STARK TOWER — ROOFTOP & STREET BELOW
The portal above them writhed and shimmered, its blue light casting long, eerie shadows over the ruins of midtown.
Natasha stood rigid at the edge of the rooftop, red hair clinging to her sweat-slick cheeks, eyes locked on the swirling vortex. Every muscle in her body was coiled and ready, fingers curled tight around the scepter. Beside her, Fleur was a picture of poised elegance, her wand in one hand, her other brushing the scepter's shaft as if the alien metal had offended her sensibilities.
"Come on, Stark," Natasha muttered under her breath, voice low and sharp enough to cut through the cacophony below.
Fleur flicked her pale hair back, her French accent curling faintly at the edges of her reply.
"Eet would be nice if he hurried, non? I do not like standing under zis… thing."
From below came Steve's voice—firm, commanding, steady as a drumbeat. "Close it!"
Natasha and Fleur exchanged a quick glance and moved in unison. The scepter plunged into the core of the device, and a deafening crack split the air as the portal twisted on itself, folding inward with a blinding flash of light and a sound like thunder tearing through steel.
For a heartbeat, the world went still.
And then—
A black-and-gold figure tumbled through the sky, falling fast and hard.
Tony Stark.
"Son of a gun…" Steve muttered, his jaw tightening, blue eyes tracking the limp, lifeless shape as it plummeted.
Thor stepped forward, shoulders set, muscles taut, Mjolnir crackling faintly in his hand.
"He is not slowing down," he rumbled, already crouching.
But before he could spring, another voice rang out—calm, confident, and cutting through the chaos.
"Arresto Momentum!"
A shimmering golden field bloomed around Tony, slowing his deadly descent to something merely… survivable.
Thor glanced to his left at Harry, whose emerald-green eyes glowed faintly as he held one hand aloft. The wizard's long frame was steady, though his lips were pressed into a thin line of concentration.
That was all the Hulk needed. With a roar like an earthquake, he leapt into the air, caught Tony one-handed like a child's toy, and skidded down the side of a skyscraper in a hail of sparks, landing on the street below with a shockwave that rattled the windows.
The Hulk grunted, then flung Stark's armored form off his chest with a snort of disdain.
Thor, Harry, and Steve sprinted across the cracked asphalt, boots pounding as they closed in. Thor ripped the faceplate off with a metallic shriek, tossing it aside as Steve knelt, pressing fingers to Tony's neck.
Nothing.
The arc reactor's glow was dead.
Steve's jaw clenched, his voice a low growl. "Damn it…"
Harry stepped forward, his palms glowed faint gold. His eyes narrowed as he crouched over Stark, murmuring the word like an order.
"Ennervate."
A ripple of energy passed through Tony just as the Hulk bellowed and pounded his chest in triumph.
With a sudden gasp, Tony's eyes snapped open behind the cracked HUD. His gaze darted around the circle of tense faces above him.
"What the hell?" he croaked, still breathless but somehow already smirking. "What just happened? Please tell me nobody kissed me while I was out. Especially not you, big guy."
The Hulk merely grunted, unimpressed.
Steve huffed out a laugh, shaking his head as he straightened. "We won."
Tony groaned, dragging himself up on his elbows, his grin growing even as his chest heaved.
"Alright. Hey. Look at us. Good job, gang. Really. Let's just… not come in tomorrow. Everyone cool with that? Little R&R?"
He paused, glancing skyward as if something profound had just dawned on him.
"You ever tried shawarma? There's a place a couple blocks from here. Don't know what it is… but I really wanna try it."
Thor's massive shadow fell over him, his voice grave and edged with lightning.
"We are not finished yet."
Tony's eyes flicked upward, and he offered Thor the faintest smirk through his cracked faceplate.
"…And then shawarma after?"
Steve let out a quiet laugh, his lips quirking despite himself. Fleur rolled her eyes but couldn't quite hide the faint smile playing at the corner of her mouth. Natasha just crossed her arms and shook her head, muttering something under her breath about "typical Stark."
Harry, still crouched, straightened slowly, his green eyes softening as he looked down at Tony.
