Whosoever Holds This Hammer, If Worthy, Shall Possess the Power of Thor

The Corolla drove along the desert highway. The sun hung just above the horizon, the sky fading from orange-red to deep purple. Evening in New Mexico was empty and vast, with shrubs on both sides of the road swaying gently in the wind like some ancient ritual.

Thor sat in the back seat, his knees pressed against the front seat, his gaze fixed on the west. The corners of his mouth had risen without him noticing.

Jane watched him through the rearview mirror. An oversized T-shirt, jeans wrinkled tight beneath a belt, flip-flops. She had been looking at that outfit all day, but something was different now, as if a lost man had suddenly found his direction.

On the motel roof, Chen Xiao flashed to the edge, a Coke in hand. The Corolla's taillights grew smaller at the end of the highway until they became two dim red points.

"Thor riding in a Corolla to find his hammer," he muttered. "This deserves a picture."

He took out his phone, snapped a photo of the distance, and sent it to Tony with the caption: "Guess who's in the car."

Tony replied instantly: "Your new boyfriend?"

"..."

Chen Xiao slipped his phone back into his pocket. That guy had been getting more and more lively lately, like he was really letting loose and starting to blurt out anything.

The Corolla stopped behind a dirt mound two hundred meters from the perimeter. Jane killed the engine, and once its sound faded, only the faint whistle of wind slipping through the cracks in the windows remained inside the car.

Thor opened the door. He set the cup on the seat, moving slowly, as though gathering strength. The bottom of the stainless-steel cup touched the upholstery with a soft sound. He got out without closing the door.

Jane turned from the driver's seat to look at him. Beyond the perimeter, the searchlights had already come on, bleaching the area around the hammer crater white. Several agents in black suits moved between equipment cases, indicator lights on the antenna array blinking on and off. A translucent containment dome covered the crater, its surface reflecting the lights.

"So what are they guarding?" Jane asked.

"Wait here." Thor did not answer directly. He headed toward the perimeter, his steps light, yet each one landed solidly.

The first agent noticed him. A burly blond man in an ill-fitting T-shirt had appeared out of nowhere and was walking straight toward the restricted area. He did not fit any intruder profile, but the agent still raised a hand.

"Sir, this area is off-limits—"

Thor grabbed his shoulder and shoved him aside. The agent flew several meters, his back slamming into a folding chair with a dull thud. He did not get back up, instead lying among the equipment cases and clutching his chest as he gasped.

More agents closed in.

The second lunged from the side. Thor did not turn his head. His right elbow shot out and struck the man's chest. The agent grunted and doubled over like a wall with its bottom bricks removed. The third charged from the front, only for Thor to seize him by the belt, lift him bodily, and throw him aside. The agent traced a rather graceless arc through the air, hit the sandy ground, and rolled twice.

He did not kill anyone. He deliberately held back every time, knocking them unconscious or knocking them down, never dealing a fatal blow. But that combat instinct, that intuition that told him where the next opponent would come from without needing to think, was carved into his bones.

The fourth.

The fifth.

Jane stood by the car door, one hand over her mouth. She saw an entirely different Thor. Not the clumsy man who got drunk, smashed cups, and said to an egg yolk, "It bleeds." This was a warrior. There was no wasted movement in him. Every punch had a clear destination, every step created space for the next attack. This was not a fight. It was battle.

Beside the command tent, a figure emerged from the shadows. Dark tactical gear, a compound bow in hand, an arrow already nocked. Clint Barton, Hawkeye. His sight was fixed on the back of the blond giant breaking through the defensive line—at a nonlethal spot, just below the shoulder blade, enough to stop him without killing him.

"Don't."

Coulson's voice came from beside him, quiet but clear.

Hawkeye did not lower his bow. "He took down six of our people."

"I know." Coulson watched the blond man vault over layer after layer of equipment cases. "I want to see if he can lift it."

Hawkeye turned to glance at him. Coulson's expression was calm beneath the searchlights. He did not seem to be giving an order, but stating the conditions of an experiment. The bowstring relaxed. Hawkeye slid the arrow back into his quiver, but did not leave. He stood beside Coulson and watched.

Thor climbed over the last barricade of stacked equipment cases. The translucent containment dome blocked his way, its surface reflecting the white glare of the searchlights.

