Hill carefully transcribed Smith's requirements into her notepad, her handwriting precise and professional despite the ambitious scope of his demands.
"I'll report all the conditions you mentioned to the Director," she said, flipping to a fresh page to ensure she hadn't missed anything. "We'll present them to the World Security Council along with the base application. Once approved, we'll inform you and Tony Stark immediately. As for your other specifications, we'll give them serious consideration."
Smith blinked, momentarily thrown off-balance. He'd been laying out increasingly absurd demands—nuclear weapons, intercontinental missiles, complete financial oversight—half-expecting Hill to push back or dismiss them as unreasonable.
Instead, she'd written down everything with the earnest dedication of someone who intended to actually pursue these requests.
I was mostly testing boundaries, Smith thought, but you look like you're taking this seriously.
A shame that in the original timeline, Hill had been collateral damage in Fury's catastrophically mismanaged secrets. She was competent, professional, and genuinely committed to SHIELD's stated mission rather than its political games. Exactly the kind of person who got burned when idealism met reality.
Smith extended his hand across the table. "Agent Hill, I appreciate your work ethic."
As Hill reached to shake, Smith flipped his other hand palm-up. A gleaming gold coin materialized there—the distinctive marker of the Assassin Brotherhood, stamped with their symbol and worth far more than its weight in precious metal.
He flicked it with his thumb. The coin spun through the air in a perfect arc, landing on the polished table in front of Hill with a soft clink before spinning to a gradual stop.
"That's a gold coin for wax bath qualification," Smith said. "Consider it yours."
Hill picked up the coin, examining it with professional curiosity. The craftsmanship was exquisite, the weight substantial. "But I assume the treatment itself still requires payment?"
"Correct. You'll need to cover the procedure cost yourself." Smith smiled slightly. "Considering your salary, it won't be cheap. You might want to submit it as a work-related medical expense for reimbursement."
Hill pocketed the coin smoothly, already mentally composing the requisition form. "Of course, ideally I'll never need to use it."
"Ideally," Smith agreed.
They exchanged a few more pleasantries—the social lubrication necessary to end a tense meeting on neutral terms—before Hill gathered her materials and departed.
Smith watched her go, then leaned back in his chair with a thoughtful expression. Fury was moving pieces on the board, testing boundaries, trying to determine how much control he could exert over Smith and the nascent Avengers Initiative.
Time to make some moves of his own.
SHIELD Triskelion - Director's Office
Hill delivered her report with her usual efficiency, standing at attention before Fury's desk while summarizing the conversation. She'd learned long ago to present information without editorial commentary—let the facts speak for themselves, allow the Director to draw his own conclusions.
When she finished recounting Smith's demands, Fury's expression cycled through disbelief, anger, and finally bitter amusement. He leaned back in his chair, one hand rubbing his temple.
"He wants to audit SHIELD's financial records," Fury said, his voice dangerously quiet. "What else does he want? Does he want to sit in my chair too?"
He shook his head, a harsh laugh escaping. "I think he wants to go to heaven."
Hill's expression remained professionally neutral, but her voice carried the faintest hint of dry humor. "Director, Smith Doyle has the ability to fly."
Fury's face darkened as the reminder landed. He shot Hill a withering glare, then pivoted to the next outrage on the list.
"And his application for intercontinental missiles and nuclear stockpiles—he's basically asking for the Avengers to become the next SHIELD. Or worse, something above SHIELD." Fury made a sharp cutting gesture with his hand. "These requests are all dismissed. Strike them from the proposal."
Hill nodded crisply. "Yes, Director."
She collected her notes and exited the office, leaving Fury alone with the documented list of Smith's demands. He stared at the paper for a long moment, his strategic mind working through angles and contingencies.
Then he picked up his pen and began making modifications. Some requests could be approved—basic equipment, personnel, satellite access. Others would be rejected outright. And a few... well, a few could be modified in ways that served SHIELD's interests while appearing to meet Smith's specifications.
The Security Council would receive a carefully edited version of the proposal. Let them think they were making the real decisions while Fury maintained actual control of the situation.
He finished his revisions, scanned the document into secure digital format, and transmitted it through encrypted channels to the World Security Council's administrative servers.
Now came the waiting game.
Several Days Later - Military Base
General Ross sat in his office, surrounded by paperwork that represented the bureaucratic aftermath of the Broadway incident. Damage assessments. Casualty reports. Legal liability analyses. Congressional inquiry notices.
And at the center of it all, the Emil Blonsky problem.
Ross had spent the past seventy-two hours running damage control. His strategy was straightforward: pin the Broadway destruction entirely on Bruce Banner's Hulk, position Blonsky as a heroic soldier who'd undergone experimental treatment to stop the rampage, and push for a commendation rather than a court-martial.
The controlled tests Ross had conducted with Blonsky after the incident supported this narrative. Blonsky retained full cognitive function in his transformed state—tactical awareness, following orders, proportional force application. He was exactly what Ross had hoped the super-soldier program could produce: enhanced capabilities without loss of control.
Unlike Banner, who was a liability with legs.
Unfortunately, SHIELD and the World Security Council had taken the opportunity to stick their bureaucratic fingers into Ross's operations. The Security Council wanted oversight. SHIELD wanted access to Blonsky. Various political factions wanted someone's head on a platter to satisfy public outrage.
