Chapter Text
New York at dawn was a city in limbo—caught between the last shadows of night and the first hesitant streaks of daylight. The streets in this part of town, far from Midtown’s towering wealth, were quiet.
Old brick buildings towered overhead, their facades weathered and stained. The air was thick with the damp, stagnant scent of smog and garbage.
There, in a narrow alley off the Bowery, they found her.
She lay sprawled on the cold pavement, her body limp, one arm awkwardly bent under her. Her dress, elegant but out of place, was rumpled and stained, its lace collar evidence of a time long past. Her blonde hair, pinned in an old-fashioned updo, had come undone in places, loose strands framing her pale face. The scent of whiskey clung to her like a second skin. She was unconscious, lost in whatever stupor had brought her here, unaware of the two men standing over her.
One of them knelt, pressing two fingers to her neck. “She’s alive.” he muttered, voice low and rough. “Lucky, too. Another hour out here, she might not have been.”
His partner, taller and leaner, crossed his arms. “Lucky’s not the right word for it. She’s been dodging us for too long.”
The first agent exhaled sharply and adjusted his grip before lifting her into his arms. She was way lighter than she looked.
He hesitated for a beat, then stood, cradling her against his chest.
“Nick Fury’s gonna want to hear this.”, the second agent said as he turned toward the waiting van. “We finally got her.”
The van was parked at the alley’s entrance, engine idling, back doors open. The agent carrying her stepped inside first, settling her onto a bench seat. The other climbed in behind him, slamming the doors shut with a heavy thud.
The van pulled away, blending into the waking city. A city that had no idea that, in its quietest hour, a ghost from another time had just been taken into custody.
____
Pain.
It was the first thing she registered, sharp and unrelenting, spreading through her limbs like fire. A dull ache pulsed along her shoulders, down her spine, coiling in her wrists and ankles. Her body was twisted into an unnatural position, her hands and feet bound behind her, forcing her into a contorted, agonizing stillness.
Her mind swam, caught in a thick haze. The space around her was cold. A faint buzzing filled the air, and when she forced her eyes open, the harsh glow of overhead neon lights burned into her retinas. She winced, trying to focus, her breath shallow as nausea coiled in her stomach. The stench of alcohol still clung to her, sharp and acrid.
She swallowed hard, trying to piece together where she was. Or more importantly, when she was.
The room was small, walls smooth and metallic, featureless except for a single heavy door that lacked a handle. No windows. No furniture. Just the empty hum of electricity, the artificial light turning everything a sickly shade of white. The air was cool, controlled. Not a prison cell, but something close.
Her pulse quickened. Think. Focus.
Her last memory was the alley. The cold pavement beneath her. Rough hands grabbing her. Darkness swallowing everything.
She inhaled sharply, biting back the instinct to curse aloud. Not the first time you’ve gotten yourself into trouble, idiot.
A sound in the distance made her freeze. Voices—muffled, indistinct. She strained to listen, but the words blurred together, too far away to make sense of. The cadence was familiar, fast, clipped. Maybe English.
Her body ached, a dull throb pulsing through her limbs as she shifted slightly, testing the restraints. The bindings we’re digging into her skin tight and unforgiving. She clenched her jaw.
“M-Merda… Dove sono?!”* she muttered under her breath, voice hoarse, the words barely escaping past her lips.
The sound of her own voice grounded her. The sharp syllables of her native tongue felt like an anchor, something real in the sterile void surrounding her.
She exhaled slowly, steadying her breath. First, she needed to regain her strength. Then, she needed to figure out exactly what kind of mess she had landed in this time.
Before she could think any further, the metallic door rattled, a mechanical clank echoing through the sterile space. Her pulse jumped. She barely had time to tense before it slid open with a smooth, controlled motion.
Boots stepped inside—three pairs, heavy.
