Cries and screams echoed across the rubble. It had happened so fast that no one had been prepared. The great clock in the plaza was frozen forever at 11:25:49.
The Paris Police Prefecture arrived in grand cinematic tradition—only after the dust had settled, and took their sweet time doing it.
Every Nanomite had self-destructed, but the police didn't know that. They caught a whiff of the sharp, acrid air and decided that officers earning an average of seventy thousand euros a year had no business charging into unknown biochemical hazards.
If someone died here, whose fault would it be?
The police scrambled to contact biochemical and virology experts, only to discover that every domestic specialist was on vacation. They tried university professors next. Also on vacation. Left with no other option, they borrowed a handful of experts from neighboring Belgium.
These experts couldn't make heads or tails of the Nanomites either, hemming and hawing for what felt like an eternity.
In the end, it was the Minister of Defense—who'd encountered Nanomites during a NATO briefing—who arrived on the scene. Once he confirmed there was no ongoing threat, he ordered the military and police to mount a joint rescue operation. By then it was 3:19 in the afternoon.
The Paris police were agonizingly slow at saving lives, but credit where due—they were decisive about making arrests.
Storm Shadow was apprehended. The two Accelerator Suit bruisers didn't escape either.
Duke and the Black soldier were textbook American military: zero political instincts whatsoever. They still figured America was number one and the French should be grateful American troops had come to help. Faced with the Paris police's questioning, the two blew it off like a joke.
The Paris police didn't find it funny. Both men were slammed to the ground without ceremony.
Without French support, you Americans couldn't even have founded your country. Who do you think you are?
The pride bred deep into every French soul sent the police into a frenzy. They shoved Duke's and the Black soldier's faces into the pavement and beat them with gusto. Storm Shadow, standing nearby, let out a string of cold laughs—and caught his own thorough beating for the trouble.
Shortly afterward, France's counterterrorism bureau arrested several more of Duke's associates on a nearby street. Their true identity: a special reaction force formed under NATO, comprised of elite soldiers from the US, UK, and France. The French counterterrorism bureau didn't waste breath on formalities. Everyone was arrested.
This was the very same bureau established after the Paris massacre, assembled from the French Ministry of Defense's best and brightest. They'd never had anything to show for themselves—until today. Finally, a real case.
Their response was swift, their authority sweeping. They even sealed off the Dior building where Storm Shadow and Duke had fought.
Their reasoning was ironclad: your people couldn't stop a single Storm Shadow? Are you all pigs? There are probably terrorist informants among your employees.
A charge of "probably harboring informants" was slapped onto Dior's head, and Dior's executives had no idea how to argue their way out of it. They could hardly say that most of their employees were women and the few men left were all effeminate pushovers.
The two chief culprits behind the original Paris massacre stood at a distance, watching. Watching Storm Shadow, Duke, the Black soldier, and a dozen-odd Dior employees branded with "probable" crimes being loaded into police vans.
Bella felt no particular emotion. They'd already done their part. Storm Shadow's Nanomite warhead had never been fired, and that was their doing. Who could have predicted the mastermind had another trick up their sleeve? She hadn't brought the Time Stone; foreseeing something like this was impossible.
The two of them quietly analyzed the situation.
"Word is three Nanomite warheads were stolen. One recovered, one used, which means there should be one left." Natasha's brow creased with concern.
The mastermind's play, as she saw it, was straightforward: extortion. Fire one Nanomite warhead to demonstrate its devastation, and suddenly that last remaining warhead became the most valuable commodity on the planet.
"Maybe. But I suspect there's a deeper game at work..." In Bella's memory, this was essentially a false-flag operation by M.A.R.S. Industries—crying thief while being the thief. She recalled there being a deeper plan, but the specifics? Forgotten. Probably some tedious world-domination scheme.
"Hey, the boss is calling. What do I tell him?" Natasha held up her phone and gestured.
"Ignore him. You're desk duty now—let him find somebody else. Roderick mentioned there's a maid café nearby. Sounds fun. Let's check it out."
...
Thirty minutes later, Bella and Natasha were deep in private conversation at the café when Nick Fury came striding toward them like he owned the place.
"I could make it so he never reaches this table." Bella's right hand traced a spell array in rapid strokes. One burst of psionic energy and she could hurl him straight into the Mirror Dimension.
Natasha caught her hand. "He's been good to me..."
Fury had no idea how close he'd just come to being dealt with. He sat down across from them, radiating menace.
His single eye scrutinized both of them, searching for the slightest crack in their composure.
"Why the transfer to desk duty, Natasha? You know how much I value you." He trusted Natasha implicitly. If she'd shown even the faintest interest in politics, he'd have groomed her as his successor at S.H.I.E.L.D.
An organization that vast ran day and night without pause. A Level 6 field agent's transfer request didn't normally cross the Director's desk. By the time Fury found out, Natasha was already in Arendelle. He was pained, but more than anything, he felt it was a terrible waste of talent.
Fury was a busy man. He'd been tracking last year's theft of the Infinity Formula—someone stealing from him of all people was nearly inconceivable. If not for the Nanomite incident blowing up in Paris and a report that Natasha had been spotted, he wouldn't have come at all.
Natasha wasn't about to announce that she needed maternity leave. She stuck to the excuse she'd used on the transfer paperwork. "I'm tired. Missions back to back, nonstop. I'm not a machine. After everything I've done, can't I get a few days off?"
Bella spoke up for her wife. "That's right, Director Fury. You've fast-tracked Natasha's promotions time and again, and yes, that shows how much you value her. But do you have any idea the pressure that puts on her? Do you know why she prefers solo missions? Because your constant promotions made it impossible for her to fit into any team. Everyone resents her—enemies and colleagues alike. They even gave her a nickname. 'Black Widow.' Is that supposed to be a compliment? Risking her life day after day, and that's what she gets? She's better off behind a desk."
Fury's resolve was made of steel. Once his mind was set, eight oxen couldn't drag him back. Never mind Bella—God himself could descend from heaven and still not change this man's position.
He looked right through her as if she weren't there, hadn't spoken, and fixed his gaze squarely on Natasha.