CHAPTER 107: THE HAMMER IN THE DESERT

The sun dipped low over Latveria, its golden light spilling across the jagged mountains and quaint villages below.

From the highest balcony of Castle Doom, a solitary figure stood, arms folded behind his back, his towering presence framed by stone battlements.

Victor Von Doom—though the world knew him only by the name he had claimed and perfected: Doctor Doom.

The emerald cloak swept along his armored shoulders, shifting with the faint mountain breeze. His mask, a fusion of polished steel and dreadful artistry, caught the fading light in sharp reflections. Beneath it, his eyes glowed with quiet power and relentless calculation. Every line of his posture radiated sovereign command, as though he were not merely observing his nation, but holding dominion over its every heartbeat.

Latveria prospered under his hand. Where once it was a forgotten kingdom, ravaged by poverty and weak rulers, Doom had reforged it into a nation of pride. His marriage of arcane sorcery and unmatched technology lifted the land into a bastion of progress. No enemy army dared to set foot on Latverian soil; no citizen went hungry under Doom’s reign.

He created his Doombots—marvels forged from the union of sorcery and science—not merely as extensions of his will, but as guardians of his people. Under his rule, every citizen found purpose; every hand was given work, every home security. In Latveria, poverty was a word without meaning, and idleness a relic of other nations. Doom’s nation stood as a paradox to the world: a land of iron rule, yet one where no child went hungry, and no youth wandered without a future.

Men and women who loved him as a benevolent protector, and who feared him as the swiftest hand of justice. For the righteous, Doom was a guardian; for the corrupt, he was nightmare incarnate.

And yet, even amidst triumph, Doom’s thoughts were restless.

He remembered the day the path of his fate twisted upon meeting one man: Ethan Carter.

That first encounter lingered in Doom’s mind like an unsolved equation, a paradox that defied reason. Years ago, while venturing into space to study cosmic rays alongside Reed, Susan, Ben, and Johnny, Doom had prepared for every conceivable anomaly. And yet, nothing prepared him for him.

There he met him, a man floating in space, that man was Carter, unprotected, casual, almost mocking. He waved, smiling like a fool, as if the vacuum could not touch him. Doom’s formidable intellect had faltered for the first time. In that absurd greeting, Doom saw both arrogance and terrifying power.

Now, years later, they stood as allies. Doom would never cheapen the word "friendship"—not for him. But Carter was a valuable counselor, a check against Doom’s wrath, a man whose counsel had stayed Doom’s hand more than once. It irritated him deeply... but also commanded respect.

"If Doom wielded such power," he thought coldly, "the world itself would kneel, and even the stars would know subjugation. And yet, that fool hides his flame, cloaks it in jest. A clown. An enigma. A man too merciful for the gifts he bears."

But Carter’s influence could not be denied. Even the battles with the Fantastic Four, once raging in endless hostility, had been tempered by Ethan’s intervention before blood was truly spilled.

Now Carter was to wed—Anna Marie and Jean Grey. The invitation lay in Doom’s chambers, sealed in Carter’s own hand. It was a gesture of trust.

"Thinking deeply, my lord?"

The voice, soft yet edged with discipline, came from behind. Doom did not turn. He needed no eyes to know who approached. Lucia von Bardas, his political administrator, ever poised and exacting.

Her steps were measured as she drew closer, and with them, another presence—lighter, warmer, familiar. Valeria, his confidante, bold enough to walk beside him when others kept distance.

Valeria tilted her head before studying him closely. "From the look in your eyes," she said softly, curiosity lacing her tone, "I can tell you’re thinking about someone... or something from the past."

"The past is the key to the future," Doom intoned, his voice rolling like iron across stone. "Only fools forget what was, and only kings carve what shall be."

Valeria’s lips curved in a knowing smile as she slipped her arm through his, leaning into his towering figure. "And yet even kings pause to dwell on weddings," she teased lightly. "Will you truly attend Carter’s? After all your disdain for him?"

Doom turned his masked gaze to her, his tone absolute. "Doom does not deny disdain. My disdain remains. Carter squanders what he has been given. A clown. A jester with the might of gods. But—" his voice dropped, low and certain, "—Doom respects him. And if Ethan Carter summons Doom, then Doom shall answer. It benefits no sovereign to scorn the bond of an ally."

Valeria smirked, eyes glittering. "Respect, then. And here I thought you had none for him."

Before Doom could reply, Lucia’s voice cut in—careful, but laced with boldness. "My lord... forgive me, but what of your mother? What of your vow to free her soul from the Devil’s grasp?"

The air shifted. The warmth of teasing drained into silence. Valeria’s eyes flashed with anger at Lucia’s bluntness, but Doom raised a hand, silencing her.

He stepped forward, his cloak trailing like a shadow, Valeria still at his side. His voice was quieter now, yet heavier, as though the stone walls themselves bore its weight.

