After the initial tension on the bridge, Steve Rogers found himself drawn to the hulking veteran standing behind Emrys. Olsen's rigid posture and the weary, tactical sharpness in his gaze were unmistakable markers of a military life. To Steve—a man out of time, feeling more isolated than ever—the old man felt like a potential bridge to a world he understood.
"Are you a graduate of a modification program as well?" Steve asked, stepping closer with a friendly, soldier-to-soldier smile. "The serum... it leaves a certain mark on a man."
Olsen didn't even turn his head. He cast a single, glacial look at the Captain, then stared back into the middle distance, silent and immovable.
To Olsen, the gesture was irrelevant. He was a son of the First Legion, an Angel of Death who had seen empires burn and stars go cold. The Dark Angels did not seek the camaraderie of mortals.
If a human did not present a tactical threat or an objective, they were simply part of the background—no more significant than the rivets in the deck plating.
Steve's smile faltered, replaced by an awkward, lingering silence. "Right. Sorry. I just recognized the aura. If you're not one for talk, I understand."
Olsen had already cataloged everyone in the room. He didn't need a conversation to understand them; he could deduce their combat specializations by the way they shifted their weight and the metallic scent of their gear.
Steve's physiology was impressive by human standards, but his tactical stance was that of a standard-issue Astra Militarum sergeant. In Olsen's world, there were millions of Steves; they were the brave, expendable foundation of the Emperor's wars. There was no need to memorize their names.
"Looks like the Captain's charm has finally hit a brick wall," Clint Barton muttered, dryly amused as he checked the tension on his bowstring.
"Maybe I'm just outdated," Steve sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly.
He looked around the briefing room at the team Fury had assembled to save the world: a thawed-out relic of a dead war, a narcissistic billionaire, two elite spies, a doctor who was a ticking biological bomb, and a "Rogue Trader" with a bodyguard who looked like he wanted to purge the room.
He didn't even count Thor and Heimdall. The concept of "slaves" was a headache he wasn't ready to process yet.
Nick Fury broke the silence, tapping a console to bring up the satellite data. "I assume you've all seen the footage. The Frost Giants are on our soil. I want your assessments."
The room remained eerily quiet. Tony Stark lounged in his chair, feet on the table, looking like he was more interested in the specs of the Helicarrier than the impending invasion. Natasha and Clint waited for the "Heavy Hitters" to weigh in.
Steve finally cleared his throat. "The priority is the Tesseract. We find the source, we stop the breach." He looked at Banner. "Doctor, you said you could track the gamma signature?"
"I can pinpoint it," Banner said, his voice still a bit shaky after his run-in with Olsen. "I just need a little time to calibrate the algorithms."
"Good. Once the Doctor has a lock, we move," Steve said, trying to assert a command structure. "Does anyone have a better plan?"
Emrys tapped a rhythmic beat on the mahogany table. "The Tesseract is a symptom. I'm more interested in the logistics. How did a war-party of Frost Giants bypass the orbital defenses of Midgard? They didn't just walk through a front door."
"He's right," Steve admitted, nodding toward Emrys. "We need to know the scale of the enemy. Thor? You're from their neighborhood. Any insight?"
Thor, who was hunched in a corner nursing a ginger ale, looked up with an expression of pure irritation. "Do I look like I'm in the loop? I am a prisoner! A servant! How should I know what the monsters of Jotunheim are planning?"
Steve turned his hopeful gaze toward Heimdall.
"The All-Father was entering the Odinsleep when I was... relocated," Heimdall said, his voice heavy with regret. "Without the King awake, Asgard's focus is inward. I tried to summon the Bifrost yesterday with the blade Merlin returned to me, but the bridge is dark. It's been sealed from the other side."
The revelation sent a chill through the room. If the Bifrost was closed, Asgard was either under siege or compromised.
"Something is very wrong," Emrys muttered. He suspected Odin was using this as a trial for his son, but the presence of Laufey on Earth suggested the game had spiraled out of control.
Suddenly, Olsen stiffened. His head snapped toward a seemingly empty corner of the room, his hand hovering over his combat blade.
"What is it?" Natasha asked, sensing the sudden, murderous shift in the air.
Emrys's eyes narrowed, a flicker of violet energy dancing in his pupils. "You have a lot of nerve, little prince. Did you really think your illusions could hide the stink of your magic from me?"
Before anyone could react, Emrys lashed out with a surge of psychic force. The air in the corner of the room rippled like a heat mirage, and under the pressure of the Warp, a figure manifested.
The man wore a suit of ornate, emerald-and-gold armor, a helmet with sweeping, curved horns, and a scepter that pulsed with an ominous blue light.
"Lo—Loki?!" Thor gasped, his ginger ale forgotten. "Loki! Is the All-Father safe? What has happened?"
Loki ignored his brother entirely, his cold, green eyes fixed on Emrys. "A fascinating power you wield, mortal. Raw. Unrefined. Why waste it serving these ants? Submit to me, and I shall give you a seat at my right hand while I reshape this world."
Emrys didn't even bother to stand up. He looked at the God of Mischief with utter boredom.
"Olsen," Emrys said softly. "Educate him."