POV: Nick Fury
[S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ, Observation Bay 3]
I stood behind the one-way mirror, arms crossed, watching as Gerald Weston stood in the center of the sterile white room. He was completely naked, his body gleaming with a fine sheen of sweat. The light hit him just right, revealing a physique that looked like it was carved by the gods themselves—muscles perfectly sculpted, defined with sharp edges, like a marble statue brought to life. His blonde hair, messy but somehow still perfect, cascaded down to his shoulders. His piercing blue eyes were unbothered, cold, almost as if this whole situation was beneath him.
The medical team moved around him with caution, their glances flicking to him with unease. I couldn't blame them. Anyone would feel small standing in a room with a man like him. But they had their orders. He was a part of something bigger now—whether he liked it or not.
"Vitals are stable, for now," the lead medic said through the intercom. "Heart rate normal. No elevated stress hormones. It's like he's at a goddamn spa."
"He probably thinks this is a joke," I muttered.
Hill stood beside me, tablet in hand, scrolling through the early data. "If he is, he's not showing it. But... this is interesting. No enhancement markers. No biological tampering. Whatever's making him this dangerous isn't chemical, genetic, or cybernetic."
"Magic," I said flatly.
Hill looked up. "That wish thing he mentioned?"
"Yeah." I exhaled slowly. "Strength to Victory. Whatever the hell that means."
"I've run the phrase through every metaphysical database we have. Nothing concrete. No matching spell names, no divine contracts, not even whispers from the Sanctum."
"Which means it's either new... or old as hell," I muttered.
Hill was silent for a beat too long.
I glanced at her, one eyebrow raised. "Something catch your eye, Agent?"
She blinked, cleared her throat, then angled her tablet to the side. "Uh—yeah. His, uh… readings. They're just... very comprehensive."
I turned back toward the window.
Gerald had just stretched, arms lazily rolling behind his head. And yeah—there it was.
The room went still, save for the soft, rhythmic beeping of medical instruments. A sterile silence, broken only by the quiet hum of the scanner powering up.
Gerald Weston stood like a marble god under fluorescent lights—his entire physique a study in absurd perfection. And unfortunately, the metaphor didn't stop there. Even that part of him seemed mythologically proportioned. His "sword," as Hill would no doubt call it in her redacted report, was about one ceremonial sheath away from getting its own clearance level.
Hill coughed into her fist, shifting slightly. "That's… impressive," she said, eyes not quite meeting the glass anymore.
I didn't look at her. "You mean dangerous."
She hesitated—just long enough to make it awkward. "Sure. That too."
I sighed. "Let's just hope he swings the actual sword at the right targets."
As if on cue, Gerald turned toward the one-way mirror, his icy blue eyes locking directly with it. And then—because of course—he gave us a two-finger salute. That smug grin curled back across his lips like he'd just won a bet no one else knew they were part of.
One of the agents in the examination chamber hesitated before stepping forward, a biometric scanner in hand. "Mr. Weston, I need to scan your—"
"Careful where you aim that thing, doc," Gerald said smoothly, tilting his head. "It might go off and activate my third wish: spontaneous nudity."
The agent blinked, frozen mid-step.
Gerald flashed a grin, pure mischief. "Relax. I'm not that reckless." He paused. "Yet."
I reached over and tapped the comm panel. "Weston. Cooperate. Or I start making calls. Ugly ones. You know the kind."
His grin didn't fade, but his shoulders shifted ever so slightly. "Yessir, Commander," he replied with a mock salute. "Let the poking and prodding begin."
He raised his arms, just enough to allow the scanner clearance, and stood there like he was posing for some ancient coin engraving. His eyes flicked lazily around the room, utterly unimpressed.
The scanner passed slowly across his body, casting green pulses over every inch.
Beep.Beep.Beep.
And then… silence.
The lead technician frowned. "Uh… sir? We're not getting anything."
Hill turned her head slightly. "No markers?"
