The lightning strike's aftermath rippled across the desert. The explosion's shockwave distorted the very air, shattering the storm that had dominated the battlefield and sending the Destroyer hurtling backward across several kilometers of barren landscape. Where the weapon finally impacted, it left a crater resembling a meteor strike, dust and debris mushrooming skyward in testament to the devastating force.
As the last echoes of thunder faded, Steve stood amid the settling dust, Mjolnir humming with residual energy in his grip. The connection between wielder and weapon had deepened with each exchange, until now the hammer felt less like a borrowed tool and more like an extension of his own will. Every movement sent ripples of godly power through his enhanced physiology, the very air around him crackling with barely contained storm energy.
The Destroyer's defeat was temporary rather than permanent—Steve could sense the weapon already beginning to stir within its impact crater. But that didn't concern him. As he'd promised, he could indeed do this all day. The hammer's power seemed inexhaustible, drawing from sources beyond his understanding to sustain him indefinitely.
Without hesitation, Steve launched himself skyward, Mjolnir's properties allowing him to fly with the same grace Thor. He descended upon the recovering Destroyer like a force of nature, hammer blows raining down with precision. Each impact rang across the desert with the sound of thunder, as if the very heavens were passing judgment upon the earth below.
From his distant vantage point, Ben observed the relentless assault with analytical detachment. Captain America's technique was flawless, his enhanced tactical mind adapting to aerial combat with ease. Yet for all the sound and fury of his attacks, the actual damage to the Destroyer remained minimal.
"Looks like a slow-burn strategy," Ben muttered. Steve wasn't trying to blow the thing up—he was just chipping away at it, making Loki waste energy trying to keep control from Asgard. The longer it went on, the better it worked in their favor.
The Destroyer could probably keep firing forever. But Loki? He couldn't. Controlling it from Asgard took serious focus and a ton of power. Sooner or later, he'd slip.
Aboard the Quinjet, Director Fury watched the distant battle with conflicted emotions. The clearing of the storm clouds had restored their contact with the battlefield, revealing Captain America's commanding performance against the threat.
"I didn't expect the hammer to be quite this powerful," Fury admitted, his single eye tracking Steve's maneuvers. "If this represents standard Asgardian technology, then we're dealing with a civilization far beyond our current understanding."
Yet even as he acknowledged the immediate tactical success, larger strategic concerns weighed heavily on his mind. Loki had deployed a single automated weapon and nearly triggered an international incident. If this represented merely the opening move in a larger conflict, what other horrors might Asgard possess?
More troubling was the political dimension of the crisis. From the available intelligence, Loki's position in Asgardian society appeared tenuous at best—hence his reliance on mechanical proxies rather than military forces. But regardless of his personal standing, he currently controlled one of the most advanced civilizations in the known universe. Once interstellar conflicts began, they tended to escalate beyond anyone's ability to contain them.
The whole thing reminded Fury of wars on Earth—small fights that blew up into full-scale disasters. Even if Steve took down the Destroyer, it wouldn't solve the real problem. It would just buy time. Because once Asgard decided Earth was worth dealing with, one super soldier—no matter how good—wasn't going to be enough to stop what came next.
But maybe there was another way. Fury's mind had been working nonstop through the whole mess, piecing things together. And now, a possible solution was starting to take shape. If Loki had taken the throne by tricking people instead of earning it, then backing the real heir might stop the war before it even started.
Thor—exiled or not—clearly had more respect from the Asgardians than his scheming brother. The guy seemed a little naive, maybe even a bit of a blunt instrument, but that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. A thankful ally was a lot better than a pissed-off god with a grudge. And from what Fury had seen, Thor might actually listen.
It wasn't a bad plan. But for it to work, one thing had to happen first: Thor had to be alive—and reachable.
"Agent Coulson," Fury called, his voice suddenly sharp. "Where exactly is our Asgardian prince?"
Coulson's face shifted from confusion to alarm as the question sank in. "Sir… I think he's still down there. We evacuated so fast, I don't think anyone made sure—"
"Damn it all," Fury growled, his calm finally cracking. The realization hit hard. They'd already pissed off one Asgardian prince. If the other died on Earth because of their screw-up, war wouldn't just be a risk—it would be a guarantee.
