9th April 1999
Water's Edge Restaurant, Long Island City
Aldrich Killian checked his watch for what felt like the tenth time in the last fifteen minutes.
11:51 AM.
The restaurant's lunch crowd was beginning to gather around him. Businessmen occupied corner booths while couples chatted quietly over coffee and sandwiches. Through the large windows overlooking the East River, sunlight sparkled across the water.
Killian took a sip from his glass of water. Then he checked his watch again.
11:52 AM.
He sighed.
This morning's phone call had felt almost too good to be true.
A man calling himself Benjamin Carter had somehow heard about Killian's recently assembled think tank and claimed to be interested in investing. According to Carter, he came from a wealthy English family that occasionally funded promising business ventures.
The caller had suggested lunch. Killian had, of course, accepted immediately. Yet now, sitting alone at his table, doubts were beginning to creep in.
What if this was all just a prank? What if somebody had decided to waste his time?
It wouldn't be the first time.
Growing up with a malformed leg had made him an easy target. There had been jokes. Mockery. Cruel surprises. Invitations designed solely to humiliate him. The memories still lingered.
Aldrich straightened unconsciously. No. He had promised his father he wouldn't let any of that stop him. He would keep moving forward. No matter what.
At exactly noon, the restaurant door opened. Killian looked up.
A young man entered, tall and confident. He wore an expensive navy blue suit and carried a brown leather briefcase in one hand. Walking beside him was a young woman with auburn hair tied neatly behind her head. With a start, Aldrich recognised her as Maya Hansen, whose work his team had been following recently.
The man scanned the restaurant and his eyes found Killian almost immediately. He smiled and approached.
Aldrich felt a flicker of relief. At least the meeting was real.
"Dr. Aldrich Killian?" the young man asked.
"Yes."
The two shook hands.
"Benjamin Carter."
"Pleasure to meet you."
Ben gestured toward his companion.
"May I introduce Miss Maya Hansen, a brilliant genetic biologist."
"How do you do?" Aldrich said, enthusiastically shaking her hand. "I know who you are, Ms Hansen. My team has been following your research since last year."
"Really?" Maya asked, surprised.
"I mean it. Your work on cellular regeneration is fascinating."
That clearly pleased her.
"Thank you."
Ben motioned toward the empty seats.
"Shall we?"
The three settled around the table. A waiter arrived moments later and took drink orders before departing once again. For several seconds casual conversation filled the table.
Then Ben leaned back slightly.
"So, allow me to formally introduce myself," he said, the scientists focusing on him. "My name is Benjamin Carter. I am from England. My family has a habit of investing in promising businesses, scientific ventures, and the occasional startup."
"Recently I've started making independent investments. And your name happened to come across my desk," Ben told Killian, the latter looking pleased. "Though, if I'm being honest, I'm far more interested in your work, Ms Hansen," he told the surprised woman.
"What you are doing is simply revolutionary," Ben said with genuine admiration. "The ability to direct cellular repair and regeneration at the scale you are attempting would completely transform medicine; allowing us to heal severe burns and injuries, repair organ damage, cure diseases we currently consider incurable, even achieve neural regeneration." He gave a soft clap. "Bravo!"
Maya smiled. Most people didn't understand her work. This man clearly did.
The waiter returned briefly with refreshments before disappearing again. Once he was gone, Ben resumed.
"The reason I wanted to meet you both is because I wish to invest in your research," Ben said to Maya before turning to Aldrich, "as well as your think tank. So, if there is any way, Ms Hansen, that you can join the—"
Ben stopped and turned to Killian, "I'm sorry, what exactly is your organization called again?"
Killian looked a tad embarrassed. "We haven't... actually come up with a proper name yet," he admitted.
Ben smiled. "Been keeping busy with the more interesting stuff, no doubt. Well, how about... Prometheus Gentech?" he suggested, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
"Prometheus?" Maya asked.
"The Titan who brought fire to humanity," said Ben. "Appropriate, don't you think? You're trying to change the future. Push humanity forward. Develop technologies that could reshape civilization." He spread his hands. "And Gentech because you'll be combining genetics and technology."
Killian considered it for a few seconds. "Prometheus Gentech," he muttered to himself. Then he looked at Ben with a smile. "I like it. But I'd still like some time to think it over."
