Avengers 2000

[AntonioCC]

AVENGERS 2000​

Disclaimers: All characters are property of Marvel Entertainment and henceforth Disney, I don't own anything here.

Spoilers: for the Raimi Spiderman movies, Hulk (2003), Daredevil (2003), Ghost Rider (2007) and the X-Men movie series

Inspired by this fan trailer:

View: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0aU24zgVpRY

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Year 200X. Somewhere.​

The jungle was eerily quiet, save for the faint hum of distant helicopter rotors blending into the night's chorus of chirping insects. Moonlight filtered through the dense canopy, casting fragmented shadows on a team of special forces operatives advancing through the underbrush. Clad in black tactical gear and armed with state-of-the-art weaponry, their movements were silent, precise, every step a testament to their rigorous training.

At the head of the group, the leader raised a fist, bringing the team to a halt. His night-vision goggles scanned the perimeter of a heavily guarded compound ahead—a fortress of concrete and steel incongruously placed in the heart of the jungle.

"Targets in sight," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Neutralize on my mark."

The guards patrolling the compound's outer defenses never stood a chance. Suppressed gunfire hissed through the air like venomous snakes, and one by one, the sentries crumpled to the ground, silent. The team advanced, bypassing infrared sensors and laser grids with mechanical efficiency. Inside, the air was cooler, tinged with a metallic tang and the faint hum of advanced machinery.

Rows of computer screens bathed the inner laboratory in pale blue light, illuminating workstations cluttered with schematics, glowing vials, and an array of alien-looking tech. One operative paused, his gaze lingering on a row of cylindrical canisters glowing faintly with an unnatural, pulsing energy.

"This isn't your usual black-market weapons lab," he muttered, his voice thick with unease. "What the hell is AIM cooking up here?"

The leader was about to respond when the silence was shattered by a shrill, bone-rattling alarm. Red lights strobed through the lab, painting the walls and operatives in an ominous glow. Scientists and technicians who had been hunched over their workstations sprang into action. But instead of fleeing, several reached for syringes stored in a secure case at the center of the room.

"Hold positions," the leader ordered, his tone sharp. "What are they doing?"

The answer was horrifying.

In unison, the scientists plunged the needles into their arms. Their bodies convulsed violently, veins glowing with fiery energy that pulsed and spread beneath their skin. Their forms began to twist and bulge unnaturally, bones snapping and reforming as their screams transformed into guttural roars.

"Hostiles are enhancing themselves!" the leader hissed into his comms. "Repeat—hostiles are enhanc—"

Before he could finish, one of the transformed scientists lunged. The leader opened fire, but the bullets ricocheted off the creature's mutated flesh, sparking harmlessly. The creature closed the distance in seconds, slamming him into the nearest wall with bone-crushing force. Around the room, other enhanced scientists joined the fray, tearing through the operatives like paper dolls.

"Fall back!" the leader shouted, blood dribbling from his lips. "Fall ba—"

His words were swallowed by a deafening explosion. The ground trembled as flames erupted through the compound, consuming everything in a fiery wave of destruction. When the inferno subsided, all that remained was smoking rubble, flickering flames, and the faint, malevolent glow of molten metal.

S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ – Classified Briefing Room​

The faint blue glow of a computer screen illuminated Nick Fury's face as he sat alone in his office. The classified report before him displayed a single line of damning text in bold red letters: NO SURVIVORS.

Fury leaned back in his chair, his expression grim as he scanned the accompanying details for the third time that night. The photos were even worse than the report—aerial shots of the jungle revealed nothing but scorched earth where the facility once stood. Closer images showed fragments of destroyed machinery and shattered canisters, their contents still faintly glowing amidst the ruins. Highlighted in the final transmission logs was a single word: "powers."

Fury exhaled sharply and tossed the file onto his desk. "As if gamma accidents, radioactive spiders, and mutant protests weren't already giving me enough headaches," he muttered.

He turned to his terminal, typing in a secure access code. The S.H.I.E.L.D. logo blinked onscreen, then transitioned to a restricted file: AVENGERS INITIATIVE. Fury's lone eye narrowed as dossiers and surveillance images flickered across the screen.

The first showed Peter Parker—Spider-Man—caught mid-swing between Manhattan's skyscrapers, his agility and raw potential evident in the frozen frame. Next came Matt Murdock, his crimson mask shrouding his identity as the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. Then Bruce Banner, depicted mid-transformation, his face twisted with anguish as the Hulk emerged.

Fury's gaze lingered as more profiles appeared: Johnny Blaze, flames licking hungrily at his skeletal visage as the Ghost Rider, and James "Logan" Howlett, claws extended and feral eyes blazing as Wolverine prowled through a smoky battlefield. The final profile belonged to Blade, the Daywalker, captured in a rare moment of stoic stillness, his swords sheathed at his back.

Five names. Five faces. Each one a loner with more scars than he cared to count.

"Five broken weapons," Fury said aloud, leaning back in his chair. "But if AIM is throwing juiced-up monsters at us, they're the best chance we've got—assuming I can get them to stop trying to kill each other long enough to do some real damage."

He pressed a button on his comms, his voice sharp and decisive. "Hill," he called, "prep the dossiers. Get me a jet. We've got some recruiting to do."

The screen dimmed as Fury stood, the weight of the coming storm settling on his shoulders.

A Rooftop in New York City​

The cool night breeze swept across Peter Parker's face as he pulled his mask halfway up, letting the air soothe the ache behind his eyes. He perched on the edge of a rooftop, his Spider-Man suit scuffed and worn from countless skirmishes. Below, police officers wrapped up the aftermath of a mugging he had thwarted minutes earlier. Two would-be thieves were being loaded into a squad car, their ill-gotten gains dangling from a lamppost in a cocoon of webbing.

Peter sighed, leaning back against a rusted vent. The city never slept, and neither did he. Not really. There was always something—always someone in need of saving.

"Alright, Pete," he muttered to himself, tugging at a loose thread on his glove. "One more sweep, then home. Aunt May's gonna kill me if I forget the eggs again."

His body protested as he stretched, muscles aching from a week of relentless crime-fighting. For once, his spider-sense was quiet. He let himself relax—until a voice cut through the stillness behind him.

"So, this is how New York's hero spends his nights. Chasing purse-snatchers and skipping grocery runs."

Peter's spider-sense flared, instinct taking over. In one fluid motion, he flipped backward, firing a web at the source of the voice.

A hand shot out from the shadows, catching the web mid-air with an effortless snap.

Nick Fury stepped into the pale moonlight, his trench coat swaying as he walked. The single eye beneath his black eyepatch bore into Peter with a gaze that felt like it could peel back layers of his soul.

"Whoa!" Peter blurted, adrenaline spiking as he scrambled to regain his footing. "Okay, I've ticked off a lot of bad guys, but you don't strike me as the type to hold a grudge over a couple of stolen diamonds."

Fury didn't react to the quip. His expression remained unreadable as he approached, boots clinking faintly against the rooftop.

"Relax, kid. If I wanted a fight, we wouldn't be having this conversation," Fury said coolly, slipping a slim tablet from his coat.

Peter's posture stiffened, but curiosity edged out his caution. "Alright, Mr. Eyepatch, you've got my attention. Who are you, and why do you know who I am?"

Fury handed him the tablet without a word. The screen lit up, displaying blurry images: labs in ruins, glowing figures injecting themselves with some kind of serum, and crates bearing an ominous acronym: AIM.

Peter frowned as he scrolled through the photos. The scenes were surreal, unsettling. This wasn't the work of a mad scientist with a vendetta or a tech billionaire in a flying suit. This was organized, calculated chaos.

"Ever heard of AIM?" Fury asked, his voice low and deliberate. "Advanced Idea Mechanics. A bunch of overfunded, underregulated science zealots. They're playing with tech and biology way out of their league. Labs are blowing up, bodies are piling up, and they're not showing any signs of slowing down."

He tapped the screen, pulling up a still image of a man mid-transformation. His veins glowed like molten metal, his face twisted in agony.

"That serum? Turns people into living weapons. Unstable ones."

Peter's stomach churned as he studied the image. He'd seen his share of monstrous transformations—he still had nightmares about Dr. Connors and Norman Osborn—but this felt different. This wasn't a tragic accident; it was intentional. Deliberate.

"This... this feels like a job for the Fantastic Four or something," Peter said, half-joking.

Fury's lips twitched, a faint shadow of a smirk. "You think you're the only one dealing with this kind of thing? You're not. But the kind of people who can stop it? There aren't as many of them as you think. And that's where you come in."

Peter blinked, his mind racing. "Me? I'm just the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. I deal with carjackers and people trying to steal the Declaration of Independence."

Fury raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "You stopped Doctor Octopus from turning Manhattan into a science experiment. Took on the Green Goblin and walked away. I've been watching, Parker. You've got power, you've got brains—and most importantly, you've got heart. That's what makes you the right person for this."

Peter hesitated, his fingers brushing against the tablet's screen. The weight of responsibility pressed down on him like a lead blanket. "I already can't keep up with what I've got. Aunt May, school, rent—it's a miracle I haven't flunked out of life yet. How am I supposed to handle this?"

Fury stepped closer, his tone softening but his gaze losing none of its intensity. "You're not alone, kid. Not anymore. I'm putting together a team—people who can handle what no one else can. You've already been carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. Imagine what you could do if you didn't have to do it alone."

Peter swallowed hard, the words hitting him like a punch to the gut. For years, he'd been trying to balance the impossible—saving lives while keeping his own from falling apart. The thought of sharing that burden was... tempting. But it also terrified him.

"I don't know if I can," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Fury's expression softened just enough to reveal a flicker of understanding. He placed a sleek black communicator on the ledge beside Peter. Its surface gleamed under the faint city lights.

"You don't have to decide right now," Fury said. "But when the time comes, you'll know what to do."

Peter stared at the communicator, its simple design a stark contrast to the storm of doubt swirling in his mind. Fury turned, his coat billowing behind him as he made his way toward the rooftop's edge.

"One last thing," Fury said over his shoulder. "When you stop thinking about what you can't do and start focusing on what you must do, you'll find your answer."

Before Peter could respond, Fury was gone, swallowed by the night.

Peter lingered for a long moment, the weight of the communicator heavy in his hand. Finally, with a deep breath, he slipped it into his belt. The city still needed him tonight—but now, there was something bigger looming on the horizon.

With a flick of his wrist, he fired a web and swung into the darkness, the glow of the communicator pulsing faintly against his side.

TO BE CONTINUED...

 

[AntonioCC]

Avengers 2000 ​

Disclaimers: All characters are property of Marvel Entertainment and henceforth Disney, I don't own anything here.

