Nick Fury's warning didn't even graze Darren's patience.
He'd heard that tone a hundred times before—NPCs talking like the fate of the world depended on the player's next decision. The timer ticking down, the apocalypse imminent... and what did players do?
Go mining.
Fish.
Open treasure chests.
Maybe take a nap.
Why panic when you know the world can't end until you press "Continue"?
Fury could only rub his temples helplessly. "In short, keep a low profile for a while. Coulson's running a field operation in New Mexico and needs backup. I was going to send Barton—he's on leave—but now it's you."
[NPC Nick Fury has issued a new mission.]
Mission: Assist Agent Coulson
Objective: Travel to New Mexico, rendezvous with Agent Coulson, and aid in his ongoing operation.
Reward: +1000 EXP, +20 S.H.I.E.L.D. Reputation, 2 Random Items.
"Got it, boss."
And just like that, Darren was back on the road—heading straight into the endless desert of New Mexico.
...
By the time he reached the S.H.I.E.L.D. temporary base, the sun had dipped low, bathing the sand in molten gold. He spotted Coulson right away, standing like a sore thumb among a sea of busy agents.
"Chief! Long time no see," Darren greeted with a grin. "Wow, your hairline's really exploring new frontiers, huh?"
Coulson froze mid-smile. "..."
Of all the comments he got daily, that one always stung the deepest.
Being Fury's right-hand man came with certain perks—like no vacations, endless missions, and a receding hairline faster than any known cosmic phenomenon.
He had to admit, though, he didn't get it. Darren worked harder than he did—fought gods, monsters, and bureaucrats alike—yet the guy's hair remained so lush it could star in a shampoo commercial.
Coulson decided to ignore the insult and cut straight to business. "Not long ago, we detected an Einstein-Rosen Bridge opening in this region—a wormhole. Something came through it."
Darren's interest perked up. "What kind of 'something'?"
Coulson hesitated, then answered gravely, "A hammer."
Darren blinked. "…What?"
Coulson quickly clarified, "An actual hammer. Not an expression. Come on, I'll show you."
He led Darren through a maze of tents and floodlights, down to the heart of the excavation site—where it stood.
A hammer.
Perfectly square, gleaming silver, resting peacefully in the dirt like it owned the place.
"That's it?" Darren tilted his head.
"That's it," Coulson replied with a straight face. "No one's been able to lift it. We even brought in heavy machinery—cranes, hydraulics, you name it. Not a single millimeter of movement."
He crossed his arms. "And the weirdest part? It's not about weight. We dug around it—completely hollowed out the ground beneath—and it still didn't budge. It's like the earth wants to hold it."
"That so?" Darren's eyes gleamed. "Now that sounds fun."
He stepped up to the hammer and wrapped his fingers around the short handle.
Before he could even flex, a sharp ding rang in his mind.
[You do not meet the requirements to wield this item.]
[Requirement: Justice Value ≥ 1000]
"…Justice Value?"
That was new.
He opened his stat menu—sure enough, a new line had appeared. His current Justice Value sat at 136.
Apparently, it had been quietly increasing during his recent missions—rescuing civilians, stopping Abomination, saving the world by accident.
Darren grinned smugly. "Guess I am superhero material after all."
He deliberately ignored the other stat below it—Crime Points: 198. Minor detail.
Coulson watched him standing there, silent and thoughtful. "Anything?"
"Yeah," Darren said finally, releasing the handle. "The hammer's got conditions. Only someone pure-hearted, brave, and righteous can lift it. So… yeah, that explains why you guys failed."
Coulson stared at him. "...Did you just insult me?"
Darren smiled innocently. "Of course not."
...
Coulson assigned Darren one job: guard the hammer.
Simple enough.
Darren, naturally, took that to mean "get comfortable."
He dragged out a foldable lounge chair from God-knows-where, parked it beside the mysterious alien relic, and lay back with a drink in one hand and a comic book in the other.
Under the blazing desert sun, he looked less like a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent and more like a tourist waiting for room service.
Every nearby agent who saw him clenched their fists in pure jealousy.
Here they were sweating in bulletproof vests, and this guy looked ready to order a piña colada.
...
Night fell.
Rain began to fall in sheets, drumming against the tents and vehicles.
Darren was halfway through a comic when the radio on his belt crackled.
"Darren," Coulson's voice came through, tight and serious, "we've got a breach. Someone's infiltrated the base—they're heading your way!"
"Yeah, yeah, I hear you," Darren said, putting the comic down with a sigh. "There goes my relaxation quota."
He stood, stretching lazily. Whoever was dumb enough to break into a S.H.I.E.L.D. base in the middle of a storm was either suicidal or stupid.
Then came the sound of chaos—shouting, fighting, the unmistakable crash of fists meeting flesh.
Moments later, a figure burst from the shadows, soaked to the bone.
A tall, muscular man with long, dripping blond hair plastered to his face.
Darren froze mid-step.
The man puffed up his chest. "I am Thor! Son of Odin! The mighty God of Thunder!"
Darren blinked. Then burst out laughing. "Oh, that's cute."
"Blasphemy!" the man roared, eyes blazing. "Mortal, you dare mock a god!?"
Before Darren could even quip back, Thor charged—his massive fist cutting through the rain like a cannonball.
He was fast. Strong. A blur of muscle and fury.
No wonder he'd plowed through half of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s perimeter.
But to Darren, it might as well have been in slow motion.
He raised one hand, calm and deliberate—and caught the punch mid-swing.
The sound of impact cracked like thunder.
Thor's eyes widened. "Impossible!"
Even without Mjolnir, his Asgardian body was leagues beyond any mortal's. No human could have blocked that, let alone stopped it dead.
Yet here he was—his arm locked in place, held effortlessly by this smug Earthling.
Darren tilted his head, a faint smile tugging his lips. "You said you're the God of Thunder, right? Then you must be… pretty resistant to electricity?"
Thor frowned. "What does that—"
BZZZT!
Before he could finish, Darren's ring flared to life. A surge of pure lightning burst from his fingertips, wrapping around Thor like a vengeful serpent.
The Asgardian screamed as volts coursed through him, his body convulsing violently.
Seconds later, his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed face-first into the mud—smoke rising faintly from his armor.
Darren flexed his fingers and powered down the Electrocutive Ring, its faint blue light dimming to nothing.
He glanced at the unconscious god lying in a puddle, unimpressed.
"This is the God of Thunder?" he muttered. "Pathetic."
Then he kicked the fallen hammer lightly with his boot. "Guess I'm the lightning guy now."
-------------------------
T/N:
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