"None," the tech confirmed. "No biometric implants, no cybernetic interference, no augmentation threads, no microfilament traces, no hormonal irregularities. Nothing that shouldn't be there. It's like he's… just human."
Gerald chuckled softly. "Now that's the biggest lie anyone's said all day."
I didn't laugh.
"Run it again," I ordered.
The technician obeyed, running a second sweep—faster this time.
Still nothing.
"Whatever's in him," Hill muttered, "isn't tech, science, or magic we know. He's a blank slate with god-tier stats."
Gerald shrugged. "Told you. Second wish. Strength to Victory." His grin returned like it never left. "Whatever victory demands, I deliver. It's not something you measure with your fancy toys."
I frowned. That phrase again. Strength to Victory. It was maddeningly vague, and that made it dangerous. A man like Gerald Weston with limitless power but no readable limit? That was worse than a super-soldier. It was a loaded gun with no trigger—only intuition.
Hill stepped closer to the mic. "So, Gerald… what does victory demand right now?"
He tilted his head, as if genuinely pondering the question. Then, his gaze drifted up again toward the mirror—toward us.
"It demands I stop standing here naked," he said, grinning. "And maybe a sandwich."
"Get him a damn towel," I muttered.
As an agent scurried off to do just that, Gerald turned toward the mirror again, that look in his eyes—the one that said he knew he was the most dangerous thing in the room, clothed or not.
And somehow, I knew this was just the beginning.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
We moved him from the sterile med bay to a reinforced training chamber two floors down—what we called the "sandbox." It was where we sent the monsters, the mutants, the gods pretending to be men. Vibranium-laced walls, self-repairing floors, and enough sensor equipment to make Stark drool.
Gerald walked in wearing nothing but a black compression suit we'd issued him—one that clung to him like a second skin. Even that felt like it was doing the rest of us a favor. The suit shimmered slightly with reactive fibers, tracking every movement, muscle twitch, and biometric response.
Hill stood beside me again, arms folded, eyes flicking between the screens. "He doesn't look remotely nervous."
"No," I muttered. "He looks bored."
Gerald was rolling his shoulders like he was warming up for a lazy afternoon jog. No tension. No pacing. Not even the barest hint of anxiety. The lab techs and combat AI were already queuing up the physical assessment protocols, but Gerald?
He yawned.
"Begin test," I ordered.
The room responded instantly. Walls retracted. Target drones rose from the ground. Three humanoid bots activated with mechanical hums—military grade, programmed with randomized attack patterns, enhanced strength, and speed to match a peak Olympian on combat steroids.
The bots charged in unison.
Gerald moved faster.
He pivoted with an almost lazy grace, ducking under the first strike with a roll of his shoulder, delivering a backhand to the drone's head with enough force to crack the reinforced casing like a soda can. The drone's frame folded with a whine of metal, and it slammed to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.
The second drone lunged with a spear arm—Gerald sidestepped it so fast the sensors almost missed the movement. He grabbed the arm mid-thrust, twisted, and tore it clean off. Then, as if it were a game, he stabbed the third bot with it, impaling the thing through the chest before delivering a boot to its torso that sent it flying backward across the chamber.
"...Jesus," Hill breathed.
I didn't answer.
It wasn't just the power—it was the casual, almost playful precision. Like he wasn't breaking a sweat. Like the whole thing was just a warm-up.
"Vital signs unchanged," the tech reported through comms. "No exertion spikes. No increase in pulse. It's like he's swatting flies."
Gerald turned to face the observation window, his chest rising and falling at a perfectly steady rhythm. "Is that all, Director? Or do I have to start juggling tanks to get a reaction?"
I leaned into the comm. "That was baseline. Now comes pressure."
The lights dimmed for a moment. The arena shifted, recalibrating. New obstacles formed—pillars, cover pieces, kinetic suppression fields designed to simulate real combat scenarios. And more drones. This time, fifteen.
Each equipped with adaptive protocols. Each programmed to kill.
"Let's see how your little wish holds up under real fire," I said, mostly to myself.
