The desert night was colder than I expected. Wind scoured the sand, carrying the faint scent of diesel and ozone from the S.H.I.E.L.D. convoy that had rolled out twenty minutes earlier.
I hovered fifty feet above the cracked asphalt of the access road leading away from the crater site, Marvel 2's cloaking field wrapped tight around me like a second skin. No heat signature. No sound. Just a crimson ghost against the stars.
Thor was in the third SUV. I could see him through the tinted windows—hands cuffed behind his back, head bowed, shoulders still slumped from the failure at the hammer.
The man who had once commanded lightning now looked like any other prisoner being transported to a black-site holding cell.
Coulson rode shotgun in the lead vehicle, calm as ever. The rest of the detail—six agents total—kept formation: two in each SUV, rifles across laps, eyes scanning the dark.
I didn't plan this. I hadn't planned to touch Mjolnir either, hadn't planned the blackout that sent me to 1941 and back with the Space Stone humming in my hand like it belonged there.
But the hammer had judged me—or tested me—and spit me out with one Infinity Stone instead of answers. Now Thor was in chains, and something in me refused to let that stand.
Not because I cared about gods. Not because I owed Asgard anything.
Because I was tired of watching canon play out without me in it.
I dropped altitude, silent as death, and landed on the roof of the middle SUV—the one carrying Thor. The vehicle didn't even sway. I crouched, palms flat against the metal, and listened.
Inside: Thor's breathing, slow and heavy. An agent beside him muttering into a comms unit. "Prisoner secure. ETA to secondary holding: fifteen minutes."
Fifteen minutes was too long.
I moved.
The rear door of the SUV opened without sound—my repulsor field overriding the lock. The agent in the back seat spun, rifle coming up, but I was already inside. One palm strike to the temple—controlled force, no kill. He slumped sideways. Thor's head jerked up.
"Who—?"
I pressed a finger to my helmet's mouthplate. "Quiet."
The driver noticed the movement in the rearview. "What the hell—?"
I vaulted forward between the seats, gauntlet clamping around his wrist before he could reach the radio. A quick twist—bone cracked, not broke—and he screamed.
I cut the scream short with a precise chop to the carotid. He sagged over the wheel. The SUV swerved; I caught the steering with one hand, eased it to the shoulder, killed the engine.
Thor stared at me, eyes wide. "You are not of Midgard."
"Not entirely." I grabbed the keys from the unconscious driver, unlocked Thor's cuffs. "Get out."
He didn't argue. We slipped into the night as the lead and trailing vehicles screeched to a halt. Headlights swept the dark. Agents poured out—rifles up, flashlights cutting beams.
I toggled partial visibility—just enough for Thor to see me clearly—and pointed toward the ridge line. "Run."
He ran. I followed, cloaking fully again.
The agents opened fire—suppressive bursts into the dark. Bullets sparked off my armor's force field; none penetrated. I returned fire—low-power repulsor blasts, crimson arcs that knocked rifles from hands, slammed agents to the ground without lethal force. One tried to flank Thor; I intercepted, grabbed his vest, and hurled him into a sand dune. He landed hard, groaning.
Thor reached the ridge. I landed beside him, cloaking dropping for a heartbeat.
"You fight like a warrior," he said, breathing hard.
"You talk like one who's never lost." I pulled a slim leather-bound notebook from a compartment in my armor. Jane Foster's research diary, taken away by S.H.I.E.L.D. Diagrams, calculations, photos of the hammer embedded in rock. Everything she'd gathered.
I pressed it into Thor's hands. "Give this to the woman. Jane. Tell her to keep running."
Thor looked at the book, then at me. "Why help me?"
"Because I'm bored of watching gods fail." I reactivated cloaking. "Go."
He hesitated only a second—then sprinted toward the distant lights of Puente Antiguo.
I shadowed him from above, invisible, watching as he reached the edge of town.
Jane's van was parked outside a small diner, lights on inside. She stood on the porch, arms crossed, staring at the horizon like she could will answers out of the dark.
Thor slowed to a walk. Jane saw him—froze.
He held up the diary.
She ran to him.
The hug was sudden, fierce. Jane threw her arms around his neck, diary crushed between them. Thor stiffened for a heartbeat—then relaxed, arms coming around her waist.
She pulled back just enough to look at him—then leaned in and pressed a quick, soft peck to his cheek.
Thor's face flushed. Not dramatically. Just a faint pink creeping up his neck, visible even from my vantage point two hundred feet overhead.
I smiled behind the helmet.
Only I saw it.
Jane stepped back, clutching the diary to her chest like it was treasure. "How did you—?"
"A friend," Thor said simply. "A warrior in red armor. She said to keep running."
Jane looked past him into the dark. Saw nothing.
I stayed cloaked. Watched them climb into the van. Watched the taillights disappear down the highway toward the research trailer.
Then I rose higher—above the town, above the desert, until the stars sharpened and the wind died.
____________________
Two hours later the city lights of Manhattan glittered below me like scattered diamonds on black velvet. I dropped altitude silently, Marvel 2's cloaking field still active, and touched down on the rooftop terrace of the mansion without so much as a whisper of displaced air.
The armor unfolded itself in reverse—plates retracting, nanites flowing back into the suitcase with a soft metallic sigh. I stood barefoot on cold stone in nothing but the black compression undersuit, hair damp from high-altitude wind, heart still racing from the desert.