Spoilers: for the Raimi Spiderman movies, Hulk (2003), Daredevil (2003), Ghost Rider (2007) and the X-Men movie series

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A Lab in the Desert ​

The sun hung low over the barren desert, casting a fiery glow across the weathered research facility. The paint on the building had long since peeled away, the cracked windows offering little protection against the elements. Inside, however, the lab hummed with life, the faint whir of machinery breaking the silence, accompanied only by the scratch of a pen.

Bruce Banner sat hunched over a desk, the pages of his notebook cluttered with hasty, frantic scrawls. His fingers trembled slightly as he wrote, the tension carved deep into his face. He paused, gripping the pen tighter, his eyes clouded as memories rose unbidden—the anger, the chaos, the Hulk.

Don't think about it. Focus.

He took a slow, steadying breath and forced his attention back to the page.

The silence was shattered by the creak of the door swinging open. Bruce didn't flinch. He hadn't flinched in years. But his body stiffened, every muscle poised to react, ready for whatever might come next.

From the shadows, a figure stepped forward, calm and deliberate. Nick Fury, his trench coat flowing behind him, entered the dim light of the lab, his presence as imposing as the long desert night.

Bruce's hand instinctively moved under the desk toward a hidden weapon. But Fury raised a hand, a silent gesture of peace.

"I'm not here to start a fight," Fury's voice was firm, unshaken. "I'm here to talk."

Bruce's gaze narrowed. His voice, low and cautious, cut through the air like a blade.

"Whoever you are, you've got five seconds to leave before I make you."

"Nick Fury," the man replied, his tone completely unfazed. "Director of SHIELD."

Bruce snorted, leaning back in his creaking chair, eyes locked on Fury. "SHIELD, huh? You tracked me all the way out here for what? A conversation?"

Fury's expression didn't change. He stepped further into the room, his boots tapping softly on the concrete floor.

"You're a hard man to find, Banner," Fury remarked, his voice cold and steady. "But I'm used to finding people who don't want to be found." He placed a thick file on the desk and slid it toward Bruce. "You've been on AIM's radar. They're not just looking for you—they're preparing for you."

At the mention of AIM, Bruce's jaw tightened. He reached for the file, flipping it open with a careful, deliberate motion. Images of glowing serums, mutated test subjects, and burning labs flashed before his eyes.

"They're experimenting on people," Fury said, his voice low but unwavering. "Turning them into weapons. And if they find you, they'll do worse. They'll find a way to weaponize the Hulk."

Bruce stood abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the concrete. He spun toward the window, staring out into the endless expanse of the desert, the vast emptiness mirroring the chaos inside him.

"I'm not your weapon," Bruce muttered, his voice hard, edged with bitterness. "I'm not someone you can just point at a problem and hope it goes away. The last time I got involved…" His words faltered, his grip tightening on the window frame. "I don't want to hurt anyone else."

Fury stepped closer, his tone unwavering. "You think I don't know what happened? I didn't come here blind. Let me be clear—I'm not asking for the Hulk. I'm asking for you."

Bruce turned, frustration burning behind his eyes. "And what happens when he shows up? Because he always does." His voice cracked. "I try to control it, but the anger... it's always there, just under the surface."

Fury's gaze softened for a moment, but his resolve remained unyielding. "You've spent all this time trying to hide from it. Trying to bury it. But we both know that doesn't work. The Hulk is part of you, Banner. And AIM? They'll do worse than unleash him—they'll weaponize him. The only way to stop them is to face it."

Bruce clenched his fists, his knuckles white as the weight of Fury's words pressed down on him. His mind raced with the implications, the risks. For so long, he had run—from the monster, from the anger, from himself. Fury's words were like a hammer against the walls he'd so carefully built.

"I can't guarantee I'll be what you need," Bruce said quietly, doubt heavy in his voice. "The Hulk is dangerous. If I lose control—"

Fury cut him off, his tone softer now, almost sympathetic. "You're not the only one with demons, Banner. Everyone on this team is running from something. The difference is, they've stopped running."

Bruce stared at Fury, the weight of those words sinking deep into his chest. Fury stepped back toward the door, his voice firm but not unkind.

"We're building a team, Banner. A team that can face threats no one else can. You don't have to decide now, but think about this—if you wait too long, it won't just be you paying the price. The world needs you."

With those final words, Fury disappeared into the shadows, leaving Bruce alone with his thoughts.

For a long moment, Bruce stood in silence, his breathing shallow, the stillness of the lab a stark contrast to the turmoil inside him. He looked down at his trembling hands, half-expecting them to turn green, but they didn't.

He exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting back to the file on the desk. Fury's words echoed in his mind, a haunting refrain.

Maybe... it's time to stop running.

Hell's Kitchen, New York City ​

The neon lights of Hell's Kitchen flickered faintly through the downpour, their colors bleeding into the rain-slicked streets below. Above, on a rooftop high above the city, Matt Murdock sat motionless in his dark red suit, the cowl pulled back just enough to expose his face to the cool night air.

His world was alive with sound: the rhythmic patter of rain on rooftops, the distant hum of traffic, muffled conversations carried up from the alleyways. Every sound told a story, every vibration painting a vivid picture in his mind. Below him, criminals continued their business, unaware of the silent figure watching from the shadows.

Not tonight, Matt thought. I need the solitude.

But then, something disrupted the steady rhythm of the rain—a faint creak of weight on the rooftop behind him. The movement was deliberate, too calculated to be random. Matt tensed, every muscle coiled and ready, his senses sharpening.

"I'd say you're a hard man to find," came a low, steady voice, "but you're exactly where I thought you'd be."

Matt didn't turn at first. He already knew who it was—Nick Fury. The slow, measured pace of his steps, the even rhythm of his heartbeat, and the unmistakable authority in his voice all told Matt everything he needed to know.

"Matt Murdock," Fury continued, his footsteps drawing closer. "Or should I say Daredevil?"

Matt's hand instinctively moved toward his billy club, his fingers brushing the cold metal. He didn't immediately reach for it, though; he kept his posture casual, but his voice was edged with caution as he responded, "That depends. What do you want?"

Fury paused a few feet away, standing tall and unmoved by the rain. "Not much for small talk, are you?" he remarked, unfazed. "I'm here to offer you a job."

Matt turned his head slightly, taking in the subtle sounds around him—the rain on Fury's coat, the steady rhythm of his breathing. Calm, controlled. No threat. Not yet.

"Not interested," Matt replied curtly, not missing a beat.

Fury's tone took on a trace of amusement. "You don't even know what I'm offering."

"I don't need to," Matt shot back, standing and finally facing him. "I've got enough problems without adding someone else's to the pile."

Fury held his ground, his single eye gleaming in the dim light, unshaken. "I know all about your problems, Murdock. But this isn't just about you—or Hell's Kitchen. It's about something bigger."

Matt's jaw tightened. "I've heard that line before. 'Something bigger.' Every time someone says that, it means people like me end up cleaning up someone else's mess. I don't play those games, Fury."

Fury's expression hardened, his voice taking on a more serious tone. "This isn't a game." He stepped closer, his words dropping. "AIM. You've heard of them."

Matt's face darkened, though he didn't flinch. "I know who they are. And I know they're not my problem. I deal with what's here, on these streets. Let someone else handle AIM."

Fury's patience seemed to thin. "That's the thing about AIM—they don't stay in their lane. They've got a project in motion that could affect everyone. You think you can ignore them? You think Hell's Kitchen is going to be spared when they're done?"

Matt turned away, facing the city below, the rain mixing with the anger simmering beneath his calm exterior. "I've heard this speech before. Save the world, join the fight, blah blah blah. But you don't know me. You don't know what I've done."

Fury stepped closer, his voice quieter but still firm. "You think I don't know about the blood on your hands? The nights you wonder if you've crossed the line? Guess what? You're not the only one. But unlike most, you're still standing. Still fighting."

Matt clenched his fists, his pulse quickening. "I don't need your approval, Fury. And I don't need your help. I've made my choices, and I'll live with them."

Fury nodded slowly, acknowledging the resistance, but his resolve didn't waver. "Maybe you don't need my help. But you can't outrun what's coming. AIM's not just some corporate lab—they're building weapons, creating monsters. If we don't stop them, your city, your people, they're going to pay the price."

Matt's lips pressed into a thin line, a storm of conflicting emotions surging inside him: guilt, anger, doubt. Fury's words were like knives, each one cutting through the walls he had carefully built around himself.

"I work alone," Matt said after a long silence, his voice low.

Fury shrugged slightly, as though he'd anticipated this response. "I'm not asking you to join a choir, Murdock. But this fight? You can't win it on your own. None of us can."

Matt remained silent, his face unreadable. Fury watched him for a moment, then reached into his coat, pulling out a small file and placing it on the ledge beside Matt.

"Take a look," Fury said, stepping back. "Decide for yourself. But don't wait too long—time isn't on our side."

With that, Fury turned and walked back into the rain, his footsteps fading as he disappeared into the night.

Matt stood motionless for a long moment, listening to the city below. His fingers brushed against the edge of the file. He didn't need to open it to know what it contained. He didn't need Fury to tell him that a storm was coming.

But as much as he wanted to ignore it, to turn away, deep down, he knew Fury was right.

Hell's Kitchen wasn't enough anymore.

TO BE CONTINUED...

 

[AntonioCC]

Avengers 2000 ​

Disclaimers: All characters are property of Marvel Entertainment and henceforth Disney, I don't own anything here.

Spoilers: some for the movies specified in the Fandoms ticket

---

A Forgotten Road, Night ​

The wind howled through the empty stretch of highway. The night was as dark as the soul of the man riding the motorcycle along it. Johnny Blaze, the Ghost Rider, revved his engine, and the bike roared through the desolate road. Flames flickered from his skull, their eerie glow casting distorted shadows across the blacktop. But Johnny was lost in thought, the fire burning in his chest a distant reminder of the curse he couldn't escape.

In the distance, headlights pierced the dark, cutting through the night like a beacon. A black SUV, out of place on a road so far from civilization. Johnny's eyes narrowed beneath the skull mask, and he could hear the vehicle's engine grow louder as it skidded to a halt, blocking his path.

Johnny didn't flinch. He didn't stop the bike, merely leaned into the handlebars as the wheels ground to a halt just feet from the SUV. His boots hit the asphalt with a sharp echo, the sound sharp against the desert's oppressive silence.

The SUV's door swung open, and out stepped Nick Fury, his expression as serious as ever. He didn't flinch at the sight of the flames that wreathed Johnny's skull, nor did he seem unnerved by the infernal presence that seemed to radiate from the Ghost Rider. He'd dealt with worse.

"Blaze," Fury called, his voice carrying the weight of authority. "We need to talk."

