The Eastern District Federal Courthouse was packed.
The moment the doors opened, a silence swept across the grand courtroom like the closing of a tomb. Public seating overflowed with reporters, legal observers, political correspondents, and international representatives. Cameras, granted special permission due to public interest and international scrutiny, were positioned strategically unobtrusive, yet present. The proceedings were being broadcast live on national television and monitored globally via delayed feeds to translation services.
The air inside the chamber was charged. Not tense, but anticipatory, like the breath before thunder. Every cough, every shift in a seat, every scrape of paper echoed unnaturally loud.
At the bench sat Judge Clarence Rowen, a stern figure in his late sixties. Known for his no nonsense approach, his rulings were often quoted in constitutional law debates. Today, his eyes were unreadable as he surveyed the courtroom from the raised platform.
To his right, the court clerk, bailiff, and stenographer took their places with rehearsed efficiency.
To the left side of the room sat the Department of Justice's representatives, tasked with defending the interests of S.H.I.E.L.D. and the federal government. Flanked by advisors and security personnel, they looked uncomfortable beneath the pressure of international attention.
On the opposite side of the courtroom, seated at the plaintiff's table beneath a soft spotlight of media attention, was Markus.
He sat unmoving, still, composed, and sovereign. His presence drew glances even from court officers. Beside him were his attorneys: an elite legal team assembled from five of the top international law firms. Experts in constitutional law, civil liberties, international human rights, and financial litigation. Each had argued landmark cases. None spoke without calculation.
And yet none of them were the most dangerous presence at that table.
Onyx, seated directly behind Markus, wore a pristine gray suit dress with minimal jewelry. Her half synthetic features held a calm smile, her eyes moving with clinical precision from face to face, posture flawless.
As the clerk called the case:
"Case number 05-CV-8824: Markus Tenebris and Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division, and the United States Government."
Judge Rowen's gravelly voice cut through the air:
"Court is now in session. Mr. Raines, you may proceed."
James Raines, lead counsel for Markus, stood. Mid forties, steel gray hair, voice practiced for both courtroom and camera.
"Your Honor, we are here today to address direct violations committed against my client, Mr. Tenebris, by an agency operating under federal charter. The Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division, S.H.I.E.L.D. alongside federal collaborators, engaged in a coordinated operation of unlawful surveillance, coercion, attempted blackmail, threats against personal liberty, and commercial intimidation."
He paused. Let the words settle.
"These actions, carried out without due process, were not only unconstitutional, but conducted with arrogance, and a blatant disregard for legal boundaries. My client was targeted not for a crime, but for existing outside of institutional control. The attempt to frame him as a 'mutant' in order to manipulate and suppress his commercial and civil freedom is a grotesque abuse of power."
Judge Rowen nodded. "Charges are noted for the record. Proceed with formal listing."
The court clerk stood and read from the official docket:
"The plaintiff, Mr. Tenebris, formally charges the defendants with:
Unlawful surveillance in violation of Title III of the Omnibus Crime Control and Safe Streets Act.
Coercion and intimidation under USC Title 18, Section 242 Deprivation of Rights Under Color of Law.
Attempted blackmail relating to classified threats and coercive interviews.
Personal threat and implied state sanctioned violence.
Commercial interference and veiled economic intimidation, specifically the implied threat made by federal agents suggesting public exposure of unverifiable personal identity in connection with Eden Armaments.
Violation of due process and defamation."
The courtroom remained silent.
Markus said nothing. But his gaze swept toward the defense team with silent judgment.
Behind his calm façade, Subjugation was at work. Influencing perception. Subtly reshaping the mental inclinations of jury candidates, court observers, and even federal staff watching the livestream in government offices. He did not control minds, he tilted the wind.
From the defense bench, nervous glances were exchanged.
And the trial had only just begun.
The trial commenced with solemn weight, the chamber was packed. Heavy oak walls, flags standing rigid behind the elevated bench, and the soft clatter of typewriters and scribes setting the rhythm of American justice.