"Doom has failed—yes, many times. That is a truth Doom bears without shame. Neither my power, nor my mother’s grimoires, nor the symphony of sorcery and science I alone command... none have proven enough against the Devil’s dominion. Perhaps... Doom requires more time before he can truly free her."

Lucia bowed her head. "Forgive me, my lord. I meant no disrespect. Only... do you have a plan for the next attempt?"

Once, the old Doom of Marvel universe have incinerated her for such insolence. But this Doom... he was changed. Hardened still, but tempered by scars of failure and counsel of unexpected allies.

He turned, eyes fixed upon the horizon, the Latverian sun blazing in his mask’s reflection. "Doom has found... a key."

Valeria tilted her head, curiosity stirring. "A key?"

His voice grew like a sermon, sharp and terrible. "When Doom last walked the fires of Hell, he found not triumph... but whispers. And those whispers told of a name. A name so terrible that even Mephisto, lord of that realm, recoiled. A name the demons dare not speak aloud... Aeon."

Lucia’s eyes widened. Valeria’s breath caught. "It cannot be..."

Doom turned, and though his mask betrayed no smile, there was satisfaction in his bearing.

"Yes. Ethan Carter. They call him Aeon. Even in Hell, his shadow freezes them. Whatever he has done there... even the Devil himself fears him."

The two women exchanged a look of awe and disbelief. Valeria’s voice trembled between curiosity and certainty. "Then why not ask him? If he is your ally, he would aid you gladly."

For the first time, Doom was silent.

Then, slowly, he answered, voice low as iron cooled in water. "Because this is not the hour. Carter has earned his peace. His joy. His marriage. Doom will not tear it from him—not yet. When the time comes, Doom shall ask. And he will answer."

Valeria’s lips curved into a smile, teasing despite the gravity of the moment. "So Doom waits. Doom respects. Doom spares the happiness of another. Remarkable. Perhaps only Ethan Carter and I can tease the mighty Doctor Doom and live to tell of it."

Lucia lowered her gaze but could not hide the faint curve of her lips. Only two men in all the world could bend the Iron Monarch’s will: Doom himself and... Ethan Carter.

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The next morning, the outskirts of Puente Antiguo were unrecognizable.

What had once been a sleepy patch of desert town was now home to an armored encampment. Rows of black SUVs, portable command centers, and hastily erected fencing surrounded the object at the center of it all.

Armed agents patrolled in disciplined rotations, their radios crackling as they secured the perimeter. Floodlights towered above the makeshift base, though the dawn sun was already gilding the horizon in pale orange.

At the heart of it, beneath reinforced scaffolding and layers of scanning equipment, rested the hammer.

No ordinary hammer, that much was certain. Every attempt at analysis had failed. Metalic drills dulled against its surface, gamma radiation scans returned nonsense, and even the strongest cranes had failed to budge it an inch.

The scientists in their white protective suits circled it with their instruments like priests at a temple—devout, but blind.

Agent Phil Coulson stood a short distance away, hands clasped behind his back, the faint desert wind tugging at his tie. His calm eyes studied the hammer the way one might study a question that had no answer.

Last night, the anomaly had drawn its first supplicant. A stranger, tall and broad-shouldered, hair like pale gold, strength like a tempest. The man had fought through trained agents, scattering them as though they were leaves in a storm. Yet when he reached the hammer, he too had failed. His hands had trembled with desperation, his cries echoing through the camp, but the hammer had not yielded.

’For a moment,’ Coulson recalled, ’I thought he almost had it. But the hammer remained where it was. Untouched and unyielding.’

Now the hammer simply waited, a silent riddle in the desert.

And today, Coulson was not alone in contemplating it.

Ethan Carter had arrived.

Now, Coulson found himself in an entirely different kind of predicament: standing with Dr. Ethan Carter, the man who always seemed to arrive where trouble simmered, and Susan Storm, the woman known to the world as the Invisible Woman.

As always, he carried himself as though the world were a stage and he an actor in a comedy no one else understood.

His smile’s careless with his hands shoved into his pockets as though he’d wandered into a festival rather than a restricted government site.

Beside him stood Susan Storm. Her eyes were wide with curiosity, her posture a touch nervous as she glanced at the hammer and the busy scientists.

"Are you sure I’m even allowed to be here?" she asked quietly, her gaze flicking to the layers of extra security. "This place feels... restricted."

Coulson answered before Ethan could, "Technically? No. Protocol says unauthorized persons aren’t permitted on site." His eyes flicked toward Ethan, who was too busy staring at the hammer with a boyish grin to notice. "But someone didn’t care much for protocols, and between you and me, I’m not in the habit of making rules he won’t follow."

