Marvel: Shadow Monarch

The café was unremarkable in every way that mattered—small, quiet, with the kind of worn furniture that suggested it had been serving coffee and conversation for decades. 

The only customers at this hour sat across from each other like chess players studying the board. 

One was a teenager who looked deceptively ordinary despite the dangerous stillness in his posture. The other was a man whose presence seemed to command attention despite his casual appearance—black leather coat, eyepatch, and the bearing of someone who'd made decisions that shaped the world.

Nick Fury looked exactly like the movies had portrayed him, but seeing him in person carried a weight that no screen could convey.

This was the man who'd assembled the Avengers, who'd stood against alien invasions and cosmic threats.

Lucien sat back in his chair, studying the SHIELD director with the same careful attention he'd give any potential threat.

The meeting location was chosen for privacy—a small café in Queens that probably served as a SHIELD front. 

He doubted they were truly alone. SHIELD didn't operate without backup plans, and Fury wouldn't meet an unknown quantity without insurance.

"Thank you for helping out with Spider-Man," Fury said, his voice carrying genuine gratitude mixed with exhaustion.

"We're running pretty thin on heroes right now."

"It's alright, as long as the deal still holds," Lucien replied, keeping his tone neutral.

He'd learned not to trust government promises, after all, even after hundreds of heroes in the world who promised to save the world, none had come to save them, did they?

Fury nodded and reached for a manila folder that had been sitting on the table between them. 

He slid it across to Lucien with practiced efficiency, the movement smooth despite his apparent fatigue.

"Your records and the girl's have been cleaned from every suspicious database on earth. If anyone tries to trace you digitally, our systems will detect it and redirect them to dead ends."

"Plus, we have created some new backgrounds for you, take a look."

Lucien opened the folder briefly, scanning the documentation that would give him and Anna legitimate identities in this world.

The work was thorough—years of fabricated history that would stand up to all but the most intensive scrutiny. 

Clean birth certificates from a hospital in Ohio, complete school records showing steady if unremarkable academic performance, even dental records and vaccination histories.

"Impressive," he said, closing the folder. "This kind of work usually takes months."

"We're motivated," Fury replied dryly. 

"What about the money and the apartment?"

Fury reached into his coat and produced a keycard and a small black folder. 

The keycard was matte black with a silver magnetic strip—expensive looking, the kind that opened doors to buildings most people couldn't afford to look at. 

"The card opens apartment 2A at Meridian Towers in Manhattan. Twenty-eighth floor, corner unit with views of Central Park. Fully furnished, utilities covered for a year, building security that doesn't ask questions."

He placed the black folder next to the keycard with deliberate ceremony. 

"American Express Black Card. You can spend five hundred thousand on it before it turns useless. Unless, of course, you join SHIELD."

Lucien picked up the credit card, noting the weight of it. 

Real metal, not plastic. The kind of financial instrument that opened doors and bought silence. Five hundred thousand dollars was more money than he'd ever imagined having access to, but Fury's casual mention of it increasing suggested this was pocket change to SHIELD's budget.

"Join SHIELD?" Lucien looked at Fury directly, reading the calculation behind the man's single eye.

"No thanks."

Fury leaned forward slightly, his interest genuine but tinged with frustration. 

"Why? You're strong enough to contain Spider-Man when he's compromised. Hell, you made it look easy according to Bucky's report. The world could use your help. Don't you want to be a hero?"

The question hung in the air between them, loaded with implications and assumptions.

Lucien could see the recruiting pitch forming in Fury's mind—speeches about responsibility, about using power for the greater good, about joining something bigger than himself.

Lucien chuckled, and there was something in the sound that made Fury's expression shift slightly.

 It wasn't humor, exactly, but something colder.

"Hero? Don't try to patronize me, Fury. I did this only because I was getting something in return." He gestured dismissively at the folder and cards. 

"And why would you even want me? You've got enough heroes to play cards with them."

