<<<[Remember!! This is one of the possible fanfics that will get picked up! Rules in the event are simple!]>>>
The One With The Most Power Stones = 1 Point
The One With The Reviews = 1 Point
The One With The Most Votes On The Poll= 1 Point
The vote is FREE!, just become a Free Member in P@tr3on and you can vote!
<<<[The winner is the one with most points! and there is a chance that more than 1 fic gets picked up so support all the fics you want to be picked!!]>>>
Felix Ragnell opened his hands and offered Natasha a mild, almost casual smile.
"See? However this plays out, the Foundation can't lose. And all it costs me is having Coulson make a phone call."
Natasha fell completely silent.
Staring at the man in front of her, she felt—for the first time—a chill that seemed to rise from the marrow of her bones.
This wasn't madness. It wasn't malice.
It was absolute, surgical rationality. The kind that treats everyone as pieces on a board, every decision as an exchange—logic honed to an arctic edge.
Just then, Felix pressed his comm.
"Six-five-four-seven, reduce speed. Hold a five-kilometer orbit around the target area until you get my order."
"Sir, you mean…?" came 6547's puzzled voice.
"Let our 'containment object' feed first," Felix said evenly. "Once it's full and grown, it won't have anywhere left to hide, will it?"
"…Understood, sir."
The line went dead.
Natasha watched Felix. She knew the words were for her benefit, too.
A warning. And a breaking-in.
A reminder that the Foundation's rules of engagement weren't like any organization she'd ever known.
Strangely, for that billionaire she'd never even met—the one about to be used as bait—she felt no flicker of pity.
In her eyes, Tony Stark was a merchant of death who'd grown fat selling war, a vain, arrogant playboy.
Why should his life or death matter to her?
"We've got a bit of time before the op starts."
Natasha drew a deeper breath and chose to seize it.
"Mr. Ragnell, would you… tell me about the Foundation?"
Felix's mouth tilted at the corner.
He knew the second fish was starting to nose the bait.
"Of course, Agent Romanoff."
…
Aboard the transport.
6547 had just finished with Felix and turned, his glacial gaze sweeping over Phil Coulson and Melinda May.
"Check gear."
The order was clipped, to the point.
Around them, the C-Class operatives began immediate inspections.
Pulse rifles were hanging on slings across their chests. In their hands instead was a strange rig shaped almost like a flamethrower—except a mist of white cold curled from its muzzle.
"Cryogenic sprayer," a trooper said as he handed a set to Phil and Melinda, voice like a readout. "Drops the target zone to minus one-hundred-fifty Celsius in an instant. Effectively suppresses SCP-307's activity."
Along with the sprayers came several grenades pulsing with cold blue light—freeze grenades.
Phil took the kit. The chill bit straight through his gloves.
But when his eyes hit the last line on the loadout sheet, the color drained from his face.
"Tactical armor includes integrated high-explosive charge and remote-detonation system… What does that even mean? A suicide device?!"
His voice spiked beyond his control.
Bombs in every soldier's armor? Who could do that to their own people?
The Foundation troopers didn't so much as twitch. It was as ordinary to them as rations and water. A few looked his way with the same expression you'd give a child throwing a tantrum.
"It ensures that, if personnel are converted by an anomaly, contaminated, or at risk of leaking intel, we can execute a complete purge," 6547 explained, face unreadable. "It also guarantees that, in the final moment, we can take the containment target with us and buy humanity one last chance."
"That's inhuman! It's a violation of basic rights!" Phil all but shouted. "How can you treat your own soldiers like this?!"
6547 regarded him, then turned to an equipment crate, pulled out a parachute, and tossed it at Phil's feet.
"The Foundation forces no one."
His voice was colder than the cryo units.
"If you can't accept this, take that chute and jump. File your complaint with any agency on Earth you think can deliver 'justice.'"
He stepped in close. The pressure of him hit like a physical weight.
"But you do not have the standing to question our choice."
"We are the ones who go to die. We are the last wall before civilization. When the abyss looks back, our only task is to stand in front of all humankind with our flesh and blood."
"Our lives aren't our own. They belong to our species. If our deaths can shield that sunlit world, then our deaths have worth."
He hadn't raised his voice, but each word landed like a hammer blow on Phil's chest.
All around, Foundation troopers had gone still. A hundred visors turned, and even through the helmets Phil could feel the disdain, the scorn—and the fervor.
In their eyes, this S.H.I.E.L.D. agent still talking about "human rights" was small, laughable… and pitiable.
"Phil."
Melinda tugged his sleeve and gave a slight shake of her head.
Don't forget why we're here.
Phil's chest heaved. He looked at the faces around him—hidden behind composite and glass yet burning with fanatic heat—and for the first time, fear chilled him deeper than anger.
"Lunatics… an entire platoon of lunatics," he whispered to Melinda, voice trembling.
"This isn't an organization. It's a vast, zealous cult. They're ten thousand times scarier than any terror group I've ever seen."
"Hydra just wants to rule the world. These people don't even care if they live. That willingness to die for some nebulous 'human civilization'—that's terrifying."
A rare shadow crossed Melinda's calm features.
"They're dangerous," she murmured back, level and low. "We keep our cover, find their headquarters… and root them out."
In the end, Phil took the kit that felt, to him, like a signed contract for his own remains.
Under Melinda's steady gaze, he drew a deep breath and his face settled into an unfamiliar sobriety.
It wasn't the look of a man receiving tactical gear.
It was the look of someone signing an organ donor form.
He knew that once he put this on, he would no longer be only S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Phil Coulson.
He would also be nameless cannon fodder for the Foundation—subject to "purge" the moment it was necessary.
(End of Chapter)
[Get +20 Extra Chapters On — P@tr3on "Zaelum"]
[Every 500 Power Stones = 1 Bonus Chapter Drop]
[Thanks for Reading!]