"You really do have a way of making an entrance," he said dryly.
Tony just winked up at him.
"Stick with me, kid. I'll teach you everything I know. And then some."
—
STARK TOWER — GRAND LOBBY
Silence.
It wasn't the peaceful kind. It was the heavy, suffocating kind, thick with smoke, ozone, and judgment.
Loki dragged himself toward the base of the ruined staircase, every inch of his once-proud Asgardian armor dented, cracked, blackened with soot. One of his horns was snapped clean in half. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven gasps.
At last he rolled onto his back with a groan, trying to catch his breath—then froze.
They were waiting.
The Avengers. And more.
They stood in a half-circle, weapons still raised, postures radiating battle-worn fury.
At the center was Steve Rogers, his uniform scorched and torn, but his shield already back on his arm, his blue eyes steady as stone. His jaw was set like he was judging Loki for every sin he'd ever committed.
To his right leaned Tony Stark, helmet tucked under his arm, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and blood. His smirk was back though—half amusement, half pure spite—as if he'd just been waiting for this moment.
Natasha Romanoff crouched low, scepter dangling carelessly from her gloved fingers, but her black eyes locked on Loki like a wolf waiting for permission to strike.
Clint Barton stood just behind her, bow drawn, an arrowhead gleaming and perfectly centered between Loki's eyes. His lopsided grin looked almost bored.
And the Hulk… oh, the Hulk. He loomed at the edge of the circle, shoulders rising and falling with slow, deliberate breaths, his massive fists curling and uncurling as he growled low in his throat—a sound that made the air itself vibrate.
Thor stood a few feet behind, his jaw tight, golden hair darkened by ash and sweat, Mjolnir resting against his shoulder. His eyes were twin storms of quiet, simmering rage.
And then there were the others.
Harry stood near the center, emerald eyes glowing faintly, his chest still heaving from the fight but his glare calm and cutting. Next to him stood Daphne, blonde hair matted and a line of blood running down one cheek, her wand pointed at Loki with the casual grace of someone who knew exactly where she'd strike first. Fleur flanked her, elegant even in disarray, her battle robe torn but her French-accented sneer perfectly intact as she muttered something sharp under her breath. Susan stood a little farther back, hair blazing red under the light, her wand tight in her grip and a scowl darkening her pretty features.
Val was there too—twin blades sheathed now, but her stance was still loose and predatory, the faintest smirk on her lips. Dacey Mormont stood to Val's left, tall and bloodied but unbowed, her green eyes as sharp as her namesake's claws. Allyria Dayne's pale, striking beauty was marred only by soot and dirt as her violet eyes glinted with quiet fury.
And beyond them—Shaak Ti and Aayla Secura stood like statues of battle, lekku perfectly still, their blue and red blades still humming faintly at their sides. Riyo Chuchi stood regally even now, her pale skin and white-gold hair pristine amid the ruin, her eyes cold as ice as she studied him.
And HK-47. The bronze assassin droid was dead last in the circle, blaster lazily trained on Loki's chest, his photoreceptors gleaming.
"Observation," HK drawled, his voice dripping with mechanical disdain. "Target appears to have lost control of his bodily functions. Not unexpected behavior from organics under extreme stress."
Loki's gaze flitted desperately from one to the next, seeing nothing but scorn, exhaustion, and barely-leashed violence in each face.
He tried a smile, crooked and strained, and let out a soft, dry laugh that cracked halfway through.
"If it's all the same to you," he rasped hoarsely, his accent cutting through the silence like glass, "I'll have that drink now."
For a long second, no one moved.
Then Tony straightened, snorted, and shook his head as he holstered his gauntlet.
"Yeah," he said, his voice wry but soft with exhaustion. "But you're buying."
Beside him, Steve's lip twitched as he muttered.
"He's not kidding."
Natasha's eyes narrowed as she twirled the scepter once and rested it against her shoulder.
"Better hope they serve in a padded cell," she murmured, her voice low and dangerous.
Clint tilted his head and tightened his draw ever so slightly.
"So much as twitch and I redecorate this whole lobby with your face," he added.
