Smith sat back in his chair and ran the sequence forward in his head.
The original course of events had Ronan going after the Power Stone orb first — encountering a group of small-time operators on Xandar and eventually being undone by the very thing he'd come to acquire. That path was closed now. Ronan had come to Earth instead, and the orb had traveled a different route entirely. Smith was fairly certain where it had ended up. Thanos had sent Ronan and Nebula simultaneously; Nebula's mission was the Stone. The math wasn't complicated.
Which meant Thanos had the Power Stone.
The timeline had shifted again, and not in a direction that made things simpler.
He turned on the television. Every channel had found the same story and committed to it.
"For the second time in recent years, New York has been the site of an alien incursion — this time by forces connected to the Kree Empire. Earth's enhanced community, including the Avengers, the Paragons, and other extraordinary individuals, met the attack directly."
"The enemy's initial targets appear to have been tournament participants — those who competed in the recent World Martial Arts Tournament were systematically hunted in the opening phase of the assault. Enhanced individuals from multiple countries are confirmed dead."
"It's increasingly clear that the presence of powerful individuals on Earth creates a strategic profile that extends beyond this planet. Whether that profile is a shield or a target is a question governments are beginning to ask openly."
There was the other channel, the one doing man-on-the-street interviews: "Will the people who died this time come back like the New York resurrection? Is that going to happen? Does anyone know?" And the inevitable follow-up: "What are Dragon Balls? Why won't anyone give us a straight answer?"
The criticism pieces were already running alongside the praise. A few commentators were framing the question carefully — greater destruction than the last incursion, economic losses, who bears responsibility — which was the kind of question that looked brave in print and revealed that the person writing it hadn't been anywhere near the street when the Dark Aster opened its gun ports.
Smith turned the television off.
Inside the Trident Building, Fury set a small cloth bag on the table in front of the Security Council representatives and opened it. Orange rubber balls, the size of large marbles, tumbled out — each one with a star pattern on the surface.
"Gentlemen," he said. "Dragon Balls."
He let them look.
"These are manufactured in about a dozen workshops across New York. You can buy them online. The particular ones in front of you are better quality than average — someone put some effort into the paint." He pulled the bag back. "If any of you want a set, I'll have some sent over."
The French representative didn't touch them. "What was the guidance function you mentioned? How were they originally used?"
"Recruitment screening," Fury said. "Collect all seven and you've demonstrated a specific combination of resources and initiative. Smith Doyle used them as an entry test for the Fraternity — people who completed the challenge got to request a small concession from him. The format got retired once the counterfeits flooded the market and the test became meaningless."
The British representative put one of the rubber balls down. "So your position is that a Kree Accuser Legion commander traveled across the galaxy to pass a recruitment screening."
Fury spread his hands. "My position is that I don't have a better explanation on the table. What I can tell you is that the commander in question, his entire Accuser Legion, and his mothership — a vessel our combined military capabilities couldn't threaten — were neutralized in one engagement by the man who designed the test." He let that land. "Smith Doyle is not only the most capable individual on this planet. He operates at a level that is relevant in the broader universe. I don't know why the Kree wanted the Dragon Balls. But I know that the people who came looking for them are gone."
The French representative looked like he wanted to push further and then reconsidered the math. "And if this happens again?"
"Then we'll handle it again."
The Russian representative moved on. "The people who died this time — is there any reasonable hope of the same outcome as New York?"
Fury shook his head. "I won't tell you what I don't know. What I'll tell you is this: don't build your planning around that outcome. The New York resurrection was exceptional in every sense of that word. Assume it isn't repeatable. Plan accordingly."
The representatives from all five nations sat with that for a moment. Then they closed their folders and the meeting ended.
Hill was in the corridor when Fury walked out.
"Sir. Final count on the Helicarrier."
"I know." He kept walking. "We build another one. The wreckage from the Kree fleet is in the city — there's technology in that debris that our people will spend years pulling apart. We'll use it."
Hill nodded once and fell into step beside him.
Across the universe, Supergiant knelt before Thanos's throne.
She had been dispatched for intelligence, and she had gathered it in the way that was native to her — not through surveillance equipment or informant networks but through minds, directly, with the particular efficiency of someone who had never needed to ask a question twice.
"Father. I have the information you requested."
Thanos looked at her. Gamora and Nebula were not the only ones he had taken; the Black Order was five, and all five called him the same name. He had provided, in his way, and they had served, in theirs. Supergiant's service was knowledge.
"Report."
"Seven Dragon Balls," she said. "Collecting all seven summons an entity called Shenron. Any wish made to Shenron is granted without apparent restriction."
"The casualties from the Chitauri invasion of Earth — every person who died in that engagement — were resurrected through a Dragon Ball wish."
That one resolved something that had been unclear. Death had sent him toward Earth with an unusual specificity of purpose. He had understood the Dragon Balls as tools of power and acquisition. He hadn't understood why Death's attention had specifically flagged them. Now he did.
An instrument capable of reversing death at scale was not a strategic asset. It was a strategic problem — specifically, it was his strategic problem, because the logical endpoint of his work was mass death, and an enemy holding a wish capable of undoing mass death was an enemy holding a direct counter to his objective.
"The Dragon Balls' guardian is Smith Doyle. He eliminated the Chitauri army at their invasion. This engagement, he destroyed the Dark Aster in a single strike and killed Ronan in three moves."
"The Dragon Balls have been the basis of three competition cycles on Earth. The most recent concluded with a World Martial Arts Tournament. The champion — an Eternal named Gilgamesh — was granted a wish."