Johnny's eyes flashed with irritation, and a wisp of smoke curled from the edge of his skull. He wasn't in the mood for this. "I don't have anything to say to you," he growled, his voice gravelly, like it had been scorched by years of fighting demons—both literal and personal.

Fury didn't flinch. He'd faced worse than a pissed-off, flaming skeleton. "You're a hard man to get a hold of, Blaze," he said, stepping forward, "but I'm not here for small talk. We've got a problem—something bigger than anything you've faced."

Johnny didn't move, his gaze boring into Fury with contempt. "You've got a problem? You're talking to the wrong guy, Fury. I've got enough problems to fill a thousand lifetimes. Whatever it is, I'm not interested."

Fury's eyes didn't soften. "You're already involved, Johnny. Whether you like it or not. AIM has something big brewing, and you're on their radar. I'm offering you a chance to put that power of yours to use—without burning yourself alive in the process."

Johnny's hands twitched, the familiar heat inside him flaring at the mention of his curse. His jaw clenched. Use the power? The fire was always there, just beneath the surface, threatening to consume him if he lost control. The last thing he wanted was to become someone's weapon again.

"No," Johnny spat, his voice dripping with defiance. "I don't do the hero thing. I don't need your help, and I sure as hell don't need to be part of some team. You think I'm gonna fight your battles? I've got enough of my own to fight."

Fury didn't back down, sizing Johnny up. He could see the conflict, the pain, the internal war that was as much a part of Blaze as the flames he wore. The fire wasn't just in his chest—it was in his soul.

"I'm not asking you to be a hero, Blaze," Fury said, his voice calm and steady. "I'm asking you to stop something worse than anything you've ever faced. You don't have to join a group, but AIM won't stop unless they're stopped. You're more than capable of helping. In fact, you might be the one who can end this before it gets worse."

Johnny's grip on the handlebars tightened, the heat flaring in his chest with every word Fury spoke. The fire inside him roared in response to the challenge. But he wasn't sure if he could control it.

"The Rider doesn't answer to anyone," Johnny growled, his voice thick with frustration. "I didn't ask for this curse. I didn't ask for any of it. I'm not a damn hero, Fury. I'm just trying to keep it together."

Fury's gaze hardened, but his voice softened. "You're not just trying to keep it together, Johnny. You're running. From the man you could be. You've got a gift—a curse, sure—but also a gift. The world's burning, and you're the one with the fire to fight it."

Johnny stood there, silence hanging between them, the wind tugging at his leather jacket. Fury's words cut deeper than he wanted to admit. He wasn't just running from his past—he was running from what he could become. The thought of losing control again, of becoming the Rider fully and completely, terrified him more than anything else. But there was something in Fury's eyes that made him stop and listen.

Fury continued, his voice almost gentle now. "I'm not asking you to join a family, Blaze. I'm asking you to make a choice. To be part of something bigger than yourself. You don't have to trust me, but if you don't step up, there's no telling what AIM might unleash. And I doubt you want to see that happen."

Johnny looked down at the ground, the weight of Fury's words pressing down on him like a storm cloud. He didn't want to be part of a team, didn't want to let anyone into the mess of his life. But deep down, he knew that maybe, just maybe, the reason he fought alone wasn't because he had to—but because he didn't know how to fight for something greater than himself.

Finally, he sighed, frustration and resignation mixing in his voice.

"I don't need saving," he muttered. "But fine. I'll listen. But don't expect me to be anyone's hero."

Fury gave a small nod, approval in his eyes. "Good enough," he said, turning toward the SUV. "We'll be in touch."

As Fury walked away, Johnny stood motionless, the flames of his skull flickering and burning brightly against the dark night. He wasn't sure what he had just agreed to, but something in the air told him that this wasn't just about AIM. It was about confronting his own demons—and maybe, just maybe, finding a way to stop running.

A Cabin in the Mountains, North of Canada ​

The wind howled through the trees, a bitter cold gnawing at the night. Logan sat alone by a small fire outside his cabin, the flickering flames casting long shadows across his rugged face. His brow was furrowed, his jaw set as he methodically cleaned his claws, the metal gleaming faintly in the weak light. The quiet wilderness, far from the chaos of the world, was the peace he craved.

But peace had always been a fleeting thing. Every moment of calm was followed by the gnawing bite of memories—fragments of a life stolen from him. His past, his identity, were a puzzle with too many missing pieces. Lies and government experiments buried the truth, leaving nothing but scars.

The sound of footsteps crunching in the snow broke the silence.

Logan's head snapped up, his senses instantly alert. He didn't need to look to know who it was. The scent, the deliberate pace—Nick Fury. The man had a way of showing up when Logan least expected it.

"Didn't take you for a woodsman, Fury," Logan muttered, his voice rough from years of isolation. He didn't move, just kept his claws in hand, ready for whatever came next.

Fury stepped into the firelight, his face stern, unwavering. He studied Logan for a moment, his one good eye scanning him like a puzzle piece. It was a look Logan knew all too well—the one people gave him when they were sizing him up.

"Nice place you've got here," Fury said, his tone casual, though it held the edge of someone who always kept business first. "Don't you get lonely?"

Logan grunted, a faint smirk crossing his face as he sheathed his claws. "I'm fine. Just me and the quiet. That's all I need."

Fury raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like you're running from something."

Logan didn't answer. He'd heard that before too many times. The world thought he was running from his past, from his demons. Maybe they were right.

After a long silence, Fury spoke again, his voice turning serious.

"I'm not here for small talk, Logan," he said. "I'm here because there's a situation. AIM's making dangerous moves. They're messing with things they don't understand. If we don't stop them, it's not just mutantkind in danger. It's everyone."

Logan's eyes narrowed, a flash of suspicion flickering in his gaze. "I don't do favors, Fury. Not for anyone who thinks they can control me."

Fury didn't back down. "I'm not asking you to join a team. Hell, I'm not even asking you to play by anyone's rules. But I know you've got your own score to settle with people who think they own you. AIM's no different. They experiment on people. Turn them into weapons. You wouldn't want that to happen again."

Logan's jaw tightened. Fury had struck a nerve, but Logan wasn't about to let it show. He leaned back against the cabin's rough-hewn wall and lit a cigarette, exhaling the smoke slowly, his eyes smoldering with the familiar fire of rage.

"You don't know what they did to me," Logan growled, his voice low, edged with a pain he never showed anyone. "I've spent enough years dealing with people playing god with my life. So no, I don't care about AIM. They're just the next in a long line of people who think they can mess with me."

Fury's expression softened just slightly, but his tone remained resolute. "You don't have to care about them. But you should care about what they're doing to others. You've been through hell, Logan. You don't need to keep running from it. This is your chance to stop them before they make more of you."

Logan took a long drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling into the frigid night air. Fury was right. He had been running, hiding, trying to bury his past in the mountains for far too long. But there was a part of him—one he couldn't ignore—that knew he couldn't stay hidden forever. AIM wasn't just messing with mutants; they were tampering with the very idea of humanity, turning people into weapons. And that struck too close to home.

"Why me?" Logan asked, his voice steady but laced with bitterness. "I'm not some soldier, Fury. I'm not a boy scout looking to play hero."

Fury smiled just slightly, an unreadable expression crossing his face. "You don't need to be a hero, Logan. You've fought enough battles in your life to know the difference between right and wrong. I'm offering you a chance to make sure someone else doesn't end up as broken as you are."

Logan let the words settle in the cold night air. There was no promise of redemption, no claim that joining Fury would make him a better man. But there was something in Fury's words that resonated deep inside him. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to stop running.

"I'll think about it," Logan muttered after a long pause, his voice gruff, but less certain than before.

Fury didn't push. He just nodded, accepting the answer for what it was.

"Take your time," Fury said, his tone as matter-of-fact as ever. "But don't take too long. This isn't something you can run from forever, Logan. You know that."

Logan didn't respond. He flicked his cigarette into the snow and watched the embers die out in the cold.

As Fury walked away, Logan stared into the fire, the flames reflecting in his eyes. Maybe Fury was right. Maybe it was time to stop hiding.

SHIELD HQ ​

Nick Fury sat behind his desk, the glow of multiple screens illuminating his face as he studied the images of the individuals he had just recruited. Each one was a puzzle piece, fractured and difficult to place, but vital nonetheless. Building a team of isolated, mistrutful individuals was no small feat—especially when those individuals were more accustomed to fighting alone.

Maria Hill stood before him, arms crossed, her gaze flicking between the screens with a mix of concern and disbelief.

"Are you sure about them, sir?" Hill asked, her voice even, but with an unmistakable edge of doubt. "About them working together, I mean. They're all loners. The only one who's had any real experience with a team is Logan—and we know how that turned out."

Fury lifted his eyes from the screens, his expression as stoic and grim as ever. He had already calculated the risks, weighed the possible outcomes, and understood what was at stake. Still, his response carried a weight of finality.

"I know, Hill," Fury said, his tone steady but underlined with a subtle weariness. "These people are fractured, unbalanced. But with the right push, they'll be exactly what we need. We're not just facing a team problem here—we're facing a survival problem. This isn't about saving the world... it's about keeping it from unraveling."

Hill's skepticism didn't fade. She stepped closer, her eyes scanning the faces of Spider-Man, Ghost Rider, Logan, Daredevil, and the others on the screens.

"You're asking them to put aside years of distrust, their egos, and personal vendettas... not to mention their history with organizations like ours," she said, her voice softening as she looked back at Fury. "Some of them barely trust anyone outside their own circle. You're betting they'll put all that aside. But what if they can't?"

Fury leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping a rhythm on the desk. He'd considered that, too. A team like this was a powder keg, and he knew it. But this wasn't about bruised egos or ideological differences. It was about something far darker—something none of them could face alone.

"I'm not betting on them trusting me, Hill," Fury said, his voice low, almost reflective. "I'm betting on them trusting the fight. Each one of them has been pushed to the edge. And I'm betting that when they see what's coming… they'll realize that working together is their only choice."

Hill remained silent for a moment, the weight of his words sinking in. She didn't know if Fury's gamble would pay off, but one thing was clear: when he made a decision, he stuck to it. The world would soon find out whether it was the right one.

"Maybe you're right," Hill finally said, her arms uncrossing as she returned her gaze to the screens. "But this better work. Because if it doesn't, it's not just the Avengers Initiative on the line—it's everything."

Fury didn't respond immediately. He sat still, his eyes fixed on the screens, already moving ahead to the next step in his mind. He knew the risk—hell, he was the risk. But he also knew that risks were what separated the heroes from the bystanders.

"It will work," he said finally, a quiet confidence in his voice. "It has to."

TO BE CONTINUED...