The drones swarmed. Gerald didn't wait for them to reach him. He launched forward like a cannon shot—grace and brutality fused into a single movement. His foot hit the side of a rising wall, propelling him up into the air. He spun, grabbed a drone mid-leap, and threw it like a missile into two others.
It was a storm of movement after that. Limbs breaking. Sparks flying. Metal crumpling.
He didn't fight like a trained soldier. He fought like a force of nature. Each move instinctual, almost animalistic—but with the kind of control you only saw in the best martial artists.
He didn't hesitate. He didn't flinch.
He just won.
Five minutes later, the floor was littered with shattered machines and sparking wreckage.
Gerald stood in the middle, chest barely rising, breathing calm.
He looked up again.
That damn grin.
"I'm gonna need better toys," he said, brushing a fleck of dust from his shoulder.
I didn't say anything.
Hill leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowed. "He's not just strong. He adapts. Learns. Every movement was cleaner than the last."
"Strength to Victory," I muttered. "Whatever the fight needs, he becomes."
"And if the fight ever needs him to be a monster?" Hill asked quietly.
I didn't answer.
Instead, I tapped the intercom again. "Weston. Clean up. Briefing room in thirty. You're not done impressing me yet."
Gerald gave a mock salute, already walking off like he hadn't just torn through millions of dollars worth of combat tech.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
When Hill and I stepped into the briefing room, the first thing that hit me wasn't the cold air or the sterile lights.
It was the smell of food.
A lot of food.
The long, stainless steel table—meant for tactical meetings and international threats—was buried under a mountain of plates. Burgers, ribs, salmon filets, grilled chicken, rice bowls, pasta, pancakes, eggs, and three kinds of pie. And seated in the middle of it all, like some kind of golden-haired war god on his feast day, was Gerald Weston.
He was shirtless—again—because of course he was. His damp blonde hair clung to his neck, and his body, still glistening from the post-training shower, looked like someone had taken an Olympic athlete, dipped him in sunlight, and handed him a fork.
Scratch that—no fork. He was eating with his hands. Bare knuckles slick with sauce as he bit into a rack of ribs like it owed him money.
"Jesus," Hill muttered under her breath, momentarily stunned.
Gerald looked up, mouth full of steak. "Mmm—'scuse me," he mumbled, swallowing. "Didn't think you two would be back so soon."
"Are you feeding an army?" I asked, eyeing the carnage.
He grinned, never missing a beat. "Nah. Just working up an appetite. You try punching through reinforced steel barehanded and not come back craving half a cow."
"You've eaten enough to qualify for the entire herd," Hill muttered, eyes scanning her tablet. "That's 23 full meals, Weston."
"Twenty-six, technically," he said around a mouthful of roasted chicken. "I crushed a few appetizers before you walked in."
I stared at him, arms folded, trying to decide whether I was more disturbed or impressed. Honestly, it was a dead tie.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand—foregoing the stack of untouched napkins beside him—then casually reached for a piece of cherry pie like he was selecting a weapon from an armory. "What? You think wishes run on sunshine and good intentions? This body's a furnace. Gotta keep feeding it or the engine stalls."
Hill slowly sat down across from him, still blinking like she couldn't quite believe what she was seeing. "We're going to need a dedicated logistics team just to handle your calorie intake."
"And a revised food budget," I added flatly. "Might as well file you under Weapons and Agriculture."
Gerald chuckled, low and amused, then pointed toward the last pile of bacon with all the intensity of a man about to invade a country. "Come on, Director. You feed a weapon, you keep it sharp. Isn't that how it goes?"
"Only if the weapon doesn't get bored and decide to level a building."
He gave me a wink, biting down on a strip of bacon like it was part of the negotiation. "Tempting. But I like your buildings. The air conditioning's solid."
Hill shot me a side glance that said: What the hell have we brought into our house?
I didn't answer.
Because frankly? I didn't know.
But if this was just lunch… I couldn't wait to see what he'd do at dinner.
