On the other side—
Freshly appointed and itching to prove himself, Coulson practically vibrated when the order came in.
An anomaly in New York!
That was a thousand times worse than some desert in the Middle East.
It was the capital of the world—over eight million people. If it got loose, the fallout would be unimaginable.
This would be his first official assignment since joining the Foundation—a chance to prove himself to the Chair and… to seed his own people.
"All personnel! Emergency muster!"
Coulson rapidly assembled his brand-new "D-Class vanguard," drawn from S.H.I.E.L.D.'s embedded elite, and marched, bristling with intent, toward the Hell's Kitchen target zone.
…
S.H.I.E.L.D., Triskelion Headquarters.
Nick Fury studied the victim photo Coulson had covertly forwarded. His single eye glinted with sharp calculation.
"Well done, Coulson."
He was very pleased with his trusted right hand.
Not only had Coulson infiltrated the Foundation, he'd landed a "management" slot and had begun building his own unit.
An elegant, cut-the-fuel-line plan took shape in Fury's mind.
"S.H.I.E.L.D. Parasitic Plan."
He would use Coulson's authority to channel hundreds—thousands—of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, disguised as D-Class, into the Foundation's understructure.
Then, from the bottom up, they'd seep through, take root, and ultimately—without firing a shot—turn the terrifying juggernaut that was the Foundation into a quiet extension of S.H.I.E.L.D.
The more he thought about it, the more excited he became. He lifted a handset and dialed a maximum-security line.
"Nick, what is it?" came an elderly, gentle voice.
His old superior: the World Security Council's Secretary, Alexander Pierce.
"Mr. Secretary, I have a plan—a way to put that 'Foundation' entirely under our control…"
Fury laid out the "parasitic plan" in detail.
At the words "infiltrate" and "seize control," Pierce's heart kicked; under the desk, his hand even tightened on a holster.
For a moment, he wondered whether Fury had discovered HYDRA's infestation of S.H.I.E.L.D.
But when he heard the plan through to the end, his tension bled away.
So—they wanted to use our method… on someone else.
"You're always so dramatic," Pierce chided with a relieved, almost fond tone.
Inside, though, the swell in his chest dwarfed even Fury's excitement.
Perfect.
It was perfect.
Infiltration? Cuckoo-in-the-nest?
That was HYDRA's art form.
And that "Foundation"? He wanted it too.
"Proceed, Nick," Pierce encouraged warmly. "I'll make sure the Council gives you everything you need."
Hail HYDRA, he added—silently.
...
Triskelion, Supreme Commander's Office.
Fury and Pierce faced one another as shimmering holograms.
"A flawless plan, Nick," Pierce said with approving smile lines. "Undermine them from within, with their own people. We gain their strength without spooking the world. Approved."
"I'll need full Council backing," Fury said flatly.
"Of course," Pierce nodded, and a deep smile flickered in his eyes—one only he understood.
Parasitic?
Nick, you're still so green.
You think it's your idea, never realizing that HYDRA invented this game.
In that moment, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s and HYDRA's apex leaders, for very different ends, reached a crooked alignment.
Both coveted the Foundation—that vast power skulking in the shadows.
And the HYDRA sleepers embedded in S.H.I.E.L.D., soon to be assigned to Fury's "parasitic plan," knew none of it.
They were about to enjoy the most dazzling line on a résumé—proudly becoming triple-badged: S.H.I.E.L.D.–HYDRA–Foundation.
…
Agent Johnson tugged at his tie, impatience flashing in his eyes.
A proud HYDRA operative, he'd been buried in S.H.I.E.L.D. for over five years. Yesterday, he'd received a direct order from Director Coulson—gloriously inducted into the Foundation's D-Class ranks, a "triple agent."
He'd assumed joining the mysterious organization both Fury and Coulson prized would grant him access to world-shaking secrets.
Instead, the very first assignment had brought him to Hell's Kitchen… to investigate a homicide?
"Supernatural anomaly?" Johnson sneered at the brief's line about "a mysterious entity that likes to snap necks from behind."
In his view, it was just some deranged serial killer playing spooky dress-up.
This turf war with the NYPD—hardly worth the fuss.
This so-called "Foundation" didn't look like much. Not as respectable as S.H.I.E.L.D., and nowhere near the grand ideals of HYDRA.
"Hey, Johnson—there's an underground warehouse here!"
The com crackled with his partner Mike's voice.
The two of them were working the garbage-strewn, urine-stained grid in pairs, performing a carpet sweep.
"You go in. I'll hold the door," Johnson said lazily, leaning against the alley wall. No way was he letting his bespoke suit brush that dust.
"Copy."
Mike shoved the rust-scabbed iron door and slipped inside.
It was pitch-black. He snapped on a tac light; the beam slid over the empty space.
Then the cone of light snagged on something at the edge.
A… statue?
Mike centered the beam.
A humanoid form of concrete and rebar; hideously shaped; rough, sprayed-on facial features, like a failed piece by a third-rate artist.
"What the hell—who dumps trash like this here?"
He muttered, stepped up, and, impatient, kicked the plinth.
Thunk.
The statue didn't budge.
"Mike, you got anything?" Johnson called from outside.
"Nothing. Just a crummy sta—"
Mike instinctively turned his head to answer through the doorway.
And in that sliver of a moment—
Out of the corner of his eye, a blur.
The statue moved.
(End of Chapter)
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