YoFranco
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MAOH 71
🕑 Added 2025-10-28 22:12:23 +0000 UTCN/A: This arc might feel a bit weak; honestly, I was feeling a bit lazy writing it. I was working on the Thor one, but I wasn’t completely satisfied with how it turned out. So, for now, we’ll be skipping these two arcs to move faster toward the Ultron part, which should be a lot more interesting.
End of S.H.I.E.L.D. Part 1/3
General Nathaniel Hawthorne was a man of high military standing—semi-retired now, yet still officially active, serving as the last wall between politics and the humanitarian organization he had helped create: VITAE.
In his prime, Nathaniel had been one of the finest soldiers in his country’s history—a special agent, a marine, a tactician. He had passed through countless commands, earning respect not through favoritism but through his record of flawless missions and his unwavering loyalty to his comrades. On the battlefield, he was known as a machine—precise, efficient, unstoppable. Yet, behind all his medals and victories, one image had always haunted him: the faces of innocent civilians dying in wars they never chose to fight.
That memory had stayed with him for life.
When he raised his son to be a soldier, even though the boy never truly wanted that path, Nathaniel instilled one principle above all others: Protect first. But in time, his son’s refusal to follow in his footsteps had left him quietly disappointed.
Then Owen appeared.
Owen was his son’s best friend—a quiet, disciplined orphan who worked tirelessly to earn every scholarship, every opportunity. Nathaniel had noticed it the first time the boy visited his home alongside Nicholas: there was something about him, something heavy in his eyes. Not the fear of what pursued him, but of what might someday arrive. Nathaniel never discovered what Owen was truly running from—but he recognized the discipline, the quiet fury, and the self-imposed severity that drove him forward.
One day, after watching Nicholas train without enthusiasm, Owen approached Nathaniel directly.
“Train me too,” he said.
When the general asked why, the boy replied simply:
“Because I want to live peacefully in the future.”
Nathaniel hadn’t fully understood the meaning of those words back then, but they stayed with him.
He agreed—and from that day, he poured all his knowledge into Owen. What he saw astonished him. The boy wasn’t just talented; he was relentless. He would bleed and keep training. If a muscle tore, he worked the others until it healed, and then trained the injured one twice as hard so it wouldn’t fall behind. Even when exhaustion left him barely able to open his eyes, he still woke at the same hour every morning to continue.
He wasn’t human discipline—he was willpower incarnate.
Nathaniel, who had once considered retirement out of sheer frustration with political interference, decided to stay in service a few more years—just to see how far this boy could go. And Owen didn’t disappoint.
With the general’s support, he began taking on missions across the world—assisting the UN, disaster zones, rescue operations, even black ops. Every mission was a success, each one riskier than the last. Most were humanitarian, though some were deadly.
Then came the mission that changed everything.
Owen was sent to rescue a scientist. The operation went wrong—his entire unit was wiped out. Yet, even wounded and alone, Owen carried on. He fought through terrorists, mercenaries, and corrupt soldiers to save that one man. He returned alive—but barely. His body was so broken he spent half a year recovering, wrapped in bandages and scars.
When he finally returned home, he left only a letter of resignation. Nathaniel had been ready to accept it; after all, no father figure could bear to see him in that state again. But everything changed when Viktor, the very scientist Owen had saved, approached Nathaniel with a request: to use Owen’s DNA for an experimental serum.
If the serum didn’t work, it would be destroyed. Owen would retire.
But before any of that could happen, Viktor was attacked—not by foreign enemies, but by operatives under the command of Nick Fury himself.
That was how the serum ultimately reached Owen’s hands.
And that was when Nathaniel realized that as long as Fury operated with international backing, Owen would never be safe. Not from S.H.I.E.L.D., not from the government, not from anyone. The only way to protect him was to keep his own military rank and create a network strong enough to shield Owen—and others like him.
Thus, VITAE evolved—not just as a humanitarian group, but as a refuge for those who didn’t fit into political molds. One by one, more of these “troublesome kids,” as Nathaniel called them, found their way to the organization. Each one gifted, powerful, chaotic… and in need of guidance.
Nathaniel never said it aloud, but he was proud of them. They had become protectors of the weak—heroes, in their own way.
That night, the general arrived at his mansion on the outskirts of the city. It was far more fortified than before—VITAE security guards patrolled the perimeter, though Nathaniel had never liked the extra protection. Still, he knew it wasn’t really for him; his “kids,” as he called them, wouldn’t allow him to live unguarded. Stark had even sent maids and a new housekeeper, though Nathaniel suspected it was just another excuse for Tony to install more security systems.
“Sir, your bath is ready,” said one of the housekeepers with a professional smile.
“Thank you,” Nathaniel replied with a weary nod, heading toward his study instead.