Hill was still watching him like he might sprout wings—or horns—at any moment. Gerald, on the other hand, looked as relaxed as a lion after a hunt, leaning back in the reinforced chair that was very clearly not rated for his weight plus twenty-six meals.
"Do you eat like this all the time?" she asked cautiously.
Gerald didn't even pause between bites. "Not always. Depends on what I've done that day. Sometimes the wish runs hot, and I burn through more. Sometimes it just idles, and I can coast."
"The wish," I echoed, stepping closer to the table. "Strength to Victory. You still haven't explained what that means."
He wiped his fingers on a napkin—finally—then leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Because it doesn't mean anything specific. That's the point. The power adapts. You get what you need to win. Not what you want. Not what you expect. What's required. In the moment. Period."
"So it's reactive," Hill said slowly, trying to process. "Situational. Like a living spell or… war-forged instinct."
Gerald nodded, helping himself to another drumstick. "Exactly. It's not about being the strongest in every way. It's about being strong enough in the right way."
"That sounds... impossible to measure," I said.
"Welcome to my life," he replied with a grin. "It's why I don't bother explaining much. By the time I do, the situation's usually over."
Hill tilted her head, intrigued now despite herself. "So you don't even know your limits?"
Gerald shrugged. "Limits shift. Depends on the fight. Depends on what's at stake. The more the odds are stacked against me, the hotter the engine burns."
"That's incredibly dangerous," Hill muttered.
"Also incredibly useful," I added, unable to deny the tactical advantage, even as the paranoia in the back of my head gnawed louder.
Gerald pushed the last plate away and stretched, the motion fluid and almost too graceful for a man his size. "So... what's next? Or are we done with the poking, prodding, and calorie counting?"
I exchanged a look with Hill before responding. "Next up is your psych eval. I want a full read on how your mind handles that wish of yours. Because if you're going to be part of this—"
"I am part of this," he interrupted, standing with a stretch that made his already-godlike frame even more imposing. "I said I'd join. I meant it. But you want trust? Then start showing it. Because the last people who tried controlling me ended up in pieces."
Hill's fingers tensed on her tablet. I stayed calm.
"We're not here to control you, Weston," I said, my voice even. "We're here to make sure the next time things go south, you're pointed in the right direction."
Gerald's blue eyes met mine—steady, unreadable. Then he smirked.
"Fair enough, Fury,"
He followed me out of the mess hall and into the corridor, barefoot steps echoing with that same infuriating, lazy confidence. Like he belonged everywhere. Like nothing could touch him. Hill was just behind us, typing furiously on her tablet, probably logging every one of the twenty-six meals he just consumed into some overworked analyst's nightmare of a report.
We rounded the corner, stopping in front of a sealed door lined with titanium latches and multi-layered biometric locks. A retinal scan, a palmprint, and a voice ID later, the steel barrier hissed open with a soft click.
Inside was the psychological assessment chamber—clinical, sterile, built with the cold precision of someone who'd designed it for gods and monsters alike. Cameras blinked in every corner. One-way mirrors lined the wall, concealing observers in silence. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and old questions.
Perfect.
Gerald stepped in like he was walking into a lounge, eyes flicking over the room with measured curiosity. He looked straight at the one-way mirror and gave it a nod—like he knew we were there, like he always knew—and then lowered himself into the reinforced chair with the grace of a jungle cat deciding where to nap.
Dr. Marlene Keller was already seated across from him, legs crossed, a small tablet in her lap. She didn't stand. Didn't smile. She simply looked at him with those eyes—sharp, gray, and entirely unimpressed. She'd stared down super-soldiers and ancient psychic entities before breakfast. Gerald Weston didn't rattle her.
He noticed, of course. And smiled anyway.
"Mr. Weston," she said, voice calm and measured. "This is not an interrogation. This is an evaluation. There are no right or wrong answers, only truth."
"Truth's subjective," he replied, relaxed, lounging as though they were catching up at a bar. "But sure. Shoot."
She started recording. "Name?"
