Marvel: Scientist reborn as Superman

The man stood in front of our rows, slowly moving the barrel of his gun from side to side, as if searching among the passengers for the first one who would dare to disobey. A tense silence hung in the cabin: people froze, barely breathing, afraid to move a muscle. My parents were sitting next to me, and I could clearly feel my mother's hand squeezing mine a little tighter than usual. My father stood frozen, staring ahead, as if feverishly trying to find a way out of this situation. It seemed as if his thoughts were racing through his head, and every movement of the terrorist only intensified his inner tension.

Suddenly, an almost absurd thought crossed my mind: "Come on, give us a break." The feeling of fatigue in the face of danger seemed ridiculous, but apparently the exhaustion from the recent events was causing strange reactions. The terrorist looked overly confident, as if he was convinced of his invulnerability. After casting a brief, searching glance at us, he twisted his lips and barked in a hollow, angry voice:

"Everyone be quiet! No shouting or panic! No one move: anyone who moves will be shot on the spot. Remember, we are the 'Ten Rings', and from now on this plane is under our control." He glanced haughtily at the passengers and added mockingly: "And the plane is rigged with explosives. Any attempt at resistance and we'll all go up in the air."

The mention of a bomb hit my consciousness like a bucket of cold water. I felt my heart begin to beat like a wild animal trapped in a trap. The worst part was knowing that my parents were nearby and needed to be protected. I caught myself trying to think as fast as I could. Focusing so hard that everything around me froze, I understood clearly that every action and decision I made could cost my parents and the innocent people around me their lives.

Carefully and very gently, I freed my hand from my mother's and slowly moved through the plane, glancing at the armed men. There was only one terrorist in business class, and two more in economy. "How can I neutralise them all without giving myself away?" the thought flashed through my mind. The cabin was full of witnesses, and the terrorists were threatening to detonate a bomb. Any careless move and I would be exposed.

I looked closely at the hijackers again: at first glance, they looked like ordinary Europeans, without any distinguishing features, but they were armed. "Where is the bomb?" My mind was racing with guesses. Activating my X-ray vision, I began to methodically examine the plane. And not in vain: a few seconds later, I noticed two more suspicious men. One was frozen in prayer: something like a shahid belt was clearly visible on him. The second one had no belt, but I saw that he was carrying a firearm. "How did they manage to get all this past security? Didn't anyone notice?" I wondered indignantly. 

Quietly approaching the man without a bomb, I began to search him. Suddenly, my fingers found an ID card. "Bill Marks, Federal Air Marshal," I read. Glancing over the document, I felt a sudden sense of relief: "So there's at least one law enforcement officer on board... Maybe he can help me." 

He was clutching a flask in his hand. I shook it cautiously, then opened the lid and sniffed. "Whisky," I thought to myself with a smile. "Drinking on the job, Mr. Marks? Not the best idea. But considering our circumstances, maybe it's for the best."

Leaving the marshal alone, I headed towards the terrorist with the bomb. Without hesitation, I began to quickly and carefully examine the construction of the explosive device. I disconnected the detonators, pulling out all the important wires — now the bomb wouldn't go off, unless, of course, someone shot it or did something else unpredictable. But as I noticed, this man had no weapons other than his belt. 

There were three more hijackers scattered around the plane. I glanced around the cabin. A plan was already forming in my head: I needed to create the illusion of sudden turbulence or an air pocket. I estimated the strength of the structure and calculated how much force I could apply unnoticed to shake the plane slightly without destroying it.

Having finished my calculations, I nodded to myself almost imperceptibly and, jumping slightly, carefully directed a concentrated force to the right place on the fuselage. In response, there was a low grinding sound, as if from external turbulence. Feeling that everything was going according to plan, I returned to the terrorists and quickly released the safety catches on their weapons so that they couldn't fire accidentally. Then, with a slight movement, I knocked each of them unconscious, throwing them upwards with a short push — they began to rise into the air as if in slow motion. At that very moment, I returned to my seat and "released" time, returning the plane to its natural course.

