The abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of New Mexico turned out to be the perfect refuge.
Barton found it—or rather, he already knew about it. One of those locations S.H.I.E.L.D. keeps in reserve: officially nonexistent, unofficially ready to shelter fugitives, spies, or, as in our case, alien invaders with stolen artifacts.
Irony? Absolutely. I was hiding in a hole dug by those I intended to destroy.
Not destroy, I corrected myself. Defeat. Temporarily. With minimal casualties.
The distinction mattered. Especially after that corridor. After the three shots that still rang in my ears.
The warehouse was enormous—a concrete box the size of a football field, cluttered with rusted containers and forgotten equipment. Dust lay thick over everything, like a shroud. The only light came from emergency lamps on the ceiling, flickering with irritating irregularity.
Selvig was already working.
He had laid out equipment from the helicopter—portable generators, measuring devices, instruments whose purpose I could not grasp even with Loki's memories. The Tesseract stood at the center of the improvised laboratory, enclosed within a stabilizing frame of titanium and ceramic.
The cube's blue glow flooded the space, casting strange shadows. It was different from the Mind Stone's radiance—colder, more detached. If the Stone in my Scepter was a hungry predator, forever seeking minds, then the Tesseract resembled an indifferent god for whom the entire universe was merely points on a map, connected by routes.
Space, I thought. Its essence is distance. Connection. Paths.
The Mind Stone responded with a faint vibration. It sensed its brother, reached toward it—but not as an equal. More like a tool. A key that would open the necessary door.
Interesting. Even cosmic entities have hierarchies.
"Sir?"
Barton's voice pulled me from my thoughts. The archer stood by the entrance, bow slung over his shoulder, arms crossed.
"The perimeter is clear. Sensors on all approaches. Three minutes to contact if anyone gets close."
"Good."
He left—silent, professional. And in that moment, I felt the noise.
The connection between us, established at Project Pegasus, had not vanished. I knew that in theory—the Mind Stone created a constant channel with those under its influence. But theory and practice turned out to be very different things.
With the Chitauri, there had been silence. Their primitive minds emitted a barely audible hum—like an old refrigerator in the next room. One could forget they even existed.
Barton did not allow such forgetfulness.
His mind worked constantly. Even now, while he checked the perimeter, his thoughts flowed in an endless stream. Not images of family—those lay deeper, in layers I had already seen during the takeover. No, this was different. Professional.
Field of view from the eastern point. Dead zone near the northern container. Response time in case of aerial attack. Caliber of weapons a S.H.I.E.L.D. helicopter might carry.
A professional to the core. Even under control, he remained what he was—a machine for survival and killing.
And all of it seeped into me.
The first hour I spent learning to filter.
I sat in a corner of the warehouse, eyes closed, the Scepter resting on my knees. The Mind Stone responded to my efforts—reluctantly, with a hint of irritation. It did not understand why the flow of information should be limited. To it, more data was always better.
But I was not the Stone.
I was human. Or something that had once been human. And the human mind was not built for constant contact with another consciousness.
Intention, I realized at last. It was all about intention.
When I wanted to know something specific—the connection became focused. A clear question, a clear answer.
Where is Barton?
An image: northeast corner, checking a motion sensor.
Weapon status?
A sensation: bow ready, quiver full, knife in his boot.
But when I merely observed—the connection spread out, drowning me in everything passing through his mind.
The solution was simple: do not observe. Request only what was needed. Keep the channel in standby mode rather than constant transmission.
The Stone accepted the new configuration. Not immediately—it required time to adapt to my demands. But eventually the noise subsided.
Barton remained at the edge of my consciousness—a quiet spark, ready to answer if I asked. No longer pressing, no longer intrusive.
First problem solved.
Now—Selvig.
His mind was entirely different.
I reached for the connection carefully, remembering the lesson with Barton. I asked a specific question:
Work status?
And received… an avalanche.
Not images—data. Equations, graphs, theoretical models. Selvig thought in mathematics. His mind resembled a library where each thought referenced a dozen others. Ask about work status—receive the entire chain of reasoning that led to the current state.
