As the morning light spilled onto the red soil slopes of New Mexico, Damian sat cross-legged behind a weathered rock, a tuna sandwich he'd bought from a convenience store dangling from his mouth.
He adjusted the telescope's focus, and the window of the astronomical observatory's kitchen came clearly into view.
Inside, Thor was frantically flipping eggs in a frying pan, with Jane Foster giving him instructions.
The blond, muscular man had a pink towel draped over his shoulder—clear evidence he'd just washed his face.
He clumsily imitated Jane's movements and accidentally flipped an egg onto the stove, then scratched his head and laughed sheepishly.
His current demeanor was worlds away from when he'd first arrived on Earth, back when he'd looked at everyone with an expression that screamed, "I really want to beat you to death."
"At least he's starting to look somewhat human."
Damian wiped his damp eyes and muttered under his breath. Suddenly, he understood just how hard it was to take care of a child.
In the kitchen, Thor took the initiative to clean up the spilled mess and even helped Jane tie her apron.
That subtle shift made Damian nod in quiet satisfaction.
He swiveled the telescope to the other side of the building. There, Dr. Selvig was slumped on the sofa with an ice pack pressed to his forehead—still suffering from last night's hangover.
Daisy Louise frowned at her computer screen, a half-cold cup of coffee sitting beside her.
Just as Damian was about to continue his observations, his phone vibrated in his pocket.
He pulled it out. The screen read Diluc.
"Hello? Grandpa Lu! What's up?"
He hit answer, his eyes still fixed on the telescope.
"I'll say it again! You can call me Diluc, or you can call me Master—but don't call me 'Grandpa Diluc or Grandpa Lu'!"
Diluc's voice crackled through the speaker, accompanied by the familiar strains of jazz in the background.
"Don't worry about the details~ Just tell me what's wrong. I'm busy taking care of the kids!"
I want to be a good parent, Damian thought, and I don't want to miss any of my child's growth moments.
Through the lens, he watched Thor accidentally knock over the sugar jar and scramble to wipe it up with a towel.
"…"
For some reason, Diluc had always felt that Damian and Kaeya would get along famously.
After a long pause, Diluc continued, his tone turning grave:
"Yesterday afternoon, Norman Osborn attacked a Pentagon convoy. General Slocomb—the Deputy Secretary of Defense, Chairman of the Defense Acquisition Council, and a four-star general in the U.S. Army—was killed on the spot."
Damian raised an eyebrow, pondered for a moment, then finally placed the name.
"Hmm… Slocomb? That idiot who preaches 'physical suffering as transcendence' and mechanical ascension? The one who's been rabidly pushing to nationalize Tony Stark's Iron Man tech and scrap all biological weapons programs?"
"Exactly," Diluc confirmed. "And he wasn't alone. Eleven other members of the Defense Acquisition Committee were traveling with him. The entire convoy was blown to bits. No survivors."
"Tsk. Norman's not all bad. Even with his brain scrambled by those drugs, there's something… admirable about what he did."
Damian couldn't help but chuckle.
On the other end, Diluc fell silent.
Though he'd only been in this world a short while, Diluc already understood how these high-ranking officials operated. Kill them all, and some innocent ones would inevitably be caught in the crossfire. Spare every other one, and far too many would slip through the net.
"What do you plan to do about Norman Osborn?" Diluc asked, his voice colder now. "He might not be able to distinguish targets in his next attack."
Damian fell quiet. After a long moment, he sighed.
"What else can we do? We'll just have to take it one step at a time. If things go really sideways… well, we'll die trying! Keep monitoring him. If he ever suits up like some green-headed fly and starts slaughtering innocents indiscriminately, then you…"
The mountain wind whipped past, stinging with sand and dust. Against that backdrop, Damian's voice remained eerily calm:
"Never mind. After all, I'm no demon—and he's still my friend's father."
You could beat him until he's paralyzed from the neck down—completely unbalanced. Compared to him, even Stephen Hawking would look like an Olympian.
A few seconds of silence stretched over the line.
"…Is he really your friend?" Diluc finally asked, his tone laced with quiet skepticism.
At that moment, Damian had already slid down the slope, moving as nimbly as a lynx. Hearing the question, he answered without hesitation:
"Of course! If it were someone I didn't know, given my selfless, magnanimous, and compassionate nature…"
How much more likely do you think he is to survive than Wendy quitting drinking, Klee stopping her fishing at Cider Lake, or Zhongli ever carrying money when he goes out?
"…No matter how many wrongs he's committed in his past life," Diluc said dryly, "having made a friend like you in this one means his sins are already forgiven."
Damian shrugged noncommittally, accepting the assessment with ease, then changed the subject:
"By the way—how's things on your end?"
"S.H.I.E.L.D. has ramped up surveillance significantly. Three tactical teams rotate outside the bar in shifts, and they're even inspecting delivery trucks."
Diluc's voice turned serious.
"They seem to be planning an operation—and they're specifically guarding against meddlers like me."
Damian narrowed his eyes. "Who's leading the team?"
"Brock Rumlow. Code name: Crossbones."
"Tsk. Hydra's mad dogs…"
Damian pulled out his notebook and quickly jotted down the name. "If they're from Hydra, then we've got to step in."
"But it's inconvenient for you to move right now—and I can't leave here just yet."
He paused, then brightened.
"Hmm… I've got it! Once I wrap things up here, I'll summon Fischl to support you."
From the other end came the soft clink of a wine glass being set down, followed by a hesitant reply:
"Fischl… Her words and actions are… unusual, but her investigative skills are exceptional."
"Great! It's settled, then."
"…It seems I'll need to arrange an etiquette lesson for you when you get back."
...
Just as Damian slipped his phone back into his pocket, the sky—once a flawless azure—suddenly twisted into darkness.
Rolling black clouds swallowed the heavens in seconds. A blinding bolt of lightning split the sky, followed by a thunderclap so loud it rattled the earth.
"Boom…!"
"Holy crap! Since when does New Mexico get sudden thunderstorms?!"
He ducked behind the cliff face and squinted toward the strike zone.
BOOM!
On the Gobi Desert, a searing column of light—over ten meters wide—plummeted from the sky, instantly vaporizing sand and stone in its wake.
The glare burned his eyes, tears welling up, but he kept his gaze locked on the epicenter.
The beam lasted roughly thirty seconds before vanishing, leaving only the sharp, metallic tang of ozone in the air.
Damian rubbed his stinging eyes—and saw four figures step out from the fading halo.
At their lead stood a female warrior clad in silver armor, a jewel-encrusted longsword in hand, her jet-black hair whipping like a battle standard in the wind.
Behind her stood three heavily armed men:
a burly, red-bearded man hefting a double-edged battle axe,
a dark-skinned warrior gripping a meteor hammer,
and a blond knight with a longsword sheathed at his waist.
"Sif and the Warriors Thr
ee? Why are they here so early? Has the plot accelerated already?"
Damian muttered to himself, his fingers absentmindedly tracing his smooth chin.
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