Disclaimer: I own nothing. Least of all this.
Author's Note: After much deliberation, I've decided to use the Time Variance Authority in this story. After all, McCree is breaking the timeline in a pretty significant way. However, seeing as we currently only have the one Loki episode so far, do forgive me if my portrayal seems less than accurate.
Due to this decision, I shall now also be using the characters from the Doctor Strange movie and Thor movies a lot more than I had anticipated. Why? Well, read on and you'll find out. Wouldn't want to put spoilers in the heading, now would we?
2) HIT THE BOOKS
Kaecilus was expecting to find the Ancient One pouring over some dusty tome in the Library.
He was not, however, expecting to find her crying while doing so.
"Ancient One?" he gently approached. "Is something amiss?"
A single tear streaked its way out of the corner of her eye. "Quite the opposite, I'm afraid. In a reality quite far removed from our own, something has, for once, gone extremely right. That is to say, right for our reality. Today is the first time I've been able to look beyond the year 2016 in...well, since I started looking to the future at all. And it's so much brighter than what I was expecting. Even for you, my most wayward of students."
"Wayward?" He frowned. "But Ancient One, I have always done my best to follow your teachings. To follow the teachings of all those that have come before, recorded for eternity in this very Library."
"Yes," she said with a smile, "Yes, I suppose you have. And I don't give you nearly enough credit for it. Go; find Mordo, then return. I have something to show you both. Something I should have shown you both years ago."
He bowed. "As you wish, Ancient One."
Mordo would most likely be in the training yards; no doubt terrorizing a new disciple. Ah well; they all had their specialties. He just hoped Mordo's might be useful in determining just what it was that had shaken the Ancient One so.
The Marvel Cinematic Universe had come to an end in 2016.
It was the most pure example of death-of-the-author McCree had ever seen; and that was counting J. K. Rowling. Age of Ultron had been thoroughly lambasted by the press on its release; hated for its depiction of Artificial Intelligence at a time when the first Omnics were just starting to appear. Some of the few remaining intellectuals in Hollywood had championed the film for what it was (at least to McCree): a caricature of what happens when men try to play God, with the assumption that their creations will follow them blindly for eternity. The Biblical references were right there in the movie, for crying out loud.
But the film's champions had been lampooned as well; and in the end, everyone else in Hollywood had counted it a great success of "cancellation" when the last official MCU production, Doctor Strange, finally left theaters. Right up until the Omnics had nuked the entirety of the West Coast.
Age of Ultron became one of the most popular works of fiction during the Crisis; of any kind, printed or non. And with its resurgence came one of equal measure for the MCU as a whole; in fact, it was accusations of "HYDRA-like behaviour" that had gotten the media half as spooked as they'd been about Blackwatch. They'd been so desperate to avoid a repeat of the fictional "Project Insight", that they'd created the spiritual successors to Red Skull by burying Overwatch before it'd stopped kicking.
Only for the Reaper to claw his way out of the grave. (And thank God Reyes hadn't been the one waiting with Sigma. They'd've been whupped for good.)
McCree had watched the entire series from beginning to end countless times with the rest of the team; then, by himself, as he traveled the globe. He could recall the entirety of it almost word for word; especially Captain America: The Winter Soldier. Lena had given him plenty of grief about looking like an old movie star; a lotta smart comments about being sure Sebastian Stan wasn't his dad. And no matter how many times he proved otherwise, she still kept bringing it back up.
He hoped to see her again. Someday. But for now, he had a job to do.
He may be able to remember perfectly what happened in this timeline when, but no one else could. And if something were to happen to him (probable), he'd be damned if he let all his hard work go to waste. So, he started writing.
Names, dates, places, chains of events. Anything and everything he could recall, organized in nice, handy, flowcharts. He knew there were gaps in his memory; gaps that the screenwriters had left in on purpose. He had no idea where the Soul Stone was, or who was ruling Wakanda (or if they were friendly to Caucasians), or if Hank Pym's wife could be saved from the Quantum Realm, he just didn't know. And he'd never gotten around to reading the comics that might've explained it; what downtime he had left between missions had been spent on Naruto and Pokemon with Genji. And after...well, after he hadn't had much down time at all.
He refused to guess at anything; bad things happened whenever he started guessing. Instead, he kept his mind as focused as he could on the "What?"s, and not the "What-if?"s.
Which was why he almost missed it when an orange, rectangular portal appeared in the back of the plane.
Good thing the copilot's chair was as far away from the back as it was; otherwise he never would've reacted in time to the soldiers that came through.