"Of course. There's no rush," Ben waved him off. Taking a sip of water, he continued, "As I was saying, I want to invest in both your projects. So if you're willing to join the organization, Ms Hansen, it would make it much easier for me."
Maya exchanged a glance with Killian. She wasn't actually opposed to the idea, but there was still something she needed to know. Fortunately, Killian then asked what they had both been wondering.
"How much investment are we talking about here?"
Ben smiled. He opened the briefcase he had been carrying and took out a sleek silver laptop. A few keystrokes later, a Swiss banking page appeared on the screen. Then he turned it towards them.
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Maya stared.
Killian stared.
Neither spoke.
Displayed prominently on the screen was an account balance containing—
$100,000,000.
"I am prepared to invest this amount in your organisation," Ben said calmly, as if discussing the weather, "provided you agree to a few reasonable requests regarding research direction, transparency, and future development goals."
An hour later, Ben stepped out of the restaurant and onto the sidewalk. The afternoon sun reflected brightly off the water nearby. Behind him, visible through the windows, Aldrich and Maya remained seated at the table, already discussing plans and imagining what came next.
Ben smiled. One hundred million dollars was a significant investment by conventional standards. Yet, compared to what he had gained in return?
Reaching inside his coat pocket, he took out his most recent acquisition — a small reinforced glass vial containing a faintly glowing liquid.
The unfinished Extremis serum.
It was far from perfect right now—unstable and flawed. But the potential. Oh, the potential! In many ways, this was and would remain, his greatest gain in this world. Even Vibranium couldn't match its value for him.
Ever since he had fused with Smaug's essence and his own lifespan had increased drastically, Ben had been searching for a way to do the same for his friends and family, so he wouldn't have to survive millennia alone. Now, with this, he could see a way his loved ones could accompany him on his adventures for as long as they liked.
With a smile, he slipped the vial safely back into his pocket. Then he turned and walked away, already considering the next move in a game that nobody else even realized had begun.
---
10th April 1999
Juvenile Detention Centre, Plymouth
The first thing Grant noticed as he entered the visitor section of the detention centre was the emptiness. No other boys or girls were meeting their loved ones here today before being taken back to their cells. The entire area was vacant right now, save for a man sitting alone at one of the tables.
The stranger rose to his feet as Grant approached. He was neatly dressed in a dark suit and tie, and Grant had the immediate impression that the man worked for the government in some capacity. There was nothing particularly intimidating about him. In fact, his calm, approachable demeanor seemed almost deliberately designed to put people at ease.
"Grant Ward?" the man asked.
Grant nodded.
The man extended a hand. "I am Phil Coulson."
After a moment's hesitation, Grant shook it.
"Our strange mutual acquaintance asked me to drop by," Coulson said. "I'm guessing you know who I am talking about."
Grant immediately thought of the strange young man who had visited him the day before yesterday. A small flicker of relief appeared inside him.
"Benjamin Carter?"
"The very same," Coulson affirmed, then gestured towards the nearby table. They both sat down.
"I've spent most of the last twenty-four hours reviewing all the material he left me," Coulson said, gesturing to a file and a laptop sitting on the table. "Based on everything I've seen, along with what I've learned about your family, getting the charges against you dropped should be relatively straightforward."
For a moment Grant simply stared at him. He hadn't realized how tense he'd been until that instant. The possibility that this nightmare might actually end suddenly felt real. It wasn't guaranteed, but the possibility alone was enough to make something loosen inside his chest.
Coulson seemed to notice.
"There's one thing I'd like to ask before we go any further," he said, expression becoming serious. "And I would like you to answer honestly. Whatever your answer is, I promise I won't judge you for it."
Grant nodded.
"When you started the fire, did you know that your brother Christian was still inside the house?"
The answer came immediately, without even a moment's hesitation.
"No, sir. I did not."
Coulson watched him carefully. The silence stretched for several seconds. Then the agent simply nodded.
"Okay."
That was it.
A few minutes later, the front doors of the visitor room opened.
Grant turned his head to look, and his stomach immediately clenched.
It was his family.