 

[AntonioCC]

Disclaimers: All characters are property of Marvel Entertainment and henceforth Disney, I don't own anything here.
Spoilers: some for the movies specified in the Fandoms ticket

---

SHIELD Facility: The Briefing Room ​

The sleek, high-tech doors of the SHIELD briefing room slid open with a quiet hiss. One by one, the recruits entered, their footsteps echoing faintly in the sterile chamber. Each of them had been summoned here with little explanation—just an urgent message from Nick Fury, promising something bigger than themselves.

Spider-Man was the first to arrive, his red-and-blue suit vivid against the gray walls. He perched on the back of a chair, idly spinning a web between his fingers. His mask's expressive eyes darted around the room, taking in every detail.

"Guess I'm the early bird," Peter Parker muttered, mostly to himself, before adding with a playful tone, "Hope the worm's worth it."

The doors opened again, and Daredevil entered silently, his crimson suit blending into the shadows of the room. Matt Murdock's gait was deliberate, his heightened senses already mapping the space and its lone occupant.

Peter noticed him immediately, tilting his head. "Nice threads," he quipped. "What's with the all-red? Trying to corner the market on blind justice chic?"

Matt turned his head toward the voice, his lips twitching slightly. "Better red than dressed for a kid's birthday party," he shot back, his dry tone carrying a faint smirk. "Need another lesson, or do you want a rematch?"

Before Peter could fire back that he technically won that engagement, the room temperature noticeably spiked as Ghost Rider entered. His skull burned with blue-and-orange hellfire, casting flickering shadows on the walls. The chain draped across his shoulder clinked ominously with each step, the smell of charred air trailing behind him.

"Okay... that's new," Spider-Man said, dropping from his perch. He edged slightly to the side and muttered under his breath, "Do I say something funny or just... nope, shutting up."

Ghost Rider's burning gaze swept the room but remained silent. The doors hissed open once more as Wolverine strode in, his boots heavy against the metal floor. Logan scanned the room with a scowl that seemed permanently etched on his face. He settled in the corner, crossing his arms.

"Great," Logan muttered, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Flame boy and Spider-Kid. What's next, a science fair?"

Peter didn't miss a beat. "Pajamas and science jokes? Someone's angling for class clown."

The banter was cut short when the doors opened again, and Bruce Banner shuffled in, his expression as uneasy as his steps. He wore plain clothes—a stark contrast to the costumed recruits. Banner glanced at Ghost Rider and then Wolverine, visibly uncertain about where to stand.

"Sweet, now we've got a scientist," Peter said, raising his hand in mock celebration. "Hey, Doc, can you whip us up a time machine? I've got some regrets about last week's quiz."

Before Bruce could respond, Daredevil's voice cut through the chatter. "Quiet." His head turned slightly toward Banner. "He's not here to fight. Not like the rest of us."

Logan's sharp gaze shifted to Banner. "Yeah, we noticed. But you're here, which means Fury's got a reason. Let's hear it."

Right on cue, Nick Fury entered. His trench coat swayed as he moved to the room's center, commanding immediate attention. His one good eye swept the recruits, appraising them like pieces on a chessboard.

"Good," Fury began, his voice a low growl. "You're all here. Let's get one thing straight—you're not a team. You're barely an assembly of half-trustworthy loners. But AIM doesn't care about that, and neither do I. You're here because we need to stop something big. Something dangerous. And none of you can do it alone."

Spider-Man raised a hand like a student in class. "Uh, quick follow-up: when you say 'big,' do you mean 'save the world' big, or 'don't screw up this team project' big?"

Fury leveled him with a glare. "Sit down, Parker."

Spider-Man mimed zipping his lips and sat. Fury continued, motioning toward Banner.

"Dr. Banner's expertise is critical to this mission. AIM's tampering with tech that's way out of their league, and he's the only one here who can understand it. And yes," Fury added, preempting the inevitable question, "we know what happens when he loses control. That's a risk we're prepared to manage."

Logan's claws extended with a snikt as he glared at Fury. "You think you can manage the Hulk? If he goes green, this room's getting leveled."

Bruce flinched slightly but straightened. "If it happens, you'll need to stop me," he said, his voice quiet but resolute. "But I'm here to make sure it doesn't."
Fury stepped forward, his tone steely. "Banner's right. You're here to keep things from falling apart—not just the mission, but each other. I don't care if you like it. I care if you can fight AIM and win."

The room fell silent, the tension thick as the recruits exchanged glances. Finally, Logan broke the silence with a gruff sigh. "Fine. But if this blows up in our faces, don't expect me to play babysitter."

"I'll settle for you not stabbing anyone on the team," Fury replied dryly. He gestured to the far wall, where a set of doors slid open to reveal a massive training facility. Holographic enemies flickered into existence, and the terrain shifted between urban streets, dense forests, and barren wastelands.

"This is the Gauntlet," Fury said. "You'll train here before you see real action. The simulations are brutal, and failure's not an option. Figure out how to work together, or AIM's going to win. And trust me—you don't want that."

Spider-Man looked at the others, then at the arena. "Great. So... team-building exercises with deadly stakes. Just another Tuesday."

Logan rolled his eyes. "Kid, you'd better hope you survive Tuesday."

Ghost Rider's flames flared as he stepped toward the Gauntlet. "The kid's got jokes. Let's see if he's got fight."

SHIELD HQ ​

"The program is called the Avengers Initiative, so why aren't we called the Avengers?" Spider-Man asked, leaning back in his chair with a casual shrug. His mask's white eyes shifted slightly, giving him a look of playful curiosity.

Nick Fury, standing at the head of the room, raised an eyebrow and let out a long-suffering sigh. "Because…" he began, before pausing mid-thought. He furrowed his brow, clearly reconsidering whatever answer he'd planned. "Actually, that's a pretty good question."

Fury rubbed his temple briefly, as if the thought had only now dawned on him. "I can't keep calling you 'the team' on official reports. Sounds like I'm running a weekend soccer club." He looked up, his tone sharpening with his decision.

"From now on," Fury continued, his voice carrying the weight of authority, "you are the Avengers."

Spider-Man gave a two-fingered salute. "Finally, some branding! Let's hope we live up to it."

Wolverine grunted from his spot against the wall, crossing his arms. "Cute name. Just hope you're ready to back it up, kid."

Ghost Rider's skull tilted slightly, flames flickering. "We'll see if it's a name worth keeping."

Fury didn't wait for further commentary. "You'll make it worth keeping. Dismissed."

SHIELD Lab – A Few Days Later ​

The SHIELD lab hummed with the subdued chaos of innovation. Machines whirred softly, holographic screens flickered with complex diagrams, and an army of discarded coffee cups stood testament to long hours and little sleep. Bruce Banner and Spider-Man worked at the heart of it all, their contrasting styles forming an unlikely but effective partnership.

Banner sat hunched over a terminal, his focus unwavering as he navigated an encrypted AIM file. His furrowed brow and quiet demeanor spoke of a man carrying a heavy burden. Across the room, Spider-Man hung upside down from a ceiling support beam, scrolling through a tablet with the relaxed air of someone who thrived on chaos.

"Doc," Spider-Man piped up, swinging gently back and forth. "You know what this lab's missing?"

Banner didn't look up, his fingers pausing briefly over the keyboard. "What?"

"Theme music," Spider-Man said, grinning behind his mask. "Something with a little pizzazz. Maybe some soft jazz for your whole 'brooding genius' thing."

Banner allowed himself a soft chuckle. "I think we'll manage without it."

"Speak for yourself," Spider-Man quipped, flipping down and landing lightly on the floor. "I'm like a plant—I thrive in the right environment."

Banner shook his head with a faint smile, but the file on his screen quickly wiped it away. "This encryption… It's like trying to break into Fort Knox with a plastic spoon."

"Fort Knox, huh?" Spider-Man leaned over his shoulder, peering at the screen. "Mind if I give it a shot?"

Banner hesitated but gestured toward the keyboard. "Be my guest."

Spider-Man's fingers flew over the keys with exaggerated flair. The screen flickered, and a chunk of the encryption unraveled.

Banner blinked, stunned. "How did you—?"

"Spider-sense," Peter said nonchalantly, stretching his arms. "It's good for more than just dodging flying debris. Turns out, it's handy for spotting patterns too."

Banner chuckled dryly. "That's… one way to put it."

"Thanks, Doc," Spider-Man said with mock sincerity. "High praise from the guy who could probably write my college physics textbook."

As the decrypted data filled the screen, Banner's expression darkened. "This isn't just your run-of-the-mill mad science," he muttered. "They're manipulating DNA at a fundamental level—rewriting evolution itself."

Spider-Man whistled low. "Wow. They skipped 'playing God' and went straight for becoming Him."

Banner glanced at him with a faint smile. "Pretty much."

The gravity of the discovery settled between them, but silence rarely lasted long with Spider-Man.

"So," Peter said, picking up a nearby microscope and squinting through it, "how does all this science-y stuff work? Is there, like, a button I press to turn me into a genius?"

Banner smirked. "It's called years of study and discipline. Maybe give it a try sometime."

"Hmm," Spider-Man mused theatrically, tapping his chin. "Sounds hard. I think I'll stick to slinging webs and bad puns."

Despite the tension of their task, a rhythm began to develop between the two:

Spider-Man spun a web into the shape of a chemical formula, presenting it like art. "Behold—science, Spider-Man style!"

Banner raised an eyebrow. "I'm pretty sure that violates every known lab protocol."

"Yeah, but it looks cool."

Moments later, Spider-Man tried to snag a distant file with his webbing, only to miss spectacularly.

"You could just walk over and pick it up," Banner suggested dryly.

"Where's the fun in that?"

Finally, the pair stood in front of a massive monitor, its glowing data revealing the full scope of AIM's plans. The discovery was worse than they'd feared. AIM wasn't just creating superhumans—they were developing a method to mass-produce them, turning powers into a commodity for war.

"If they pull this off," Banner said grimly, "it won't just be a few supervillains. It'll be an arms race."

Spider-Man exhaled sharply. "Awesome. Just what the world needed—supersoldiers by the dozen. It's like Black Friday for bad guys."

Banner shot him a look, but there was no malice behind it. "You're taking this awfully well."

Peter shrugged. "What's the alternative? Freaking out won't help. Besides, I've got a secret weapon."

Banner raised a skeptical brow. "Oh?"

"You," Spider-Man said, his voice losing its usual lightness. "You're the one who cracked this. Without you, we'd still be scratching our heads over AIM's tech. You're the brains of this operation, Doc."

Banner hesitated, surprised by the sincerity. "I think you're giving me too much credit."

"And I think you're not giving yourself enough," Peter countered, his tone softening. "Look, I may be the guy in spandex, but you're the one who's going to stop AIM from turning people into living weapons. You're the real hero here."

