Kurogai Blackwood's purpose in seeking out Nick Fury was simple: he needed death row prisoners.
To him, condemned men were nothing more than broken tools, lives already forfeit to the world. Using them for his experiments carried no burden on his conscience. And if anyone could provide such prisoners, it was S.H.I.E.L.D. itself. Recruiting from death row was child's play for them.
Instead of delegating the matter to someone else, Kurogai came directly to Fury. The Director still owed him two favors, and this was the perfect time to cash in one.
Fury leaned back in his chair, his one eye narrowing. "What exactly do you want with death row inmates?"
The question wasn't born of sympathy for the prisoners. Fury had no illusions about the kind of men they were. His concern was for what Kurogai intended to do with them. A man who asked for death row prisoners rarely had harmless plans.
Kurogai's tone was cool and detached. "That's not your concern. Just have them ready."
For a long moment, Fury sat in silence, weighing his options. Kurogai's request was dangerous, maybe reckless, but a deal was a deal. Finally, he exhaled through his nose and gave a slow nod. "Fine. Three days. I'll have them prepared. I don't break my word."
Behind his calm exterior, Fury was already calculating. He would slip a few agents into the transfer, disguised among the prisoners. They would observe, report, and maybe find out what Blackwood was really planning.
But Fury underestimated him. Once anyone stood before Kurogai, loyalty shifted. Betrayal simply wasn't an option. That was exactly why Kurogai approached Fury directly—because the Director had no real way to interfere.
"In three days," Kurogai repeated evenly, his voice carrying finality.
Then, without warning, his head turned sharply toward the north. His eyes narrowed, sensing something vast and unfamiliar.
Far beyond the horizon, in the heart of a desolate desert, a surge of energy ripped through the sky. A beam of multicolored light carved into the earth like a spear, shaking the very air.
Kurogai's lips curved slightly. "A teleportation array…?"
The Asgardians.
"Could it be Thor?" he murmured to himself.
Years ago, when Kurogai realized his second pupil ring—the Mystic Eye—required knowledge of arcane systems, he had laid a massive detection spell across the planet. Whenever an otherworldly presence crossed into Earth, he would know. And now, it was resonating.
His vision shifted, pupils turning white as his Mystic Eye flared open. Across the desert, he saw the source of the beam.
A towering figure stood at its center, framed in light. Long golden hair streamed in the wind, a war hammer clutched in his hand, clad in ancient armor that shimmered beneath the sun.
Thor.
Kurogai frowned. "Too early. Odin hasn't sealed his power, and Mjolnir remains unbound. That means the mortal exile hasn't happened yet." His voice lowered, thoughtful. "Interesting. So the story changes."
Unbeknownst to him, Thor's premature arrival was not coincidence. It was Kurogai's own actions—the devouring of the Power Stone—that had shifted the threads of fate.
"What happened?" Fury asked sharply, watching the younger man's sudden stillness. From where he sat, there was nothing unusual outside the window. The world beyond was calm.
"Nothing that concerns you," Kurogai replied evenly. "Three days. My people will collect the prisoners. Be ready."
A golden aura shimmered around him, and in the next instant, he vanished, leaving only the faint ripple of displaced air.
Thor's arrival demanded answers. Kurogai would see for himself why the god of thunder had descended ahead of schedule. The matter of the death row prisoners could be handled by others. Skye would oversee it. She had the discipline—and the power—to keep order if the experiments bore unruly results.
Fury, left alone, frowned at the empty space where Kurogai had stood. "So, he has people. But why not handle this himself? What's got him distracted?"
He tapped his communicator. "Check the north. Now. I want to know what's happening out there."
Something had shifted. Fury could feel it. And he wasn't wrong.