Ambition was a universal flaw.
Ordinary people dreamed of becoming officials. Officials dreamed of becoming rulers. Rulers dreamed of immortality. And once immortality was within reach, they started searching for something beyond even that.
The members of the World Security Council weren’t fools. If they had been, they never would have climbed to the top of international politics.
But intelligence didn’t make them immune to greed.
They had reached the summit of worldly power.
The problem was that they still wanted to climb.
So where was left to go?
Become the ones who answered to no one.
History offered an obvious lesson. Again and again, crises had concentrated power into the hands of a few. Wars had transformed politicians into dictators and emergency measures into permanent institutions.
If you wanted absolute authority...
War was one of history’s favorite shortcuts.
And so, in Evenson’s view, they had set their sights on Asgard.
Of course, before picking a fight with another civilization, they needed intelligence.
There was just one problem.
They had no idea where Asgard actually was.
Norse mythology was too inconsistent to be useful, and folklore made for terrible military intelligence.
Fortunately for them, Lady Sif had spent considerable time on Earth.
She became their best source.
Sif was straightforward to a fault, and Asgardians had a longstanding tradition of boasting over drinks. Put enough SHIELD agents around a table with enough alcohol, and eventually the stories would start flowing.
The Council got exactly what it wanted.
The recordings did, anyway.
The agents themselves weren’t nearly as fortunate.
Several ended the night in the hospital with alcohol poisoning after trying to keep pace with an Asgardian.
One particularly overconfident operative attempted to cheat during a drinking contest.
Sif noticed.
He was still recovering from internal injuries.
The Council, however, couldn’t have been happier.
According to Sif’s enthusiastic tales, Asgard’s armies charged into battle with endless ranks of warriors carrying spears, swords, shields, and axes. Heroes carved through enemy lines by sheer courage and martial skill.
To the Council, the picture seemed obvious.
The Asgardians were physically extraordinary, but hopelessly devoted to melee combat.
Primitive.
Glorious.
Dangerously old-fashioned.
They briefly considered the possibility that Sif had exaggerated.
Then they dismissed it.
People boasting over drinks almost never understated themselves.
If anything, they assumed reality was probably a little less impressive than the stories.
That conclusion gave them confidence.
Earth possessed artillery.
Missiles.
Aircraft.
Nuclear weapons.
How could a civilization obsessed with swords possibly compete?
Then there was the Destroyer.
Sif had apparently described it as one of Asgard’s greatest weapons, unique and irreplaceable.
Earth had destroyed it.
Better still, engineers were already studying its remains.
Eventually, they hoped to mass-produce technology based on it.
What was there to fear?
In their minds, Asgard wasn’t an unbeatable empire.
It was the perfect stepping stone.
Win the war.
Expand the Council’s authority.
Reshape the balance of power afterward.
Simple.
Unfortunately for them...
Reality had absolutely no intention of cooperating.
"They made one enormous mistake," Evenson said.
"They assumed Asgard didn’t have advanced ranged weapons."
He couldn’t help shaking his head.
"Just because Sif preferred talking about glorious melee combat doesn’t mean those weapons don’t exist."
She simply enjoyed stories of heroic charges more than military hardware.
That hardly meant Asgard lacked military hardware.
"Heimdall can leap into space and cut through starships with a single swing."
"Odin wielding Gungnir can erase entire armies without leaving his throne."
"Even ordinary Asgardian spears can project devastating energy blasts."
He gave Fury a pointed look.
"Tell me again how they’re just people with swords."
The Council had mistaken aesthetics for technology.
It was a spectacular miscalculation.
After all, history was full of armies that looked primitive until they started winning.
Evenson spread his hands.
"And that’s before we even talk about the Bifrost."
By now, Nick Fury’s face had gone noticeably pale.
"What about it?" he asked, wiping sweat from his forehead.
"I thought it was just a transportation system."
Evenson smiled.
"It is."
"And it’s also..."
"...a planet-killer."
Fury repeated the words slowly.
"A... planet-killer."
The concept was familiar enough from science fiction.
Reality was another matter.
"When the Bifrost operates at full power, it channels unimaginable amounts of energy."
Evenson’s tone remained calm.
"Loki once tried to use it to destroy Jotunheim."
"If it’s allowed to remain fully focused on Earth..."
He paused.
"...my estimate is that this planet lasts about two hours."
Silence filled the room.
Fury stared at nothing.
His mind produced only one coherent thought.
Somebody hand me a rifle.
I’m going to shoot every last member of that Council myself.
World Security Council?
More like the World Destruction Council.
He had spent years worrying about alien invasions, secret terrorist organizations, rogue superhumans, and apocalyptic technology.
It turned out the people most determined to destroy the world might have been sitting in conference rooms all along.
After letting the silence linger, Evenson suddenly smiled.
"Of course..."
"Everything I’ve said is only speculation."
"I can’t prove any of it."
Fury almost choked.
The turn was so abrupt it nearly gave him whiplash.
Then he understood exactly why Evenson had said it.
"Right," Fury replied immediately.
"It’s speculation."
Without evidence, speculation was all it could officially be.
Privately, though...
He filed every word away.
Perhaps the Council had innocent explanations.
Perhaps they didn’t.
Either way, he would be watching them much more closely from now on.
If they ever tried to push through another plan that concentrated power under the banner of emergency...
He intended to know about it before the rest of the world did.
Evenson stood.
"I’ve said everything I came here to say."
"And judging by the look on your face, you probably don’t..."
"I won’t insult you by pretending to invite you to dinner," Fury interrupted. "You can go."
Evenson sighed theatrically.
"Before I leave..."
"My injury compensation?"
Fury leaned back into the sofa.
"Go see Melinda. She’ll handle the paperwork."
He smirked faintly.
"Consider it payment for an entertaining story."
Evenson’s expression froze.
Coulson had only just died.
Melinda May’s office was probably colder than Antarctica at the moment.
Walking in there voluntarily sounded like a spectacularly bad idea.
Just as Evenson reached the door, Fury spoke again.
"One more thing."
There was an unreadable gleam in his single eye.
"In your world’s magical traditions..."
"What do people think about bringing the dead back to life?"
Evenson looked over his shoulder.
A small smile crossed his face.
"We don’t."
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