The sunlit reception room of the Avengers compound felt almost too quiet, the sterile, geometric modernism of the furniture standing in sharp contrast to the men occupying it.
"We're here on behalf of the Dragon Ball Tournament organizers," Alexei said, his massive frame shifting uncomfortably on the sleek designer sofa. "There are a few things we need to verify with you."
Steve leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. He looked between the two of them, his tactical mind immediately going to work. "I didn't expect that." He turned the information over, staring at the polished glass of the coffee table as if reading a map. "So who's running it? Eddie Brock?" A beat passed. The physical profile didn't fit. Brock was a hammer, not an architect. "No—Smith Doyle."
Alexei and Wesley said absolutely nothing. Their silence was a fortress.
Steve exhaled a short breath. "If it's anyone, it's him."
"You'll find out when you get there," Alexei rumbled, keeping his expression carefully neutral.
Steve let it go. He leaned back, the leather of the armchair creaking softly. It didn't change much either way. If Smith Doyle was the man pulling the strings behind a tournament of gods and monsters, Nick Fury's general, teeth-grinding unease around the Inspector General was its own twisted kind of endorsement for fairness. Fury didn't get nervous about people he could manage or manipulate; he got nervous about people who played on a board he couldn't see.
Wesley leaned forward slightly, his posture tight, every movement deliberate and measured. "Steve Rogers. Are you committing to compete in the Dragon Ball Tournament—to fight for the championship and the wish?"
"Yes." There was no hesitation. The word was a solid block of iron.
"The ball, please."
Steve didn't react, didn't ask questions. He stood, retrieved a heavily secured lockbox from a nearby wall safe, and set the amber sphere on the glass table between them. The Dragon Ball pulsed with a faint, warm internal light, casting four crimson stars across the polished surface.
Wesley reached into his dark jacket, produced a heavy gold coin, and held it out. It gleamed under the compound's recessed lighting. "Your entry token. It identifies you as a competitor. Keep it on you."
As Steve pocketed the cold metal, Wesley walked him through the sterile logistics with the efficiency of a metronome—the tournament format, the venue protocols, the strict spectator allowance of up to ten people, and the transport arrangements that would activate just before the match.
"One more item," Wesley said, his voice dropping a fraction of an octave, leaving no room for negotiation. "We need your wish on record. Anything aimed at widespread destruction or harm is grounds for disqualification regardless of outcome. What are you asking for?"
Steve looked out the reinforced windows, toward the sprawling green lawns of the compound, but his eyes were focused on a different decade entirely. The silence in the room stretched, heavy and profound.
"I want Peggy Carter to be young again."
Alexei went entirely quiet. The boisterous, challenging energy he had carried since the car evaporated. He knew the public record on Steve Rogers better than almost anyone breathing. He had studied it like scripture. The name Peggy Carter was burned into those files—a ghost anchoring a man out of time.
The Russian shifted, his gaze dropping to the floor. The rivalry was gone, replaced by the quiet, solemn respect of an old soldier recognizing another man's deepest casualty. "That's a good thing to fight for," Alexei said, his voice thick and unusually soft. "I hope you get there."
Wesley withdrew a small notepad and a pen. "Recorded. We'll collect you and your spectators before the match begins." He stood in one fluid motion.
Steve walked them out. There were no lingering glances, no extra words. The transaction was complete.
The highway back to the city was a blur of passing trees and fading afternoon light. The convertible top was down, the wind tearing at their clothes, but it didn't drown out Wesley's perfectly level voice.
"A longed-for love," Wesley said pleasantly, staring straight ahead.
Alexei kept his eyes locked rigidly on the road, his massive hands strangling the steering wheel.
"You know what you should do," Wesley continued, the dry deadpan completely unbroken. "Have Melina freeze you for a few decades. Defrost you when the time is right. Really commit to the experience."
The color drained from Alexei's face with terrifying speed, leaving his ruddy complexion a pale, sickly gray. "Wesley. I'm asking you, as a friend, not to say that to her. She would do it. I want you to understand that I'm not speaking hypothetically—she would absolutely do it."
Wesley finally turned his head, mildly curious. "How bad are we talking?"
"Bad." Alexei squeezed the wheel until the leather protested. He swallowed hard. "Look, I'm trying to change the subject. What about Yelena? I could introduce you."
"You want me to fight Ivan."
"Natasha's already—" Alexei stopped, his jaw clicking shut. He started again, waving a thick hand defensively. "Natasha already has someone she's interested in. You're not competing there."
Without warning, the shadows across Wesley's collarbone detached. A mass of liquid, ink-black alien muscle uncoiled from his arm, shot across the center console, wrapped instantly around Alexei's thick collar, and hoisted the three-hundred-pound super soldier six inches out of the driver's seat.
The tires shrieked slightly as Alexei's boots left the pedals. The open convertible top was suddenly a very profound convenience.
"Put me back," Alexei said, attempting to maintain his dignity while dangling over his own dashboard.
With a wet, sickening snap, the symbiote retracted. Wesley pulled him back down into the leather seat. "Natasha and Yelena turned out well despite you. I want you to sit with that."
"Previous life," Alexei said comfortably, adjusting his jacket and clearing his throat as he took the wheel again. "Good karma accumulates."
Wesley shook his head slowly. He watched the white lines on the asphalt flash by. After a long moment, the deadpan dropped. "Natasha barely comes back to base. When she does, it's quiet, in and out. She's S.H.I.E.L.D.'s more than she's ours."
Alexei shrugged, the heavy movement rustling the windbreaker. "She made that choice herself. I can't walk that road for her." He stared at the highway markers, his eyes narrowing slightly in thought. "Besides—how many people wouldn't be pulled toward a man like the Boss?"
Wesley had nothing to add to that. The truth of it hung heavy in the rushing air. He looked out at the road and left it alone.
With Steve's ball collected and two tournament tokens distributed, the machinery of the tournament continued its quiet, relentless sweep across the city. Across Manhattan, Fox and John Wick stepped out of an elevator that opened directly into the sprawling, glass-walled penthouse lab of Stark Tower.
Tony Stark was already watching them cross the room. He stood behind a holographic workstation, a half-empty mug of coffee in his hand, manic energy radiating from him like heat off an engine block.
"Fox. John." Tony spread his free hand in a grandiose gesture, waving away a floating schematic of a thruster. "Let me work out why you're here."
His eyes darted between them, ticking through the possibilities with the frightening speed of a man who had already mapped out a dozen conversational chess moves. "Not the Universal Capsule product launch—I have that invitation. So." He pointed a finger precisely at Fox's chest. "Dragon Balls."
Fox offered a single, sharp nod. The curved assassin stepped forward, his suit impeccably tailored. "Tournament's starting. We're here with your entry tokens. You pulled two balls again this cycle—you're still lucky."
Tony processed this, his dark eyes sharpening as the puzzle pieces slammed into place. The timing made perfect, ruthless sense. Leave it much longer and the holders would start getting violently restless, looking for ways to consolidate their power and steal from each other before the competition even began.
He took a slow sip of his coffee. He'd already noticed it on his monitors—the shadowy secondary market for the artifacts had gone completely, unnervingly silent over the last forty-eight hours. No sellers. No listings.
Everyone was holding their breath. The storm was here.