Smith pushed open the door to the receiving room and paused fractionally when he recognized his visitor. Commander Hill, not Agent Coulson. That was a deliberate choice on Fury's part—sending his second-in-command rather than the usual liaison.
Interesting.
"Hello, Agent Hill," Smith said, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
Hill rose from her seat, extending her hand. "Hello, Mr. Smith. Thank you for seeing me on short notice."
Smith crossed to the sofa and settled into it, his posture deliberately relaxed—leaning back, one arm draped across the cushions. The body language of someone comfortable in their own territory, facing a guest who might or might not be welcome.
"I wonder what brings you here," Smith said, his tone conversational but his eyes alert.
Hill opened the folder she'd brought, pulling out the first document. "I wanted to discuss what happened on Broadway last night."
Smith's expression didn't change. "The military should issue a comprehensive report on the Broadway incident. You should contact General Ross for specifics. I'm sure he'd be happy to coordinate with SHIELD."
The deflection was smooth, professional. Hill expected nothing less.
"We'll certainly be verifying details with General Ross regarding the two gamma-enhanced individuals that appeared," Hill said, pulling a photograph from her folder. "But right now, I'd like to discuss your situation specifically."
She slid the photo across the coffee table.
Smith picked it up, examining the image. It showed him in mid-combat, eyes blazing crimson as twin beams of heat vision lanced out to detonate a car's fuel tank. The photographer had captured the moment perfectly—the intensity of the energy, the casual precision of the attack.
Hill produced a second photograph and placed it beside the first.
This one showed Superman—specifically, the comic book character Clark Kent from DC Comics—using his heat vision in an almost identical pose.
Smith's eyebrow rose slightly. "You think I'm Superman?"
Hill didn't respond verbally. Instead, she laid out a series of photographs in a precise line across the table. Each one showed Smith demonstrating a superhuman ability. And beside each was a corresponding comic panel showing Superman doing the same thing.
Flight. Check.
Invulnerability to bullets. Check.
Superhuman strength capable of matching the Hulk. Check.
Speed that exceeded human visual tracking. Check.
"How about you cooperate with me," Hill said, her tone almost conversational, "and use your freezing breath so I can photograph that for the record as well?"
Smith's expression darkened, his relaxed posture shifting into something more dangerous. "Are you suspecting I'm a Kryptonian?" His voice carried an edge now, the friendly facade dropping away. "Or are you planning to accuse me of copyright infringement on a fictional character?"
Hill met his gaze without flinching. "I'm just a little curious, Mr. Smith. Don't you think you have a lot in common with this Superman character?" She gestured at the photographs. "Even the public has started calling you 'Superman' "
Smith shrugged, though the gesture lacked its earlier ease. "People are free to speak. Can you restrict what they call me?"
"America guarantees freedom of speech to every citizen," Hill agreed smoothly. Then she leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping into something quieter but more intense. "But I'm a little curious, Mr. Smith."
She paused, holding his gaze.
"Do you bleed? Is your blood red?"
The temperature in the room seemed to drop twenty degrees.
Pressure manifested from nowhere—not physical force, but something deeper, more primal. The weight of a predator's attention, the sensation of being in the presence of something that could end you without effort. Hill's lungs seized, her diaphragm refusing to work properly. Breathing became a conscious struggle rather than an automatic function.
Smith's eyes had gone flat and cold, his voice dropping to something barely above a whisper. "Are you provoking me?"
Hill forced words out through gritted teeth, every syllable requiring deliberate effort. "That's a line... Batman once said... to Clark Kent."
The pressure didn't ease, but Smith's expression shifted fractionally—less immediate threat, more contemptuous amusement. "What?" His smile was sharp enough to cut. "Does SHIELD mistake itself for Bruce Wayne?"
He leaned forward, and the pressure intensified enough to make Hill's vision gray at the edges. "You don't really think I'm a Kryptonian, do you? Or perhaps you believe I'm like the comic version—conveniently weak to a fictional substance called Kryptonite, which SHIELD just happens to have stockpiled somewhere?"
The pressure vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. Hill gasped, air flooding back into her lungs in a rush that left her lightheaded. She managed a weak, embarrassed smile.