Fleur stepped forward with a disdainful little sniff.
"Pff. Zat is a face only a cell could love."
Daphne raised a brow and smirked faintly.
"And even that's debatable."
Harry let his hand lower slightly but didn't look away, his emerald gaze still sharp as he muttered.
"Try anything and I'll make sure you regret it."
Even Hulk let out a low, rumbling laugh as he bared his teeth, leaning just slightly closer to Loki.
Thor finally stepped forward, Mjolnir swinging lazily as his thunderous voice filled the ruined hall.
"Brother," he said flatly, though the word was heavier than stone. "Yield. Or face the full measure of our wrath."
Loki swallowed hard, then let his head fall back with a faint sigh.
"Oh… I yield."
Behind him, HK-47's head tilted slightly as he muttered.
"Commentary: A most disappointing end to an otherwise promising execution protocol."
Tony snorted again as he turned to leave, muttering over his shoulder.
"Yeah, yeah. Let's book him before big green here forgets he's not supposed to smash what's left of the furniture."
Hulk growled in approval as the rest of the circle finally began to break apart—though their eyes stayed on Loki all the same, just in case he decided to try his luck.
—
NEW YORK — THE DAY AFTER
Television screens across the world glowed with shaky news footage of New York's scarred skyline. Smoke still rose from gutted towers, alien wreckage still littered the avenues like carcasses of some monstrous invasion.
A male reporter's voice-over tried to wrap words around something nobody truly understood.
"Despite the devastation of what has now been confirmed as an extraterrestrial attack…"
Footage rolled of crumpled Leviathans being hoisted away by cranes, National Guard vehicles patrolling empty streets, terrified civilians huddled in subway stations.
"…the extraordinary heroics of the group known as the Avengers have captured the imagination of millions."
Cut to a young man in a baseball cap, grinning nervously at the camera as emergency workers worked behind him.
"It's really great knowing they're out there, you know? That… someone's watching over us."
Another clip: a teenage girl in a Thor T-shirt leaning out a window, cupping her hands to her mouth and shouting gleefully.
"I love you, Thor!"
But not everyone was celebrating.
On another corner, a middle-aged man, his arm protectively around his wife's shoulders, spoke with a wary edge to his voice.
"I just… don't feel safe. Not with those things still out there."
His wife, her eyes sharp and skeptical, leaned into the mic.
"Seems like there's a lot they're not telling us."
Then a new voice — older, wryer, unmistakably Stan Lee, leaning on his cane as he glowered at the camera.
"Superheroes? In New York? Pfft. Give me a break."
In Washington, the tone turned colder — a senator pounding a podium with his fist, cameras flashing all around him.
"These so-called heroes have to be held responsible for the destruction done to this city! This was their fight! Where are they now?"
The question hung in the air as the broadcast cut.
And then, the answer.
—
A footbridge over the Hudson.
They walked in silence, each step echoing like thunder against the cracked concrete.
Thor led, Mjolnir swinging lightly at his side, his other hand gripping the chain attached to his brother. Loki shuffled behind him, head high despite the muzzle clamped over his mouth, his hands bound in glowing cuffs. His green eyes glimmered with defiance — but also resignation.
Tony Stark followed at an easy pace, carrying a slim StarkTech briefcase and wearing his usual smug expression, though the exhaustion in his shoulders was hard to miss.
Behind him came Natasha and Clint, walking in step as though they'd been doing it their whole lives — her carrying the alien scepter casually over one shoulder, him with his bow slung but arrow still notched.
Banner walked quietly, his shirt torn, his hands stuffed awkwardly into his pockets, his eyes betraying the faintest trace of peace.
Then came Steve Rogers, shield slung across his back, his chin lifted and his stride steady.
Harry Potter and his girls fell in behind, a graceful wedge of wands and steel. Daphne's ice-cool eyes scanned the bridge like a hawk, Fleur glided beside her with her wand twirling idly through her fingers, and Susan flanked Harry's other side, her hair like a banner of flame.
Val strode silently, deadly as ever, her twin blades sheathed but her hands resting lightly on the hilts. Dacey Mormont and Allyria Dayne walked a step behind her — north and south united in grim pride.
