Both Steve Rogers—the real one and the Hydra—understood this truth with crystalline clarity: this battle couldn't be won through superior technique alone.
Their training was identical, muscle memory carved from the same source. Every strike was met with the perfect counter. Every grapple neutralized by the exact defense they themselves would have used.
But time wouldn't allow them to remain locked in endless stalemate.
They needed to decide the victor immediately.
The collision crisis wouldn't wait for their personal drama to conclude.
Both men's eyes fixed on the same objective without any prior coordination.
Mjolnir.
Thor's legendary hammer lay on the grass mere meters away, its Uru metal surface gleaming in the afternoon sun.
Anyone worthy of lifting that weapon would gain the power of Thor himself—divine strength, command over lightning, near-invulnerability.
With that power, victory would be assured.
It was unclear which Steve moved first. Perhaps they'd both lunged simultaneously, their identical instincts triggering at the exact same microsecond.
They sprinted toward the hammer.
The impostor dove low, his hands grasping for the real Steve's ankles. Both men crashed to the ground in a tangle of limbs, grass and dirt flying up around them.
The real Steve recovered first, rolling to his feet. But he'd barely taken three running steps before a hand closed around his throat from behind.
"You think you can strangle me?" Steve rasped, his voice strained but defiant.
He jerked his shoulder violently, using his opponent's momentum against him. The over-the-shoulder throw should have sent the impostor flying—would have worked on literally anyone else.
But the Hydra Steve had trained for this exact scenario thousands of times. He bent backward mid-throw, his enhanced reflexes allowing him to rotate and land on both feet like a cat.
Then he used his positional advantage to slam the real Steve face-first into the ground.
The impact drove the air from Steve's lungs.
By this point, they were tantalizingly close to Mjolnir.
Close enough to taste victory.
"Don't... even... think about it..." The real Steve gasped, pushing himself up despite the pain.
He lunged forward, wrapping his arms around the impostor's torso and legs, entangling him like a living octopus. Every grappling technique he'd ever learned came into play—joint locks, pressure points, anything to slow his opponent down.
"Aaagh!" The Hydra Steve's face turned purple with exertion, veins standing out on his temples.
He looked drugged, intoxicated with desperate need. His arm stretched forward with every ounce of strength, fingers splayed and grasping toward the hammer's leather-wrapped handle.
So close. Just centimeters away.
"Come on... come on..."
SMACK!
The sound was crisp, definitive.
His hand closed around Mjolnir's handle.
"I won!" Hydra Steve's voice cracked with triumphant laughter. "I won, Steve Rogers!"
"Hail Hydra!"
It was the impostor who'd seized the weapon. The Hydra captain, the false hero who'd ruled for a year.
He burst into manic laughter, already imagining how Thor's divine power would let him reverse everything—defeat Ben Parker, reclaim the Cosmic Cube, reshape reality itself.
But as he tried to lift the hammer, he felt immense, impossible weight.
It was like trying to lift a mountain. The hammer didn't budge even a millimeter.
In that instant, the Hydra captain's eyes glazed over. He forgot to resist, forgot to fight, forgot everything except the horrible truth crushing down on him.
Why?
How is this possible?
How can I not lift it?
He was stunned into absolute stillness.
Am I not worthy?
Was everything I did... wrong?
The thought was poison, an acid that dissolved the foundation of his entire existence.
"That's impossible!" His voice rose to a shout, desperate denial flooding through him.
If everything he'd done was wrong, then what had it all been for? What about the sacrifices he'd made over such a long period? What about his consciousness, his values, his vision of a better world?
If he wasn't worthy—if he'd never been worthy—then he should have just died in Brooklyn all those years ago, beaten to death under his alcoholic father's fists. At least that death would have had meaning.
"I am worthy!" The words tore from his throat. "I am clearly worthy!"
"I lifted it before! I wielded this hammer for an entire year!"
The Hydra captain's shouts echoed across the White House lawn, raw and broken.
He'd completely forgotten about fighting the real Steve Rogers. All that mattered was this moment of devastating revelation.
The real Steve looked at him, and his eyes filled with sympathy and profound sorrow.
This was another version of himself. A parallel possibility, a different life trajectory shaped by different circumstances.
The same person, experiencing different things, arriving at completely opposite answers to the same fundamental questions.
"You were never worthy," Steve said quietly, walking past his kneeling counterpart.
He grasped Mjolnir's handle.
At that moment, lightning called out from the heavens.
Thunder rumbled. Storm clouds gathered from nowhere, darkening the sky.
"Elisa Sinclair changed the worthiness enchantment," Steve explained, his voice gentle despite the power building around him. "That's the only reason you could lift it. But now that she's dead, Odin's original spell has been restored."
He lifted the hammer effortlessly, feeling the divine power course through his body.
"You were wrong from the very beginning, Steve Rogers."
It felt surreal, calling himself by his own name. Like addressing a mirror that had somehow gained malevolent independence.
"Now I'm going to fix everything."
The Hydra Steve had lost all will to continue fighting.
He'd discovered that his entire life had been built on lies. Every victory had been false, every achievement hollow.
