Coulson arrived at a jog. "What's happening?"
"He's heading to the factory," James said, already securing the device. "If he destabilizes there, we could lose him—and the civilians around him. We must act now."
He turned toward the exit.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Phil Coulson slid into the driver's seat. James took the passenger side, lifting the weapon in his hands and giving it one final inspection.
It was a long-barreled stun rifle—the first working prototype Leo Fitz had built. James liked it immediately. In the current state of S.H.I.E.L.D., there was nothing more useful than a weapon that neutralized without killing.
"Phil," James said, "this thing is perfect for internal operations. Especially when we don't know whether a target is a friend or foe. Fitz should get full support—especially if he can miniaturize this into a sidearm."
Coulson nodded, pushing the car harder. "Agreed. Once it's refined, I'll submit it to the Director as a standard-issue."
He glanced sideways. "You planning to fire?"
"Not yet," James replied. "I want to test him first. See how strong he really is. If he destabilizes, then I shoot."
He finished the adjustments as he stored the rifle.
"I heard you bonded with the Space Stone," Coulson said after seeing the rifle vanish. "Didn't expect it to be that… practical. Might be time we issue you specialized carry gear."
"Probably," James said evenly.
THE BUS — LAB
After James left, Fitz finally sagged into a chair.
"I thought I was going to pass out," he said weakly. "The pressure—"
Simmons tilted her head. "I didn't feel anything."
"That's because he wasn't looking at you," Fitz said quickly. "It's like standing in front of a very angry Hulk. He's Nocturne—Avengers-level. Did you see New York? When he flew straight into the portal at the end… I couldn't breathe watching it."
Simmons finally understood. "…That explains a lot."
THE FACTORY — EXTERIOR
The car rolled to a stop well before the entrance.
James had no sympathy for the factory's management. Firing injured workers, contracts riddled with fine prints—this place deserved scrutiny.
Michael Peterson had no car and couldn't afford a taxi. He'd arrive by bus.
They were early.
"Where do you want to intercept him?" Coulson asked.
"Inside," James said. "Let's disable the surveillance first."
Coulson nodded and headed in.
James stepped out, leaned against the car, and took out a tablet. He waited.
MICHAEL PETERSON
Peterson was breaking.
Getting fired, Injured, his Wife gone, and the House taken away.
The people who had changed him warned him not to reveal his strength. But strength didn't pay rent. He came back to the factory with one hope left—that desperation might soften someone's conscience.
It didn't.
Anger surged. He shoved a heavy crate aside without thinking. It slid far too easily.
James watched from the side.
'Strength confirmed. Still not coordinated with it though.'
He stored away the tablet and stretched for the coming action.
FACTORY FLOOR
James flashed his credentials at the guard without letting the guy question it and walked in behind Peterson.
The pleading failed. The supervisor dismissed him.
Peterson shoved another crate—harder this time.
James analyzed it.
"Impressive strength," he muttered. "But still not enough."
He stepped closer, his voice loud.
"Michael Peterson."
Peterson turned, confused. James approached calmly, dressed in a plain black suit.
"Who are you?"
James held up his ID. "I'm from the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. We need to talk."
Peterson scoffed. "Never heard of it. Stay out of this."
"I'm afraid that's not possible," James said, closing the distance. "I need you to come with us."
Peterson snapped.
He shoved James in the chest—just raw strength, with no technique.
James had expected it.
Time slowed.
The man's movements were clumsy, telegraphed. Strength without speed. James caught the wrist, twisted just enough to limit motion, and braced, using his own strength against him.
They locked up. James tested his resistance. 'Enhanced, but unstable.'
He escalated. A sharp kick drove into Peterson's abdomen. The impact echoed throughout the factory. Peterson skidded back several meters—but stayed upright.
The workers scattered out of the factory.
Peterson ripped a metal canister from a forklift and charged.
James didn't retreat.
At the last moment of collision, he sidestepped, slipped inside the swing, and drove a punch straight into Peterson's face.
Thud.
The sound was dull and heavy.
James followed immediately—with short, fast strikes. Unorthodox and relentless. Peterson covered up, roaring, and swinging wildly.
Then Peterson surged forward and locked James in a crushing grip.
Steel-tight.
James braced, wedging his arms before Peterson could trap them fully. They strained, muscles screaming.
"You need to come with me," James said through clenched teeth. "You're unstable. You could explode at any moment. We're the only ones who can help you."
