Marvel Cinematic Universe - Non-Sacred TimelineNew York City - Assassins' League Headquarters - Textile City
Sloan, the current leader of the fraternity, stood in the oppressive solitude of the chamber that housed the Sacred Loom of Fate, a massive, ancient weaving machine whose mechanisms hummed with subtle, otherworldly energy. His solemn duty was to inspect the freshly woven cloth for new mission directives.
The air was thick, heavy with the faint, metallic scent of sulfur and the dry, musty smell of old cotton fiber.He held a jeweled magnifying glass, its lens cold against his fingers, up to the newest portion of the cloth.
Complex ciphertexts began to materialize on the fibers as he watched, seemingly extruded from the very fabric of existence.
Sloan meticulously and swiftly began transcribing them onto parchment, his pen scratching against the clock to crack the encoded fate.When the final, cryptic symbol was decoded, a name, stark and utterly undeniable, appeared before his eyes
[Sloan]
The revelation struck him with the force of a physical blow. He stared at the decrypted answer, his mind violently reeling in disbelief.
"H-how is this possible?"
he finally muttered, his voice a strained, barely audible whisper in the echoing chamber.
"How could it be my name?"
He tried desperately to rationalize it, clinging to the possibility of a catastrophic error.
"It must be the Loom's fault... a critical malfunction in the weaving process."
But the chilling truth was an ingrained, foundational creed of the League:
"The Loom of Fate never makes mistakes."
A wave of cold, absolute certainty washed over him, extinguishing the last flicker of hope. Sloan stood silent for a few tortured seconds, then darted his eyes around the room, ensuring no other members of the Assassin's League had ascended to the forbidden chamber.
With a heavy, deliberate movement, he drew a specialized, razor-sharp knife and precisely cut the segment of cloth marked with his own fate.He gazed at the ominous, woven fabric in his hand, a mixture of profound terror and cold disbelief gripping him.
For over a millennium, since the League's very inception, no active leader's name had ever surfaced on the Loom.
Yet, the immutable law stood: anyone whose name appeared on the list was automatically deemed an unpardonable threat to the timeline, deserving of instantaneous death.
Would his future self truly become such an unforgivable villain?According to the ironclad rules of the Loom and the League's sacred oath, he should have, without the slightest hesitation, drawn his ceremonial pistol and ended his own life. But the primal, biological will to survive fought a vicious, silent war against the ideological certainty of his purpose.
As Sloan was locked in this profound internal struggle—life against sacred duty—the unsettling tranquility of the New York sky was catastrophically shattered. A brilliant, celestial streak of blinding light tore violently through the atmosphere, hurtling towards the Earth at impossible speed.
Cradled within this flowing, incandescent radiance was an infant, completely unharmed by the incredible velocity and intense heat of re-entry.
Around the baby, seven faintly glowing, star-speckled Dragon Balls orbited, acting as a bizarre, mystical, and impenetrable shield.The light spear descended directly over New York, piercing the reinforced roof of the old textile factory—the League's concealed headquarters—with the devastating force of a meteor strike.
The brilliant projectile slammed into the Loom chamber, vaporizing the still-contemplating Sloan instantly.
"BOOOM!"
The sheer shockwave of the impact was immense, rattling the very foundations of the building. The Sacred Loom of Destiny—the League's most crucial and powerful artifact—was violently ripped apart, its complex gears, ethereal threads, and delicate mechanisms scattering into irreparable wreckage.
Simultaneously, the seven Dragon Balls that had protected the infant were instantly dispersed, transforming into seven mundane-looking stones as they shot through the gaping hole in the roof and scattered across the city below.
Downstairs, the violent concussion and resulting tremor brought the high-ranking members of the League—Mr. X, Cross, and the Pharmacist—to an immediate, frozen standstill.
"Sloan! Sloan! Sloan!"
they shouted in unison, adrenaline surging as they rushed towards the forbidden upper chamber door.After calling out their leader's name three times with no response, their frantic concern overwhelmed the strict League rules: only the leader, or new recruits for their final initiation, were permitted in the Loom chamber.
They burst through the doorway, weapons drawn.The sight that greeted them was utterly surreal.
A massive, jagged hole gaped in the roof, allowing a single, powerful shaft of dust-mote-filled sunlight to illuminate the devastation.
Lying amid the scorched wreckage of the Loom was a completely unharmed, cooing baby.
Nearby, a small, charred section of Sloan's lifeless body lay on the ground, a tightly clutched piece of cloth visible in his stiff, unyielding hand.
