Ben probably never considered that his simple advice for Tony to get some rest would plant the seed for the creation of Ultron.
Even if the idea was now in Tony's head, however, bringing it to fruition would be a monumental task. In the comics, Ultron was the creation of Dr. Hank Pym. In the movie universe, it was a joint project between Tony and Dr. Banner, and even with their combined intellect, breaking through the technological barriers had taken a significant amount of time. And for now, Bruce Banner was still safely ensconced at Primus Technologies. It wasn't impossible for Tony to develop Ultron on his own, but it would be a long, arduous process.
At least for the time being, the world was safe from that particular brand of genius folly.
After a long-overdue return to his own bed in Queens, Ben enjoyed a full night of deep, uninterrupted sleep. The world continued to turn without his constant supervision. H.A.M.M.E.R.'s facilities were already fabricating the satellite components from his blueprints. The hunt for Ulysses Klaue was underway. Tony was working himself to the bone building new armors; Ben idly wondered if he could match the sheer volume of suits from Iron Man 3 before the Chitauri arrived. Peter was busy being a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, and Felicia was dedicating most of her time to her new training, even taking frequent leaves of absence from school, much to Mary Jane's concern.
All in all, everyone was busy.
For the first time in a long while, Ben found himself idle. He'd already transformed into Upgrade and merged with a H.A.M.M.E.R. Helicarrier, turning it into a colossal automated mining rig. Under Eunice's control, it was now steadily drilling for Anti-Vibranium deep beneath the Antarctic ice. The excavation was slow; the unique properties of the metal caused extreme wear on the drill bits, requiring frequent replacement. With that project underway, he'd turned his attention to designing the internal systems of the Plumbers' space station. While the hull required a massive amount of vibranium alloy, the internal structures and instruments could be built with more conventional materials.
With his major projects delegated or in a holding pattern, Ben returned to the quiet routine of high school, using the mundane rhythm of classes and homework to decompress from the cosmic-level stress.
Thor woke up on a park bench. It was another terrible day. He'd lost his hammer again. Not Mjolnir, but the sledgehammer he used at his construction job. He'd lost the job itself.
S.H.I.E.L.D. had initially set him up with a fake identity, just so he wouldn't starve to death on Earth. With his godlike strength, Thor had excelled at manual labor. At first, he moved bricks and cement, earning a decent wage. He could do the work of four men, and his foreman had generously paid him for two. Thor hadn't cared. Ever since losing Mjolnir, life had lost its color. He felt like a king without a crown, a warrior without a weapon. Money was meaningless.
He went through the motions, working in a daze, until one day he was given a new task: demolition. He was handed a sledgehammer.
He was immediately captivated.
Though it wasn't his hammer, and he no longer possessed his divine power, the moment he gripped the heavy tool, Thor felt a spark of his old self return. That period became the best of his time on Earth. Every day, he poured all his strength and frustration into swinging that hammer. At night, he would carry it back to his cheap rental apartment and speak to it as if it were an old friend. His neighbors thought he was dangerously unstable and gave him a wide berth.
Thor remembered every day on that job. He remembered once being sent to demolish a wall at a high school. The students there had been incredibly friendly, taking pictures with him on their strange little glowing rectangles and treating him to ice-cold soda. For a while, life seemed almost good. It was peaceful, if not glorious.
Then, S.H.I.E.L.D. had found him again. Or rather, as he later learned, it was Hydra, lurking within S.H.I.E.L.D.'s ranks. Thor didn't understand the intricacies of their conflict, but he knew one thing: Hydra was Captain America's enemy.
So, when those agents had branded Steve Rogers a fugitive, Thor hadn't believed a word of it. Any man who could lift Mjolnir was worthy of ruling Asgard itself. Such a man could not be evil. He had ignored Pierce's demands. Besides, he couldn't have retrieved his hammer even if he'd wanted to. Mjolnir no longer belonged to him.
The construction crew didn't know any of that. They only saw a group of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents respectfully escorting Thor away. Later, when those same agents revealed their allegiance to Hydra, everyone assumed Thor was connected to them. They couldn't understand why H.A.M.M.E.R. had rounded up so many Hydra operatives but left him untouched.
Because of this, Thor lost his job. His landlord kicked him out, keeping his deposit. Suddenly penniless and unemployed, Thor found himself sleeping on the streets.
He didn't care much at first. He had slept in the open on countless war-torn worlds. But he forgot a crucial detail: he was no longer the God of Thunder, immune to all mortal frailties. He was just a man. After a few days of sleeping in the park, getting caught in a sudden downpour, and eating very little, his body gave out.
When he woke up today, Thor was sick.
For the first time in his long life, he felt true weakness. His limbs were heavy and unresponsive, and his head felt like it was filled with the molten slag of a dwarven forge. In the morning, a tall, short-haired young man jogging through the park had noticed his condition and offered to take him to a hospital. It was Flash Thompson.
Pride, the last remnant of his godhood, flared in Thor's chest. He would not show weakness. For a warrior, weakness was a prelude to death. He had loudly rebuked the boy, proclaiming that the son of Odin needed no sympathy, that if he died, his soul would ascend to Valhalla to fight for his king.
Flash, thinking the man was delirious with fever, had tried to insist. An enraged Thor had shoved him away. Undeterred, Flash left a small piece of paper with his contact information, telling him to call if he needed help.
Now, the cool morning had given way to a sweltering afternoon. Though it was nearly October, the New York sun beat down relentlessly. Thor's vision blurred, and the world swam around him. He felt like he was truly going to die. A wave of regret washed over him. He shouldn't have rejected the boy's help.
He wasn't afraid of death. But he couldn't bear the thought of dying like this—a coward's death, shivering and sick. He was meant to die a warrior's death, on a battlefield, at the hands of a worthy enemy. As a god. Not as a mortal, felled by a common fever.
A powerful will to survive surged through him. He fumbled for the note Flash had left him.
"Is this… a phone number?"
He vaguely recalled that Earthlings communicated with these devices. It wasn't as elegant as Asgardian magic, but anyone could use it. He had made up his mind. He would swallow his pride.
He stared at the note, his feverish eyes struggling to focus on the string of numbers. He repeated them over and over like a mantra, committing them to his sticky, sluggish memory. Excellent, he thought. Now, I just need to call him.
He sat there on the bench for a long time, waiting for something to happen. Nothing did. A slow, horrifying realization dawned on him.
"I… I don't know how to call…"
He collapsed onto the grass. Thor, you fool, he thought, a wave of self-loathing washing over him. He felt like utter trash, incapable of even the simplest task. He was really going to die this time.
He wasn't afraid of death. Brave warriors went to Valhalla.
But am I qualified?
The question had become a curse, branded on his soul, plunging him into a daily spiral of self-doubt.
Is a man like me worthy of entering Valhalla? He was a mortal now, and he had not died a heroic death. Would he be permitted to join the gods and fight as an Einherjar? He thought not.
Pain twisted in his chest, a hollow ache where his pride used to be. Tears streamed from his eyes. He would never see Asgard again. He would never see his father, or his mother. He would never hold Mjolnir…
He didn't even know what had become of Loki. Was he alive? Or dead?
You must still be alive, Thor thought, a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob escaping his lips. You always are.
Through his tear-blurred vision, a hazy, green-tinged figure slowly swam into focus. Thor couldn't see clearly, but he recognized the silhouette. It was Loki.
It seems I am truly dying, he thought. I'm even hallucinating.
"Who told you this was an illusion, brother?"
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