Marvelous Meditations

The bustling streets of New York carried on as usual, the hum of car engines and the distant chatter of pedestrians creating an urban symphony. Leaning casually against an unmarked van parked near the curb, Nick Fury adjusted the synthetic mask concealing his face. The disguise was seamless, giving him the appearance of an unassuming middle-aged man with a slight stoop.

A newspaper was held loosely in his hands, but his sharp, calculating eyes frequently flicked over its edge, focusing on the inconspicuous façade of Phineas Mason's Radio Repair Shop.

The shop looked unremarkable, a small, slightly rundown space squeezed between a laundromat and a deli. Its windows displayed shelves cluttered with outdated radios and tangled wires, giving the impression of a struggling small business. But Fury knew better.

Felicia Hardy had been tight-lipped about her source, but retracing her movements had been child's play for S.H.I.E.L.D.'s surveillance network. Satellite feeds and street camera footage had revealed her trailing a man—his movements deliberate, his awareness razor-sharp. Fury's operatives noted how the man avoided every camera's gaze, tilting his head or stepping just out of frame with uncanny precision.

No clear image of his face emerged, but Fury wasn't easily discouraged. Height, build, and gait analysis all matched the figure captured at the Chitauri-tech warehouse. This was their man. Now, all Fury had to do was wait—and waiting wasn't his strong suit.

Phineas Mason was visible through the shop's grimy front window, hunched over a workbench, his gnarled fingers deftly adjusting the inner workings of an old radio. Fury's brow furrowed in frustration. Hours had passed, and Mason hadn't so much as stepped away from his tools.

He folded the newspaper with deliberate calm, a sharp contrast to the irritation brewing beneath his stoic exterior. Sliding the van door open, Fury stepped inside, the interior dimly lit by the glow of monitors and a few scattered overhead LEDs. The scent of stale coffee and electronics filled the cramped space.

"Any developments?" asked a young technician seated at a computer station, the glow of the screen reflecting off his glasses. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, ready to act on Fury's command.

Fury shook his head, his tone clipped. "He's still fiddling with that damned radio."

The young technician shifted uncomfortably in his chair, stealing a glance at Fury before speaking. "Sir," he began cautiously, "please don't take this the wrong way. It's not that I'm not honored to work with you or anything, but…" He hesitated, his voice trailing off.

Fury's one good eye narrowed, his expression already souring. "But what?"

The technician scratched the back of his neck nervously. "It's just… should you really be here? I mean, don't you have more important things to do?"

For a moment, the van's interior seemed to grow colder. Fury straightened, fixing the young man with a glare sharp enough to cut steel. "You think I want to be here?" he asked, his voice low and brimming with annoyance.

The technician opened his mouth to respond, but Fury held up a hand, cutting him off. "Ever since those damned aliens tore New York apart, we've been drowning in cleanup—understaffed, overworked, and neck-deep in alien crap we barely understand. This Chitauri tech isn't just a headache; it's a goddamn liability. So yeah, kid, if I had my way, I'd be anywhere but in this tin can watching an old man tinker with radios."

The technician gulped and quickly turned back to his computer, clearly deciding not to push the issue further. Fury's scowl lingered, his arms crossed as he resumed watching the monitors.

The tension was broken by a sharp ding from the computer. The technician's posture immediately straightened, his eyes lighting up as he scanned the screen. "Well," he said, a grin spreading across his face, "looks like you won't have to waste your time here much longer, sir. We've got a match."

Fury stepped forward, looming over the technician's shoulder. "Report," he ordered, his voice clipped and direct.

The technician clicked a few keys, bringing up a file. A grainy image of a man filled the screen, along with a sparse but intriguing dossier.

"Nathaniel Cross," the technician began, reading aloud. "Orphan. Grew up at St. Agnes Orphanage in Hell's Kitchen." He paused, scrolling through the file. "Exact date of birth is unknown—he was left on their doorstep as a babe—but he's estimated to be around twenty-nine years old."

Fury studied the image on the screen, his expression unreadable. "Hell's Kitchen," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "What else?"

The technician adjusted his seat, shifting uncomfortably as he scrolled through the file on Nathaniel Cross. "There's not much else to say about his childhood and adolescence," he continued.

"He disappeared from the orphanage at age twelve and didn't resurface until he was seventeen—when he enlisted in the Army. The funny thing is…" The technician hesitated before adding, "...he was never reported missing. No inquiries, no police reports, nothing."

Fury's frown deepened, the lines on his face hardening. "Great," he muttered, sarcasm dripping from his tone. "Another ghost. What about his military record? What do we have?"

The technician nodded, turning his attention back to the monitor. His eyes darted across the screen before he suddenly froze, his fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Fury's patience, already razor-thin, snapped. "Well? Get on with it," he barked, his voice sharp enough to jolt the technician.

Startled, the young man flinched and quickly cleared his throat. "Sorry, sir. It's just… I don't know where to begin."

