"Stay with Doom for a while. He will teach you a bit about life and all that." Ranger advised, a faint, almost predatory smile touching his lips as he regarded the young hero. "Try not to irritate him so much that he feels compelled to kill you. Do you understand, Spider-Boy?"
Spider-Man's masked lenses, which had been wide with awe, now seemed to shrink with terror. "What do you mean by 'kill'?" he asked, his voice a nervous squeak that echoed slightly in the vast, silent throne room.
"Doom is Doom."
With that, he vanished through the portal, leaving Spider-Man alone with an ominous silence and a very tall, very armored, very unamused monarch.
Ranger walked out of the portal, the air shifting from the sterile, atmosphere of Latveria to the crisp, salt-scented breeze of the North Atlantic. The transition was instantaneous and jarring. He was met not with a welcoming committee, but with the cold, unyielding reality of a dozen high-tech spears leveled at his throat and the menacing red glow of countless targeting lasers painting his chest. The soldiers of New Asgard, clad in a unique and formidable blend of traditional, rune-etched mail and advanced, humming combat gear, held their ground with the grim, unwavering discipline of warriors who had faced down cosmic horrors and lived to tell the tale.
Ranger raised his hands slowly, a gesture of universal peace, a disarming smile playing on his lips. "Gentle-folk of New Asgard." he began, his voice calm and articulate, a stark contrast to the palpable tension in the air. "I do hope you'll forgive the rather… unorthodox nature of my arrival. I come with the most peaceful of intentions. A humble tourist, drawn by tales of your legendary hospitality." His gaze swept over their stern, unyielding faces, noting the steady hands, the focused eyes. These were not mere guards; they were veterans. "And, I confess." he continued, his tone lightening, "by the even more legendary rumors of your local delicacy. I've heard the Infinity Conez ice cream shop has made quite a… snap… in the cosmic culinary scene. I simply had to try it."
The joke landed with the resonant thud of a war hammer on an anvil. No one moved. The spears remained steady, their tips glinting in the pale sunlight, humming with contained energy.
"A tough crowd." Ranger mused, his smile never faltering. "Very well. A procedural oversight on my part. How about this?" He reached into his coat, his movements slow and deliberately non-threatening. "Let us pretend I arrived via more conventional means. I shall purchase a ticket, post-haste, and all shall be forgotten regarding my rather abrupt materialization. A simple transaction to smooth over any diplomatic ripples." He produced a thick wad of crisp, green Benjamin Franklins, fanning them out with a theatrical flourish. The cash fluttered and caught in the sea breeze, scattering across the ground like unwanted leaves.
Still no reaction.
"Is this not the accepted currency? Or is my offer perhaps… insufficient?" Ranger grumbled, a flicker of mock frustration crossing his features. He dug deeper into his pockets, producing a handful of coins and a single, ornate, silver hairpin. "I believe the entry fee is somewhere in the range of two hundred dollars, is it not? I have here." he announced, as if presenting a royal tribute, "approximately one thousand, five hundred dollars, some loose change, and this rather charming hairpin. The provenance of which is a story for another time, I assure you. Surely, this is enough to secure passage for one humble, ice-cream-seeking tourist?"
"Lower your weapons." A voice, sharp and authoritative, cut through the standoff. The soldiers, though hesitant, complied, their spears retracting with a soft hiss of hydraulics. A woman strode forward, her presence commanding attention. She wore a tailored business suit of impeccable cut that did little to conceal the powerful, warrior's physique beneath. Her stride was confident, her eyes sharp and assessing. "This man is the 'Cobalt Blue' the human news networks have been buzzing about. The one the media proclaimed as the third or the fourth Iron Man. Or, more pertinently, an honorary delegate recently crowned by Victor Von Doom himself."
She stopped before Ranger, circling him like a predator evaluating its prey. Her gaze was intense, missing no detail. "Killing him would create a diplomatic incident of catastrophic proportions. Besides." she added, her voice dropping slightly, a hint of dry, sassy amusement in her tone, "it is unlikely you could kill him, even if you were so ordered."
She came to a halt directly in front of him, her gaze unwavering. "Ranger, is it not?"
"The pleasure is all mine, King Brunnhilde." Ranger replied with a slight, almost courtly bow. "Or do the current geopolitical circumstances demand the more formal title of 'Valkyrie'?"
Her eyes narrowed at his immediate recognition of her dual titles. "New Asgard is currently closed to all kind off tourism, Ranger." she stated, her English simple but her words precise and heavy with authority. "A measure deemed necessary due to the… escalating conflicts of your human brethren. So, I ask again: why is an envoy of Doctor Doom standing on my shores?"
"As I stated, my King." Ranger's smile was a masterpiece of charming sincerity, "I am merely a tourist. And I was hoping the esteemed ruler of New Asgard herself would deign to provide a safe escort and maybe even grant me the title of honorary guest while I sample your world-renowned frozen confections, perhaps partake in a few local games of chance, and, if the stars align, maybe even meet the legendary Thor himself."
They stood for a long moment, eye to eye, a silent negotiation playing out between them. Scenarios flickered, possibilities weighed. Valkyrie was the first to break the gaze, a faint, almost imperceptible sigh escaping her. "Very well, Ranger. You shall have your day of tourism. My guards will provide you safe passage and you shall be given the guest title. But by day's end, you will be escorted from our lands. Am I understood?" Her tone was final. "And as for Thor… he is off-world saving the universe with the Guardians of Galaxy."
