"He… he's not dead, is he?"
Jane stood frozen, her eyes wide as she stared at the figure "planted" in the dirt. Biologically speaking, a human being struck twice by a speeding SUV and landing head-first in a sand dune usually lacked a future.
She turned to Erik and Darcy, her expression bewildered. "Wait, did one of you hit him the second time?"
Their eyes met, and they realized the impossibility of the situation. Simultaneously, they turned their gaze toward the back seat of the car. Seeing Emrys sitting there calmly, their logic began to fracture. A passenger in the rear shouldn't have been able to floor the accelerator, yet the car had surged forward with predatory intent.
"I suggest you pull him out first," Emrys said, his voice a calm "reminder" that jolted them from their stupor. "Then we can discuss the logistics of the accident."
Shouting in a panic, the three rushed to the mound. It took a coordinated effort—much like pulling a stubborn root from the earth—to haul the golden-haired stranger out of the pit.
Erik immediately knelt, pressing his ear to the man's chest. After a tense silence, he exhaled a long breath of relief. "His heart is beating! It's like a drum in there. Quick, help me get him to the car! We need a hospital, now!"
"One problem," Darcy said, raising a hand weakly. "The car only seats four. Where are we putting the Norse god of fitness?"
Considering the man's massive physique, even the back seat would be a cramped nightmare.
"The trunk is quite spacious," Emrys remarked from the back seat, his tone tinged with a hint of annoyance at their indecision.
In the end, the three of them dragged the unconscious Son of Odin, the future King of the Nine Realms, and unceremoniously shoved him into the cargo space of the SUV.
"Don't you think this looks a bit..." Darcy hesitated, shrinking her neck as Jane slammed the hatch. "...like a low-budget mob movie where they dispose of the body?"
"Darcy, if you can't say anything helpful, please stop talking!" Jane snapped, her nerves frayed to the breaking point.
The ride back was a bone-jarring blur. By the time they reached the local hospital, the first light of dawn was beginning to bleed into the horizon. A haggard Jane handled the admission procedures while Erik and Darcy collapsed into the plastic waiting room chairs. The night had been a surreal fever dream: they had set out to find a celestial event and had instead found a man who fell from the stars.
"I'm so sorry, Emrys," Jane said, approaching him with a deep, apologetic bow. "We were supposed to show you the discovery of the century. Instead, we've dragged you through a roadside emergency. I've disappointed you."
"On the contrary, Dr. Foster," Emrys said, glancing toward the room where Thor lay dormant. A slight, knowing smile played on his lips. "This was far more interesting than a simple light show. You should all go back and rest. I'll handle things here for a moment."
Once the three had departed in their dented SUV, Emrys stood alone in the hospital corridor. A miniature mechanical spider, no larger than a fingernail, skittered out of his cuff.
"Extract a blood sample," Emrys commanded. "Then maintain a persistent surveillance loop on the subject. Report every movement."
"Acknowledged, master," the drone's synthesized chirp resonated in his mind.
The spider—a sophisticated sub-unit created by Soundwave—scaled the hospital wall with silent precision. Emrys wasn't just interested in the Asgardian physique; he was curious about the limits of their "divinity." If he could secure a foothold in this plot, he might even find a way to access Odin's Vault. The treasures of Asgard would be a significant boon to the Emrys Dynasty.
Is the Allfather truly as omniscient as the legends claim? he wondered. Let's see if he's watching now.
"Armor, engage."
In a blur of shifting metal, his battle-suit enveloped his body, its matte-black surface swallowing the hospital's fluorescent light. With a silent thrum of anti-gravitic thrusters, Emrys soared into the clouds, streaking across the desert sky like a dark meteor.
His target: Mjolnir.
Eighty kilometers northwest of the town, Soundwave's sensors flagged a massive energy signature. In the center of a scorched crater lay a hammer of gray stone and uru metal, etched with ancient runes. It sat alone, the earth beneath it untouched by the impact, as if the hammer had carved out its own sanctuary.
Boom!
Emrys hit the ground in a classic three-point landing, the force of his descent kicking up a wall of dust. He stood and walked toward the relic. He knew the enchantment Odin had placed upon it: Whosoever holds this hammer, if he be worthy...
Emrys took a deep breath, reaching out with a gauntleted hand to grip the leather-wrapped handle. He pulled with the combined strength of his bio-suit and his own physical might.
The hammer didn't budge. It felt as if it were a fundamental part of the planet's core. No matter how much force he exerted—enough to crack the bedrock beneath his feet—Mjolnir remained absolute.
"Alright," Emrys muttered, retracting his helmet to reveal a face tightened with stubbornness. "I refuse to believe a piece of enchanted iron can defy me. I am a Rogue Trader of the Imperium. My will is law."
He didn't just use muscle this time. He opened the floodgates of his soul, channeling the raw, terrifying power of the Warp.
Rumble—!
The night sky turned an oily, bruised purple. Lightning flashed, but it was tinted with the sickly crimson of psionic energy. The stench of ozone and the Warp filled the crater as a blood-red aura erupted around the hammer. For a moment, the desert was replaced by a flickering vision of a brass fortress and a mountain of skulls—the echo of Khorne's domain.
Mjolnir let out a high-pitched, metallic wail, vibrating with such intensity that the air itself hummed. Then, with a sickening crack of displaced reality, it rose.
Emrys held the hammer aloft. It trembled in his grip, resisting his touch with every ounce of its ancient magic.
"What's the matter?" Emrys looked at the vibrating weapon, his brow furrowed. "Oh, I see. You don't respond to virtue, you respond to threats. Well, if you're being coerced against your will, blink twice."
He weighed the hammer in his hand, a cold, satisfied smile on his face. "No blinking? Good. I'm glad we've reached an understanding."
If the sentient spark within Mjolnir could scream, it would have been cursing in a language older than the stars.
But before Emrys could test the weapon further, the hair on his arms stood up. A stinging sensation pricked at his skin—a high-level psionic warning. He looked up, his smile vanishing.
The clouds above weren't just swirling; they were being torn apart by a colossal, world-ending vortex. A pillar of blazing, prismatic light erupted from the heavens, distorting the very fabric of space and time. It was the Bifrost, and it was aimed directly at his head.
Emrys' mouth twitched. "Are you serious? You're dropping the Bridge on me for picking up a hammer?"