Ethan ignored the remark entirely and Susan, caught in the crossfire of authority and mischief, offered Coulson an apologetic smile. "I’m sorry. If you want me to leave, I can—"

"It’s fine," Coulson sighed. "You’re with Dr. Carter. I doubt he brought you for nothing."

Before more could be said, a new presence approached.

"Guess I showed up just in time."

The voice was cool, edged with humor. A man strode into view, bow slung casually over his shoulder, his steps quiet and precise even on the gravel. His eyes, sharp and calculating, assessed Ethan in a single glance.

Clint Barton. Hawkeye.

Ethan’s grin widened. "Ah, the hawk himself."

Clint raised a brow. "We haven’t met, but looks like introductions aren’t necessary." He gave a curt nod to Susan and Coulson, then extended his hand to Ethan. They shook firmly, a silent test of strength passing between them.

"Orders just came through," Clint continued his eyes on Ethan though his words were meant for Coulson. "I’m being reassigned. Guess someone up top figured if you’re here, my bow isn’t needed." His tone carried no bitterness, but a trace of irritation lingered.

He remembered the stories. Carter turning glass into flower petals at the Stark Expo, conjuring trees from thin air—acts of grandeur when subtlety would have sufficed. To Clint, it was showmanship where precision mattered. Useful, yes. But unnecessary.

Coulson paused, tilting his head slightly as a murmur crackled through his earpiece.

His expression stayed unreadable, but after a brief nod he turned back to Clint. "We’ll catch up later,"

"Do me a favor," Clint added dryly to Ethan. "Try not to turn this hammer into a fountain or a birdcage or something, yeah?"

Ethan only smiled, leaning in slightly as if to share a secret. His voice dropped to a whisper. "Convey my greetings to Laura."

Clint froze.

The words landed like an arrow straight to the chest. His hand clenched reflexively at his side. Laura. His wife. His secret. Known only to Fury, guarded closer than his own heartbeat.

But Ethan Carter knew.

Clint swallowed, jaw tight, and said nothing. He turned on his heel, leaving without another word.

Susan frowned, whispering, "What was that about?"

Ethan waved it off lightly. "Just saying goodbye."

His eyes returned to the hammer. "Well then," he said before grinning at Coulson. "Mind if I give it a try?"

Coulson hesitated. "This isn’t exactly—" He sighed again, resigned. "Fine. Follow me."

They descended into the secured area, Susan trailing close behind as scanners and lights bathed the chamber in sterile glow. Scientists paused in their work to watch as Ethan approached the hammer.

His excitement was unguarded, almost childlike. I mean, who wouldn’t want to try lifting this thing?

Ethan chuckled and placed his right hand on the handle.

At first, nothing. The hammer was immovable, as though the earth itself had fused with its weight. He tightened his grip, straining, his arm muscles flexing.

Susan smirked. "A guy who can slap the Hulk around, and now he can’t lift a tiny hammer? Makes me wonder if you’re all talk."

Ethan glanced at her with mock offense. "Careful. I’ll show you real strength—when we’re back in our bedroom."

Susan’s cheeks flushed, "Shut up." and Coulson cleared his throat loudly. "Let’s focus, please."

The hammer didn’t so much as shiver. Then, ever so slightly, it shifted.

The scientists’ instruments crackled with interference. Monitors flickered. Coulson’s eyes widened as the hammer lifted—slowly, deliberately—rising in Ethan’s hand until it hovered inches above its resting place.

The camp fell silent.

Ethan held the hammer, weightless in his grip with surprised flickering across his face. Was it worthiness? Adaptation? Or something more? He didn’t know. But in that moment, the hammer answered to him.

And just as suddenly, he set it down. He stopped because he felt a presence brushed against his senses.

The weight settled back with a dull thud.

"Didn’t you say someone tried to steal it?" Ethan asked calmly. "Take me to him."

Coulson stiffened, his eyes narrowing just slightly. "I never said that... and frankly, I don’t even want to know how you found out."

Susan blinked. "Wait—what do you mean? Who—"

But Ethan was already moving.

They walked through the camp, agents giving way, until they reached the reinforced holding cells. Coulson swiped a keycard, the steel door groaning open.

Inside sat the man.

Broad shoulders, unkempt golden hair, eyes like storm clouds. His wrists were bound, but his pride was not.

He looked up as they entered. His first word was low, final, heavy with meaning. "Goodbye."

Coulson frowned. "Goodbye? I just got here."

The prisoner said nothing more.

Ethan stepped forward, Susan and Coulson holding back. His gaze met the stranger’s with a knowing look.

Slowly, he extended his hand in greeting.

"Hello," he said evenly. "My name is Ethan Carter, son of John Carter."

He paused and a knowing smile broke out of his face, "And it’s an honor to meet you, Thor, son of Odin."

The chamber seemed to hold its breath.