Dozens of journalists sat shoulder to shoulder in the gallery, pens ready, tape recorders whirring softly. Several networks had petitioned and been granted permission to televise the proceedings. CNN, MSNBC, and C-SPAN aired the trial live. Across the nation and beyond, homes and embassies tuned in. The world was watching.
The case was officially titled: Tenebris v. Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division (S.H.I.E.L.D.) and the United States Government.
The charges brought forth were serious and wide reaching:
Unlawful surveillance of a private citizen
Coercion under threat of exposure
Attempted blackmail through misclassification and pressure
Criminal intimidation against private enterprise (Eden Armaments)
Commercial threat under federal statutes
Violation of constitutional rights under the Fourth and Fifth Amendments
Markus's legal team was a phalanx of the best that money, fear, and precision could buy. Former federal prosecutors, high profile constitutional litigators, and corporate law veterans filled his bench with impenetrable silence and conviction. Onyx, dressed in a refined navy business suit, sat beside him like a sculpted sentinel, her expression blank, her presence unmistakably sharp.
The opening arguments were devastating.
Markus's counsel submitted full audiovisual evidence from the security systems embedded in his suite. The footage was clean, high quality, timestamped, was played before the courtroom and the nation.
"We understand you're a mutant, Mr. Tenebris. It would be... unfortunate if such a revelation were to make its way into public discourse."
"You come with us now, cooperate. Or we bring this to the next level. You will be taken by force."
Gasps filled the courtroom. Reporters scribbled. Some simply stared, stunned.
SHIELD's appointed defense, hurriedly assembled through government channels, tried to manage the damage. Their lead counsel leaned heavily on vague national security doctrines and internal procedural justifications.
Agent Coulson, called to the stand, gave a measured and controlled testimony. He admitted that the visit had been a directive" an invitation under classified concern." But when questioned about Hill's threat, he could only say:
"That wasn't my call. I believed the situation would be resolved diplomatically."
Maria Hill, sharper, colder, less apologetic, stood her ground.
"We had sufficient reason to suspect Mr. Tenebris was not who he claimed to be. His rapid emergence, his influence in weapons manufacturing, and his perfect past raised red flags. We believed classified observation was justified. The threat... was a mistake, but we acted to protect national interests."
It did not help.
Markus's counsel retorted with hard precedent, showing the blatant breach of constitutional protections and citing cases from 1980 through 2003. The presence of a recording was a fatal blow, Hill's threat wasn't speculation. It was permanent, verifiable record.
The jury deliberated for barely six hours.
The following morning, the courtroom reconvened.
Judge Clarence Rowen entered the room with grim finality and opened the judgment in crisp, judicial tones.
"After careful review of submitted evidence, courtroom testimony, and statutory analysis, the court finds the following:
That the plaintiff, Markus Tenebris, was unlawfully surveilled without probable cause.
That the defendants, namely the agency known as S.H.I.E.L.D. engaged in coercion, using threats both personal and commercial in nature to elicit cooperation under false pretenses.
That the United States Government, through inaction or complicit direction, allowed these actions to occur.
Accordingly:
The court finds in favor of the plaintiff on all charges.
The plaintiff is awarded $725 million in compensatory damages.
An additional $775 million is levied in punitive damages against the defendants.
A federal injunction is issued immediately, barring S.H.I.E.L.D. from any surveillance, communication, or direct action involving Markus Tenebris or Eden Armaments without congressional approval and federal judicial oversight.
All agents and operatives involved in the incident, including Agents Hill and Coulson, are referred for internal investigation under DOJ review."
The gavel struck once.
The case was over.
Inside the chamber, Markus did not react. He remained seated, posture straight, eyes still, as the verdict was inevitable. Onyx leaned slightly, her voice low.
"It begins."
Outside, the crowd and cameras waited.
The courthouse doors creaked open like the gates of judgment, and Markus stepped out into the blinding sun with the quiet gravitas of a sovereign returning from a campaign, not a defendant from trial.
