Location: Fogwell's Gym, Queens, New York
Three Weeks After the Dimensional Ripple
Steve Rogers wrapped his hands with practiced precision, the familiar rhythm grounding him in a world that had changed too much, too fast.
Seventy years.
Seventy years he'd been frozen. Seventy years while the world moved on without him. Peggy had lived an entire life. The Howling Commandos had grown old, retired, passed away. The war he'd fought—the war he'd won—had become history. Ancient history to most people.
He pulled the tape tight and flexed his fingers, testing the wrap. The gym smelled like sweat, leather, and old wood. Familiar. Comforting. Some things, at least, hadn't changed.
SHIELD had set up this private facility for him—a quiet place to train without cameras or crowds. No agents hovering. No debriefings. Just equipment and space. Fury understood that much, at least. Steve needed time to adjust. Time to think.
Time to remember who he was.
He approached the bag, rolled his shoulders, and threw his first punch.
The impact echoed through the empty gym. Then another. And another. Left jab. Right cross. Hook. Uppercut. The rhythm came back easily—muscle memory that even seventy years of ice couldn't erase.
But his mind was elsewhere.
Fury had been clear: the world had changed. New threats. New heroes. New technology. And now, apparently, new creatures. Beings from another dimension, manifesting across the globe. Fury had shown him footage. New York. Tokyo. London. Strange animals—creatures—appearing out of nowhere. Some dangerous. Some docile. All completely unknown.
The Avengers Initiative, Fury called it. A team to handle threats too big for any one hero.
Steve wasn't sure he was ready for a team. Wasn't sure he was ready for any of this.
The bag swung back from a particularly hard punch, and Steve caught it, holding it still. His breathing was even, controlled. The serum meant he could go for hours without tiring, but the workout wasn't about physical conditioning.
It was about having something familiar. Something that made sense.
The sound of impact echoed from across the gym.
Steve's head snapped toward the noise. He'd been so focused on the heavy bag that he hadn't heard them enter.
Two figures stood in the center of the sparring mat. Tall—easily six and a half feet. Humanoid, but covered in thick fur. One had dark gray fur with black markings that looked disturbingly like a martial arts gi. The other had similar coloring but lighter, with flowing patterns that resembled a different style of traditional garb.
They were facing each other. Ready stances. Fighters.
Steve's hand moved instinctively toward his shield—which wasn't there. He'd left it in the locker. But something stopped him from moving. Something about their posture. They weren't preparing to attack him.
They were preparing to fight each other.
The darker one moved first.
It exploded forward with a straight punch—no telegraphing, no warning. Pure aggression. The strike came fast and hard, aimed at the lighter one's center mass.
But the lighter one didn't block. It flowed.
The creature shifted its weight, pivoting at the hips, and the punch sailed past its shoulder by inches. Before the darker creature could recover, the lighter one's hand was already moving—not striking, but redirecting. It caught the extended arm, used the momentum, and pulled.
The darker creature stumbled forward a single step.
Then it grinned.
"Urshi," it growled, and launched into a combination.
Steve found himself frozen, watching.
The dark one moved like a hurricane. Every strike was committed. Full power. Full speed. Left hook flowing into a right cross flowing into a knee strike. No hesitation. No defense. Just constant, relentless offense. Each blow was meant to end the fight. Each movement transitioned seamlessly into the next attack.
It was beautiful. Terrifying. Like watching a master at work.
But the lighter one never got hit.
It moved like water. Every punch that came toward it was deflected, redirected, turned aside with minimal movement. When the dark one threw a high kick, the light one dropped low, letting it pass overhead, then rose with an open-palm strike that caught its opponent in the ribs—gentle, controlled, but perfectly placed.
The darker creature made a sound—something between approval and frustration—and pressed harder.
It came in with a spinning back fist. The lighter one swayed backward, the strike missing by a hair's breadth. The dark one didn't stop spinning—it continued the rotation, dropping low for a leg sweep.
The lighter creature jumped. Not high. Just enough. Its foot came down on the sweeping leg, pinning it for a fraction of a second, and it used that moment to deliver a precise strike to the dark one's shoulder.
The darker creature rolled with the impact, turning the hit into a recovery, coming back to its feet in one fluid motion. But Steve could see the slight hitch in its shoulder. The strike had landed clean.
"shifu," the lighter one said quietly.
The darker creature's eyes narrowed. Then it charged.
This time it was different. The attacks came faster. Harder. More varied. High strikes mixed with low. Punches flowed into elbow strikes flowed into knee strikes. It was pushing the pace, testing the lighter one's limits.
And the lighter creature responded.
Instead of just defending, it began to counter. When the dark one threw a right cross, the light one redirected it and immediately delivered a palm strike to the sternum. When the dark one came in with a knee, the light one caught it, turned it, and used the momentum to send its opponent stumbling to the side.
But it never overcommitted. Never left itself open. Every counter was measured, controlled, designed to unbalance rather than injure.
The darker creature was learning. Adapting. It started feinting—fake strikes meant to draw out the lighter one's defenses. When the light one moved to redirect a punch that never fully committed, the dark one was already pivoting, delivering a solid kick to the leg.