His father walked with the confidence of a man accustomed to getting his way. His mother followed close behind, looking straight ahead and avoiding Grant's eyes entirely. Christian came next, looking uncomfortable and tense. Bringing up the rear was the family lawyer, carrying a leather briefcase stuffed with documents.
The four of them crossed the room and stopped in front of the table. No one greeted Grant. Instead, the lawyer removed a stack of papers and slid them across the table.
Grant's father pointed at them.
"Sign these."
The words were delivered with the same cold authority Grant had heard all his life. Before he could even look at the papers, though, Coulson spoke.
"I would advise against ordering my client, Mr. Ward."
The older man's head snapped toward him.
"Your client?" The irritation in his voice was clearly visible. "Who exactly are you?"
Coulson met his gaze calmly.
"My name is Phil Coulson. We spoke on the phone earlier."
Recognition flickered across Mr. Ward's face.
"Yes, we did. As discussed, Mr Coulson, we are here. Now have your client sign these papers stating that he deliberately set the house on fire, knowing full well Christian was still inside."
Grant felt anger rising inside him. Even now. Even after everything. They still wanted to make him suffer.
Coulson merely smiled.
"Actually, Mr. Ward, I called you here to sign these."
The agent reached into his folder and produced another set of documents, which he placed neatly on the table.
Mr. Ward picked them up and started reading. His expression darkened almost instantly.
"What is this? Is this some kind of joke? You want me and my son to withdraw our allegations against your client and acknowledge that the fire had been accidental?" he asked, face turning red. "Do you have any idea who I am?"
Coulson's expression didn't change.
"Yes," he said. "That's actually the problem."
He opened his laptop and turned the screen toward the family. Then he pressed play.
The first video showed Mr Ward hitting Grant with his belt. The second showed Christian striking him repeatedly while their parents watched unconcerned. The third showed Grant's mother screaming abuse directly into his face while he stood there silently taking it.
One video followed another. When the final clip ended, the room had gone completely silent. Grant's father looked pale. His mother looked horrified. Christian couldn't meet anyone's eyes.
Coulson closed the laptop.
"I know exactly who you are," he said quietly, eyes moving across the family. "Or rather, what you are."
Nobody replied.
"As you can see, I possess evidence documenting prolonged physical, emotional, and psychological abuse of a minor," Coulson said in a controlled voice. "And I am fully prepared to drag you all into court over it."
The lawyer visibly swallowed.
"However, I believe that decision belongs to someone else," Coulson pronounced, turning towards Grant.
Every eye in the room shifted toward him.
Grant stared back at his family. For a brief moment, he imagined telling Coulson to do it. To take them to court. To expose them. To make them suffer. To ruin their lives just as they had tried to ruin his.
But as he looked at them, something unexpected happened. He realised something.
His father wasn't imposing. He looked frightened. His mother wasn't powerful. She looked terrified. For years they had seemed larger than life. Now, standing across the table from him, Grant suddenly saw them for what they really were.
Cowards.
Weak, pathetic cowards.
Slowly, the anger began to fade. Only apathy remained.
Grant's gaze shifted toward Christian. There was one question he had been dying to ask him for years.
"Why?"
Christian looked up.
Grant held his stare.
"Why did you make me throw Thomas into the well?"
Christian's jaw tightened.
"I didn't," he answered reflexively, like he'd rehearsed it a thousand times. "You did that yourself."
Coulson sighed.
"Mr Ward, there's no use lying."
The agent reopened the laptop and played another video, this one showing Christian threatening, coercing Grant into throwing their younger brother into the well, and then refusing to let Grant pull him up.
When the video ended, silence settled over the room once more.
Grant stared at his brother.
"Why?"
Christian didn't answer.
"Why?"
Christian clenched his fists.
"Why?"
"Because I had to!" Christian yelled.
For several seconds Christian simply kept staring at the table. Then he gave a deep shuddering sigh and turned to his parents.
"Thomas was the only one you didn't torture," he said bitterly. "You loved him so much. I wanted you to feel what we felt." He looked at Grant, and for the first time in his life, there was no mockery in his eyes. "But I didn't have the courage to do it myself. So I made you do it."
His gaze dropped.
"I'm sorry."
Grant remained silent. He looked from Christian to his mother and father. Strangely, he didn't feel angry anymore. Just tired.
"I don't want to see any of you ever again," he said at last.
