"Report your status, Coulson," Nick Fury said to the air, voice low and edged.
Phil Coulson's tight, urgent voice filled the command center through the speakers.
"Sir, I've found an unknown organization. They call themselves the Foundation…"
"They possess tech and military capability far beyond our expectations. Their stated goal is to Secure, Contain, Protect anomalous entities."
"The vines on the feed are one of theirs, designated SCP-307, a runaway Euclid-class object."
"Most importantly—Tony Stark is in that valley. He was kidnapped by the Ten Rings and he's now directly threatened by SCP-307!"
Foundation?
SCP?
Containment object?
The string of unfamiliar terms tightened Fury's brow.
He grasped instantly that the situation was worse than he'd imagined.
Another organization in this world with a remit like S.H.I.E.L.D.'s—perhaps even more specialized?
Secure. Contain. Protect.
Wasn't that what S.H.I.E.L.D. had always done?
One thought flashed like heat lightning: No one sleeps soundly beside my bed.
This "Foundation" could not be allowed to stand.
"They call those vines a containment object, not a bioweapon?" Fury drilled into the heart of it.
To him, that plant was obviously a top-tier black program—some nation's covert bio-weapon.
And this "Foundation," this "containment"? Just a play to get the weapon first.
He knew the game. S.H.I.E.L.D. had "picked peaches" before.
Only difference—S.H.I.E.L.D. worked under the World Security Council. That was legal.
The Foundation? What were they—terrorists in the shadows?
Danger glinted in Fury's single eye.
Fear and shock flipped in seconds into naked ambition and hunger.
A secret org with weapons like this and bleeding-edge tech…
If he could fold them in—digest them—
S.H.I.E.L.D. would leap from "America's shield" to the planet's shield.
"Coulson, stay embedded. Collect everything you can on the 'Foundation,' especially their HQ."
Fury's order brooked no argument.
"Do not blow your cover until we know what we're dealing with. I'll handle Stark."
"Understood, sir."
The line cut.
Fury turned to Maria Hill. "Ping the Middle East desk. Spin up extraction protocol. I don't care how—they've got one hour to put a crack team in Afghanistan."
"Yes, sir." Hill pivoted, already issuing commands.
Under Fury's will, the command center became a precision machine, spooling to war speed.
...
Foundation, Command Room
Natasha Romanoff stared at the hell on the main screen, face drained.
She'd seen plenty and kept her nerve, but this—an ungraspable, unnatural way of killing—hit somewhere visceral.
Beside her, Felix Ragnell was calm as ever.
He flicked a glance to a side display.
Not the valley—numbers, dancing in tight columns:
Heart rate. Blood pressure. Adrenal spike…
At the top: Phil Coulson.
Alongside, a small icon pulsed: [Uplink: transmitting…]
Felix's mouth tilted, almost imperceptibly.
Of course he knew what Coulson was doing.
From the moment Coulson boarded, every move—and every "hi-tech" toy's signal whisper—had been under Foundation watch.
Letting him call Nick Fury was part of the plan.
A good fisherman loosens the line after the bite—lets the fish run for "safety."
Only then do the bigger fish swim out from deep water.
"Natasha."
Felix spoke softly.
"You see? A proper bait has carried the line exactly where we wanted."
His tone made it sound trivial.
"The hook is set."
Natasha tore her gaze from the screen's nightmare to his face.
"Bait? Line?" she echoed, blue eyes searching. "You're using S.H.I.E.L.D.?"
"'Using' is such an ugly word," Felix said, swiveling to face her. "I prefer optimal allocation of resources."
He raised a finger.
"First: the Foundation is powerful, but our manpower—especially C-class strike units on immediate tasking—is extremely limited. Right now, North America Branch can field exactly the hundred aboard that transport."
"Each one is a costly asset—years to build."
He spoke like a careful merchant counting inventory.
"For Tony Stark, I won't waste even one. Bad trade."
Natasha's stomach sank.
She understood.
Felix had never intended to throw Foundation troops headlong at that monster in the first wave.
"So you let Coulson leak the intel—so S.H.I.E.L.D. sends people in as cannon fodder?"
"'Cannon fodder' is uglier," Felix corrected gently. "I call them pathfinders."
A cold, lucid light lived in his eyes.
"I know Nick Fury better than you. He's proud, suspicious, and greedy. When he meets a power he can't control, his first move isn't cooperation—it's absorption."
"But Stark matters more to him—now. So he'll send a team."
Felix reclined, hands steepled over his abdomen, the picture of a man with the board in hand.
"Two branches from here."
"One: S.H.I.E.L.D. gets lucky—finds Tony before they hit SCP-307 and pulls him out. On extraction, they slam headlong into a feeding 307. We arrive as saviors, rescue their people, and contain the anomaly. Two birds."
"Two: S.H.I.E.L.D. gets unlucky—meets SCP-307 first. Also good. They spend their lives testing its current capabilities, drain its reserves, and flush it from cover. Then we finish containment at minimal cost."
(End of Chapter)
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