Following the removal of the massive pile of filth known as Obadiah Stane, the morning in Malibu was deceptively peaceful.
Of course, that peace only lasted until Níðhöggr decided to raid Tony’s fridge, downing vintage wine straight from the bottle, and Ratatoskr nearly fried JARVIS’s servers attempting to hack the system to set up a squirrel-based acorn futures market.
Meanwhile, the world’s attention was fixed on the Stark Industries press conference room.
Tony Stark stood behind the podium, gripping the rigid script prepared for him by Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes.
Beneath his shirt, the 'Mana Arc Reactor' Níðhöggr had embedded into his chest the night before pulsed with a faint, ethereal golden light.
"Actually... there are a few things I’d like to point out," Tony began, his voice carrying that trademark arrogance as he toyed with the script.
In a corner of the conference room, hidden by a cloaking spell, Níðhöggr’s eyes gleamed with mischief.
"Hey, rat. Don't you think the tin man looks like he's about to cause some trouble?"
Ratatoskr, busy gnawing on a hot dog he'd pilfered, grunted in response.
"Like I give a damn. As long as he keeps paying for my steaks, he can say whatever he wants. But Níð, what’s with that look? Thinking of another one of your shitty pranks?"
"A prank? Please. As a villain, I simply feel a calling to reveal the 'truth' to these mortals."
At that exact moment, Tony Stark tossed the script aside and dropped a bombshell.
"I am Iron Man."
The room instantly devolved into chaos.
Camera flashes strobed like lightning, and reporters surged forward, screaming over one another.
Just as Tony was about to flash a smug grin and bask in the pandemonium, a crimson mist swirled in the air. Out of thin air, a decadently handsome man with raven hair materialized, descending onto the podium with casual grace.
"Wait just a minute! The protagonist always makes his entrance at the very end!"
Níðhöggr slung an arm around Tony’s shoulders and snatched the microphone from his hand.
Stunned by the sudden intrusion, Tony recoiled as security guards scrambled toward the stage in a panic.
"Attention, everyone! If this tin can is 'Iron Man,' then I—the one who forged his heart, transformed a traitor into a blonde bombshell, and kicked him into the Great Beyond—am none other than—!"
Just as Níðhöggr was about to reveal his identity and start a grand riot, a massive shadow loomed behind him.
"You crazy lizard! Are you out of your mind?!"
CRACK!
Ratatoskr, now in his humanoid form, lunged forward with his thick forearm and hooked Níðhöggr by the collar.
"Hey! Let go! I was making a cool entrance! Even that bald lady, the Ancient One, isn't watching right now!"
"Shut up and move! You made me drop my hot dog on the floor! You attention-seeking gecko!"
Ratatoskr tucked Níðhöggr under his arm like a sack of groceries and smashed right through the back wall of the stage, disappearing in a cloud of dust.
The reporters stared back and forth between the hole in the wall and Tony Stark, their jaws hitting the floor. Tony simply massaged his temples and muttered under his breath.
"JARVIS... is there really no way to evict those two?"
Having been dragged from the conference hall, Níðhöggr grumbled as he walked down the street, still fuming over his ruined debut.
Suddenly, he caught a familiar scent near the luxury mall.
It was Christine Everhart, the reporter he had spent a very intense hour with in a public restroom just yesterday.
She seemed frantically busy, trying to file a breaking news report on Tony's revelation.
"Hey there, reporter. It’s nice to see you after just one day, isn't it?"
Níðhöggr whispered into her ear from behind, making Christine jump in fright.
The moment her eyes met Níðhöggr's, the intense, primal sensations from the day before came roaring back to life.
"You...! Who the hell are you? I haven't been able to write a single article since yesterday because of you!"
Níðhöggr pulled her waist tight against him. He wasn't playing around this time.
He unleashed his 'Charm' ability at full throttle. His pupils burned with a deep violet fire, paralyzing Christine’s every sense.
"I’m bored. Why don’t we finish that interview we started? This time, I’ll let you investigate some even deeper... areas."
Christine was already far past the point of sanity.
She ditched her laptop bag right there on the sidewalk and clung to Níðhöggr’s neck. They headed straight for a suite at a nearby hotel.
What followed was a storm of carnal indulgence that danced on the edge of the R-rated abyss. With a dragon’s legendary stamina fueled by mana, Níðhöggr’s touch sent Christine screaming through layers of ecstasy.
