Marvel Cinematic Universe - Non-Sacred Timeline
New York - Fraternity Headquarters - Textile Mill
The air in the Loom chamber was thick with dust and the smell of old fabric. Sloan stood before the sacred machine, magnifying glass in hand, watching the threads weave their cryptic patterns. This was his routine, the burden of leadership. Every day, he would climb these stairs alone, decode the names the Loom provided, and send his assassins to execute Fate's will.
The threads shifted. New patterns emerged.
Sloan leaned closer, his practiced eye following the weave. He grabbed his notebook and began transcribing the cipher, his pen moving with mechanical precision. Letter by letter, the code revealed itself. The magnifying glass trembled slightly in his grip as the final name took shape.
His own.
"How is this possible?" The words came out barely above a whisper.
Sloan stepped back from the Loom, his heart hammering in his chest. He looked down at his notes, then back at the fabric. The name was still there. Clear as day.
"How could it be my name?" He ran a hand through his graying hair, mind racing. "It must be the Loom's fault."
But even as he said it, he knew the truth. His voice came out hollow, resigned. "The Loom of Fate never makes mistakes."
The silence in the chamber pressed down on him. For several long seconds, Sloan just stood there, staring at the cloth bearing his death sentence. He glanced toward the stairs, ears straining for any sound of footsteps. The other assassins knew better than to disturb him here. This place was sacred. Private.
His hand moved almost of its own accord, reaching for the fabric. With one swift motion, he tore the section free from the Loom.
The piece of cloth felt impossibly heavy in his palm. Over a thousand years. That's how long the Fraternity had existed, guided by this machine. In all that time, not once had a member's name appeared on the Loom. The targets were always outsiders. Threats to the natural order. People who needed to die so that thousands could live.
But the Loom didn't make mistakes.
Sloan's jaw clenched. According to their code, according to everything the Fraternity stood for, he should draw his pistol right now. Put the barrel to his temple. Pull the trigger. That's what the rules demanded.
His hand didn't move toward his gun.
"Will I become something unforgivable?" he muttered, studying the cloth as if it might offer answers. "What will I do?"
The question hung in the air, unanswered.
Then the ceiling exploded.
A streak of light tore through the night sky above New York City, blazing like a comet. It moved with purpose, descending rapidly toward the industrial district. The light wasn't fire or metal. Inside the brilliant glow, something small tumbled through the air, surrounded by seven glowing balls that orbited in perfect synchronization.
A baby.
The light punched through the textile mill's roof like it was paper. Wood and metal shrieked as the beam carved a path straight down into the Loom chamber.
Sloan didn't even have time to look up.
The impact was instant and devastating. The light struck him dead center, and the leader of the Fraternity crumpled like a puppet with cut strings. The shockwave that followed shattered the Loom of Destiny into a thousand pieces, ancient gears and sacred threads scattering across the floor.
The seven glowing balls that had surrounded the baby suddenly shot outward in different directions, punching new holes through the walls and ceiling. They streaked away into the night, their glow fading as they scattered across the city and beyond, transforming into ordinary-looking stones as they fell.
When the dust began to settle, only silence remained.
And in the center of the wreckage, nestled among the broken pieces of the Loom, a baby lay crying.
"Sloan! Sloan! SLOAN!"
The shouts came from the base of the stairs. Three figures stood at the door to the Loom chamber, forbidden territory for everyone except the leader.
Cross pounded on the door again. Beside him, Mr. X had his hand on his gun, and the Pharmacist looked pale.
"Something's wrong," Mr. X said quietly. The explosion had shaken the entire building. "We're going in."
Cross nodded. "Screw the rules. If Sloan's in trouble..."
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. All three assassins drew their weapons and burst through the door.
The sight that greeted them stopped them cold.
Moonlight poured through a massive hole in the ceiling, illuminating a scene of absolute destruction. The Loom of Destiny, the sacred machine that had guided their Fraternity for over a millennium, was nothing but debris. Shattered wood, twisted metal, torn fabric, everything scattered like a bomb had gone off.
And in the middle of it all, two things that didn't belong.
A dead man and a living child.
"Oh my God," the Pharmacist breathed. "What happened here?"
Cross was already moving, his training overriding his shock. He dropped to one knee beside Sloan's body, fingers going to the man's neck to check for a pulse. After a moment, he shook his head.
"He's gone."
Mr. X circled the wreckage slowly, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. The hole in the ceiling. The trajectory of destruction. The way Sloan's body was positioned. And most importantly, the baby, still crying softly in the ruins of the Loom.
"Look at his hand," Mr. X said.
Cross glanced down. Sloan's right fist was clenched tight around something. Cross carefully pried the dead man's fingers open and pulled free a piece of cloth. Even torn and crumpled, the weave was unmistakable. It was from the Loom.
"Bag everything," Mr. X ordered. "We need answers."
Conference Room - Two Hours Later
The high-ranking members of the Fraternity sat around a long table in tense silence. The Gunsmith broke it first.
"Alright. Tell us what you found."
Mr. X stood, hands clasped behind his back. His voice was level, professional, but there was an edge to it. "The Loom of Destiny has been destroyed. Sloan is dead. Both happened simultaneously."