The first gave a little twist on a baton, and suddenly she was moving at sixteen times the speed of a normal human.
Good thing he wasn't normal by a long shot.
Funny story; on the last job he'd ever taken with the Deadlocks, there'd been an old padre living in the supposedly-abandoned mission they were robbing. Ashe had shot him without a single hint of remorse. McCree had immediately dropped what little loot he was hauling to try and stem the blood, and Ashe had given him an ultimatum: leave the padre to die, or stay and rot in jail.
He'd chosen the latter.
As the padre lay (as McCree thought) dying, he had blessed the young outlaw. To be sharp of mind; sure of eye; and quick of hand. McCree had simply said he didn't think he'd need much of any of that where he was going; the padre had simply smiled and replied that only God truly knew where he was going.
It evened out in the end. They locked him up; but the padre sprung him. Well, refused to press charges, but same difference. He'd taken the job with Blackwatch, and it wasn't long before he noticed the padre's blessing shining through in a few particular areas. He could still miss shots, true enough. But flashbangs never blinded him; battle never overwhelmed him; and when the cards were down and the players were drawing...he always managed to draw first.
Always.
Even when the players were moving at inhuman speeds.
It's high noon.
The first one went down with a .357 in the throat; the second, in the femoral artery just above the thigh armor. And the last got two; one in either shoulder. Five hundred miles per hour had nothing on fifteen hundred feet per second.
The last one must've been the one holding the portal open; it closed the minute his feet cleared the threshold. And the instant it did, time snapped back to normal speed.
Through it all, the Winter Soldier never moved from his place at the controls.
"Fat lotta help you were."
"Orders were received to pilot this plane to Malibu. No orders were given for the contingency of boarders."
"...Fair point. But couldn't you've at least hit the autopilot?"
"Negative. We are flying under radar; autopilot non-functional at this altitude."
"Always got a reason, don't ya pal?"
"I try."
He blinked. "...You know, I think that's the first time I've heard you use the word 'I' in a sentence. How long's it been since you were wiped?"
"Approximately seventy-four hours."
Crap. "...How long since you slept?"
"Approximately seventy-four hours."
"...Well that ain't good. Climb in the back there and catch some shuteye; we got a long way to go yet. I'll handle the controls."
"You are capable?"
"Capable? Yes. An expert? No. Got enough pilot friends; saw no reason to barge in on their territory. Now go on; to bed with you."
"Yes sir."
"Well," the Ancient One frowned as the green-tinted scene faded, "that was...informative. Still, no matter how capable he seems, I'd rather not stretch his luck. So far he's only managed to change the timeline for the better; until he chooses otherwise, perhaps I ought to do my best to keep the TVA off his back. The Timekeepers always were a snobbish lot."
The rest of the flight passed with no further incidents. Barnes woke after just four hours of sleep; only an hour out from their destination. McCree handed back over the controls, and then proceeded to lay out what amount of a plan he'd managed to cobble together.
"Are you sure you can't pilot an exosuit?"
Barnes shook his head. "Negative; the only exosuits known to be capable of flight are either deployed in Afghanistan or locked up in Fort Meade. And the weight imbalance of the prosthetic rendered me unsuitable for training."
"Oh; right. The arm. Damn. Welp, looks like its Plan B. Can you land this thing on the Pacific Coast Highway, and then get it flying again from the same spot?"
"Where would this spot be, exactly?"
He grinned, and pointed to a spot on the map. "Here. 10880 Malibu Point. Can you do it?"
Barned studied the marked section of road for a solid five seconds, and then nodded. "Affirmative."
"Good. So, here's what's happening. I'll parachute out over Stark Industries; make my way to Sector 16. Wait for Stane to show and boot up his suit, then kill him before he can get in it. Leave a note for Stark, pocket Stane's sonic disruptor, then make my escape through the back wall."
"Back door."
"No, back wall. I meant what I said. It's a hell of an exosuit. In the meantime, you get the plane refueled; by any means necessary. Grab enough to get us to D.C; I've got a few names to cross off on my list. Meet me at Malibu Point soon as you can, and then we'll be hightailing it back across the country."
"...I have a question."
"Fire away."
"Why did we not go to D.C first, and then to California?"
"Believe me pal, I wanted to. But we're gonna be cutting it close as is if we wanna avoid an Arc Reactor going critical in downtown L.A. I don't value my revenge that much above other people's safety."
Unlike some people.
"...Understood."
