Chapter 10: The Avengers

Late at night.

S.H.I.E.L.D. Trident Headquarters, Director’s Office.

Nick Fury, the one-eyed “hard-boiled egg,” sat in his chair, absentmindedly fiddling with a cube smaller than the standard Rubik’s Cube. His mind wandered.

This world was not as ordinary as most people believed. Aliens, mutants, inhumans, and an assortment of bizarre creatures—some who gained strange abilities by accident or desperation—constantly threatened global security.

Some kept to themselves, others stirred chaos.

Most were sensible enough to realize their powers weren’t worth much, so they concealed them, sometimes moonlighting as vigilantes or heroes, or simply telling no one, taking their secret to the grave in fear of being dissected in a government lab.

After all, the abilities were hardly impressive, and often more trouble than they were worth.

He knew of one fellow who, during an experiment, accidentally spilled several vials onto his privates. Something indescribable happened. The man often claimed he couldn’t control himself—it really wasn’t his fault, it was the chemicals’ doing.

He lost his job, sank into depression, and ultimately moved to Thailand…

Some, however, were utter fools, convinced they were the chosen one, the protagonist of the times, God’s favorite, or even a god themselves. In truth, they were lunatics—robbing banks, running gangs.

The more capable, the smarter ones, either quietly amassed fortunes or, if they were flamboyant, managed to thrive—like the Red Skull during World War II, who founded “Hydra” and caused trouble.

S.H.I.E.L.D.’s purpose was to deal with these troublesome figures—starting with Hydra.

Over the decades, S.H.I.E.L.D.’s “Registry of Special Ability Holders” had cataloged countless such individuals.

Harmless ones were monitored.

Potentially harmful ones were subject to higher-level surveillance.

Those confirmed dangerous were either apprehended or controlled… which, in the end, amounted to the same thing.

Harmony and stability mattered most.

Some were difficult to handle, requiring their own kind to intervene—

In certain sensationalized comics, these people were called “superheroes.”

S.H.I.E.L.D. had its own superheroes.

During WWII, there was the Human Torch and Captain America—though S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t exist then. Later, Ant-Man and Captain Marvel joined the ranks.

Now, some were gone, and some were… gone—the difference between the two meanings was subtle.

In short, S.H.I.E.L.D. today had a handful of “superhero” agents, such as Black Widow and Hawkeye, but compared to Ant-Man or Captain Marvel, they were worlds apart, not in the same league.

Even more worrisome, whether it was the changing times or not, the number of special ability holders was steadily rising.

The rest could be handled—well-trained agents with advanced equipment sufficed—but some were simply beyond control.

Take the Hulk, for example.

For over four years, the damage caused by his occasional rampages had easily cost billions. Forget pistols and sniper rifles—even cannons and missiles couldn’t kill him. The guy was a monster.

As S.H.I.E.L.D. Director, Fury felt compelled to act.

He had his own plans.

It was time to assemble the Avengers!

A knock sounded at the door.

“Come in.” Fury flipped his hand and the cube vanished somewhere on his person. A tall, cool woman in a sapphire-hued tactical suit walked in.

Lean, efficient, a touch aloof.

“Agent Hill, what is it?” Fury straightened, adopting a formal demeanor.

He admired her, yet held a certain wariness—

Since the Skrull invasion, he trusted no one, not even his most reliable agent, Coulson.

Agent Hill was highly capable, extremely efficient, tough in manner, ranked second only to himself as a level 9 agent, and—most importantly—she wasn’t particularly obedient.

That last trait earned her the trust of the Council and the former S.H.I.E.L.D. Director, now Secretary of National Security, Alexander Pierce, which created endless complications for his work.

Some secrets could never be shared with her—like the little cube he had just hidden.

“Director, a small gang in Los Angeles called the ‘Five Streets’ was wiped out. Thirty-seven dead. One survivor—he was arrested and sent to jail, which ironically saved his life.”

Hill placed a few files and a stack of photographs on the desk. “Nearby agents conducted a thorough investigation and found evidence that couldn’t be destroyed in time. They believe this case involves a special ability holder.”

A special ability holder?

Fury leaned forward, glanced at the photos, then picked up the files.

He read for a full five minutes.

As a leader, he never rushed to conclusions. The less he said, the fewer mistakes he made, and the more mysterious he remained.

He waited for his subordinate’s report, pondered it, then decided.

If she was correct, he’d say, “You’re right, I thought so too.”

If not, he’d offer his own analysis and sternly critique her—mainly to demonstrate his authority and capability.

Perfect.

“Tell me your assessment.” Fury looked at Hill, eyes reflecting encouragement and trust.

Hill remained expressionless.

She knew Fury too well—cunning, devious, naturally gifted. His skin was darker than coal, and it was impossible to read his true thoughts from his face, especially at night.

A born agent—the undisputed king of spies!

“There were marks of chains whipping at the scene, signs of burning, and tire tracks on scorched ground—yet no vehicles exploded or caught fire. Witnesses reported seeing a burning car and a man whose head was ablaze. I believe this is someone who can manipulate fire and likes using chains—a mutant or inhuman. That car is also suspicious, but other possibilities are not excluded.”

Hill glanced at Fury’s black leather trench coat, thinking, It’s sweltering, and he still won’t turn on the air conditioning. Director, you value style over comfort, but this is going too far—he’s practically roasting himself!

Black absorbs heat, Director!

With dark skin that already absorbs heat, and wearing non-breathable black leather—what is he thinking?

“Go on,” Fury nodded, still encouraging.

Hill felt weary, but she was used to it, her immunity formidable. “On a Five Streets gang truck, at least ten bodies were found—burned so badly, it’ll take time to count them accurately. There was an RPG on the truck, and the truck itself was destroyed by a rocket. I believe the gang fired a rocket, but someone redirected it, causing them to blow themselves up.”

“Continue,” Fury smiled, encouraging her further.

Hill ignored him, pressing on: “I think two people eliminated the Five Streets gang. The fire manipulator is easy enough to identify; the other left no traces—no way to determine for now.”

Fury nodded in affirmation. “You’re right, I thought so too. Agent Hill, what are your next steps?”

Director, are you sure you actually thought about it… Hill remained impassive. “Start with the survivor. Find out who the Five Streets crossed. Agent Coulson or Agent Romanoff would be best for this.”

Fury clasped his hands, smiling. “Let them investigate. Level 3 incident, confidentiality level 7. You handle the archiving. Anything else?”

The implication: If you have nothing more, leave at once.

Hill didn’t move, staring at Fury.

Two full minutes passed.

Fury grew uneasy, leaned back in his chair. “Speak.”

With so many level 7 agents in the Bureau, why assign her to archive? He knew she was overwhelmed with work… Hill paused for two seconds before saying, “Director, are you particularly interested in superheroes?”

Fury smiled. “I grew up with Captain America’s stories and his comics—you know his deeds. Ant-Man and Captain Marvel have both saved the world. You can’t deny that.”

Hill paused another two seconds, then stared at Fury and said, “Director, I believe in the system, in collective strength—not in heroes, not in illusory hope.”