From her awkward position on the ground, the first thing she saw was a pair of polished black shoes, followed by two sets of combat boots flanking them. She blinked against the harsh light, her gaze dragging upward, taking in the crisp cut of dark pants, a long coat that brushed just past the knees. Then, the broad shoulders, the straight posture, the strong jawline partially obscured by the shadows cast by the neon glare.
Recognition slammed into her like a punch to the gut.
Nick Fury.
The man studied her for a long moment, expression unreadable, before exhaling through his nose. “You gave us quite the chase,” he said, his voice calm, steady. “But I knew we’d run into each other again.”
She tilted her head slightly, lips twitching. “Didn’t realize I was being hunted.” Her tone was dry, almost amused, despite the pain coiling in her limbs.
Fury let out a quiet chuckle. “You weren’t.” He took a step closer, crouching slightly to meet her gaze. “But you disappeared without a word.”
She arched a brow, shifting against her restraints as much as her position allowed. “If I’m not being hunted, and I’m not your prisoner, then maybe you should untie me.”
Fury’s gaze didn’t waver. “We’ll let you loose,” he said, “if you promise to listen to what I have to say.”
She rolled her eyes, but the truth was, she didn’t have much of a choice. She could barely move, let alone fight. More importantly, she couldn’t activate her powers. At least not like this. Time travel required a certain precision, a fluidity of movement she simply didn’t have right now.
She sighed. “Fine. I’ll listen.”
At a subtle nod from Fury, one of the men moved behind her, working at the bindings. As soon as her wrists were freed, firm hands caught her forearms, keeping her from lashing out or making any sudden moves. Her legs were next, the pressure on her joints finally easing. She bit back a wince as blood rushed back into her limbs, the prickling sensation nearly unbearable.
The grip on her wrists remained tight as she was pulled to her feet. She staggered slightly, her muscles stiff and protesting, but she squared her shoulders and held her head high.
“Come on,” Fury said, already turning toward the door. “Walk with me.”
The agents led her out of the room, down a long, brightly lit corridor. The air smelled of antiseptic and metal, the walls lined with reinforced panels, security cameras positioned discreetly in the corners. This wasn’t just any holding facility, it was something more sophisticated. Governmental. Military, perhaps.
S.H.I.E.L.D.
She kept her expression neutral, taking in every detail as they walked. The further they went, the clearer it became, this was no ordinary interrogation space. The corridor led to another door, which slid open to reveal a room that fit the classic profile of an interrogation chamber. A plain table. Two chairs. A long, dark mirror lining the far wall. The kind of mirror that always had someone watching from the other side.
Fury gestured toward the chair opposite him as he took a seat. “Have a seat, Jane.”
Her jaw tightened. “That’s not my name.”
Fury leaned back slightly, folding his hands together. “You’ve gone by a lot of names,” he said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Too many for me to keep track of. You’ve always been Jane to us.”
He held her gaze, waiting for her reaction. She didn’t break. Didn’t flinch.
She just sat down.
And waited.
Fury watched her in silence for a moment, his fingers steepled against the table’s surface. Then, with the same composed demeanor he always carried, he spoke.
“You’re in the year 2017.”
Jane’s stomach tightened. 2017. She let the number settle in her mind. It was always hard to keep track when the years blurred together, but this number felt… distant.
Fury continued, his voice even. “The world isn’t the same place you left behind. It’s a world that’s constantly on the edge of destruction.”
She scoffed, leaning back in her chair. “That’s nothing new.”
He didn’t react to her sarcasm. Instead, he pressed forward, his words precise. “Aliens have attacked this planet more than once. Gods walk among men. There are threats beyond human understanding, and we’ve faced them all.”
Jane frowned. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Fury exhaled sharply, as if he had expected her confusion. “There’s a team, Jane. A team built to handle the threats no one else can. They’re called the Avengers.”
She tilted her head. “Never heard of them.”
