"I am Thor Odinson," he declared again, voice rolling like distant artillery. "And I am worthy."
The Destroyer turned fully toward him. Its faceplate flared molten orange, the same color that had once signaled Loki's cold amusement from the throne room in Asgard. The armor took one deliberate step forward, ground cracking beneath its weight.
Thor did not wait.
He charged.
Mjolnir met the Destroyer's forearm in a collision that rang across the fjord like a struck bell. Sparks flew—white lightning against black Uru. The Destroyer staggered half a step, the first time anything had forced it backward since its descent.
Thor spun, hammer trailing electric arcs, and struck again: ribs, shoulder, helm. Each blow landed with the weight of reclaimed divinity. The Destroyer answered with its own furnace-hot disintegration beam. Thor raised Mjolnir; the beam scattered in a harmless corona of light and heat.
The fight was not long.
Thor leaped high, summoned a bolt from the churning clouds, channeled it through the hammer, and brought the full force down on the Destroyer's head. The faceplate crumpled inward.
Molten metal sprayed outward in a brief, violent shower. The armor's limbs jerked once, twice—then stilled. A final gout of fire erupted from its chest before the entire construct collapsed into a smoking heap of twisted alloy.
Silence fell, broken only by the patter of rain and the low crackle of cooling metal.
Thor stood over the wreckage, breathing hard. Rain sluiced blood and dirt from his face. He looked toward the crater where Mjolnir had lain for so long, then toward the group watching from the roadside.
Jane Foster stood frozen, hands pressed to her mouth. Darcy Lewis—bundled in an oversized parka—held her phone aloft, recording with trembling fingers. Erik Selvig stared, glasses fogged, muttering something about impossible energy signatures.
Sif and the Warriors Three limped forward. Volstagg clapped a meaty hand on Thor's shoulder. "By the Allfather's beard, brother. You are truly back."
Fandral offered a weak, bloodied grin. "Took you long enough."
Hogun said nothing, but the nod he gave was deeper than words.
Sif sheathed her sword. "Loki must answer for this."
Thor turned his gaze skyward. "He will."
Far above, unseen by mortal eyes, Heimdall stood upon the broken bridge of the Bifrost. His golden armor was cracked, his eyes still dimmed by Loki using the Casket of Ancient Winters.
But the moment Thor reclaimed worthiness, something ancient stirred within the gatekeeper. Will alone—fierce, unyielding—shattered the ice that bound him. Frost cracked and fell away in glittering shards. Heimdall drew in a breath that tasted of storm and starlight.
He raised his sword.
The Bifrost ignited.
A column of rainbow light tore through the clouds and struck the ridge. The air itself sang with the sound of tearing space. Thor turned to his friends.
"I must return," he said. "Loki sits upon the throne. Asgard bleeds under his lies."
Sif stepped forward. "Then we go with you."
The Warriors Three nodded as one.
Thor looked at Jane. She had walked closer during the fight, rain plastering her hair to her face. Her eyes were wide, shining with something between awe and heartbreak.
"Jane Foster," Thor said softly. "I owe you more than I can repay."
She swallowed. "You're leaving."
"I must. But I will return." He reached out, brushed a wet strand of hair from her cheek. "This is not goodbye."
Jane managed a small, trembling smile. "You'd better not make me wait forever, thunder boy."
Thor leaned down and kissed her—gentle, lingering, the kind of kiss that promised more than words could carry. When he pulled back, lightning flickered in his eyes.
The Bifrost beam widened. Thor raised Mjolnir. Sif, Volstagg, Fandral, and Hogun stepped into the light beside him.
In a flash of prismatic brilliance, they were gone.
The beam winked out. The ridge fell quiet again, save for the wind and the distant crash of waves.
Jane stood staring at the empty space where Thor had been. Darcy lowered her phone. "Holy crap. That just happened."
Selvig adjusted his glasses. "We need to get back to the lab. There's… data to process."
Jane didn't move. Her gaze had shifted to the far side of the road.
A figure in crimson-and-black armor lay slumped against a low stone wall. The chest plate was torn open, exposing shredded wiring and a hollow where something vital had once glowed. The helmet remained sealed, faceplate dark and reflective.
"Who the hell is that?" Darcy asked.
Jane frowned. "She fought the thing. Before Thor got his hammer back."
Selvig squinted. "Armor looks… advanced. Not Asgardian. Not S.H.I.E.L.D."
Jane took a step forward. "We can't just leave her here."
Darcy snorted. "She could be dangerous."
"She took on that walking tank," Jane countered. "And lost. Badly."
They approached cautiously. The armored figure didn't move. Rain drummed against the metal shell.