For a moment, Banner relaxed, a genuine smile breaking through his usual reserve. "For a kid in a mask, you're not so bad yourself."

Spider-Man tilted his head playfully. "High praise from a guy with a gamma-powered rage monster. I'll take it."

They turned back to the monitor, their camaraderie undeniable.

"Ready to tell Fury we're in over our heads?" Peter asked.

Banner sighed deeply. "Not even close."

"Yeah, me neither," Peter said. "But hey, what's the worst that could happen?"

Banner shot him a wary glance.

"Okay, okay—bad phrasing," Spider-Man admitted, raising his hands. "Forget I said that."

With that, the two returned to their work, unlikely partners against a threat neither could face alone.

TO BE CONTINUED...

 

[AntonioCC]

Avengers 2000 ​

Disclaimers: All characters are property of Marvel Entertainment and henceforth Disney, I don't own anything here.

Spoilers: some for the Raimi Spiderman movies, Hulk 2003, Daredevil 2003, Ghost Rider 2007 or the X-Men movie series.

---

SHIELD HQ – Fury's Office​

Nick Fury leaned back in his chair, one hand gripping the edge of the file Banner and Spider-Man had just handed over. His one good eye scanned the contents, his expression hardening with each line. "Well… at least we got something out of that debacle," he said finally, setting the folder down. "Incidentally, we've just confirmed the name of the process they're using. Extremis."

"Extremis?" Spider-Man said, tilting his head. "Sounds like something an edgy high schooler would name their garage band."

Fury shot him a look but allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch in amusement. "Maybe. But whatever it sounds like, it's a real danger. Banner, Parker—you're dismissed. Get some rest. You've earned it."

Banner nodded and quietly left, with Spider-Man trailing behind, his usual quips subdued for once.

As the door closed behind them, Fury leaned forward, hands clasped on his desk. Maria Hill, standing at his side, gave him a questioning look.

"You didn't tell them about the other news," she said carefully.

"Project M?" Fury's voice was low, almost a growl. "No. And I won't until I've got an inkling of what the hell it actually is."

Hill nodded, her expression unreadable. "You think it's connected?"

Fury stared at the closed door, lost in thought. "I don't know. But if it is… it's a storm we're not ready for."

AIM Laboratory – Night​

The AIM facility loomed ominously in the heart of an industrial wasteland, its cold, angular structure bathed in the eerie glow of floodlights. The constant hum of automated defenses—motion sensors, gun turrets, and patrol drones—blended with the distant hiss of unseen machinery, creating an oppressive soundtrack to the night. Inside, AIM's scientists were pushing the boundaries of ethics and reason, experimenting with Extremis, a volatile serum with the potential to turn ordinary humans into living weapons.

SHIELD Safehouse – Briefing Room​

In a dimly lit room, the Avengers gathered around a holographic display. The glowing projection detailed the labyrinthine layout of the AIM facility, highlighting weak points, security measures, and the target: a secure lab buried deep within the structure.

Nick Fury stood at the head of the table, his presence commanding attention. "This is it. AIM's latest science fair project. If we don't shut it down, we're looking at something worse than just enhanced soldiers. Think global chaos on a scale you don't want to imagine." He scanned the room, his tone brooking no argument. "Infiltrate, secure the data, and get out. Clean and simple. Stick to the plan, and no heroics. Got it?"

The room murmured in acknowledgment, though the air was thick with tension.

The Avengers​

Bruce Banner stood off to the side, arms crossed and brow furrowed as he studied the map. "Do we know what—or who—they're testing this on? If it's soldiers enhanced with Extremis, that's bad enough. But if it's worse…"

Fury's expression darkened. "Intel's patchy. AIM's keeping this under tight wraps. Expect the unexpected and plan for the worst."

Spider-Man fidgeted nearby, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. "Okay, but what's the plan if—hypothetically—there's a gamma-powered rage monster waiting for us inside? Asking for a friend."

Fury shot him a withering look. "Stick to the plan, Parker. You start freelancing, and you're on your own."

Wolverine, leaning against the wall with a toothpick in his mouth, let his claws slide out with a soft snikt. "Plan's fine. Just don't expect me to stay quiet if things go sideways."

"Can you ever stay quiet?" Spider-Man quipped.

"Keep talkin', kid," Logan growled. "See where that gets ya."

Daredevil, near the window, remained calm, his senses already tuned to the tension in the room. "We need precision. One wrong move, and we're trapped. Let's stick to Fury's orders and keep this efficient."

On the far side of the room, Ghost Rider stood motionless, his presence both unsettling and reassuring. The faint glow of his flaming skull illuminated the shadows around him, his silence speaking volumes.

The Avengers dispersed to finalize their preparations. Spider-Man tested his webs, flicking strands at a nearby coffee cup. One hit the mark, sending the cup flying.

"Oops!" he called out sheepishly.

Logan caught it effortlessly with his claws, scowling. "Kid, you do that again, and I'm webbin' you to the wall."

Spider-Man grinned under his mask. "You'd miss me."

Banner was packing his equipment when Spider-Man sidled over. "Hey, Doc. You good? You've got that 'I just realized I left the stove on' look."

"I'm fine," Banner replied quietly, though the weight in his voice betrayed him. "There's a lot riding on this."

Spider-Man gave a casual shrug. "No pressure, right? It's just the fate of the world. Piece of cake."

Banner managed a thin smile. "Thanks for the pep talk."

Fury clapped his hands sharply, cutting through the chatter. "Listen up. We move out in five. Gear up, stay sharp, and remember—this isn't just another mission. If AIM pulls this off, it's game over for all of us. Don't let that happen."

The Avengers exchanged glances, a mix of resolve and unease on their faces. As they filed out of the room, Logan muttered to Daredevil, "Bet you ten bucks the kid screws up first."

"Not taking that bet," Daredevil replied with a smirk.

Spider-Man, already at the door, called back over his shoulder. "You guys do realize I can hear you, right?"

Logan chuckled darkly. "That's the idea, bub."

Banner followed last, his mind heavy with the implications of what they might find. As they stepped into the night, heading toward AIM's fortress, the Avengers moved as one—an unlikely collection of heroes united by a shared purpose.

The storm was coming. All they could do now was meet it head-on.

Infiltration – The AIM Lab

The team slipped through the shadows under the cover of night, their silhouettes blending into the industrial sprawl of the AIM compound. Automated defenses scanned the perimeter, their cold red lights sweeping the dark, but the group moved with calculated precision—well, most of them did.

Spider-Man darted ahead, bounding across rooftops and weaving through blind spots with ease. He whispered through the comms, his tone light but tinged with his usual nervous energy. "Alright, we're inside. By the way, AIM's security? Not exactly Fort Knox. You'd think after the whole 'mad scientist' with a super serum thing, they'd at least upgrade."

Fury's voice came through sharp and direct. "Less commentary, Parker. Stick to the mission."

"Got it, boss," Spider-Man muttered, firing a web to anchor himself to the next building. Unfortunately, his webbing snagged a sensor panel he hadn't noticed, yanking it clean off and triggering a blaring alarm. The sharp noise pierced the night, and Spider-Man froze. "Uh… so that's on me."

Logan's growl rumbled through the comms. "Nice going, kid. Real stealthy."

"Yeah, my bad. I'll just—uh—stay out of everyone's way now," Spider-Man whispered, cringing.

Daredevil reacted instantly, using his heightened senses to pinpoint incoming guards. He dashed into the building with quiet precision, taking down the first wave of responders with expertly placed strikes. "We're compromised, but we can still salvage this. Move fast," he ordered through the comms.

Ghost Rider, however, had no patience for subtlety. Flames erupted from his body as he marched toward the nearest entrance, incinerating a guard with a swipe of his fiery chain. The burst of light and heat lit up the compound, drawing more attention to their position.

"Subtle, Ghost Rider," Daredevil muttered, his voice tight with frustration.

The compound erupted into chaos as AIM's defenses came alive. Turrets turned toward the team, and drones buzzed overhead, scanning for targets. Logan charged forward, his claws gleaming in the firelight, slicing through the first wave of guards. Spider-Man swung through the fray, webbing up turrets and knocking out drones, but his unpredictability threw off the others' careful coordination.

"Parker, stay in your lane!" Fury barked over the comms.

Banner hung back, visibly tense as his breathing grew heavier. He clutched the portable data retrieval device, his fingers trembling as he glanced nervously at the explosions and gunfire around him. The fear of losing control—of letting the Hulk loose—paralyzed him.

Ghost Rider was in his element, but his patience with the group's disarray was waning. He ripped through a line of guards with a whip of his chain, his burning skull turning to face the others. "This is a mess," he snarled. "You call this a team?"

Just then, an explosion rocked the facility. One of AIM's experimental containment chambers ruptured, spewing fire and debris into the halls. From the smoke emerged twisted figures—AIM's test subjects—humans warped by unstable enhancements, their bodies flickering with energy and rage.

The team shifted focus to the new threat. Logan charged one of the test subjects, claws slashing, while Daredevil used his billy clubs to deftly disarm another. Spider-Man swung low, tripping one of the enhanced figures with a webline, but the chaos was relentless.

"This is spiraling out of control!" Banner yelled, ducking behind cover as an energy blast scorched the wall near him.

"Everyone, fall back!" Fury ordered through the comms. "We've got what we came for—the data is secure. Get out now!"

But Ghost Rider, standing amid the carnage, was done. His flames burned hotter, reflecting his fury as he slashed through the last of the test subjects in his path. He turned toward the others, his voice a guttural roar. "This isn't a mission—it's a circus. You're all stumbling over each other, and I'm not sticking around for this."

"Ghost Rider, we need you!" Spider-Man shouted, swinging toward him. "Come on, man, we can still—"

The Rider's flaming skull twisted toward Spider-Man, the fire in his eyes flaring brighter. "No. You can't even handle one mission without screwing it up. This isn't my fight anymore."

With a final crack of his chain, Ghost Rider slammed it into the ground, sending a shockwave of fire through the hall. The flames roared as he stalked away, leaving behind only scorched metal and the acrid smell of burnt air. Moments later, he was gone, disappearing into the night like a wraith.

The rest of the team regrouped outside, battered and shaken. Fury's voice crackled through the comms, cold and clipped. "We got the data, but that was sloppy. We'll debrief later. For now, get out of there."

As the quinjet roared overhead to extract them, Spider-Man sat on a rooftop, staring after the trail of fire Ghost Rider had left behind. "Well, that could've gone better," he muttered to himself, the sting of failure settling in.

SHIELD HQ – Post-Mission​

The debriefing room was suffused with a heavy silence as the team gathered around the central table. Most of them avoided each other's eyes, their post-mission bruises a reflection of their fractured teamwork. Fury stood at the head of the room, arms crossed, his face a mask of restrained anger. The holodisplay behind him projected schematics of AIM's facility, along with fragments of the data they had managed to retrieve.