It had been a long day. Between overseeing VITAE’s operations and ensuring that no DNA samples from its members—or from the Avengers—ended up in the wrong hands, his mind was exhausted. As an old soldier, he knew too well what kind of weapon that genetic material could become if militarized.
He reached the door of his study—then paused.
Something felt off.
Nathaniel inhaled slowly. His sense of smell, dulled by age but sharpened by experience, detected a faint trace—gunpowder, oil, and the metallic tang of blood. It was the scent of a battlefield.
Quietly, he moved to a decorative vase, pulling out the flowers. Hidden within was a sleek, silver pistol—one of several Stark had given him for self-defense. He pressed a button on the side; the weapon hummed softly to life, a faint blue glow running along its barrel.
He gripped it firmly, then turned the door handle.
The door swung open with force.
Nathaniel entered with steady aim, pointing directly toward the shadowed figure seated in the chair behind his desk.
The intruder was facing the window, the faint light of dusk outlining their silhouette. Nathaniel narrowed his eyes, the familiarity of that shape sending a sharp tension through his chest.
He knew that posture. That stillness.
Someone he’d trained once—or someone who’d learned from him.
And he wasn’t sure if he was ready for which of the two it would be.
"I never gave you permission to enter my house. Or do some of the people working here also work for you?" said Nathaniel in a serious, almost irritated tone, without lowering the pistol he was pointing directly at the man seated in the shadows.
The voice that answered was calm, deep, and slightly weary.
"No. It actually took quite a bit of effort to sneak in here," said the intruder. "I didn’t think I’d ever come to this place… but I guess I didn’t have another choice."
The man pressed a switch, and the nearby lamp flickered on, illuminating his weathered face and the unmistakable black eyepatch.
Nathaniel frowned.
"What are you doing here, Fury? Did you come looking to get shot in the ass?" he asked, his tone cold as steel, the gun still steady in his hand.
"The fact that you haven’t pulled the trigger yet already says a lot," Fury replied with a trace of irony, though his voice was weak.
Nathaniel studied him more closely. Blood soaked through the lower part of his coat, dark and heavy. Several wounds ran across his torso, and his breathing was uneven.
"Looks like you didn’t have anywhere else to go…" the general said, lowering his weapon slowly.
"No. I don’t," Fury admitted, gritting his teeth as he pressed a hand to his abdomen. "S.H.I.E.L.D. has been completely compromised. And I don’t mean infiltration—it’s worse. The entire organization now belongs to another side. I didn’t realize it until it was too late. The only place I could come to… was the home of my worst enemy. Or maybe my only ally who still doesn’t trust me."
Nathaniel let out a short, dry laugh as he holstered his pistol.
"That’s been obvious for years. You just didn’t want to see it."
He walked to his wine cabinet, poured himself a glass of liquor, and the crystal chimed softly as it filled.
"So what now? You came to ask for help? Because if that’s the case…"
"No," Fury interrupted firmly. "I know you wouldn’t. Not after everything that’s happened. There’s no trust between us, I know that. But… we’ve always wanted the same thing, even if our methods were different. The end goal was always the same."
Nathaniel gave him a sidelong glance, taking a slow sip before speaking again.
"So then… what did you come for?"
Fury met his eyes directly, his expression deadly serious.
"I came to ask you for a favor."
Nathaniel raised an eyebrow, waiting.
"Destroy S.H.I.E.L.D."
The general stared at him for several seconds in silence. Then a faint, mocking smirk crossed his face.
"I never thought I’d live to see the day when you, Nick Fury, would ask for the destruction of the very organization you swore to protect—the one you treated as untouchable."
Fury took a deep breath; his voice was rough, heavy with bitterness.
"It’s not the S.H.I.E.L.D. I knew. Not the one Stark and Carter founded. What’s left of it now… isn’t an agency. It’s a snake with a thousand heads. All that remains is Hydra."
Nathaniel nodded slowly, his gaze hardening.
"We were going to do it anyway once you failed. It was only a matter of time," he said calmly, setting his glass down on the desk.
His eyes drifted toward Fury’s wounds.
"Who did that to you?"
"The Winter Soldier," Fury answered after a brief pause, straightening up with effort.
"And before you ask, I don’t know where he is—or who’s controlling him now."
He moved toward the door, leaning on the frame for a moment before adding,
"You’d better hurry. Project Insight is still active… and it’s in the wrong hands."
Nathaniel didn’t reply. He simply watched as Fury disappeared down the corridor, leaving a faint trail of blood across the polished floor.
The general exhaled slowly, his expression a mix of irritation and weary resignation.
"Hmph… leaving the mess he created for others to clean up, as always," he muttered, pulling his phone from his pocket while the faint gleam of the gun he’d just holstered still shimmered under the light.
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Nicolae
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