"Because you have the potential to be used as a weapon," Fury said bluntly, abandoning any pretense of recruitment speeches. The directness was almost startling—no euphemisms about "assets" or "operatives." Just the cold truth of what SHIELD wanted. 

"You see, almost all heroes have a no-kill rule. But you don't have something like that."

The words settled between them like a challenge. Lucien felt his expression harden, though he kept his voice level. "I only killed the captors and those lizards."

"It doesn't matter," Fury replied, completely unperturbed by the shift in atmosphere. 

"Point is, you've got blood on your hands while most heroes have never crossed that line and probably never will. Captain America hasn't killed anyone since World War Two. Iron Man's suits are designed with non-lethal takedown modes. Even Spider-Man pulls his punches to avoid permanent damage."

Fury leaned back in his chair, studying Lucien like a particularly interesting specimen. "But you're different. You ended those fights permanently when you needed to."

"I know that you had no choice, but even after doing that, you felt no moral crisis, did you?. You did what was necessary and moved on."

"What's your point?" Lucien asked though he suspected he knew where this was heading.

"My point is that heroes are great for stopping bank robberies and alien invasions, but sometimes the world needs someone willing to get their hands dirty. Sometimes the right thing to do isn't the heroic thing to do." Fury's voice carried the weight of experience, of decisions made in shadows that never saw public acknowledgment. 

"Only a few people are willing to do that, and you can be trained into a good weapon for the right causes."

The offer was laid out with brutal honesty. No pretense about joining a family of heroes or fighting for justice. Just an acknowledgment that SHIELD sometimes needed someone willing to cross lines that their public heroes couldn't.

"I have no interest in joining SHIELD," Lucien said firmly. The thought of being anyone's weapon, even voluntarily, left a bitter taste in his mouth. 

He'd spent months as a lab rat for one organization; he had no desire to become an attack dog for another.

"But if there's something specific that I get paid for, I'll consider doing it. No promises."

"Mercenary work?" Fury mused, though there was no judgment in his tone. 

"Call it what you want. I'm not interested in taking orders or following protocols. But if you have a problem that needs solving and you're willing to pay for it, I'll listen."

Fury studied him for a long moment, clearly weighing his options.

The silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant sounds of traffic and the quiet hum of the café's refrigeration unit. Finally, the SHIELD director nodded slowly.

"That's all I'm asking. The world could use you, even if it's just occasionally."

He reached into his coat again and produced a business card—plain white with only a phone number printed in black ink.

"When we need someone with your particular skill set, we'll call. You can decide case by case whether the job and the pay are worth your time."

Lucien pocketed the card along with the apartment key and credit card.

"What kind of jobs are we talking about?"

"The kind that doesn't make it into the mission reports," Fury replied cryptically.

"Let's just say that sometimes problems need to disappear quietly, and heroes aren't built for making things disappear."

Both men stood from the table, and the business portion of their meeting concluded.

The coffee had gone cold during their conversation, neither man having touched their cups.

The café owner, a middle-aged man who'd been conspicuously absent during their conversation, emerged from the back room with perfect timing.

"Could I get four pastries and a pack of biscuits to go?" Lucien asked, moving toward the counter. The normalcy of the request felt surreal after discussing assassination contracts with the director of SHIELD.

The owner smiled warmly and began boxing up the items—two chocolate croissants, a blueberry muffin, an apple turnover, and a pack of shortbread cookies.

"It's on the house," he said, though his knowing glance toward Fury made it clear this wasn't ordinary hospitality.

SHIELD personnel, Lucien noted. Of course it is. Probably half the businesses in Queens are fronts.

"Appreciate it," Lucien said, accepting the box. The pastries were still warm, filling the small space with the scent of butter and sugar.

Outside, a Quinjet waited in the small parking area behind the café, its engines idling quietly.

The pilot—a young woman in SHIELD tactical gear—nodded respectfully as Lucien boarded. No questions, no small talk, just professional efficiency.

