Smith stood at the window, watching Coulson's sedan navigate the winding drive toward the compound's main gate. The conversation had been polite, professional, and ultimately fruitless for S.H.I.E.L.D.
Coulson had made his request with typical diplomatic skill, asking for fragments of the Destroyer for analysis. He'd even offered to take just a small piece, barely enough to study. But Smith had refused every variation of the proposal.
The Destroyer fragments weren't bargaining chips. They were resources. Bulma was already analyzing the enchanted Uru metal, reverse-engineering Asgardian craftsmanship that had taken their people millennia to perfect. If even a single piece went missing, it might compromise her ability to reconstruct the armor.
Smith's thoughts drifted to Thor's hammer. In another timeline, Hela had shattered Mjolnir into pieces. Jane Foster had eventually use the reforged hammer, wielding it as the Mighty Thor. If Mjolnir could be repaired after such catastrophic damage, then perhaps the Destroyer could be as well.
That possibility alone made every fragment precious.
Behind him, the door opened with a soft click. Smith didn't turn around—he recognized Fox's footsteps.
"Eddie Brock is here," she said. "Reporter from the Daily Globe. He's requesting an interview."
Smith raised an eyebrow, still watching Coulson's car disappear through the outer gate. "Again?"
"This is his ninth visit."
That made Smith turn around. "Ninth?"
Fox nodded, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth. "He's persistent. I'll give him that."
Nine visits. That level of determination spoke to something beyond mere ambition. Successful people in any field—journalism, business, assassination—all shared that particular quality: the refusal to accept 'no' as a final answer.
Smith's mind turned to what he knew about Eddie Brock. In many timeline, the man would eventually bond with an alien symbiote called Venom, becoming something between hero and anti-hero. The symbiote would give him incredible strength, healing abilities, and a disturbing tendency to eat people's heads.
The symbiotes themselves were fascinating from a tactical perspective. They could turn ordinary humans into superhuman threats almost instantly, granting powers that rivaled or exceeded the super soldier serum. Enhanced strength, accelerated healing, shape-shifting capabilities, and the ability to survive injuries that would kill their hosts.
But the weaknesses were glaring. Fire. Sonic attacks. Both could incapacitate or even kill a symbiote in seconds. And not everyone could survive the bonding process—some hosts died on contact, their bodies rejecting the alien organism violently.
Smith's thoughts went further, to the symbiote homeworld. According to what he remembered, the planet had been consumed by its own children, turned into a lifeless wasteland. Even if he somehow acquired seeds for the Tree of Might in the future, that dead world wouldn't support growth.
Though there was another possibility. The symbiote planet might also be the prison of Knull, the God of Symbiotes. If that was true, the real treasure there wasn't the symbiotes themselves—it was the All-Black the Necrosword, the weapon that had slain Celestials.
"Notify him," Smith said. "I'll accept the interview."
Fox's eyebrows rose slightly. She'd expected another rejection. "He's waiting outside the main gate now. I can have security bring him in immediately."
Smith nodded. "Let's use the main reception room. It has good lighting for cameras."
Outside the Main Gate
Eddie Brock stood beside his work van, camera bag slung over one shoulder, trying not to pace anxiously. His assistant Sara checked her tablet for the third time in as many minutes. The cameraman, Mike, was doing equipment checks on the van's tailgate, making sure everything was ready for immediate deployment.
This was Eddie's ninth attempt to secure an interview with Smith Doyle, and like the previous eight times, he'd brought his entire team. No sense in getting approval only to have to reschedule because they weren't prepared.
"Think this is the one?" Sara asked, not looking up from her tablet.
"Hope springs eternal," Eddie muttered.
He wasn't just being persistent out of stubbornness. Smith Doyle was the story of the decade, maybe the century. A superhero who could go toe-to-toe with the Hulk and win. A billionaire who actually seemed to care about civilian casualties, to the point of creating an entire insurance program for superhero-related property damage. A man who'd appeared seemingly out of nowhere three years ago and reshaped the global landscape.
The public loved him. The media called him America's Superman. And yet, for all the footage and eyewitness accounts, almost nothing was known about his past.