The steps were already crowded. Cameramen jostled against steel barriers, reporters leaned over velvet ropes, and microphones thrust forward like pikes in the hands of an unruly battalion. The air buzzed with anticipation, this was no ordinary plaintiff.
Onyx followed at his right, impassive and graceful, her presence an extension of his power, her eyes scanning, calculating.
The press exploded in a flurry of questions:
"Mr. Tenebris, how do you respond to the verdict?"
"Do you believe S.H.I.E.L.D. should be disbanded?"
"Will you pursue further legal action?"
But again, one question rose above all the others, repeated with increasing insistence:
"Mr. Tenebris, are you a mutant?"
Markus halted mid step.
He turned slowly, his eyes sweeping across the sea of faces, resting finally on the reporter who had spoken loudest, a young man in a tweed coat, face flushed with urgency.
Markus descended one step, just enough for the crowd to still.
"I will address this," he said, voice deep, clear, and smooth. "But, before that let it be known the compensation is going to be spent to the last cent on our heroes, veterans abandoned to live the life of a homeless. Now about the question, let us first abandon this vulgar terminology."
He let the silence bloom around him for a moment, then continued:
"The word 'mutant' is, and has always been, a pejorative. A slur coined not in scientific inquiry, but in fear. It is no more acceptable to describe an evolved human being as a 'mutant' than it would be to use the N word to describe an African American."
Gasps rippled through the crowd, not in offense, but realization.
"The proper nomenclature is Homo Superior. The next step, however rare, however nascent in the evolutionary chain of our species. And if daily discourse demands a gentler term, then enhanced individual will suffice."
He paused, eyes narrowing slightly.
"As for the allegation itself, no, I am not what you call an 'enhanced.' I am a man. A citizen. I bleed as you bleed, think as you think, and am afforded, under law, the same rights and protections."
That might have been the end of it, until another voice, this one sharper, cut through the crowd.
"If you've nothing to hide, sir, will you consent to verification?"
Heads turned. A woman in her early thirties stepped forward from the press ranks. Not a reporter despite the badge. Her posture was too measured, her composure too precise. Markus recognized her immediately for what she was: an agent.
And beside her, another stepped forward. A man in plain clothes, late twenties perhaps, with eyes that shimmered faintly violet in the light. A psionic. A sensor.
The crowd hushed.
Markus extended one gloved hand.
"By all means. Let us satisfy curiosity."
The man approached. For a moment, he stood silently in front of Markus. He closed his eyes, concentrating. The crowd waited, breath held.
Finally, the man opened his eyes, slightly dazed.
"…He's clean," the man said. "He's not ..enhanced. Not even dormant."
The agent beside him didn't reply. She simply stepped back into the crowd, disappearing as quickly as she had emerged.
Markus turned again to the microphones.
"You see," he said, with a wry smile, "even the most tenacious accusations, when placed before the altar of reason, dissolve into mist."
He looked directly into the nearest camera.
"But I must state this clearly, for the record and for history: even had I been born enhanced, it would not diminish my claim to dignity. It would not warrant surveillance, coercion, or threat. One's abilities do not strip them of their rights. Nor does power, be it genetic or earned invalidate their humanity."
A wave of respectful silence followed.
Then, as the cameras clicked again and questions began to rise once more, Markus lifted one hand.
"That will be all. Thank you and good day."
With that, he turned and walked down the steps, Onyx at his side, his coat catching the wind like the banner of a returning conqueror. The crowd parted. The cameras never stopped.
History had just been corrected.
And Markus had made certain the world knew it.
The ripples began before the courthouse doors had even closed behind Markus.
Within hours, his statements flooded every available broadcast channel. Clips of his calm denouncement of the word mutant looped endlessly on CNN, MSNBC, and late night news segments. In Europe, public intellectuals debated his linguistic framing. In the Middle East, commentators dissected the political implications. Social media, what little of it existed in 2005 buzzed with the edited footage. Message boards, blogs, and forums lit up in discussion.
