Steve Rogers sat in the passenger compartment of the Quinjet, his fingers absently tracing the familiar ridges and curves of his shield. The vibranium disc remained unchanged after all these decades—still the same weight, still perfectly balanced, still bearing the scars of a multiple battles fought in a war that felt both like yesterday and a lifetime ago.
But the world beyond that unchanging shield? That was a different story entirely.
Although SHIELD had rescued him from his icy tomb in the Arctic, Steve felt like a man drowning in an ocean of unfamiliarity. Every day brought new technology, new social norms, new ways of thinking that left him feeling more displaced than he cared to admit.
Nick Fury kept telling him he just needed time to adapt, that anyone would feel disoriented after being frozen for seventy years. "Move your body, exercise your mind, and you'll be fine," the Director had said with that trademark intensity of his.
Steve could only hope Fury was right.
Because even in this modern era—supposedly after Hydra's destruction and the end of the great ideological wars—enemies who wanted to destroy the world seemed to emerge from every shadow. The threats were more complex now, more varied, often more dangerous than anything he'd faced in World War II.
The danger had clearly escalated, but he remained fundamentally the same man who'd volunteered for an experimental procedure all those years ago.
What confused Captain America even more than the technological changes, though, was a deeper philosophical question: Why hadn't the beautiful future he'd thought he was fighting for come to pass?
In the days since his revival, when he wasn't hiding in SHIELD's underground training facilities or working out his frustrations on heavy bags, Steve had been studying. Learning about the decades he'd missed, trying to understand what had become of the world he'd helped save.
Hydra was gone, the war was won, but peace remained elusive.
Once, he'd believed with absolute certainty that he was fighting for his country, for the world, for peace, for the fundamental dignity of all humanity. Those beliefs had sustained him through the darkest moments of the war, had given meaning to every sacrifice.
But studying the history of the past seventy years had shaken that certainty. This country still called itself a beacon of freedom, but it had launched war after war in distant lands. The moral clarity he'd once felt seemed like a luxury from a simpler time.
The questions gnawed at him during quiet moments like this.
The Quinjet's engines began to cycle down, pulling Steve from his brooding thoughts.
A soldier approached, his bearing crisp and professional despite the casual confidence in his expression. Steve glanced at the man's nameplate: "Brock Rumlow."
"Captain, we're here," Rumlow announced.
Steve looked up, taking in the operative's weathered features and knowing eyes. This was clearly a man who'd seen his share of action.
With a deep sigh, Steve stood and secured his shield across his back.
"You don't need to look so tense," Brock said, his smile carrying just a hint of mockery. "The Bureau tends to get a little overeager about things that fall from the sky."
"What, are they worried about another meteorite bringing little green men? Because last I checked, we've got enough problems down here already." He shrugged with practiced nonchalance.
Steve didn't catch the reference, but Rumlow's casual attitude helped ease some of his tension. This mission was definitely more bizarre than difficult—a hammer that had fallen from the sky and couldn't be lifted by anyone sounded like something out of a fairy tale.
When the aircraft touched down, Steve walked down the ramp and was immediately greeted by Agent Coulson's enthusiastic approach.
"Captain Rogers!" Coulson called out, his face lighting up with genuine excitement.
Steve was struck by the agent's obvious admiration. It was clear that Coulson was a fan, though he was trying to maintain professional composure.
Coulson quickly briefed Steve on the situation as they walked toward the secured perimeter.
"That hammer has been sitting in New Mexico for several days now," Coulson explained. "It created a small impact crater, but our satellite surveillance didn't detect anything unusual about the object itself during its descent."
"I heard no one can lift it?"
Coulson nodded eagerly. "Before we arrived, the locals had already given it their best shot. An elderly rancher even tried to pull it out with his pickup truck—ended up tearing the rear axle clean off instead of budging the hammer."
After SHIELD had established a perimeter, they'd naturally applied various technological solutions, but even their most advanced equipment had proven useless against the immovable object.