The flight back to Murphy's Last Stop gave him time to process the conversation.

Fury's offer was straightforward: the money would be good, the targets would presumably deserve what they got, and he'd maintain his independence.

It was exactly the kind of arrangement that should have appealed to him. Quick money for skills he already possessed, with no long-term commitments. But something about it sat wrong, though he couldn't put his finger on exactly what.

Maybe it was the casual way Fury had categorized him as someone comfortable with killing. Or maybe it was the implication that crossing that line once meant he was fundamentally different from the heroes who hadn't. As if moral flexibility was a permanent stain rather than a situational choice.

The system had been quiet since the lizard fight, but he could feel something building. The level-ups had been coming faster, the stat gains more significant. 

The Quinjet's engines shifted as they began their descent toward the familiar landscape around Murphy's Last Stop. 

As the aircraft touched down in the open area, its engines creating a small dust storm that sent loose papers and debris swirling through the air, Lucien gathered his packages and prepared to disembark. 

The pilot gave him a casual salute as the ramp lowered, professional courtesy mixed with obvious curiosity about who warranted personal transport by SHIELD aircraft.

"Thanks for the ride," Lucien said, stepping out into the sun.

The Quinjet lifted off almost immediately, disappearing into the sky with military efficiency that left barely a trace of its presence except for the settling dust and the lingering smell of jet fuel. But the damage was already done—the noise had clearly attracted attention from the motel.

Anna emerged from the front entrance first, her expression shifting from curiosity to exasperation as she took in the sight of Lucien standing in a settling cloud of dust with a box of pastries in his hands.

Behind her, Grandma Murphy appeared, wiping her hands on a dish towel and wearing the expression of someone who'd just had her peaceful afternoon interrupted.

"Well," Anna said, crossing her arms and fixing him with a look that could have melted steel, "this is going to be interesting to explain."

Grandma Murphy's sharp eyes took in the scene—the fading dust cloud, Lucien's slightly guilty expression, and the box of pastries that hadn't come from anywhere within fifty miles of her establishment.

Her gaze lingered on his clothes, noting details that probably escaped most people but were obvious to someone who'd spent decades reading people.

"Boy," she said slowly, her voice carrying the tone of someone who'd caught a teenager sneaking back into the house after curfew, "I think you and I need to have a conversation about what constitutes a 'morning run.'"

Lucien gave them both an embarrassed smile, holding up the box of pastries like a peace offering. The gesture felt inadequate given the circumstances, but it was all he had. "I brought breakfast?"

The look Anna gave him suggested that breakfast was not going to be sufficient to get him out of this particular situation.

Her eyes were sharp with the kind of intelligence that missed nothing, and he could practically see her cataloging the inconsistencies in his story.

But before either woman could begin what promised to be a very pointed interrogation, a loud splash came from the direction of their room, followed by what sounded distinctly like a satisfied rumble.

Jeff had heard the Quinjet too, apparently, and was making his presence known from his improvised pool. At his current size—now approaching that of a small pony—the sound was considerably louder than it had been even a few days ago.

Grandma Murphy's eyebrows rose as she processed the sound, her expression shifting from suspicious to deeply concerned.

"And what exactly do you have in that bathtub that's making a noise like a drowning elephant?"

Lucien's embarrassed smile became slightly more strained. 

Between SHIELD wanting to recruit him as a weapon, a rapidly growing land shark that was becoming impossible to hide, and two very suspicious women demanding explanations he couldn't give, his quiet life as a fugitive was definitely becoming more complicated.

"It's..." he started, then stopped, realizing that any explanation he could give would only raise more questions. "It's a long story."

Both of the women had an expression that suggested they had all the time in the world to hear it, and all the patience in the world to wait until she got the truth.

Sigh... Here goes nothing.

.....

POWER STONE GOAL: 700 ( 1 Extra Chapter)

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