Proposal

The red-haired girl and the white-haired boy were cornered at the end of an alley, surrounded by three or five muscular thugs who clearly weren't the sharpest tools in the shed. Their leader was a black man nearly two meters tall, with a fierce and brutal face, flashing a set of clean, white teeth when he grinned.

He pressed one hand against the wall, his broad shoulders blocking the girl in, his breath heavy like a bull's. The red-haired girl had to tilt her head back to meet the gaze of this towering brute, but she showed no sign of fear.

The whole thing wasn't complicated to explain. These twins—Scarlet Witch and Quicksilver, of course—had been wandering aimlessly after leaving Baron Strucker's base. They'd emerged from the forest and quickly found the nearest town. But public safety here wasn't exactly up to par, and before long, these muscle-bound idiots had cornered them.

"This isn't a good idea, wandering around a place like this without an adult," the black man said with a low, mocking laugh. "Especially a girl like you—you should have a bit more safety awareness."

The alley wasn't deep. People passed by outside from time to time, occasionally glancing over, but no one wanted to get involved.

The girl crossed her arms and said in a cold, clearly disgusted tone, "Drop those filthy thoughts and get lost while you still have the chance."

The black man looked back at his buddies. "She says we should get lost while we still have the chance!" They all burst out laughing.

Quicksilver shot his sister a sidelong glance. "Do I handle it, or are you doing it yourself?"

Scarlet Witch didn't say a word, but her actions spoke for her. Crimson energy crept into her pitch-black eyes, and the surging power, not yet fully formed, seemed to drop the air temperature by a few degrees.

The black man let go of the wall and instinctively stepped back. "What the hell?"

But before the witch could cast her spell, a heavy punch landed square on her target's face. He spat out a spray of saliva, his head lolling to the side as he collapsed, motionless.

She froze, the red glow in her pupils fading as she returned to normal.

The one who'd struck was a young man of average height, wearing a black long coat with a stand-up collar, custom-polished leather shoes, and a distinctive hairstyle that clearly came from a top-tier stylist. With his outfit and aura, he looked like he belonged in a financial district, not some rundown, backwater town.

The other thugs looked hesitant, but running away after their boss got taken down would be too embarrassing. After a moment's thought, the rest charged forward with a racket. In the blink of an eye, one had his arm broken, another had his jaw shattered, and a third tripped over the man's foot mid-charge, face-planting and breaking his nose, curling up on the ground and groaning.

After casually dealing with these big guys who weren't even a real problem, Michael Passo straightened his coat collar and turned around.

"Well, I didn't actually need the help," Scarlet Witch said, glancing at the groaning thugs on the ground. "But thanks anyway."

"I'm sure you didn't need it, Miss Maximoff," Michael said. "But I was just saving us both some time—we both know using your powers here would've caused a stir."

"You know about my powers. Wait, you know my name too?" The girl was surprised and on alert. Quicksilver, too, casually lowered his crossed arms at that, as if bracing for a sudden attack.

"Wanda Maximoff and Pietro Maximoff—of course, I know most things about you. And we've actually met before."

Michael casually formed a hand seal, and sparks of fire swirled in his palm, shaping into a simple magic circle.

"It's you!" Wanda exclaimed.

"It's me. Don't bother—you know you can't read my mind." Michael spread his fingers, extinguishing the circle, then glanced at Pietro, who looked ready to act. "By the way, you owe me your life—no need to thank me."

"Since you're here, Strucker must be finished," Wanda said cautiously. "What do you want?"

"Strucker is finished, and so is Hydra. But I'm reorganizing and integrating Hydra's remnants, building a new organization on the ruins—a better one," Michael said. "And I'm offering you both an invitation. I hope you'll consider joining."

"'A better Hydra'—that's a joke," Pietro quipped.

"I'm working on it," Michael said, unfazed by the sarcasm. "You can be surprised when I'm done."

"So why do you think we'd agree?" Wanda frowned. "Whether you want to run another Hydra to control the world or turn it into another S.H.I.E.L.D., why would we care?"

"Because you don't seem to have anywhere better to go, and I'm offering you a job with food, lodging, and pay." Michael paused, then added, emphasizing to Wanda, "Also, I know you want to gain more power, and I happen to be very interested in your abilities. So here's the deal—you let me study your powers, and I'll teach you how to better control and use them. Trust me, you haven't even scratched the surface of your potential."

Wanda was surprised. "You understand my powers?"

"Not completely, but far more than you do. We can figure it out together later." Michael shoved his hands into his coat pockets. "Of course, that's if you don't turn down the offer."

Wanda instinctively looked at her brother, and in that split-second glance, they understood each other's thoughts.

She gave a slight nod.

"Good, I didn't think you'd refuse."

Michael traced a small circle in the air with his right hand, and a circular magical portal burst open with sparks, spinning open before the twins' astonished eyes. He stepped through first, only to find the siblings frozen on the other side, still wearing shocked expressions.

"What?" Michael spread his hands. "Were you expecting a plane?"

***

Daniel Whitehall, one of Hydra's last remaining leaders, sat behind a mahogany desk, flipping through a thick folder through his round, coldly reflective glasses.

Not long ago, Whitehall's division had also been hit by a sudden S.H.I.E.L.D. strike. Most of his main forces were lost, and though he'd narrowly escaped capture, he was now short on both men and weapons, barely hanging on.

A knock came at the door. Whitehall looked up and said, "Come in." A tall, dark-skinned British man entered.

Sunil Bakshi, Whitehall's top confidant, had also been lucky enough to avoid S.H.I.E.L.D.'s purge.

But the others hadn't shared their fortune.

"The situation is bad, sir," Bakshi said, closing the door behind him with a grim face. "I've had people investigate quietly. Most seem to be done for. Chief has been captured, and three other leaders were killed on the spot. Baron Strucker's whereabouts are unknown, but word from his territory says Dr. Norton took him out personally."

Whitehall nodded calmly. "Understood."

Bakshi had always revered his superior like a god, and seeing him so composed put him somewhat at ease. He ventured, "So, sir, what do we do next?"

"Whatever happens to the others, our mission has never changed."

Whitehall said this calmly, then closed the thick folder and handed it to Bakshi. The latter took it respectfully, carefully flipping through a few pages.

He saw an old photo of an iron-colored object of unknown material, lying quietly in a black box, its shape vaguely reminiscent of an ancient Egyptian-style obelisk.

"What's this?"

"The Obelisk. An object of unparalleled power. According to our founder, Schmidt—the Red Skull—this thing might explain death itself." Whitehall stood up, clasping his hands behind his back, a greedy, beastly gleam in his eyes behind the glasses. "Acquire the Obelisk, and we will... acquire everything."