The Tesseract produced 340 megajoules per second under stable conditions. Opening a portal required at least 1.2 gigajoules of directed energy. The loss coefficient during focusing was—
Stop, I cut off the stream. I don't need details. I need an answer.
The Mind Stone trembled with displeasure. It wanted the data. Wanted everything the scientist's mind could offer.
Later, I promised it. First—control.
I reformulated the request. Not "work status"—too broad. More specific:
How long until the portal is ready?
The answer came clearly: forty-six hours at current pace. Could be reduced to thirty with additional iridium for stabilization.
Better.
I opened my eyes.
Selvig leaned over a terminal, fingers flying across the keyboard. Blue light from the Stone reflected in his eyes. But his expression was not empty, like a puppet's. He was absorbed. The task I had given him resonated with his own desires.
That was part of how I had subdued him. I had not broken his will—I had redirected it. Selvig had wanted to understand the Tesseract all his life. Now he understood—and was building a device that would open a door to another part of the universe.
What his mind preferred not to notice was where exactly that door led.
"Doctor," I called. "Show me the stabilizer schematic."
He obediently displayed the design on the screen. A complex structure—rings, emitters, focusing lenses. I studied it, and somewhere deep within my mind the part of me that had once been a Moscow system administrator quietly laughed.
They're building a portal for an invasion. And they don't understand what they're doing.
"Here," I pointed to one of the nodes. "The feedback loop. It controls the aperture width?"
"Yes." Selvig brightened, like any scientist when someone shows interest in his work. "The more power we direct, the wider the portal. But there is a critical threshold—if we exceed it, the entire structure becomes unstable."
"And collapses."
"Theoretically. In practice we wouldn't allow that—the system automatically—"
"Add a resonator," I interrupted. "Right here."
Selvig frowned. The part of his mind I had deliberately left untouched—scientific integrity, critical thinking—sensed something wrong.
"But that would make the system more sensitive to external influences. Any sufficiently strong energy impulse could trigger a cascade failure…"
"Exactly."
I placed a hand on his shoulder. Not for control—the control was already there. For emphasis.
"It's insurance, Doctor. In case something goes wrong."
His doubts dissolved. Not vanished—dissolved, absorbed into the general background of submission. He nodded and returned to the design, making the changes.
An emergency shutdown, I thought, watching him work. Every good system needs an emergency shutdown. Especially one you do not fully control.
The resonator looked like a standard stabilizing element. Even if Thanos somehow saw the schematics—he would not understand. Earth technology was primitive to him, unworthy of attention.
But for someone who knew…
Romanoff would figure it out. Or Stark. Or Selvig himself, when the part of his mind I had left free began asking questions.
Insurance within insurance. Layers. As befitted the God of Lies.
That night I conducted an experiment.
Thanos was watching—I could feel his presence through the Scepter. Distant, like the echo of thunder beyond the horizon. But real. The bridge between us functioned both ways.
The question was: what exactly did he see?
I sat on a crate, the Scepter on my knees. Closed my eyes.
Betrayal.
An image: I stood over Thanos's body. Triumph. Freedom.
The Scepter remained cold.
Interesting.
A second image: I completed the mission. The portal open. The Chitauri flooding Earth. Humanity falling to its knees.
Warmth. Faint but tangible.
More interesting.
A third image: doubt. Pity for mortals. A desire to stop.
Nothing.
I opened my eyes.
He doesn't read thoughts, I realized. He senses intentions. Emotional charge. And only when I actively use the Stone.
That explained much.
In Sanctuary I had been under constant observation. The Other, Maw, Thanos himself—every moment had seemed dangerous. But here, light-years away, the rules changed.
The Scepter transmitted what I projected. When I directed energy outward—control, attack—Thanos sensed echoes of my emotions. But passive thoughts, quiet reflections…
Those were mine.
I could plan betrayal. I could hate Thanos with all my soul. The only requirement was that in the moment of action I become the perfect puppet—thirsting for revenge, despising mortals.