Thor was free. Jane had her research back. S.H.I.E.L.D. would be tearing their hair out trying to figure out how a god vanished from a moving convoy without a single camera catching more than a crimson blur. Good. Let them chase shadows.
I padded inside, the glass doors sliding shut behind me. The mansion was quiet, Natasha still out, probably running whatever late-night errand she needed to clear her head after our earlier reunion. I didn't call for her. I needed a moment alone.
The secret chamber waited.
Down the concealed corridor, past biometric locks that only responded to me. The door hissed open. Concrete. Dim LED strips. Two pedestals.
Soul Stone on the left—orange glow subdued, patient.
Space Stone on the right—blue cube pulsing with quiet infinity.
I stepped between them, reached for the Soul Stone first.
The moment my fingers closed around it—
Black.
Awareness returned in pieces.
First: the smell of rain on concrete and distant exhaust.
Second: the sound of taxi horns, subway rumble, the low murmur of a city that never quite sleeps.
Third: weight in my left hand. Warm. Orange.
I opened my eyes.
New York.
But not my New York.
Times Square, 2009.
The billboards were different—smaller, less LED-drenched. Nokia and Verizon ads instead of streaming services. People carried flip phones. A newspaper box headline screamed Inauguration Preparations Underway. January or early February 2009.
I stood on the sidewalk near 44th and Broadway, still in the black undersuit, Soul Stone clutched in my left fist. No armor. No suitcase.
Just me, barefoot on cold pavement, invisible to the crowd because I had instinctively wrapped the Stone's power around myself the instant consciousness returned.
A subtle orange shimmer coated my skin—imperceptible to normal eyes. The Soul Stone's aura bent perception, muted my presence.
Even mystics would struggle to sense me. I tested it: walked straight through a group of tourists. No one turned. No one blinked. I was a ghost in plain sight.
The Ancient One would feel something—a ripple in the fabric of reality—but not enough to pinpoint me. Not yet.
I moved.
The Sanctum Sanctorum was only a few blocks away—Bleecker Street, the unassuming brownstone that looked like every other building on the block.
In 2009 it was already under the Ancient One's protection, the Time Stone sealed inside the Eye of Agamotto around her neck. Or rather—around the neck of whoever was wearing it at that moment. In this era, it was still her.
I needed it.
Why? I didn't question the impulse. The Soul Stone had pulled me here. The same way Mjolnir had pulled me to 1941. Artifacts judging. Testing. Or simply using me as a conduit because I had touched them.
I crossed streets, slipped through crowds, orange shimmer keeping me unseen. No footprints in slush. No breath fogging in the cold. A perfect void.
The Sanctum loomed ahead—three-story brownstone, windows dark, wards humming just below perception. I felt them brush against the Soul Stone's veil and slide away, confused.
The Ancient One would sense the disturbance—something wrong in the ley lines—but she wouldn't know what. Not yet.
I phased through the front door. The wards parted like water around oil.
Inside: dim hallway, polished wood floors, faint scent of incense and old books. Stairs to the left. Library straight ahead. I moved upward—silent, weightless.
Second floor. Meditation chamber.
She was there.
The Ancient One sat cross-legged on a circular mat, eyes closed, hands resting on her knees. The Eye of Agamotto hung from a chain around her neck—gold, intricate, the green gem inside glowing faintly even through closed lids.
She didn't open her eyes.
But she spoke.
"You carry a soul that is not yours," she said softly. "And yet you are not a thief by nature. Curious."
I froze.
The Soul Stone pulsed warmer in my hand.
She still couldn't see me. Couldn't locate me precisely. The orange veil held.
I stepped closer.
Her breathing remained even.
"You have already taken one Stone," she continued. "The Soul. Now you come for Time. Why?"
I didn't answer. I didn't need to.
I reached out.
My fingers brushed the chain.
She exhaled—a small, resigned sound.
The Eye opened easily. No resistance. No spell. The Soul Stone's power parted the wards around it like silk. I lifted the amulet from her neck.
She didn't move to stop me.
I crushed the outer shell in my fist—gold crumpling like foil. The Time Stone spilled into my palm—emerald green, swirling with the slow turn of galaxies and seconds.
The instant my skin touched it—
Black.
Silk sheets. Familiar weight of my own bed. The faint sandalwood scent of home.
I opened my eyes.
My bedroom.
East 78th Street.
April 2011.
Soul Stone in my left hand—orange, steady.
Time Stone in my right—green, infinite.
No pain. No disorientation beyond the usual post-blackout fog. The clock on the nightstand read 5:12 a.m. Natasha's side of the bed was still empty.
I sat up slowly.
Three Infinity Stones now.
Soul. Space. Time.
All hidden in my basement. All mine. All taken years—decades—before canon would ever reach them.
I didn't question how. The Stones had wanted this. Or needed it. Or simply used me because I could be used.
I slid out of bed, bare feet on hardwood, and walked downstairs.
The secret chamber door opened at my touch.
Concrete. Dim light.
Three pedestals now.
I placed the Time Stone in the center—green light meeting orange and blue in quiet harmony.
The room felt heavier. Fuller. Like the air itself recognized what was inside.
I sealed the door.