Jane knelt. "Hey… can you hear me?"
No response.
She reached for the seam where the helmet met the gorget. Her fingers found a latch. "I'm going to get this off. If you're hurt, we can help."
Darcy hovered behind her. "This feels like a bad idea."
Jane ignored her. She worked the latch free. The faceplate hissed, releasing pressure. She lifted it carefully.
Before the visor could rise fully, something changed.
A low, almost subsonic hum filled the air—not thunder, not wind. It came from nowhere and everywhere.
Jane froze.
In the secret room beneath the Manhattan mansion, three Infinity Stones rested in their velvet-lined cases. The Space Stone flared suddenly. A pulse of azure light washed across the chamber walls. The stone trembled, then lifted an inch off its cushion. It spun once, slowly.
Then it reached.
Half a world away, on a rain-soaked Norwegian ridge, the broken armor around Jennifer Marie Hale began to glow—not the crimson of hellfire, but a pure, electric blue. Jane yanked her hand back as the metal shimmered.
"What the—"
Space folded.
There was no sound, no flash, no dramatic vortex. One moment Jennifer was there, slumped in ruined armor on foreign soil. The next, she was gone.
The armor shell collapsed inward—empty.
Jane stumbled back. "She just… vanished."
Darcy stared at the spot. "Okay, that was not normal."
Selvig muttered, "Spatial displacement. Instantaneous. No residual energy signature I can detect."
Jane looked down at her empty hands. "Whoever she was… she's gone."
In the master bedroom of the five-story Manhattan mansion, air displaced with a soft whump.
Jennifer Marie Hale appeared in mid-fall.
She hit the mattress naked, skin slick with Norwegian rain and sweat. The sheets were still warm from where Natasha had slept earlier.
Jennifer gasped, lungs seizing at the sudden change in pressure and temperature. Her body—mortal, unenhanced—ached in a dozen places: bruised ribs, scraped palms, the dull throb where the Destroyer had torn her reactor free.
She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling. Rain pattered against the tall windows. New York traffic hummed far below.
The Space Stone had acted on its own.
She hadn't summoned it. Hadn't even touched it. But it had known—known she was exposed, known she was vulnerable, known the risk of Asgardians or S.H.I.E.L.D. prying into her identity. So it had reached across the planet and pulled her home.
She laughed once—short, breathless, half-hysterical.
Then she sat up.
Across the mansion, in the sub-basement weapons room (once home to her silenced pistol, instant-kill crossbow, and later the Marvel armors), the ruined Marvel 2 appeared with the same soft displacement of air. It crashed to the floor in a heap of dented plates and dangling cables. The torn chest cavity gaped like a wound. No reactor. No power.
Jennifer swung her legs off the bed. Her bare feet touched cool hardwood. She walked to the full-length mirror.
She looked… ordinary.
No glowing eyes. No aura of transcendence. Just a twenty-seven-year-old woman with dark circles under her eyes, wet hair plastered to her neck, and a body covered in bruises that would take days to fade. Her skin still carried the faint scent of pine and salt from Norway.
She touched her reflection.
"I'm back to square one," she whispered.
Not quite.
The Stones were here. Five favors from Mephisto waited to be called. Blueprints sat encrypted in the workshop drives. Money waited in offshore accounts. The Cadillac sat polished in the garage.
And Natasha, well, Jennifer glanced toward the bedroom door. The mansion was quiet. Too quiet.
She crossed to the intercom panel on the wall.
She padded barefoot down the hall, leaving wet footprints. The security feed in the study showed empty corridors. No Natasha.
Jennifer opened the external cameras.
Outside, three blocks away, Natasha Romanoff moved like a shadow between alley walls. Two men—low-level arms dealers, by the look of their tactical vests—lay unconscious at her feet. A third was trying to run. Natasha caught him in three strides, drove him face-first into brick, zip-tied his wrists.
She glanced once toward the mansion—almost as if sensing she was being watched—then melted back into the night.
Jennifer exhaled.
Natasha hadn't been home. Hadn't seen her arrive naked and broken. That was something.
She returned to the bedroom, pulled a robe from the closet, and wrapped it around herself. The fabric felt foreign after so long in armor.
She sat on the edge of the bed.
Thor was back in Asgard. Loki's lies would be exposed—soon, if not already. The timeline had held. The Destroyer was scrap. The "friend" who'd pruned her branches would presumably stay satisfied.
She looked toward the floor, where the secret panel hid the Stones.
One more thing the Space Stone had done, unbidden: it had brought her home before anyone could see her face.
Jane Foster had come close. Too close.
Jennifer smiled thinly.
"Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades," she murmured.