A Sudden Local Mass Incident, the Iron Legion's First

3 p. m., Midtown Manhattan New York.

Nick Fury was sitting in a makeshift command center converted from an old warehouse. It lacked the sophistication and futuristic feel of Triskelion, with only exposed pipes, the pungent smell of engine oil, and dozens of junior agents rushing around, their faces etched with exhaustion.

As the nominal Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.., he is now more like a cleanup office Director responsible for "cleaning up the messes" of extraordinary beings.

The coffee on the table had gone cold. Fury's single eye was fixed on the twelve-panel monitoring screen in front of him. Most of the screens showed the cleanup work in the area where the Washington, D.C. shipwreck had crashed—the progress was slow, and there were disputes over funding.

"Beep--beep--beep--"

A sharp alarm pierced the silence of the command center. Agent Hopkins, a Level 3 agent in charge of communications for the New York area, jumped to his feet, his face ashen.

"Sir! A sudden mass incident has occurred at the intersection of Seventh Avenue and 42nd Street! E-17 field team requests tactical support!"

Fury frowned and switched the view to the main screen.

The footage comes from the tactical goggles of a field agent; the lens is shaky, and you can hear a cacophony of screams and muffled metallic clanging.

"E-17, report! What level of mass incident is it? Is it a gang fight or a protest that's spiraled out of control?" Fury picked up the Communicator, his voice as calm as ice.

"No, sir!" Captain Rogers's rapid breathing came through the channel. "It's... it's robots! A group of robots of unknown origin are causing a riot in the streets!"

On the screen, a silver-white metallic figure flashed by. It had no human features, only a Scarlet optical sensor. It punched the door of a yellow taxi, leaving a deep dent, the movement fluid and cold.

"Robots?" Fury's pupils contracted sharply. He immediately thought of Stark, but these robots had a rough and uniform design style, unlike Tony's flashy personal style.

"Assess the threat level! Evacuate civilians immediately!" Fury ordered.

"Evacuation is underway! But... our weapons are ineffective against them!" Rogers's voice betrayed a hint of despair.

In the footage, an agent raises his P90 submachine gun and fires fiercely at a robot. The dense barrage of 5.7mm bullets hits the robot's metal casing, producing only a series of clanging sounds and shallow white marks, not even enough to make the robot sway.

Gua sha (scraping therapy).

Purely physical scraping.

The robot didn't even acknowledge the agents who were firing; it simply mechanically reached out and grabbed a bus that was hurtling towards the crowd, forcing it to a stop. The immense force caused its metal feet to carve two deep furrows in the asphalt road.

Inside the command center, there was a deathly silence. Everyone was stunned by this scene that seemed to Dimensionality-Reduction Strike.

"Requesting heavy firepower support!" Rogers roared into the channel. "At least anti-materiel weapons are needed! They're sealing off the area, like... establishing some kind of quarantine zone!"

Fury's fist clenched silently under the table.

Heavy firepower?

What "heavy firepower" does he have left?

Since the Washington, D.C. incident, S.H.I.E.L.D.. has been almost completely uprooted by Lynn. All of its high-end combat capabilities and cutting-edge weapons arsenal have either been divided up by those three women or completely sealed off. As the Director, all he can mobilize are these low-level field agents who carry conventional weapons and are responsible for handling mundane troubles.

He's now just a lone commander, a high-ranking local police officer.

"Headquarters has no heavy firepower units available." Fury's voice was dry and hoarse, each word seeming to crush his own dignity. "E-17, your primary task is to control the situation, evacuate the crowd, and await further instructions. Avoid direct confrontation."

"Sir, we can't do it!" Rogers ' voice trembled with tears. "They're attacking our vehicles! Our Defense Line are being pushed back! If this continues, people will die!"

The surveillance footage shook violently again as a Chevrolet SUV bearing the S.H.I.E.L.D.. logo was overturned by a robot and burst into flames.

Fury's face darkened completely.

He understood that this was not a simple riot. It was a premeditated and purposeful demonstration of force. The other side was testing his ability as the "new S.H.I.E.L.D.." in the most direct way, or rather, testing the reaction of the entity behind him.

