and clinical.
But Clint's voice cut through the silence, sharp and low.
"How many agents?"
Natasha froze for the briefest second before shooting him a pointed look.
"Don't do that to yourself, Clint."
"Nat—"
"This is Loki," she interrupted, her voice tight now. "This is monsters and magic and nothing we were trained for."
Clint's jaw worked as he stared at her.
"Loki get away?"
Natasha gave the faintest nod.
Daphne tilted her head, stepping closer, her gaze cool and curious.
"Do you know where he might have gone?"
Clint shook his head slowly.
"Didn't need to know. Didn't ask. But…" His eyes hardened into something flinty. "He's gonna make his play soon. Today."
Shaak's fingers tightened on her belt as she straightened, her voice calm but laced with purpose.
"Then we stop him."
Clint let out a sharp, humorless laugh and turned his head to stare at her.
"'We'? Who exactly is we?"
Natasha stood and squared her shoulders, meeting his gaze.
"Whoever's willing."
Clint huffed out another bitter chuckle, flexing his fingers as the last restraint came loose.
"Well… if I put an arrow through Loki's eye socket, I'd sleep better tonight, I suppose."
Natasha's lips curved faintly.
"Now you sound like you again."
But Clint shook his head, his voice rough and quiet now.
"You don't. You're a spy, not a soldier. And now you wanna wade into a war. Why? What did Loki do to you?"
The question hung in the air like smoke.
Natasha hesitated just long enough for all of them to notice. Shaak's eyes narrowed slightly. Daphne tilted her head. Even Dacey stopped spinning her baton, watching silently.
Finally, Natasha let out a breath, her voice quiet, almost breaking for just a second.
"I've been compromised," she murmured. "I got red in my ledger…" Her gaze fell to the floor. "I'd like to wipe it out."
Clint studied her, then finally nodded faintly and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his face hardening into something resolute.
"Then let's go clean it up."
—
The bridge of the Helicarrier was still.
Not quiet — it never was — but still.
The faint whine of damaged systems struggling to reboot, the muted chatter of techs working below, and the occasional spark of a severed conduit all underscored the weight of what was left unsaid.
Tony Stark stood alone at the railing, one hand gripping it loosely, the other shoved into the pocket of his trousers. He stared down at the blackened hole where the containment cell had torn free, his jaw tight, his eyes distant.
He didn't turn when two sets of footsteps approached behind him.
Steve Rogers and Harry Potter stepped onto the bridge, a solid wall of presence behind him — Steve's broad-shouldered frame radiating quiet authority, Harry's emerald gaze glinting in the low light like a blade waiting to strike.
For a long moment, no one said a word.
Then Harry broke the silence, his voice low and cutting through the tension like a knife.
"You know Coulson didn't die."
Tony didn't flinch.
Didn't even bother looking back.
Just gave a curt little nod, his lips twisting into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"Yeah. I know."
Steve exhaled slowly, his arms crossed as his blue eyes swept over the wreckage. He finally spoke, his voice level but carrying that quiet weight of respect he always seemed to have for the fallen.
"He seems like a good man."
That got Tony's attention — just barely. He turned his head just enough to shoot Steve a bitter, sidelong glance.
"Coulson's an idiot."
Steve arched a brow, his arms tightening.
"Why? For believing?"
Tony barked a humorless laugh, his eyes darting back to the smoking crater in the deck.
"No. For trying to take on Loki solo." He jabbed a finger at the spot like it was evidence in court. "He only lived because magic-boy here came screaming around the corner and blasted Loki halfway through a bulkhead before the blade landed. Otherwise? We'd all be saying something pithy over his body right about now."
Harry leaned against the table nearby, arms folded, watching both of them with calm calculation.
Steve's jaw flexed.
"He was doing his job."
That made Tony whip around fully, his voice rising, his sarcasm sharp enough to cut steel.
