The Trask Building – S.H.I.E.L.D. Medical Wing
(Next Day) - Real-world time
Silence dominated the intensive care unit.
Not the peaceful kind—no, this silence was heavy, sterile, and suffocating, the kind that pressed down on one's chest and reminded anyone inside that this was a place where people teetered between life and death. The soft hum of advanced medical machines filled the air, punctuated only by rhythmic beeps and low mechanical whirs that monitored the vitals of the man lying at the center of the room.
Nick Fury lay unconscious on the reinforced medical bed.
Bandages wrapped nearly every visible part of his body. Thick layers of medical gauze covered his chest, arms, and legs, while thinner wraps traced across his neck and jaw. His right eye patch remained firmly in place, slightly scorched at the edges, a grim reminder of the explosion that nearly claimed his life. Tubes and sensors were attached to him, feeding data into transparent holographic displays hovering above the bed.
Despite the extensive injuries, his breathing was steady.
Strong.
Opposite the bed stood a nurse clad in a pristine white S.H.I.E.L.D. medical uniform. A slim data tablet floated in front of her as she carefully observed Fury's vitals, recording every fluctuation with practiced precision. Her expression was calm on the surface, but her eyes occasionally betrayed unease.
This wasn't just any patient.
This was Nick Fury.
Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.
The man who knew more secrets than most governments combined.
The man who had stared down gods (low-level cosmic beings, not true gods), monsters, and super-powered beings without flinching.
And yet, here he was—broken, battered, and unconscious.
The nurse adjusted one of the monitors, then glanced back at Fury.
For a brief moment… his fingers twitched.
Her eyes narrowed.
Then his chest rose more sharply than before. His brow furrowed, muscles tensing beneath layers of bandages. A faint groan escaped his lips, barely audible but unmistakable.
"Nurse log," she murmured, already recording. "Subject exhibiting signs of regained consciousness."
Fury's eyelids fluttered.
Slowly—painfully—his remaining eye opened.
Light flooded his vision.
For a split second, everything was blurred. White walls. Floating screens. The faint outline of a figure standing near him. His head throbbed violently, as if someone had driven a spike straight through his skull. Every nerve screamed in protest the moment his awareness returned.
The nurse stiffened.
"Director Fury?" she called cautiously.
His gaze drifted toward her, unfocused at first. His breathing grew heavier as his body instinctively assessed its condition. Damage reports flashed through his mind, honed reflexes built from decades of survival kicking in even while injured.
Then clarity snapped into place.
The nurse exhaled sharply, relief washing over her face. She immediately tapped her communicator.
"Agent Coulson," she spoke quickly but professionally. "Director Fury is conscious. Repeat—he's awake."
The other side was silent for a second before a middle-aged voice replied. "I'm on my way. Attend to his needs before I get there. Make sure he is in optimal condition."
"Yes, sir. Trust me, sir, he's recovering now as we speak," The nurse replied swiftly with professionalism honed for years but surprisingly tinged with anxiety. It was her first time treating anybody with such high authority, not to mention treating Fury.
Coulson replied only with a "Good." Then he cut off the communicator
She lowered her hand and turned back to him, stepping closer.
"Sir, please remain still," she said gently. "You've sustained multiple injuries—"
For a few seconds, Fury didn't respond.
He stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched, memories crashing back into place with brutal clarity.
The cell. The hologram.
Mesogog's voice.
The countdown.
Boom.
"I was tricked," Fury thought bitterly. His fingers curled slightly against the bed. "Utterly played."
The nurse watched him carefully, concern deepening as she noticed the sharp change in his expression.
"Sir?" she tried again. "You're safe now. The explosion—"
"I remember," Fury interrupted, his voice rough but firm.
She froze.
There was no confusion in his tone. Only cold awareness. She couldn't help but praise him internally for having such will and adaptation. If it were anyone else, they would be in the trauma unit as they gain consciousness.
He shifted, ignoring the wave of pain that shot through his body, and pushed himself slightly upright. The nurse instinctively reached forward.
"Director, please—your condition—"
"Give me a moment," Fury said, more command than request.
She hesitated, then nodded reluctantly, stepping back half a pace.
Fury closed his eye briefly, steadying his breathing. His mind worked at terrifying speed, replaying events again and again, dissecting every decision he had made.
The anonymous message.
The source he couldn't trace.
The layers of verification he had personally authorized.
All of it had checked out.
Too perfectly.
"Mesogog…" Fury thought, anger simmering beneath the surface. "So Anton Mercer never existed. Or rather… he did, but not the way we thought."
His jaw tightened.
"That message," he continued internally. "Every precaution I took… every identity check, every failsafe… and still, I swallowed it whole."
He opened his eye again.
"Get me some space," Fury said suddenly.
The nurse blinked. "Sir?"
