And in the quiet of the command deck, Athena's voice returned to James alone, unheard by the others:
{Messiah, your will has taken shape. The ship lives, sanctified by your hand. The world believes it is theirs. But only through you does it endure.}
James's expression never changed. He simply closed his notebook and watched Fury return to his desk.
The test was over. The war was only beginning.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
James scanned Nick Fury's blind eye. The retinal pattern slid across Athena's terminal, a lattice of glyphs pulsing before the system confirmed authentication. Layers of encryption rolled over the access gate like steel shutters locking into place.
{Clearance accepted. Director-level identity confirmed. Data sanctified under command authority.} Athena's voice filled the chamber, ritualistic but restrained, echoing faintly through the carrier's control deck.
Fury gaved a bit of a raised brow from Athena's choice of words, a little different from when it wasn't just him and James to hear her. He'll just keep that in the back of his mind for now, probably a personal personality trait he encoded for his own taste.
James stepped back from the console, flexing his fingers once before turning to face Fury.
The Director studied him with that weary, deliberate stare. The man had built his career reading soldiers, spies, and liars. Yet now his one good eye narrowed as though searching for something deeper.
"Do you know why I trust you?" Fury asked.
James tilted his head. "Trust me?" The word sat heavier than expected. He'd never considered it. His utility was obvious—he could read intent, sift through deception, and act with precision. Trust had never entered the equation.
He folded his arms across his chest. "I haven't thought about that. Why ask now?"
Fury leaned back against the table, calm as always, but his tone was stripped of theater. "Because I don't have a choice. You and Stark—you're the same kind of breed. A genius mind with cynical attitudes. You'd rather do things your way than follow orders, and somehow that makes you… reliable."
James smirked faintly. "I'll admit Tony's a genius. He's got me as a competition, if anyone does. But cynical? That's your read on me?"
Fury's mouth twitched into something close to amusement. "No? A billionaire who chooses to run black ops for S.H.I.E.L.D.? Is that not cynicism?"
James shrugged. "At the time, there wasn't much of a choice. Coulson had eyes on me from the start. If he wanted me inside, he'd get it one way or another."
The Director shook his head. "No. You had options. Why do you think the Fraternity survived so long? The FBI and CIA knew about them. They had files stacked to the ceiling. But no one made a move. Not because they couldn't. But because they wouldn't."
James raised an eyebrow. "Fear of retaliation. The assassins would strike back. Making it easier to leave the nest alone."
"Exactly," Fury said. "And you and Carlos? You were at the top of the food chain. No one was about to trigger that war over two men who wanted to retire. You didn't have crimes worth chasing. Not compared to the cost of hunting you. You could've walked away. But you didn't."
James thought about it for a moment. "So I could've refused?"
"You could have," Fury confirmed. "But you didn't. And that told me something. You weren't coerced. You chose. Because you're not the type to bow under threat. You've got your father's steel—and your own edge. I've seen the aftermath. You kill people without saying anything."
James's voice hardened. "I killed Hydra's people."
"What's the difference?" Fury asked, leaning closer. "Tony Stark plays the playboy. You were trained to be an assassin. Either way, you pulled the trigger easily. Life doesn't make you hesitate. That's what makes you dangerous. And that's why I can trust you."
James's jaw set. "You're serious? You think I have no reverence for life?"
"We can run the psych tests if you want," Fury replied flatly.
James waved it off. "Not necessary. Forget the small talk. Tell me what you're really getting at."
Fury's tone shifted. "Trust is a currency I don't spend lightly. S.H.I.E.L.D. has cracks—cracks I've known about for years. Hydra doesn't move openly, but they've been embedded long enough to rot us from the inside. I can't always tell who's who. Too many of my people have bled on missions. That history clouds judgment."
He paused. "Then Phil tells me you can read intent. Strip away the masks they hide in. For the first time, I had a weapon against the cancer inside my own walls. After New York, after you delivered proof piece by piece… I knew you weren't bluffing. That's when trust became necessity."
James let out a slow breath. "And now you're thanking me."
Fury nodded once. "Without you, Hydra might've bled us until we collapsed. Even if we won, the cost would've been so high the world would've forced us to shut down. In the shadows, we wouldn't last. But with you, the game changes. Hydra bleeds instead."
James arched his brow. "So even if S.H.I.E.L.D. had been disbanded, you'd keep operating?"
"That's right," Fury said without hesitation. "Earth needs us. Without S.H.I.E.L.D., Hydra runs unchecked. And unchecked power doesn't stop at one place—it swallows the world."
James gave a dry chuckle. "Sounds noble when you put it that way."
"Not noble," Fury corrected. "Just necessary."
James leaned against the console, expression guarded. "People sign up for different reasons. Some for the country. Some for the thrill. Others just for a paycheck. I've seen it all in their thoughts."
Fury didn't flinch. "And yet they risk their lives anyway. That's what matters. Whatever their reason, they step into the line of fire."
The conversation ended there, neither man needing to push further. Fury straightened, eye sharp to attention. "This isn't just a talk. You've done every job without fail. After your championship event, I'll convene the senior staff. You'll be introduced formally and promoted."
James's lips curved into a thin line. "Don't worry. I'll keep burning Hydra out. I don't leave jobs unfinished."
Fury gave a rare nod of approval. "Good. A Quinjet is fueled and ready. The alien metal you secured is already loaded aboard. It'll take you straight to Stark Tower."
James accepted the datapad and turned for the hatch. "Then I'm leaving."
On the flight deck, the Quinjet idled with turbines humming low. A pilot and co-pilot waited at attention. The cargo bay held a reinforced container—the prize James had extracted at cost. He boarded without ceremony, strapped in, and let the engines roar.
The Quinjet lifted on vertical thrusters, cutting clean through the night sky. James sat back, watching clouds shear past the canopy.
[Analysis: Acquisition of Quinjet technology would grant significant tactical mobility. Recommend requisition for personal construction project.]
James smirked faintly. "Noted. A personal bird might not be a bad idea."
The flight was smooth, quiet, and fast. Within three hours, New York's skyline broke the horizon. Stark Tower rose above the city, its neon arc reactor signature gleaming like a beacon.
They touched down on the landing pad. Stark's crew moved quickly, unloading the container as the Quinjet spooled up for departure.
Tony Stark was waiting, arms open as though greeting an old friend. "James! About time. You drop off alien contraband and leave me hanging for weeks—what kind of partnership is that?"
James shook his hand with a faint smile. "You know how it is. Hydra doesn't clean itself out. How's preparation for the championship night?"
Tony's grin widened. "Please. As long as I can pick my hero, I won't lose. But you'd better not drag me down. Do we have the rest of the roster locked in?"
James shrugged. "Not my department. Kyle's handling that. All that matters is you and me. We're the core." He glanced toward the container. "Now—help me with something. The Nexus Arms weaponry is nice, but it lacks a melee package. I didn't spend a month at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters just to walk away with gaps in my kit."
Tony raised an eyebrow, amused. "Oh? And what kind of weapon do you want this time?"