Chapter 40: Worthy or Not

Perched atop the crane, Clint Barton—known as Hawkeye—kept his bow trained on John, his sharp eyes unwavering. The tension in the air was palpable, his fingers poised to release the arrow as soon as Coulson gave the word.

Snap!

"Argh!" Barton cried out as the bowstring unexpectedly snapped, leaving a sharp sting across his face.

Scrambling for cover, Barton inspected his bow. It wasn't the string that failed—it was the metal fastener holding it. Tampered with.

"Metal surrenders to my will," John's voice echoed in Barton's mind, a grim reminder of the bizarre power that bent the barrels of SHIELD agents' guns earlier.

"Coulson, he broke my bow," Barton hissed through the comms, frustration lacing his voice.

Coulson sighed, understanding that confronting John directly was futile. With the ability to manipulate metal and teleport at will, John could effortlessly outmaneuver their efforts.

Barton's custom gear was impossible to tamper with without detection. Yet John had done it in an instant.

This wasn't just power—it was precision.

If John wanted to be an assassin, Coulson thought grimly, he could be the king of assassins.

"I can explain," John said, his tone nonchalant as ever.

"It's fine," Coulson replied with practiced diplomacy. "Given the circumstances, I'd say your arrival has caused more intrigue than outright hostility. Isn't that right, Agent Sitwell?"

John's gaze flicked to Jasper Sitwell, a balding agent standing stiffly to the side. Sitwell's normally composed demeanor faltered under the scrutiny.

Not only was Sitwell a Level 6 SHIELD operative, but he was also a covert Hydra agent—a fact unknown to those around him.

Sitwell managed a tight smile, masking his internal alarm.

"Do you know him?" Coulson asked, glancing between John and Sitwell.

"I don't," John replied. "But I have a... knack for knowing people's true names. It's a god thing." He smirked.

Sitwell exhaled, relieved John hadn't exposed his Hydra affiliation.

A voice crackled through Coulson's earpiece. "Director, we have an unidentified individual breaching the perimeter. Orders?"

Coulson's eyes darted to John, who appeared unfazed.

"No firearms," Coulson ordered. "We'll handle this carefully. Stay alert but do not engage unless absolutely necessary."

John raised an eyebrow. "Looks like the so-called Hammer God has arrived."

Coulson turned to his team. "Bring up the surveillance feed. Let's see what this 'Hammer God' can do."

Moments later, an agent arrived with a tray of hastily assembled food: instant noodles, sausages, burgers, and some salad.

John eyed the meal with faint disappointment. "Really, Coulson? This is the best you've got?"

"We were short on time," Coulson said apologetically.

John picked up the instant noodles, unfazed. "I thought SHIELD's catering budget would reflect its reputation. By the way, how much do you make as a Level 8 agent?"

"About $200,000," Coulson replied while monitoring the surveillance feed.

"Monthly?"

"Annual."

John chuckled. "That's peanuts. What about your pension if you die in the line of duty?"

Coulson glanced at him, taken aback. "That's a morbid topic."

"Call it foresight," John said, slurping down the noodles. "I know your death date, Coulson."

The room went silent. Even the agents around Coulson froze.

Coulson's calm mask cracked slightly. "As an agent, I've accepted the risk of dying for the job. Is it soon?"

"Not yet," John said casually. "But you didn't answer my question—how much is the pension?"

"More than $10 million," Coulson admitted.

John smirked. "Good to know. I might just bring you back to life, but $10 million doesn't quite match my worth." He stood, brushing off crumbs. "Come on, let's see if this 'Hammer God' is up to the hype."

The surveillance footage showed Thor pushing through SHIELD's perimeter. Despite being stripped of his divine powers, he tore through the agents like a seasoned warrior.

Thor's combat prowess wasn't just brute force. Over 1,500 years of battle experience honed his skills, making him a formidable foe even as a mortal.

Rain poured harder, lightning crackling ominously in the distance. SHIELD's scientists reported heightened magnetic field activity as Thor neared Mjolnir's crash site.

Thor faced his final obstacle—a towering agent blocking his path. Undeterred, he launched himself into the fray, the two grappling in the mud as thunder roared above.

Eventually, Thor emerged victorious, knocking the agent unconscious.

"Remarkable," Coulson murmured, watching the Asgardian warrior stride toward Mjolnir with quiet determination.

The storm abated as Thor approached the hammer, the air growing eerily still. He reached out, fingers wrapping around the handle of Mjolnir.

He pulled.

Nothing.

Thor gripped the hammer with both hands, straining with all his might, but it wouldn't budge.

Rain dripped from his face as he stepped back, staring at the immovable weapon. His broad shoulders slumped, and his blue eyes filled with anguish.

"Ugh!" Thor roared, his voice echoing through the desolate base.

For the first time, Thor—the proud, brash warrior—looked defeated.

He fell to his knees, his golden hair plastered to his face. The realization hit him hard: he was unworthy.

Thor bowed his head, his arrogance shattered. For once, he reflected on his own failings.

John drained his coffee, tossing the empty cup to Coulson.

"So, are you really a 'Hammer God' without your hammer?" John's voice cut through the tension.

Thor didn't answer, his head hanging low.

With a wry smile, John approached the hammer. "Let's see if I'm worthy."

He reached out, his fingers brushing against Mjolnir's cool surface.