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{Chapter: 75 - The Return of Aiden}
The logic had been brutally simple. If Thor, the literal hammer-swinging god of Norse mythology, was real—flesh, blood, lightning, and all—then who was to say the rest weren't?
If the Norse pantheon had walked into the realm of confirmed reality, what stopped the Greek gods from doing the same? What about the Egyptian Ennead? The Trimurti of Hindu cosmology? The Abrahamic deities? Was Yahweh truly alone? Did Allah reside in the same cosmos as Odin? Was Buddha just a man—or a divine being beyond mortal perception? Did the gods of the Aztecs and Mayans still drink blood in hidden realms? What of Shinto kami, Daoist immortals, Chinese Buddhas, the Mesopotamian Annunaki, or even the primal forces of chaos worshipped by long-dead tribes in the jungles of the Congo?
SHIELD had asked themselves the same question every single time they discovered a new anomaly.
If your gods are real, why can't mine be?
It was the kind of philosophical bombshell that blew entire worldviews to dust. And worse yet—it wasn't philosophy anymore. It was becoming science.
The agents, analysts, and researchers were baffled. They weren't even sure how to categorize what they were learning. These weren't aliens, mutants, or extradimensional entities. They didn't follow any pattern, any known hierarchy of power. How did one compare Set to Loki? Krishna to Zeus? Michael the Archangel to Raijin? SHIELD's threat assessment protocols broke down entirely. They couldn't even assign consistent threat levels to these beings. Their abilities were too vast, too mythic. Too… divine.
And then came Aiden.
The man—or being—who had reportedly defeated an entity said to be on par with Odin's father, Borr. According to ancient Norse texts, Borr was among the primordial creators—father to Odin, grandfather to Thor. A being of staggering, foundational power.
To even suggest such a thing—that Aiden had killed such a figure—should have been laughed out of the room.
But he hadn't come empty-handed.
He brought a dimensional rift—an actual pocket of reality—that pulsed with residual energies unmistakably similar to the readings SHIELD had once gathered from the remnants of Svartalfheim. Dark Elven magic, foreign and ancient. The spatial fabric of the zone had been frayed and twisted in a way no mortal could replicate.
No one could ignore that.
And when Aiden spoke, it wasn't just the content that left Fury disturbed. It was the implications. The way he said things with certainty, with knowledge that even the most paranoid intelligence officer didn't know existed.
Fury processed his words slowly, and each sentence felt like a dagger sliding deeper into his worldview.
He shivered.
Because SHIELD had always theorized that multiple pantheons might be real. But until now, they had only dealt with fragments. Half-glimpses. Artifacts. A minor deity here, an extradimensional anomaly there. But Aiden didn't speak of "a mythology."
He spoke of mythologies. Plural.
That single difference changed everything. It wasn't a matter of if they were real anymore. It was about how many were coexisting, hiding, overlapping, and possibly—competing.
The more they uncovered, the more impossible it all seemed.
Now Aiden had just waltzed back into their lives and casually confirmed that not just one, but multiple mythologies might be real. Real enough to travel to. Real enough to kill a dark god.
Humanity had created a tangled, chaotic web of worship, legends, and doctrines, stretching back tens of thousands of years. What if it hadn't been fantasy? What if it was all real—somehow? What if every god, every demon, every whispered name in the night had once truly existed in one form or another?
Why had humanity crafted such a convoluted mess in its search for higher beings?
And more importantly… what happens if they all come back?
But nothing rattled Fury more than one name.
Mistress Death...
When Aiden mentioned her, Fury didn't recognize it. And that terrified him more than anything else.
Who the fuck is Mistress Death?
It wasn't just a matter of not knowing. Fury should have known. This was a man who had access to the deepest intelligence networks on Earth. He knew about Hades, the god of the Greek underworld. He knew about Hela, the Asgardian goddess of death. Yama of the Hindus. Lucifer of Christian lore. Osiris of Egypt. Ereshkigal of Mesopotamia.
And yet—not once had the name Mistress Death ever come up. Not in ancient texts. Not in classified whispers. Not in demonology or forbidden sorcery. Not in anything.
And still—Aiden spoke of her like she was real.
And Aiden said the name like he knew her. Not from myth. But from experience.
Fury stared at the screen. He felt sweat under his collar.
And that shook Fury to his core.
Aiden knew more than he let on. Far more. He had already demonstrated knowledge of Agent Romanoff's true past—an identity buried under layers of misinformation and falsified records. Only a handful of people alive even knew her birth name, and most of them were already dead or buried in black sites.
Yet Aiden had known it without hesitation.
And now he was speaking about Mistress Death—this mysterious, unknown entity—as if she were real and watching.
Fury's instincts, sharpened by decades of surviving everything from Cold War assassins to alien invasions, were screaming.
Was there a being—older, deeper, more fundamental than all the gods of death combined? A singular entity worshipped in whispers? Feared even by other death deities?
Fury could feel the next disaster forming like a storm on the horizon.
Fury rubbed his temple, the headache sharp and immediate.
"I need coffee," he muttered.
What comes next?
Would Aiden tell them the AI uprising begins next week?
Or that magic is real and always has been?
That aliens have lived on Earth for millennia?
That there are cosmic beings watching them from the void, weighing their choices like chess moves?
"Maybe all," Fury muttered dryly, "just to keep things spicy?"
Still, despite the brewing disaster and incoming migraines, there was one twisted silver lining.
The whole world had just been given a front-row seat to a terrifying, undeniable truth:
They were not alone in the universe.
And worse—they didn't even stand a chance in a fight.
