The mansion in Manhattan felt unnaturally quiet that April morning in 2011. Natasha Romanoff lay sprawled across the silk sheets, her dark hair fanned out like spilled ink, chest rising and falling in the deep, satisfied sleep that followed hours of tangled limbs and whispered promises.
Jennifer Marie Hale stared at the ceiling for a long moment, the letter from her mysterious "friend" still burning behind her eyes even though she'd burned the paper itself to ash hours earlier.
Three Infinity Stones. Five favors from Mephisto. An armor that could outfly the stars. And yet the timeline had been gently nudged back into something resembling canon—at least the parts that mattered for the bigger players.
Thanos would still get his duplicate Soul Stone someday. The TVA wouldn't come knocking. Branches had been pruned. She was safe. Hidden. A shadow empress with all the toys and none of the consequences.
She rolled out of bed silently, bare feet padding across cool hardwood. In the secret room beneath the floorboards—sealed with precision, she retrieved the three glowing gems. Soul, Space, Time. They pulsed in her palm like captured hearts. She didn't need them today. Not yet.
What she needed was perspective.
She dressed in black tactical wear, then descended to the sub-basement workshop. The Marvel 2 armor waited on its rack, crimson veins throbbing faintly with hellfire reactor light.
The suit had evolved since Greenland: sleeker lines, invisible cloak mode, silent thrusters capable of breaching atmosphere without a whisper. Infinite power, courtesy of Mephisto's spiteful generosity.
Jennifer stepped into the open chest plate. Servos hissed. The helmet folded down over her face with a metallic snick. HUD flared to life—thermal, gravitic, dimensional overlays. She flexed her fingers; the gauntlets responded with perfect synchronicity.
"Marvel 2 online," she murmured. "Destination: Norway. Ridge coordinates from earlier observation. Time now."
The Space Stone's echo in her mind answered without needing to be touched. A soft pop of displaced air, and she was gone.
The Norwegian ridge overlooked a sleepy coastal town nestled between jagged cliffs and gray sea. Wind carried salt and pine. Jennifer arrived cloaked, hovering fifty feet above the ground, invisible to mortal eyes. Below her, exactly where canon demanded, stood the group.
Thor Odinson—depowered, mortal, dressed in a simple jacket and jeans—leaned against a wooden railing, staring out at the water. His broad shoulders were slumped, the arrogance stripped away like old paint.
Beside him stood Jane Foster, bundled in a parka, her scientific curiosity warring with concern. She kept glancing at him as though he might vanish again.
Further back, the Warriors Three and Lady Sif formed a loose semicircle. Volstagg munched on a strip of dried meat he'd somehow procured. Fandral leaned on his sword, ever the cavalier. Hogun stood silent, arms crossed. Sif's hand rested on her hilt, eyes scanning the horizon.
They were mid-conversation. Jennifer drifted closer, audio amplifiers picking up every word.
"...Loki sits on the throne now," Sif was saying, voice low and furious. "Odin lies in the Odinsleep, and Loki claims the king is dead. Thor, you were banished permanently. He said it himself—your exile is forever."
Thor shook his head slowly. "Loki would not lie about Father. Not about that."
"Wouldn't he?" Fandral asked, eyebrow arched. "He has always been... creative with truth."
Jane placed a tentative hand on Thor's arm. "You don't have to go back right now. Whatever happened up there, you're safe here. We can figure this out."
Thor offered her a small, sad smile. "I am no longer a god, Jane Foster. I am only a man who failed his people."
Jennifer watched, feeling an odd pang. She had helped him escape S.H.I.E.L.D. custody days earlier—knocked out agents, returned Jane's stolen diary via discreet drop-off. Thor had blushed when Jane hugged him in thanks, cheek pecked in gratitude. It was almost sweet.
She almost felt bad for what was coming.
Almost.
A low rumble rolled across the sky. Clouds boiled unnaturally. The Bifrost residue still lingered in the air from the Warriors' arrival, but this was different—darker, angrier.
The Destroyer descended.
It came down like judgment forged in black metal and molten fire. Seven feet of articulated armor, faceplate glowing with hellish orange. No sound but the hiss of superheated air as it landed in the middle of the dirt road leading into town. Townsfolk scattered, screaming.
