Disclaimer: I do not own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. or any of the characters used.
For centuries, a group of worshipers has sent sacrifices to their banished god, hoping to nourish It until the time came for the reckoning of their enemies. The world at large had feared Its power and the benevolent unity the worshipers, who called themselves HYDRA, knew It could bring to a world that sorely needed It.
The timer on the warhead continued downwards. The other occupant of the small space was Lincoln Campbell, consoling Daisy Johnson over the phone. That he knew this was his purpose. Hindsight, however, is always clearer. What could his few decades of experience compare to my millenia? His Inhuman body was sturdier than a human's, but his neck snapped all the same and he hung limp, as if from a coat hanger, floating in the middle of the Quinjet. This body's clothes had been scorched, the skin blackened by Lincoln's last struggle.
Convenient for there to be an Inhuman replacement available for my last moments. Was it worth the effort? The view of the earth was small, somewhere near the tropics a thunderstorm was brewing. The bright flashes visible even miles away in space. Curiosity overcame me, I wanted to know what his few years of controlling that power felt like.
I blinked, staring into the disfigured face of Grant Ward. I could do nothing else for a moment, as my new spine clicked into place. The radio transceiver had been smashed in Lincoln's last moments. I could feel his desperation to get Daisy off the aircraft now, his peace with his death. I used his, now my, power to fry the radio itself. The cells of his body buzzed a thousand different ways, the frequencies synchronizing at my command and leaping from me to the primitive communicator. Ninety seconds left. After millenia, I would not cease to exist listening to the work of a doomed civilization. I targeted the speaker, overloading its circuitry and silencing the device. Much better. Earth loomed below. No one knew more than I did, experienced history as I had. Live history as I do. The minds of dozens arced across my brain instantaneously. Perhaps literally arced, considering my current host. Each offering their regret that their extended time was coming to a close, confiding last words, last wisdoms, that would be heard by no one. The earth below would be worse off for our loss.
And yet, thirty seconds came and went. Minutes passed. The thunderstorm subsided, and another began to form. I turned. The counter had glitched from my previous interference, and the display was now shuddering between seconds, unwilling to land on zero. I considered powering the explosive directly. But then, a plan clicked into place, like my spine only minutes ago. The warhead's payload was still within. I could use my host to manually power the Quinjet. Once within the atmosphere, the explosive could properly disperse Radcliffe's creation, and humanity would fall under my control. I could end their suffering. Their behavior was so self-destructive that their very planet was compelled to eliminate them. Through global warming, the thunderstorms I witnessed had gathered strength, frequency, and range from mere decades earlier. Humanity's filth acidified the oceans, which rained back down upon them and slowly corroded their creations. I could stop it, bring them together within me, but I would not. Humanity, S.H.I.E.L.D., had made it very clear they were not willing to save themselves. My purpose was to finish Earth's crusade to remove its parasites. The Inhumans and servants of value were welcome to join me as I embarked on the next service to the natural order. Asgard, perhaps.
But first, before the warhead was detonated, I would kill my would-be murderers personally. The selfish who had deprived a civilization of salvation. What was inside Coulson's mind? The man who had lived twice and doomed the lives of billions? My previous host, Ward, was certainly not quiet about his vengeful desires.
Will Daniels, my former astronaut host, had taken quite some time to find on Maveth. His knowledge, however, was invaluable now as I began repairing the Quinjet. The absolute first step was destroying the tracking. Lincoln and Ward's experiences of the team led me to believe they wouldn't look too closely at what was the certain death of their friend. I did wonder if the delay in the Quinjet disappearing off their screen gave them false hope. Did they stare at the screen, hoping beyond hope that their friend was alive? That his sacrifice had not cost him his life? Foolish, "either I'd have killed you, or the warhead certainly would have" I thought to Lincoln.
It took hours to undo Lincoln's last heroic act. The earth had turned and shadow now fell on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s command center. HYDRA's outposts were of more interest. The infiltrated ATCU should have kept them well-stocked with dormant strike teams of Inhumans. I surged power from every cell in my host, and the effort was rewarded with the Quinjet groaning and coming to life. I was formed with an innate control of the weather. It would take whatever influence I could exert over the atmosphere to avoid burning up on reentry and safeguarding my body and the Quinjet's volatile cargo. Later, perhaps, I wouldn't bother with the cargo, and instead amplify global warming to eradicate the humans. It would be poetic almost. Earth given a boost in the direction it was heading anyway, pushed by its creations.
An after hours S.H.I.E.L.D. employee stared at the body bags containing her fallen coworkers, quivering and holding her gun tighter for comfort. The room was empty besides her and the dead. A handful primitives had been less dead than they appeared, and strangled the others who would have normally patrolled this area. After that, she had gone through and shot the infected again for good measure, trying not to think about the bullets going through their deformed heads. The remaining survivors upstairs were doing damage control, repairing catastrophic structural damage, dissuading the public eye. She was going to drink. And she did. She would drink so much that she would fail to notice a slightly older arrival to the mortuary begin to ever so slightly expand and contract. She would drink too much to hear the muffled cries for help, or register the sound of the body bag tearing. The sound of the door to the surface levels being blown off their hinges, though, made her run clumsily to investigate. She caught a glimpse of a dark, hulking creature, only for it to turn directly into the wall and disappear into a blue light. If she hadn't known better, she could have sworn she saw spines on the creature. She rushed back down to see where it came from, and noticed a nametag amongst shredded scraps of fabric on the floor. The primitives, enemy Inhumans, or Hive itself hadn't killed her. But Agent Melinda May certainly might. "Dr. Andrew Gardner…" she read aloud, fearful and in awe.