"He was out of his league, Cap. He should've waited. He should've called for backup, something, anything. He should've—"
"Sometimes," Steve cut in, his voice dropping a note lower, "there isn't a way out."
Tony laughed at that — bitter and sharp.
"Right."
Steve took another step toward him, his presence towering, quiet steel wrapped in muscle and grit.
"That your first time almost losing a man?"
Tony's head jerked up, his eyes narrowing.
"We're not all soldiers, Cap. I'm not one of your numbers marching to Fury's little file. I don't wear dog tags. You don't get to put me in line and tell me to 'man up.'"
Before Steve could fire back, Harry's voice cut through, calm but edged, his emerald eyes glinting as he stood straight and leveled a gaze at them both.
"Nobody's saying you have to. I might be friends with Fury, but don't think for a second that means I drink everything he's selling either."
He pushed off the table, his arms still crossed as he walked slowly toward Tony, his boots heavy on the deck.
"I've got my team. My girls. My way of doing things. Doesn't mean I buy all the propaganda. You wanna punch holes in Fury's methods, Stark? Be my guest. But that doesn't change the fact that Loki's still out there, and he's not gonna wait for us to sort out who's the bigger man."
Steve's gaze softened slightly at that, his posture easing just a hair. But his voice stayed firm.
"Fury's got the same blood on his hands Loki does. But right now? That doesn't matter. Right now, we've got to put it behind us and finish this."
He planted his hands on the table, leaning forward slightly, his blue eyes locking on Tony's dark ones.
"Loki needs a power source. If we can put together a list—"
Tony let out a low, bitter laugh and shook his head.
"He made it personal."
Steve straightened, his arms crossing again.
"That's not the point."
But Tony spun back around, jabbing a finger into Steve's chest.
"That is the point! That's Loki's whole damn point! He hit us right where we live. You really think that was just for fun? Why?"
Steve met his glare with unflinching calm.
"To tear us apart."
Tony's eyes glittered, but his voice dropped lower now, more dangerous, more focused.
"Yeah. Divide and conquer. Oldest trick in the book. But—"
He gestured wildly at the wreckage, the broken railing, the gaping hole in the deck.
"He knows he has to beat us to win, right? Not just separate us. He has to beat us. He wants to be seen doing it. He wants an audience."
That's when Harry's eyes narrowed, his voice low and sharp.
"Right. We caught his act in Stuttgart."
Tony pointed at him, snapping his fingers like a man finally finding the last puzzle piece.
"Exactly. That? That was just previews. This—" he waved his hands to encompass the chaos around them— "this was opening night. And Loki?"
He stopped. His expression froze.
You could almost see the gears turning in his head.
His lips moved before the thought had even fully formed.
"…son of a bitch."
Steve straightened.
Harry's brow furrowed.
Tony's hands slammed flat on the table, his entire body snapping into focus, all the anger now funneled into that unstoppable Stark energy.
"I know where he's going."
And for the first time all night, there was a glint of something dangerous in his eyes.
Something that said game on.
—
The medbay was quiet, but the air hummed with tension, heavy and waiting.
Natasha Romanoff sat on the edge of the bed, her elbows resting on her knees, hands folded loosely, her head tilted just enough to keep her green eyes locked on the door. She looked calm, like she'd been sitting there for hours — or days — and she could sit there a thousand more.
Dacey Mormont leaned against the far wall, her shoulders relaxed but her gaze sharp, spinning her black baton lazily in her fingers like it was just another extension of her. Her lips curved into a faint, knowing smirk.
Daphne Greengrass stood near the foot of the bed, her wand glinting faintly in the overhead lights, her blue eyes cool and sharp. She shifted her weight to one foot, her poise just a little too graceful to be casual.
Shaak Ti stood closest to the door, perfectly still, her lekku draped over her shoulders, the black and white markings on her orange skin catching the light like tribal warpaint. She radiated quiet authority, her presence so calm it somehow commanded attention even when she wasn't moving.