His brow lifted slightly, but he didn’t seem surprised. “The Avengers Initiative was created to protect Earth from extraordinary threats—be it enhanced individuals, rogue nations, or, more recently, extraterrestrial invasions.” He leaned forward, his tone firm. “A few years ago, a group of exceptional individuals was brought together under one banner. Super soldiers, assassins, gods, billionaires in metal suits. People who could stand between humanity and annihilation.”
Jane scoffed. “Sounds like a fairy tale.”
Fury’s gaze didn’t waver. “Tell that to the people of New York, who watched an alien invasion rip through their city in 2012. Or to the ones in Sokovia, who saw an entire country lifted into the sky.”
Jane narrowed her eyes. “And what does this have to do with me?”
Fury gave her a look, the kind that told her she already knew the answer. “You know exactly why this concerns you.” He leaned forward slightly. “You were part of a mission once. One of the most important we’ve ever had. You know how I work, Jane. I find extraordinary people and put them where they’re needed.”
She clenched her jaw. “I’m not extraordinary.”
“Not according to the files I have on you.”
His tone was unreadable, but Jane wasn’t in the mood to play his games. She exhaled sharply. “Alright, so what do you want? You dragged me here for a reason.”
Fury didn’t hesitate. “I’m offering you a chance to do something that matters. To be part of something bigger. You could join the Avengers.”
Jane blinked.
Then, before she could stop herself, she burst into laughter.
Fury remained impassive, waiting as she shook her head, amusement dripping from every breath. “You think I want to go back to working for you? That I’d be interested in being part of your little superhero club?” She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “I barely made it out of the last time I worked with S.H.I.E.L.D. I have no intention of going back.”
Fury let her words hang in the air for a few moments before responding. “I thought you might say that.” He reached into his coat, pulling out a small device and placing it on the table. With a tap, a projection flickered to life.
An image materialized in front of her—several figures, battle-worn but standing tall. And in the center, a man in a suit of red and gold, his mask retracting to reveal his face.
Her breath caught.
Fury’s voice was steady. “Tony Stark.”
For a second, her mind refused to accept it. The face before her was older, sharper, the weight of the years visible in the faint lines around his eyes. But it was him.
Her hands trembled. A cold wave rushed through her, drowning out every thought.
She looked away abruptly. “I want to leave.”
Fury studied her carefully. Then, after a long pause, he said, “I’ll give you the night to think about it. If you still want to walk away tomorrow, you’ll be free to go.”
Jane rose, her legs unsteady beneath her. The image of Tony burned in her mind, too raw, too much.
“I want to leave.” she repeated, voice quiet but firm.
Fury nodded once. No argument. No pressure.
Jane turned toward the door, ready to leave, but the moment she moved, two firm hands caught her wrists. She barely had time to register the touch before the two agents had already locked a new set of restraints around them. This time, the bindings were in front of her torso—not as restrictive as before, but still tight enough to keep her powers in check.
She inhaled sharply, her muscles tensing. “Seriously?” she muttered, shooting Fury a glare.
“You’re not a prisoner,” Fury said evenly. “But we can’t have you disappearing on us.”
She bit back a sharp remark, choosing instead to clench her jaw as the guards led her out of the interrogation room. Fury didn’t follow this time. He simply watched as she was taken away.
Her new “room” was at least an improvement over the last one. It was small, but functional. Metal walls, a single bed against one side, and at the far end, a minimalistic bathroom with a toilet and a sink. Surelly not hospitable, but at least she wasn’t lying on the floor anymore.
Her gaze drifted to the bed. A metal tray sat atop the thin mattress, holding what looked like a simple meal: some bread, a portion of protein, a glass of water. Irony dripped from the sight. With her hands bound, eating would be damn near impossible.
But what caught her attention wasn’t the meal. It was the small box sitting beside it.
Her brows furrowed as she looked up at the guards. One of them, a tall man with a stoic face, simply nodded toward it. “Fury wanted you to have it. Said you’d be happy to get those back.”