"I was just... inspired by the plot in the comics," she said, her voice slightly hoarse. "After all, Mr. Smith has a complete social security record. You're certainly not an alien."
That much was true. Before arriving for this meeting, Hill had reviewed Smith Doyle's documentation extensively. Social security number, birth certificate, medical records dating back to infancy. The Fraternity had done exceptional work creating his identity—every document properly aged, every piece of information cross-referenced and verifiable.
The only gap was his parents. Nineteen years of investigation, and SHIELD still hadn't identified Smith Doyle's biological mother and father. The adoption records existed, showing the Fraternity taking custody of an infant, but the original birth records led to dead ends and closed files.
Suspicious, certainly. But not proof of alien origin.
Smith's expression didn't soften, but the killing intent faded to background levels. "Agent Hill, you didn't come here just to discuss comic book characters, did you? Although our abilities are similar, I can't become stronger just by basking in the sun." He smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes. "That would be enviable—free power from stellar radiation."
Hill recognized the lifeline being offered and took it gratefully. "Currently, SHIELD is preparing to apply to the World Security Council for resources to construct an Avengers base. Mr. Smith is one of the proposed core members." She straightened in her seat, recovering her professional composure. "I'd like to ask if you have any suggestions regarding the formation of the Avengers and the base specifications."
Smith's mind immediately jumped to conclusions. Fury was requesting funding for an Avengers base—which, in the original timeline, had never actually materialized. Tony had bankrolled everything privately. Either this represented a timeline divergence, or Fury intended to embezzle the funds while letting Stark foot the actual bill.
Probably the latter, knowing Fury.
"It hasn't been formed yet," Smith said, his tone flat and unimpressed. "So when, exactly, will my supervisory authority take effect? Honestly, an organization as large as SHIELD demonstrates incredible inefficiency. I'm deeply suspicious of corruption and malfeasance within its ranks."
Hill's expression remained carefully neutral, but Smith saw the slight tightening around her eyes. He'd struck a nerve.
"When the Avengers are officially established," Smith continued, his voice taking on a lecturing quality, "please inform me immediately. I'll be bringing auditors to conduct a thorough investigation of SHIELD's financial practices."
He let that threat hang in the air for a beat, then shifted topics. "As for the Avengers base—naturally, it should be as large as possible with the most comprehensive equipment available. Satellites for global monitoring. Warships for rapid deployment. Next-generation fighter jets for air superiority."
Smith ticked off requirements on his fingers, his tone growing more demanding with each point. "As the saying goes, provisions and logistics must be established before troops can move. The base needs dedicated logistics personnel, communications support staff, and medical rescue teams with trauma surgical capabilities."
Hill pulled out a notepad, scribbling frantically to keep up.
"Equipment requirements should include everything from small arms to heavy ordinance," Smith continued, warming to the topic now. "If the Avengers are Earth's defense against extraterrestrial threats, then we need access to the planet's most powerful weapons. That includes intercontinental ballistic missile authorization and nuclear strike capability."
Hill's pen paused mid-word. She looked up, her expression carefully blank. "Nuclear weapons?"
"Extraterrestrial civilizations," Smith said simply, as if that explained everything. "If we're facing threats from beyond Earth, we need to be prepared to respond with overwhelming force. A few enhanced individuals throwing punches won't be sufficient if a hostile fleet enters orbit."
He leaned back again, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. "As for personnel composition—core combat members should meet minimum power thresholds. Tony Stark and myself as baseline standards. Anyone joining the active roster should register at least 150 points on the Combat Power Scouter. Preferably higher."
Hill nodded slowly, still writing. "That's... comprehensive. I'll relay your requirements to Director Fury."
"Please do," Smith said. "And Hill? Tell Fury that if he wants my cooperation with the Avengers Initiative, he needs to stop playing bureaucratic games. Either give me actual supervisory authority, or stop pretending I have any. The current arrangement insults both our intelligence."
Hill closed her notepad and stood, recognizing a dismissal when she heard one. "I'll pass along your message, Mr. Smith. Thank you for your time."
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