Her body was drenched in sweat and sheer pleasure as Níðhöggr, wearing a decadent smirk, pushed the human woman to the absolute limits of sensory overload.
After three hours of frantic "journalism," Níðhöggr smoked a cigarette on the edge of the bed before leaving the completely spent Christine behind.
On his way back to the Malibu mansion in high spirits, he spotted a black SUV idling in front of the main gate.
Standing before it was a man in a trench coat, his back turned to the road.
"Hey, old man. What are you doing in someone else's front yard? Be careful—there's a foul-tempered, vicious squirrel living here."
As Níðhöggr approached with a sneer, the man slowly turned around.
He was a Black man wearing an eyepatch over one eye: Nick Fury, Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.
"You must be Níðhöggr. The individual recorded as having assisted Captain America in defeating the Red Skull in 1945."
Níðhöggr narrowed his eyes.
"Oh? Seems someone else besides that bald sorceress knows who I am."
"We monitor and manage 'extraordinary' beings like yourself. Níðhöggr, your power is impressive, but dangerous. However, if that power were used for the right reasons..."
Fury pulled a file from his coat, his expression grave.
"The world needs talent like yours. We call it the 'Avengers Initiative.' Why don't you join us in protecting the Earth?"
Níðhöggr stared blankly at Fury for a moment, then suddenly clutched his stomach and burst into hysterical laughter.
"Pwahahaha! Hey, Rata! Come look at this! This bald guy wants me to protect the world! He wants to play superheroes!"
Ratatoskr stepped out of the house, chewing on an acorn, and scoffed at Fury.
"Hey, old man. Do you even know what 'Níðhöggr' means? He's the catastrophe that gnaws at the roots of Yggdrasil! A living disaster! You're asking a disaster to protect the world? Did someone shoot you in the head?"
Nick Fury’s brow furrowed.
"This isn't a joke. By taking down Obadiah yesterday, you’ve already started down the path of a hero—"
"Shut up, you old cyclops!"
Níðhöggr’s voice dropped to an abyssal rumble.
"Hero? Leave that hypocritical bullshit to the tin man over there. I’m a villain. I kill on a whim, and I save on a whim. I have zero interest in your pathetic little social club, so get lost before I start swearing."
"It seems words won't work. You need to understand the weight of federal authority—"
Just as Fury reached for his radio, Níðhöggr flicked his finger.
Snap!
A bizarre ripple of mana swept through Fury.
"Wait, what?"
In an instant, Nick Fury’s leather coat, suit, shirt, trousers, and even his socks were molecularly dismantled, vanishing into thin air.
Left standing in the driveway was the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., wearing nothing but his eyepatch and a pair of tacky 'I Love NY' heart-patterned boxers.
"You... what did you just—!"
"That’s a villain’s warning. If you ever come back with a garbage proposal like that again, I won't even leave you the underwear. And I’ll pluck that eye out from under your patch and give it to Ratatoskr as a snack."
Ratatoskr cackled as he looked over Fury’s "sleek" physique.
"Whoa, pops! You need to hit the gym. Your ass is sagging! Now, scram!"
Ratatoskr gave Fury’s SUV a light push with his palm, and the heavy vehicle crumpled like tinfoil, tumbling off the road into the distance.
Nick Fury stood shivering in the cold wind, clad only in his underwear. As a veteran spy master who had seen everything, he had never been subjected to such a humiliating ordeal.
"Níðhöggr... you’ll regret this..."
"Save the regrets for your walk home! You bald pervert!"
Níðhöggr flipped Fury a magnificent bird before heading back into the mansion.
Inside, Níðhöggr sprawled onto the sofa and cracked open a bottle of Tony’s premium scotch.
"Hey, Rata. This Earth gig is actually pretty fun. Who do you think will show up next to annoy us?"
"Who knows? But Níð, did you burn too much energy on that reporter earlier? Your legs are shaking."
"Shut up, you flea-bitten rodent! A villain's stamina is his lifeblood!"
As Iron Man was born, the world simultaneously became home to its most dangerous—and most misunderstood—villainous freeloaders. As Nick Fury trudged through the night in his boxers vowing revenge, Níðhöggr’s legend had only just begun.
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