The Jedi — Shaak Ti and Aayla Secura — followed close, their lightsabers unlit but always within reach, lekku swinging slightly with each stride. Beside them walked Riyo Chuchi, her elegant bearing undiminished even amid the chaos.
And at the rear, bringing up the line, the bronze frame of HK-47 gleamed, his blaster raised just enough to be threatening, his photoreceptors glowing faintly.
Together, they filled the bridge, a silent wall of power and purpose.
—
On a S.H.I.E.L.D. monitor, the camera cut to a young woman being interviewed on CNN — the waitress who'd been pulled from the rubble the day before. Her eyes were still red, her apron still dust-streaked, but her smile was genuine as she spoke into the microphone.
"What, that this is all somehow their fault?" she said, incredulously.
"Captain America saved my life. Wherever he is… wherever any of them are…" She paused, emotion catching in her throat.
"…I just want to say thank you."
In the darkened control room, Nick Fury stood silently, watching his screen. One corner of his mouth twitched upward in what might almost — almost — have been a smile.
—
S.H.I.E.L.D. — BRIEFING ROOM
The conference room was dark and cold, lit only by the blue glow of four massive screens hanging above the long table. Each one displayed the face of a World Security Council member, all of them wearing identical masks of bureaucratic disapproval.
Councilman Two leaned forward, his tone already laced with exasperation.
"Director Fury… where are the Avengers?"
Nick Fury didn't so much as blink. He stood at the head of the table, his long leather coat draping around him like a coiled serpent. He clasped his hands behind his back, fixing the councilman with his one good eye.
"I'm not currently tracking their whereabouts," Fury replied flatly. Then, after a perfectly timed pause, he added, "I'd say they've earned a leave of absence."
Councilwoman Lin's lips thinned as she leaned closer to her camera.
"And the Tesseract?"
—
In Central Park, Erik Selvig climbed down from the back of a SHIELD truck, holding a gleaming glass cylinder etched with faintly glowing Asgardian runes.
Beside him, Bruce Banner carefully handled the Tesseract itself with a pair of mechanical tongs, the Cube pulsing and flaring faintly with alien light.
On the other side of the clearing, Tony Stark crouched next to his gleaming new sports car, flipping open a StarkTech briefcase with the bored ease of someone who'd faced death and won.
Selvig raised the cylinder. Banner lowered the Tesseract into it with surgeon's precision. The chamber sealed shut with a hiss and a satisfying click, its glow settling into containment.
From the conference room, Fury's steady, iron voice overlaid the footage.
"The Tesseract," he said, "is where it belongs now… out of our reach."
Councilman Pierce let out a derisive snort.
"That's not your call."
Fury's lips curled into a faint, dangerous smile.
"I didn't make it," he said. "I just didn't argue with the god who did."
—
Thor clasped Selvig's hand, his voice calm but weighty. "Until next we meet, Erik."
Selvig nodded faintly, his eyes still distant.
Off to the side, Loki stood bound and muzzled, his green eyes burning with fury and humiliation. Natasha Romanoff brushed past him, her red hair falling into her eyes as she leaned toward Clint Barton and murmured something. Whatever it was, Barton smirked and muttered back, "Oh, I plan to."
Harry Potter and his companions stood a few paces away — Daphne, Fleur, Susan, Val, Dacey, Allyria — their cloaks catching the wind like banners, the Marauder gleaming behind them, looking somehow smug for a ship.
Councilwoman Lin's voice cut through the silence.
"So you let him take it. And the war criminal Loki — who should be answering for his crimes—"
Fury interrupted her, his tone now icy and sharp.
"Oh, I think he will be."
Thor stepped forward, gripping one end of the cylinder, while Loki — still scowling — took the other. Thor nodded once to the group. The device glowed brighter and brighter until the brothers were swallowed by a column of rainbow light and vanished into the heavens, leaving the park eerily still.
And then Lin's voice, more cutting than before:
"Director. One more thing. Care to explain why the council was not made aware of… Harry Potter. Or his female companions."
Fury arched a brow at the screen. His good eye glimmered.