Ranger shrugged, a gesture of theatrical disappointment. "How unfortunate. I so wished to meet the God of Thunder. I have a… bestie… who is a rather ardent admirer of his. Particularly his biceps." He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Between you and me, I suspect he harbors a certain… homoerotic fixation on Thor. A silent, unrequited passion."
A flicker of a grin, a genuine one, touched Valkyrie's lips. Ranger pressed his advantage.
"Do me a small favor, my King. When the mighty Thor returns, could you perhaps persuade him to record a short video? Just him, flexing his body, perhaps shouting something encouraging like, 'This is for you, Fury!'? And, for maximum psychological impact, could he do it while wearing, shall we say, the most ridiculously skimpy attire imaginable? Something… Asgardian-ly heroic, of course." He winked. "Ship the video directly to Fury, you understand. It's a gift. And for this small service, I would be willing to compensate you most generously."
Valkyrie's grin widened into a full, sassy smirk. The business-woman in her, the pragmatic leader of a struggling refugee nation, took over. "And what, precisely, is your definition of 'generous compensation'?" she asked, her eyes sparkling with avarice.
"Fifty tons of the new metal the world is so desperately squabbling over." Ranger replied without hesitation.
"Too little." Valkyrie countered instantly. "You want Thor in a metal bikini, you're gonna have to pay the 'premium package' price. Make it one million tons, and Thor will strip."
"Too much." Ranger shot back, his own smile widening. This was a game he enjoyed. "For that price, I would expect a private lap dance performed for Fury in his own home. My offer is one hundred thousand tons."
"Seven hundred thousand." she volleyed, "and Thor shall personally hand-deliver the video file to Fury. With a wink."
"Final offer." Ranger's voice was smooth, confident. "Half a million tons. For this, Thor teleports directly into Fury's private residence, wearing the aforementioned skimpy attire, and personally delivers the video. And." he added, his eyes twinkling with mischief, "should he be persuaded to perform the lap dance, I will add another half a million tons. A full million for the complete, psychologically scarring package."
He extended his hand. Valkyrie looked at it, then at his face, then back at his hand. A hearty, unrestrained laugh escaped her. "Deal." She shook his hand firmly. Both smiled, conspirators in a prank of epic, international proportions.
Ranger turned to the still-stunned Asgardian guards. "What are you all staring at?" he asked, his voice ringing with good-natured cheer. "Have you never seen a friend arrange a thoughtful, personalized gift for his very dear, and very gay, bestie?" He then sauntered off in the direction of the town center, leaving a wake of bewildered soldiers and a chuckling, suddenly very wealthy, King.
He found the Infinity Conez shop easily. "One Gauntlet." he ordered, "six flavors." The worker, a young Asgardian clearly flustered by the presence of the now-infamous delegate, hastily assembled the order. Ranger took the cone, shaped like a miniature, six-scooped Infinity Gauntlet, and took a bite. The flavors were a delightful explosion on his palate. "Is that a hint of Asgardian mead I detect?" he asked. The worker nodded. "No wonder it's so popular. Excellent." Ranger took the cone. "Oh, and send the bill to your King. Tell her I'll add an extra kilogram of the metal for her troubles." And with that, he was gone, leaving the worker staring after him, utterly speechless.
He walked the streets of New Asgard, the cold wind whipping past him as he methodically worked his way through the ice cream. Whispers followed him, the story of his arrival and his audacious deal with their King already spreading like wildfire. He paid them no mind.
The cold wind blew. He let the wind tear at his coat for a moment. The sea always reminded him of endings. Ranger ruffled his hair a bit and walked.
His steps finally leading him to a small, unassuming house on the cliffs overlooking the turbulent sea. He was about to knock when soldiers materialized from the very air around him, their advanced camouflage technology dissolving to reveal their armed, hostile stances.
"This is your final warning, outlander. Step back, or die." one of them snarled, his spear crackling with contained energy.
"Finally." Ranger smiled, a flicker of something almost like relief in his eyes. He tossed the half-eaten ice cream gauntlet into the air, where it hovered for a moment before an ultralink drone, no larger than a hummingbird, zipped from his sleeve and caught it, whisking it away. "Go Turbo: Speed."
His form blurred, a streak of obsidian and cobalt as turbo energy poured in his feet. He weaved through a flurry of energy blasts and physical attacks, the soldiers' movements seeming sluggish, compared to his impossible velocity. A spear thrust was met with a contemptuous sidestep that left the soldier spinning; a wide-arcing sword swing cut only empty air as Ranger flowed under it like water. He didn't attack them; he simply flowed past them, a ghost in their midst, his passage a whisper of displaced wind.
"Go Turbo: Cannon."
As he reached the front door, his form shifted, becoming the bulky, unstoppable engine of destruction. He slammed into the shimmering, invisible energy barrier protecting the house. The barrier, woven with powerful Asgardian magic, cracked, screamed, and then shattered into a million glittering shards. Ranger, his purpose clear, didn't stop there. He smashed through the reinforced, iron-banded door itself, landing inside the house in a shower of splintered wood and dissipating energy, his Cannon form instantly reverting to his sleek, default suit. He stood there, prim and proper, amidst the wreckage, and, with a polite, almost delicate motion, he pressed the doorbell that was somehow still attached to the splintered frame.
The chime echoed through the suddenly very quiet house.
"THOR." Ranger called out, his voice clear and carrying an undeniable, commanding presence. "NOOBMASTER69 HAS COME FOR YOU."