Father's Daughter

1.11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The chaos on the helicarrier bridge was palpable. Agents moved swiftly, monitoring every screen and shouting reports. Nick Fury, ever the authoritative presence, stood before the viewscreen as the World Security Council appeared in front of him.

“Director Fury, the council has made a decision,” one of the council members said, his tone stern.

Fury’s eye narrowed, his displeasure evident. “I recognize the council has made a decision, but given that it’s a stupid-ass decision, I’ve elected to ignore it.”

Another member of the council, a woman this time, spoke up. “Director, you're closer than any of our subs. You scramble that jet—”

Fury cut her off with a sharp tone. “That is the island of Manhattan, Councilman. Until I’m certain my team can’t hold it, I will not order a nuclear strike against a civilian population.”

“If we don’t hold them in the air, we lose everything,” the first councilman pressed, clearly growing impatient.

Fury, however, was done entertaining their idea. “I send that bird out, we already have.” With that, he slammed his hand down and turned off the screen, severing the connection.

---

Meanwhile, in Manhattan, the fight raged on. Lyra Stark was everywhere at once—her dark, wispy shadows snaking through the streets and across buildings as she fended off the Chitauri with every ounce of power she possessed. A surge of energy fired toward her, but Lyra deflected it with her staff, shadows wrapping around the projectile and hurling it back toward the alien who had fired it.

“Watch your back, Lyra!” came the familiar voice of Natasha Romanoff, zipping by on one of the Chitauri chariots she had hijacked. Lyra glanced up to see Natasha exchanging fire with the Chitauri, her body graceful yet deadly as she weaved through their attacks. But she was hit—a blast knocking her sideways.

Lyra’s breath caught in her throat, and she pushed off the ground, launching herself skyward with the aid of the dark tendrils she controlled. But before she could intervene, Natasha steadied herself, her quick reflexes keeping her in control.

“Oh, you,” Natasha muttered under her breath, looking behind her. Lyra followed her gaze and saw Loki, hot on her trail.

Loki. The same god of mischief who had declared war on her family—on her team. Her teeth clenched involuntarily, her hands tightening around her staff. He was still as smug as ever, dressed in his ridiculous armor with that self-satisfied smirk on his face. It made Lyra’s stomach twist in knots of fury. But somewhere, deep inside her heart, it was more complicated than just anger. A future whispered to her, one where Loki played a different role. One that involved her. She hated it, hated how the thought lingered even now as he wreaked havoc.

But now wasn’t the time to dwell on things she could not change.

Loki drove his chariot after Natasha, chasing her madly between the buildings, as Hawkeye watched from a rooftop, an arrow nocked in his bow. His eyes narrowed as he took aim at Loki, his fingers steady as they released the arrow.

It streaked toward Loki with deadly precision, but in a swift motion, the god of mischief plucked it out of the air effortlessly. For a moment, Loki smirked, showing off his superiority, but before he could revel in his triumph, the arrow exploded in his hand. The force of it sent him careening through the air, crashing into the glass window of Stark Tower.

Lyra allowed herself a brief moment of satisfaction before she returned to the battle at hand. Shadows swirled around her feet, forming into sharp tendrils that slashed through the Chitauri soldiers trying to advance on her position. She spun her staff in her hands, weaving the dark tendrils into walls of shadows, protecting civilians as they fled from the chaos.