She tumbles to the ground. A quick tinge in her spine as she rolls to her feet again, slicing the Chitauri warrior across the stomach. Her blade fully absorbs the force of another blast as she separates another head from another body. Bang! The butt of the sword drives into her had, it makes her spin for a few seconds. Spitting out blood, fingers lock around her throat. It takes the full force of her throwing her body forward to break it, then gouge, gouge and there's blood and gore as she rips an eyeball out, ending his life with a clean slit of the throat.
Elenora, Elenora. She hears her father clapping slowly. Brushing her red hair from her face, she turns to face him, kneeling to the ground. Ten years have not tempered his thirst for blood.
"Well done my child," Thanos says calmly. "You have been studying."
With the metallic scent of blood hanging around her, she does not know what to say. What to do. It feels suffocating. And it is. But there is no pain attacking her now, no pang of conscience that she has not endured before.
"Yes Father."
"Your footwork must be tightened upon," he remarks. "I will have the Maw make a note of it for your lessons tomorrow." A tear rolls down her cheek. "Look at me Elenora." She moves to wipe her eyes but he raises a finger. "Let me see your eyes."
It was just one tear but as soon as she lifts her eyes, she knows it is more than enough.
"You have been crying."
"Father . . ."
"Does this . . . upset you?"
"How can you ask me that?" she whispers. "I train every day. Give everything for you every day. My time, my future, my life - what more do you want from me?!"
"Life can often turn out differently to how we want it to Elenora," Thanos says without flinching. "Soon you will see that the skills I am teaching you can only enhance your wellbeing. Elenora . . . I have a task for you. A way for you to . . . understand . . ." She hears his footsteps as he ascends from that disgusting throne, down to her level. Kneeling before her, calloused hands grip her chin to meet her green eyes with the steady coolness of his blue orbs.
"You belong to me," he warns. "Your heart. Your body. Your soul. You're young. Passionate. But I will not tolerate this kind of weakness in you. I have a vision. A destiny. One that I would have you share with me . . ."
"I want no part of your destiny!" she snaps. "I hate you! I hate this cesspit of a life you've given me!"
"Perhaps you require another session in the Tube," he murmurs.
"No . . ."
"I think it will calm you down enough for you to see sense."
"No!" Her fist misses him entirely as the Maw uses his telekenesis to drag the screaming teenager from the ground. Her nails chip. And her throat is raw from screaming. Blood sticks to her eye lids. And the last thing she remembers is how the bastard stood there. Just watching. As if the greatest disappointment he could ever have been granted was her.

THE SPECTRE

"This had better be important Spectre."
The hologram holds steady. Lucky with the storm. "If Lord Thanos does not want the gauntlet after all, then I suppose it's nothing . . ."
"Do not try your tongue with me," Ebony Maw replies.
"You think that there are only six stones," the Spectre growls. "Six entities. But I've found proof that it's not that simple. The temple on Iesthesis led me to some very ancient manuscripts."
The Maw sounds impatient. "Spare me your archaelogical nonsense. What did you find?"
"The six stones are like a fuel source for the gauntlet," he continues. "They power it. Work in harmony together. But for that to happen is like an afront to nature. It needs a stabilising agent to make the process work or the gaunlet would just blow up."
Silence before Ebony Maw speaks again and this time, the Spectre knows he holds his attention.
"I assume you have this stabilising agent?"
"I did not contact you for you to whine at me Maw. I'm on the verge of solving a problem you could not crack in a hundred years. I'll have the agent. I just need more time."
"You'd better. I don't need to tell you what happens if . . ." The Spectre ends the transmission.
Leaning against the pillar of the temple for support, the dark cloak is drawn back to reveal a pale face. Sharp cheekbones. Cruel eyes though occasionally they may soften. Always a crinkle in his mouth from where he has been thinking. He'll have to act fast if he is correct. If this stabilising agent is not an item he can possess. Every document he reads points to the same mystery. This agent is not a thing. It's . . . a person. But that would be impossible. Right?