Sif drew her sword first. "The Destroyer!"
Volstagg spat out his meat. "By the Allfather's beard..."
The Warriors Three and Sif charged without hesitation.
Fandral struck first, blade flashing in a perfect arc. The Destroyer didn't even turn; it raised one gauntleted arm and backhanded him across the street. Fandral crashed through a wooden fence, groaning.
Hogun followed, twin axes spinning. The Destroyer caught one blade in its fist, snapped it like kindling, then slammed Hogun into the ground hard enough to crack asphalt.
Volstagg roared, swinging his massive axe in a wide cleave. The Destroyer met it with an open palm. Metal rang against metal. Volstagg staggered back, shocked at the strength.
Sif leaped high, sword aimed for the glowing faceplate. The Destroyer swatted her mid-air like a fly. She rolled across the pavement, armor dented, blood on her lip.
Thor stepped forward, hands raised. "Enough!"
The Destroyer paused. Its head tilted, as though listening.
Thor walked into the open, arms spread. No fear in his eyes—only resignation.
"Brother," he said clearly, knowing Loki watched through the armor's eyes. "I know you are watching. I know what you have done. Father is in the Odinsleep, not dead. You lied to them. To Sif, to the Warriors, to our people."
Silence. The Destroyer stood motionless.
Thor continued, voice steady. "If you want the throne, take it. But do not harm them. Do not harm these mortals. Kill me if you must. Spare the rest."
Jane, watching from the sidelines, gasped. "Thor, no—"
The Destroyer considered. For one long heartbeat, it seemed Loki might actually listen.
Then the faceplate flared brighter.
Loki's voice—distorted, metallic—rumbled through the armor. "No."
The Destroyer lunged.
One massive fist smashed into Thor's chest. The blow lifted him off his feet and sent him flying twenty yards. He hit the ground hard, skidding across dirt and gravel. Bones cracked audibly. Blood sprayed from his mouth.
Jane screamed and ran to him.
Jennifer cursed under her breath. Time to intervene.
She dropped cloak. Crimson-veined armor materialized in mid-air as she rocketed down, thrusters blazing. She landed between the Destroyer and the fallen Thor with a ground-shaking thud.
"Back off, tin can," she said, voice modulated through the helmet.
The Destroyer turned its glowing gaze on her.
She didn't wait. She launched forward, fists wreathed in hellfire energy. The first punch connected with the Destroyer's chest plate—Uru metal rang like a bell. She followed with a knee to the midsection, then an uppercut that snapped its head back.
For a moment, she held her own. Her armor's infinite reactor poured power into every strike. She grappled the Destroyer's arm, twisting, trying to force it off-balance.
The Destroyer was patient.
It waited for an opening.
Then it struck.
One hand clamped around her helmet. The other plunged into her chest plate, fingers piercing reinforced alloy like foil. Jennifer felt the jolt as its claws found the arc reactor core—the crimson-veined heart Mephisto had gifted her.
"No—"
The Destroyer ripped it free.
Sparks flew. The reactor shattered in its fist, hellfire bleeding out in useless wisps. The Marvel 2 armor powered down instantly, lights dimmed, servos locked, weight returned in full.
Jennifer dropped to one knee, armor now dead weight.
The Destroyer loomed over her, then turned away—dismissed her as irrelevant.
Jane reached Thor. He lay on his back, chest caved in, blood bubbling at his lips. His eyes found hers.
"It's over," he whispered.
Then his eyes closed.
Jane sobbed, cradling his head. "No. No, Thor—"
The Destroyer advanced toward the town, intent on finishing its mission.
But something changed.
A wind rose. Not natural. Charged.
Mjolnir—still embedded in the crater where Thor had first landed—began to tremble.
Lightning cracked the sky.
The hammer lifted, spinning, trailing sparks.
It flew.
Straight to Thor's outstretched hand—even in death, his fingers closed around the haft.
Power surged.
Thor's body arched. Wounds closed. Flesh knit. Eyes snapped open—blue, blazing with lightning.
He rose.
The Destroyer turned.
Thor stood, Mjolnir in hand, cape materializing from storm winds.
"I am Thor Odinson," he declared, voice thunder. "And I am worthy."