[Location: S.A.B.E.R. Space Station, High Orbit]
[Perspective: Nick Fury]
The observation deck of the S.A.B.E.R. station was bathed in the blue light of a dozen holographic displays. The Earth rotated silently below, a massive marble of blue and swirling white clouds, completely ignorant of the eyes watching it from the void.
Nick Fury stood with his hands clasped firmly behind his back. His single eye was fixed on the primary monitor, which currently displayed a high resolution satellite image of a smoldering crater in the Virginia desert.
The pneumatic doors of the command deck hissed open.
Agent Hill walked in, her boots clicking sharply against the metal grating of the floor. She carried an encrypted data tablet tucked under her arm.
"Director," Hill said, her voice cutting through the hum of the servers.
"Tell me you have something that makes sense, Hill," Fury rumbled, not turning away from the glowing image of the crater. "Because right now, I have two government black sites turning into ash within forty eight hours and the Pentagon is currently on television lying through their teeth about a weapons test."
Hill stopped a few feet behind him. She tapped the screen of her tablet, transferring a file to the main monitor.
"We have confirmation from the ground teams, sir," Hill reported, her tone strictly professional. "Director Tyler Hayward is confirmed Killed in Action. Dental records and fragmented tactical gear recovered from the blast epicenter match his profile."
Fury turned around, his leather trench coat sweeping the floor.
"Hayward is dead," Fury repeated. "What was the Director of S.W.O.R.D. doing standing in the middle of a temporary staging area in Virginia? He was supposed to be in D.C. facing a tribunal for the Mojave incident."
"He was mobilizing, sir," Hill said, bringing up a series of recovered manifest logs. "According to the encrypted comms we pulled from a surviving transport vehicle on the outer perimeter, Hayward had assembled Alpha Team. He was loading up armored carriers with prototype sonic suppression cannons and heavy artillery."
Fury's lone eye narrowed. "Sonic cannons. You don't use sonic suppression for a training exercise. You use it for crowd control. Or enhanced individuals. Who was the target, Hill?"
Hill hesitated for a fraction of a second before bringing up a map on the hologram table between them. A red trajectory line extended from the Virginia base, pointing directly northeast.
"The target was Westview, New Jersey, sir," Hill said quietly. "He was mobilizing a preemptive strike force. The target was Wanda Maximoff."
The silence on the command deck grew thick.
"That arrogant son of a bitch," Fury hissed, slamming his open palm against the edge of the holotable. The blue light flickered at the impact. "He built an illegal weapon, blew it up, panicked and decided his best exit strategy was to assassinate an Avenger in the middle of a civilian suburb?"
"It appears he believed she was a loose end regarding the Vision protocols, sir," Hill confirmed.
"He was going to start a domestic war," Fury muttered, shaking his head. "He would have forced her hand. She would have leveled that strike team and the UN would have had the excuse they needed to hunt her down."
Fury looked back up at the satellite image of the smoking crater.
"But he didn't get the chance," Fury noted, his voice dropping into a contemplative register. "He was stopped. By a tactical cruise missile fired from the US military automated defense grid. A missile that hit his command tent with pinpoint accuracy."
"Yes, sir," Hill said, scrolling through her tablet. "We pulled the logs from Silo 7. The official military report states that a corporal spilled a thermos of hot coffee onto the primary input keyboard. The liquid shorted the diagnostic relay, bypassed the failsafes and the system grabbed a cached SWORD coordinate file to run a dummy targeting sequence. By the time they tried to hit the manual abort switch, a paperclip had jammed the mechanism."
Fury stared at Hill. He stared at her for a long minute.
"A coffee spill," Fury repeated, his voice flat. "And a paperclip."
"That is the official report from the silo commander, sir. They have the melted keyboard and the broken paperclip as evidence."
"Hill," Fury said, stepping closer to her, his eye burning with a paranoid fire. "I have been in this business for forty years. I do not believe in coincidence. And I certainly do not believe that a spilled macchiato and a piece of office stationery just happened to assassinate a rogue intelligence director exactly three minutes before he could launch a strike on Wanda Maximoff."
"The statistical probability is... astronomical, sir," Hill admitted quietly.