The hiss of hydraulics broke the silence as the door slid open.
Steve Rogers stepped in, fully suited, shield strapped to his back, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. His boots were heavy on the floor as he strode in with that particular blend of quiet confidence and barely restrained urgency that somehow made everyone stand up a little straighter. His blue eyes swept the room in a single, assessing glance.
Natasha rose to her feet immediately, her movements sleek and precise, her expression cool but questioning.
Steve nodded once to her before speaking.
"It's time," he said simply, his voice low and even, carrying just enough steel to leave no doubt.
He turned his head slightly toward Shaak.
"Can you let the others know? Fleur. Val. Aayla. Allyria. Tell them we're moving now."
Shaak's dark eyes narrowed faintly, though her expression stayed serene. Her lekku shifted subtly as her gaze unfocused, the faint ripple of the Force visible in the lights overhead as if the very air responded to her will.
"They already know," she murmured, her voice soft velvet over steel. "They are on their way to the hangar."
The bathroom door squeaked open before anyone could respond.
Clint Barton stepped out, a towel still in his hands as he dried them off, his sleeves rolled up, his stance loose but not quite relaxed. His eyes were clearer now — still shadowed, still sharp, but clearer.
"Where are we going?" he asked, tossing the towel onto a nearby chair.
Steve's gaze flicked to Natasha, then to Daphne. Both women gave the faintest of nods, wordless but enough. Barton was good.
Steve squared up, his jaw set.
"I'll tell you on the way."
Clint squinted at him, his lips curling into something halfway between suspicion and a smirk.
"That how it's gonna be? Classic Cap. All cryptic and righteous."
Steve didn't rise to it — just arched a brow faintly, his voice calm and firm.
"You got a suit?"
Clint's smirk deepened just a little as he crossed his arms.
"Oh yeah. Got a couple. You want me to color coordinate?"
Steve gave him the faintest flicker of a smile — just enough to acknowledge the joke — and nodded.
"Then suit up."
He turned toward the door but paused, looking back over his shoulder.
"Harry already sent Riyo and Susan ahead to grab our ride. It'll be ready when we get there."
That finally cracked Daphne's composure. Her blue eyes sparked with a wicked little glint as she murmured, almost to herself:
"Oh, this is going to be good."
Dacey straightened off the wall, her baton still twirling idly in her fingers as she flashed Barton a sharp grin.
"Yeah, Barton. Hope you like traveling in style. Not every day you get ferried to a fight in that."
Clint narrowed his eyes slightly, looking between them.
"Should I be worried?"
Dacey winked at him, snapping her baton closed and slipping it into its sheath on her thigh.
"Oh, absolutely. But hey — at least you'll look good when it blows up under us."
Daphne gave a soft, polite little laugh, but her smile was faintly unsettling — the way she tilted her head, almost catlike, studying him.
"Don't mind her," Daphne said lightly. "We always come back. Sometimes even in one piece."
Steve exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as he started for the door, his shield catching the light as he moved.
"Five minutes. Don't make me come back here," he called back without turning.
Natasha followed him, her boots clicking quietly on the deck, but she shot Clint a quick sideways look before she reached the door — just enough to say don't screw this up.
Clint watched them go for a beat, then glanced at Dacey and Daphne still wearing their matching smirks. He shook his head, muttering under his breath as he reached for his gear bag.
"Yeah, real reassuring, you lot…"
But his voice was different now — no bite, no bitterness. Just dry, familiar Clint Barton grit.
And for the first time in days… it actually felt like him again.
Shaak lingered in the doorway just a moment longer, her dark gaze sweeping back to him as though she could already see the way this next fight would play out.
"You'll be ready," she said simply.
And then she was gone, the tails of her robes whispering across the deck plates.
Clint snorted softly to himself as he started unrolling his sleeves and reached for his quiver.
"Yeah," he murmured, half to himself, half to the ghosts in the room. "Let's get this over with."
---
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