A Mortal's Body

Thanos's arrival brought a final, suffocating despair to a battlefield already drowning in chaos.

It was the sheer pressure of a predator at the very top of the food chain. Under its weight, even the bravest Wakandan warriors found their hands trembling around their spears. Their will to fight was being worn away, bit by bit.

They could fight endless hordes of monsters for their homeland without fearing death. But they could not make war on a "god."

That would not be battle. It would be sacrilege.

Black Panther T'Challa wanted to roar, to rally his people with the authority of a king. But his throat felt gripped shut. Even a single syllable was almost impossible to force out.

That was Thanos. He did not need to slaughter them himself. He only had to stand there, and his presence could shatter an army's faith.

Yet in that silence ruled by fear, one figure moved.

He was no king like Black Panther. He had none of the Winter Soldier's icy menace, nor the godlike power of Thor or the Hulk. He was just a young man from Brooklyn who had once been small and sickly.

Captain America, Steve Rogers.

Slowly, but with absolute resolve, he rose from the ground. Thanos's pressure bore down on him like a mountain, making his bones creak. But there was no retreat in his blue eyes, only a flame that burned and would never go out.

He tightened the battered Vibranium shield on his left arm, then adjusted the equally scarred arm shield he had borrowed from the Wakandan guard on his other.

Then he walked forward alone, into a force that could make gods tremble, one step at a time toward the towering purple figure.

He moved slowly, each step as heavy as a struggle