Natasha Romanoff, codenamed Black Widow, was the elite of the elite among S.H.I.E.L.D. agents—and one of Director Nick Fury's most trusted operatives.
The name Black Widow carried weight in both the underworld and the intelligence community. There was no mission she couldn't complete, no secret she couldn't uncover.
On the third floor of the Selenkis Building, Natasha was tied to a chair, being interrogated by two bodyguards who clearly had professional training. The Russian general leading them was practically glowing with excitement over having captured the infamous Black Widow. In his enthusiasm, he talked far too much—spilling both what should and shouldn't have been said.
Ring—ring—ring! Ring—ring—ring!
One of the black-clad bodyguards suddenly had his phone go off. After answering it, he froze, confusion written all over his face.
"It's… for her," he said, handing the phone to his superior.
"I know you're on the third floor of the Selenkis Building," came Agent Coulson's calm voice from the other end. "Eight miles away, we have an F-22 fighter jet in the air. Put the woman on the phone—or I'll level the entire street."
The general hesitated before handing the phone to Natasha. He couldn't confirm whether a fighter jet was really overhead—but the man's tone left no room for doubt.
"Get back to headquarters. Now," Coulson said, urgency creeping into his voice.
"You've got to be kidding," Natasha replied casually. "I'm in the middle of an interrogation. This old idiot's already confessed to everything."
Natasha Romanoff had a unique interrogation style—she excelled at getting her targets to volunteer exactly what she wanted to hear.
"I—I didn't say anything…" the general stammered, belatedly realizing what he'd revealed. The awkwardness hit him all at once.
"Natasha," Coulson said quietly, "Barton's been compromised."
The moment Coulson mentioned Barton, Natasha fell silent.
Then she spoke.
"Give me a minute."
What followed were the unmistakable sounds of fists landing, bodies hitting the floor, and muffled cries of pain. Coulson waited patiently—he wasn't worried in the slightest. As S.H.I.E.L.D.'s trump card, Natasha surpassed ordinary people in intellect, combat skill, and mental resilience.
Within minutes, the three men who had thought they'd restrained Black Widow were sprawled unconscious on the floor. Natasha picked up the phone as she walked.
"Where's Barton?"
"I don't know," Coulson replied. "But he's alive. We'll talk details when you're back. Right now, we need you to go have a conversation with that guy."
"Coulson," Natasha said flatly, "you know Stark doesn't trust me."
She had once infiltrated Stark Industries under the guise of a secretary and even served as Tony Stark's personal assistant—her real mission being to monitor Iron Man. After revealing her true identity, Stark had never hidden his dislike of her.
"I'll handle Stark," Coulson said. "You go find the big guy."
At the mention of the big guy, Natasha froze.
That target was a hundred times more dangerous than Stark—far more unstable. Was Fury really planning to use someone that uncontrollable?
—
In an abandoned underground laboratory, Loki used the scepter to control Agent Barton. With Barton's intimate knowledge of S.H.I.E.L.D., they identified individuals and factions hostile to the organization. Loki then bent them to his will, one by one, through the scepter's power—turning them into loyal servants.
The scepter did not belong to Loki.
It was not Asgardian, nor was it forged by any realm he knew. It had been given to him—loaned, really—by powers far beyond the Nine Realms. Thanos, the Titan who ruled from the shadows, had placed it in Loki's hands through his herald, a being known only as the Other.
The bargain was simple. Loki would lead an invasion of Earth. In return, Thanos would provide an army—the Chitauri—and grant Loki the means to seize the Tesseract. Once Earth fell, the Tesseract would belong to Thanos.
Neither side believed the alliance would last.
The scepter pulsed with an eerie blue glow, its energy thrumming in time with Loki's thoughts. As his fingers tightened around its shaft, the world around him dissolved.
His mind was pulled inward—drawn into a cold, lightless mental plane. Cloaked in shadow, the Other awaited him, its form elongated and unnatural, its eyes burning with quiet malice.
"The Chitauri grow impatient," the creature intoned. "They are a warlike people. Delay breeds contempt."
"Tell them to restrain themselves," Loki replied coolly. "Earth will fall soon enough. I will lead them to victory."
"A victory," the Other echoed, amused. "Against these fragile mortals?"
"Glorious," Loki said. "And brief—assuming the army you promised is worthy of its reputation."
The Other's eyes narrowed.
"Do you question us?" it hissed. "Do you question him? The one who armed you. The one who opened your eyes to truths long hidden. You were cast down once before, were you not?"
The words struck with surgical precision.
"I am a king," Loki snapped. "The rightful ruler of a realm. I was betrayed—"
Yet even as he spoke, memory betrayed him.
Three years earlier, Thor's arrogance had nearly ignited a war with Jotunheim. As punishment, Odin stripped Thor of his power and banished him to Earth. And on Jotunheim, amid ice and ruin, Loki learned the truth of his birth.
He was Laufey's son.
Abandoned. Left to die.
Odin had taken him—not out of mercy, but design—and raised him as a prince of Asgard. A living trophy. A political instrument.
At Thor's coronation, Loki's resentment boiled over. His sabotage invited the Frost Giants into Asgard and provoked Thor's reckless assault on Jotunheim. Everything that followed—war, exile, ruin—began there.
All his life, Loki had been taught that the Frost Giants were monsters.
And then he learned he was one of them.
When Odin fell into the Odinsleep, Loki acted. He sent the Destroyer after Thor. When that failed, he attempted to erase Jotunheim itself, claiming it was for Asgard. For Odin.
The lie tasted bitter even now.
To save the Frost Giants, Thor shattered the Bifrost. When Odin awoke and looked upon Loki—not with pride, but with cold disappointment—something inside him finally broke.
Loki let go.
He fell into the void beneath the Bifrost, drifting beyond the known realms. And there, in the darkness between worlds, Thanos found him.
The Titan showed him the Tesseract's true power. Showed him visions of conquest. Purpose. Destiny. And through the Other, Thanos placed the scepter in Loki's grasp—its hidden stone whispering promises directly into his mind.
The scepter did not merely obey Loki.
It shaped him.
Each memory of Thor hardened into hatred.
So Loki chose his prize.
He would conquer the world Thor loved.
"Your ambition is narrow," the Other sneered. "Earth is insignificant. The Tesseract opens paths to countless worlds."
"You don't possess it yet," Loki replied evenly.
The reminder sparked fury.
"Careful," Loki continued. "Before the gate is opened. Before I command your armies—your threats are meaningless."
He cared for results, not visions.
"Go then," the Other snarled. "But if you fail—if the Tesseract does not fall into our master's hands—there will be no refuge for you. He will find you. And you will beg for an end."
The mental realm shattered.
Loki staggered as reality rushed back, breath ragged, heart hammering. His grip tightened around the scepter.
He understood now.
This was no alliance.
He had boarded a warship commanded by a god-killer—
—and there was no way off.
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