Acting, I thought. With one correction: the audience can look into your soul. But only when you are on stage.
So I would have to control exactly when I stepped onto that stage.
Near dawn the Mind Stone trembled.
Not from my thoughts—from something external. I turned toward the Tesseract.
The cube shone brighter. Its pulse quickened.
"Doctor?"
Selvig frowned at the readings.
"Strange. An energy surge. Someone is trying to… establish contact?"
Contact.
I reached for the Mind Stone, using it as a lens. The Tesseract was closed to direct connection—its nature too different. But the echoes…
An image. Blurred, distant.
Gold. A rainbow shimmering in every color of the spectrum. The ruins of a bridge above an abyss.
And a figure—massive, one-eyed.
Odin.
The Allfather was searching. Not for me—for the Tesseract. The Space Stone had been kept in Asgard's treasury for centuries. Odin knew its signature, could trace its energy trail.
And now he was looking through the torn fabric of space.
I smiled.
Too late, father. Too far away.
But if Odin was searching…
Thor.
The Bifrost destroyed. Asgard cut off from other worlds. In the canon Thor arrives later, when Odin finds a way to send him.
This accelerated the timeline.
"Doctor," I turned to Selvig. "How much time can we cut?"
"With iridium—thirty hours. Maybe twenty-five."
"Find iridium."
He nodded. Through the connection I felt his mind already sorting possibilities—laboratories, storage facilities, places to obtain the rare metal.
Good.
I moved to the window—a narrow slit in the concrete wall. Outside, the sky was brightening, gray turning to pink. The first sunrise on Earth.
Home, a thought flickered.
But this was not home. This was a battlefield.
Somewhere among those stars Thanos sat on his throne, waiting for results. And here, in a dusty warehouse, his "loyal servant" was building a plan to destroy him.
Ahead lay Stuttgart. Hundreds of people. Then New York. Thousands. In the canon the invasion claimed lives, destroyed buildings, scarred an entire city.
I could reduce the casualties. Direct attacks at military targets. Evacuate districts.
But avoid them entirely?
Impossible.
War was war. Even controlled, even staged—it killed.
I knew that, I admitted to myself. Knew it when I agreed. When I accepted the Scepter. When I allowed myself to be "broken."
I am a killer.
Not metaphorically. Literally. Three people were dead because of me. Soon there would be more.
And if in the end Thanos was defeated…
If trillions survived instead of turning to ash…
Was it worth those I killed along the way?
There was no answer. Only silence and the reddening sky beyond the window.
"Sir."
Barton's voice pulled me from my thoughts. He stood at the entrance, bow in hand.
"Movement on the perimeter. Single target. On foot."
On foot? In the middle of the desert?
"Show me."
We stepped outside. The sun had already risen—yellow, harsh, blinding after the warehouse's gloom. I squinted, adjusting.
A figure approached along the dirt road. A man in a wrinkled suit, briefcase in hand. He walked uncertainly, stumbling over stones, yet stubbornly moving forward.
A random passerby?
Impossible. Not in this wasteland. Not at this hour.
I reached for the Mind Stone.
And froze.
The man's mind was strange. On the surface—ordinary thoughts, ordinary fears. But deeper…
Deeper lay structure. Layers of secrecy built over years. Lies turned into second nature. And a cold, calculated loyalty to something ancient.
Not to S.H.I.E.L.D.
To something within S.H.I.E.L.D.
Interesting.
"Sir?" Barton waited for orders. Arrow on the string.
"Wait."
The man stopped twenty meters away. Raised his hands—a gesture of peaceful intent. His face was pale, slick with sweat. But his eyes…
His eyes were calm. The eyes of someone who had made a decision and would not retreat.
"Loki of Asgard?" he called. His voice trembled, but not from fear—from excitement. "I need to talk. I have… a proposal."
A proposal.
A name surfaced from the depths of memory. Not Loki's memory—mine. Films from a previous life. A minor character who had appeared briefly on screen.