"So what exactly is my mission here?" Steve asked. He couldn't imagine that Nick Fury had sent him all this way just to attempt another futile effort at moving an unmovable object.
"Well, Fury's concerned that someone might try to steal it," Coulson explained. "Since the hammer landed on U.S. soil, he's claiming salvage rights."
The logic was simple: if it truly had no owner, then it belonged to SHIELD by right of recovery.
Coulson's grin widened. "Of course, Captain, you're welcome to give it a try yourself. Who knows? You might actually be able to lift it."
"That sounds a bit like the legend of King Arthur and the sword in the stone," Steve mused, finally finding a cultural reference he could understand.
As they walked toward the site, Rumlow began directing the other operatives in establishing a more permanent base of operations. Since they couldn't take the hammer to a secure facility, they'd have to bring the facility to the hammer.
Meanwhile, across the vast New Mexico desert, a blue streak raced across the landscape at superhuman speed.
Ben Parker had transformed into XLR8, his sleek alien form cutting through the air like a living missile. The Kineceleran physiology allowed him to maintain incredible velocities while still being able to navigate and react to obstacles with perfect precision.
"New Mexico really is the middle of nowhere!" Ben called out as he applied his alien brakes, kicking up a massive cloud of dust and debris.
While Ben had asked Eunice to book him a flight to New Mexico, he'd actually flown to Texas instead. The Lone Star State's famous coastline had seemed like the perfect cover for a supposed vacation.
It was only after arriving in Texas that Ben had transformed into XLR8 and run the rest of the way across the desert.
The New Mexico landscape looked like something frozen in time—all dusty roads, weathered buildings, and endless stretches of scrubland that could have been lifted straight from a classic Western film. It was easy to imagine cowboys on horseback, prospectors panning for gold in creek beds, and inevitable showdowns in front of saloons.
The whole region had that timeless frontier atmosphere that Hollywood loved to romanticize.
"Eunice, mark the location where Thor's hammer landed," Ben said, activating his AI assistant.
Eunice immediately transmitted the coordinates to Ben's heads-up display. The hammer's impact had caused quite a stir in the local area when it first arrived, and Ben had been monitoring the situation since then.
But now, all the original news reports and social media posts about the incident had been scrubbed from the internet.
He knew SHIELD's handiwork when he saw it.
Fortunately, Ben's goals didn't conflict with the intelligence agency's interests. He had no desire to claim Thor's hammer for himself—even if he could lift it, which was doubtful, what would be the point? Odin was still very much alive, and antagonizing the All-Father seemed like a poor life choice.
From the beginning, Ben's targets had been purely biological: genetic samples from both Asgardians and Frost Giants.
"Getting Thor's DNA should be easy enough," Ben thought to himself as he scouted the area.
Now that Thor had been stripped of his godly power, he was only marginally stronger than an ordinary human. More importantly, he was still the same impulsive, straightforward warrior he'd always been—subtlety and caution weren't exactly his strong suits. Acquiring a genetic sample from him would be trivial.
Loki, however, presented a different challenge entirely.
Throughout his time on Midgard, the God of Mischief had made only a handful of appearances, and once Ben activated the Omnitrix's capture mode, he wouldn't be able to transform until the collection process was complete.
"At least I still have Spider powers to fall back on," Ben reminded himself, clenching his fists with determination.
But he wasn't fooling himself about the difficulty of the task ahead. While Loki might appear physically weak in the movies, his actual power level was rated at Class 5—significantly stronger than Ben's baseline human abilities.
Getting Loki's genetic material wouldn't be a simple matter of stealth and opportunity.
"Actually, I could approach this from a different angle," Ben mused, a plan forming in his mind.
"I'll just beat the hell out of him with Four-Arm first, then collect his DNA while he's unconscious."
Somewhere in Asgard, Loki felt an inexplicable chill run down his spine and wondered why.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Support me at [email protected]/goldengaruda and check out more chapter of this or more early access chapter of my other fanfic translation.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~