Frigga let out a sigh as her fingers finished their last run over the thread. To look into the future had always been more of a curse than a blessing. Ever since the day her mother had taught her how to use the Loom, she had known how it was she was going to die. Slain in battle by the Kursed, servant of Malekith. Perhaps not the end she would have wished for, but a worthy one nonetheless. But now, for the first time, other (and worthier) ends were presenting themselves.
She could not see the one responsible for the Norns' current uncertainty; it was as if they did not exist fully within the rules of this reality. Perhaps, were she in possession of one of the Infinity Stones, she could call them into view; but for now, she would take what she could get.
And the first step along that path was to finally tell her second-born son the truth of his heritage. All of it; including the fact that Thor himself was technically not the heir to the throne.
Oh, Odin would rage and curse; her husband had always been a stubborn man, slow to change. But she would make him. She had to.
They would all burn otherwise.
For once, everything went exactly to plan.
Stane never saw him coming; the man's neck snapped at the exact second his suit's eyes flared to life. It took thirteen seconds from the time Stane's body hit the floor for the SHIELD agents to breach the door; and thirteen seconds was more than plenty.
The note had been short and to the point: Overwatch sends their regards. Tell Stark we'll drop his suit by later. He wished he could've stayed longer, if only to see Coulson's jaw clench when he read it. He'd never liked that guy; either version, alive or resurrected. But he had more pressing concerns. Like learning how to fly the Iron-Monger suit by the seat of his pants.
He'd had experience with mechs before; Song had never forgiven him for what he'd done to her precious ride in that Junkertown gladiator match. Even Rienhardt had let him try on the armor once or twice…
Right, enough of that. Keeping the suit high enough in the air not to be seen or heard by any civilians below, while also staying low enough to avoid radar and scans, was walking a very thin tightrope. And his sense of balance was slightly off to begin with; compensating for a heavier left side did that to you.
He could see why HYDRA hadn't wanted their Soldier risking himself in a Falcon suit.
But in the end, he made it safely to Malibu Point, and let himself drop through the hole in the ceiling Stark had left from his last landing. The lab was still a mess; to be expected. Rhodey was gone; good. He'd've hated to explain things to a representative of the Air Force as well.
Getting out of the suit was considerably harder than getting in it; mostly because his arm got stuck in the thing. The human one, not the other one. Sweat made things grippy. He still managed it, eventually. He poured himself a glass of Jack Daniels (good stuff, they'd stopped making it back in the thirties), sat on the couch, and waited for the big man to arrive.
It didn't take long.
"I suppose I should be thanking you," said Stark, "Then again, you did steal my whiskey."
"I should think an Arc Reactor would be worth a fair bit more than a shot of Jack Daniels. But if it makes you feel better, I'll get you a new bottle."
"That's fair. So…" Stark clanked over and sat down across from him. "Who's Overwatch? Cause SHIELD's never heard of you, and they've heard of everybody."
"Not everybody. Not yet. But to answer your question...I suppose you could say we're freelancers, of a sort. Outcasts the world likes to forget about til they need us again."
"Alright, listen Eastwood, let's get one thing straight: I don't need anyone."
"Never said you did. If anything, you'd fit right in with the gang. But you got more ahead of you than any of us; so to make sure you live to see it, I thought I'd drop on by and leave you with a few pointers."
"In exchange for...what? Cause people don't just do things outta the kindness of their hearts; whaddyou want from me?"
McCree shrugged. "We'll see. Whatever you think might bear doing; for now, consider this a free handout."
"Yeah, not big on free handouts. My old man was a Republican."
"Ah, yeah. Your old man. Howard Stark; now there's a piece of work. Did you know, he was one of the founding members of SHIELD? Along with your Aunt Peggy?"
"...Well I do now. But why'd I need to know that in particular?"
"Cause SHIELD's got all sorts of problems that could come back to bite you in the ass; thought you might like to know why."
"Problems like what?"
"Ivan Vanko. Aldrich Killian. Hank Pym. Thaddeus Ross. Ulysses Klaue. The Tesseract. To name a few."
"Every single one of those sounds fake; cept for Ross. And any idiot with the internet coulda told you he's already a problem; so why should I believe anything you just said?"
"You shouldn't. We know you, Stark; and we know you hate trusting anyone but yourself. All I've done is give you a few names; what you do with or to them is your business. Dig away as much as you like; just make sure it's not in front of your own tombstone."
"...So that's it?"
"That's it. Oh, wait, hang on; few more things. First:" He took out his stack of notes and set them down on the coffee table. "If 2012 rolls around and we don't pop back up again, you might wanna take a look at these. Just in case. Also, the Stark Expo."