"I need the room," he repeated, his tone sharp despite the weakness in his body.
"Director, I really can't—your vitals are only just stabilizing. Protocol requires—"
"This isn't a request," Fury cut in coldly.
The air in the room seemed to shift.
Even injured, even bound in bandages, Nick Fury radiated authority. The nurse swallowed hard, torn between medical duty and direct orders.
"I'll be fine," Fury added, more quietly but no less firmly. "Send Agent Coulson in when he arrives."
She hesitated for another second, then nodded.
"…Yes, sir."
She backed away, casting one last worried glance at him before exiting the room. As the doors slid shut behind her, she clasped her hands together, silently hoping Coulson would arrive quickly.
The moment Fury was alone, his expression darkened.
He clenched his right fist.
With a sudden surge of motion, he swung his arm sideways and slammed his fist into a reinforced metal support beside the bed.
CRUNCH.
The metal bent inward like soft clay, warped by the sheer force of the impact.
Pain flared—but Fury welcomed it.
It grounded him.
If anyone had witnessed it, they would have been shocked. Despite his injuries, despite his age, that punch carried inhuman strength.
Strength Fury had earned long ago.
In the early days—before S.H.I.E.L.D. became what it was—Fury had understood one fundamental truth: the world was dangerous. Increasingly so. Aliens, ancient evils, super-powered beings, Rangers drawing power from cosmic grids—it was only a matter of time before humanity stood on the edge of extinction.
And Fury had refused to be helpless.
He had empowered himself with rare artifacts, experimental enhancements, and intelligence-boosting technologies recovered from missions few even knew existed. Power and intellect—both sharpened beyond normal human limits. Not enough to make him a god.
Enough to survive among them.
It was that same foresight, that same preparation, that had carried him to the position he held now.
And yet—
He exhaled sharply, shaking his head.
"If it weren't for the multiple verification and identity checks I used to analyze that message…" he muttered aloud. "If even one of them had failed…"
His fist tightened again.
"I wouldn't have fallen into this dilemma."
The image of the Cosmic Cube flashed in his mind—glowing, pulsing with infinite potential.
"Now," Fury continued bitterly, "one of the world's most important artifacts has been stolen by a villain."
He leaned back slightly, grimacing as pain flared across his chest.
"Alas…" he sighed. "Being overly cautious has finally shown its consequences."
For the first time since waking, Fury allowed himself a brief moment of self-reproach. Not weakness—never that—but acknowledgment. He had been outplayed. Strategically. Elegantly.
Mesogog hadn't overpowered him.
He had outthought him.
Fury stared at the ceiling, mind already shifting gears. Anger cooled into focus. Shame sharpened into resolve. Solutions began forming rapidly, branching paths and contingencies unfolding in his thoughts.
Recover the cube.
Neutralize Mesogog.
Prevent further escalation.
And above all—
Change the game.
A soft mechanical hiss interrupted his thoughts as the door slid open.
Phil Coulson stepped inside.
The moment his eyes landed on Fury, relief flooded his face.
"Sir," Coulson said, moving closer. "You're awake."
Fury turned his head slightly to face him. His expression was composed now, the earlier fury buried deep beneath layers of discipline.
"I am," he replied evenly.
Coulson studied him carefully, concern evident. "How are you feeling?"
Fury let out a short breath. "Like I got hit by a helicarrier."
Coulson almost smiled—almost.
"You gave us a scare," he admitted. "Medical says you're lucky to be alive."
"Lucky isn't the word I'd use," Fury replied.
Coulson hesitated, then spoke more softly. "Do you remember what happened?"
Fury didn't answer immediately.
Then he said simply, "We lost the cube."
Coulson's expression tightened. He nodded once. "I figured as much, sir."
He gestured slightly toward the bed. "But right now, I think we should focus on your health. Otherwise… we might lose that too."
For a brief second, Fury let out a low chuckle.
"Hmph."
It was short, humorless—but real.
Then his face hardened.
He turned fully toward Coulson, his gaze sharp, commanding.
"We need to speed up our plans, Coulson."
Coulson's eyes widened just slightly.
"You mean… that?" he asked carefully.
Fury nodded, confirming his thoughts.
"It's time," Fury said firmly. "Time for us to assemble a team."
He paused, choosing his words with precision.
"A team of trained and capable individuals," he continued. "A team completely different from Rangers. If we can't control the morphin grid, then we make something as powerful as one."
Coulson felt a chill run down his spine—not fear, but anticipation.
Fury locked eyes with him, intensity burning behind his calm exterior.
"It's time," he said, voice steady and absolute, "to launch the Avengers Initiative."
--- ✦ ---
Happy New Year, guys. Thank you all for your support these past months. It's been hard as a new author, but your comments, reviews, power stones, and support have always kept me going. It's an honor. Love you guys so much. Once again. Happy new year. ❤️🎉