"I came across them seventeen years ago," he said, calm but pointed. "Same damn event that brought the Tesseract into SHIELD hands in the first place."
Pierce barked a short, mirthless laugh.
"Seventeen years ago? And yet they don't look a day over twenty. Maybe nineteen. And those three alien women of his — what the hell are they?"
Fury let the silence hang, just long enough to make them sweat.
"Their secrets are their own," he said finally. "But I do know this: Harry Potter spent those seventeen years out in space. And he's been SHIELD's main supplier of the vibranium we've managed to get our hands on. Seems it's rare here, but not so rare out there."
That drew a chorus of low mutters and scoffs.
Pierce jabbed a finger at his camera.
"And you agreed to his ridiculous demand? That you — and only you — be his point of contact? That's outrageous!"
Fury's smile turned sharp as a blade.
"And yet… here we are," he said simply. "You're welcome."
Several of the council members visibly bristled, but none pressed further.
—
Steve Rogers stood next to Tony's car, his shield slung on his back. Stark held out a hand, smirking.
"Don't get sentimental, Cap," Tony said.
Steve grasped his hand anyway, his smile faint but genuine.
Councilwoman Lin's voice rang back through the screens.
"You really don't understand what you've started, Director. Letting the Avengers loose on this world. They're dangerous."
Banner met Natasha's eyes as she handed him a duffel bag. "She's not wrong," he murmured with a wry half-smile.
Natasha just gave him a knowing look and turned away, heading for Barton, who was already behind the wheel of the SHIELD sedan.
Tony vaulted into his car, revving the engine. Behind him, the Marauder's hatch opened with a soft hiss as Harry and his girls strode toward it, their cloaks catching the light.
Lin's voice carried after them.
"Wherever they are, whatever they think they're doing… they're a liability."
Fury's reply came sharp and immediate.
"They damn sure are," he said. "And the whole world knows it. Every world knows it."
Pierce sneered one last time.
"So that was the point? A statement?"
Fury's lips pulled into a slow, dangerous grin.
"No," he said. "A promise."
—
The screens blinked dark one by one. Fury stood there alone for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he turned on his heel and strode out the door, his coat flaring behind him.
On the helicarrier flight deck, Maria Hill fell into step beside him.
"Sir," she said evenly, "how does this work now? They've gone their separate ways — some of them… very far. If something like this happens again, what then?"
Fury didn't break stride.
"They'll come back," he said.
Hill quirked a brow, her voice dry. "That's… a lot of faith for you."
Finally, Fury stopped at the edge of the deck, gripping the railing, staring out into the horizon.
"I'm not betting on faith," he said quietly. "I'm betting on them. Because when the next fight comes…" He glanced sideways at her, his good eye glittering with quiet menace. "We'll need them to."
Hill stood there, watching him, before she gave a small, sharp nod. "Then I'll start the paperwork," she said, already turning on her heel and snagging a folder from a passing agent.
Fury stayed where he was — a lone figure against the wind, the world sprawled out before him.
Waiting. Watching.
And already planning for the next fight.
—
STARK TOWER — TOP FLOOR
The sun was starting to set over Manhattan, casting the city in warm gold and long, jagged shadows.
Pepper Potts stood at a drafting table in what used to be Tony Stark's penthouse — the massive window behind her cracked but still standing. The skyline stretched out beyond her, its scars still fresh.
She held a sleek StarkPad in one hand, scrolling through floor plans and designs, while her other hand absentmindedly tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
"You know," Tony said behind her, his voice carrying that familiar mix of arrogance and exhaustion, "most people take, oh, two days, maybe even three, to rebuild after an alien invasion. But no, not us. We dive right back into zoning laws and steel schematics."
He sauntered into the room, still in the half-ruined version of his Black Sabbath tee, carrying two tumblers of something expensive. His arc reactor glowed faintly through the worn cotton as he set one drink on the table near her elbow.
Pepper didn't look up right away. "Most people," she replied dryly, "don't have to repair the most iconic piece of real estate in Manhattan while pretending their company's CEO didn't level half of it during the rescue."
