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Nick Fury had hit his limit.
First several of his best agents and scientists had either been murdered or hijacked. This of course was quickly followed by his entire facility collapsing. Then, he'd had to put together a group of misfit "superheroes", each with varying degrees of personal issues. To top it off, he'd then had to deal with an invading army of space cyborgs under the command of a megalomaniac Norse god. To say that it'd been a long day would be a massive understatement.
But Nick had been appointed Director for a reason.
He had dealt with these things like any self-respecting super spy would. He'd kicked ass and gotten everyone's shit together. Long story short, they'd won the battle for New York, gotten their (admittedly psychologically damaged) people back, and had then proceeded to rub Loki's smug, godly face in it. Thor muzzled him (and wasn't that a moment Fury wished he'd had a camera for) and then the two Asgardians went on their not so merry way. Everybody went home and that was that. End of story.
Until three days ago, that is.
Nick Fury is standing, feet shoulder width apart, back straight, with his hands casually clasped behind his back. Off to his right, ten, maybe fifteen civilians peek out from behind the window of a small-time supermarket, pushing and shoving in a desperate attempt to take in the scene while S.H.E.I.L.D agents try to regain control of the situation. The air is both tense and laced with self-conscious apology as Nick Fury, Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. stares down the current bane of his existence.
The God of Thunder.
Heir to the great throne of Asgard itself...
Is currently holding himself as only a God can while surreptitiously removing bits and pieces of hot dog and ruptured ketchup packets from both his and his companions' hair. Much to the evident irritation of his companion. The blonde looks up and grins hesitantly at Fury. The poor bastard's flashy light mode of transportation had landed him smack dab in the middle of a hot dog truck. The poor driver had barely made it into the diner parking lot when the back of truck had exploded, raining mini weenies all over the damn place. Sometimes Fury really wondered why he always got saddled with the crazies. First Stark and Rogers, than the Avengers, and now this? But the sheer idiocy of the situation isn't what has Fury's panties in such a twist.
Oh no, it's the tall, dark and psychotic guy with the horny helmet at Thor's side that has him pissed beyond reason. 'I must have done something seriously stupid in my last life to deserve this' he thinks as the pair make their way over.
Now four hours, three cups of highly caffeinated coffee, and a headache that could rival getting socked in the face by the Hulk later, Fury's here. Glaring through a plate glass window at S.H.I.E.L.D.'s newest inhabitant.
And all because the almighty All-father had, in his infinite wisdom, decided that it might be a nice learning experience for his least favorite son to have his punishment doled out by the Midgardians. Because naturally Loki's actions were in no way Asgard's responsibility. And because Earth's mightiest obviously have nothing better to do than babysit the God of Mischief.
Yes, Nick Fury had most certainly reached his limit.
Not one of his agents were willing to take a crack at rehabilitating this guy. The rehabilitation being at Asgard's behest. If it had been left up to the World Security Council, the killer would have been dead or rotting in a cell somewhere.
But no, for whatever reason, rehabilitation it was.
Fury only knew one thing, and it was that he sure as hell wasn't going to deal with this insanity any longer than strictly necessary. Time to call in the heavy artillery. The other crazies.
"Yes sir?" she glanced up curiously from her station by the viewport.
Fury didn't respond for a long moment, but when he did, it was with a deep sigh. "Get me Charles Xavier on the line."
Hill blinked. "...Right away sir."
As Loki leered up at Fury from his position on his knees, chained down in the middle of his cell, Fury couldn't help but hope the good ol' professor would have some ace up his sleeve. Shaking his head, he reached out and flicked a switch, opaquing out the cell window. He was getting too old for this shit.
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