Jane’s chest tightened.
The agents stepped out, locking the door behind them. The sound of the magnetic lock clicking into place echoed through the quiet room.
She lowered herself onto the bed, her movements stiff. With some difficulty, she maneuvered her bound hands enough to pry open the lid of the box.
Inside, neatly stacked, were documents. Passports, identification cards, all under the name Jane Russo. Her S.H.I.E.L.D. alias.
Her breath hitched when she pulled out the first document. A file from the early 1990s, her own face staring back at her. Platinum blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, stormy gray eyes staring at the camera. The same pale skin, the same strange, almost otherworldly presence in her features.
She hadn’t aged. Not really. Every time she traveled, she reset. Her body always returned to the age she had been during her first jump—twenty-five.
And yet, looking at the photo, she could see what had changed. Her hair was longer now. The light in her eyes was dimmer. A weight clung to her that hadn’t been there before.
Her fingers traced the edges of the old documents before she set them aside, reaching deeper into the box. Clothes, a few handwritten notes detailing mission objectives from decades past. And then—
Her breath caught.
A photograph.
A young Tony Stark stood beside her, his arm wrapped around her shoulders. Her head rested against his, a rare moment of closeness frozen in time. He was younger in this picture, no more than twenty-three or twenty-four, his dark eyes filled with the same reckless energy she had once admired.
She had thought she lost this photo decades ago. And yet, here it was, carefully preserved, waiting for her all this time.
Her throat tightened as emotion crashed over her like a tidal wave. Her fingers trembled as she held the picture closer, her vision blurring with unshed tears.
Then, with a sharp breath, she dropped it. The photograph fluttered to the ground, landing face-up against the cold metal floor.
The box followed a second later, its contents spilling haphazardly across the room as she curled in on herself, pressing her hands to her face.
A ragged sob tore from her throat.
She had spent years convincing herself she had moved on. That she had buried the past where it belonged.
But seeing him again—seeing that version of him, untouched by time and unscathed by fate—made her realize the truth.
He was still there. Buried under her skin. Eating her alive.
The sheets were tangled around her legs, twisted and warm from restless sleep. The dim glow of dawn seeped through heavy curtains, casting soft golden streaks along the dark wooden paneling of the room. Jane stirred, her breath slow, deep, as if surfacing from beneath deep waters.
She blinked blearily at her surroundings. The air in the room was thick, carrying the scent of old bourbon and something faintly floral, perhaps perfume, now faded with time.
Her gaze flicked to the mirror embedded in the boiserie to her left. The reflection staring back at her was a mess. Her hair was wild, tangled from sleep, and the dark smudges beneath her eyes were made worse by the remnants of last night’s makeup, streaked and smeared in uneven lines. The deep red of her lipstick had faded, leaving only a trace of color against her otherwise pale lips.
She groaned, rubbing a hand over her face, only to realize she was still wearing her dress from the night before. The fabric clung to her, wrinkled and creased from hours of wear.
You drank too much, again.
The realization came slow, creeping like an unwelcome guest.
Beside her, the bed was empty but not untouched. The sheets on that side were just as tangled, the pillow bore the faint imprint of someone else’s weight. Whoever had been there was gone now, but not long enough for the space to have gone cold.
Her stomach twisted suddenly.
A sharp, searing pain tore through her lower abdomen, deep and all-consuming. A gasp left her lips, her body doubling over as her fingers clutched at her stomach. What—?
It came again. Worse this time.
A deep, nauseating agony that spread downward, toward her thighs.
Her breath hitched. Something was wrong. Something was—
Wetness.
Warm and sticky between her legs.
Her breath turned shallow as panic seized her chest. Her hands trembled as she reached down, fingers brushing against the fabric of her dress—soaked.
And then she lifted her hands, and the world stopped.
Crimson. Thick, fresh, staining her skin in deep, vivid streaks. The scent hit her next—coppery, metallic, overwhelming.