"It's not probability. It's intervention," Fury growled, turning back to the window overlooking the Earth. "Someone is playing chess, Hill. Someone saw Hayward moving his pieces and they reached across the board and flipped his king over."
Fury crossed his arms tightly behind his back.
"I want to know who pushed that button," Fury ordered, his voice echoing with absolute authority. "I don't care if the logs say the system was automated. Systems don't act on ironic timing. Dig into the silo's mainframe. Check the power grids. Check the localized atmospheric anomalies. Check the damn security cameras at the coffee shop where that corporal bought his drink."
"Yes, Director," Hill nodded, turning to leave. "What about Westview? Do we send a team to monitor Maximoff?"
"No," Fury commanded sharply. "If someone out there has the power to hijack a cruise missile just to keep her safe, the last thing I want to do is knock on her front door and introduce ourselves as the next threat."
[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]
The warmth of the living room was suddenly interrupted by the cheerful chiming of my cell phone vibrating against the glass of the coffee table.
Wanda groaned softly in protest, tightening her grip around my waist as if trying to shield me from the intrusion of the outside world.
"Ignore it," she mumbled into my chest. "It is probably a telemarketer trying to sell you an extended warranty for the car."
"I am a responsible vehicle owner; my warranty is pristine," I joked, gently untangling my left arm to reach over her and grab the phone.
I glanced at the caller ID. It was an unsaved number, but the area code was local to Westview.
"Duty calls, my Queen," I said softly, swiping the green icon and bringing the phone to my ear. "Dr. Spencer speaking. How can I help you?"
"Dr. Spencer! Hi, it's Stan. From the photography studio on Main Street."
The voice was crackling slightly over the connection, filled with an unexpected energy.
"Stan, hi," I said, a smile breaking across my face. I glanced down at Wanda, who had tilted her head up to listen, her curiosity piqued. "What can I do for you? Did my check bounce? Because I assure you, my bank is very real."
"No, no, the payment was incredibly generous, sir," Stan laughed nervously. "I'm actually calling because... well, it's been a remarkably slow week here. The foot traffic is basically zero. So, I had some extra time on my hands and I went ahead and expedited your order."
"You expedited it?" I asked, my eyebrows lifting in genuine surprise.
"Yes, sir. The prints are ready. And I spent the morning framing the large mantle piece in a solid mahogany border with a gold inlay. It looks magnificent. If I do say so myself, it's some of my best work. You can come pick them up whenever you're ready."
"Stan, you are an artist and a gentleman," I said, a surge of excitement hitting me. "I appreciate the hustle. I'll be down there in twenty minutes to pick it up."
"Wonderful. See you soon, Dr. Spencer."
I pulled the phone away from my ear, tapping the red button to end the call and tossed it back onto the table.
I looked down at Wanda. Her green eyes were shining with an anticipatory light.
"Was that the photographer?" she asked, sitting up slightly, her hands resting flat against my chest.
"It was," I confirmed, reaching up to cup the side of her face. "It seems Stan is a man of exceptional speed. The photos are ready. The big one is framed and waiting for its new home."
"Already?" She beamed, a radiant smile that completely transformed her face. "He said it would take a week!"
"When you have the Spencer charm on your side, the world moves a little faster," I teased, sliding my hands down to gently grip her waist. I lifted her slightly, shifting her weight so I could stand up from the deep cushions of the sofa.
"Where are you going?" she asked, reaching out to catch the sleeve of my flannel shirt as I stood over her.
"I have to go out and procure our surprise," I said, looking down at her with a mock serious expression.
"I can come with you," she offered, already moving to stand up. "I can hold the frame in the car."
"Absolutely not," I said, holding a finger up to stop her. "If you come with me, you'll see it before it's properly unveiled. If I tell you what it looks like, or show it to you in the back of a Honda Civic, the dictionary definition of 'surprise' is severely violated. It must be presented in its designated habitat."
She rolled her eyes playfully, crossing her arms over the soft knit of her sweater. "You are very strict about the rules of a surprise."
"I am a purist," I agreed. I took a step closer, my voice dropping to a more intimate register. "Besides, I believe we had an agreement. You show me yours, I show you mine."
A rosy flush crept up her neck, coloring her cheeks. She knew exactly what I was talking about.
PS: Come on guys, we just need 46 more Power Stones for a bonus chapter. Let's push it, haha.