The effect was instantaneous: the aircraft's nose dipped sharply, and we were pressed into our seats. Frightened screams rang out in the cabin, and some people clung to the armrests in panic. For a second, I was afraid that I had gone too far, but the plane levelled out fairly quickly and continued its flight more smoothly. The terrorists standing in the aisles literally flew up to the ceiling, unable to stay on their feet, and dropped their weapons when they hit it. As they fell, they looked like broken dolls. I breathed a sigh of relief: "The first ones are ready. Now let's see what happens next."

My mother clutched my hand, and my father glanced at me questioningly but said nothing, apparently not understanding what had just happened. I smiled at him to let him know that everything was under control and looked away towards the economy class cabin.

Act two: the marshal against the terrorist with a bomb, and me in my head. Less than a minute later, the last of the hijackers jumped up and shouted that he would blow up the plane if anyone made a sudden move. He clutched the detonator so tightly that his knuckles turned white. His eyes were filled with panic mixed with anger: he realised that he had lost the support of his accomplices and was now trying to maintain control of the situation on his own.

Meanwhile, Marx was slowly approaching him from the side. With a soft, cat-like gait, the federal marshal aimed his pistol at the terrorist, trying to keep a stony expression on his face. Apparently, the alcohol in his flask wasn't hindering him; if anything, it seemed to give him courage. Marx's eyes were focused, as if he were calculating his opponent's every move. But one should not underestimate someone holding a detonator in their hands: one wrong move and the plane would really take off.

"You! Sit down if you don't want to go to the other world!" the terrorist roared, pointing the detonator at the marshal. He looked around nervously, and it was clear that the thought of helplessness was already filling his mind with sticky horror. Looking around, he realised that the other terrorists would not come to his aid: they were lying at different ends of the plane, clearly unable to stand up.

Marx remained calm: "Don't do anything stupid," he said in an even voice. "If you press that button, none of us will survive, including you. Put down the remote. We'll find a way to work this out, and everyone will live."

The terrorist laughed hysterically, his eyes darting wildly from the marshal to the frightened passengers. He continued to wave the detonator and shout threats. In between, he repeated the same command, demanding that Marx drop the gun and sit down. The passengers in economy class, seeing the scene before them, involuntarily cowered in fear and tried to stay as far away as possible from the madman, afraid of provoking him. Some people covered their children's eyes and ears so they wouldn't see the violence.

I remained in business class, but as I watched everything unfold, I could feel the tension in the cabin growing with every passing second. My mother sat next to me, pale as a sheet, while my father stared ahead with his lips pressed tightly together, as if trying to figure out what to do. It seemed as if the entire plane was holding its breath, waiting for the slightest sound — a gunshot, an explosion, or a victory cry.

I decided to act again. In an instant, I entered my accelerated state, when everything around me seemed to freeze and I could move freely without fear of being noticed. Taking advantage of this, I quietly moved next to the terrorist. He was standing in front of the marshal, ready to press the detonator button at any moment, or so he thought. Without hesitation, I carefully but precisely struck his hand, knocking the button out of his clenched fingers. The detonator flew through the air and fell from his hands. Seeing that the remote had hit the floor, I almost immediately returned to my place and slowed down so that everything looked completely natural to those around me.

The next moment, the silence was broken by the sharp sound of a gunshot. Mr. Marks, the federal air marshal, did not keep us waiting. Noticing that the terrorist no longer had the remote control, he reacted instantly — and the bullet cleanly pierced the bandit's forehead. He jerked as if struck by electricity and fell back, already dead.

"Everyone stay where you are!" Marks' voice boomed, drowning out the frightened cries of the passengers. "The danger has been eliminated, but please remain calm!

An ominous silence fell over the economy class: people were shocked by the rapid turn of events. Only uneven breathing and muffled sobs could be heard. Just a second ago, this man had threatened to blow up the entire plane, and now he lay on the floor, his arms limp, with a small, neat bullet hole in his forehead.

The federal marshal, breathing heavily, still held his weapon at the ready. Every muscle in his face seemed tense, and his gaze darted around the cabin, searching for a new threat. Next to him, the flight attendants had gathered in a huddle. They were examining the passengers, trying to assess whether anyone was injured, while at the same time looking at Marx with obvious respect — after all, he had just saved everyone's life.

"Crew, check the passengers," Marx said a little more quietly, catching his breath. "Make sure no one needs medical attention."