"Put us down. Now," he snapped, his voice cutting through the hum of the aircraft. "Get search teams on the ground. We need to find Thor—immediately."
He didn't need to finish the thought. Everyone on board already knew what was at stake.
The search began with military precision. S.H.I.E.L.D. agents moved across the blast zone in coordinated sweeps, their formation tight and focused. The Destroyer's first energy blast had scorched the desert into jagged, glass-like terrain—sharp, unstable, and dangerous. To make things worse, the supernatural storm had scattered debris across kilometers, burying any signs of life under twisted metal and churned earth.
"Sector seven clear!" Sitwell called over the comms.
"Nothing in sector twelve," came Hill's voice, laced with static and rising frustration.
As the minutes turned into an hour, Fury's sense of control began slipping. Every negative report tightened the noose. Off in the distance, Steve's battle with the Destroyer raged on—blasts of energy lighting up the sky like a fireworks show from another world. But none of it would matter if they couldn't find Thor. Without him, they had no diplomatic angle. No leverage. Just a ticking clock.
"Director." Coulson jogged over, his uniform streaked with sand and dust. "We've doubled the perimeter. If Thor was caught in the blast…"
"Then he's dead, and so are we," Fury cut in, voice grim. "I've done the math. Keep searching. Even if all we find is a body, we need something."
The thought of dissecting an Asgardian prince made Fury's stomach turn, but strategy came first. If war with Asgard was coming, understanding their biology might give Earth a sliver of an edge. It wouldn't be the first time science had been turned into survival.
But as the search dragged on, even that cold backup plan started to feel like false hope.
Unknown to the increasingly desperate SHIELD agents, Thor was neither dead nor missing—merely relocated by allies whose arrival had gone unnoticed amid the chaos of supernatural combat.
The three Warriors of Asgard and Lady Sif had materialized on Earth mere minutes after the Destroyer's deployment, their own journey across dimensional barriers having required more preparation than Loki's remote piloting. When they emerged from the Bifrost's rainbow light, they found themselves witnessing an impossible sight: someone wielding Mjolnir in combat against one of Asgard's most feared weapons.
"By the beard of my fathers," Volstagg breathed, his usually jovial demeanor replaced by stunned disbelief. "Is that the Destroyer?"
"Loki's been accessing the vaults," Fandral confirmed, his hand instinctively moving to his sword hilt. "I knew his frequent visits meant trouble."
In the distance, lightning illuminated a figure locked in aerial combat with the ancient construct. Whoever it was fought with skill that bordered on the godly, wielding Mjolnir as if born to its power.
"That has to be Thor," Hogun stated with characteristic certainty. "Who else could command the hammer's full strength?"
"But he was stripped of his powers," Sif protested, her warrior's instincts analyzing the distant combat. "Odin's judgment was absolute."
"Perhaps the All-Father's punishment was meant to be temporary," Fandral suggested. "A lesson rather than permanent exile."
Hogun scoffed at the suggestion, his gaze sweeping their immediate surroundings for any sign of their missing prince. "Could any mortal from this backward realm possibly—"
His words died abruptly as his eyes fell upon a familiar figure half-buried in sand. Golden hair caught the light, and even covered in debris, the face was unmistakably recognizable.
"How could a weak Midgard possibly—" Hogun began again, then stopped as the implications sank in.
"Perhaps," a deep voice interrupted from behind them, "you should reconsider your assumptions about this realm's inhabitants."
The four Asgardians spun as one, weapons appearing in their hands with practiced speed. Before them stood a towering figure composed of what appeared to be living emerald energy, its crystalline form refracting light in patterns that hurt to observe directly.
Ben regarded their defensive postures with mild amusement, making no move that could be interpreted as threatening. Instead, he gestured toward the unconscious figure they'd just discovered.
"That 'weak Midgardian' you're so concerned about," he said, his voice carrying across the desert with unnatural clarity, "is your prince."
The silence that followed was profound, broken only by the distant sounds of continuing combat. Four of Asgard's greatest warriors stared at their prince, then at the impossible battle raging in the distance, their understanding of the situation undergoing fundamental revision.
The golden-haired figure in the sand was undoubtedly Thor, stripped of power and dignity by his father's judgment. Which meant the warrior wielding Mjolnir with such devastating effect was indeed a mortal of Midgard—a realm they had dismissed as beneath notice.