Where had he gone to school? Who were his parents? What was his childhood like? Even Bulma Brief, the teenage genius running Universal Capsule Company, was a complete mystery. No academic records, no childhood photos, nothing before they'd both appeared on the world stage.
It was like they'd spawned fully formed from the void.
Eddie had theories. Maybe there was some secret school for geniuses and superhumans, something so classified that all records were scrubbed. Maybe Smith Doyle was an alien, like Superman. Or maybe—
The gate guard approached, and Eddie's train of thought derailed completely.
"Mr. Eddie Brock?"
Eddie straightened immediately. "Yes, that's me."
"Our employer has agreed to accept your interview." The guard's expression remained professionally neutral. "Please gather your team and equipment."
For a moment, Eddie just stared. Then the words registered, and he punched the air with both fists. "Yes! Yes, absolutely, we're ready right now!"
He spun toward the van. "Sara! Mike! We're on! Grab everything!"
The team moved with practiced efficiency, pulling equipment from the van—cameras, lighting rigs, microphones, battery packs. They'd done this setup so many times in anticipation of this exact moment that the choreography was automatic.
Eddie's heart hammered in his chest. Three months. Three months of showing up once or twice a week, politely requesting an interview, being politely declined, and coming back anyway. Finally, finally, it had paid off.
When they returned to the gate with their gear, the guard held up a hand. "We'll need to inspect your equipment."
"Of course," Eddie said immediately. He and his team had expected this. They set down their bags and stepped back, allowing the security team to conduct thorough searches.
Two guards went through every bag, checking each piece of equipment carefully. Camera bodies, lenses, batteries, cables, microphones—everything was examined and catalogued. Eddie and his team submitted to pat-downs without complaint, understanding that someone like Smith Doyle required serious security measures.
After several minutes, the lead guard nodded. "You're clear. You may proceed."
One of the guards moved to a control panel embedded in the gate's concrete housing. He entered a code, pressed his palm to a biometric scanner, and spoke into a small microphone. The massive steel gate began to slide open with a low mechanical hum.
Eddie hefted his camera bag and walked through.
The sight on the other side stopped him in his tracks.
The compound was enormous. A lawn stretched out before them, so vast it seemed to fade into the horizon. But it wasn't the manicured grass or the distant buildings that captured Eddie's attention.
Rising from the center of the compound like something out of ancient mythology was a stone tower. It had to be at least a thousand meters tall already, and construction crews still swarmed around its base. The architecture was strange—rough stone blocks fitted together with impossible precision, creating a structure that looked simultaneously ancient and impossibly new.
"What in the hell..." Mike whispered, camera already raised to his shoulder to capture footage.
Several electric sightseeing carts waited just inside the gate, their drivers standing at attention. Another guard gestured toward them. "Mr. Brock, please board the cart. We'll transport you to the main building."
Eddie climbed into the lead cart, Sara and Mike piling in behind him with their equipment. As they settled in, Eddie couldn't resist asking, "That tower—what's it for?"
The driver said nothing, didn't even acknowledge the question. He simply started the cart and began driving across the compound.
Eddie exchanged glances with Sara, who shrugged. Apparently, the tower was classified information.
As they drove, Eddie took in everything he could see. The grounds were immaculate, almost military in their precision. Buildings dotted the landscape, most of them modern but designed to blend with natural surroundings. People moved with purpose between structures—some in business attire, others in tactical gear that suggested security or military backgrounds.
The stone tower dominated everything, impossible to ignore. Whatever it was, whatever purpose it served, Smith Doyle had clearly invested enormous resources in its construction.
The cart pulled up to a sleek modern building, all glass and steel. The driver stopped and gestured toward the entrance. "Someone will meet you inside."
Eddie grabbed his gear and stepped out, his team following. The automatic doors slid open as they approached, revealing a reception area that managed to be both luxurious and understated.
A woman in professional attire waited for them—Fox, Eddie recognized her from his research. She was Smith Doyle's right hand, the person who actually ran day-to-day operations for the Fraternity.
"Mr. Brock," she said with a small smile. "Welcome to Fraternity Headquarters. If you'll follow me, Mr. Doyle is ready to begin the interview."
Eddie's hands tightened on his camera bag. This was it. The interview he'd been chasing for three months.
"Lead the way," he said, and followed Fox deeper into the building.