He was wrong. About everything.
Hydra wasn't a noble organization. He wasn't a supreme leader born for greatness.
Nothing is born great.
"Greatness is chosen," the real Steve said softly. "By people who decide to do better, be better, despite the cost."
BOOM!!!
Lightning crashed down from the heavens like divine judgment.
The bolt struck the kneeling impostor directly, energy so intense it seemed to erase him from existence.
When the light faded, nothing remained but scorched grass and the faint smell of ozone.
The Hydra captain had perished in a thunderclap.
________________________________________
Minutes later, Steve stood alone in front of the ruined White House. The adrenaline was fading, replaced by a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. He felt somewhat at a loss, the weight of two worlds pressing down on his shoulders.
The distinctive roar of a Quinjet engine cut through the silence.
Steve looked up to see the sleek jet hovering above him. The ramp lowered, and Natasha Romanoff stood there, one hand on her hip, her red hair whipping in the wind. She offered him a small, sad smile.
"Time to go, Captain."
Steve looked at the destruction one last time, then at the woman who had stood by him through everything.
"Yes," he said, the heavy burden in his heart finally beginning to lift. He smiled back, a genuine, tired expression. "Yes, it's time to find a new home."
Far above the atmosphere, beyond the bleeding skies of the dying Earth.
The intercepted Hydra Helicarriers were now arranged in a dense formation, a makeshift armada floating in the void. They were packed to capacity with heroes, villains, and terrified civilians—refugees from a world that had only minutes left to exist.
Alongside them, the massive, sprawling structure of the "Ultron Domain"—the Pym Pocket dimension—had been successfully expanded into real space. This expanse of steel mountains housed millions more.
The fleet did not enter the portal immediately. They lingered, hovering in the silence of space. Millions of eyes looked out of viewports, taking one final, tearful look at the blue marble that had been their home.
They were bidding a solemn farewell to a timeline that was about to end.
The distance between the two Earths was now terrifyingly small. From the vantage point of the evacuation fleet, the looming mass of the other Earth filled the sky, a celestial hammer falling to crush an anvil.
Everyone knew the truth. Within the hour, the planet below would be nothing but cosmic dust.
________________________________________
Ben Parker Universe: Wakanda
The atmosphere in the Royal Palace of Wakanda was significantly more relaxed.
Ben had returned from the crossover incursion, accompanied by the Cosmic Cube and his allies.
"What a pity. That big green guy was quite a fighter, but he lacked technique," Looma remarked, stretching her four muscular arms. She wiped a smudge of soot from her cheek. "Ben, next time there's a good brawl like this, you must call me sooner!"
Looma had thoroughly enjoyed the skirmish, rating the experience a solid eight out of ten. The two missing points were entirely due to the Hulk's lack of martial skill. The beast relied entirely on brute force and rage, which made Looma feel like she was disciplining a wild animal rather than dueling a warrior.
"We have a Hulk in our world too," Ben said with a grin, removing his helmet. "Once things settle down, you can go find him. I'm sure he'd love a sparring partner who doesn't break immediately."
"Have you forgotten? Bruce already resigned from hero work," Otto Octavius interjected. He walked over, glancing at Ben before rolling his eyes toward the corner of the room, giving a subtle wink.
Ben followed Otto's gaze.
Slumped against the vibranium wall was the prisoner they had brought back—one of the Highbreed
The pale, perfect being looked nothing like the arrogant conqueror he had been hours ago. His eyes were unfocused, staring blankly at the floor. He sat with his head in his hands, looking as though he had lost his soul after being beaten by a dozen fierce warriors.
"What's wrong with this guy?" Ben asked, frowning. "He looks broken."
"He's tainted," Otto said, a cruel amusement in his voice.
Ben laughed.
This matter began when he took Bucky to rescue Steve.
In that forgotten jungle, three lost people journeyed together, supporting and helping each other through difficulties.
After defeating one enemy after another and enduring battle after battle, even the Highbreed was wounded.
His wounds were severe, bleeding profusely.
Although it was unknown if their blood types were compatible, out of desperation, the two human, one large and one small, had no choice but to risk giving him a blood transfusion.
The next day, upon waking, the Highbreed discovered that not only were his injuries completely healed, but his body had also become stronger.
The diseases and pains that had previously hidden within his body no longer existed.
His genes had been stabilized.
It was at this moment that his memories returned, and he finally found a way to perpetuate his race.
But the bad news was that he had to merge with the genes of those lowly, inferior life forms.
This was something the Highbreed, who considered himself superior, found difficult to accept.
And what was even harder for him to accept was that he had already done it.
The lowly blood of Earthlings flowed in his veins.
He was already tainted!
At that moment, the rage in his heart made him intensely want to kill the old man and the child.
But his movements woke them up.
The old man and the child had no idea that the monster before them was enraged to the point of madness; they were still joyful about the Highbreed's recovery.
Looking at their genuine smiles and recalling the memories of their time together before his memory returned, the Highbreed found that he simply couldn't bring himself to do it.
He thought, it must be because he had been contaminated with the blood of inferior beings, which had made his thinking weak.