(AN: Sorry for the late bonus chappie, this is for EtherealStar and Simonski_Ampuerix. Thanks for the review! Enjoy!)
Morning light spilled through the wide front windows of Mercer's Hearth, turning glass displays into warm mirrors of sugar and glaze.
The bell above the door chimed steadily—soft, familiar, comforting.
Elias stood behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, carefully arranging fresh pastries with the quiet precision of a man who found peace in small order.
Coffee cake first, cut clean and even.
Donuts rotated so the glaze caught the light just right. Bread loaves lined like soldiers at ease.
Around him, the shop breathed.
Mara called out orders with practiced ease
.
Rhea moved between tables, refilling cups before customers realized they were empty.
Two others worked the back, laughter drifting out between the hiss of steam and the low hum of ovens.
It was ordinary.
That, somehow, made it feel fragile.
Mounted high on the wall near the corner, a television played the morning news on low volume.
No one was really watching it—until they were.
A familiar anchor spoke calmly, the kind of calm meant to hold panic at bay.
"…officials continue to downplay concerns following the incident in Queens—"
"…Harlem remains under partial restriction—"
"…eyewitnesses in New Mexico report a crater and a distruction of a town—"
"…Monaco Grand Prix interrupted by what sources are calling a 'highly unusual confrontation'—"
"…security remains tight following disturbances at the Stark Expo when Hammer bots rebelled—"
The images cycled slowly.
Blurred footage. Crowds behind barricades. Helicopter shots cut short just before showing too much.
Customers filled in the spaces the broadcast avoided.
"Feels like every week it's something new," one man muttered into his mug.
"My pastor says it's the end times," another replied.
"Nah," a woman scoffed. "Just louder toys."
A younger voice chimed in, half-joking, half-nervous: "Guess monsters are real now, huh?"
Someone laughed too loudly.
Someone else didn't laugh at all.
"The world is starting to change," an old regular said quietly, eyes fixed on the television as if it might blink first.
Elias heard all of it.
He didn't comment. He rarely did anymore.
Instead, he leaned lightly against his station, hands resting on the counter, eyes drifting across the room—not scanning for threats, not watching doors, but watching people.
Faces. Shoulders. Breathing.
Near the window sat Natasha.
Civilian clothes. Simple jacket. Hair tied back casually.
Black coffee. Coffee cake. The usual.
She didn't stare. She never did.
She watched reflections instead—glass, chrome, polished wood.
Listened more than she spoke.
Elias felt her presence without focusing on it, the way one notices a steady rhythm rather than a single beat.
She belonged to the morning now, as much as the smell of bread or the low clatter of cups.
His thoughts, however, drifted where the warmth couldn't follow.
Harlem.
Queens.
New Mexico.
Monaco.
Stark Expo.
Pieces of a pattern forming faster than the world realized.
Behind his calm expression, something heavy shifted.
The battle of New York is upon us.
The thought surfaced unbidden, unwelcome—and impossible to ignore.
The realization wasn't panic-inducing.
It was… heavy.
Should I do something?
Can I do something—without breaking everything else?
The shop bell chimed.
Life went on.
People ordered pastries. Children laughed.
Someone complained about the weather.
The staff moved like a well-practiced rhythm, each trusting the others implicitly.
Natasha watched Elias—not as a target, not as a threat—but as a man standing at the quiet center of something growing far larger than him.
The television shifted again.
"Experts say global instability may increase as new threats emerge—"
Elias straightened.
Outside, the city moved as it always had.
Cars passed. Pedestrians crossed. No alarms. No screams.
Just the sense—subtle but undeniable—that the world was holding its breath.
Natasha lifted her cup and finally took a sip.
The calendar on the wall read:
January, 2012
Five months.
The calm remained.
For now.
.
.
.
Natasha didn't remember deciding to wait.
One moment she was finishing her coffee, the next she was still there—watching as Elias and his staff began closing up the shop.
