Night still clung to the mountains of Japan, but the sky at the horizon had begun to pale. In the half-light the courtyard of the old compound looked like a battlefield from an ancient scroll: paper lanterns shattered, tiles cracked, and bodies everywhere.
They lay in grotesque shapes across the flagstones and gardens — black-clad assassins, their masks soaked through with blood. Most were dead; a few still twitched, gasping their last. Shuriken and broken swords glittered under the rising dawn like teeth. The fight had been brief but absolute, a massacre more than a battle.
Inside the main hall the carnage was quieter but no less final. Four bodies lay sprawled amid splintered screens and overturned lacquered tables.
Alexandra Reid, the centuries-old strategist who had guided the Hand’s reach into governnts.
Murakami, the silent hunter who preferred to fight beasts in the dark.
Sowande, the recruiter and trafficker of soldiers, who turned whole villages into killers.
Bakuto, the teacher who cloaked indoctrination in the language of honor.
For centuries they had called themselves "the Fingers of the Hand," each one controlling an empire of cri, black magic, and death. Tonight their reign had ended.
And at the center of the room the last of them still lived — Mada Gao. She was on her knees on the tatami floor, bound by a glowing rope looped around her neck.
The lasso shimred like sunlight caught in water, coiling up from the floor to her neck. Each ti she tried to move it tightened, forcing another ragged gasp.
The woman holding it stood tall and unmoving.
Her hair was dark as midnight and whipped by the breeze coming through the broken doors. Over her shoulder rested a gleaming sword; a round shield, scarred by countless battles, rode her left arm. In her right hand the lasso burned bright. The Amazon’s eyes were cold steel.
Mada Gao hissed, her voice still sharp despite the noose at her throat. "Why? Why destroy us? We do not even know you or your na."
The warrior’s expression didn’t flicker. "You don’t deserve to know mine," she said, her voice a low bell in the ruined hall. "Only a true warrior earns that honor."
The lasso pulsed, and Gao shuddered as if secrets were being torn from her veins.
Diana began to speak, each sentence a hamr blow, "You trafficked children and called it recruitnt. You resurrected killers to serve your greed. You poisoned cities, toppled leaders, and sold death as salvation. Your cult has murdered thousands and hidden behind myths for centuries."
Gao’s eyes widened — surprise breaking through her fury — at how much this stranger knew.
The Amazon’s hand tightened, the rope drawing Gao to her knees. "But your greatest mistake," Diana said, voice like ice, "was trying to touch the company of my man."
A whisper of movent behind her; she didn’t even look. With a flick of her arm she hurled the shield backward. It spun across the room, a silver blur, and sliced clean through a ninja trying to rise behind her. The assassin fell in two halves. The shield embedded itself in the far wall with a ringing thunk.
Gao gasped for breath as the lasso constricted. "We could... work together—"
"No. This is the end of the Hand." Diana’s tone was final.
She reached over her shoulder, drew the sword, and in a single smooth motion cut through the last Finger of the Hand. Mada Gao’s body collapsed soundlessly to the tatami.
Silence fell.
Diana surveyed the ruin. Blood and Shattered masks. The end of a centuries-old cancer. Her eyes softened for a mont. "May your souls find peace," she murmured. Then, colder, to the four fallen leaders, "And may yours rot in hell for eternity."
She crossed to the wall and pulled her shield free, strapping it to her arm. Around her, the black-clad bodies of the Hand lay like shadows. She felt no guilt. ’They were brainwashed and murdered the innocent. This was rcy.’
The Hand. The more she thought of it, the more it sickened her — an organization so ancient it believed itself untouchable. But she had found one Finger, bound them with her lasso, and made them reveal the rest. One by one she had cut them down until tonight, the last base burned.
The Princess of Themyscira had ended what no hero had managed for centuries.
She drew a long breath and rose from the floor, boots leaving the blood-stained tatami. The shield and sword slid into place across her back. Her bracelets began to glow, arcs of lightning crawling across the tal.
She charged them until the air humd, then slamd her wrists together and pointed down at the compound.
A thunderous flash tore the night open. The shockwave rolled out across the mountains, and when it cleared the bodies and ruins of the Hand were nothing but scorched dust.
Training with Ethan and the others had pushed her powers to new heights; she could summon storms, channel lightning, level a city if she wished just by using her lightening powers. And she was still growing stronger.
She hovered in the air above what had been the Hand’s stronghold and watched the first edge of the sun crest the horizon. Warm light touched her face. She smiled faintly. "A new day," she said softly. "Cleaning up the trash always feels best."
A soft voice touched her mind—Jean’s. Thanks to the psychic channel Ethan had created, they could speak across any distance.
"Work finished?" Jean asked.
"All done," Diana replied. "Trash taken out."
Jean chuckled in her head. "Ethan’s rubbing off on you. You never used words like that before."
"I don’t regret it though," Diana thought back.
"Red Room’s finished too," Jean reported. "Anna saved a lot of Widows. I’ll co collect the Hand’s artifacts before anyone misuses them."
Diana nodded in the link. "When will Ethan be back?"
"Tomorrow," Jean’s thought-voice said.
"Good. Farewell, sister."
She reached to her belt, drew a sling ring, slipped it over her fingers, and traced a glowing circle in the air. A portal opened, showing the marble halls of her ho.
Diana drifted forward, stepped through, and the circle snapped shut behind her, leaving only the empty sky and the ashes of the Hand.