Blood.
It was everywhere.
Seeping through the sheets, pooling beneath her, spreading like ink on parchment. The mattress beneath her felt drenched, warm and sickly damp. The walls seemed to warp, the dim light turning sinister as shadows stretched unnaturally across the room.
A sharp, strangled noise left her throat.
She tried to move, tried to get away from it, but her body felt heavy, pinned down by the weight of something unseen. The air thickened, suffocating.
And then she screamed.
A name, someone’s name, ripped from her lips, desperate and raw.
But she didn’t know who she was calling for.
The world tilted, warped—
Jane jolted awake.
Her breath came in ragged gasps, her chest rising and falling erratically as reality slammed into her.
The cell was dark, cold, sterile. The scent of blood was gone, replaced by the dull, artificial sterility of metal and stale air. But her body was damp with sweat, her clothes clinging to her skin uncomfortably.
For a moment, she just sat there, her mind struggling to reconcile the past and present. The sensation of blood was too real. Too visceral.
A tremor ran through her hands as she instinctively curled inward, her bound wrists pulling against each other. Her knees came up slightly, pressing together as though expecting to find more warmth, more wetness between them.
Nothing.
Just the rough fabric of her dress, the cold press of her skin beneath it.
She exhaled sharply, dragging her fingers through her hair. It was just a dream.
But it didn’t feel like just a dream.
She swallowed, trying to ignore the hammering in her chest. The ache in her arms and shoulders from the restraints hadn’t eased, and the dull pounding in her skull was a reminder of just how much had changed in a matter of hours.
Hours ago, I was in a— what? What did they call them back then? A tavern? A pub? A gin joint? Whatever it was, she had been in London, drowning in alcohol and trying to forget—forget what? Everything? That seemed about right.
Now she was here.
She pressed her head back against the cold wall behind her, staring at the featureless ceiling. Fury says he’ll let me go.
She didn’t believe that. Not really.
But he wouldn’t keep her like this forever. He’d need something from her eventually. And that was what unsettled her most.
When she had spoken to him earlier, she had been so sure of her answer. She wanted no part in anything S.H.I.E.L.D. was tangled up in, no part in anything that involved those so-called Avengers, no part in any of it.
But now?
Now she wasn’t sure anymore.
She was tired. So tired.
Tired of drifting. Tired of never belonging. Tired of waking up in different centuries, different timelines, different places, and never once calling any of them home.
She had spent years numbing the loneliness, drowning herself in whiskey and opium and distractions that never lasted long enough. And now… Now Fury was offering her something she had long since forgotten the taste of. Purpose.
But she also remembered what working for S.H.I.E.L.D. had cost her before. The mission. The years of nightmares that followed.
Her hands flexed against the restraints, the ache in her joints worsening. She forced herself to move, pushing to her feet despite the stiffness in her limbs. Slowly, she made her way toward the sink at the far end of the cell, twisting the faucet with difficulty.
Cold water ran over her wrists, numbing the burning sensation from where the restraints had rubbed her raw.
And if she said yes? If she agreed to this, to them—
What would she do when she saw Tony again? Would she pretend? Could she pretend?
She doubted it.
With a slow breath, Jane turned off the water, shaking the excess droplets from her hands.
She didn’t know if it was night or day. The cell had no windows, no clocks, no way to mark the passage of time.
But she knew one thing.
When Fury returned, saying no would be harder than before.
And she wasn’t sure she could.
____
The office was barely lit, the only illumination coming from the overhead lamp casting a pale glow onto the disorganized stack of papers spread across Nick Fury’s desk.
The file in front of him was old—very old. The paper was yellowed at the edges, worn from years of being shuffled between classified archives. The pages contained fragmented reports, inconsistencies, and observations spanning decades. Decades that Jane Russo, or Ginevra d’Acquaviva, or whatever name she had gone by at the time—shouldn’t have been alive to experience.