Chairs were stacked, the pastry cases dimmed, the familiar ritual unfolding with practiced ease.
She stayed.
Not because of an order.
Not because of suspicion.
She told herself it was convenience.
When Elias finally locked the front door and turned, he wasn't surprised to see her standing there.
They fell into step naturally, heading in the same direction.
Elias noticed it immediately.
Of course we live close, he thought dryly.
Nothing's ever a coincidence anymore.
The streets were quieter than usual.
With the Judgment Area, the nearby SHIELD experimental base, and recent incidents across the city, even criminals with half a brain were keeping their heads down.
Unfortunately, the ones without half a brain were always the most dangerous.
They were almost at the corner where they'd normally part ways when the air shifted.
Five men leaned against the wall ahead—too still, too focused. Their eyes weren't on Elias.
They were on Natasha.
Elias slowed.
"So," one of them said, licking the edge of a knife with theatrical stupidity, "you two heading somewhere nice?"
Elias stepped forward without thinking, placing himself squarely in front of her.
"She's not interested," he said calmly. "Walk away."
Natasha blinked—just once.
Interesting.
She could handle this. Easily. But blowing her cover here would raise too many questions, too early.
She let Elias stand there, curious to see what he'd do.
What he didn't do was far more telling.
Elias felt the weight of every option available to him.
Super soldier strength—enough to end this in seconds even without combat knowledge or experience.
Telekinesis—one snap, five unconscious bodies.
Magic—dozens of nonlethal solutions.
Yet he used none of it.
There can never be a time I need to act, he reminded himself tightly.
Can't believe there will come a time that I'm grateful for having servants that i never wanted before.
His mind reached out—quiet, precise.
Capture. No fatalities. Police station. Now!
[Command Confirmed]
The five thugs spread out, knives flashing, grins ugly and eager.
One lunged.
He never reached Elias.
A metallic whine cut through the air.
Something struck the man's legs—thin, coiling wire that expanded instantly, clamping tight.
A brutal yank lifted him screaming into the air as a towering figure descended from above, holding the line like it weighed nothing.
Natasha's breath caught.
Another shape dropped beside it.
Tall. Armored. Wrong.
The remaining four ran as far as their shaking legs could take them.
The figures didn't rush.
Elias slowly steps back.
He was shaking—not from fear, but from the effort of holding himself together.
Then he pulled Natasha into a tight, instinctive hug, shielding her from a threat she didn't fully understand.
Natasha froze.
Why is he protecting me?
Why is he shaking?
Isn't he connected to them?
The two didn't attack them, under Natasha's sight, they vanished—shimmered—and the night filled with distant screams.
Then—nothing.
The air cleared. The street fell silent.
Elias released her abruptly, stepping back. "I—I'm sorry," he said quickly. "That was… let's just—let's go home."
Natasha nodded smoothly. "Yeah. That's probably best."
Elias suggested he escorted her to her residence and she accepted.
They parted at her front door with a normal farewell but both knew it was anything but normal with what just happened.
Minutes later, five wounded but very alive criminals were delivered unceremoniously to the nearest police station.
The hunters vanished.
.
.
.
Natasha went inside her residence, with her mind racing.
She replayed the scene over and over.
Judgment Area incidents left no wounds.
No blood.
No survivors who remembered pain.
This was different.
Predators, Coulson insists on calling them.
Were they responsible for the Judgment Area?
No.
Too physical.
Too brutal.
Then why now?
Why Elias?
She updated her mental profile, fingers tight around her phone.
Elias Mercer:
—Genuinely protective
—Avoids escalation
—Possesses no visible combat training
—Connected… but not aware
Innocent.
And yet—
She looked back once, toward the direction of the bakery.
What are you hiding, Elias Mercer?
And why does the world keep answering you?
The calm still held.
But cracks were forming.
.
.
.
Inside the space beneath Elias Mercer's house—accessible only by stepping into his closet—reality broke.
If Spider-Man had been there, he would've said the same thing he once told Steve Rogers:
"That thing does not obey the laws of physics at all."