"Oh my God, what absolute madness happened here?"
the Pharmacist gasped, clutching his head in utter disbelief.Cross, the group's most capable combatant and diagnostician, immediately moved to Sloan's side. He performed a rapid, professional examination, then shook his head grimly.
"Hopeless,"
he pronounced, his voice low and defeated.He then spotted the crucial evidence, gently prying the scrap of charred fabric from Sloan's unyielding grasp.
Later, in the League's clandestine conference room, the surviving high council—Mr. X, Cross, the Pharmacist, the Gunsmith, and the Butcher—had gathered.
The Gunsmith, pragmatic and focused on matériel as ever, spoke first, his voice clipped.
"Report. What exactly did we lose that can't be replaced?"
Mr. X, typically the most calm and collected, detailed the scale of the disaster.
"The Loom of Fate is completely destroyed, scattered beyond any hope of repair. And Sloan... our leader, died instantly upon impact."
The Butcher, whose focus was always on an identifiable threat, demanded,
"Who was the assailant? Who is the enemy we must strike to retaliate?"
Cross, leaning back with a profoundly perplexed look, answered,
"There were no enemies."
The others, who hadn't seen the site, cried out in shocked disbelief.
"What?!"
Cross slid the salvaged parchment and the small, charred piece of cloth across the table. On the cloth lay the decrypted, damning name—Sloan—written next to it. He explained,
"This is what Sloan was clutching when he died. His fate was upon him, and this... event provided the execution."
A heavy, absolute silence descended as they all read the damning name. Disbelief gave way to a grudging, chilling acceptance of the inevitable.Mr. X then continued, his gaze drifting to the silent corner where the mysterious infant rested under the care of a medic.
"Aside from Sloan's unfortunate fate, a baby appeared at the scene, seemingly having literally fallen from the sky itself. What are your collective conclusions regarding the child?"
The high-ranking assassins were momentarily speechless, completely overwhelmed by the inexplicable events.The Pharmacist, always leaning toward the mystical and philosophical, finally broke the silence.
"This child… he brought closure to the League's greatest ethical dilemma—Sloan's impossible fate—and made a choice for us. He is not a killer; he is the instrument of final judgment. He is a gift from God, perhaps even the Son of God!"
Cross shrugged, a slight, intrigued smirk playing on his lips.
"I won't argue theology. That child is truly an artifact, a cosmic piece of machinery sent from the heavens."
Mr. X contemplated the concept for a moment. He saw a new, radical beginning in the wreckage of the old world.
"Very well. In that case, this child will be named Smith Doyle, and his title will be simply: GOD."
Cross raised an eyebrow at the audacious title.
"God? That is... an enormous, crushing expectation to place on a little guy."
The Gunsmith agreed, nodding slowly.
"Indeed. I wonder if he can truly carry the weight of everyone's hopes and this powerful mantle."
The Butcher interrupted, pulling the discussion back to their current, existential crisis.
"I don't care about the child's future yet! The key is, what do we do now that we've lost the Loom of Destiny? It was the final, infallible arbiter, giving us the list of evildoers. We were the ones who judged their fate."
All eyes turned to Mr. X and Cross, the two most powerful and influential figures remaining in the Brotherhood.Mr. X was decisive and immediate.
"First, suspend all operations and call every active member back to headquarters for an emergency summit. As for future direction, we must take a moment to regroup and consolidate our resources."
Cross, however, offered an immediate, radical alternative that broke with a millennium of tradition.
"Calling everyone back is necessary. But for our future actions, I have a suggestion: We move beyond mere prevention. In the past, we relied on the Loom's list for preemptive and retributive assassinations. Now, we use our extensive intelligence network to identify major criminals who have already committed numerous heinous crimes, and bring them to a direct, public trial and execution."
The Gunsmith scoffed, a dark amusement in his voice. "So, we become a public vigilante group? Like the Punisher, or maybe even an extreme version of Captain America?"
Mr. X considered the proposal deeply, the new world already taking shape in his mind.
"It's a bold suggestion. It's certainly the only way forward now that the old structure is completely gone."
Soon after their discussion, the future development of the Assassin Brotherhood was charted, shifting dramatically from a secretive, fate-based execution squad to a more proactive, judgment-driven organization. Arrangements were also finalized for the newly christened Smith Doyle. Whether he would truly evolve into the prophetic "GOD" of the Assassin Brotherhood remained to be seen, but the League had committed to providing him with the most elite, comprehensive training possible, seeing him as their new oracle.After all, a child who literally fell from the sky, seemingly completing the Sacred Loom's final, impossible mission, carried far too much cosmic mystery and boundless potential to be ignored.