Fury stepped closer, peering over the technician's shoulder. His eye scanned the screen, taking in what seemed like an endless list of entries. "Give me the short version," he said, exhaling sharply. "I don't need a damn biography. Just the highlights."

The technician gulped and nodded, speaking quickly. "Right. Well, Cross was top of his class in just about everything—basic training, advanced infantry, you name it. Then came Ranger School, which he also aced. After that, he went through specialized training—classified stuff—and passed with flying colors."

Fury crossed his arms, his impatience manifesting in a steady tapping of his foot against the van's floor. "And then?"

"Deployment," the technician replied, glancing nervously at Fury. "This guy didn't just see combat—he lived it. He's tangled with the Taliban, Al-Qaeda, splinter cells, and for some reason… the Cartel. We're talking raids, covert ops, extraction missions. He racked up a commendation collection most soldiers couldn't dream of."

The tapping stopped. Fury leaned closer, his gaze intense. "And?"

The technician hesitated again, his fingers twitching over the keyboard. "And… that's where our access ends. Whatever he did after that, it's locked tighter than Fort Knox. We're talking top-level clearance or black ops buried so deep you'd need a shovel and a prayer to dig them up."

Fury pinched the bridge of his nose, the frustration evident in the tight lines around his mouth. The situation was spiraling into an enigma he didn't have time for. The technician had been temporarily granted access to the same clearance level as Fury himself—no small privilege. For even that access to fail in uncovering Nathaniel Cross's full file spoke volumes.

Fury knew the darker undercurrents of black ops, the operations buried so deeply that even whispers of their existence were enough to end careers. But this? This was different. It wasn't just buried—it was erased.

The technician hesitated before breaking the silence, his voice cautious.

"Sir, I… this isn't exactly legal, but with your permission, I could try 'digging up' more."

Fury's single eye fixed on him, cold and calculating. "Do it," he ordered without hesitation.

The young man nodded and turned back to his workstation, fingers flying across the keyboard. The van was filled with the rhythmic clacking of keys, punctuated only by Fury's steady, impatient breathing. Finally, after a few tense moments, the technician let out a quiet sigh.

"I've got something," he said, glancing nervously at Fury. "But it's not much."

"Then make it quick," Fury barked, his tone brooking no delay.

The technician swallowed hard and began, "I managed to find references to two operations Cross was involved in—Cerberus and Taskforce Thunderbolt. The details are minimal, but…" He hesitated before continuing, "...he was court-martialed after Taskforce Thunderbolt and honorably discharged soon after."

Fury's expression hardened as he processed the information. He was well aware of the fallout from Cerberus—a debacle that left lasting scars on the intelligence community. But Taskforce Thunderbolt? That was new, and its absence from his knowledge meant it was either extraordinarily recent or dangerously classified.

His jaw tightened as he mulled over his next move. There was only one man he trusted to have answers about an operation like Thunderbolt.

"What about his psyche profile?" Fury asked, his voice low and deliberate.

The technician winced. "It's not there, sir."

"Not there?" Fury echoed, his tone edged with incredulity.

"I mean literally not there," the technician clarified. "It's not hidden, not redacted—there's no record of it ever existing."

Fury's hands clenched into fists, the urge to punch something rising as the pieces of the puzzle refused to align. "So we're back to square one," he growled. "A military background, no clear motives, and no damn clue what makes this guy tick."

The technician shifted uncomfortably in his seat, unsure of what to say. "What should we do, sir?" he ventured hesitantly.

Fury stared at the monitor, his mind working through contingencies. After a moment, he straightened, his decision made. "Get me Maria Hill on a secure line," he ordered.

The technician blinked. "Ma'am Hill?"

"Yes, her," Fury snapped. "If we can't figure out his motives through his file, then we'll do it the old-fashioned way..."

...

Bullets whizzed past, some pinging off the metal frame of the jeep as Nathan grunted, clutching his blood-soaked shoulder. He yanked the driver's side door open with his uninjured arm and dropped into the seat. The pain seared through his body, but he pushed it aside, focusing on the immediate task at hand.

"Move over," Silvija barked, leaping into the back of the jeep and taking hold of the mounted machine gun. In one fluid motion, she swung it around and began laying down suppressive fire, the deafening roar of the weapon drowning out the chaos around them. "How soon can you get this thing on the road?" she shouted over the cacophony, her silver suit catching faint glints of moonlight amidst the chaos.

Nathan already had the panel beneath the steering wheel ripped open, his fingers working swiftly to separate the tangled mess of wires. Sweat slicked his brow as he grit his teeth. "I'll need a minute," he grunted. "I haven't done this in years."

Silvija let out a sharp laugh, her tone laced with mockery as she fired another volley. "Years? Someone's gone soft."

Nathan's expression remained blank, even as another sharp jolt of pain shot through his shoulder. "Why don't you try hotwiring a military-grade jeep while taking fire with a bullet in your shoulder?" His tone was dry, biting, but steady.

Silvija opened her mouth for a quick retort but was interrupted by the sudden roar of the jeep's engine. She turned her head briefly, her lips curling into a satisfied smirk.