And now Ross found himself fighting a rearguard action to protect his asset while appeasing enough parties to avoid being relieved of command.
The whole situation was a political minefield, and he was walking through it in lead boots.
Somewhere in New York - Nondescript Diner
Agent Sitwell sat in a worn vinyl booth, nursing mediocre coffee and watching pedestrian traffic through the grease-stained window. The diner was the kind of place that existed in every city—cheap, anonymous, frequented by people who wanted to be left alone.
Perfect for a quiet conversation.
The door chimed as Coulson entered, his suit somehow remaining crisp despite the August humidity. He spotted Sitwell immediately and slid into the opposite side of the booth.
Sitwell set down his coffee mug. "Are you hungry? They make great pancakes here."
Coulson shook his head, his expression carrying the weight of someone dealing with complicated political fallout. Sitwell recognized that look—he'd worn it himself often enough.
"Not going so well, was it?" Sitwell asked.
Coulson sighed. "No, it wasn't."
"Did they reject the Director's application?"
"Of course not." Coulson's voice carried bitter amusement. "They approved the Avengers base application. But then they made the most stupid, ill-considered addition I could possibly imagine."
He paused, letting the suspense build.
"They want Blonsky on the team."
Sitwell's coffee mug stopped halfway to his lips. "Abomination Blonsky?"
"He doesn't like us calling him that," Coulson said with a humorless smile. "As for the Broadway incident, they're pinning the destruction entirely on Banner. Ross is backing that narrative. They want Blonsky declared a war hero, given full immunity, and added to the Avengers roster as a military-industrial liaison."
Sitwell set his mug down carefully. "That's... politically motivated insanity."
"That's the Security Council for you." Coulson's expression darkened. "The Director reported this development to his superiors, and now Ross is in damage control mode. But the Council seems to think Blonsky is already under SHIELD custody."
Sitwell leaned forward, lowering his voice despite the diner's sparse population. "What's clearance level?"
Coulson gave him a flat look. "Really?"
"Please, is this level seven?"
"Level six," Coulson said after a deliberate pause. "Blonsky is currently under General Ross's direct jurisdiction. Not SHIELD custody. Not military prison. Ross's personal authority."
"What does Director Fury want?" Sitwell asked. "Is he actually planning to recruit Blonsky?"
"Of course not," Coulson said firmly. "But he can't openly ignore explicit instructions from the World Security Council. That would trigger oversight reviews, budget cuts, political retaliation—all things we can't afford right now."
He tapped his fingers on the table, a rare show of nervous energy. "So we need to ensure the Director doesn't have to ignore those instructions. As long as General Ross refuses to release Blonsky, SHIELD technically can't recruit him. Problem solved."
"How do we accomplish that?" Sitwell asked.
Coulson's expression shifted into something that might have been a smile if it had contained any warmth. "I have no idea. But we have twenty-four hours to send a liaison to Ross's facility and formally request Blonsky's transfer to SHIELD custody."
"According to the Security Council's directive," Coulson continued, "we must send an agent to make the official request. Someone who will follow protocol, represent SHIELD's interests, and negotiate in good faith."
He paused, his smile gaining a predatory edge.
"Unless, of course, we send someone completely unsuitable for the task. Someone so incompetent, so abrasive, so fundamentally wrong for diplomatic negotiation that General Ross will refuse the transfer on principle."
Understanding dawned across Sitwell's face. "You want to send someone who'll sabotage the negotiation."
"I want to send someone who'll offend Ross so thoroughly that he'll fight tooth and nail to keep Blonsky under his control," Coulson corrected. "Someone arrogant, dismissive of military authority, with a complete disdain for proper channels and protocols."
Sitwell thought for a moment. "I could play that role. I'm fairly good at irritating people when necessary."
"You're excellent at your job," Coulson agreed. "Which is exactly why you're the wrong choice. Ross would see through you immediately—recognize you're playing a part, understand the game we're running."
He leaned back in the booth, satisfaction clear in his expression. "No, we need someone who naturally offends military brass. Someone whose arrogance and condescension aren't an act. Someone who will genuinely, sincerely make Ross want to tell SHIELD to go to hell."
Sitwell's eyes widened slightly as understanding clicked into place. "The gentleman who wants to be an advisor?"
"Exactly." Coulson's smile was genuine now. "Not the gentleman who wants to be an inspector—he just helped Ross clean up the Broadway mess. But the other consultant, the one who makes generals grind their teeth just by existing."
"You're going to send Tony Stark to negotiate with General Ross," Sitwell said, admiration creeping into his voice despite himself.
"I'm going to send Tony Stark to annoy General Ross so thoroughly that the general will personally ensure Blonsky never gets anywhere near the Avengers Initiative," Coulson corrected. "And the Director will be able to tell the Security Council that we made every good-faith effort to recruit Blonsky, but unfortunately, General Ross declined to cooperate."
Sitwell raised his coffee mug in a mock toast. "Devious. I approve."
"It's not devious," Coulson said, though his tone suggested he didn't really believe that. "It's strategic resource allocation. We're simply assigning the right person to the right job."
"Sure," Sitwell agreed. "The right person to fail spectacularly while technically following orders."
"Precisely."
They finished their coffee in companionable silence, two professionals appreciating a well-constructed plan that would achieve its objective through deliberate incompetence.
Sometimes the best way to win was to lose in exactly the right way.