BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
Lucas slammed his fists into the Destroyer, punch after punch. He was enjoying himself, but he had to admit—Asgard's ultimate weapon was built different.
It wasn't like the Iron Monger, that primitive Gen-1 suit he'd one-shotted back in New York.
Sure, Lucas was stronger now than he was back then. But even with his increased power, he couldn't instantly fold the Destroyer. The thing was tough.
Meanwhile, in Asgard, Loki watched in stunned silence.
He had never seen anyone go toe-to-toe with the Destroyer like this. Maybe Odin could, but Loki had never seen his father fight at full power.
Usually, when the Destroyer entered the battlefield, the war was over. Throughout Asgard's history of conquest, it was the "Win Button."
The Nine Realms had been relatively peaceful under Odin's rule, but small rebellions popped up all the time. That was why Thor was always away fighting.
Normally, Thor and Mjolnir were enough to crush any uprising. If they weren't, the Destroyer was deployed. And that was it. Game over.
It was a weapon that broke civilizations.
But now? Now it was being pinned down and beaten like a drum by a mortal in a t-shirt.
Lucas's strength was absurd. The Destroyer looked like it was fighting back, but in reality, it was just surviving. It couldn't counterattack. Every time it tried to fire its annihilation beam, Lucas didn't even dodge. He just tanked it with his face and kept punching.
The only reason the Destroyer was still in one piece was its construction. It was forged by dwarves from Uru metal and enchanted with Odin's personal runes. It contained cosmic truths and magical laws that defied physics.
That's why it hadn't shattered yet. But even so, Lucas was denting it. His fists were leaving deep impressions in the indestructible metal. If he had a weapon like Mjolnir? He would have cracked it open like an egg minutes ago.
Fancy magic, cosmic runes, ancient enchantments—none of it mattered against absolute, overwhelming force.
Lucas was suppressing it with pure brute strength. No technique. No martial arts.
Even Coulson could tell Lucas had never taken a fighting class in his life. He was just swinging wild haymakers.
It was the classic "Turtle Punch" style—flailing arms, zero form, all power.
But as the old saying goes: The master fears the young and strong.
Who cares about technique when your opponent hits with the force of a freight train and ignores all damage? It was just bullying. Plain and simple.
Fury watched from the sidelines, analyzing every move.
"This confirms the psychological profile," Fury thought. "Lucas really is just an ordinary guy from outside the Fourth Wall."
The way he fought—unrefined, instinctual—matched S.H.I.E.L.D.'s assessment. Lucas wasn't a trained soldier or a martial artist. He was a regular person who got lucky with superpowers.
He didn't have the noble, self-sacrificing spirit of a hero like Cap. But he had a basic moral compass. He was willing to keep his neighborhood safe. He was essentially a super-powered Good Samaritan.
Well, a Good Samaritan with a lot of money (thanks to Tony) and terrifying strength.
But this also meant Lucas hadn't reached his ceiling yet. If S.H.I.E.L.D. could train him—teach him actual combat skills—he could become even deadlier.
There was potential there.
And judging by the fight, Lucas was definitely stronger than the files suggested. He must have powered up recently. Not that he was hiding it—why would he? He didn't know S.H.I.E.L.D. was watching him this closely.
Lucas probably thought this deviation from the movie plot was just the Butterfly Effect.
A butterfly flaps its wings in South America, and a storm hits the Pacific.
Fury knew Lucas was aware of the multiverse. The Time Variance Authority (TVA), the Illuminati massacre by Scarlet Witch, the infinite splintering of timelines after He Who Remains died—Lucas knew it all.
So seeing a slightly different version of Thor 1 wouldn't shock him. "Strange timelines are everywhere," he'd probably say. "What's one more variant?"
While Fury mused, Lucas was getting into a rhythm.
BANG!
Every punch sent showers of golden light erupting from the Destroyer.
That light wasn't sparks—it was mana. It was the energy of Odin's enchantments bleeding out. The runes were failing under the stress.
The Destroyer had no engine, no battery. It ran on magic. And Lucas was literally beating the magic out of it.
If this were Tony's Mark III, Lucas would have punched a hole through the chest and out the back by now. They weren't even in the same weight class.
After a few more minutes of relentless pounding, the golden light finally sputtered and died. The runes shattered. The enchantment broke.
CRACK!
With one final, earth-shaking uppercut, Lucas smashed the Destroyer's head clean off its shoulders. The massive armor crumpled, turning into a pile of lifeless scrap metal.
The battle was over.
Lucas landed softly on the sand, exhaling. He was slightly winded—the fight had burned some stamina. But a few seconds of deep breathing, and he was back to full.
If the storm clouds weren't blocking the sun, he wouldn't have even felt that much fatigue.
"Done," Lucas muttered, looking up at the sky.
He knew Loki was watching through the Bifrost.
He glared directly at the clouds.
Consider this a warning, Reindeer Games.
He didn't want to get too involved in the drama, but Loki needed to calm down.