"Hold on tight," Nathan warned, slamming his foot down on the gas. The vehicle lunged forward with a jolt, kicking up dust and gravel as it tore away from the radar facility.

Silvija remained at her post, her hands steady on the machine gun as she continued to fire at their pursuers. The barrage of bullets shredded tires, pierced windshields, and sent their enemies scrambling for cover. Once the facility had faded into the distance, she climbed down from the turret with practiced ease and slid into the passenger seat.

"Let me see your wound," she demanded, already reaching for Nathan's injured arm.

He cast her a sideways glance, his expression deadpan. "Buy me a drink first, will you?"

Silvija's eyes narrowed, though a faint, wry smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "I think we're well past that stage," she said, putting her duffle bag between them. "Now, keep your eyes on the road and let me work."

"Yes, ma'am," Nathan muttered, shifting his attention back to the uneven dirt road ahead. His grip on the steering wheel tightened as he swerved to avoid potholes, his shoulder throbbing with every jolt of the jeep.

Silvija leaned in, carefully inspecting the wound with a clinical precision that contrasted with the chaotic backdrop of their escape. "The bullet's lodged deep," she said, her voice calm yet firm. She rummaged through her duffle bag, pulling out a small field kit. "I've got just the thing to patch up the hole, but we'll need to get the bullet out first."

Nathan cast her a sidelong glance, his face incredulous. "Please tell me you're not saying what I think you're saying."

Silvija's expression didn't waver. "If you think I'm saying I'll extract a bullet from your shoulder inside a speeding car on a bumpy road, then yes, that's exactly what I'm saying." Her hand darted forward, gripping his jaw and turning his face back toward the road. "Now, keep your eyes on the damn road."

Nathan let out a sharp breath through his nose but complied, focusing ahead as his knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. "This is going to hurt. A lot," Silvija warned, pulling a thin, gleaming knife from her belt.

She examined it briefly before heating the blade with a lighter, the faint hiss of metal expanding under flame filling the tense silence.

Without hesitation, she positioned the blade over the wound and pressed it in, searching for the embedded bullet.

Nathan's face turned ashen, and his jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ached. His hands trembled against the wheel, but he refused to cry out. Instead, a guttural growl escaped his throat, his focus on the horizon unwavering even as sweat poured down his face.

The blade scraped against the metal, and after what felt like an eternity of excruciating pain, Silvija finally dislodged the bullet with a sharp flick. "Got it," she announced, holding the bloodied projectile between her fingers before tossing it out of the jeep.

Nathan exhaled shakily, his knuckles loosening just slightly. "You're terrible at this," he managed through gritted teeth.

"Flatter me later," Silvija replied, already reaching into her bag. She retrieved a small injection device filled with a viscous blue liquid. Within the syringe, black, metallic particles swirled and darted like living organisms, their movements almost hypnotic.

Before Nathan could protest, Silvija plunged the injector into his shoulder and depressed the plunger. The blue liquid surged into his flesh, carrying with it the strange, darting black particles. A sharp, burning pain flared briefly, but it was quickly replaced by a numb, almost itchy sensation that spread through his entire arm.

"Son of a—" Nathan hissed through clenched teeth, his hands momentarily tightening on the steering wheel.

Silvija withdrew the device with practiced efficiency, her focus already shifting to stowing it back in her bag. "Relax," she said, her tone brisk but reassuring. "It'll pass in a second."

Nathan turned his gaze to his shoulder, his eyebrows lifting in astonishment as he watched the wound seal itself with unnatural speed. The torn flesh knitted back together, and even the blood that had soaked into his shirt began to dry and flake away.

He flexed his arm experimentally, rotating his shoulder with a faint grimace that quickly gave way to a bitter smile.

"Gotta love Chitauri biotech," he muttered, rolling his shoulder once more. It moved freely, the pain almost entirely gone, leaving only a faint tightness where the wound had been.

Silvija didn't respond, instead pulling a fresh magazine from her belt and slotting it into her sidearm. Her sharp eyes were scanning the horizon, ever alert for danger.

Nathan's satisfaction was short-lived. The distant growl of engines reached his ears, growing louder by the second. He glanced at the rearview mirror, his jaw tightening as three cars came into view, their headlights bouncing over the uneven terrain.

"We've got company," he said, his voice steady but edged with tension.

Silvija followed his gaze, her expression hardening. She gave a single nod and wordlessly moved to the mounted machine gun at the back of the jeep.

Nathan spared her a quick glance, his grip tightening on the wheel as she settled into position.

...

I'm motivated by praise and interaction, so be sure to leave a like, power stone, or whatever kind of shendig this site uses, and more importantly do share you thoughts on the chapter in the comment section!

Want more chapters? Then consider subscribing to my pat rēon. You can read ahead for as little as $1 and it helps me a lot!

-> (pat rēon..com / wicked132)

You can also always come and say hi on my discord server

-> (disc ord..gg / sEtqmRs5y7)- or hit me up at - Wicked132#5511 - and I'll add you myself)