"Allegedly." He took a long sip, leaning his hip against the edge of the table and glancing down at the holographic projections Pepper was flipping through.
One was a blueprint for a new lobby. Another showed sleek, reinforced elevator shafts. One more displayed the tower's crown — and the huge, vertical letters that once screamed STARK to the entire city.
Tony grimaced faintly at the rendering.
"Well," he said, swirling his drink, "guess it's just as well the Chitauri blew up my ego along with the 'S,' 'T,' 'R,' and 'K.'"
Pepper finally lifted her head and shot him a look — sharp, but with the faintest curl of amusement at the corners of her mouth.
"You noticed that too?" she said.
He smirked faintly, then pushed off the table and walked toward the shattered window. Outside, the jagged remains of the name still clung to the tower's façade. The sun caught on the single remaining letter, gleaming bright against the dark steel.
Just one letter left.
A.
Tony stood there for a long beat, glass in one hand, the light of the reactor glowing through his shirt, the skyline reflected in the glass.
"That," he said finally, softly, "I think we keep."
Pepper joined him at the window, arms folded, her gaze flicking from him to the damaged sign.
"You really think you're going to share your building with them?" she asked.
He didn't answer right away — just watched the "A" shimmer in the dying light. Then, without looking at her, he said:
"They're not just 'them,' Pep. They're… something else."
A beat passed. He raised his glass a little, as if toasting the letter on the side of the tower.
"They're Avengers."
For once, Pepper didn't argue. She let the quiet settle, the sound of the wind through the broken glass the only noise between them.
Then, at last, she said, with just a hint of a smile:
"Well… I guess you're finally learning to share, Mr. Stark."
He glanced at her, smirked faintly, and clinked his glass against hers.
"Don't get used to it," he muttered.
But his gaze lingered on the shining "A," his smirk softening into something more thoughtful, almost reverent.
It was just a letter.
But it meant everything now.
—
ABOARD THE MARAUDER — OBSERVATION LOUNGE
The Marauder hummed softly as it cruised through the black. Beyond the forward viewport stretched an endless field of stars, distant and uncaring. But inside the ship, the mood was far less lofty.
The observation lounge was dim but comfortable, the golden trim of the walls catching the light of the holo-screen suspended in the air.
On the screen played a shaky, grainy recording—clearly taken by some lowly SHIELD tech who couldn't believe what he was seeing.
The Avengers.
Including Harry and his girls.
Sitting around a battered wooden table inside a little corner shawarma joint in Manhattan.
Not a word spoken.
Not a smile cracked.
They just sat there, hunched and exhausted, stuffing their faces with shawarma like the fate of the galaxy depended on it.
The camera panned over each of them in turn: Steve chewing methodically, like he was analyzing the sandwich bite by bite for weaknesses. Tony leaning on one hand, dead-eyed and still in his shredded suit, but still managing to snag a second wrap without looking up. Natasha and Clint both stared into space, moving only to lift food mechanically to their mouths.
Even Bruce, still looking vaguely ashamed of himself but no less hungry.
And there at the end of the table, somehow making the entire absurd scene even stranger—Harry sat slouched, one arm draped over the back of his chair, scarf still around his neck, stuffing a bite of lamb and sauce into his mouth. Fleur and Daphne sat on either side of him, equally silent, equally focused on their plates. Susan gnawed her way through a pita like she had a personal vendetta against it. Val leaned back in her chair, staring at nothing, her fingers idly tearing a napkin to shreds. Dacey and Allyria… well, they didn't even bother with chairs, they sat on the floor, their plates in their laps, like proper Northerners and Dornish would.
Behind the group, one weary employee swept up bits of plaster and glass. Another set a fresh chair down and quietly righted a table that had clearly been flipped during… something.
The scene was completely silent except for the faint sound of scraping forks and crunching bread on the recording.
Onboard the Marauder, Susan finally let out a soft snort.
"We look ridiculous," she murmured.
Val smirked faintly, arms crossed.
"Speak for yourself. I look magnificent, even when I'm half-dead."
That drew a quiet chuckle from Harry, though he didn't take his eyes off the screen.