"Yes, sir!" replied one of the flight attendants, apparently the senior member of the group. She nodded to the others, and they scattered throughout the cabin, trying to reassure the passengers, who looked confused and frightened.

The three terrorists I had managed to knock out were still lying motionless in the aisle. Two flight attendants took metal handcuffs, probably intended for such emergencies, from hidden compartments and began to handcuff the men. Suddenly, one of the militants stirred slightly, as if coming to consciousness. However, he was immediately silenced, his arms pinned down and his face pressed against the floor. He had no chance of getting up.

I watched what was happening, staying close to my parents. My mother was as pale as a sheet, her eyes wide with horror. She pressed her hand to her lips and kept her eyes fixed on the terrorist who was being handcuffed. My father appeared calm, but I could see how shaken he was by his tense jaw and furrowed brow. He glanced at me from time to time.

Suddenly, the loud and clear voice of the captain came over the intercom:

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain speaking." He apparently hadn't left the cockpit for a moment. "All terrorists have been neutralised. We are forced to make an unscheduled landing at the nearest military airfield. Please remain in your seats and follow the crew's instructions."

These words sounded like a long-awaited relief. A barely audible sigh passed through the cabin: people realised that the worst was over. Meanwhile, the flight attendants and Marx checked the condition of the captured criminals and quickly collected their weapons.

The tense commotion lasted a few more minutes. Passengers came to their senses, looked around, and checked on their neighbours and loved ones. Some still couldn't take their eyes off the body of the dead terrorist. Some began to cry, realising how close we had come to tragedy. I felt the warmth and slight vibration of the plane's engines: the pilots began a smooth descent, preparing for an emergency landing at the nearest military base. It was located on one of the Pacific islands somewhere between New York and Hawaii.

I sat next to my mum and dad, feeling strangely calm: everything had been resolved fairly quickly and with virtually no casualties. The plane made a wide turn and began to lose altitude. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Marx carefully holding the bomb I had managed to defuse close to him — he obviously didn't want to let it out of his sight for a second.

A few minutes later, we were told to fasten our seatbelts: the plane was about to land at a military airfield. Through the window, I saw people in uniform, obviously military and medical personnel, lined up on the runway. Armoured vehicles glinted nearby. They were clearly ready to take the terrorists into custody, assist the injured and deal with the unexploded bomb.

"Landing gear down, flaps down, preparing for touchdown," came the calm voice of the co-pilot over the loudspeakers.

The landing was almost perfect: the plane swayed only slightly when the wheels touched the concrete. It felt as if the pilots and the entire crew had put all their skill into making the landing as smooth as possible. As soon as the plane slowed down and began taxiing, a collective sigh of relief and quiet applause swept through the cabin — some passengers tried to support themselves and their neighbours, while others just smiled quietly, realising that it was all over.

Soon the plane came to a halt and several military vehicles pulled up alongside it. I unbuckled my seatbelt and looked at my parents: my mother still looked shaken, while my father took a deep breath, trying to pull himself together. Now that we were safe, the panic and horror were replaced by a desire to leave the plane as quickly as possible and forget what had happened, if that was even possible.

Outside, soldiers began shouting orders as they prepared to apprehend the terrorists and evacuate the passengers. But for some reason, I wasn't bothered by any of this. I felt only a quiet satisfaction. I had managed to protect my family and everyone on board. Most importantly, no one except the terrorist had been killed.

"I hope it will all end quickly and we can go on holiday as soon as possible," I said calmly, looking at my parents. They just sighed in agreement.

We stood in a circle of medics and military personnel, tensely waiting for further instructions. People in uniform bustled about in the distance, talking on radios and passing papers to each other. The air was thick with the smell of fuel from the recent landing. Suddenly, in the distance, I noticed a helicopter approaching, resembling something from a futuristic film — I didn't even know that such machines existed at that time. "What a surprise," flashed through my mind.

Squinting, I tried to get a better look at the emblem on the side of this wonder helicopter. Looking closer, I saw a stylised eagle with outstretched wings, drawn in geometric lines on a silver-black background. In its powerful talons, it clutched a shield with the abbreviation "S.H.I.E.L.D." in a star-spangled design. "Hmm, guests have arrived..." I thought. "It makes sense: the Ten Rings aren't some local gang, they're a global terrorist organisation that's been around for over a century. The global security service could well be interested in them."

