Marvelous Meditations

Nick Fury stood in the dimly lit surveillance room, the hum of machinery a constant background drone as multiple monitors displayed various angles of Nathaniel Cross's recent skirmish with Mr. Hyde.

Each screen flickered with vivid scenes: Nathan moving with calculated precision, wielding gadgets that defied conventional tech, while Hyde's monstrous form barreled through wreckage around him. Fury's single eye narrowed, his gaze hard and contemplative.

From the moment Nathan had swiped Chitauri tech from Fisk's thugs, Fury knew he'd be trouble. The man moved like a ghost, an enigma with a military past as murky as the operations Fury had been forced to bury.

Now, seeing Nathan tango with Mr. Hyde and emerge unscathed was one thing; the real problem was that he was seen leaving the X-Mansion without anyone knowing how he'd gotten in.

Fury's fingers drummed rhythmically on the edge of the console. He had no love for the X-Men—not out of personal animosity, but from a tactical perspective. A group of powerful mutants, many of them young and untested, was a volatile powder keg waiting for a spark.

Any slip, any loss of control, and the resulting chaos could devastate entire cities. That they operated on the fringes of legality only added to the headache.

Now, add a black ops soldier with a checkered past and a penchant for stirring the pot into the mix? That wasn't just a headache—it was a full-blown migraine.

Fury exhaled through his nose, eyes still glued to the screens as Nathan's image froze mid-swing the Muramasa blade raised. The gadgets Nathan had pulled out during the fight weren't standard issue. They were advanced, far beyond anything an ex-soldier should have had access to. That alone was enough for Fury to justify bringing him in. But that was a last resort—a card he was reluctant to play but forced to anyway.

Maria Hill had followed Fury's orders to the letter, digging into Nathaniel Cross's past with the precision of a surgeon. Yet, for all her efforts, the trail remained frustratingly cold.

Her first stop had been with Matt Murdock, the blind lawyer whose name had come up in connection with Nathan's past. Seated across from her in his modest office, Murdock had listened patiently as Hill laid out her questions. But his response had been disappointingly vague.

"I'm sorry," Murdock had said, his tone as calm and measured as ever. "I knew Nathan when we were kids, back at the orphanage. But once he left, we lost touch. I haven't heard from him in years."

Hill had studied him closely, searching for any flicker of deceit in his unseeing eyes. But Murdock's sincerity seemed genuine, and despite her instincts urging her to dig deeper, she decided to let it go. If Murdock knew more than he was letting on, he was damn good at hiding it.

From there, Hill's investigation took her to Nathan's military days. She tracked down old comrades, questioning those who had trained and served alongside him. The responses were mixed but telling.

The recruits who had shared barracks with Nathan painted a picture of a man who always did too much—too intense, too driven, too singularly focused. They resented him for making them look bad, for setting a bar so high they could barely see it.

But the soldiers who had served under him, alongside him in the field? They had nothing but praise. "A well-oiled machine," one had called him, admiration evident in his voice. Another had recounted missions that seemed impossible, yet Nathan had led them through with a precision that bordered on surgical.

Even those who had operated under the shadowy umbrella of Operation Cerberus spoke of him in near-reverent tones.

When it came to Taskforce Thunderbolt, however, Hill hit a wall. General Ross, who oversaw the task force, was infamously tight-lipped. Any attempt Hill made to gather intel was met with cold resistance. The final nail came in the form of a letter—a firmly worded message from Ross himself, telling Fury in no uncertain terms to back off.

Hill returned to Fury with her findings—or lack thereof—her frustration palpable. "I've hit every lead I could find, sir," she reported. "If there's more to Nathaniel Cross, it's buried too deep for me to dig up."

Fury leaned back in his chair, hands steepled under his chin as he absorbed the report. Nathan remained an enigma, a shadowy figure with a storied past and no clear allegiances. The lack of intel only deepened Fury's concerns.

In the end, there was only one path forward. Fury needed to bring Nathan in and get answers himself. But first, he had to find him—a task easier said than done when dealing with a man like Nathaniel Cross.

As Fury sat lost in thought, the door to his office creaked open, revealing a young technician standing awkwardly in the threshold. Fury recognized him immediately—same kid he'd worked with during the Chitauri tech heist and the surveillance of Phineas Mason's radio repair shop. The technician's presence could only mean one thing: new intel.

Without turning, Fury said, "Spit it out."

The technician hesitated, clearing his throat before speaking. "I've got good news and bad news, sir."

Fury finally looked up, his single eye narrowing. He didn't need to say a word; his glare alone was enough to prompt the young man to continue.

"Well," the technician began nervously, "we've managed to locate Nathaniel Cross. That's the good news."

Fury's expression remained unchanged, his frown deepening slightly. "And?"

The technician shifted uncomfortably, clearly reluctant to deliver the next part. "He's... at the X-Mansion right now. Arrived earlier with Rick Mason."

Fury's gaze sharpened at the mention of Rick Mason. "Rick Mason? As in the agent?"

The technician nodded quickly. "Yes, sir."

Fury sighed heavily, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. "As if this wasn't complicated enough already," he muttered, rubbing his forehead in frustration. He paused, collecting his thoughts before giving his next order.

"Alright," he said, his tone decisive. "Wait until Cross leaves the X-Mansion. Then nab him and take him to the designated site. I'll handle the rest from there. It's time we got to the bottom of this."

The young technician's face shifted, the discomfort on his features deepening. "About that…" he trailed off, his hesitation palpable.

Fury's glare hardened, a silent demand for the rest. The technician swallowed hard and spoke quickly. "The judge who issued the warrant for Cross's arrest… canceled it."