The lighter creature took the hit, absorbed it, and immediately flowed into a throw attempt. It grabbed the dark one's extended leg, pulled, twisted—
But the darker creature used the momentum. Instead of resisting, it went with the throw, turning it into a roll, coming up behind the lighter one and immediately launching a strike at its back.
The lighter creature spun. Caught the wrist. Redirected.
The two creatures locked up for a moment, grips on each other's arms, testing strength.
Then they broke apart simultaneously, both stepping back, both returning to ready stances.
They were breathing hard. Not exhausted, but exerted. Focused.
Steve realized his own breath had quickened just from watching.
The darker one bowed. A short, sharp motion. Respectful but aggressive.
The lighter one returned the bow. Slower. More fluid. Graceful.
Then they went again.
This time they moved even faster. The dark one's strikes became combinations of five, six, seven attacks. Relentless pressure. No breaks. No pauses. Just constant forward momentum, constantly pressing the advantage, never giving the lighter one space to think.
The lighter creature's defenses became tighter. More precise. It was reading the patterns now, anticipating strikes before they came. When the dark one threw a left jab, the light one was already moving to redirect it. When the dark one followed with a right cross, the light one had already positioned itself to turn the strike aside.
They were completely in sync. Two halves of the same martial art, pushing each other to the limit.
Steve saw the moment the dynamic shifted.
The darker creature committed to a powerful straight punch—full extension, full power. The lighter one didn't redirect this time. It stepped inside the strike, getting past the fist, and delivered three rapid strikes to the dark one's torso. Precise. Controlled. Each one landed exactly where the last one had, building on the impact.
The darker creature stumbled back two steps.
For a moment, Steve thought it was over.
Then the dark one roared—not in pain, but in exhilaration—and came back with even more intensity.
It was testing itself. Pushing past its limits. Using the pain, the challenge, the difficulty as fuel.
The lighter creature's expression changed. Just slightly. Something that might have been approval.
And suddenly, it stopped only defending.
It began to flow offensively. Not attacking directly—never attacking directly—but creating openings. Inviting strikes. Drawing the darker one in, then using its own momentum against it. Every time the dark one attacked, the light one would redirect and counter, but now the counters came faster, harder, more decisively.
The darker creature adapted again. It started reading the redirections, anticipating them, adjusting its strikes mid-motion to account for where the lighter one would move.
It was like watching a conversation. A dialogue spoken entirely in movement, in strikes and counters, in pressure and flow.
Minutes passed. The pace never slowed.
Finally, almost simultaneously, both creatures stepped back. Disengaged.
They bowed to each other. Deeper this time. Respectful. Genuine.
"Urshifu," the darker one said.
"Urshifu," the lighter one replied.
Then they both turned and looked directly at Steve.
Steve felt his heartbeat pick up. He'd been so absorbed in watching that he'd forgotten they might be aware of him.
The darker one gestured to Steve, then to itself, then to the lighter one. Then it gestured to the mat they'd been sparring on.
An invitation.
"You want me to join you," Steve said slowly.
Both creatures nodded
Steve unwrapped his hands and stepped onto the mat. The darker one gestured to the center, and Steve took his position between them.
The lighter creature gestured to Steve, then to itself, then made a flowing defensive motion. Teaching.
The darker one made a sharp striking motion. Also teaching.
They wanted to show him. To train with him. To share what they knew.
Steve bowed to both of them.
And the training began.
Steve looked at them—really looked at them. They weren't monsters. They weren't threats. They were fighters. Warriors. Beings who understood discipline, respect, and the pursuit of excellence through combat.
They reminded him of the Howling Commandos, in a way. Each member different, but united by a common purpose. By mutual respect.
"Alright," Steve said. "But if we're going to do this, we do it properly."
The darker creature's eyes gleamed with what might have been approval. It extended one massive paw—hand?—toward Steve.
Steve shook it. The grip was firm, controlled. A warrior's handshake.
The lighter creature did the same, its grip somehow softer but no less sincere.
Steve shook his head, a genuine smile crossing his face for the first time in weeks. "This isn't even in my top ten strangest partnerships."
The darker creature made a sound that might have been a laugh.
The lighter one tilted its head, then pointed to the heavy bag Steve had been working earlier. Then it gestured to itself and took a stance.
It wanted to demonstrate.
Steve stepped back, giving it space.
The light one moved—not with the aggressive speed of its darker counterpart, but with fluid precision. It struck the bag once. The impact was different—not a single devastating blow, but a rippling wave of force that traveled through the bag. The chains rattled. The ceiling mount creaked.
Then the dark one stepped up. Its strike was direct, powerful, singular. The bag nearly flew off its mount.
Two styles. Two philosophies. Two halves of a complete martial art.
Steve understood, then, what they were offering. Not just partnership. Not just training.
Balance.
"Alright," Steve said, rolling his shoulders and taking his position between them. "Let's do this. And don't hold back."
Both creatures bowed.
And the training began in earnest.