Fury could already see it playing out like a cursed PowerPoint in his mind. Politicians in glass towers losing sleep. Paranoia skyrocketing. War rooms turning into screaming matches. Emergency meetings in every major capital. Defense budgets bloating like dead whales. CEOs of weapons and pharmaceutical companies breaking out the champagne.
Stock prices of experimental tech firms were probably already spiking.
He could hear the rustling paper as nervous bureaucrats signed off on pet projects they didn't even understand. It was a feeding frenzy for every shadowy contractor SHIELD had ever blacklisted.
The Avengers Initiative had been greenlit for a scenario like this—something global, something incomprehensible, something divine.
Now? It was practically being gift-wrapped and hand-delivered to him by the gods of chaos themselves.
Fury rubbed his temple as a new headache bloomed just behind his left eye.
"Oh, great. Now we've got a new mess," he grumbled to himself, staring at the Quinjet's monitor with a look that suggested he was reevaluating every decision that had led to his current life. "Am I actually losing my damn mind?"
Maybe.
But his future self could worry about that. For now, he boxed up the chaos, mentally labeled it "Monday Problems," and shoved it into the corner of his mind.
Time to deal with the Aiden Situation.
He cut back into the conversation. "What's impossible?"
Aiden grinned, a bit too smugly for someone who'd just dropped an existential bombshell on Earth.
"Don't you want to study this spaceship? It's impossible."
Fury stared at the screen, lips tightening. He could already hear the begging and screaming that would come from the R&D division. He would be hounded by twenty scientists before breakfast tomorrow.
"Fine," he bit out, his tone flat as concrete.
He knew Aiden had already anticipated the request before Fury had even spoken. That was the worst part—he'd known, and had already mentally refused. The smug bastard probably enjoyed watching Fury squirm like a man trying to plug a volcano with duct tape.
Nick exhaled slowly, letting the resignation sink in. Then he spoke again, sounding more exasperated than angry.
"You've got to stop picking fights with ancient evils. You're going to crash the global sanity curve. And tell me—where the hell are you even planning to park that monstrosity?"
Tony Stark gave a low whistle, adjusting his sunglasses. "Seriously, man, you are the most dramatic guy I've ever met. And I've met Thor. Even he would call you excessive."
Aiden shrugged. "Don't worry. I've got it covered. I'll find some quiet corner of the Earth where nobody complains about parking tickets or interdimensional warp signatures."
With a flick of his hand and a faint grin, Fury tapped the communicator. The call ended.
Fury stared at the blank screen, expression unreadable.
He was still digesting the information. Aiden had traveled to Niflheim, fought and killed Malekith, hijacked a legendary warship, and was now casually hovering it over Earth like it was a personal RV.
How the hell was any of this real?
The three men—Aiden, Tony, and Steve—continued their conversation, voices muffled through the glass of the command center. Fury didn't bother listening in.
Instead, watched as the heavy elevator, like gravity itself was conspiring to pull him down.
The doors slid open, then closed behind him.
Moments later, the engines of the enormous Dark Elf vessel began to hum. It didn't creak. It didn't groan. It purred—like some ancient predator waking from hibernation.
A gust of wind roared as the massive craft began lifting off, its presence generating a thunderous updraft. The Quinjet was nearly tossed sideways. Steve gritted his teeth and planted his shield into the ground to brace himself against the artificial storm.
As the warship disappeared into the sky like a rising phantom, Fury turned his gaze to Maria Hill, who had been quietly watching from the sidelines, just as baffled as he was.
He cleared his throat.
"Agent Hill."
She snapped to attention. "Sir?"
"I want full surveillance on that ship—24/7. I don't care what it takes. If it so much as twitches, I want a report. Send all data to the Project Insight team and weapons R&D. I want a breakdown on propulsion, metallurgy, energy signatures, everything. Sensors, weapons, potential weaknesses. Anything that gives us leverage."
"Understood."
"And flag Aiden in the system. Effective immediately, he's classified as a Class S Black Anomaly. Volatile. Dangerous. Unpredictable. We start drawing up countermeasures for every known power he's exhibited—and every unknown one we can guess."
Hill's expression didn't shift, but her fingers tightened slightly around her tablet. "Yes, Director."
Fury sighed again, but this time it wasn't frustration—it was sheer exhaustion. A bone-deep weariness that no amount of coffee or sarcasm could cure.
Why does all the cosmic-grade chaos fall into the laps of just a few people?
Was the universe lazy? Or cruel? Or was someone lying?
His thoughts were interrupted by Hill's phone buzzing.
She answered, looked at the screen, and then glanced at him with a quiet, almost guilty look.
"Sir… it's the President."
Fury's eye twitched. "Of course it is."
He took the phone. A beat of silence passed. Then, in his mind, he could already script the conversation:
'Do you have a backup plan, Director Fury?' 'No? Then nuke the damn thing and let God sort them out.'
He clenched his jaw. The President was going to demand answers he didn't have. Action plans he couldn't guarantee. Assurance that they were still in control.
They weren't.
He sighed, reaching for the Beep-3, fully prepared to tell the Council exactly where they could shove their impatience.
He prepared himself to deliver a verbal slapdown that would echo through the Situation Room.
Then something weird happened.
Fury—who hadn't prayed since he was twelve years old—actually considered going to church. Lighting a candle. Making peace with whatever gods were up there.
Because this—this man, this ship, this situation—was shaping up to be the kind of catastrophe you needed divine protection just to understand.
He'd dealt with demons. Vampires. Skrulls. Ghost Riders.
But this?
This was something else. A walking paradox. A force that cracked the sky just by existing.
And unlike Ghost Rider, who could technically be distracted with holy water and a few buckets of sand, this wasn't fixable.
Fury stared at the empty sky, now devoid of the warship, and whispered under his breath:
"…We're so screwed."
*****
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