Ben Shaw had no idea what Natasha Romanoff was thinking.
He was ready to start a new hunt—target: a bar in Brooklyn.
Night had fallen, and for once there was no rain.
He dressed differently this time: black plaid shirt and jeans, a black overcoat, and a round-brim hat—almost a British gentleman's air. In one hand he carried a rectangular case with a silver-coated cruciform sword inside; a Gurkha kukri hung at his waist.
He stepped out, flagged a cab, and headed for the bar.
As he got into the taxi, he glanced left—so subtly it barely counted as a look.
On the fourth floor, behind closed curtains, a single eye was peeking at him from the edge. He hadn't looked straight at it, but his senses picked it up anyway.
"Natasha Romanoff. Phil Coulson. S.H.I.E.L.D., then."
Ben's lips curved in the back seat. "Jenny" had acted normal, but he'd been listening with enhanced hearing the whole time—day and night.
So when she thought she was safe to call Phil Coulson during the day, he heard every word—even from hundreds of meters away.
Those names were enough. He knew exactly who they were.
Black Widow—future Avenger, top operative. Natasha Romanoff.
Phil Coulson—future Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.
Of course he was on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s radar. They tracked anomalies and talent, observed and approached, then recruited if possible.
For all its scale, S.H.I.E.L.D. had very few true top-tier combatants by human standards—Hawkeye barely counted for "elite," and even then he was no Thor, Hulk, or Iron Man. Natasha and Clint were indispensable specialists, but still human. Crossbones was formidable—and Hydra.
So S.H.I.E.L.D. always hunted for capable solo operators.
Given Ben's results, observed discipline, and selective targets, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s interest was inevitable. No surprise if a certain one-eyed spymaster had his eye on him.
If it were Hydra, they'd already be trying to break and brainwash him.
He didn't care much for S.H.I.E.L.D.'s style—or Fury's vision. Fury knew many secrets, but only within a narrow band.
Ben's view ran wider: multiverse, Hell, Heaven, Eternals, Asgard, pantheons, Celestials.
And he intended to grow until even gods had to bleed.
S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra? Not even milestones—just flavor in the day-to-day.
The taxi pulled up at a place called Stonewall Inn in Brooklyn's 75th precinct.
The bar screamed early-2000s punk-metal. The alleys around it were slick with grime and trash.
A crowd clustered outside. Scantily clad girls hung on their guys. The noise bled into the street.
Ben paid, got out, and paused. His outfit didn't match the clientele at all.
Eyes turned. Messages in the stares.
He tipped his hat lower and ignored them.
He swept the area with his senses—and the world went quiet.
To him, the people outside became semi-transparent—heartbeats, pulses, blood flow.
His brain sifted the signals in an instant—human or not.
Plenty of people. Plenty of not-people. From inside the bar, a cold, fetid odor drifted out.
This kind of place didn't card properly. If vampires craved fresh, young prey, banning under-twenty-ones would kill their hunting grounds.
He walked in without issue. The interior was spacious: retro red satin sofas, wall art, colored lights, pounding heavy metal—instant atmosphere.
Ben found it mostly noisy.
He carried the sword case to the bar and ordered a cocktail. The bartender—a striking blonde—took in his face and clothes, a flicker of blood-red glinting in her eyes as she mixed. She was ready to flirt—and feed.
Ben lifted a finger to his lips. Shh.
The cold light in his eyes hit her like a blade. She froze, heart seizing as if stabbed. Her hands stopped mid-pour.
"Y—you—"
Ben ignored her twisted expression. He set the case on the bar, flipped it open, and revealed the cruciform sword.
About 1.4 meters long—classic cross-hilt. A sleek, bright blade—its surface silvered.
It looked beautiful. Deadly.
People at nearby stools turned, puzzled and curious as he lifted the sword.
They didn't yet understand what the "weirdo" was about to do.
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