AutumnXd
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Chapter 1: The Forum and the Serpent
🕑 Added 2025-09-27 07:48:00 +0000 UTCEleven o'clock on a Tuesday night.
The lights of New York University's main library cast a warm, defiant glow against the rain-slicked darkness outside. Inside, it smelled of old paper, damp wool coats, and the faint, burnt-toast aroma of overworked coffee machines.
Leo Grant rubbed his bloodshot eyes, the relentless blue glare of his laptop screen painting his tired face in harsh light. Outside the grand, arched window, raindrops chased each other down the glass, their winding paths blurring the city lights into a watercolor mess.
Being a physics major meant nights like this were just part of the deal. All-nighters fueled by cheap energy drinks and the looming dread of a deadline were his bread and butter. But tonight, with his paper on quantum chromodynamics looking more like a cry for help than an academic thesis, he decided to grant himself five minutes of mercy. Just five minutes to feel human again.
He clicked away from his document and navigated to the campus's unofficial student forum, a cesspool of gossip, memes, and frantic pleas for homework help. He scrolled aimlessly until he landed on the "Urban Legends" section. A single thread title snagged his attention.
[Anyone know what secret organizations are really out there in the US?]
Leo scrolled through the replies, a tired smile tugging at his lips. The answers were a predictable mix of The Illuminati, the Freemasons, and a few crackpot theories about lizard people running the government. His fingers, acting on a muscle memory from a life he tried desperately to forget, flew across the keyboard.
[The real power is HYDRA. S.H.I.E.L.D. is just the public-facing side of the serpent. Hail HYDRA, lol.]
He hit 'Enter' out of pure, exhausted habit.
And then he froze.
A cold, sharp dread, like a shard of ice sliding down his spine, jolted him wider awake than any caffeine ever could. "What did I just do?" he whispered, his voice hoarse. "Am I really that far gone?"
He stared at the words he'd just posted. That stupid, suicidal little joke. His fingernails dug into the soft flesh of his palm, leaving four pale, crescent-shaped marks.
In this world, that meme—that specific, terrifying truth—shouldn't exist. Not unless someone else knew the secret. Not unless someone else was like him.
Leo's hand shot to the trackpad, his cursor scrambling to find the 'delete' button. But before he could click, the screen flickered violently. For a single, heart-stopping frame, a black and red icon flashed in the center of the display—a stylized skull with writhing tentacles.
His heart hammered against his ribs. He slammed his laptop shut with a loud thwack, earning him a sharp, annoyed glance from a blonde girl studying at the next table.
Calm down. It has to be a coincidence. A glitch. He chanted the words in his head, but he couldn't stop the trembling in his fingers.
It had been three years. Three years since he'd woken up in this world, ripped from his life as an ordinary college student and dropped into the body of Leo Grant, an NYU physics scholar in the Marvel Universe. The year was 2005. Tony Stark was still just a weapons dealer, three years away from becoming Iron Man. For three years, Leo had meticulously buried his past, hiding the impossible truth of his existence. He kept his head down, focused on his studies, and prayed he'd never draw any unwanted attention.
He'd just failed spectacularly.
After taking a few deep, ragged breaths that did little to slow his runaway heartbeat, Leo worked on autopilot. He flipped the laptop over, popped the battery out, and unceremoniously dumped it in a nearby trash can. By the time he'd shoved the now-dead computer into his backpack, he realized his palms were slick with cold sweat.
He had to get back to his apartment. Now.
The moment he stepped out of the library's revolving doors, the feeling hit him: he was being watched. He could feel eyes on him, prickling the back of his neck, following him from the deep, rain-soaked shadows of the campus. As he passed a corner, he didn't see the small, red light of a security camera silently swivel fifteen degrees to track his movement.
The fine mist of the New York night clung to his clothes. Leo pulled his collar up and forced himself to walk faster, his sneakers splashing through puddles on the slick pavement. His apartment was in a rundown, five-story building in the East Village—usually a twenty-minute walk. He made it in fifteen.
The sound of his key turning in the lock was unnervingly loud in the dead-quiet hallway. Leo pushed the door open, and for a second, the familiar, musty smell of his own small space calmed his frayed nerves. He reached a hand out in the darkness, fumbling along the wall for the light switch—
And stopped.
The faint, sparse light from the streetlamps filtered in through the open door behind him, casting his shadow on the floor of the entryway.
It wasn't the only one.
His brain was still catching up when his body reacted. Leo threw himself backward, using the momentum to slam the back of his head into what felt like an assailant's face. A muffled grunt of pain and surprise met his ears. He didn't hesitate, driving his right elbow back into a soft midsection. Seizing the momentary advantage, he spun on his heel and lashed out with a vicious side kick.
Bang!
His ankle was caught in a grip of solid steel. The opponent's strength was shocking.
