Chapter 20: Provoking A Being Who Could Bitch-slap Odin?

"So Director Fury, do you have an action plan, or are we all just going to sit here waiting for Magneto to turn the base into a modern art installation?"

It was an American military base that got hit, but curiously enough, the U.S. military didn't go in guns blazing like usual.

Instead, they handed over the mess to S.H.I.E.L.D, which was either a sign of trust or an admission that even the Pentagon didn't feel like dying today.

So the question wasn't out of place. Fury didn't bother to play coy. "Retaking the base is going to be a very difficult task. Especially since we're dealing with Magneto, He is basically the final boss of modern weaponry."

The Chinese representative raised a skeptical brow. He wasn't buying what Fury was selling. "Come on, Fury. If you've got a plan, spit it out. Magneto needs to be stopped at all costs. We don't have time for your usualbroutine."

Now, Fury was used to spinning riddles and vague statements like a noir detective with a caffeine addiction. But even under the blunt pressure, his poker face didn't crack.

The man had skin thicker than vibranium-coated bureaucracy.

He stared at the Chinese rep, who remained as calm as Mont Tai. "I'm not spewing bullshit. I'm explaining reality, modern weapons are useless against Magneto."

"If we charge in like headless chickens, we'll just end up as metallic confetti."

The representative didn't flinch. "No, Director Fury. We're all very aware Magneto laughs in the face of tanks. But wasn't S.H.I.E.L.D. specifically created to deal with people like him?"

"If you can't handle this, what's the point of your entire existence?"

Fury knew where this was going. Lately, more and more countries were side-eyeing S.H.I.E.L.D., grumbling about how it had become less of an international peacekeeping agency and more like America's personal organization.

He couldn't argue with that.

And honestly, he'd started asking the same question himself after he became the SHIELD director, for some cosmic reason, all the weird shit on Earth seemed magnetically attracted to the States—specifically New York.

It was as if New York City is the center of the universe.

And whenever S.H.I.E.L.D. tried to get involved internationally, they had to navigate so much red tape and political whining that they looked more like bureaucrats in spandex than world-saving operatives.

Fury sighed internally. This wasn't the time to play the victim or start monologuing like a supervillain. He had to speak facts before the room turned into a live-action blame game.

"My idea is very simple," Fury began, his voice as smooth as sandpaper on steel. "Consider it a trial run for something I've had brewing in the back of my head for a long time. I call it Project Avengers."

He let the name hang in the air like cigar smoke, waiting for a reaction that never came—just hologram stares and political poker faces.

"The concept is straightforward: create a team of superhumans capable of handling supernatural threats."

"As it stands, I'm looking into recruiting Reed Richards and his team of conveniently mutated misfits."

He smirked, but no one was laughing.

"If this works, it could save us a whole world of trouble. Future problems—say, another Magneto who thanks to his power think he is above everything could be handled swiftly."

"More than that, it'd give the public a shiny new banner of hope to worship, something to believe in besides celebrities and rigge—"

"Impossible," a voice cut in, sharp and immediate. Fury hadn't even finished his pitch, but honestly, he expected resistance. These people were consistent if nothing else.

The man continued, eyes cold. "SHIELD already has more perks and privileges than a trust fund baby. Now you want a personal army of mutants under your command? That's not a solution."

Fury didn't flinch. He'd been threatened by worse things than bureaucrats.

"Gentlemen," he said, his tone shifting to a polite threat, "times have changed."

He gestured vaguely toward the chaos of the modern world as if that explained everything—and in a way, it did.

"We're not just dealing with Cold War relics or unstable regimes anymore. Now it's mutants, rogue enhanced individuals and other weirdos who think spandex equals supremacy. We need to adapt."

He continued, his voice low but firm. "Whether we like it or not, assembling a team of superhumans isn't just smart—it's inevitable. If we don't do it, someone else will. Take Charles Xavier, for instance."

He tapped a folder on the table like it was a loaded gun.

"Our intel says he's been gathering mutants from around the world. Calls it a school. Sounds nice, right? Except it's a school that teaches kids how to set things on fire with their brains."

"And it just so happens that his 'students' also double as his personal army. And not one of them answers to any known government."

He let that sink in, watching their faces twitch like they'd tasted something sour.

"If Xavier pulls this off, others will follow. What happens if Tony Stark wakes up one day and decides to build his own superhuman, but with a five-star bar and a kill count? The only ones left without their own army would be us."

"We either take initiative… or get left in the dust by billionaires, bald psychic cult leaders, and whatever flavor of crazy the universe spits at us next."

He finished and let silence settle. Inside, he felt a flicker of pride. He knew these people. Politicians hated nothing more than being outclassed, outgunned, or—God forbid—out of control.

What he didn't know, however, was that this would be the beginning of his long, bitter regret. The kind of regret that aged you faster than time itself. But for now, he had them thinking. That was enough.

And at least one or two were already imagining their faces plastered next to headlines like 'World Saved By Government Initiative.'

Not that they'd ever admit that out loud.

...

While the world spiraled into panic over the latest cosmic disaster, Hela had more productive concerns—like how to rack up a higher enemy's hatred.

"Ha! All those fanfic main characters are busy hiding in holes like traumatized hamsters, and here I am brainstorming how to make even more enemies. Peak villain behavior, really."

Her reasoning was simple in that dangerously unhinged kind of way: strong enemies meant stronger rewards.

But she had to be careful—because if Daddy Odin caught wind of her extracurricular villainy, things could go from 'fun' to 'almost eternal imprisonment in a magical oubliette' real fast.