The room went silent.
Coulson slid the affidavit across the table. This time, neither Mr. Ward nor Christian argued. One after the other, they signed. The lawyer witnessed the signatures.
A few minutes later, the Ward family walked out of the room. None of them looked back.
Grant remained seated for several moments after the door closed behind his family. The silence that followed felt strange. For years, the Ward family had dominated every aspect of his life. Their anger, their cruelty, their expectations had shaped his world. Now, for the first time, it was over.
Beside him, Coulson quietly gathered the documents and slid them back into his folder. He didn't rush Grant. He simply waited, giving the teenager time to process what had just happened.
Eventually, Grant rose to his feet.
Coulson stood as well and extended his hand.
"Congratulations," he said with a small smile. "You're officially a free man."
Grant looked at the offered hand for a moment before shaking it. The gesture felt strangely significant.
"Thank you," he said sincerely. "For everything."
"You're welcome." Coulson smiled. "What are your plans?"
Grant thought about it.
"I'll probably go back to the military academy," he admitted. "I'm going to be in a lot of trouble for going AWOL."
A faint grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Hopefully after cleaning enough toilets and scrubbing enough floors, I'll be square again."
"That's one possibility," Coulson chuckled. "How about I offer you another?"
Grant raised an eyebrow.
"I'm listening."
Coulson put the file and laptop inside his briefcase and leaned casually against the table.
"The truth is, Grant, I'm not actually a lawyer. I work for an organization called the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division."
Grant stared.
"That's quite a mouthful."
"Tell me about it," Coulson sighed. "The organization protects the world from all kinds of threats. Some normal. Others, not so much."
"And you're telling me this because...?" Grant inquired.
"Because I think you have potential," Coulson said, looking at the younger man. "We're always on the lookout for talented people. I believe with proper training and guidance, you could become a valuable asset."
Grant was silent for a while.
"Can I think about it?"
"Of course. Take your time," Coulson replied, taking out a business card from his pocket. "Just don't take too long."
Grant accepted it. "What happens now?" he asked.
"I file the paperwork," Coulson replied, picking up his briefcase. "With any luck, the court will process everything duly and you'll be released by the end of the day."
"Thank you," Grant said again, though this time, he meant it even more.
Coulson simply nodded.
A guard appeared moments later to escort Grant back to his cell for now. As the teenager disappeared through the doorway, Coulson found himself oddly hopeful.
He had barely reached the front doors when they opened to admit another visitor. The newcomer was tall, broad-shouldered, and carried himself with the easy confidence of a career military officer.
John Garrett smiled when he spotted his colleague.
"Phil."
"John."
The two agents shook hands.
"What are you doing here?" Coulson asked.
"An old buddy of mine works as a quartermaster at a military academy. Told me about a cadet with off-the-chart hand-eye coordination who somehow ended up in juvenile detention." Garrett shrugged. "I thought I'd come take a look for myself."
Coulson knew immediately who Garrett was talking about.
"This cadet — he wouldn't happen to be named Grant Ward, would he?
"Yep, that's the one," Garrett nodded. "How did you know?"
Coulson couldn't help smiling. Garrett noticed the expression immediately.
"Oh come on," he groaned. "Really?"
"Afraid so," Coulson smiled. "Spoke to him just a few minutes ago."
Garrett shook his head.
"I'm impressed, Coulson. There's a reason you were Fury's favourite," Garrett laughed. "What are you going to do about the family?"
"Already took care of it," Coulson replied easily. "They have dropped all charges against him."
Garrett blinked.
"Seriously?"
"Yep."
"Well, now I am really impressed," Garrett grinned. "How did you manage that?"
Coulson smiled.
"With a little help."
Garrett narrowed his eyes, then shook his head. "Are you recruiting him?" he asked.
"I made the offer."
"Think he's gonna take it?"
Coulson thought for a moment. "I hope so."
Garrett sighed and spread his hands. "Well, guess it can't be helped."
Coulson chuckled. "Sorry."
"Don't be." Garrett grinned. "I'll get the next one."
As the two agents walked out of the visitor section, John Garrett couldn't help but fume inwardly.
He had received information about Grant Ward several days ago. He could have helped him earlier if he had wished to. Instead, he had chosen to wait.
