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{Chapter: 73 - Fury On His Investigation}
Nick Fury, Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., sat alone in his high-security office on the Helicarrier, a room so fortified it might have been able to withstand a nuclear detonation. Dim lighting kept the mood grim. Rain splattered softly against the windows, though they were three inches thick and shielded with multiple layers of defense. In front of him was a digital display screen, populated with glowing documents, all marked Classified Level 10. His one good eye moved methodically across lines of data, his mind sharper than ever despite the mounting pressure.
The world was changing.
More and more individuals with superhuman powers were surfacing, not just in America, but globally. It was as though some silent cosmic switch had been flipped, and now humanity was mutating, evolving, or perhaps unraveling—depending on one's perspective.
Each of the files in front of him had one thing in common: a tie to Charles Xavier.
To the public, Xavier was a benevolent figure—a teacher, a mutant rights activist, a man building bridges between humans and mutants. But to Fury, the man represented a walking, talking existential threat. Possibly the most dangerous individual on Earth.
People feared Magneto, and for good reason—the man could bend steel, tear cities apart. But Magneto's power was visible, tangible. You saw it coming. Xavier, on the other hand, could crush your mind before you even opened your mouth.
Mind control. Thought manipulation. Psychic illusions. Memory erasure. The power to kill without a whisper or gesture. If ever there was a reason for a sleepless night, Xavier's powers were it.
And now, this man—this psychic juggernaut—was talking about opening a school? A place where he could hand-pick young mutants, teach them, mold them. Train them.
Fury leaned back in his chair, expression grim.
Every move this man makes has to be watched. Tracked. Dissected.
"Beep! Beep! Beep!"
A shrill, rapid alarm cut through the silence. Fury's fingers instinctively tapped a hidden panel on his desk, silencing it instantly. Only a few individuals had access to that alert system—Hill, Barton, Romanoff, and Coulson. This wasn't some routine update. This was real.
"Director," Maria Hill's voice crackled through. Precise. Controlled. "Something's come up. I'm sending the intel now. You'll want to see this."
He didn't bother replying. With a flick of his wrist, he brought up the feed. A flood of documents, images, and live-stream video links filled his screen, transmitted through a compact yet powerful off-grid computing tablet. It operated independently of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s central database—something only Fury and his most trusted operatives had access to.
First came the usual names. Familiar enemies. Rumlow. Arnim Zola. Baron Zemo. Baron Strucker. William Stryker. Then, more ambiguous and disturbing images—blurry captures and half-scrubbed names like The Winter Soldier, Kraken II, and Viper.
Fury's eye narrowed as the words A.I.M., The Hand, The Ten Rings flashed across the screen. Each of these groups, independent of one another, was dangerous enough on its own. But to see them compiled in one file? Coordinated under a single pattern of concern?
He muttered to himself, "This isn't a coincidence. Someone's moving pieces."
The information was disjointed—scattered intelligence, nothing concrete. And yet the weight of it was undeniable. Even scattered, these names in one place screamed of something far more complex and sinister happening under the radar.
He kept scrolling.
And then, something stopped him cold.
A photo. A grainy satellite image, clearly from an outdated piece of tech. The picture quality was terrible, but the subject? That was unmistakable.
The first frame showed a spacecraft—a vessel not registered with any Earth-based agency—drifting listlessly through orbit. The next frame showed it being struck by an unnatural red wave, like wind or radiation, hard to define. The final frame captured the craft plummeting through Earth's atmosphere, its trajectory locked onto a dense forest region in Eastern Europe.
Fury leaned in.
His fingers moved faster now, pulling up enhancement algorithms, overlaying coordinates, timestamps.
Then came another image—this one barely legible even after digital enhancement. A humanoid figure, unmistakably male, garbed in a green and white suit, was seen walking away from the crash site. He was carrying a massive chunk of twisted metal as though it weighed nothing. Not a scratch on him. Not a burn or bruise.
The timestamp in the corner read: December 1967.
Fury exhaled slowly. "Alien? Genetic anomaly? Mutation activated on impact?"
He didn't have the answer.
But he knew where the question started.
This entire line of inquiry began with something Phil Coulson had reported. Specifically, what a man named Aiden had told him. Fury could still hear Coulson's voice in his mind, repeating Aiden's words:
"And if you trust me—really trust me—you'll remember what I'm about to tell you: S.H.I.E.L.D. is not the organization you believe it to be. Not entirely."
That had been the match.
Since that moment, Fury had begun an unofficial, secret audit of S.H.I.E.L.D. Using only his most loyal agents—people who answered to him and no one else—he had started digging into decades of data. Old black ops files. Purged servers. Burned archives. All of it.
He didn't tell anyone.
Because whatever Aiden had touched on… it was big.