Now, as luck (or sheer bad decision-making) would have it, Hela did have someone in mind to poke with a sharp stick. Problem?

That someone could bitch-slap Odin into Valhalla very quick.

Not MCU Odin—no, that would be manageable. She was thinking Comics Odin level. The one who casually arm-wrestled Galactus, threw hands with Celestials, and once drank enough mead to poison a black hole.

And who was this terrifying figure she wanted to piss off?

Chthon.

Yes, that Chthon. Chaos incarnate. The ancient Elder God who wrote the Darkhold like it was his emo poetry diary.

The one who's been creepily hovering over Wanda Maximoff's life like a helicopter parent from hell. He basically groomed her powers since birth just so she could become his shiny new meat suit someday.

It's kind of like the Phoenix Force's thing with Jean Grey, if the Phoenix was a lot more manipulative and a lot less 'cosmic bird-therapy.'

At least the Phoenix doesn't try to replace Jean—Chthon straight-up wants to be Wanda.

Naturally, interfering with that plan would put Hela on his eternal hit list.

"Eh, screw it. No one's gonna stop me from meeting the Scarlet Witch. Not even Chaos Creep Daddy."

"This is the Marvel Universe, after all—reality breaks every Tuesday, and timelines get reset like they're on a gacha cooldown. Why bother worrying about a future that'll probably be erased by some crossover event anyway?"

With that fatalistic optimism, she set off to check in on Jean and Charles' little project—Cerebro.

It had been over 24 hours since they started, and she was curious to see how badly they were messing it up.

Because while Cerebro is one of the most important inventions in the Marvel universe, it's usually treated like a glorified mutant GPS… thanks to writers who clearly didn't want to explain how Professor X could literally scan all minds on Earth in his pajamas.

When Hela strolled into the little Frankenstein lab Charles and Jean had cobbled together, the first thing she noticed wasn't the genius duo busy with world-saving science—nah, it was Charles slumped over a terminal like someone who lost both his dignity and his last save file.

His wheelchair? Oh boy. It looked like it had been modded with parts scavenged from a PlayStation 2, an old toaster, and probably some forgotten IKEA furniture.

Charles and Jean looked up in perfect unison, which would've been creepy if Hela hadn't already seen worse. Without missing a beat, Charles squinted and muttered, "Is it the Goddess?"

Wow. Dramatic much?

Still, Hela had to give it to the old guy. Even though he hadn't quite unlocked full-access Astral Plane powers yet, he was getting eerily close.

Like, if he trained a bit harder and maybe stopped thinking about useless things, he might actually be able to see her properly in a few days.

Jean, bless her exhausted little heart, nodded to Charles like a loyal sidekick, then took a breath that screamed, 'I'm two seconds away from a breakdown.'

Her eyes had that glazed-over look of someone trying to calculate three timelines at once.

Honestly, with how much brainpower she was using, Hela half-expected smoke to start rising from her ears it's a comic world after all and girl was probably running hotter than a NASA server room.

"Darling," Hela said with her trademark deadpan sass, "if you keep going like this, you're gonna fry yourself before you even get the chance to go head-to-head with Magneto. You trying to win the battle or die from brain burnout first?"

Before Jean could fire back some noble excuse, Hela cut in like a queen who'd had enough. "Nope. Don't even start. It's break time. Inform your toaster-powered professor that we're going chill mode."

Jean gave Charles a sheepish smile, like a kid telling their teacher they forgot their homework because aliens abducted it. "Sorry, Professor. Hela wants to, uh… discuss something."

Charles didn't put up a fight. He just nodded like a man who'd seen too much and aged ten years in 24 hours.

Honestly, he probably had. All this pressure building up like a soda can in the sun, and they were expected to stay sane? Miracles.

Outside, as they made their way through the courtyard, Jean was watching the students.

On the surface, everyone looked chill, like they were just vibing with their mutant lives.

But Jean, being a mental eavesdropper extraordinaire, could hear the chaos inside them. Confusion. Anxiety. A touch of existential dread—real "teen mutant crisis" energy.

Most of the kids here were rejects, booted from the 'normal' world for daring to be different. Now they lived with this cocktail of bitterness and fear.

On one hand, they low-key wanted revenge—burn the system, Magneto to succeed.

On the other, they were terrified of Magneto being arrested as it would leave them next on the government's 'Most Wanted with Cool Powers' list.

Jean sighed like someone who just read the comment section of a political post and regretted it immediately. She rubbed her temples as they stepped into the courtyard.

Hela gave her a knowing smirk. "You're eavesdropping again, aren't you?"

Jean didn't even bother denying it. Hela always saw right through her. It was like being friends with someone who had the cheat codes to your soul.

"I just… don't get it," Jean admitted, visibly struggling with that inner conflict. "Why do normal humans hate us so much? I mean, if I weren't a mutant, I'd probably be geeking out over people with powers. Isn't that what they always fantasize about in comics and movies? Flying, laser eyes, the whole superhero gig?"

Hela gave her a look. That dead-eyed, been-through-hell-and-back kind of look. Then she dropped the verbal nuke:

"Jean, even you don't fully accept your powers. You needed Charles to slap a mental lock on your brain like it's Pandora's box."

"You treat your own DNA like it's some tragic tattoo you got while drunk in Vegas. So tell me… if you can't stomach your own power, how the hell do you expect regular people to?"

Silence.

If Hela had a mic, she would've dropped it.

(End of the chapter)

Thinking of the ucl which make me depressed all the day, sorry for being late, don't forget to drop your mone—ahem, I mean Stones.