Peterson snarled, eyes wild.
"No," he growled. "I was supposed to be a hero. They took everything from me. Now I'll take it back."
James gritted his teeth.
This was the moment.
James could see it clearly now.
Michael Peterson was no longer thinking rationally. The rage was feeding the instability inside him—an orange glow flickering beneath his darkened skin.
'Now.'
James dropped his weight suddenly, stomping down hard on Peterson's foot. Even reinforced bodies still had weak points. The sharp pain staggered Peterson's balance, his grip loosening instinctively.
James sprang upward in the same motion, twisting his hips and driving both legs forward.
The kick landed clean.
Peterson was launched backward, skidding across the concrete floor.
Before anyone could react, a sleek, sci-fi–styled stun rifle appeared in James's hands.
Poomf.
The weapon vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
The sharp echo stunned the onlookers. When they looked again, James's hands were empty.
A clean impact mark bloomed at Peterson's temple—no blood, only a brief pulse of blue light racing across his face. The paralysis field engaged instantly.
Peterson collapsed, unconscious.
James moved at once, lifting the man up with ease and turning toward the exit.
"Stop!" a voice shouted.
The factory supervisor reappeared, grabbing James's arm. "I've called the police! This man must be punished under the law—you can't just take him!"
James looked at him as one might look at a self entitled man. He shrugged the grip off and kept walking.
Behind him, the supervisor screamed, "Security! Stop him!"
A guard hesitated, stepping into James's path.
James paused, produced his credentials, and said calmly, "Move. Or I'll sue you for obstruction of federal operations."
The guard froze.
The supervisor, still shouting from the floor, raved about consequences and lawsuits.
James stopped again—this time because Phil Coulson was approaching.
"Secure him," James said, handing Peterson off. "I'll deal with this."
He turned back.
The supervisor took a step back, fear finally cracking through his bluster. "Don't come closer. I have my rights. I'll sue."
James crouched, held up his ID again.
"You are under arrest for obstruction of public service," he said evenly. "Your factory has violated labor and safety laws, particularly regarding injured workers. Your statements will be entered into evidence."
He lifted the man effortlessly and pushed him toward the exit.
Sirens wailed outside.
The police arrived in force—alerted by exaggerated reports of superhuman violence.
Their confusion lasted only until Coulson presented his credentials.
After the Battle of New York, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s authority spoke for itself.
The supervisor was taken away.
Michael Peterson was transferred without incident.
His son was placed safely with relatives.
The crisis ended—cleanly.
THE BUS — AFTERMATH
Tension followed them back.
Phil Coulson's decision to keep Skye aboard—offering her a role as a technical consultant—sparked immediate disagreement.
"She's not suited to field work," Melinda May said flatly in the briefing room. Her eyes flicked to James for support.
James didn't contradict Coulson.
"I think it's the right call," he said. "I won't be with this team forever. Skye has the skills to handle the systems side. She can be trained."
May can't help but feel indignation. "Are you backing this because you like how she looks?"
James smiled faintly. "She's an eye candy. But I trust Phil's judgment."
Coulson nodded. "She breached S.H.I.E.L.D. databases twice using a laptop. That's potential worth cultivating."
May left without another word.
When the room cleared, Coulson spoke quietly. "You know what she is."
James nodded. "A 0-8-4. People died protecting her. She's kind—and dangerous. With training, she'll be invaluable."
"Keep it quiet," Coulson said.
"Of course."
NEW MISSION
An urgent alert arrived.
Another 0-8-4. Priority override.
Surveillance on the earlier survivor had to be reassigned.
Coulson frowned. "I don't like leaving loose ends."
James shrugged. "We won't miss them forever. There's always another trail."
IN FLIGHT
The Bus lifted off again—with a new passenger.
James and Skye sat across from each other.
"So," James said casually, "about that dinner."
She smiled. "You're persistent. The answer is NO."
James chuckled. "You've got a heart. That means I still have a chance."
She studied him, unsure whether to laugh or be wary.
The aircraft flew south.
To Peru.
An archaeological team had uncovered something anomalous—exactly the kind of problem S.H.I.E.L.D. existed to handle.
Exiting the BUS and boarding a ground vehicle, they depart to the site.
The road deteriorated into dirt as they drove inland, jungle closing around them.
At the end of the path, a towering stone temple rose from the forest.
Ancient and massive, an impossible sight from the ancient times.
James surveyed it quietly.
'Here we go again.'