"Gerald Weston. Eater of cows. The man who nearly destroyed a realm. Slayer of Aesir
Keller didn't flinch. "Age?"
"Chronologically? Twenty-one. Spiritually?" He gave a slow shrug. "Somewhere between 'seen too much' and 'don't care anymore.'"
She made a note. "Tell me about your childhood."
Gerald didn't hesitate. "Beautiful mother. Kind soul. She died when I was seven—murdered by starving beggars she tried to help. My father… changed after that. Became bitter. Violent. Said she died weak, and if I didn't want to end up like her, I had to become stronger. No mercy. No softness."
Keller's stylus paused. "How did that affect you?"
"I listened," he said simply. "For years. Took the beatings. Learned to harden up. Became what he wanted."
"And then?"
He leaned forward slightly, his tone flat and unblinking. "And then I twisted his head until it snapped."
Silence.
He said it with no emotion. No flicker of hesitation. No anger. No triumph.
No regret.
Keller set her tablet down for a moment, studying him. "How did you feel afterward?"
"Clean."
Still no emotion. Just a man stating the weather.
Hill, watching from behind the glass with me, tensed slightly. I didn't move, just kept my arms crossed, eyes fixed on him.
Keller resumed. "You've exhibited no signs of guilt, remorse, or trauma from the event. Is that suppression, or are you genuinely unaffected?"
Gerald tapped his chest once. "It's not here. Not anymore. He beat it out of me, and I returned the favor."
"Have you killed since?"
He chuckled, low and warm. "Lady, if you're asking if the first kill changed me? No. It was the change."
"Do you believe in redemption?"
"Only for people who want it. Not everyone does."
"And do you?"
He tilted his head thoughtfully. "Redemption's for people who think they did wrong. I don't lose sleep. I did what survival demanded. If that makes me irredeemable in someone's book, then they better hope I never get to read theirs."
Keller didn't react outwardly. "You refer often to necessity. To survival. Your powers are tied to the phrase 'Strength to Victory.' Can you explain what that means to you?"
Gerald exhaled, eyes lifting briefly to the mirrored glass. "It means you get what you need to win. Not what you want. Not what you expect. Just enough to survive the moment and dominate it. The wish doesn't care about morality or strategy. It adapts. Situational. Dynamic. Pure instinct forged into power."
"Is it conscious?"
"Not exactly. More like a reflex. I don't think. I react. The wish fills the gap."
Keller folded her hands. "What happens if the wish decides the best way to win is... removing your allies?"
There was a beat.
"Then they weren't allies," Gerald said simply.
Hill shifted uncomfortably behind the glass. Even I flinched a little.
Keller didn't stop. "Do you fear becoming what you fight?"
Gerald smiled at that. It was a small, honest thing. "Fear keeps you human. So I let it stay. But if you're asking if I'd stop the wish to feel better about myself? No. I'll carry that weight."
She tapped her pen against the clipboard. "Last question."
He raised an eyebrow. "Only one?"
"For now," she said. "What would you do if your wish told you the only way to win was to die?"
Gerald paused.
The humor faded.
And for the first time in the session, the smile didn't return.
"…Then I'd die," he said. "But I'd make damn sure it was worth it."
Then Keller tapped her tablet, stopping the recording. "That'll be all for now. I'll send my evaluation to Director Fury."
"Do I get a sticker?" Gerald asked.
"You get a warning," she replied coolly. "You're not unstable. But you're not stable either. You're a controlled storm—useful, but dangerous."
Gerald stood. "Then keep me pointed at the right horizon."
The door opened. Hill and I watched him exit, still barefoot, still infuriatingly calm. Keller remained seated for a while, quietly reviewing her notes.
Hill broke the silence first. "Well?"
I answered without looking away.
"He's not insane," I said. "But he's definitely not normal."
"And the wish?"
"It's not just power," I said. "It's instinct weaponized. If it ever decides Gerald's the obstacle to victory…"
Hill didn't need me to finish the sentence.
We both knew how it ended.