He did not pause. Following the path, he brutally tore through the curtain blocking the entrance.

Mjolnir stood before him, in the very center of the clearing. Silver-gray metal, a dark brown leather strap wrapped around the handle, intricate runes carved across its surface. It gleamed coldly beneath the searchlights, quiet as an ordinary stone.

But Thor knew it was not.

He reached out, gripped the handle, and lifted lightly. Nothing happened.

So he strained harder, his muscles tightening, veins bulging from his wrist all the way to his shoulder. The sleeves of his T-shirt stretched to their limit, the seams giving a faint groan.

It did not move an inch.

He added his other hand. Both hands clasped around the handle, he lowered his center of gravity, his feet crushing two deep pits into the dirt. A roar squeezed from his chest and mixed with the wind. Every muscle in his body strained. Sweat soaked the back of his T-shirt, pressing it to his skin and outlining the deep grooves of muscle on either side of his spine.

Mjolnir might as well have been welded in place.

His hands remained on the handle as his body began to tremble. Then his knees suddenly gave out. As though his soul had been drained away, he fell to his knees, his forehead resting against the hammer's handle.

Agents seized Thor's arms from either side and dragged him before Coulson. His flip-flops carved two long tracks through the mud.

He did not resist.

Rain had begun falling at some point. Fine and dense, it landed in his hair and streamed down his face. Mud stained his jeans, his T-shirt was soaked and clung to his body, and his eyes were empty.

Coulson's voice came through the curtain of rain, calm enough that it did not sound like he was watching a man collapse. "Take him away."

Jane stood outside the perimeter, rainwater running down her face. She did not know when she had started crying. Maybe when she heard him roar. Maybe when he fell to his knees.

But Darcy grabbed her arm. "We have to go! Now!"

Jane did not move. She watched Thor being forced into a black SUV. The door shut, its taillights lit up through the rain, and then it drove away. The lights grew smaller and smaller until the rain swallowed them.

"Go." Darcy tugged her again.

Not far away, Chen Xiao stood in the rain.

His floral shirt was soaked and stuck to his body. He did not use lightning to evaporate the rain. He simply stood there.

His Observation Haki was still spread out. He could sense Mjolnir's joyful pulse of energy, though it did not extend to Thor. He could also sense the black SUV driving away, Thor inside with his head lowered and his hands resting on his knees. There was no anger, no unwillingness, only emptiness.

He had seen Thor lift the hammer in the movies.

The God of Thunder held Mjolnir high as lightning split the sky, his cape snapping behind him. It had been one of the most majestic images in Chen Xiao's memory.

He had once thought that only a hammer stood between that scene and the one today. Now he knew he had been wrong. What lay between them was this moment.

Inside the lab, none of the three spoke.

Jane sat on the couch, holding a cup of hot tea.

Selvig leaned against the window, arms crossed, watching the rain outside.

Darcy lay over her laptop, the screen's glow reflecting off her face and turning the lenses of her glasses white.

"His name," Jane suddenly said, her voice soft. "Thor. He said he was the God of Thunder. The Thor from Northern European mythology."

Selvig said nothing.

"I used to think those were just stories. Things the Vikings invented to explain thunder. Primitive people projecting human traits onto natural phenomena." Her voice was flat, like she was reading a paper she no longer believed in.

Darcy turned the laptop around so the screen faced them. The webpage displayed a rubbing of an ancient Northern European mural. Its lines were rough, most of the paint had flaked away, and the image could barely be made out. A blond man held a hammer aloft, jagged lightning filling the sky. People stood behind him, others knelt before him, and his hammer pointed toward the heavens.

"Thor," Darcy said. "God of Thunder, son of Odin. Wielder of Mjolnir. Maybe the Vikings weren't making it up."

Jane stared at the rubbing for a long time.

The figure on the mural gradually overlapped with the man who had knelt in the rain today. The Viking who painted it must have seen him with his own eyes. Seen him standing beneath the lightning, hammer raised.

Out in the desert, that divine weapon rested quietly at the bottom of the crater. After the rain stopped, moonlight shone over the runes, and that ancient inscription glimmered coldly.

"Whosoever holds this hammer, if worthy, shall possess the Power of Thor."