S.H.I.E.L.D.
Headquarters.
Directors Office.
Luke sat in a chair, legs crossed, idly spinning a pen with his right hand.
Nick Fury sat opposite him, hands clasped on the table, his single eye staring at him without blinking.
The two of them stared at each other for a full thirty seconds.
Fury spoke first.
“Hawkeye is in the infirmary right now.” Luke nodded, his expression sincere.
“When we found him,” Fury paused, “he had been hanging in a tree for six hours.” Luke nodded again, his expression even more sincere.
Fury took a deep breath.
“Of all the destruction you caused yesterday, this is the least expensive one.” Luke raised an eyebrow.
Fine, he admitted that yesterday was indeed the first time he had used some real effort, and he hadn’t controlled the intensity well.
But in his opinion, Barton hanging from a tree counted as an accident at most.
A small, insignificant accident.
“So what,” Luke leaned back in his chair and spread his hands, “did you contain Hulk or not?” The corner of Fury’s mouth twitched visibly.
Luke saw that twitch.
He was very sensitive to such micro-expressions.
The subtext of that twitch was usually: You’re right, but I really want to punch you.
“He was contained.” “Then that’s all that matters—” “But you also know,” Fury interrupted him, “that I contain Hulk, not like General Ross, who locks Banner up as an experimental subject.” Luke didn’t speak.
Fury’s tone slowed down.
“Banner is one of the candidates for the Avengers Initiative.
What I want is to help him control himself.
Containment chambers, separate rooms, a 24/7 professional psychological intervention team…
all these things cost money.” Luke vaguely felt an ominous aura approaching him.
“Originally,” Fury held up a finger, “this budget was sufficient.” That finger slowly pointed at Luke.
“But if you count the destruction you caused in Manhattan yesterday—” “I think we can put this topic aside for now—” “The facades of three buildings need repairs, two streets have cracked, a taxi was flattened into a metal pancake, a fire hydrant sprayed for forty minutes, plus the medical expenses for Hawkeye hanging in the tree.” Fury rattled off the numbers in one breath, his expression unnervingly calm.
Luke fell silent.
“Although I have always respected your privacy,” Fury’s tone finally softened slightly, “don’t you want to explain yesterday’s events to me?” Luke shrank back into his chair, then suddenly smiled.
“Privacy?” Luke tilted his head, “My new neighbors don’t think so.” Fury’s single eye flashed.
It was a very subtle flash, but Luke caught it.
The office was silent for two seconds.
“That was just a necessary contingency plan.” Fury’s voice was unhurried, “Your danger level is even higher than Hulk’s.
You know this yourself.” Luke stared at Fury for a while.
Fury looked back at him, his expression unchanged.
Luke stood up.
The legs of the chair scraped against the floor with a short, sharp sound.
“You cannot touch the family living next door to me.” Luke’s tone was flat.
No threats, no anger, not even any emphasis.
It was just a plain, simple sentence.
But Fury didn’t move.
He sat there, his spine tensing slightly for a moment.
There aren’t many things in this World that can make Nick Fury tense his spine, but clearly, Luke’s “seriousness” counts as one.
“Otherwise, I resign.” As the last three words fell, the entire office seemed to have been put on mute.
Fury looked at Luke.
Luke looked at Fury.
“Fine.” Fury nodded, crisp and clean, without a single extra word.
Luke’s shoulders relaxed.
Then he noticed that Fury’s hand had already reached under the table.
When he pulled his hand out, there were six folders in it.
Slap.
They were stacked together and slapped neatly onto the desktop.
Luke looked at the thickness of the stack of folders, and his eyelid twitched.
“What does this mean?” Fury pushed the folders, signaling him to look for himself.
Luke sat back in his chair, picked up the top one, and opened it.
On the cover photo was a man wearing sunglasses, a punchable smile on his lips, with a seaside Villa in the background.
At the top of the data page was a line of bold text— Tony Stark.
Luke turned to the second one.
The photo was of a desert with a hammer stuck right in the center.
A cordon was drawn around the hammer, and a few people in uniforms were wandering around it.
The remarks column read: “Suspected alien object, unable to move, unable to analyze composition.” The third one.
The photo was blurry, looking like a surveillance screenshot.
In the frame, a person dressed strangely stood in the middle of an intersection, with pedestrians walking around him, and no one found it strange.
The fourth one.
The fifth one.
The sixth one.
Luke finished flipping through the last folder, closed it slowly, and looked up at Fury.
“So much classified information.” Luke put the folders back on the table and tapped his fingers on the cover.
“Planning to silence me?” Fury smiled.
It was that standard Nick Fury smile, the curve of the corners of his mouth precise to the millimeter, making it impossible to tell if he found you interesting or childish.
“Not to silence you.” Fury leaned forward.
“It’s just that one million dollars can’t be spent in vain.” Luke’s expression froze.
He looked down at the six folders.
Then looked up at Fury again.
Then looked down at the folders again.
“You mean, let me pick one from inside?” Luke reached out and picked up Tony Stark’s file, weighed it, “Fine, guarding a playboy is better than going to the desert to move a hammer.
If it works, use it to death, right?” Fury’s smile widened by a millimeter.
“Not pick.” Luke’s hand stopped in mid-air.
“These,” Fury’s palm faced down, slowly pressing onto the six folders, “are all yours.” The office was quiet again.
This time it wasn’t because the atmosphere was heavy.
It was because Luke’s brain had crashed.
“What do you mean they are all mine?” Luke’s voice was a full octave higher than before.
“Do the math yourself.” Fury counted on his fingers, “Guarding Stark, investigating the fallen hammer, tracking unknown targets, searching for Captain America—” “Wait a second,” Luke raised his hand, “Did you just say Captain America?
The Captain America who fell into the North Pole seventy years ago?” “Yes.” “The one who’s been frozen for seventy years?” “Correct.” “You’re asking me to go to the North Pole to find a popsicle?” Fury ignored him.
He picked up Tony Stark’s file from the table and handed it to Luke.
“Go here first.” Luke stared at the photo of Tony Stark on the file.
Even in the ID photo, that face exuded an aura of “I am very rich.” Luke didn’t take it.
Fury handed the file forward again.
Luke still didn’t take it.
“It’s written in the contract,” Fury said.
Luke took it.
Fury stood up, walked around the table, went to Luke’s side, and patted his shoulder.
The strength of his hand was neither too light nor too heavy, like an experienced leader comforting an employee about to be sent to work overtime.
“With great power,” Fury’s voice was low and gentle, “comes great responsibility.” Luke stood there holding the six folders, the expression on his face like he had swallowed a whole lemon.
He opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
Then opened it again.
“Fury.” “Hmm?” “You’re using Spider-Man’s line to manipulate me; don’t you think that’s a little shameless?”