"Notify the New York Police Department and request riot police support," Fury issued his second order.

"I've already notified them, sir. But their weapons... I'm afraid they won't be of much use," Hopkins replied cautiously.

This is the procedure.

Faced with unforeseen emergencies, S.H.I.E.L.D.., as a federal agency, must first follow the procedures for coordinating with local law enforcement. Even if it's known to be futile, this process is essential; it's crucial for assigning responsibility. When writing reports later, they can say, "We promptly notified and requested local support, but the situation exceeded the scope of our standard law enforcement capabilities."

Shifting blame, passing the buck, and assigning responsibility—these are the only "weapons" he can skillfully wield now.

Fury felt a deep sense of humiliation. Once upon a time, he commanded the Avengers and the Helicarrier, and was the most powerful man on Earth. Now, he could only rely on reporting and going through procedures to deal with a street robot riot.

Time ticked by, second by second.

The New York Police Department's bomb disposal convoy arrived at the scene, but the result was the same as with the Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.. Tear gas, stun grenades, and heavy shotguns had no effect on these steel monsters; instead, they enraged them.

The robots, which had initially been merely pushing and blocking, began using more aggressive tactics. Electric shock devices popped out of their arms, precisely incapacitating every police officer and agent who attempted to resist. The situation spiraled completely out of control, and public opinion began to escalate online.

"' S.H.I.E.L.D.. is incompetent,' ' New York has once again become a battlefield'... Sir, the headlines on all the major news websites have exploded." An agent in charge of public opinion monitoring reported in a low voice, avoiding Fury's eyes.

Fury's single eye was bloodshot.

He knew he couldn't wait any longer.

If we wait any longer, it won't just be a few agents who die, but also the last bit of credibility that S.H.I.E.L.D.. has managed to maintain as an official agency after the Washington, D.C. incident.

This credibility is the only value Lynn has in keeping him around as a "front man."

Once he loses his value, his fate won't be much better than Alexander Pierce's.

"Sir," a senior advisor approached him tremblingly, lowering his voice, "According to the 'Supernatural Incident Classification Response and Reporting Procedures' we received earlier, the current situation has exceeded the 'Level D' (controllable by local law enforcement) category and reached the 'Level C' (requiring supernatural intervention) standard. Shouldn't we... report to... report to our superiors and request support, according to the procedures?"

The "above" here doesn't refer to the World Security Council, but rather to the new master in the Negative Zone.

Fury's lips pressed into a stiff, straight line.

Asking for help is tantamount to admitting one's incompetence. It's like personally delivering the words, "I can't even handle this little thing," to Lynn's face.

This is worse than killing him.

But on the screen, Agent Rogers ' vital signs were rapidly fading. He was pinned to the ground by three robots while trying to protect a little girl trapped in a car.

The immense pressure of maintaining stability at the grassroots level, the political pressure of uncontrolled public opinion, and the responsibility for potential casualties at any time weighed heavily on Fury like three mountains, making it hard for him to breathe.

He slowly closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, only a cold resolve remained.

Dignity is worthless in the face of absolute reality.

"Connect to... Asgard Stability Affairs Office."

Fury's voice wasn't loud, but it sent a chill down the spine of everyone in the command center.

They all knew who was in charge of that office. The one who treated death as art and the dead as soldiers— the Goddess of Death, Hela.

We need to request that our superior intervene to quell a local riot.

This in itself is something far more terrifying than a riot.

Fury ignored the horrified looks on his subordinates' faces; he simply stared intently at the city on the screen, about to be swallowed by the steel torrent. He knew very well that once he sent out this request, it would be tantamount to handing Hela the sharpest knife.

That woman would never be satisfied with merely quelling the unrest. What she wanted was to use this opportunity to completely extend her "military power" to every corner of the earth.

And this is perhaps exactly what Lynn wanted to see.

Fury picked up the Communicator, preparing to personally deliver this humiliating "overstepping of authority" report, and drafting a report in advance for the even more terrifying chaos that was about to unfold.