The frost giants' purpose was simple: serve as cannon fodder. Likely brainwashed by Hydra's zeal, they killed and devoured anyone in their path, laughing maniacally with reckless abandon.
Fearless even under the gaze of the god-king Odin, they charged into the streets, a clear sign of their fanatic resolve.
Before Odin cut them down, killing one person was a break-even, eating one was a profit. A full stomach only fueled their charge against him.
"Should we save them?" Gin asked her boss, indifferent. No longer a Valkyrie, her loyalty was to Su Ming alone.
The fate of Vanaheim's people meant little to her, despite her half-Vanir blood—the source of her golden hair.
Asgardians likely knew nothing of genetics. Odin's hair was reddish-gold in his youth, Frigga's was golden, yet Loki pranced around with jet-black hair. No way he was Frigga's biological son, right?
Yet he believed his mother's words without question.
Gin's parents were long dead, and having grown up in Asgard, she felt no attachment to this place.
But Su Ming, posing as Odin, risked exposure if he didn't act to help. After stowing their amulets, Heimdall could see them. Unfamiliar powers were easier to explain than actions unbefitting a god-king.
Without hesitation, Su Ming looked up and barked, "Heimdall, rescue the civilians to Asgard!"
The leader speaks, the subordinate scrambles.
Operating the Bifrost didn't require running, but saving civilians scattered across the city made Heimdall's eyes widen.
If the Bifrost was a giant claw machine, Heimdall was its master player. Yet, with civilians and frost giants intermingled, even he faltered at the challenge.
Still, a god-king's command was absolute. He complied.
In the darkness, rainbow beams struck the ground like thunder, snatching civilians from under frost giant blades at the last second. The beams came so fast they blurred into a continuous spectrum, illuminating every corner of the city.
Not everyone could be saved. Sometimes, Heimdall retrieved only severed bodies.
Frost giants, massive in stature, wielded oversized weapons. A glancing blow shattered bones or tore through flesh.
Su Ming didn't even glance at the carnage. He'd seen worse, and joining the fray wouldn't help much.
Fast as he was, he wasn't Barry-fast. He could save a few more, but not everyone, and it would let Zemo escape.
Zemo kept surprising him, now stealing a star—an act that elevated his threat level in Su Ming's eyes.
Sparing manpower to save people was already a selfless act of humanitarianism. He had no time to waste on these grunts. Let them have an empty city.
This way, Su Ming could curry favor with the two women in the Golden Palace, distract Heimdall, and, if the frost giants wrecked the city, make his "aid plan" more likely to win Gulveig's approval.
A win on multiple fronts.
But the Bifrost's spectacle was too conspicuous. If Zemo saw the light, he'd likely connect it to Odin's arrival.
Given the Zemo family's nature, he'd bolt immediately.
Su Ming had to catch him fast. The star's disappearance likely involved the Heart of the Sun, a power best not left in Zemo's hands.
Forging with a star—locking it in a furnace with other materials?
Deathstroke knew plenty, but mostly combat-related knowledge. Forging wasn't his forte.
In his past life, Su Ming had picked up scraps from online forums—terms like quenching or pattern welding. Fine for bragging, but hand him a hammer, and he'd be clueless.
Hammering heads? He could write a thesis. Hammering iron? He'd struggle with a nail.
But wasn't that normal? Even superheroes weren't omniscient.
Batman couldn't cook, Diana couldn't dance, Superman couldn't fly a plane—yet they were the Justice League's trinity.
The Avengers were no different.
Steve, a poor kid, still couldn't fix a car decades later. Tony, born rich, never learned to do laundry.
Spider-Man, jack-of-all-trades but master of none, knew a bit more.
Sadly, Peter's "with great power comes great responsibility" clashed with a mercenary's mindset. Su Ming couldn't adopt it.
His cousin's "with great power comes greater irresponsibility" was too extreme. Su Ming's creed was "with great power comes more choices."
Freedom to choose made life worth living.
Gin often wondered why her boss was so kind to Steve and Bucky, but Su Ming never explained, only offering a cryptic smile.
Helping Steve and Bucky was an investment. For inconvenient tasks, sending a star-spangled, righteousness-radiating Captain America was perfect. Su Ming could disguise himself, but small jobs weren't worth his time.
When Peggy became SSR's director, Su Ming's payoff would come. Surely Captain America could borrow some "useless" items from the warehouse, right?
If Steve got out of line, Bucky could rein him in.
Before sending Bucky to Kunlun, the sly mercenary had Ancient One pass a message: teach Bucky Chinese virtues like repaying kindness tenfold, with idioms like "a drop of water repaid with a gushing spring," "carry grass to repay a debt," or "a crow feeding its parents."
Ideally, repeat them three times daily.
Su Ming even sent Bucky a photo of himself, so he'd always see his benefactor's face and know whom to thank.
Batman trained nearly a decade with the League of Assassins. Bucky, less sharp than Bruce, facing Kunlun's deeper legacy, might need thirty or forty years.
Decades of indoctrination would make anything stick.
Spider-Man, though, had little investment value. Born too late, his biology and physics talents were cheap.
Su Ming's help was minimal: a word to the Daily Bugle to support Peter's photography gigs. A Spider-Man photo for thirty bucks, maybe—but Peter's guilt would likely stop him from cashing in.
His thoughts complete, Su Ming ignored the screams and ceaseless rainbows below, charging toward the horizon.