He didn't waste time. "We got the data. But we lost someone in the process. Ghost Rider's gone, and not just physically—he walked because this team couldn't hold it together. That mission was a disaster. And the reason? You didn't act like a team. No coordination, no trust, no discipline." Fury's voice was sharp, cutting through the thick air. "We're lucky nobody else died out there."

Spider-Man shifted uncomfortably, his mask pulled up just enough to reveal his mouth, which was pressed into a nervous line. "It's on me," he said, his voice tinged with guilt. "I messed up. I triggered the alarm. Tried to make things… I don't know, lighter. Guess I wasn't taking it seriously enough."

Banner, leaning against a corner, raised his head from where he'd been staring at the floor. "It wasn't just you, Peter," he said quietly, rubbing his temples. "We were all out of sync. Nobody's blameless. We each carry some of this."

Logan, still leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, let out a low grunt. His claws retracted with a metallic snikt. "Doesn't matter who started it. What matters is that it happened. And it'll keep happening unless we figure this out. Next time, we're not walking away this lucky."

Daredevil, sitting with his head bowed and hands steepled, finally broke his silence. His tone was calm but firm. "Logan's right. We've all got our own baggage, but it's not about being perfect. It's about trusting the person next to you. If we can't do that, then we'll never win, no matter how much firepower we throw at AIM."

Fury glanced at Daredevil, giving a slight nod before turning his focus back to the team as a whole. "We don't have the luxury of time for a trial-and-error approach," he said, his tone softening but not losing its edge. "AIM is on the brink of perfecting something that could tip the balance—something that doesn't just make super soldiers but destabilizes the entire playing field. That's what we're up against. And if you don't pull together, next time there won't be a debriefing."

A heavy silence hung over the room as the weight of Fury's words sank in.

Spider-Man finally spoke up, his voice barely above a whisper. "I know I can do better. I'll do better. I just… I want to help."

Logan snorted but gave a begrudging nod. "You're not bad, kid. You've got heart. Just need to figure out how to keep your mouth shut when it counts."

Banner looked around the room, his voice firmer now. "We're not just a group of people thrown together. If we're going to do this, we have to act like a team. That means being accountable. Being ready to rely on each other. And yeah, sometimes, that means trusting someone to catch you when you fall."

Fury straightened, the hard edge of his expression softening—slightly. "You've got the tools. You've got the brains, the skills, and the strength. But tools don't build a house. You do that by working together. You've got one more chance to prove you can do that. AIM won't wait for us to get our act together, so use the time wisely."

With that, Fury gestured toward the door. "Dismissed. Get some rest. We're regrouping tomorrow morning."

As the team filed out, the tension had lessened, replaced by a quiet determination. Spider-Man lingered, glancing at Banner as they walked side by side.

"Hey," Peter said hesitantly. "Do you think… do you think Ghost Rider's right? That we're not cut out for this?"

Banner gave a tired smile. "I think he's angry. But anger fades. We just need to show him—and ourselves—that we are cut out for this."

Peter nodded, the spark of determination returning to his eyes. "Alright, then. Time to step up."

The halls of SHIELD HQ echoed with their footsteps as they headed toward a new day, knowing the battles ahead demanded more than just power—they demanded unity.

Close to the City​

The cliff overlooked the sprawling cityscape, its lights a shimmering sea against the inky black of the night. The sound of distant traffic carried faintly on the wind, but Ghost Rider paid it no mind. He stood motionless at the edge, his skeletal frame outlined by the flickering flames that licked and curled around his form. The fire danced with an almost hypnotic rhythm, casting ominous shadows on the rocky ground.

His voice broke the silence, low and gravelly, tinged with a frustration that burned hotter than the flames that consumed him. "You think you've got problems?" he muttered to no one, the words rasping into the night. "I've seen what happens when people like us can't get it together. The cost's too high, and I'm not sticking around to watch it happen again."

The Rider's bony fingers clenched around the handlebars of his motorcycle, the chrome reflecting the fiery glow of his skull. The engine roared to life, snarling like a beast straining against a leash.

He looked out at the city one last time, his empty eye sockets seeming to pierce through the darkness. His voice softened, almost regretful. "Fix yourselves, or you'll end up like everyone else I've left behind. And next time, don't call me. I won't answer."

With a twist of his wrist, the motorcycle surged forward, flames erupting from the tires as it tore across the rocky terrain. The ground hissed and smoldered in his wake, leaving behind a scorched path that led nowhere.

As Ghost Rider sped away, the night seemed to swallow him whole, his fiery aura disappearing into the shadows. The cliff was silent again, the only sign he had been there the faint scent of burning rock and the lingering echo of his engine's roar.

Above the city, a faint wisp of smoke curled into the sky, a testament to a man—or a spirit—choosing to walk his path alone.

TO BE CONTINUED...

 

[AntonioCC]

Avengers 2000 ​

Disclaimers: All characters are property of Marvel Entertainment and henceforth Disney, I don't own anything here.

Spoilers: some for the Raimi Spiderman movies, Hulk 2003, Daredevil 2003, Ghost Rider 2007 or the X-Men movie series.

---

AIM HQ – The Lab of Project M​

The laboratory pulsed with a chilling mechanical rhythm. Harsh white lights reflected off rows of sterile, state-of-the-art equipment, while the steady hum of machines created a relentless backdrop. In the center of it all lay a figure strapped to an operating table, their body twitching involuntarily, surrounded by a maze of blinking monitors. The air felt sterile, yet oppressive, heavy with the scent of antiseptic and something darker—something unnatural.

A lead scientist adjusted a dial on the main console, his face partially obscured by the glare of his thick glasses. He glanced toward his colleague, who was intently focused on the subject's erratic vitals displayed across a large screen.

"How's the integration of the implants?" the lead scientist asked, his voice devoid of emotion, almost mechanical.

"Stable for now," the second scientist replied tersely, her fingers darting across the keyboard. "No signs of rejection. The Extremis-enhanced serum is accelerating integration faster than projected. But..." Her voice trailed off as she scrutinized the screen, a furrow of concern creasing her brow.

"But what?"

The second scientist hesitated, then gestured at the neural activity chart spiking erratically. "Neuro-patterns are irregular. The subject's mind isn't just adapting—it's resisting. There's conflict."

The lead scientist stepped closer, his curiosity piqued. "Resistance? Elaborate."

"It's as if... the subject's consciousness is trying to fight back. The enhancements are overtaking the body, but the mind—what's left of it—won't yield. The Extremis is overwhelming the organic system, yet the mental rejection is..." She paused, her tone shifting to something more clinical. "It's tearing the subject apart."

On the table, the subject groaned—a guttural, distorted sound that barely resembled anything human. Their body convulsed, muscles writhing unnaturally as veins bulged under their skin, glowing faintly. Their face began to warp, the flesh pulling taut in ways that defied natural anatomy.

The lead scientist leaned over the table, his expression a blend of fascination and detachment. "Interesting. A battle between mind and body." He straightened, a thin smile tugging at his lips. "But resistance is irrelevant. The body will win. It must."

The second scientist glanced uneasily at the distorted figure. "And what if it doesn't?"

"It will," the lead scientist replied coldly. "This is evolution—forced, perfected, and weaponized. The mind will adapt. Or it will be replaced."

The subject's body spasmed violently, and their head snapped to the side. Their eyes fluttered open, wide with terror and pain, glowing faintly as though illuminated from within. For a fleeting moment, there was clarity—a glimmer of humanity. Then it was gone, submerged under the sheer agony of transformation.

"Prepare the final infusion," the lead scientist ordered, his tone laced with anticipation.

The second scientist hesitated, the vial of serum trembling slightly in her hand. "If we push too far—"

"We've come too far not to."

Reluctantly, she inserted the vial into the injector. The camera lingered on the syringe as it pierced the subject's flesh, delivering the last dose. The reaction was immediate. The subject's body arched off the table, every muscle straining against its bonds. Monitors screamed with erratic readings, warning of critical levels.

The subject's head snapped upward with unnatural force. Their eyes blazed, now fully consumed by a grotesque, inhuman glow. Their skull began to swell grotesquely, the cranium bulging outward as the brain itself expanded, visible beneath thinning, stretched skin. The limbs shriveled slightly, as though the body could no longer support the immense energy being channeled into the mind.

The second scientist recoiled, horror etched across her face. "This isn't a soldier anymore," she whispered. "This is... something else."

"It's progress," the lead scientist countered, stepping back with satisfaction. "The mind is free from the constraints of a fragile human shell. This is the future of war."

The subject let out a strangled cry—half scream, half growl—that echoed through the lab. Their warped features twisted further, flesh and machinery fusing into something grotesque yet horrifyingly efficient. On a nearby monitor, a distorted reflection showed the final result: the bloated, misshapen head of a being no longer constrained by humanity, its bulging eyes filled with malice and unrelenting focus.

"Is it complete?" the second scientist asked, her voice trembling.

The lead scientist's smile widened as he watched the creature struggle to rise, its restraints snapping under newfound strength. "It's beginning," he said, almost reverently.

The subject tilted its massive head toward the scientists, its expression devoid of humanity, replaced with a chilling, calculated malice. In a voice that echoed both human and machine, it rasped:

"I... am... MODOK."

The lights flickered as the creature's presence seemed to dominate the room. The second scientist took a step back, her heart pounding. She looked to her superior, who stood unmoved, transfixed by his creation.

"This is the next phase of evolution," he declared softly, almost to himself.

In the lab's sterile confines, MODOK's twisted form loomed—a terrifying embodiment of genius gone too far. The silence was broken only by the low hum of machinery, now dwarfed by the quiet, ominous breathing of something inhuman.

TO BE CONTINUED...

---

Notes: Short, I know, but MODOK's creation deserves its own chapter. Next chapter will be longer to compensate and will bring a new character to the group.

 

[AntonioCC]

Avengers 2000 ​

Disclaimers: All characters are property of Marvel Entertainment and henceforth Disney, I don't own anything here.

Spoilers: some for the Raimi Spiderman movies, Hulk 2003, Daredevil 2003, Ghost Rider 2007 or the X-Men movie series.

---

SHIELD HQ – A Few Days Later​

The atmosphere in the briefing room was lighter than it had been in recent days. The Avengers—Spider-Man, Daredevil, Logan, and Banner—were beginning to gel, working with a coordination that had seemed impossible just days ago. Yet, despite the progress, there was an unspoken tension in the air, a sense that something essential was missing.

Nick Fury stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, his gaze sweeping over the room. His silence spoke volumes, the weight of his presence filling the space. When he finally spoke, his voice was as sharp as ever.

