Since the New York Wormhole War, super-powered criminals had been appearing with disturbing frequency all over the world.
To combat this, the upper echelon of S.H.I.E.L.D. had promoted the Insight Project—a plan to launch three massive helicarriers into suborbital space to constantly patrol the planet.
Armed with energy, DNA, and biometric scanning systems, the carriers would predict potential threats and neutralize them before crimes could occur.
Fury had been overseeing the project personally.
But recently, he discovered a flaw—one big enough to destroy everything.
The targeting algorithm for identifying future criminals wasn't in his control.
When he went to the science division to investigate, he discovered something worse: the algorithm could be changed at any time.
Today, he was S.H.I.E.L.D.'s director, but that wouldn't last forever. The next director could change the parameters, use the carriers not for protection, but as executioners.
What if the new algorithm didn't target criminals, but political opponents? Dissidents? Or what if Hydra—or anyone else—got their hands on it?
Fury didn't need to imagine the consequences.
So he filed an official request to delay the project.
Alexander Pierce, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Secretary and one of the World Security Council's most respected members, agreed without question. He even joked about inviting Iron Man to his niece's birthday party.
The conversation seemed relaxed. Friendly, even.
But Fury's instincts told him he had just signed his own death warrant.
That night, as Fury drove through New York, the city streets felt… too quiet.
He didn't like it.
The traffic lights turned red. His black SUV stopped.
Then, out of nowhere—
BANG!
Four cars slammed into him simultaneously from every direction, locking him in place.
Dozens of men in police uniforms poured out from alleyways and opened fire.
Bullets rang like rain, clattering uselessly off the armored body of Fury's heavily modified vehicle.
He didn't relax—this was just the first move.
When the shooters saw their bullets weren't penetrating, a few of them advanced with hydraulic battering rams.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
The driver's window began to splinter.
Fury yanked the release under the passenger seat. A hidden Gatling gun popped out, spinning to life.
DA-DA-DA-DA-DA!
The front window blew out. A hailstorm of bullets roared back, cutting down the first wave of attackers.
The second they fell, Fury slammed the throttle.
The reinforced SUV blasted forward, smashing through the cars boxing him in. Sparks screamed off the road as he fishtailed into the intersection and roared onto the freeway.
He grabbed his comms.
"Maria, I'm under attack! I need you in New York, now!"
"Understood," Hill answered, without asking a single question.
Normally, Fury would have stopped there.
But this time was different.
He trusted one more person.
He opened a second channel. "Natasha, where are you?"
"Downtown. Why?"
"I'm being hunted—heavy fire, police uniforms. Sending you my location now."
In the original timeline, Fury wouldn't have called her. Her loyalties had always been murky, her history with Hydra too complicated.
But now… she was Apocalypse's wife.
And if Apocalypse himself turned out to be Hydra, then Fury might as well dig his own grave and save everyone some time.
Strength, after all, is trust.
Minutes later, a low growl of an engine echoed behind him.
Fury glanced in the rearview mirror.
A sleek black supercar came flying down the road, weaving through traffic at impossible speeds.
It was the one Apocalypse had won in that ridiculous European bet years ago.
Natasha never drove it unless she had to—missions usually left cars in pieces.
This time, she needed it.
And Fury might just live because of it.
He exhaled a breath of relief—
—and froze.
A figure stepped into the middle of the road ahead, completely unfazed by the speeding SUV.
Tall. Masked. Long hair whipping in the wind.
A left arm of gleaming metal.
He hurled a small disc underhand.
The disc skidded across the pavement and latched magnetically to the bottom of Fury's SUV.
Fury didn't even bother to curse this time.
BOOM!
The explosion flipped the vehicle, sending it crashing onto its side.
Fury's head rang from the shockwave. His ears buzzed.
Through blurry vision, he saw the masked figure rip the driver-side door off with one hand as though it were cardboard.
Fury reached for his sidearm, but he already knew—he was too slow.
The metal-armed assassin raised a pistol—
—and a flash of golden light smashed into him like a comet.
The impact hurled the assassin down the road, carving a ten-meter trench in the concrete before he skidded to a stop.
Natasha Romanoff stepped out of the supercar, both hands glowing faintly with Asgardian divine power.
Ever since Apocalypse had trained her personally—and after she'd taken the purple recovery potion—her strength was no longer something any ordinary human could measure.
The assassin stood, brushing off the scorch mark on his armor. His mechanical arm was dented, but functional.
He turned his masked face toward her and began walking forward.
Natasha felt a chill crawl up her spine.
That gait. That cold, dead stare.
She blurted it out before she could stop herself—
"Winter Soldier?!"
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A/N: Advanced Chapters Have Been Uploaded On My Patreon
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