The cat immediately began weaving between my ankles, purring so loudly it vibrated against my shins.
"Oh, now you're affectionate," I muttered, pouring a generous mound of the kibble into the bowl and setting it on the concrete step.
The cat dove in, crunching the dry food with enthusiasm.
I crouched down, resting my forearms on my knees and looked at the animal.
"Listen here, Pirate," I said, keeping my voice low. "You are incredibly lucky. Do you know that? You are eating premium salmon kibble provided by a cosmic entity, while currently residing in the most secure perimeter on planet Earth. Be content with your lot in life, fuzzball. Do not ask for the omelet."
The cat ignored me entirely, continuing to chew.
"Good talk," I sighed, standing up and sliding the glass door shut.
I walked to the kitchen sink, washing my hands thoroughly with soap and warm water, drying them on a towel before returning to the dining table.
Wanda had already eaten a quarter of her omelet. She looked up as I sat down.
"Is the tyrant satisfied?" she asked.
"Temporarily pacified," I confirmed.
I looked down at my plate. Then, I looked at her.
I picked up my fork, sliced off a perfect triangle of the fluffy egg and melted cheese and held it up. I hovered it in the space between us, turning my head to look at her with the most pitiful puppy dog eyes I could muster.
Wanda chewed her current bite, her eyes narrowing suspiciously as she looked at the hovering fork.
"What are you doing?" she asked, a laugh threatening to break her composure.
"I am providing a service," I said, pushing the fork an inch closer to her lips. "Say 'Ahhh'."
"I have my own plate, Aryan," she pointed out, gesturing to the nearly identical meal sitting directly in front of her. "I am perfectly capable of feeding myself."
"I know," I pleaded, widening my eyes even further. "But it tastes better when I serve it. It's a scientifically proven fact."
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling so broadly her cheeks bunched up. She leaned forward, parting her lips and accepted the bite from my fork.
She chewed, closing her eyes dramatically for a second.
"Well?" I prompted, leaning my elbow on the table. "Tasty?"
"It is... very tasty," she admitted, swallowing. "The cheese is perfectly melted."
"Of course it is," I preened and tapping my chest proudly. "Who is the cook? I am a master of thermal dynamics."
I was about to cut another piece for myself when a sudden sensation washed over the back of my neck.
It was a spike in the fundamental probability field of the planet. A jagged intent that rippled through the HUME frequencies.
I stopped moving.
My physical eyes remained locked on Wanda, maintaining the warm smile, but my consciousness expanded outward. It shot past the walls of the house, past the borders of Westview, ripping across the continent in a microsecond.
Threat detected.
Source: Virginia.
Target: Wanda Maximoff.
I saw a temporary command post. I saw Tyler Hayward standing in a reinforced tactical vest, barking orders at a strike team armed with sonic cannons and heavy artillery.
He was terrified of the DOD investigation. He was terrified of Fury. And he was planning a preemptive strike on Westview to secure his only loose end before the government could audit his illegal servers.
'Oh, Hayward,' I thought, a dark coldness settling into the core of my mind, even as I kept my external breathing perfectly steady. 'You arrogant little man.'
While keeping my eyes fixed lovingly on Wanda's face, I reached into the probability matrix of a completely separate military facility located thirty miles away from Hayward's position.
'Let's orchestrate a coincidence,' I decided.
"Aryan?" Wanda's voice pulled my immediate focus back to the dining room.
She was looking at me, her head tilted in confusion.
"Why are you not eating?" she asked. "Your food will get cold."
I blinked, instantly wiping any trace of the cosmic execution I was currently formatting from my expression. I let my shoulders slump, letting out a theatrical sigh.
"Because," I said, putting my fork down on the plate and looking at her with a sad expression. "I was sitting here, waiting patiently. Hoping against hope. I was expecting you to feed me. But alas... I have a neglected life. I give and I give and I am left to feed myself like a commoner."
Wanda burst into genuine laughter, covering her mouth with her hand.
"You are a child!" she giggled, her eyes crinkling.
"I am a starving artist," I corrected.
Still laughing, she picked up her own fork. She cut a generous piece of her omelet, speared a crispy potato and held it out toward my mouth.
"Here, you giant baby," she commanded, her eyes shining with affection.
I smiled, leaning forward and taking the bite directly from her fork.
"See?" I mumbled around the food. "Everything tastes better when you share."
[Location: Automated Tactical Defense Silo, Virginia Sector 7]
[Perspective: Corporal Jenkins]
Fifty miles away from the quiet suburban streets of Westview, deep inside a reinforced concrete bunker, the morning was progressing with agonizing monotony.
Sector 7 was an automated drone and conventional missile silo. It was a relic of the Cold War that had been updated with modern Stark lite targeting systems, primarily used as a deterrent against unauthorized aerial incursions on the East Coast.
In Control Room B, Corporal Jenkins was currently fighting a losing battle against sleep deprivation.
He sat in a rolling ergonomic chair, staring at a bank of six monitors that displayed nothing but green radar sweeps and endless lines of dormant code.
The room hummed with the sound of server fans and the buzzing hum of fluorescent lighting.
Jenkins reached blindly across his cluttered desk, his fingers grasping the handle of an oversized thermos filled to the brim with scalding black coffee.
He brought it to his lips, taking a slow sip, his eyes never leaving the center monitor.
CLATTER.
A sudden sound echoed from the overhead ventilation shaft.
Jenkins jumped, his hand jerking.
The thermos tipped.
A wave of hot liquid sloshed over the rim, splashing directly onto the primary input terminal keyboard.
"Shit! Damn it!" Jenkins shouted, slamming the thermos down and frantically grabbing a wad of paper towels from a dispenser on the wall.
He furiously began dabbing at the keyboard, but the liquid had already seeped beneath the keys.
BZZZT.
CRACKLE.
A spark arched from the spacebar.
On the center monitor, the dormant lines of green code suddenly flashed yellow.
[SYSTEM OVERRIDE DETECTED. DIAGNOSTIC MODE INITIATED.]
"No, no, no, no," Jenkins muttered, his fingers flying across the dry sections of the keyboard, trying to input the abort sequence.
The keyboard was unresponsive. The coffee had shorted the primary input relay.
Behind Jenkins, the heavy metal door to the control room swung open. Private Miller walked in, carrying a clipboard and a mop bucket.
"Hey, Jenkins, Command wants to know if you finished the and…" Miller stopped, looking at the sparking keyboard and the flashing screens. "Uh. What did you do?"
"I spilled coffee!" Jenkins yelled, pulling the keyboard cord out of the USB port entirely. "Get the backup terminal online! Fast!"
Miller dropped the clipboard and scrambled to the secondary console on the other side of the room. He slammed his palm against the biometric scanner to log in.
Error: Biometric Scanner Offline.
"The scanner is dead!" Miller shouted, slapping the glass plate. "The short must have tripped the localized breaker!"