The air above the New Mexico desert shimmered, barely perceptible to the naked eye. One moment, the desolate landscape was only dust and scrub; the next, Tsarevich Anatoly was standing there, impeccably dressed in a tailored, lightweight suit—a blend of Imperial fashion and Frontier Industries' proprietary climate-control fibers.
He materialized a few hundred meters from the makeshift S.H.I.E.L.D. containment facility, a secure perimeter buzzing with mundane government activity. Anatoly's Rick-level mind instantly processed the scene: the hastily erected structures, the high-tech surveillance systems (inferior to his own by decades), and the center of attention—Mjølnir, resting innocuously in a crater.
He didn't need to walk. He used a series of short-range Teleports, each one a silent jump that kept him perpetually outside the visual range of S.H.I.E.L.D. cameras and agents. He wanted to observe the spectacle, not interfere directly—yet.
He appeared on a small, rocky ridge overlooking the main compound, adjusting the cuff of his shirt. His Omni-Energy Manipulation was humming just beneath his skin, masking his absolute existence signature from any metaphysical detection that might be running in the area.
Anatoly watched the attempts. The clumsy, coordinated efforts by S.H.I.E.L.D. to lift the hammer using heavy machinery, and the desperate, failed attempts of local civilians who had snuck past the cordon. The whole scene was a magnificent display of cosmic irony, perfectly illustrating the limits of conventional power.
He saw the pathetic sight of the banished Thor Odinson—a large, boisterous man reduced to a confused mortal. Thor, who had just defeated a handful of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents using crude martial arts, was now sitting dejected near the perimeter.
Curiosity won out. Anatoly Teleported a few meters behind the chain-link fence, standing close enough to the former God of Thunder to be within earshot, but positioned in a blind spot.
"A mighty weapon reduced to a paperweight," Anatoly murmured, his voice low and clear, carrying easily to Thor.
Thor, startled, spun around. He saw a young man, refined and powerful, standing casually behind the fence.
"Who are you? Do you mock my plight, mortal?" Thor growled, his eyes narrowed.
"Mortal? Perhaps," Anatoly replied, stepping into the dim light. "Though I assure you, my limitations are purely elective. I am merely observing a fascinating test of worthiness."
Thor scoffed. "You speak as if you understand the ways of Asgard. That hammer only yields to one who is worthy of the power of Thor."
Anatoly smiled, a knowing, almost pitying expression. "Worthiness. Such a subjective metric. It's a trick, really. A beautiful, powerful trick placed upon an inanimate object by a clever man." He paused, looking toward the hammer. "What if the issue isn't a lack of worthiness, but a lack of Absolute Will?"
Thor stared, momentarily speechless at the bizarre philosophical detour.
"Let me demonstrate," Anatoly said simply. He raised his hand toward the fence.
Just then, two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents rushed over, alerted by Thor's raised voice.
"Hey! Civilian! Stay back from the perimeter!" one of the agents yelled, drawing his sidearm.
Anatoly didn't even glance at them. He used his Omni-Energy Manipulation, not to fire a blast, but to subtly, instantly, and locally alter the electromagnetic field around their firearms. Click. The guns were inert, the firing pins unable to move, the internal circuits shorted. The agents stopped, confusedly checking their weapons.
"See?" Anatoly addressed Thor, ignoring the bewildered agents. "Distractions."
He looked back at Mjølnir. He didn't try to lift it; he didn't move. He simply focused the power residing in his soul, the rule of his Absolute Existence, combined with the comprehensive understanding of existence granted by his intellect.
He Teleported himself inside the perimeter, standing directly beside the hammer. The S.H.I.E.L.D. agents panicked, shouting into their radios.
Anatoly laid his hand on the handle of Mjølnir. He didn't pull or strain. He sent a single, infinitesimally small pulse of pure, absolute will—the energy of his singularity—directly into the magical enchantment, violating the rule of worthiness not by deserving the power, but by simply overriding the cosmic instruction that bound the hammer.
The ground did not shake. Lightning did not strike.
With a barely audible shift, Anatoly lifted Mjølnir a fraction of an inch off the ground.
He held it there for exactly two seconds. The air around him did not crackle with lightning; the power of Thor did not flow into him. The enchantment recognized that its rule had been broken by an external, higher-order cosmic instruction—the rule of Absolute Existence—but it could not bond with Anatoly because his Omni-Energy Manipulation already encompassed the essence of the hammer's power and more.
He gently set Mjølnir back down, the entire act taking perhaps five seconds.
He turned to the speechless Thor. "Worthiness is a limitation. Freedom is Absolute."
Before Thor or the screaming S.H.I.E.L.D. agents could react, Anatoly Teleported away, disappearing entirely from the New Mexico desert.
Back in his underground lab in the Urals, Anatoly reappeared, feeling a pleasant rush of adrenaline. He had confirmed the limits of Asgardian magic—powerful, but still a set of rules that could be broken by a cosmic anomaly like himself.
However, his brief absence had caused a small, localized seismic event within the Kremlin's command structure.
Makima, Esdeath, and Yor were waiting for him in the upper control room, their expressions a chilling mix of relief and barely contained fury.
"Tsarevich," Makima began, her voice dangerously level. "A single anomaly was detected on our internal monitors. A temporal displacement field, localized to this room, lasting exactly six minutes and thirty-two seconds. You were gone."
Esdeath stepped forward, the air around her dropping several degrees. "You left the compound. Unprotected. Without a word to your Royal Guard. That is unacceptable, my Prince. The nation relies on your Absolute Existence."
Yor, silent and deadly, simply held up a handful of tiny, precision-made sensors—part of Anatoly's automated defense grid—that she had found mysteriously inert around his Teleportation point.
Anatoly met their gaze, recognizing the sheer, terrifying depth of their loyalty. He knew he couldn't simply dismiss this.
"My apologies," he said, genuinely. "I was conducting an unscheduled field test of my, shall we say, unique capabilities. It was a low-risk, observational mission to the United States. I assure you, I was never in any danger—nor was I truly 'absent.' My consciousness and control remained linked to the nation's core network."
He didn't explain the hammer. Instead, he deflected their concern with an undeniable truth.
"But your point is taken. Such excursions must be accounted for. We need an external justification for such sudden, unpredictable movements. A cover. Something powerful enough that S.H.I.E.L.D. and the global powers will believe it, yet subtle enough that it doesn't reveal the true nature of my abilities."
He looked at Makima, whose golden eyes were already calculating.
"Makima, start fabricating the official narrative: The Romanov Imperial Trans-Dimensional Research Initiative. We need a massive, visible project that explains sudden energy spikes and localized temporal anomalies, justifying any potential future 'tests' on foreign soil. And Esdeath, Yor—double the internal security on the project's cover story. Make it so tight, even Hydra will believe we're looking for aliens."
His council, satisfied that his safety was now prioritized, bowed in chilling unison. The crisis was averted, replaced by a massive new undertaking to deceive the world.