Marvel x Genshin: Mavuika, The Sun Goddess Rules Asgard — Chapter 95

Chapter 95: Why Choose Me

After weeks of quiet observation, Howard Stark had reached a conclusion. The man was likely clean. Not a Skrull, not HYDRA.

Howard had personally overseen the deep-dive into Nick Fury’s background. The records were spotless: a clean birth certificate, a scholarship earned through sheer grit, an exceptional record in the special forces after enlisting, and a recruitment into S.H.I.E.L.D. upon his honorable discharge. Every promotion was backed by solid, verifiable achievements. There were no suspicious gaps, no questionable associations.

Of course, Howard knew better than anyone that a pristine file was no guarantee of innocence. HYDRA’s best infiltrators wore perfect masks. But he was out of time. He had to take a gamble, had to entrust these world-altering secrets to someone reliable before he faded completely from the stage.

And so, on a Tuesday afternoon, Howard Stark arranged a private meeting with Nick Fury.

The chosen location was far from the sterile halls of S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters or the opulent Stark Villa. It was an old-fashioned cafe tucked away in Brooklyn, the air thick with the scent of roasted coffee and baked bread. It was a place removed from the centers of power, frequented by local residents who paid no mind to the two seemingly ordinary, middle-aged men occupying a booth in the corner.

Fury arrived precisely on time, dressed in a simple gray suit that did nothing to soften his sharp, vigilant gaze. He slid into the seat opposite Howard, declined to order, and simply waited, his stillness a form of pressure in itself.

“Agent Fury,” Howard began, his voice calm and even. “Thank you for coming.”

“Dr. Stark,” Fury acknowledged with a slight nod, his own voice a low baritone. “The honor is mine. It isn’t every day I’m summoned by you personally.”

Howard studied the younger agent, his mind performing one last assessment. Fury sat perfectly upright, his focus absolute, projecting the coiled energy of a leopard at rest—outwardly calm, but capable of explosive action in a heartbeat.

“I need to tell you something,” Howard said, dispensing with any further pleasantries. “Matters of the highest secrecy. After you hear them, you may wish you never had. But you must know, because as of right now, you are one of the few people left that I am willing to trust.”

Fury leaned forward almost imperceptibly, his entire being tuned to listen.

For the next hour, Howard laid everything bare.

He spoke of the Skrulls, the shape-shifting aliens. He spoke of HYDRA, the cancer that had not been excised in the war but had instead metastasized within the very organization created to stop it. He spoke of Bucky’s fate, and the chilling possibility of deep-cover agents throughout S.H.I.E.L.D.’s ranks.

He produced photographs. He laid out pieces of evidence. He detailed every speculation, every fear that had kept him awake at night for years.

The twin bombshells landed with devastating force, cracking the younger agent’s formidable composure.

The terrorist organization from World War II, HYDRA, was not only still active but had burrowed its way into S.H.I.E.L.D.? Fury’s first instinct was to dismiss it as a paranoid conspiracy theory, but the evidence Howard presented was methodical, logical, and terrifyingly convincing.

And that was only the beginning. When Howard mentioned the green-skinned alien, Fury’s eyes widened, the first genuine crack in his professional mask.

“Alien?” Fury’s voice, for the first time, held a trace of unsteadiness. “You’re talking about… aliens like in the science fiction movies?”

Howard simply nodded and slid a photograph from his briefcase. It was a clear, stark image of the Skrull prisoner, captive in a sterile holding cell. Green skin, ridged chin, pointed ears, and burning yellow eyes. It was unequivocally, undeniably not a species from Earth.

Fury stared at the photograph, his silence stretching for a long, heavy minute. Behind his eyes, a storm was raging. His entire worldview, built on hard facts and tangible threats, was being systematically dismantled and rebuilt into something far more vast and terrifying. As a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, he’d reviewed files on supernatural phenomena and unexplained events, but a real, living alien… this was a different reality entirely.

“So,” Fury finally spoke, his voice regaining its steady calm, though Howard could sense the immense tension coiled beneath the surface. “Not only are we dealing with a Nazi death cult that’s been hiding in the shadows for half a century, but we’re also fighting spies from outer space. And S.H.I.E.L.D., the one organization meant to protect the world, might be compromised by both.”

“Yes,” Howard confirmed, the word heavy with the weight of years. “That is why I need you, Fury. I need someone I can trust. Someone with the skill and the will to continue this fight.”

He pushed a thick folder across the table. “Inside is all the relevant data and evidence I’ve gathered. And…” He paused, letting the final piece settle. “I’m handing over the Skrull prisoner to you. He’s being held in a secure location, but keeping him indefinitely isn’t a solution. We need to learn more from him.”

Fury accepted the folder, his fingers closing around the manila cover, but he didn’t open it. His gaze was fixed on Howard, his eyes a swirling mix of complex emotions: shock, grim determination, and the unmistakable glint of ambition.

“Why me?” Fury asked, his tone direct, cutting through the layers of secrecy. “The agency is full of senior agents, men and women with more experience.”

“Because they might be compromised,” Howard answered with equal frankness. “I don’t know who’s been turned and who’s still clean. But you… your record is immaculate, your performance is exceptional, and most, you’re young. You have the time and the energy to see this long war through to the end.”

Fury was silent for a long time. Outside the cafe window, the life of Brooklyn flowed on, oblivious. Cars passed, pedestrians hurried along the sidewalk, and the world looked painfully, deceptively normal.

“I understand,” Fury said at last, his voice now forged into something harder, something resolute. “When do we transfer the… package?”

“Tonight,” Howard replied. “I’ll provide you with the coordinates and the handover protocol. Remember, Fury, you cannot breathe a word of this to anyone. Not your most trusted partner, not your commanding officer. Until we know the true extent of the infiltration, everyone is a potential enemy.”

Fury nodded, a solemn, final acceptance. He pushed his chair back and stood, drawing himself to attention. He rendered Howard a crisp military salute—not the salute of a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, but that of a soldier to his commander.

“I won’t let you down, Dr. Stark.”

Howard rose as well, extending his hand. Fury took it in a firm grip. “I know you won’t. Good luck, Agent Fury. The world… it needs more men like you.”

After that meeting, Nick Fury was a changed man.

On the surface, he was the same. The same serious agent, the same high-ranking operative known for his decisive action and unerring judgment.

But deep inside, where no one could see, the very foundations of his reality had been shattered and remade.

Aliens were real.

That single truth was like a tectonic plate shifting beneath the orderly continent of his mind, triggering earthquakes and raising mountains where none had existed before. As a pragmatist, an intelligence officer who operated on logic and reason, he had always believed in science, in evidence, in the things that could be explained and verified.

Now, he was forced to accept that the universe was infinitely larger, more complex, and more dangerous than he had ever conceived. Earth was not a solitary sanctuary. Humanity was not alone. And among those distant, glittering stars, there were beings who looked upon this small blue planet with hostile intent.

Then there was the threat of HYDRA.

The Nazi remnant he’d believed was nothing more than a ghost in history books had been alive and growing for seventy years, its tendrils wrapped around the heart of the very institution created to destroy it.

The sheer irony of it filled Fury with a cold, simmering rage. Rage at the infiltrators who had betrayed their oath, rage at the colleagues who had been so blind, and rage at the historical oversights that had allowed this cancer to fester for so long.