To wait till just before the trial date. To wait until Grant would have no recourse, no hope. And then, John would have appeared before the cornered teenager like a lifeline—one Grant would have no choice but to cling to.
Alas, all that was ruined now. Coulson had not just reached Ward first, but also managed to get the charges against him dropped. There was no way Garrett was going to turn the boy into a useful tool now that his loyalty clearly belonged to someone else.
They had almost reached the front entrance when the building suddenly trembled. A deep vibration rolled through the floor beneath their feet. The two agents steadied themselves as the windows rattled.
Then came the sound of a deafening impact from somewhere outside. Both agents turned towards the windows.
"What the hell was that?" muttered Garrett.
---
A Few Minutes Earlier
Outside the Detention Centre
The Ward family exited the detention centre in silence.
The atmosphere around them was poisonous.
The lawyer wisely chose not to speak.
Christian walked several steps behind his parents, his shoulders hunched and his gaze fixed on the pavement. The moment they reached the car, his mother turned on him.
SLAP!
Christian staggered sideways.
"How dare you!" Her voice shook with rage. "How dare you hurt Thomas!"
People nearby turned to stare.
Mr. Ward immediately grabbed her arm. "Not here," he said, his voice low and urgent.
Mrs Ward looked at her husband, then took a furtive look around. Turning back to Christian, she pointed a trembling finger at him.
"You're finished," she hissed. "You're cut off. From this moment on, you're on your own." She turned towards the car, then glanced back. "Don't even think about coming near us or Thomas ever again!" she spat, fury burning in her eyes.
Without another word, she climbed into the back seat.
Mr. Ward looked at his eldest son. There was disappointment in his gaze. Anger and disgust as well, but no affection, no concern. Nothing a father should feel.
Then he got into the car as well. The lawyer climbed into the front passenger seat. The driver started the engine and pulled away.
Christian remained standing on the pavement. He felt empty, yet at the same time, he felt strangely relieved—like a thorn he had gotten accustomed to had finally been removed. He looked up, watching his parents drive off and hoping he never had to see them again.
Then the world exploded.
One moment the vehicle was driving down the road. The next, something slammed into it from above with catastrophic force.
The impact was accompanied by a blinding flash and a thunderous boom that seemed to shake the entire street. The shockwave knocked Christian back onto the ground.
People screamed. Car alarms erupted everywhere. For several seconds, nobody understood what had happened.
Christian pushed himself upright and looked at where his parents' car had been.
The car was gone. Or at least, any recognizable shape of it was. A burning wreck occupied its place, comprised of twisted metal and shattered glass. Black smoke rose into the sky.
Christian stared in horror. As his mind struggled to comprehend what he was seeing, a calm, almost bored voice spoke beside him, "Fancy that."
Christian jerked around.
A young man stood nearby. Tall, handsome, impeccably dressed in a dark suit. He was looking at the burning wreck thoughtfully, entirely unconcerned by the chaos unfolding around him.
"Killed by a meteorite." He shook his head. "You don't see that every day."
Christian simply stared.
"Still," the stranger continued, his tone conversational. "At least it was quick. And relatively painless." Then he looked directly at Christian. "Which was more than they deserved, really."
A chill ran down Christian's spine.
"Who are you?" he asked, watching the stranger's pleasant, almost friendly expression, which for some reason, he found deeply unsettling.
The young man smiled.
"Just someone passing by."
His gaze drifted briefly toward the burning wreck.
"Righting some wrongs. Punishing the guilty."
Then back to Christian. The stranger studied him for several seconds.
"I don't think you're there just yet."
Christian swallowed. The young man's smile widened slightly.
"Best watch your step, Mr. Ward. You wouldn't want to get hit by a meteorite, or, say, struck by a lightning bolt now, would you?"
As the words came out of his mouth, out of nowhere, a brilliant bolt of lightning slammed into the asphalt less than ten feet away.
The explosion of light and sound sent Christian stumbling backward in panic. People screamed again. Several threw themselves to the ground.
Christian stared at the smoking crater in disbelief. Then he looked up. The sky was completely clear. Not a single cloud in sight.
Slowly, almost fearfully, he turned back towards the stranger.
