Chapter 4: Going Home.
(General P.O.V)
Mathew sat in the passenger seat with his foot tapping against the floor of the car. A steady, unconscious rhythm. Natalia noticed. She reached into the center console and pulled out a small pack of gum.
"Want one?" she offered.
He shook his head without looking at her. "I'm good."
His eyes stayed fixed on the road ahead.
"Always this quiet?" she asked.
Mathew shrugged. "Sometimes."
"Well, I'm the opposite. I like talking. Helps fill the space," she said. "Especially with someone interesting."
He said nothing.
"For starters, is your name really Franklin Richards? what's your name?"
He hesitated. Just long enough that it was noticeable. Then, "Yeah."
Natalia smiled but didn't buy it. "That right?"
"mmmh."
"Just saying." she shrugged. "It doesn't fit. You don't look like a Franklin."
He turned toward her, mildly amused. "What does a Franklin look like?"
Before she could answer, a loud boom cut through the air ahead.
Then came the sand.
The cars in front of them swerved. One of them flipped. A wave of coarse, high-pressure sand shredded through a minivan, sending chunks of metal flying. Natalia slammed the brakes, the tires screeching as the car jerked to a stop.
Mathew's instincts fired. His hand reached out, ready to pull space apart and teleport them to safety. But nothing came.
Right. No powers. He'd traded them away for a chance at a normal life with Jules. And now it was biting him.
He snapped his head toward Natalia. "Reverse the car. Now."
She was already shifting gears, but before they could move, a red blur swung down from above. Spiderman. He launched forward and crashed into the moving tide of sand, knocking its source off the bridge.
The figure collapsed into the river below, breaking apart on impact.
"Sandman," Natalia muttered. "Figures."
Mathew's hand was still frozen midair. He lowered it slowly, his pulse still high.
"Thank God for heroes like him," she said, as Spiderman swung above them.
Mathew looked out the windshield. "Yeah," he replied, though it sounded hollow.
She didn't notice. Or didn't push.
The rest of the ride passed without conversation.
By the time the car slowed again, they were outside an old apartment building. Weathered bricks. Sturdy. Familiar.
Mathew stared up at it for a moment before unbuckling his seatbelt.
"Thanks," he said.
"Don't mention it," Natalia replied.
He stepped out. She waited a second longer, then pulled away.
After driving away from Mathew's apartment, Natalia turned the next corner and eased the car into a quiet side street. She parked under a shade and reached for the earpiece tucked behind her right ear.
"Target has entered the building," she said. "All agents are in position. We're just waiting on confirmation."
Nick Fury's voice came through a second later, direct and calm. "Good work. As always."
"Waiting on greenlight," she added.
"Confirmation given," Fury said. "Move in. Secure the threat alive if possible. If not, put him down."
"Roger that," Widow said, then paused. "But there's something off. The Target doesn't match the profile. He doesn't act like a mutant terrorist. If anything, he seems controlled. Scarred, yeah. But not unstable. I think the intel might be off."
"That's not your call," Fury said. "Execute the mission. The intel came from a source I trust. That's all you need to know."
The line went dead.
Natalia sighed, her fingers tightening on the wheel. Her expression shifted—harder, colder. The mission always came first.
She activated her comm. "Team, prepare to move in. Five minutes."
Above the city, the S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier hovered silently in cloud cover. Inside, the command center buzzed with routine operations. At the top level, inside the director's office, Nick Fury stood by the window, staring down at the city.
He turned toward the figure seated in his chair.
"Is that what you wanted?" Fury asked.
The chair swiveled around.
Loki sat with his legs crossed, casually rolling a red current between his fingers. It pulsed with quiet energy, twitching along his knuckles.
"This seat," Loki said, "is far more comfortable than my throne beyond time and space. You know that?"
Fury stepped forward and slammed his hands on the desk. "Cut the act. I've had enough of your games. S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't your cleanup crew, and we're not here to erase your mistakes. If Mathew's your problem, then handle it yourself."
Time stopped.
Every screen. Every monitor. Every technician. Every second of movement in the carrier—and the world beyond—froze.
Fury stood alone, mid-motion, frozen in place.
Loki rose and walked around the desk.
"You can't imagine how incredible this power is," he said. "To distort time, freeze space, mute the breath of a living world. Normally, I need to be seated at the highest point of narrative control to do this. My throne beyond causality. But Mathew's mutation… it's a cheat code."
Loki stopped in front of Fury.
"Do you know what it means to have control over time, space, life, and death?" he asked. "It means you can do anything."
He raised his hand.
Fury unfroze, gasping as his body convulsed. His chest twisted inward as if being pulled into a point. His limbs curled unnaturally toward his center, skin folding like paper. The sound of internal pressure filled the air.
"Turn your heart into a black hole," Loki said.
A black dot appeared on his open palm.
Then he snapped his fingers again, and the process reversed. Fury's body uncoiled, straightened, and returned to its original state.
Still.
Silent.
Dead.
Loki sighed. "Yes. I can do anything, Fury. Anything… except resurrect the dead. Including myself."
He looked down at the black dot before closing his hand over it.
"And that's why Mathew Malloy needs to die. Only then will the full extent of his power be passed on to me."
He turned toward the massive windows overlooking the deck of the Helicarrier.
"This branch timeline has outlived its usefulness. When Mathew dies, so will it."
Mathew stood in front of the apartment door, hand resting just above the handle. He wasn't sure how long he'd been standing there, but his arm was starting to ache. Still, he didn't move.
The hallway hadn't changed.
The cracked window near the stairwell still whistled when the wind passed through it. Down the hall, he could hear the faint drip from Old Man Ron's bathroom sink—just like always. The wallpaper still peeled at the corners, and the floor creaked exactly where he remembered it.
He could almost see it. Two drunk idiots giggling as they staggered up the steps, arms around each other, laughing too loud. Jules had been a menace that night. She'd taken three shots too many, told off a cab driver, and puked on his shirt halfway up the stairs.
Mathew scoffed at the memory. He'd been annoyed at the time. But now it was one of the few moments that still felt real.
There was no reason to hesitate.
This was home.
He pushed the door open.
Cold air greeted him. The lights were off. The place was dark and quiet.
He stepped inside.
The apartment stared back at him. Empty.
He took another glance around, searching—hoping—for something familiar. A smell. A sound. Anything to ground him. But there was nothing.
His breath caught.
"Fuck," he said, low and slow, the word dragging out of his chest like a wound.
He slid down the wall and sank to the floor, knees pulled up, hands limp at his sides. His body trembled, not from cold, but from everything. The weight of it. The silence. The ache. The fear.
He sat there for a long moment, breathing unevenly.
Then a breath deeper than the others.
Another sigh.
And softly, just above a whisper, he said, "Honey, I'm home."
Over 8 billion people in the world...but he would have traded every single one for a single second with his wife.