"You mean the crackpot idea my dad had that stopped being profitable oh, about thirty years ago?"
"That's the one. That palladium in your chest is gonna kill you, sooner or later. We weren't smart enough to figure it out, but we think your old man left the blueprints for its replacement somewhere in the Expo's layout. Maybe start thinking about what you're gonna name it; cause if there's one man alive who can find it, it's you. Aaaaand now that's it. I'm done. If you wouldn't mind, I gotta flight to catch."
"Yeah, sure; just hold on one sec;" Stark stood, and walked over where the Mark II was standing. "It's not I don't trust you, it's just...I don't trust you. But if there's one thing my dad taught me, it's to keep your friends rich and your enemies rich and wait to find out which is which. So…"
Stark ripped off the Mark II's faceplate, then held it out. "You'll have to figure out how to power it yourself, but that should be easy for you lot. Direct line to JARVIS, so I don't wanna hear anything about missing my calls."
"...Comprendo, mi amigo." McCree took the offered mask with a tip of the hat.
"Alright, John Wayne, no need for any of that. Just stay as far away from me as possible, and we'll get along just fine. Oh, and by the way, can I just say I'm a big fan of the big metal arm. Please tell me you've got something cool hidden in there."
He smiled. "I'll tell you this much: it certainly ain't no bottle of Jack Daniels. See you round, Stark."
"Not if I see you first, Holliday. Need a lift to the airport?"
A shudder went through the house as the scream of a jet engine whizzed by. "...I think my ride's a bit closer than that."
"Show-off."
"He really is. You'd hate him."
"If he annoys you, how bad can he be?"
Oh, wouldn't you like to know.
Stark's own faceplate finally flipped up. "You know, I just realized: I have tons of options to file your contact info under, but not the right one. What's your name?"
"Well, mostly, they call me…" he pulled out a cigar and lit it, "McCree."
"McCree." Stark humped. "The Scottish cyborg cowboy. There's such a thing as trying too hard, you know?"
"So I've been told, Stark." His spurs jangled as he began the trudge up the garage ramp. "So I've been told."
The sling ring portal vanished, leaving Kaecilius and Mordo both wondering just where it was the Ancient One had brought them.
"Master," said Mordo, "What exactly are we doing here?"
"Waiting, Mordo."
Kaecillius cleared his throat. "For what, Ancient One?"
A rectangular portal appeared mid-air, disgorging four well-armored individuals in its wake.
"For them."
It was then that Kaecilius noticed the flowing green rings surrounding the Ancient One's wrists.
A snap of her fingers...and the entire world froze. Including the soldiers.
"The Time Variance Authority." said the Ancient One as she strode towards them. "They tend to end up in California quite a lot; mostly the fault of the individual that owns this house. One Tony Stark; a most unpredictable individual. They rather don't like it when one questions their destiny. Unfortunately, that list has included Masters of the Mystic Arts in the past, including the great Agammotto himself. So every now and then, we send a little message back to the TVA...with a few fortunate side effects."
She traced a symbol on the helmet of one of the soldiers; a red, glowing, angry symbol. One that Kaecilius knew.
"Dormammu." said the Ancient One. "Ruler of the Dark Dimension; a land beyond time, space, and reality itself. Immortality is freely granted there...but only at great cost."
She continued on, tracing the same brand into the helmets of the remaining three. "Today's lesson, my students, is two fold. Why we should occasionally interfere in the affairs of the world around us...and why we should only very carefully interfere with the worlds beyond."
She brought her hands together, one now glowing the bright red of the symbol, and the other the same flowing green...and clapped.
A horrendous rift appeared in existence itself; and beyond it lay indescribable, beautiful, horror.
"To freely sacrifice to Dormammu is to channel some of his power back into oneself; usually accompanied with an increase in strength and longevity. But make no mistake; at the end of your life, if you choose to do this, you shall suffer the same fate as they have."
And with that, she pushed the first soldier through the rift.
Kaecilius and Mordo both gazed on in horror as the man was ripped from reality, reduced to nothing more than a vaguely bipedal monstrosity, gibbering screams of pure torment the entire way.
"And that," said the Ancient One, "Is what awaits for me, should I fall in the defense of this planet. I have made my choice, students; and I have lived with it. Whatever you choose to do here, these men will burn. But you can perhaps ease the suffering of the world with the time their ashes will grant you. We are who we choose to be; now choose."
And so they did.
There was hatred in the soldiers' screams; but also a note of sorrow. An intense, eternal, unending cry.
Mordo closed his eyes in respect. Kaecilius kept his wide open for the same reason.