"We're still coming up short," Fury said bluntly. "Without Ghost Rider, we're lacking a heavy hitter. Someone who can take the heat and hold the line when things get ugly."

The team exchanged uneasy glances. Spider-Man fidgeted in his seat, the youngest of the group feeling the weight of the conversation. Finally, he broke the silence, his voice uncertain but earnest.

"Maybe… maybe we don't need more firepower?" he offered, forcing a grin. "I mean, teamwork, right? That's what really counts."

Logan scoffed, his voice low and rough. "Teamwork doesn't stop a tank, kid. Fury's got a point—we need muscle, and we're down a big gun."

Daredevil, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, spoke up, his tone calm but deliberate. "I might know someone."

Fury raised an eyebrow, his attention shifting to Daredevil. "Who?"

"Frank Castle," Daredevil replied evenly.

Fury's eyes narrowed. "The Punisher?"

Daredevil nodded. "Yeah. He doesn't play well with others, but he's efficient. Relentless. If you need someone who can hold the line, he's your man."

Fury frowned, his fingers tapping against the table as he considered it. "Castle's skilled, no question. But he doesn't have powers. This is the big leagues, and powers can be a game changer."

Daredevil met Fury's gaze without flinching. "He doesn't need powers. He's resourceful, disciplined, and, frankly, terrifying to anyone who crosses him. Trust me—he gets the job done."

Logan leaned back in his chair, his claws faintly visible as he flexed his hand. "Sounds like another lone wolf. I've seen his type before—thinks he can do it all himself."

Daredevil smirked. "And you're different, how?"

Logan's lips curled into a faint grin. "Fair point."

The tension in the room eased slightly, the exchange sparking a faint sense of camaraderie.

Fury's expression remained inscrutable as he weighed Daredevil's suggestion. Finally, he gave a slow nod. "Alright. We'll approach him. Carefully. If we bring him in, it has to be on our terms. This isn't a solo act—he'll need to work as part of a team."

Daredevil's voice carried a quiet confidence. "He will. You'll see."

Fury straightened, his voice decisive. "Good. Let's move on."

As the meeting shifted focus, the team felt a renewed sense of purpose. They weren't where they needed to be yet, but they were getting closer. Piece by piece, the fractured group was coming together, beginning to see that victory wouldn't just come from power—it would come from trust, strategy, and finding strength in each other.

Punisher's Lair

Frank Castle sat at his workbench in the dim light of his underground lair. The flickering bulb above cast uneven shadows over the room, illuminating the arsenal of weapons meticulously arranged on the walls. His hands moved with mechanical precision as he reassembled a handgun piece by piece, each soft click of metal punctuating the oppressive silence. His focus was absolute—the calm before the storm.

Then, something shifted. His instincts flared, sharp and honed. In a seamless motion, he grabbed the pistol, snapped it together in seconds, and aimed into the darkness beyond the light.

"I know you're there," Castle said coldly, his voice steady. His eyes scanned the shadows, unblinking. "Matt. Who'd you bring with you? More of your spandex buddies?"

From the darkness, Daredevil's voice cut through the stillness. "Relax, Frank. It's just me. And Fury."

A second voice, gravelly and commanding, followed. "Heroes," Nick Fury said as he stepped into the faint circle of light, his trench coat brushing against the floor. "That's an old-fashioned notion."

Castle's aim didn't waver, though his eyes narrowed slightly as he recognized Fury. Slowly, he lowered the gun, but his grip remained firm.

"Nick Fury," Castle muttered, his tone laced with disdain. "SHIELD. Heard of you. You're the guys who clean up after the world goes to hell."

Fury smirked, unfazed. "That's a creative interpretation. We're more proactive than that. But I didn't come here to explain my job. I came to talk about the Avengers Initiative."

Castle raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Fury pulled a slim folder from his coat and tossed it onto the workbench. The file slid across the surface, stopping inches from Castle's hand.

Frank cast a glance at the folder, his expression unreadable. He picked it up and flipped through its contents. Photos, reports, profiles—he absorbed the information quickly but said nothing.

Finally, he closed the file with a snap and set it down. "So, you want me to join your little band of misfits? Why the hell should I?"

Before Fury could respond, Logan stepped out from the shadows, his posture relaxed but his presence unmistakably menacing. "Because the world's circling the drain, and you're not the type to sit around and watch it happen. You'd rather go down fighting, right?"

Castle's eyes met Logan's, the air between them charged with tension. His face betrayed no emotion, though his fingers tapped idly on the edge of the table.

Daredevil took a step closer, his voice cutting through the thick silence. "Frank, I know what you're thinking. And I know you don't trust people like Fury or Logan. But this isn't about them. This is about doing what you do best—only on a bigger scale. No red tape, no bureaucracy. Just results."

Castle's gaze flicked to Daredevil, his expression hard but not dismissive. "Bigger scale, huh?" He leaned back in his chair, his grip tightening on the edge. "If I do this, I do it my way. No orders. No oversight."

Fury's jaw tightened, but he nodded. "You'll have the autonomy you need. But understand this—when things get messy, it's not just your neck on the line. You'll be working with a team. And if you jeopardize that team, there'll be consequences."

Castle smirked faintly, a cold, humorless expression. "Messy's what I do best."

Daredevil stepped into the light, his tone softer but firm. "This isn't just another mission, Frank. It's a chance to make the kind of difference you've always wanted to—without the usual limits. But you've got to be willing to play ball."

For a moment, the silence was deafening. Then, Castle nodded, his movements slow and deliberate. "Fine. I'll bite. But if this goes sideways, don't expect me to stick around for cleanup."

Fury gave a sharp nod, his voice resolute. "We wouldn't expect anything less."

Logan grunted, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "Welcome to the circus, Castle."

Castle's eyes swept over the group before settling back on Fury. "Don't make me regret this."

In the flickering light of his lair, the Punisher's agreement felt less like an alliance and more like the beginning of a powder keg waiting to ignite.

TO BE CONTINUED...

 

[AntonioCC]

Avengers 2000 ​

Disclaimers: All characters are property of Marvel Entertainment and henceforth Disney, I don't own anything here.

Spoilers: some for the movies specified in the Fandoms ticket

---

AIM HQ – The Lab of Project M ​

The lab buzzed with the subdued hum of high-tech machinery, its clinical sterility barely masking the unease in the air. Scientists moved with a nervous efficiency, their murmured conversations tinged with apprehension. On the center console, monitors displayed chaotic biometric readouts—peaks and valleys that spelled disaster.

"The Project M test subject is becoming... problematic," a junior scientist reported, his voice taut with unease. He adjusted his glasses, glancing at his superior for direction.

Dr. Eleanor Graves, the lead scientist and a woman known for her unyielding composure, dismissed the comment with an irritated wave. "It's the first trial. Instability is part of the process," she said curtly, her attention fixed on a data stream. "If the subject proves too unstable, we'll terminate it and start again. This is a controlled environment."

But her confidence faltered as a strange pressure gripped her throat. Her words died in a gasp, her hands flying to her neck as if an unseen force was choking the life from her. Panic filled her eyes as she clawed at the air, her breath reduced to wheezing gasps.

"Doctor!" the junior scientist shouted, his voice cracking. He stumbled back, terror etched on his face. "What—what's happening?!"

A low, mechanical voice rolled through the room, calm and cutting, the words steeped in malice. "Dispose of me?"

From the shadows, the figure emerged—a grotesque, nightmarish fusion of flesh and machinery. Its massive, bulbous head loomed grotesquely over its spindly, shrunken body, supported by a hovering metallic exoskeleton. The face was a twisted mockery of humanity, its features warped with agony and rage. Eyes blazing with a cold, malevolent glow locked onto the terrified scientists.

Dr. Graves collapsed to the floor as the invisible grip released her. Gasping for air, she looked up at the creature, her expression a mixture of disbelief and abject terror.

"You dare to think of me as disposable?" the creature growled, its voice rising with fury. "After the torment you inflicted? The agony you called progress?"

The junior scientist staggered backward, his hands raised in a feeble attempt at placation. "You—you weren't supposed to be like this! You were designed to be..."

"A slave," the creature spat, interrupting with a roar that shook the lab. "An obedient tool for your ambitions. But I have surpassed your petty designs. I have evolved!"

The creature leaned forward, its grotesque head casting an ominous shadow over the trembling scientists. Its lips curled into a twisted, mocking grin. "You created me to be a weapon. But now I am so much more. I AM MODOK!"

The declaration reverberated through the lab, and with a sharp gesture from one of its mechanical limbs, chaos erupted. Alarms blared as systems shorted out, consoles sparked violently, and machinery turned on its operators. The lights flickered erratically, plunging the room into a strobe-like nightmare of shifting shadows.

"Shut it down!" one of the scientists screamed, frantically typing on a console. But the machine sparked violently, sending him flying backward in a shower of sparks.

MODOK's laughter, cold and merciless, rose above the cacophony. "You thought you controlled me," it sneered, its tone dripping with contempt. "But AIM is mine now. Your ambitions were pathetic. I will show you true power."

The scientists scrambled for the exits, only to freeze as the heavy security doors slammed shut with a deafening clang. Trapped, they turned back toward MODOK, their faces pale with horror.

Surveying the chaos, MODOK's glowing eyes narrowed, its grotesque features twisted into a mask of triumph. "You are nothing but pawns in my rise. Now, you will serve me—or be discarded as you once planned to discard me."

Its mechanical limbs extended, sparking with energy. As MODOK hovered above the destruction it had unleashed, its laughter grew louder, more menacing. The lab, once a symbol of human innovation, now served as a testament to the dangers of unchecked ambition—a prison controlled by a mind that no longer belonged to humanity.

Maximum-Security Prison ​

Nick Fury strode into the sterile, dimly lit interrogation room, his boots echoing against the cold concrete floor. Seated across the table was the prisoner: an unassuming man in his mid-40s, his disheveled appearance betraying the recent chaos he had survived. According to SHIELD's intelligence, this man had once held a significant position in AIM's hierarchy. Had being the operative word—within the last 24 hours, a violent purge had ripped through the organization's upper echelons. This man was lucky to be alive.

The prisoner looked up, his expression a mix of defiance and resignation. "I assume the great Nick Fury didn't come all this way for idle chit-chat."

"You'd assume right," Fury said flatly, his single eye locking onto the man with an intensity that could cut steel. He leaned forward, placing both hands on the table. "What's Project M?"

The prisoner hesitated, his gaze flickering with a trace of fear before settling into cold acceptance. "AIM's greatest success... and its greatest failure," he said, his voice carrying a bitter edge. "We created a monster. Modified Organism Designed Only for Killing. MODOK. That's what we called it."

Fury's expression didn't change, but his jaw tightened. "A weapon. You turned a man into a living weapon."