Fury's expression morphed from confusion to simmering anger. "What the hell are you talking about, kid? Why would the judge dismiss the warrant?"

The technician cleared his throat, clearly wishing he was anywhere else.

"Well, a lawyer paid him a visit," he explained. "Apparently, the tech Cross used is linked to a weapons manufacturing company contracted by the military. According to the lawyer, Cross was tasked with transporting the weapons. When he saw Mr. Hyde going on a rampage, he acted under the Good Samaritan Law. Repercussions were handled—reparations paid to everyone whose property was damaged."

He winced, sensing the storm brewing behind Fury's one good eye. "In other words," he added cautiously, "Cross was legally in the clear."

Fury let out a frustrated grunt, running a hand over his face. "So, we've got no legal grounds to make a meaningful move anymore. The bastard's covered his tracks."

The technician nodded, wisely choosing to stay silent as Fury processed the information. Fury's mind raced, trying to piece together the next move. Nathaniel Cross was proving to be a formidable opponent, not just in combat but in navigating the legal and bureaucratic maze.

Fury paused, his brow furrowing in thought. "And this weapons manufacturing company… what do we know about it?"

The technician shrugged slightly, a hint of frustration in his posture. "Their projects are heavily classified, but what we do know is that it's a subsidiary of Maximus Security. The founder and CEO is Rick Mason."

Fury's lips pressed into a thin line as he muttered, "Figures."

He sank into contemplation, weighing his next move. The room remained silent for a moment until the technician, hesitant but needing direction, asked, "What should we do, sir? Do we cancel?"

Fury shook his head decisively. "Cross isn't the only one who can play fast and loose with the rules." His gaze sharpened, his mind already calculating the next move. "Call Captain George Stacy of the NYPD. Tell him to reopen the Salvatore Malone case from two decades ago. Bring Cross in as a potential witness."

The technician blinked, confusion flickering across his face. "Sir, with all due respect, Cross doesn't seem like someone who'd crack under questioning from a few homicide detectives or beat cops. How would that help?"

Fury scoffed, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Of course, he wouldn't break. That's not the point. We don't need him to crack under pressure from the NYPD. This is about getting him in a room.

On paper, it's a routine questioning about an old case. But in reality," Fury crossed his arms, leaning back with a self-assured air, "we'll be sitting him down, and one of our own will be the one doing the grilling."

The technician's eyes widened in realization, the cleverness of the plan dawning on him. "But unless Cross wants to cooperate, we're not going to get much out of him. Legally, we can only ask about the Malone case. We don't have grounds to push for anything else."

Fury's smile widened, a gleam of anticipation in his eye. "Which is why we're sending in someone who might get him to play ball. Someone with enough presence to cut through the bull."

The technician's curiosity peaked. "Who are we sending?"

Fury leaned forward, his voice carrying the weight of a man who knew exactly how to move his pieces on the board. "Possibly the only man who can get Cross to cooperate. We're sending Cap."

The technician's surprise turned into a grin as he realized the genius of the plan. If anyone could get a hardened soldier turned mercenary to cooperate, it was Steve Rogers.

The man was highly respected, and he was known to melt even icebergs, after all.

...

Rick and Nathan finally reached the double doors leading to Xavier's office, the long hallway behind them echoing with the soft hum of unseen energies. Ororo pushed the doors open, revealing a space that seemed a perfect blend of warmth and authority.

The office was expansive yet inviting, lined with shelves of ancient tomes and modern texts, the rich scent of old leather and polished wood permeating the air. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting a gentle glow on the room's centerpiece: a large, mahogany desk behind which sat Professor Charles Xavier.

Xavier's presence was commanding yet serene. His wheelchair was an unassuming frame to the powerful mind that gazed at them with calm intensity. His blue eyes, both kind and penetrating, seemed to see through layers of façade and into the very soul. Despite his composed demeanor, there was an unmistakable weight to his gaze, a reflection of the burdens he bore as the leader of the X-Men.

In the corner, Logan stood with his arms crossed, his rugged features carved into a perpetual scowl. His sharp eyes tracked every movement in the room, a silent guardian ready to strike at the first sign of trouble. His presence was a stark contrast to Xavier's calm, a reminder of the raw power that backed the wisdom in the room.

He gave Nathan a nod and received one back.

"Mr. Cross, Mr. Mason," Xavier greeted, his voice smooth and deliberate. "Welcome."

Nathan gave a polite nod, while Rick offered a casual smile. "Professor Xavier, thank you for seeing us."

"Please, take a seat," Xavier gestured toward the two chairs positioned in front of his desk. The leather creaked softly as Nathan and Rick settled in.

Ororo, who had escorted them, sensed the tension lingering in the air. Her brows knitted in concern as she glanced between Xavier and Logan. "Is this something I should be worried about?"

Xavier and Logan exchanged a meaningful look, a silent conversation passing between them. Logan gave a slight nod before Xavier turned his attention back to Ororo. "Yes, Ororo. This concerns the entirety of the X-Men."

Ororo's expression turned serious as she moved to take a seat, her usual grace marked by a subtle tension. She crossed her legs, resting her hands on her knee as she focused intently on Xavier, waiting for him to continue.

Nathan shifted slightly, his eyes flicking between Xavier and Logan, sensing the gravity of the situation. Rick, usually the more relaxed of the two, sat a little straighter, his casual demeanor replaced by attentive readiness.

Xavier folded his hands in front of him, his gaze steady. "What we are about to discuss is of great importance. It involves not just the safety of this mansion, but very balance and stability we seek to cultivate in young men and women who come to us seeking refuge from a world that fears and hates them..."

Logan's growl punctuated the weight of Xavier's words. "In not so many words, it's something we can't fuck up."

...

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