And on the streets, something remarkable happened.
The language began to change.
People, ordinary, uninvolved citizens began using the term enhanced instead of mutant. The word spread through conversations, across offices, between families. News anchors hesitated when reaching for the old term, then corrected themselves. Editorial boards across the country issued updated style guides. Civil rights groups released statements in support of the shift.
The word mutant hadn't just been discredited.
It had been dethroned.
And in its place stood a new standard. One introduced not by scientists or lawmakers but by a stranger in a tailored suit with eyes like ancient stars.
Far from the courthouse, in a sanctuary carved from stone and steel, Erik Lehnsherr sat beside Ororo Munroe in silence.
The room was dim, quiet save for the gentle humming of electrical current flowing through the walls.
Ororo sipped tea, her fingers steady, her gaze distant.
"He's one of us," she said quietly.
Erik's brow furrowed.
"You're certain?"
"I am," she answered. "He unraveled Xavier's compulsions like they were strands of thread. He knew the architecture of my mind before I did. No confusion. No hesitation."
"But the sensor…"
Ororo set her cup down.
"…found nothing," she said. "No mutant markers. No biological signatures. Nothing."
Erik looked away, jaw tightening. A man who had spent decades categorizing friend and foe, human and mutant, now found himself staring into a gray that refused definition.
"Then I must speak with him," he said finally. "Not to challenge him. But to understand. A power like that… untouched by Cerebro, unseen by sensors, and yet fully awake?"
He stood, hands clasped behind his back.
"I have followed the bloodstained footprints of tyrants and messiahs alike, Ororo. But never have I seen a man cast such a long shadow from so quiet a step."
Meanwhile, in Washington, chaos brewed beneath the surface.
Nick Fury stood at the heart of SHIELD's decaying nerve center, once a fortress of secrets and control, now a battlefield of liability and oversight.
Nearly every operational clearance had been temporarily suspended. External intelligence alliances had fractured. Congressional committees now demanded direct reports and weekly oversight briefings. Auditors from multiple agencies, some so obscure they hadn't been active since the Cold War walked SHIELD's halls with clipboards and silent judgment.
Fury had lost more than his authority.
He had lost his autonomy.
With no clear perpetrator for the breach, no digital fingerprints, no discernible leak path, the data exfiltration that had unraveled SHIELD remained a ghost. The only variable common to the moment of collapse had been Markus Tenebris.
But there was no evidence. No access log. No terminal breach. No trace.
Only a hunch. A chilling, instinctive certainty that Fury could not prove.
And in the absence of certainty, others had seized the vacuum.
Deep in the infrastructure of SHIELD's global web, Hydra stirred.
The chaos had been perfect.
With files burned and departments gutted, Hydra's operatives stepped into the cracks like water through fractured stone. Key positions opened under the guise of reorganization. Surveillance teams were rerouted. Former operatives long dormant were reactivated under new names.
The serpent had not been killed.
It had been fed.
And while the world debated words, lawsuits, and philosophies, Hydra watched. Patient. Poised.
The Hague, Netherlands. The seat of the International Court of Justice stood cold and resolute beneath slate gray skies, its spires watching over years of fractured diplomacy and cautious justice. The case of Markus Tenebris v. Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division and the United States of America began with understated ceremony, but its implications thundered through every corridor of global power.
The charges, though presented through corporate language, were damning: International Commercial Coercion, Corporate Sabotage, Violation of Sovereign Commercial Rights, and Threats Impeding Free Enterprise Across Borders.
Markus's legal team was a masterpiece of global coordination, ten senior partners from five law firms, each fluent in the languages of war, finance, and trade law. They presented Eden Armaments not just as a company, but as a sovereign actor in the global economy, whose assets, reputation, and executive safety had been endangered by politically motivated blackmail from a U.S. agency operating outside any internationally recognized authority.
Evidence was presented with chilling precision.