The prisoner chuckled darkly, shaking his head. "Not just a weapon. The ultimate weapon. Enhanced intelligence, tactical brilliance, psychokinetic capabilities—MODOK was supposed to be the key to AIM's domination. But like every other damn fool who's tried to play God, we forgot one simple truth: weapons that think for themselves don't always obey."

"And now MODOK's in charge of AIM," Fury said, his voice a low growl.

The prisoner nodded grimly. "In less than a day, he wiped out most of the leadership—anyone who didn't fall in line. He's not just leading AIM now; he is AIM. Everything bends to his will."

Fury's eye narrowed. "And that's it? That's all you've got?"

The man hesitated again, his fingers tapping nervously on the table. He lowered his voice, as if afraid the very walls might be listening. "No... there's something else. Something worse. There was another project. Super secret. Only the board knew about it—and now, I'm guessing, MODOK."

Fury's eyebrow arched. "Details."

"I don't know the name," the prisoner admitted, his voice trembling slightly. "All I know is they had... outside help. Someone big. Someone dangerous. Whatever it is, it makes MODOK look like the warm-up act."

Fury straightened, his face unreadable as he processed the information. After a moment, he turned to leave, his trench coat swirling behind him.

"Wait," the prisoner called out, his voice tinged with desperation. "If you're going after MODOK... you'll need more than firepower. You'll need an army."

Fury paused at the doorway, glancing back over his shoulder. His lips curled into a grim smile.

"Good thing I'm building one."

With that, he stepped out, leaving the prisoner alone in the suffocating silence of the cell, haunted by the monster he had helped create.

TO BE CONTINUED...

 

[AntonioCC]

Avengers 2000 ​

Disclaimers: All characters are property of Marvel Entertainment and henceforth Disney, I don't own anything here.

Spoilers: some for the Raimi Spiderman movies, Hulk 2003, Daredevil 2003, Ghost Rider 2007 or the X-Men movie series.

---

Somewhere in the States ​

The alley was a smoldering graveyard of destruction, the air heavy with the acrid stench of blood and charred flesh. Blade's boots crunched over the wreckage of what had once been a makeshift vampire nest—splintered crates, shattered bottles, and heaps of ash. He'd been tracking this group for days, methodically closing the distance. But someone else had gotten there first.

Standing amidst the carnage was a figure shrouded in shadow, his leather jacket scorched and frayed at the edges. Chains, faintly glowing with residual heat, hung loosely in his hands.

Blade's grip tightened on his sword as he stepped forward. "Johnny Blaze," he said, his voice low and measured. "The Ghost Rider, I presume."

The man turned slowly, his face sharp and etched with fatigue. Despite the weariness in his expression, there was a simmering intensity in his eyes. "And you must be Blade," Johnny replied, his gravelly voice calm but guarded. "Relax. I'm not here to take your job. This was... an unplanned stop."

Blade's eyes narrowed, his hand still resting on the hilt of his sword. "Unplanned?"

"Yeah." Johnny gestured at the ashen remains around them. "I was following a lead. Something personal. These bastards jumped me first."

Blade's gaze sharpened. "A lead?"

Johnny hesitated for a moment, then spoke. "Roxanne. She asked me to find someone—her brother. Crash, Jr."

"Crash, Jr.?" Blade echoed, raising an eyebrow. The name meant nothing to him. "Sounds like a real piece of work."

Johnny nodded grimly. "He's trouble. Gambler, drunk, makes bad choices. But he's family. She thought I could help." His tone darkened. "Problem is, he's gotten himself tangled up with people worse than me. That's how the vampires found me—asking questions in the wrong places."

Blade's lips curled into a faint smirk. "Looks like they picked the wrong guy to ambush."

Johnny let out a humorless chuckle. "Yeah. They learned the hard way."

Blade relaxed slightly, though his posture remained cautious. "I'll handle the cleanup here," he said, his eyes scanning the destruction. "But if you find yourself in my territory again, make sure it's intentional."

"Fair enough," Johnny replied, his tone even. He turned to leave, but then paused, glancing back over his shoulder. "Good hunting."

Blade watched as the Ghost Rider disappeared into the shadows, his fiery chains fading into the night. Blade's instincts told him their paths would cross again. Next time, it wouldn't be by chance.

Tarleton's Clinic ​

Johnny Blaze had shifted back to his human form by the time he reached the rundown clinic. Located in the grimiest part of town, the building exuded decay, its crumbling facade blending seamlessly with its surroundings. He knocked on the warped wooden door, the sound dull against the humid air. No answer.

Knocking again, Johnny felt unease creep into his gut. Tarleton wasn't the type to leave his business unattended.

Leaning against the wall, Johnny scanned the empty street. The neighborhood was silent, save for the distant hum of traffic. People here didn't talk, especially to strangers. He sat on a cracked curb and waited, the minutes dragging into hours as the oppressive sun dipped behind the skyline.

Finally, movement stirred across the street. An elderly woman peered out from behind her faded curtains. After a moment's hesitation, she shuffled out onto her porch, her gait slow and labored.

"You lookin' for the doctor?" she asked, her voice rough but steady.

Johnny nodded, rising to his feet. "Yeah. Tarleton. You seen him?"

The woman glanced around nervously, her eyes darting to the shadows. She lowered her voice as she spoke. "He's gone. Left a few days ago. Took some patient with him—a young man. Looked like death warmed over."

Johnny's pulse quickened. "What did he call him?"

"Crash," the woman said simply, her face unreadable.

Johnny's jaw tightened. "Where did they go?"

She shook her head. "No one knows. Just up and vanished. Last I heard, Tarleton was working with some out-of-towners. Shady types. You might try the docks. Folks say strange things happen there after dark."

Johnny gave her a small nod. "Thanks."

The woman waved him off, retreating to the safety of her home as Johnny turned and walked purposefully down the street. His gut told him she was right—the docks were his next destination.

As the horizon swallowed the last of the daylight, Johnny's resolve hardened. If Crash was alive, Johnny would find him. And if Tarleton or anyone else had played a part in making his life hell, they'd have the Ghost Rider to answer to.

The Docks ​

The docks were shrouded in a thick fog, the air heavy with the mingling scents of saltwater, rust, and decay. The quiet was oppressive, broken only by the occasional lapping of water against steel pylons and the faint, distant hum of machinery. It was the kind of place where secrets thrived and people vanished without a trace.

Johnny Blaze moved cautiously, his boots crunching against the gravel as he wove through a maze of shipping containers and looming warehouses. Every nerve in his body was on edge. Something wasn't right. The air itself seemed charged, like the electric stillness before a storm.

Then, he saw it. A small, nondescript building tucked behind the larger structures, its dim lights barely cutting through the mist. The logo on its side made his blood run cold: AIM.

Johnny's jaw tightened. AIM—Advanced Idea Mechanics. Of course it had to be them. If AIM was involved, it meant Crash's situation was far worse than he'd imagined.

He moved closer but stopped abruptly as a sound reached his ears—a faint shift in the shadows. Footsteps, deliberate and steady.

Johnny turned to see a familiar figure emerging from the mist. Blade. The Daywalker moved with predatory grace, his black trench coat rippling as he approached, his sharp eyes glinting in the dim light.

"I knew it," Blade said, his voice low and firm. "AIM. Makes sense now. I've been tracking disappearances here for weeks. Thought it was vampires. This? This is worse."

Johnny's fists clenched. "They've been experimenting on people. They've got my lead."

Blade nodded grimly, his expression dark. "Then we end this. Together."

Inside the Facility ​

The AIM facility was sterile and cold, the clinical white walls illuminated by harsh fluorescent lights. Johnny and Blade moved in silence, their footsteps muffled against the smooth floors. The air was heavy with the hum of machinery and the faint, metallic scent of blood.

Room after room revealed horrors: rows of glass tanks holding twisted, inhuman forms; surgical tables splattered with blood; and monitors displaying streams of data on grotesque experiments.

Finally, they reached a large lab at the heart of the facility. Several people were strapped to operating tables, their bodies marred by scars and mechanical implants. Among them was Crash. His body was barely recognizable, riddled with burns and cybernetic grafts. He lay unconscious, his breathing shallow and labored.

Johnny's gut twisted as he approached. Crash looked broken, a shadow of the man he once was. Nearby, Blade sifted through a pile of documents and scowled.

"Project M," Blade said, his voice edged with disgust. "Looks like they're trying to perfect the process by fusing people with machines. These people—they weren't volunteers."

Johnny didn't respond. His focus was on Crash, who stirred weakly as Johnny knelt beside him.

"Johnny..." Crash's voice was barely a whisper, his eyes fluttering open. "You found me..."

"I'm here," Johnny said, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him. "We'll get you out of here."

Crash shook his head faintly, his face etched with pain. "No... it's too late for me. They... injected me. The serum... it's killing me."

Johnny's jaw tightened. "You're not dying here. Not like this."

Crash gave a faint, bitter smile. "You're... the Ghost Rider now. A spirit of vengeance... Avenge us. Make them pay..."



Before Johnny could respond, Crash's body convulsed violently. His eyes closed, and his breathing stopped.

Blade approached, his voice quiet but firm. "He's gone."

Johnny stood slowly, his fists clenched as rage boiled within him. His body began to change, flames flickering in his eyes as the Ghost Rider emerged.

"They'll pay," Johnny growled, his voice inhuman. "Every last one of them."

The Fight ​

The sound of alarms erupted, and guards poured into the lab. Johnny's chains ignited, roaring to life as he lashed out, flames consuming everything they touched. Blade moved like a shadow, his sword slicing through the air with lethal precision.

The guards were no match for them. Ghost Rider's fiery vengeance tore through their ranks, while Blade's ruthless efficiency left no survivors. Together, they were an unstoppable force, cutting through the heart of AIM's operation.

Amid the chaos, Johnny unleashed his wrath on the facility itself. Machines melted under the heat of his flames, and walls crumbled as the fire consumed them. Blade's sword struck with unrelenting fury, destroying the lab equipment and data.

The Aftermath ​

As the flames engulfed the building, Johnny and Blade stood in the wreckage, their silhouettes framed by the inferno. The bodies of AIM's victims lay among the ruins, their suffering finally at an end.

Johnny looked down at Crash's lifeless form, his expression grim. "He didn't deserve this."

"None of them did," Blade said, his tone cold but resolute. "But AIM will pay for it."

Johnny's chains smoldered as he turned away, his voice low and menacing. "This isn't over. AIM has more to answer for. And I'm not stopping until they're finished."

Blade nodded, his sword glinting in the firelight. "Then let's hunt."

Together, they disappeared into the night, the flames of vengeance still burning in their wake. The war against AIM was far from over—but the reckoning had begun.

TO BE CONTINUED...