Using the dim light from the window, the scene snapped into focus. Three men, all dressed in black tactical gear, had him surrounded.
"We're with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division, Mr. Grant," the man holding his ankle said, his voice flat and mechanical. "We need you to come with us to answer some questions."
Even as he spoke, his free hand was drifting toward the pistol holstered at his waist.
Leo knew. Answer some questions. That was a lie. Once they had him, he'd disappear into a hole so deep he'd never see daylight again. A fate worse than death was waiting for him.
"Oh, okay, sure. Just some questions…" He let his body go slack, feigning surrender. The agent's grip loosened fractionally. That was all Leo needed.
Using the man's hold on his ankle as a pivot, Leo launched his other foot into the air in a spinning hook kick that connected solidly with the agent's temple. The man staggered back, and Leo used the opening to lunge for the shoe rack by the door, his hand closing around a twenty-pound dumbbell. He swung the heavy weight in a tight arc, smashing it into the throat of the closest agent.
The sound of crushing cartilage was sickeningly wet and loud. The man choked, clutching at his neck as he collapsed to his knees.
Gunshots erupted in the tiny apartment.
A bullet screamed past Leo's ear, punching a hole in the plaster wall behind him. He dove behind his worn-out sofa, his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest. These weren't just cops. They were professionals, the kind who wouldn't hesitate to put him down if they couldn't take him alive.
"Target is trained. Lethal force authorized," a calm voice ordered from the darkness.
Leo's mind raced. The door was blocked. He was trapped.
The kitchen. He remembered the rusty old fire escape. He had one chance.
"Bang!"
Leo surged up from behind the sofa and slapped the main light switch. The room was flooded with sudden, blinding light. As the agents flinched, momentarily blinded, he shot forward like an arrow, sprinting for the kitchen.
Bullets whistled past him. One tore through the flesh of his left arm, a searing, white-hot pain that almost made him scream. But he couldn't stop, couldn't think. He just had to move.
He shattered the kitchen window with his good elbow, sharp shards of glass slicing into his skin. Ignoring the pain, he vaulted through the opening and onto the fire escape. The rusty metal groaned and shuddered under his weight, but he didn't care. He scrambled down.
By the time he reached the second-floor landing, he could hear the heavy thud of his pursuers' boots on the platform above him.
No time.
Leo launched himself off the second-floor escape, tucking into a roll as he hit the wet asphalt to absorb the shock. He scrambled to his feet and disappeared into the labyrinthine alleys of the city without a single look back.
He ran for three blocks before he finally risked stopping, ducking into a grimy alley and slumping against a brick wall, gasping for breath. The wound in his arm was on fire, and blood had already soaked his sleeve, dripping onto the pavement below. He needed to treat the wound, and then he had to figure out how in the hell he was going to survive this.
Under the sickly orange glow of a streetlight, Leo checked the only two things he'd managed to grab on his way out—in the chaos of the fight, he'd snatched a pistol and a strange metal sphere from the agent he'd kicked in the head.
It was a Glock 19, the magazine full. Leo fumbled with the safety before turning his attention to the sphere. It was a little smaller than a baseball, its surface covered in intricate, geometric patterns that seemed to glow with a faint, eerie blue light.
But what made his blood run cold was the symbol etched into its center—a ferocious, unmistakable HYDRA emblem.
"Knew it…" Leo whispered, a bitter, humorless smile twisting his lips.
His stupid joke. His brainless, sleep-deprived forum post. It was bound to get the attention of the one organization that would understand its true meaning. He just never thought they'd be on his doorstep in twenty minutes. It meant two things: first, HYDRA had some kind of advanced network monitoring system already in place, scanning for keywords. Second, they knew exactly what his "joke" meant, which is why they sent a kill team instead of just a single spook.
"Did the PRISM program start early in this universe?" Leo muttered to himself, his voice shaking. "I post one damn thing and I'm on a kill list." He took a deep breath. "Good thing I spent the last three years learning how to fight. Otherwise, I'd be dead on my apartment floor right now."
He gripped the metal sphere, its cold, smooth surface a strange comfort in his hand.
In the distance, police sirens began to wail. He couldn't stay here.
There was no time to think, no time to plan. He tore off his jacket and hastily wrapped it around his bleeding arm, then tucked the pistol into his waistband and pocketed the sphere. He took one last look around the alley and then stepped out, melting into the late-night crowds of a city that never sleeps.
He didn't want to die. He needed help—real help. But in a world where the government and even S.H.I.E.L.D. were rotten with HYDRA agents, who could he possibly turn to? Fighting them alone was suicide.
He wasn't even sure he could escape the men who were undoubtedly still hunting him through these very streets.
All he had was a pistol he'd never fired and a metal sphere that looked suspiciously like a grenade from a nightmare.