SUBJECT: UNCONFIRMED NAME
AGE: UNKNOWN
ABILITIES: TEMPORAL DISPLACEMENT (PRIMARY), TELEKINESIS (UNSTABLE), ELEMENTAL MANIPULATION (UNDEVELOPED), MIND CONTROL (UNDEVELOPED)
Fury sighed and rubbed his temple, his lone eye flicking to one particular sheet buried beneath the others. The ink had faded slightly with time, but the message scrawled across it in sharp, decisive strokes remained clear.
“AVENGER???”
Written in bold red letters, underlined three times, with three thick question marks following it. A note from a different era, back when SHIELD had been whole, before the fall, before Hydra’s corruption had torn them from the inside out.
“Do you really think this is a good idea?”
Maria Hill’s voice was measured, but there was a note of skepticism beneath it. She stood across from him, arms crossed, watching him closely as he flipped through the pages.
Fury took a slow sip from his glass before answering. “Define good idea.”
She exhaled sharply. “After S.H.I.E.L.D. collapsed, most of our resources went into rebuilding what we could. We’ve been operating in the shadows for months. There are more important things to worry about than chasing after a woman who isn’t even reliable.”
Fury leaned back in his chair, leveling her with a look. “Define reliable. ”
Hill’s expression didn’t waver. “She disappeared, Nick. After the mission with Stark, she filed one of the most vague reports I’ve ever read and then vanished. No trace. No explanation. What’s stopping her from doing the exact same thing if we bring her in again? What’s stopping her from disappearing in the middle of a mission?”
Fury didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he ran his fingers along the worn edges of the file before finally closing it with a quiet thump.
“She completed the mission,” he said simply. “That’s all that matters.”
Hill’s lips pressed into a thin line. “How she did it should matter.”
He raised a brow. “You think the world cares about the how ? You think the people walking the streets today—people who have no idea how close they came to not having a future—give a damn about the method? She got the job done. And that’s why she’s sitting in a cell right now instead of God-knows-when, getting drunk in a century she doesn’t belong to.”
Hill shook her head, unconvinced. “She’s dangerous.”
Fury let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “And who exactly do you think I’ve been working with all these years?”
He gestured vaguely toward the room, toward the files, toward the mess that was the world they lived in now. “A group of enhanced individuals, some with egos the size of the moon, some who can barely control themselves, some who started a damn war against each other.” His voice darkened slightly. “We’ve had worse in the ranks, Hill.”
Maria Hill exhaled, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “Even if you could trust her, she’s nowhere near ready. If these reports are anything to go by, she’s barely scratching the surface of what she can do. Her telekinesis is unstable. Her elemental abilities are almost nonexistent. The only thing she has a full grip on is time travel.”
Fury nodded. “So she needs training.”
“She needs a lot of training,” Hill corrected. “A hell of a lot.”
Fury took another sip from his glass before setting it down with a quiet clink. “Wouldn’t be the first time we’ve put someone through the wringer to unlock their full potential.”
Hill frowned, considering his words. “And you’re convinced she’ll say yes?”
A slow smirk pulled at the corner of Fury’s mouth. “No.”
Hill blinked, caught off guard by the admission.
“I’m not convinced she’ll say yes,” he admitted. “But I know something’s eating at her.”
He leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk. “I saw her face when I said Stark’s name. She tried to hide it, but I caught it, just for a second.”
Hill frowned. “And you think that’s enough?”
“I think she’ll want to see him again.” Fury’s voice was calm, certain. “And that is something I can work with.”
Hill didn’t reply immediately. Her gaze flickered to the file on the desk, to the notes scribbled along the margins. The uncertainty in Jane’s past. The unexplored potential of her abilities. The sheer anomaly that she was.
Finally, she let out a breath and shook her head. “You’re betting a lot on this, Nick.”
Fury smiled again, more visibly this time. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
*= S-Shit… Where am I?!