The video footage of the veiled threats made by SHIELD operatives. The sequence of leaked documents that coincided suspiciously with the visit. Financial records demonstrating market instability and investor withdrawal tied to the incident. Expert witnesses testified on how such intimidation tactics could cripple smaller firms and threaten the sanctity of transnational trade protections.
The defense, represented by two U.S. federal legal envoys and a SHIELD liaison found no purchase. They attempted to frame the incident as an internal misunderstanding, an unfortunate misstep between government and private enterprise. But international judges, bound to trade treaties, contract protections, and state neutral enforcement, saw through the smoke.
The verdict came without delay.
"In light of the evidence presented, and in accordance with Articles 17, 24, and 31 of the United Nations Convention on Transnational Commercial Integrity and Protection of Global Enterprise, this court finds the defendants, namely, the United States of America and its agency known as S.H.I.E.L.D. guilty of unlawful coercion, breach of international business conduct, and hostile infringement upon a private commercial entity with international presence. Damages awarded to the plaintiff total 1.5 billion USD, to be paid jointly by the U.S. Government and S.H.I.E.L.D., along with formal recognition of the violations committed."
The ruling sent another ripple through already strained diplomatic channels.
Markus promised to use this amount on the war veterans as well. He wasted no time. As the courtroom winds favored him on both shores, he expanded his dominion not through weapons, but through people.
With Eden Armaments now a household name in military and law enforcement circles, the time had come to address another vulnerability in the world's structure: security.
Thus, 'Guardian Angels' was born.
A new subsidiary under Eden Armaments, marketed as a global security solutions firm private protection, tactical deployment, dignitary escort, conflict zone security, and high risk asset retrieval. The branding was immaculate: valor, loyalty, integrity. But behind the slogans lay something far more refined.
For Markus had long held a quiet contempt for a particular shame of modern civilization: veterans of war, trained to kill, disciplined to serve, discarded like debris on America's streets.
He found them.
He approached them not as a benefactor, but as a redeemer.
Under the guise of rehabilitation, Markus recruited quietly. Veterans from across the country, homeless, forgotten, discarded. PTSD, amputees, broken by bureaucracy and betrayal. One by one, they were brought in. Transported. Healed. Fed. Clothed. Evaluated.
Then remade.
Reality Domination healed every wound, visible and unseen. Limbs were restored, spines straightened, disease and addictions purged at the cellular level. Markus sculpted their bodies into standardized excellence. Each standing 1.90 meters, the perfect balance of mass, agility, and strength. Every one of them was reconditioned to physical perfection.
But that was just the beginning.
Using Subjugation, Markus delved deep, absorbing their experiences, tactics, instincts. Urban warfare. Jungle survival. Bomb disposal. Sniper mechanics. Ambush scenarios. Naval boarding. CQC and CQB expertise. He did not copy knowledge indiscriminately. He curated it. Polished it. Streamlined it.
By the time he had gathered the minds of seven hundred veterans, he had formed an operational gestalt. A perfected doctrine of soldiering, an idealized archetype of the modern warrior.
Then he gave it back to them.
Each Angel was now a symphony of hundreds of years of collective combat expertise. Their reflexes fine tuned. Their judgment impeccable. Their morale unbreakable. They could dismantle special forces teams blindfolded, clear buildings like phantoms, and strategize like seasoned generals.
Their loyalty? Absolute.
Not only because of manipulation but Markus had given them back not only their bodies, but their dignity. Their pride. Their purpose.
Each was paid handsomely. Each given quarters, tailored armor, weapons forged by Eden Armaments, and a private memorial ring etched with their name and the motto:
"Resurrected by Honor. Bound by Fire."
The world had no idea what walked among them now.
But soon, it would.
And when the Guardian Angels deployed, when people, firms, organization and nations came asking for the elite, for salvation, for justice dressed in gunmetal gray, they would find their answer.
Standing tall.
Silent.
Waiting.
The first deployment of Guardian Angels was not in a glossy Western city nor a choreographed diplomatic affair. It was in the dust and fire of central Africa.