The helicopter landed not far from us, and through the cloud of dust raised by the rotating blades, a young man stepped out confidently. He walked along the dusty runway, marching to the beat of Bon Jovi coming from the cassette player on his belt. He was wearing a slightly oversized leather jacket, probably to hide a holster. Wide jeans with heavily worn knees and a simple white T-shirt completed the look. His face was clean-shaven. Earbuds dangled around his neck, and his smile, slightly naive and very cheerful, made him look like a guy from the neighbourhood who had just won tickets to a Queen concert and was ready to share his joy with the whole world.

At first glance, he didn't look like a stern agent of a secret organisation — rather, he seemed like a good-natured acquaintance whom you couldn't help but trust. When he approached us, his gaze slowly swept over the entire group of passengers, and an even more radiant smile lit up his face.

"Good evening, although I suppose it hasn't been the best evening for you..." he began, suddenly embarrassed and pausing for a moment. However, he quickly regained his composure and continued: "My name is Phil Coulson.With that, he took some kind of ID card out of the inside pocket of his leather jacket and, waving it in front of the crowd, introduced his organisation:

"I am an agent of the Sixth Intervention Tactical Operations Logistics Service. We are also known by the acronym 'S.H.I.E.L.D.'" He made a slight upward gesture with his thumb, as if to indicate how important it was. "I need to ask you a few questions. This is critical to the security of our country and the entire world."

The soldiers standing behind us quickly divided the passengers into small groups so that each of us could approach Coulson in turn. Surprisingly, the questioning proceeded quite briskly: the agent asked only a couple of short questions, such as "Did you notice anything suspicious during the flight?" or "Did you see or hear anything unusual that seemed strange?" 

The queue to see the agent moved quickly, even though a large crowd had gathered on the tarmac. My father, who had been standing next to my mother and me the whole time, was getting more and more nervous. He tried unsuccessfully to persuade the military personnel to give him a phone: the situation was tense, and he needed to contact someone urgently. However, each time he was politely but firmly refused.

"Just give me a phone!" my father finally lost his temper and raised his voice. "Are we under arrest here? Even when you're detained, you're entitled to at least one free call!"

He was already starting to get really upset, and I could see some of the soldiers standing nearby looking at him suspiciously. But then, as if sensing this little outburst of emotion, Mr. Colson, having finished talking to the last group, turned around and walked confidently straight towards us.

"Sorry for the delay," he began in a soft, even voice. "But you understand, of course: the terrorists nearly blew up the plane, and we need to act quickly to get to the bottom of this." Colson shifted his gaze from me to my mother, then to my father, and bowed his head politely, showing that he respected our time.

However, my father, Jonathan Wayne, was already boiling with indignation. After everything that had happened on the flight, he clearly didn't like being detained again.

"Are you accusing us of something?" he asked, narrowing his eyes. "What are these insinuations that we're involved in this nightmare?"

Coulson immediately waved his hands, trying to smooth things over.

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean to imply anything like that," he said hastily. "My name is Phil Coulson. It's a pleasure to meet you. May I ask your name?"

"Jonathan Wayne," his father replied curtly, lowering his voice slightly and trying to control himself. "And this is my family. I need a phone. I need to contact the right people urgently. If you don't let me make a call, you're going to be in real trouble." He glanced sideways at the agent. "And wipe that... infuriating smile off your face."

Coulson listened to the demands with exaggerated calm, although a slight confusion flashed in his eyes.

"I'm sorry. I understand that you're all on edge after what's happened," he said, trying to sound as friendly as possible. "I promise that as soon as you answer a couple of questions, I'll find a way for you to make a call. Besides, we've already sent a ship to transport all the passengers. But it's very important for me to gather information right now.

"We're not interested in your plans, agent," his father interrupted harshly. "Ask your questions and give us the phone."

A flash of understanding crossed Colson's face, and clearing his throat, he asked his first question:

"All right. Tell me, did you notice anything strange or suspicious during the flight? Maybe something seemed unusual or surprising to you?"

