Darkness.
A gasp - a sharp, desperate inhale.
A ragged breath tore through his throat as air flooded into lungs that had long forgotten how to breathe freely. Every inhale burned like fire and each exhale left him trembling.
His body felt awkward, alien - like a costume that didn't fit right. Too heavy, too big. Every limb stiff, each muscle foreign.
He blinked hard, forcing his eyes to open to a harsh, sterile white light stabbing at his vision. The ceiling a dull grid of metal panels, dotted with the fluorescent lights.
He looked down, his hands - cuffed. Metal biting into his wrists. His legs shackled tight to the table in front of him. He shifted, testing, the cold steel held firm.
Panic fluttered in his chest like a trapped bird.
'Where the hell am I'
His eyes darted further down, catching his altered clothes. A grey hoodie, black sweatpants - the only sense of normality he'd seen. But beneath lied that same tight white bodysuit. Clinging like a second skin.
The memories flickered - disjointed, fragmented.
A pod
A freezing chamber
Crimson skies and fiery annihilation
A life of justice
A different earth
Then: college halls, laughter. A dorm room lit by laptop light. Marvel marathons. Wanda-vision breakdown videos. Debate forums and wikipages.
Then silence. Cold.
'Who the hell was he?'
His breathing picked up.
He scanned the room
A smooth mirrored wall, one way glass. Cameras blinked in the corners. His every move, watched.
"Let's start simple."
A voice.
Sharp, low. Echoing from hidden speakers
"Who are you."
He blinked.
"Where did you come from?"
More flashes:
A rocket. A farm. Restraining his powers. Lois. A red sky swallowing a city whole.
Then his first kiss in high school. A failed midterm. Ordering UberEats.
Normal things. Mundane things. His things.
His heart thundered in his chest. He swallowed hard.
The room smelt sterile, tinged with ozone and cleaning chemicals.
Everything felt too quiet. That kind of crushing silence.
'No, no, no. This isn't happening.'
His gaze snapped to the glass wall.
And then everything changed. His vision sharpened. His pupils dilated.
And suddenly the wall, wasn't a wall anymore.
He could see through it.
'Oh my god.'
There was Nick Fury. The real Nick Fury, sitting with Maria hill. Guns, aimed through the glass at him, tense faces.
'This is Marvel. This is really marvel. And I'm stuck here. What the actual fuck is going on?'
His heart hammered in disbelief.
'This isn't a game. Not a movie anymore. This is real. And i'm trapped.'
His breath hitched. A tidal wave of emotions crashed over him - fear, anger, confusion.
Then then Fury's mouth moved, whispering.
He heard it clear as day.
"Hill," he said, "get me a full analysis on that collar. If that alien even looks at us funny, i want him contained and controlled."
'Contain me?'
'Are you kidding?'
Years of feeling locked up, trapped, used - it came rushing back.
His mind may not remember, but his body did.
The cold clinical fear of being used as a test subject, of being less than human.
His brain screamed no.
He could hear the voice of his own conscience, buried beneath the instincts of this godly body - telling him to stay calm, to think.
But the rage, the raw refusal to be caged, boiled hotter by the second.
His skin shimmered golden, light radiating like heat from a furnace.
He pushed off the table.
The cuffs didn't even slow him; they snapped like twigs.
"All agents, take aim. Don't hesitate to light this motherfucker up".
Fury's hand held his own gun already aimed.
The boy stepped up to the glass, eyes dyed crimson.
"I heard you."
His voice was rough, sharp, raw with indignation.
"You want to lock me up? Keep me caged?"
His glare pierced through the glass, eye to eye with Fury. Challenging.
"I'm not your prisoner, not your weapon."
A sudden surge of heat burst from his chest
BOOM!
A wave of energy exploded through the room, melting ceiling tiles and sending sparks flying.
Fury and Hill dove for cover.
Alarms blared.
On the security monitors - a streak of golden light shot upwards, burning through metal vents and disappearing into the sky.
Gone.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
But even as his fury roared, his instincts overriding his mind. A small part - the part that remembered calculus, marvel movie nights — understood.
Nick Fury wasn't some tyrant. He was a survivor, a protector hardened by a lifetime of fighting threats and betrayal.
He was cautious because the stakes were high. And trust always had to be earned.
His paranoia, his caution - all born from loss and sacrifice.
It made sense.
It should've made sense.
Yet that logic, that rationale, couldn't extinguish the blazing fire inside him.
Because knowing why didn't make the chains feel any lighter.
Because understanding didn't end the ache of confinement
Because no matter how much his mind accepted it - his heart, his body, screamed for freedom.