Elias's answer would be:
"Do you want eggs layed inside you?"
The base unfolded in impossible layers—corridors wider on the inside than the outside, rooms stacked at angles that made no architectural sense, soft lights humming without visible sources.
It was quiet. Waiting.
Elias sat alone on a bench that hadn't been there yesterday.
He replayed the night again.
Not the thugs.
Not the predators.
Natasha's face.
Detached. Cold. Observant.
Professional.
He'd always known.
From the very beginning, he was just a mission to her.
But knowing something and feeling it were very different things.
That brief glimpse—of the wall she failed to lower—hit deeper than he expected.
It felt like the rejection in his past life all over again.
The sad part?
It wasn't because she didn't like him.
It was because she was never available in the first place.
"Idiot," he muttered to himself.
Now the question lingered in the silence of the impossible base:
Do I keep pretending?
Do I change how I treat her?
Can I even do that?
For someone like him who wore his heart on his sleeve?.… probably not.
He sighed, stood, and let the question remain unanswered.
"That's tomorrow's me's problem." he concluded tiredly.
Elias lay down and slept inside his secret base where he felt safe.
.
.
.
Elsewhere — SHIELD Secret Facility
The facility was buried deep.
Too deep.
Built not because SHIELD wanted it—but because Nick Fury had finally run out of patience.
Too many incidents.
Too many unexplained phenomena.
Too many things that didn't stay contained.
If the worst happened again, this time they wouldn't be sitting ducks.
Fury personally walked Dr. Erik Selvig through the facility, explaining contingencies, redundancies, and emergency protocols.
Clint Barton was assigned as security—silent, watchful, bored in the way only someone competent could be.
Later, when Selvig paused near a polished metal surface—
His reflection smiled back at him.
Not his smile.
Behind his eyes stood Loki.
Alive.
Amused.
Watching.
.
.
.
Manhattan — Stark Tower
The tower already dominated the skyline.
The name STARK nearly finished.
Inside, Tony and Pepper worked side by side—wires, holograms, controlled chaos.
Tony broke the silence suddenly.
"Hey… when was the last time we went to that bakery?"
Pepper glanced at him. "Which one?"
"You know," he said, distracted. "The one with the pie."
She laughed. "You mean Mercer's Hearth?"
"That's the one," Tony grinned. "We should go later. It's been way too long."
Pepper shook her head, smiling. "Finish this first."
"Deal."
Across the Street
Steve Rogers sat outside a coffee shop, politely confused.
A waitress hovered nearby, clearly flirting.
Steve didn't notice.
An older man leaned over. "Son… she's hitting on you."
Steve blinked, then smiled sheepishly.
"Oh. Uh—thanks."
As the waitress walked away, Steve stared at the shop's interior. The warm lighting. The quiet conversations.
It reminded him of something.
Of a different place. A different time.
I should visit, he thought.
.
.
.
Somewhere Quiet — Bruce Banner
Bruce Banner didn't sleep much anymore.
Blonsky's death replayed itself endlessly—through Hulk's eyes. Too vivid. Too real.
The Hulk only came out when absolutely necessary now.
Still, Banner stayed.
He was with Betty. Safe. Hidden.
But curiosity gnawed at him.
SHIELD's new base wasn't just a coincidence.
What he discovered there left him stunned.
Aliens.
Creatures from movies.
Real.
Dissected. Cataloged.
And then—the predators.
Seven PhDs suddenly felt inadequate.
Thankfully, Betty helped.
One night, after another nightmare, Betty mentioned a bakery.
Said it felt… grounding.
Bruce considered it.
Then nodded.
"Yeah," he murmured. "Maybe later today."
.
.
.
And so—
By coincidence.
Or fate.
Or something far worse.
Three—maybe four—future Avengers were about to cross paths.
Inside a quiet little bakery called Mercer's Hearth.
And none of them yet realized—
They were already standing at the edge of something irreversible.
End chapter 18