"You know…" he said lazily, his voice still a touch hoarse from the battle, "if I'd known saving the world ended with mystery meat and silence, I might've just stayed in bed."
Daphne, still perched elegantly on the couch beside him, arched a golden brow, her lips quirking into the faintest smirk.
"We'd have dragged you out anyway, darling."
"And besides," Fleur added with her usual breathy grace, "ze sauce was divine. Totally worth it."
The holo-screen flickered as the shaky video ended, freezing on a frame of the whole lot of them in their quiet, battered, shawarma-devouring glory.
Harry leaned back against the cushions, stretching his long legs out. He regarded the frozen image with an amused little smile tugging at his lips.
"Avengers," he murmured dryly. "Earth's mightiest heroes."
A beat of silence passed as everyone took one more look at themselves on that screen.
"…We need better PR," Val finally muttered.
And for the first time all day, a ripple of genuine laughter ran through the Marauder.
Out there in the stars, there were still battles waiting.
But for the moment, at least… there was shawarma.
—
THE FAR EDGE OF THE COSMOS — THE DARK REALM
The throne room was cut from obsidian and silence.
The black stone walls stretched into nothingness, jagged and cold. Beyond them, the cosmos itself swirled—a vast sea of stars and dying suns, bleeding nebulae casting faint, sickly light into the void. The air inside shimmered faintly, as though even light was wary of lingering here.
At the foot of the throne, the Other knelt.
His long, spindly frame trembled as he pressed both clawed hands together, his bony forehead almost scraping the floor. His voice broke the heavy quiet like a knife through glass, thin and urgent.
"The humans…" he began, his breath rattling, his Southern-tinged drawl curling around the words with the false sweetness of poison. "They… they are not the cowering wretches we were promised."
He dared—foolishly, perhaps—a fleeting glance upward at the being seated above him.
The figure did not move. He didn't have to. His immense shoulders slouched in casual command, his great arms resting on the throne's sides like coiled iron. The dim light revealed little, save for the silhouette of power itself—and the faint gold gleam of his armored gauntlets, fingers flexing in silence.
The Other swallowed audibly, his throat bobbing. A bead of sweat traced down the ridge of his narrow cheek.
"They… they stand," he continued, his words picking up a nervous rhythm now. "They are… unruly. Unpredictable. And therefore—"
He hesitated, forcing the next words out like thorns.
"…cannot be ruled."
Still no answer. Not even a tilt of the head.
The silence pressed harder. He could feel it in his ribs. His bones felt brittle just being in its presence, his every nerve screaming to flee even as he forced himself lower to the floor.
When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse, desperate, though he tried to coat it in that usual slippery charm.
"To challenge them…" He swallowed again. "Why—why, that is to… to court Death, my lord."
The words hung in the air.
And then, finally—
The figure moved.
Slowly. Deliberately.
The massive head turned toward him, and though most of his face was still shrouded in shadow, the light caught the edge of a cruel smile. Purple lips curled, and the faint glow in his eyes deepened into something molten and unholy.
He leaned forward, resting a great hand under his chin, as if the very idea amused him.
When he spoke, his voice rolled through the vast chamber like distant thunder—slow, deep, and patient, yet heavy with the weight of inevitable violence.
"Then…"
He let the word hang, savoring it, his teeth bared now in a grin that was more predator than man.
"…let us court Death."
The Other flinched at that, though he forced a nervous chuckle, his long fingers twisting in his robes.
"O-of course, my lord," he stammered quickly, the false cheer in his voice cracking as he dared another glance at that smile. "As you wish. Nothing would please me more."
Thanos leaned back on his throne, the gold-plated armor on his massive shoulders catching the faint starlight now. He rested his arms lazily, exuding a kind of terrifying calm.
And then… a laugh.
Low at first, almost a hum. Then louder. Deeper.
It rolled up from his chest like a landslide, rattling the black stone beneath them.
It was not the laugh of a man.
It was the laugh of something inevitable.
The Other stayed bowed low, his smile plastered on even as his whole frame shuddered.
And behind them, the stars outside the jagged window burned on.
Unknowing.
Unready.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!