A massive canvas depicting the burning of Rome dominated the white wall of the Mayfair gallery. Standing before it with my hands tucked in my pockets, I studied the painted panic. The artist had captured the collapse of civilization perfectly, a city drowning under a sky that's turned dark with smoke.
The sharp click of standard-issue dress shoes against hardwood signaled the approach of company.
"A little bleak for a Tuesday, isn't it?" Phil Coulson asked.
Turning to face him revealed an agent pushed to his absolute limit. Coulson's usually pristine suit was rumpled, and the heavy bags under his eyes suggested he hadn't slept a full night since the crater in New Mexico.
"Is Tony safe?"
Caught slightly off guard by the abrupt question, Coulson blinked. "Mr. Stark is fine. He's currently reviewing some materials at the tower in New York."
"Good."
Stepping closer, the agent abandoned his signature fake smile.
"Level Seven priority," he said. "The P.E.G.A.S.U.S. facility was compromised last night. The Tesseract was stolen."
"By whom?" The question was merely a formality.
"An Asgardian. Calls himself Loki. He took Agent Barton and Dr. Selvig with him, leveling the facility on his way out."
Coulson offered a secure tablet, keeping a respectful distance instead of forcing it into my hands.
"Director Fury remembers your stance on recruitment," Coulson continued evenly. "I'm not here to draft you. But the Director wanted me to formally request your assistance as an independent consultant. We're stepping into the deep end here, and frankly...."
Looking from the glowing screen to Coulson's exhausted face, I could understand his situation. The file's contents is already something I know, the timeline unfolding exactly as it was meant to.
Letting out a slow breath, accepting his own new choice. The quiet years were officially over. The world was about to get very loud, and staying on the sidelines was no longer an option.
"Alright," I said.
Coulson lowered the tablet, genuine surprise shown on his face. "Just like that?"
"The door is already open, Agent Coulson," I said, moving past him toward the exit. "Talking about it won't change what walked through."
The gallery owner watched nervously as we stepped out into the steady London drizzle. A black SHIELD SUV sat idling at the curb.
"My luggage is at the hotel," I mentioned as we climbed inside.
"A team already grabbed it," Coulson replied, tapping his earpiece.
An hour later, the rain was coming down in sheets over the tarmac. A field agent handed over my leather suitcase at the base of the stealth jet's metal ramp. Dressed in a tailored charcoal suit and carrying a single bag, I walked up the incline looking more like a corporate executive catching a red-eye than a man walking into a war.
Taking a seat in the back of the cabin, I strapped in while Coulson settled across the aisle, his fingers already flying rapidly across his screen.
"Where are we heading?"
"We have a stop to make before the carrier," Coulson answered. A tiny spark of genuine excitement managed to break through his exhaustion. "We're picking up Captain Rogers."
A silent nod was my only reply as I turned toward the small window. The jet engines whined, pitching upward, and carried us into the grey sky.