"We attempted to salvage the Loom," Cross added from his seat. "It's unsalvageable. We've lost our leader and the machine that's guided us for over a thousand years."
The Butcher leaned forward, massive arms crossed on the table. "Who did it? Who's the target?"
Cross's expression was unreadable. "There is no target."
The room erupted.
"What?"
"That's impossible!"
"There has to be someone!"
"Quiet!" Mr. X's voice cut through the chaos. He nodded to Cross, who produced a clear evidence bag and placed it on the table. Inside was the piece of cloth from Sloan's hand, and next to it, a paper with the decoded cipher.
"This was in Sloan's hand when he died," Cross said. "He was holding it so tight we had to pry his fingers open."
The assassins passed the bag around, each one reading the decoded name. Confusion turned to shock turned to disbelief.
"This can't be right," the Gunsmith muttered. "Sloan's name?"
"Why would his name be on the Loom?"
Mr. X let them process it for a moment before speaking. "The Loom doesn't make mistakes. We all know that. Sloan knew that. He decoded his own name, and based on the condition of the cloth, he had torn it from the Loom himself."
"He was going to hide it," the Pharmacist said softly. "He didn't want to die."
"None of us would," Cross said. There was no judgment in his voice, only understanding.
The room fell silent again as the implications sank in. Their leader had been marked by Fate itself. And somehow, the Loom had executed its own judgment.
"There's something else," Mr. X continued. "At the scene, we found a baby. An infant, maybe newborn. He appeared at the exact moment Sloan died and the Loom was destroyed."
The Butcher frowned. "A baby? Where the hell did a baby come from?"
"The ceiling," Cross said dryly. "Based on the trajectory and the hole in the roof, the child literally fell from the sky."
More confused looks around the table.
The Pharmacist spoke up, his voice thoughtful. "Don't you see? This baby closed a chapter for the Fraternity. The Loom identified Sloan as a target, and in the same moment, this child arrived and completed the mission. He ended the old leadership and destroyed the old way."
He looked around at the others, his eyes bright with conviction. "This isn't a coincidence. This is divine intervention. The child is a gift from God. A sign. He's the Son of God himself."
Cross snorted, but there was a slight smile on his face. "A gift from heaven. I've seen a lot of crazy shit in this job, but I have to admit, this might take the cake. Still, I agree with the Pharmacist. What are the odds of all this happening at once? The kid's special."
Mr. X had been quiet, thinking. Now he spoke with finality. "Then we'll treat him as such. The child's name will be Smith Doyle. His title: GOD."
Cross raised an eyebrow. "GOD? That's quite the expectation to put on a baby."
The Gunsmith chuckled darkly. "No pressure, kid. Just live up to being God."
"The question is whether he can carry the weight of that title," Mr. X replied. "But we'll give him every opportunity to prove himself."
The Butcher cut in, his voice gruff. "That's all well and good for the future. What about right now? We've lost the Loom of Destiny. For over a thousand years, that machine has given us our targets. It told us who needed to die to save thousands. We were justice. We were fate's executioners."
He slammed a fist on the table. "Now it's gone. The kid's got a fancy title, sure, but what does the Fraternity do tomorrow? Next week? How do we operate without the Loom?"
Every eye turned to Cross and Mr. X. The two most skilled assassins in the Fraternity . The natural leaders.
Mr. X considered the question carefully before answering. "First, we recall all active members. Suspend operations until further notice. We need everyone here to discuss the future."
Cross leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming on the armrest. "I have a suggestion for that future. The Loom gave us names, some people who hadn't committed crimes yet, but there are others who already had blood on their hands. We could killed them all, preventing future harm or punishing past sins."
He looked around the table. "We've built an intelligence network that spans the globe. We have resources, contacts, information. Why not use them? Instead of waiting for a magical machine to tell us who to kill, we investigate. We find people who have already committed terrible crimes. Drug lords, human traffickers, war criminals. People who deserve what's coming to them. Then we bring them to justice."
"So we become superheroes?" the Gunsmith asked, his tone skeptical. "Like Captain America? Put on tights and fight crime?"
Mr. X shook his head. "Not superheroes. What Cross is suggesting is more refined than that. We stay in the shadows, as we always have. But instead of being guided by Fate, we're guided by facts. Evidence."
He paused, then nodded slowly. "It's a good suggestion. We can make it work."
The discussion continued for another hour, hammering out the details. By the time they were finished, the future of the Fraternity had been decided. They would adapt. Evolve. Survive.
And the child, Smith Doyle, would be raised as one of them.
"The kid gets the best training we can offer," Cross said as they wrapped up. "Everything we know, he learns. If he really is supposed to become GOD, then we make sure he's ready for it."
Mr. X agreed. "A child who fell from the sky and completed the Loom's final judgment. There's too much mystery surrounding him to ignore. We'll watch him closely. Train him well. And see what he becomes."
The Butcher grunted. "Just don't expect me to change diapers."
That got a few tired laughs around the table. It had been a long, strange night. Their world had been turned upside down. But they were assassins. They were survivors.
They would adapt.
And somewhere in the building, in a makeshift nursery, the baby who would be called GOD slept peacefully, unaware of the expectations being placed on his tiny shoulders.
Unaware that he was now part of something much larger than himself.
Unaware that his very existence had changed everything.