Marvelous Mutations

The blazing Afghan sun scorched the vast, sandy expanse, casting shimmering waves of heat above the broken landscape. Amid the dust and desolation, a unique convergence was unfolding at the site of Tony Stark's last known location, an ambushed convoy reduced to burnt-out husks and scorched metal.

Three distinct forces had arrived on the scene.

First came the U.S. military, dominating the area with a fleet of armored vehicles and the rhythmic thrum of helicopter blades slicing through the air above. Dozens of soldiers poured out in formation, faces stern, rifles ready, their boots crunching over the cracked earth. At the forefront was a sleek line of ten muscular Labrador retrievers, each clad in reinforced vests, their expressions serious and alert. These were the military's finest, trained for war, sharp-nosed, and unrelenting.

Then came the FBI. Dressed in unmarked black tactical gear, they moved with silent precision. Each agent carried a metallic suitcase, sleek, high-tech devices gleaming in the sun. These were Hammer Industries' latest prototypes, designed to scan for trace biological signatures. They stood like scientists disguised as soldiers, letting machines do the searching.

And finally, with far less fanfare, came S.H.I.E.L.D.

Their arrival was... awkward.

A lone black SUV creaked to a stop, kicking up a small cloud of dust. Out stepped Agents Natasha Romanoff and Phil Coulson, looking sharp and composed, until the passenger door swung open and a plump husky stumbled out.

The dog flopped onto the sand with a thud, rolled onto his back, then lay there belly-up, squinting into the sun like a vacationer on the beach. The scene was surreal.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then a wave of laughter erupted from the soldiers and FBI agents.

"Is this a joke?"

"Did S.H.I.E.L.D bring a therapy dog?"

"Looks like he's about to order a margarita!"

Coulson's face twitched. Natasha's expression remained unreadable, but the faintest twinge of secondhand embarrassment flickered in her eyes. Doggo, meanwhile, blinked lazily and yawned, completely unbothered by the spectacle.

While the other teams launched into coordinated action, S.H.I.E.L.D stood frozen in place.

FBI agents calibrated scanners with practiced ease. Military dogs sniffed along the wreckage, their handlers issuing short, sharp commands. Everyone looked busy. Everyone looked competent.

Everyone except for S.H.I.E.L.D.

Coulson and Natasha stared at Doggo, who was now sprawled on his side, tail gently thumping against the warm sand. A snore escaped his muzzle.

Natasha sighed. Coulson groaned.

They were not search-and-rescue agents. They were spies, not trackers. Their current "asset" was a rotund husky with a reputation for destruction and napping.

Still, they had a job to do.

Coulson pulled a small object from his coat, a slightly worn wristwatch, still bearing a faint whiff of its former owner.

"Tony Stark wore this," he murmured and held it out to Doggo. "Come on, buddy. Do your thing."

Doggo opened one eye.

Then the other.

He glanced at the watch, sniffed once, and promptly rolled over again.

A long, thunderous snore filled the place.

Coulson and Natasha looked at each other in despair.

"This mutt is going to be the end of my career," Coulson muttered.

Without a word, Natasha turned on her heel and walked back to the SUV. A moment later, she returned with a peace offering, a chicken drumstick, perfectly roasted and still warm.

As if summoned by magic, Doggo shot upright. His nose twitched rapidly, like radar locking onto a target. In one smooth, practiced motion, he gobbled the drumstick whole and gave Natasha a look of heartfelt gratitude.

On the other side of the desert, all ten military Labradors simultaneously froze.

They stared across the sand at the husky.

At the chicken leg.

At their human handlers, who held only leashes and cold commands.

In that moment, a deep jealousy was born.

Doggo sniffed the watch again. Then, without warning, he scrambled up into the car, turned himself around twice, and plopped into the seat.

With great dignity, he raised his paw and pointed west.

Both agents blinked.

"He's giving us directions," Coulson said, deadpan.

"Of course he is," Natasha replied with a sigh.

...

Two hours later.

The SUV bounced along a narrow, rocky path, cutting through the desert like a lone shadow.

Before them lay a remote, sun-bleached village. From a distance, it looked weathered and forgotten, mudbrick walls crumbling, roofs patched with sheet metal.

But Coulson's trained eye quickly picked out the details others might miss. Guards moved in tight patrols. AK-47s glinted in the sun. Trucks mounted with machine guns sat behind barriers. It wasn't a village, it was a base.

A terrorist stronghold.

He lifted his binoculars and cursed softly. "Over a hundred armed hostiles. And that's just what I can see."

Natasha leaned against the car, arms crossed, eyes scanning the perimeter through her own scope. "Too many for the two of us."

"We should call for backup," Coulson suggested. "This is beyond what we can handle."

But Natasha didn't respond.

Her gaze had drifted to the back seat, where Doggo was staring out the window, tongue lolling, tail swaying rhythmically.

Coulson followed her eyes.

His heart sank.

"Oh no. You're not seriously thinking about that…"

But she was.

Doggo blinked at them. Then burped loudly.

…

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