Sitwell.
A S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. And more importantly—a Hydra agent.
The serpent in Fury's organization. A Nazi legacy that had survived the war, Nuremberg, and seventy years in the shadows. An organization that in the future would nearly destroy everything the "good guys" had built.
And it had come to me.
On its own.
I allowed myself a smile—the same arrogant, condescending one Loki had perfected over a thousand years.
"Speak, Agent Sitwell," I said, lowering the Scepter. "I am listening."
Surprise flickered in his eyes—I had spoken his name though he had not introduced himself.
Good. Let him think I knew more than I did.
Sitwell swallowed. Took a few steps closer.
"The organization I represent… we have long observed the Tesseract. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s research. And when you appeared…"
"You decided you could be useful."
"Yes." He nodded, clearly relieved that I understood. "We have resources. People inside the system. Information about Earth's defenders—their weaknesses, their secrets."
The Avengers, I realized. He was offering files on the Avengers.
"And what do you want in return?"
A pause. Sitwell licked his lips.
"When you win… when you establish a new order… we want to be part of that order. Not enemies. Partners."
Partners.
Hydra wanted to survive under any regime. Wanted power, no matter what flag flew over the world. Nazis, S.H.I.E.L.D., now an alien conqueror. It made no difference to them. The important thing was to stand with the victor.
In another situation I would have refused. Hydra was a cancer that should be cut out, not used.
But now…
Information, I thought. They know things I do not. The internal structure of S.H.I.E.L.D. Base locations. Personal data on agents.
And they think I am their ticket to power.
I stepped forward. Sitwell instinctively retreated, then forced himself to stop.
"Tell me, Agent…" I tilted my head, studying him. "Do your masters know you are here?"
A pause. Too long.
"This is… an authorized contact."
A lie.
I sensed it—not through the Mind Stone, simply by the tone. Sitwell was acting on his own initiative. Making a bet before his superiors could decide.
Ambitious. Foolish. Useful.
"Here is what we will do," I said. "You will bring me this information. Everything you know about the 'defenders.' Files, dossiers, weaknesses."
Sitwell nodded.
"Of course. When?"
"Now."
"But… I need to return, gain access to—"
"It's in your briefcase," I interrupted. "You would not have come empty-handed. Not you."
His face twitched. For a fraction of a second—fear. Then reluctant admiration.
"You are… perceptive."
"I am a god." I extended my hand. "The briefcase."
He handed it over.
Inside were folders. Thick, stamped with classifications that meant nothing to a being from another world. I flipped open the first—photograph of a man in a suit, with bright eyes and a self-satisfied smile.
Stark, Anthony Edward. Iron Man. Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist.
The second folder—a blond man with a square jaw and a gaze full of righteous conviction.
Rogers, Steven Grant. Captain America. Super soldier. Symbol.
The third—a woman with red hair and eyes that held nothing but calculation.
Romanoff, Natalia Alianovna. Black Widow. Former KGB agent. Infiltration specialist.
Barton knows her, I remembered. Their connection was more than professional. She would be able to save him.
Good.
I closed the folder.
"This is a beginning," I told Sitwell. "You will continue working for me. From within. When necessary—I will contact you."
"How?"
I smiled.
"Believe me, Agent. When a god wishes to find you—he does."
Sitwell nodded. In his eyes—a mixture of fear and hope. He believed he had made a profitable deal.
He did not know he had become another piece on the board.
I watched him leave—a small figure against the desert, returning to his double life.
Hydra, I thought. Another tool. Another layer.
Thanos used me. I used Barton and Selvig. Now—Hydra.
Everyone uses everyone. The question is who will remain standing when the music stops.
I returned to the warehouse.
The Tesseract pulsed with steady blue light. Selvig worked, immersed in calculations. Barton held position at the entrance.
Everything was proceeding according to plan.
Whose plan? the inner voice asked.
I did not answer.
The sun rose above the horizon. A new day on Earth. The first of many—or the last before the end.
The game continues.