The morning sun streamed through the tall, arched windows of the Fraternity's main conference hall, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.
Michael stood at the front of the assembled werewolves. They were a sea of over a hundred figures, all on one knee, their heads bowed. Behind Michael, the human of the Fraternity, his new brothers and sisters in arms, watched in silence. Smith Doyle stood on the raised platform above them, his presence commanding absolute attention.
Michael's voice, steady and clear, rang out in the quiet hall. "I, Michael, patriarch of the werewolf clan, lead my people in pledging loyalty to Smith Doyle before all members of the Fraternity. I will be forever loyal to you."
One by one, the werewolves echoed the oath, their voices filling the room.
"I, John North of the werewolf clan, swear my loyalty to Smith Doyle before all members of the Fraternity. I will be loyal to you forever."
Each werewolf approached a table where a piece of aged, heavy parchment lay waiting. They picked up the provided knife, made a small, sharp cut on their finger, and signed their names in blood. They finished by pressing a heavy thumbprint next to their signature. The ancient ritual carried a tangible weight, making the oath binding in ways that went beyond mere words.
Fox, her face impassive, collected the completed parchment and carried it to Smith with both hands, holding it as if it were a sacred text.
Smith studied the document, his gaze sweeping over each signature, each dark bloodstain. Then he looked down at the werewolves still kneeling before him.
"I accept your allegiance."
His voice was calm but carried through the hall, reaching every corner. "From this day forward, the werewolf clan will serve as gatekeepers of the Fraternity. You will be under my protection and the protection of this organization."
A collective, quiet sigh of relief passed through the assembled werewolves. Shoulders that had been tense for years relaxed. They'd found a home, a purpose, and protection from those who'd hunt them simply for existing.
Smith gestured, and they rose as one, a shuffling of boots and leather.
"Gunsmith. Butcher."
The two master assassins stepped forward from the shadows.
"The training of this group is yours," Smith commanded. "Every werewolf must understand the Fraternity's mission and code of conduct."
His eyes swept across the new recruits. "Once they pass assessment, they'll be assigned to the Assassin Brotherhood. Each will have a werewolf stationed for security and special operations."
The Gunsmith and Pharmacist bowed slightly, their expressions neutral. "Yes, Chief."
Across the city at S.H.I.E.L.D headquarters, the Triskelion, Agent Coulson moved with a speed just shy of an outright run. His hard-soled shoes squeaked on the polished floor.
He burst into Nick Fury's office without knocking, clutching a tablet loaded with fresh, high-priority intelligence.
"Director, according to reports from our surveillance teams near the Fraternity headquarters, a large group entered their compound this morning."
He pulled up the data, his voice tight with urgency. "Combat power readings between twelve and fifteen points across the board. One individual registered at thirty points."
Nick Fury had been reviewing other reports, his pen scratching across a document. His head snapped up at that. "How many people, exactly?"
Coulson met his eye. "One hundred, sir."
The S.H.I.E.L.D agents monitoring the Fraternity base had run combat power assessments on every single person entering the building. The readings had terrified them.
Fury's visible eye widened fractionally, which for him was the equivalent of a shocked gasp. One hundred transcendent. Even if they were all at the lower end of the spectrum, that represented a terrifying level of combat potential. The normal human limit was eight points. Most of his best agents topped out at five or six.
S.H.I.E.L.D itself didn't have one hundred operatives above eight points of combat power. Not even close.
"Who are they?" Fury asked, his voice low. "Members of the Fraternity we've already documented?"
"No, sir. According to our tracking, this group was brought back from London by Fraternity operatives."
Coulson swiped through the files. "We have records of their departure from London and their entry into the United States. All documentation was provided by London sources. Everything appears legitimate."
He frowned. "But logically, London shouldn't have allowed this many transcendent to leave the country."
The identities had been arranged by Alexander Corvinus, of course, which made them bulletproof. But Coulson didn't know that.
Fury leaned back in his chair, his mind processing the new threat. "Some kind of special race?" One hundred transcendent suggested a breeding population or a specific genetic group. Maybe even aliens like the Skrull.
"Based on current information, nothing stands out as particularly unusual," Coulson said carefully. He hesitated for a fraction of a second. "They're all registered as British citizens."
Fury drummed his fingers on the desk, a slow, steady tap.
"Contact the head of our London branch. Find out if they know anything about this group."
"Also, activate our embedded assets in the Fraternity. I want to know what these people are, whether they're official Fraternity members, and if not, why they're there."
Coulson nodded. "I'll make the arrangements immediately."
"Any progress on the Dragon Ball situation?"
Coulson pulled up another file. "Based on phone surveillance, internet monitoring, and dark web intelligence, multiple factions are actively searching for Dragon Balls."
"The price has been driven up to ten million dollars per ball. Underground organizations and independent assassins are scouring the globe." He frowned. "But no one has publicly announced possession of any Dragon Balls."
"Compared to the public display at John Wick's estate, this time everything's much more covert. Well hidden."
"We're continuing to investigate."
Fury nodded slowly. "Keep following both leads. Learn everything you can about Smith Doyle's activities." He paused, then added, "If your undercover operatives can't get results, go talk to him directly. He is technically an Avenger, after all."
Coulson looked at his director and stayed silent for exactly one second.
Smith Doyle was about to exercise his Avengers supervisory authority, which Fury had been trying to delay. The Avengers Initiative hadn't even been officially implemented yet. But now, when Fury wanted information about whether these new people represented a destabilizing threat, suddenly Smith was an Avenger again.
Asking Coulson to handle such blatant hypocrisy was peak bureaucratic manipulation.
"Yes, Director."
Coulson accepted the assignment, though he mentally prepared himself for Smith Doyle to make this as difficult as possible. The man wasn't stupid, and he definitely held grudges.
In Betty Ross's apartment, Bruce Banner woke to morning sunlight filtering through unfamiliar curtains. The air smelled like coffee and faintly of her perfume.
It took him a moment to remember where he was. Betty's place. Safe, at least for now.
Betty had connections at Culver University. With her help, Banner could access the laboratory equipment he needed to study the Dragon Ball properly. Yes, he had a tournament ticket, but he was a scientist first. If he could identify the Dragon Ball's energy signature and frequency, even losing the tournament wouldn't matter. He could track down the others afterward.
They arrived at campus during a lull between classes. Only a few students wandered the green pathways.
Banner kept his head down, his shoulders hunched, his eyes scanning constantly for threats. Military vehicles. Suspicious individuals in suits. Anyone who might recognize him.
"Are you okay?" Betty asked quietly, sensing his tension.
Banner forced himself to relax slightly, unclenching his jaw. "Should be fine."
They walked toward the science building. Betty noticed Banner's shirt was untucked on one side, hanging awkwardly from being slept in.
"Let me help you with that."
She stepped close. Banner tensed, his first instinct to pull away, but he held still. She began straightening his shirt, her fingers brushing his side as she tucked it properly into his pants.
Banner didn't pull away. He let himself enjoy the simple warmth of the moment, the gentle intimacy of someone caring about his appearance. For just a few seconds, he could pretend he was normal. That he wasn't a monster wearing human skin.
That the Dragon Ball in his pocket might actually give him a chance at a real life again.
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