Chad and Sudan, two nations long entangled in a volatile embrace of tribal tension, fractured governance, and foreign manipulation were descending once more into chaos. UN convoys had gone missing. Aid shipments were pillaged. A delegation of high ranking peacekeepers had been taken hostage in North Darfur. Rebel factions, emboldened by a fractured government and an influx of black market arms, were rapidly gaining ground.
United Nations issued a quiet contract.
And Guardian Angels answered.
Within seventy two hours, two strike teams deployed. Code named Psalms and Covenant, they entered the respective territories under full tactical discretion. Uniforms bore no flags. Their carriers were civilian modified. But their precision… divine.
In Sudan, a heavily armed faction known as the Justice and Equality Movement, long considered a splinter group of the Darfur insurgency, ambushed an aid convoy near El Fasher. They arrived in technicals improvised gun trucks with welded armor, RPGs, and Kalashnikovs.
What they didn't expect were ghosts with eyes like predators.
The Angels didn't fight.
They executed.
Eleven seconds. That's how long it took for Psalms Unit to eliminate the hostiles. Thermal recon identified all targets. Silent drones jammed their comms. And in a synchronized sweep, the Guardian Angels moved, four teams, quad vectors, coordinated like a single organism. Bullets struck only where intended. Not a civilian was harmed. Not a crate was touched.
In Chad, Covenant Unit performed a high altitude night drop near Moundou, securing an extraction path for the endangered delegation. A rival militia, funded by black market suppliers linked to foreign powers, intercepted them with two dozen armed vehicles.
They lasted longer.
Four minutes.
At dawn, UN flags were raised again. Still fluttering, not as decoration, but declaration.
The footage, classified yet quietly circulated among world powers, made its way to high offices, war rooms, and intelligence briefings. The name Guardian Angels was now spoken in the same breath as GIGN, SAS, and Spetsnaz but with something extra.
Awe.
At the center of this silent orchestration stood Onyx. Clad in data and precision, she managed deployments, logistics, press filtration, and asset vetting with the grace of an empress and the cruelty of an executioner. She was the soul of Eden's reach.
But Markus?
His focus had shifted elsewhere.
The Tesseract.
The space stone. One of the six anchors of reality itself. Housed in a cube that defied natural geometry, the artifact had passed from myth to myth, always eluding true understanding. But Markus remembered. He remembered the flow of its story from another life.
From the worshippers of Asgard in Tønsberg…To Johann Schmidt, the Red Skull...To Howard Stark, who recovered it from the ocean floor...Then to the scientist Mar-Vell, hidden under SHIELD's nose…And finally, back into SHIELD's vaults, awaiting Loki's arrival.
He would not wait for Loki.
He would not share.
Markus stood atop the observation deck of his near complete citadel, staring into the distance as his senses augmented by Reality Domination and Omniscient Awareness pierced through the fabric of the world. He saw it. A pulse of distortion within a heavily fortified SHIELD storage facility in remote Alaska. Triple locked, sealed beneath several layers of lead, vibranium shielding, and quantum resonance dampeners.
But none of that mattered.
With a whisper of thought, reality folded.
One moment Markus was in his tower. The next, he was within the vault, unnoticed, unseen, time paused for all but him.
The Tesseract sat suspended in its containment field, humming faintly like a cosmic heartbeat.
Markus stepped forward. He extended one hand no gloves, no hesitation.
The cube hovered toward him as if drawn.
His fingers wrapped around it.
And then he spoke, softly:
"Let us see what lies behind the veil."
He invoked Reality Domination.
Not to control. Not to warp.
To understand.
Blue light flared. Space shuddered. And the mind of a god reached into the soul of a stone.
The Tesseract did not resist.
It welcomed him.
For the first time in any timeline, the Space Stone met a will equal to its own, and did not recoil.
Markus saw it all: the folding of space into ribbons, the highways of light that joined stars, the thrones of beings long erased by time. And more than all of these the stone was source of divinity, concept of space was embodied withing this stone. And he smiled.
Because now?
He did not need a portal.
He was one.