"No!" his father snapped, looking at him without a shadow of doubt. "And I think my family agrees with me." He gave me and my mother a meaningful look. We nodded silently, confirming his words.

Coulson sighed heavily, lowering his shoulders slightly, and replied with obvious regret in his voice:

"I understand. It's a shame, of course, but that's how it is." He quickly reached into the inside pocket of his baggy jacket and pulled out a bulky mobile phone with a flip-up antenna — one of those "brick phones." "Here, take this. Just for a moment, okay?"

My father immediately grabbed the phone and, stepping slightly to one side, began to quickly dial a number. A few seconds later, I could hear fragments of his words from a distance: his voice sounded commanding and even a little irritated. He was clearly giving someone on the other end of the line a dressing-down, perhaps giving strict instructions or demanding urgent help. My mother and I glanced at each other, realising that my father was working to fix the situation and get our holiday back on track as soon as possible, regardless of any incidents.

Meanwhile, I curiously observed Phil Coulson. He appeared confident, but it was clear that he lacked experience. He had a young face, good posture, and a slightly naive but sincere smile. At the same time, his calmness had a strangely soothing effect: even in such a tense situation, for some reason, being near him made me believe that everything would be all right. "He's bursting with charisma," flashed through my mind. Finally, I couldn't resist and asked a question, trying to strike up a conversation:

"Excuse me, what kind of organisation are you with? 'S.H.I.E.L.D.' — I've never heard of such a division before. And who are the 'Ten Rings'? As far as I understand, they are dangerous people, but why are you hunting them?

Coulson, hearing my question, tilted his head slightly to one side, as if thinking about how to answer more accurately.

"The Ten Rings is a very ancient and very sinister organisation that has been spreading chaos and fear throughout the world for centuries," he began to explain, occasionally twisting his fingers as if trying to find simpler words. "To be honest, their goals aren't really clear, except for the obvious: they're bad guys with big guns. We, S.H.I.E.L.D.," — that's short for Sixth Intervention Tactical Operational Logistics Division. To put it simply, we try to catch those bad guys.

He paused briefly and, noticing my pensive look, smiled:

"If you ever want to know more about us, come and see us — we're always happy to welcome talented and brave people. I joined recently, but I don't regret it: the pay is good, the benefits are excellent, and the business trips are interesting," he grinned, as if jokingly advertising his job. "You seem like a tough guy to me, not at all timid. We need people like you."

I couldn't help smiling, realising that he was teasing me a little, but at the same time feeling that there was no hostility in his words. However, our conversation was abruptly interrupted by his father, who had finished his phone call and heard the last few sentences.

"Leave my son alone, agent," he said with cold determination. "He's still in school, and you're offering him a job in some secret unit. I know exactly who you are and what you do, but believe me, this is the last place I'll let my child go.

I looked closely at the father, and he responded with a brief glance that said, "We'll talk about this later." Coulson noticed this too, shook his head and frowned:

"Actually, that information is classified, sir. If you are aware of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s activities, you have no right to disclose that information to anyone.

My father snorted derisively:

"Don't tell me about my rights, agent. My family is one of your organisation's sponsors. My father started it, and I continued it. And I hope my son will also take part one day. I think we have a right to know what we're investing in.

Coulson was slightly taken aback. He didn't seem to expect that a seemingly ordinary passenger would be so knowledgeable and involved in the financing of S.H.I.E.L.D.

"I see..." he muttered, unable to find the words.

"Now let us leave you, Agent Coulson," my father continued firmly, returning the bulky phone to Phil's hand. "I see you have a lot of work to do with the other passengers and this Ten Rings business. I'm sure you'll manage."

Coulson quickly pulled himself together, tucked the phone into his inside pocket, and smiled again, more formally but still friendly.

"Of course, you're right. It was nice meeting you. I hope we'll see each other again," he managed to wink at me, then turned and headed deeper into the square, where the next people were already waiting to be interviewed.

The three of us — my mother, father and I — watched him until he disappeared among the military vehicles and flashing lights, and then my father turned to us.

"I've made arrangements," he said briskly, as if summing up. "A charter flight will arrive here soon, and we'll leave directly from this military base. There's no time to rest." And at the end, my father smiled at us, as if to say that despite all the twists and turns, the holiday was still going on.

***

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