Fury's instincts were legendary. The kind that got him through wars, coups, assassination attempts, and alien invasions. Right now, they were screaming at him louder than ever before.
Something wasn't right. Something had never been right.
He had already delayed Project Insight—S.H.I.E.L.D.'s global surveillance satellite initiative—using fabricated logistical issues and bureaucratic runarounds. He wasn't going to give anyone the high ground until he knew exactly who he was working for.
Now, staring at the mess on his screen—the scattered enemies, the alien anomaly, the warning from Aiden, and the unsettling picture of a superhuman walking unscathed from a crash site dated fifty years ago—Fury felt the migraine settle in.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose and then the top of his bald head.
"I should've retired when I had the damn chance," he muttered.
The lights in the room flickered slightly, a subtle reminder that even in a fortress, nothing was foolproof.
A new image flashed across the screen.
This one was live. Satellite surveillance.
It showed a convoy of vehicles moving through the Caucasus Mountains. Unmarked. Blacked out. High-grade tech visible even from orbit.
One of the vehicles, by the heat signature, was carrying something radioactive. Maybe a weapon. Maybe something worse.
Fury leaned forward again.
The world was unraveling. Piece by piece.
He whispered to himself, more out of habit than hope: "What the hell are we walking into now?"
Just yesterday, the military's latest attempt to replicate the Super Soldier Serum had gone—predictably—spectacularly wrong.
Another day, another disaster.
This time, it wasn't a green rage monster breaking tanks over his knee, but a crimson-skinned behemoth that had erupted out of a secret lab in Arizona and proceeded to reduce a six-block radius into something resembling a Jackson Pollock painting made of fire and steel. The creature bore a striking resemblance to him—the other guy, the one who only ever calmed down when unconscious. But this red monster? He wasn't calming down at all.
Now, he was on every government kill list worldwide. Unkillable. Untouchable. Unaccounted for.
Nick Fury rubbed at the bridge of his nose with gloved fingers. The throbbing vein on his temple had become a permanent feature these days.
And just when he thought things couldn't spiral deeper into chaos, there was her.
Ms. Viper.
As if finding out that Hydra still had its venomous little feelers sunk into Earth's underbelly wasn't bad enough. Viper hadn't been some low-level agent in a neon-green tight jumpsuit barking orders in a poorly lit bunker.
No, she had aspirations.
She wanted the throne. Not a throne. The throne.
That explained so many of the 'coincidences' over the two decades: Stark's parents meeting a brutal, mysterious end. SHIELD operations compromised by unknown sources. Operations that were supposed to be blacker than the night sky itself. The endless sabotage. The assassination attempts. The stolen intel. The shredded trust.
Viper had played a long game, and now the board was aflame.
It also explained why Fury had so little hair left on his head.
And as if his stress level hadn't already shot through the stratosphere—
"Beep! Beep! Beep!"
Fury's head snapped toward the small, cube-shaped device sitting on the edge of his desk—the Beep-3. It pulsed red like a heartbeat in crisis.
That particular alarm didn't just go off for minor infractions or sensor anomalies.
No, Beep-3 screamed when the sky was falling.
Its shrill tone intensified, vibrating against the reinforced titanium of his desk, but Fury ignored it, unwilling to be yanked from his train of thought. His eye stayed locked on the growing stack of classified files, fingers tightening around the folder edges.
That was when the door slammed open.
"Director!" Maria Hill's voice was sharp, panicked—uncharacteristically so. She almost never lost her cool. This wasn't just a problem. This was the problem.
She burst into the room like a gunshot, eyes wide and her tactical boots thudding against the metal floor. Her usual razor-sharp professionalism was gone—left behind somewhere in the hallway along with her composure.
Fury didn't even turn to face her.
"When don't we have a situation?" he asked dryly.
She ignored the sarcasm and practically slammed a SHIELD-issue tablet into his gloved hands.
"You need to see this. Now."
He glanced down at the screen, expecting some doomsday news or another hydra facility popping out of the Pacific. What he saw made even him pause.
Satellite footage. Clear as day.
An enormous vessel—no, not just enormous. Colossal.
The caption read: "Unidentified Object — Golden Gate Airspace"
The image showed a sleek black structure hovering just above the waters of the Golden Gate Bridge. Its size was staggering—nearly 1.5 kilometers long—dwarfing battleships, buildings, and even the nearby sky towers.
But it wasn't just the size that stole Fury's breath—it was the design.
It looked like a blade carved out of night itself. A crescent-shaped monstrosity, its curves sharp and predatory. Gunmetal black plating shimmered with a muted, matte finish, absorbing light rather than reflecting it. Delicate blue energy veins pulsed along its wings, humming with a rhythm Fury didn't understand, but instinctively feared.
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