----------------
A few hours later...
The town of Puente Antiguo, New xico baked under the afternoon sun. Dust devils curled across the main street, carrying the sll of hot asphalt and squite.
Inside a corner café, the hum of ceiling fans and the sll of roasted beans softened the clatter of the street outside.
At a table near the window sat Ethan Carter and Susan Storm, mugs steaming between their hands. Ethan had quietly wrapped the café in a veil of psychic haze so no one noticed who they really were.
Nobody could overhear them, nobody could recognise them — to the other custors they looked like just another young couple out for lunch.
Susan laughed, eyes crinkling behind her sunglasses, as Ethan finished another dry joke. "You’re ridiculous," she said, nudging his arm.
"You should smile more," Ethan said warmly. "You look good when you do."
She tilted her head. "Flattery? Or field tactic?"
"A bit of both."
"Maybe you should tell more terrible jokes then," she teased, blue eyes glinting over the rim of her cup.
They lingered in that easy rhythm until her expression turned thoughtful. "What are we going to do about Thor?"
Ethan arched a brow. "About Thor?"
"Don’t tell you’re just leaving a prince of Asgard here to drink coffee and brood. From what I read last night on internet... he’s strong, dangerous even. Leaving him loose in the town seems like a bad idea."
Ethan raised an eyebrow over his mug. "You’ve been doing howork."
"Of course. You never move without a plan."
He smiled faintly. "You’re right. I don’t intend to leave him here to sulk. I want to see him regain his worthiness... and maybe earn a favor from Odin himself."
Susan tilted her head. "I still don’t get why Odin sent him here of all places."
Ethan’s smile turned mysterious. "I wonder that too."
They finished their coffee, left a tip on the table, and strolled out into the sunlight. A few blocks away stood a low adobe house surrounded by a scatter of moving boxes — Dr. Foster’s temporary base.
As Ethan approached, a pair of governnt n in suits were just climbing into their SUV, having finished unloading confiscated equipnt.
Through the open doorway he could see Jane Foster, Darcy Lewis, and Dr. Erik Selvig clustered around a kitchen table, mid-argunt.
"I’m telling you what Thor said is believable," Jane insisted.
"What Thor told you might be poetic, Jane," Selvig was saying, "but it’s not believable. We should be realistic. And ready — Dr. Carter said he’d fund our research and will be here soon."
Darcy snorted. "Yeah, because that’s totally normal. Space gods and billionaire superheroes, all in one week..." She turned toward the door, caught sight of Ethan and Susan walking up, and froze. "Oh my god. Speak of the devil..."
Jane turned and saw Ethan and Susan walking up the path. Thor, who had been sitting quietly on the porch, rose to his feet and brightened like a sunrise.
"Welco, friends of Midgard!" he bood, striding toward them with his arms outstretched.
Ethan waved back, amused at the thunder god’s simplicity. ’Help him once and he’ll call you friend forever,’ he thought.
Jane straightened nervously while Selvig hustled forward, introducing them. "Dr. Carter! Ms. Storm! An honor to see you again. Please, co in."
Darcy stared shalessly. "Wow... you’re even more handso in person," she blurted at Ethan, then turned to Susan. "And Invisible Woman? That’s a good combo. Always been a fan."
Ethan chuckled as Jane clapped a hand over Darcy’s mouth and invited them inside.
They settled around the living-room table: Ethan and Susan on one side, Darcy and Selvig opposite, with Thor and Jane standing together near the counter. Jane handed out water.
"Did the agents return everything they took?" Ethan asked.
Selvig nodded. "Everything’s back. Thank you again."
"It’s nothing," Ethan said. "I want to fund your project properly."
He turned to Thor. "How’s your stay so far?"
Thor gave a small, almost shy smile. "I am well. These are good people."
Darcy tilted her head between Thor and Ethan. "Are you guys brothers or sothing? You look like you walked off the sa royal TV show."
Ethan only smiled while Jane smacked Darcy’s shoulder. "Don’t mind her."
Susan found herself thinking the sa thing. If she hadn’t known Thor’s identity she might have mistaken them for siblings.
Thor straightened. "We are not brothers by blood, but I would gladly call Ethan friend — if he does not object."
Ethan studied him. Yesterday the god had been grim and silent; now he seed almost content. "Perhaps we can get along over so beer," Ethan said.
Thor’s eyes lit. "An excellent suggestion!"
Selvig cleared his throat, trying to steer the conversation back toward research funding. Ethan agreed easily, then glanced at Thor with a faint smile. "It seems we have company from your old friends."
A sharp knock rattled the glass window.
"Found you!" a voice called.
Everyone turned. Four figures stood outside the house, silhouettes against the desert sun. They were clad in Asgardian armor — ornate leather and steel glinting with runes.
The first was Lady Sif, tall and fierce, her long black hair falling over silver pauldrons, a sword as tall as she was strapped to her back. Her gaze was hawk-sharp, fixed on Thor through the glass with a huge smile.
Beside her lood Volstagg, a massive, bearded warrior with a crimson tunic and an axe like a battle standard resting on one shoulder.
To his right stood Fandral, golden-haired and roguish, his erald cloak billowing, twin sabres at his hips and a grin already forming.
And just behind them Hogun, the quietest of the three, dark-eyed and grim, clad in grey leather with a spiked mace in his hand.
Thor’s face lit with recognition. "My friends!"
Ethan leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing with interest. ’And now the real plot begins,’ he thought.
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