Thanos's attention sharpened slightly at the word. "Eternals. On Earth?"
He knew what Eternals were. His own origins were entangled with that lineage — Titan's Eternals had produced him, however far he had grown from that origin. That there were Eternals stationed on Earth was not information he had possessed before this moment.
He filed it.
"Gilgamesh's wish," he said. "Do you know what he asked for?"
"I wasn't able to determine it."
Thanos nodded. "And Smith Doyle — his connection to the Infinity Stones?"
"At minimum three Stones appear to be associated with him or in his possession. I wasn't able to confirm specifics."
Thanos looked at his right hand. The Power Stone was in the containment orb somewhere behind him. The Mind Stone had been in his scepter before Loki's failure. The Space Stone had been on Earth throughout. The Reality Stone's location after the Dark Elf campaign was unclear to his intelligence network. Three in one man's orbit.
He had a clearer picture of the problem now. Earth was not a backwater. Earth was a node.
"You've done well," he said. "All of you have one objective now: find the Soul Stone. Earth and the Dragon Balls can wait until after the Soul Stone is in my hands."
Supergiant pressed one knee to the floor. "As you command."
Nebula came in as Supergiant was leaving.
"Father. Something from Ronan's accounts has activated." She handed over the data. "Before his operation, Ronan established a contingency through the Cosmic Bank. Seven hundred million Star Coins in a sub-account. The trigger condition was his failure or death — it's gone public."
Thanos took the document and read it. The bounty was structured simply: one hundred million Star Coins per Dragon Ball delivered to the Cosmic Bank. The collection condition for the full account required something additional — the destruction of Xandar as a prerequisite for release of the larger sum.
He read it twice. Then he made a sound that might, in a different context, have been a laugh.
"He never stopped thinking about Xandar." He set the document down. "Even dead, he's still trying to get someone else to do it for him."
"Should I suppress the listing?"
"No." Thanos thought about it for a moment. "Let it run. Bounty hunters and raiders will go to Earth. Some of them will gather information before they're killed. Some of them will be killed very quickly and we'll know something from the speed of it. It costs us nothing and tells us more." He looked at Nebula. "Keep monitoring. If anyone actually collects, I want to know."
The bounty posting propagated through the Cosmic Bank's public channels within hours of Thanos's decision. The number was large enough that it reached people who normally ignored Earth entirely — too remote, too primitive, too complicated for the infrastructure cost of getting there. A hundred million Star Coins per ball changed the calculation.
The intelligence followed the money. Word moved through the usual networks: the Accuser Legion was gone, its commander personally killed. The same planet had stopped the Chitauri invasion years earlier. There was footage from the Nine Realms convergence event that showed combat output on a scale that gave experienced people pause.
Some of those experienced people decided that the pause was good reason not to get involved.
Others decided the gap between their capabilities and whatever had done that to Ronan was surmountable with the right approach.
The ones in the second category started making plans.
Washington, D.C. was still early morning, hazy and cool, the National Mall mostly quiet. Steve Rogers had found that running helped — the rhythm of it, the distance, the way it didn't require him to make decisions about anything except when to turn around.
The man behind him was working hard. Steve had passed him twice already, and the third approach was incoming.
"On your left."
He was already past before the response came. He heard the man's footsteps briefly accelerate and then settle back down, the rhythm of someone deciding not to race what couldn't be raced.
Fourth lap. Same approach vector.
"On your left."
This time: "Yeah, I got it."
He finished the lap and doubled back. The man had stopped on a patch of grass at the edge of the path, hands on his knees, chest working. The Mall stretched out behind him — three-point-two kilometers end to end, the Lincoln Memorial at one terminus, the Capitol dome at the other. A full circuit was close to seven kilometers. Steve had done four of them.
"Need me to call somebody?"
The man looked up with a face that had absorbed the situation and found it genuinely funny. "I need a lung transplant."
He was fit — clearly fit, the kind of conditioning that came from military service rather than a gym — but fit had limits, and Steve was demonstrably somewhere on the other side of those limits.
"You did fine," Steve said.
"You ran thirty miles in half an hour."
"I got up late." He sat down on the grass next to him. "Which unit?"
"58th Pararescue. Two deployments." The man caught his breath fully and extended a hand. "Sam Wilson. Veterans' Affairs now."
"Steve Rogers."
Sam Wilson looked at him with the expression of someone confirming something they already knew. "Yeah. I figured." A pause. "Did it throw you? Coming back?"
Steve considered the question. "It took time," he said. "Still does, some things."
"The bed?"
Steve glanced at him.
"The bed," Sam repeated. "When I got back from my second deployment, I couldn't sleep in mine for three weeks. Too soft. My body didn't know what to do with it."
"Like lying on a marshmallow," Steve said.
"Exactly like that." Sam stretched one leg out. "Feels like you're sinking."
"The food's better. That helps." Steve looked across the Mall. "Polio is gone. The internet. Universal Capsule products. Baymax medical units in hospitals. Enhanced individuals walking around in public." He shook his head. "I've been going through things online at night trying to catch up."
Sam thought for a moment. "Marvin Gaye. 1972 — Trouble Man soundtrack. That album has everything you missed and everything that hasn't changed."
Steve pulled out the small notebook he'd taken to carrying and a pen. He wrote it down. Looked at what he'd written. Was about to put the notebook away when his communicator went off.
He looked at the screen.
Nick Fury.
He stood up.