There was no one there. Christian looked around. The young man was gone, almost as if he had never been there at all.
---
11th April 1999
S.H.I.E.L.D. New York Office
Knock! Knock!
"Enter."
Phil Coulson stepped into the office and quietly closed the door behind him. The room was modest by executive standards, though nobody would have mistaken it for the workspace of an ordinary bureaucrat. Maps covered one wall. Filing cabinets lined another. Several secure communication terminals occupied a side desk. The atmosphere was one of constant activity held tightly under control.
Behind the desk sat Nicholas Joseph Fury.
At this point in his career, Fury had not yet risen to the position of Director, but his reputation within S.H.I.E.L.D. was already legendary. Veteran spy. Intelligence analyst. Field operative. Strategist. Depending on whom one asked, he was either one of the agency's greatest assets or one of its most dangerous cynics.
At the moment, he was studying a file folder bearing the title 9/11. Photographs of burning buildings and crashed planes were spread in front of him.
"How'd it go?" Fury asked.
Coulson took the chair opposite the desk.
"Grant Ward's squared away at the Academy of Operations," Coulson reported. "He'll be fine. Still a bit shaken up, though."
Fury leaned back in his chair.
"I'd be surprised if he wasn't."
The older spy was silent for a moment before continuing.
"Keep an eye on him."
Coulson raised an eyebrow.
"You think Carter's interested in him?"
"I think a man, especially an enhanced, doesn't go through that much trouble for a kid unless he matters," replied Fury. "Getting him out of trouble was one thing. Eliminating the abusive parents was quite another."
"We are certain it was him, then?" enquired Coulson.
Fury opened another folder and slid several photographs across the desk. Coulson picked them up. They showed the remains of the Ward family vehicle.
The car had been reduced to twisted metal and blackened debris. Beside the wreckage lay a large stone.
"We ran all available tests. They revealed something very interesting," said Fury. "Turns out, the so-called meteorite didn't actually come from space. It was an ordinary rock from the nearby Plymouth area that somehow made its way into the upper atmosphere and then came back down. Right on top of the Ward family's car," Fury finished in a grim tone.
"Someone capable of opening portals and using telekinesis could theoretically do it," said Coulson.
Fury gave him a look.
"Both abilities displayed by your late-night visitor."
"What's the angle here?" Coulson thought out loud. "Revenge? Justice?"
"Who knows?" said Fury. "Either way, we're dealing with an enhanced individual who's ready to use his abilities in the open. And that never ends well."
"Any luck identifying him?"
A humourless chuckle escaped Fury.
"Not even a little. We ran the sketch based on your description through every database we could access," Fury frowned. "Nothing. It's like the guy appeared out of thin air."
Coulson's gaze drifted toward the photographs scattered across the desk. He picked up the one showing a smoking collapsed tower.
"You really think it's possible, sir?" he asked. "9/11?"
The older spy leaned back in his chair.
"With the security measures we have today? Yes, Coulson," he answered grimly. "An attack on this scale is absolutely possible."
Coulson studied the photograph again. Thousands dead. Possibly more. The destruction was difficult to comprehend.
"But as horrifying as all this is, these attacks are not what concern me," Fury said to a surprised Coulson. He flipped toward the final pages of the file. "This does."
The page contained a briefing summary. Fury tapped a specific paragraph.
"According to this report, the day before the attacks, the Secretary of Defense announces that the Pentagon cannot account for over 2.3 trillion dollars in transactions. The missing transactions are under active investigation by personnel located in the World Trade Center and the Pentagon."
"The next day," Fury said quietly, "the largest terrorist attack in American history takes place. The World Trade Center is destroyed. The exact section of the Pentagon containing the Army's resource management and financial auditing offices is also destroyed."
Fury stood and walked back toward the window. Outside, New York carried on as normal, completely unaware of the grim future that might await it.
"If this report is accurate," Fury said at last, "then somebody benefits enormously from those attacks. And I'll bet my one good eye that it isn't some group of cave-dwelling Al-Qaeda jihadists."
The certainty in his voice was absolute. Then he spoke again, quietly, almost to himself.
"The question is who. Is there a new player entering the field? Or just some monster from the past that refuses to die?"
Neither man had the answer right now.
But somehow, both suspected they would eventually find one.