Marvel's Strongest Mage

The car rolled steadily down the sun-scorched highway, a ribbon of asphalt slicing through the desolate New Mexico desert. Heat shimmered off the sands, painting wavering mirages in the distance, but inside the vehicle, the air conditioner buzzed on, ineffectively battling the relentless dry heat.

Donald lay sprawled in the back seat, motionless, eyes half-lidded, breath shallow. Not quite asleep, not fully awake. He looked less like a man and more like a discarded shell—empty, used up, barely present.

Jane Foster's hands gripped the wheel as she drove, her knuckles pale. She glanced in the rearview mirror again. Donald hadn't spoken a full sentence since they'd left New York. His silence wasn't new—he was never exactly talkative—but this silence was deeper, heavier. Like a storm brooding behind his eyes.

But was Donald—no, was Thor—truly mourning Odin's death?

Perhaps a little. But Jane couldn't know the truth.

The truth was, Thor wasn't some grieving son crushed under the weight of loss. Not entirely. He was skeptical—deeply so. He didn't trust Loki's words. Who would? Loki was the trickster, the God of Lies, a silver-tongued master of misdirection. Thor wasn't naive.

Still, something about the conversation nagged at him. Not the part about Odin's supposed death, but the way Loki said it. There were holes in the story, subtle contradictions—enough to make him suspect that Odin might be alive, albeit gravely weakened.

Thor knew his father. If Odin had truly perished, the heavens would have screamed. The wind would have mourned. The Allfather's death was not something that would pass quietly.

But even more than that… Frigga still lived.

And Frigga—Queen of Asgard, sorceress, mother—was far more formidable than most realized. She wasn't just a figurehead draped in royal robes. She commanded Asgard's long-disbanded magical legion, and if she chose to rally them again, not even Loki could withstand their wrath. The kingdom wouldn't fall to chaos so long as she stood.

That single fact grounded Thor.

Yes, Loki may have claimed the throne. Yes, Heimdall was silent and the Rainbow Bridge remained closed. But the world wasn't lost yet. Frigga would hold Asgard together. She always had.

So Thor waited, watched, and said nothing. He knew Loki might still be watching—might even be listening.

Jane, unaware of the divine war simmering beneath the surface of her companion's mind, drove in silence. She didn't remember what happened on the Manhattan Bridge. Didn't know that Thor had spoken to Loki—didn't know that mere words had nearly sparked a war between gods.

But SHIELD knew something had happened.

Iron Man, SHIELD surveillance drones, and field agents all picked up the strange energy surge on the bridge. They didn't hear the conversation, but they'd seen the anomaly. And they'd wisely stayed their hands, sensing the potential for destruction if they'd intervened.

Now, with Thor disguised once more as Donald and seemingly docile, their gamble had paid off.

Eventually, after an uneventful journey, Jane veered off the main highway and entered the sleepy town of Kassam. Rather than head directly to the desert base, she pulled into a quiet driveway and parked outside a small residence.

They needed rest.

Even gods grew weary, and Jane was only human.

As morning broke, the smell of eggs and coffee filled the small home. Jane set a plate down in front of Donald, who still looked lost in another world.

"Before we head to the base, I need to tell you something," she began seriously. "Two weeks ago, something fell from the sky—crashed in the desert, about 60 miles from here."

Donald blinked slowly, still groggy. "What was it?"

Jane stirred her coffee. "A hammer. A very large one."

Donald straightened.

"And based on everything we've found," she continued, "my team believes it's… well, your hammer. Thor's Hammer."

There was silence for a moment. Then Donald muttered, "Two weeks ago...?"

Jane nodded. "Same day as what happened in Norway."

Donald's brow furrowed deeply. He knew for a fact that his hammer—Mjolnir—was in his possession now. So how… how could another version have fallen in New Mexico?

Jane didn't seem to notice his confusion. "At first, we weren't sure. But then Loki showed up. Tried to steal it. Nearly succeeded too. But one of our colleagues fought him off—and then, well… he picked up the hammer."

Donald looked up sharply. "What do you mean he picked it up?"

"I mean he used it," she said plainly, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

Donald put his utensils down.

"Loki wielded it briefly," she added. "But this man—our guy—used it better. Like it belonged to him. That's when we knew something was off."

Donald stood, pacing now. "This doesn't make sense. The real Mjolnir—the true hammer—responds only to me."

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he seemed to realize something. "Unless... it's not a fake, but an unfinished version."

Jane blinked, confused. "Come again?"

"I'll explain when we're there," Donald said cryptically, tapping his temple. "Some memories are still unlocking."

Jane was unnerved. There was something different about him now. Something… colder. But she said nothing. Maybe she didn't want to see what was already becoming obvious.

They packed up and drove to the SHIELD desert base shortly after. By the time they arrived, Phil Coulson and Tony Stark were waiting just outside the chain-link gates. Tony, unarmored but ever-arrogant, waved them in with a smirk.

Introductions were brief. Small talk, even briefer.

Coulson led Donald through the facility while keeping a sharp eye on their surroundings. He wasn't focused on Donald—he was scanning for Loki. Thor noticed.

But Loki wasn't here. Not yet. Thor could sense it. He was back in Asgard now, consolidating power while the Rainbow Bridge remained out of Thor's reach.

They reached a small concrete bunker at the center of the base. Coulson paused, relaxing just slightly.

"Mr. Blake," he said, "we've arrived—"

A sudden rush of wind cut him off.

In a blur, Donald reached forward—and in his hand was a hammer. The hammer. The replica.

The "fake" Mjolnir.

Coulson turned, eyes wide.

From the bunker, another figure emerged. Daniel dressed in a SHIELD tactical uniform, strode forward, face unreadable.

"That hammer," Daniel said slowly, "belongs to you?"

Donald turned toward him. "Not exactly."

With a flick of his wrist, he changed.

Gone was Donald's mortal shell.

In his place stood Thor, clad in silver Asgardian plate, crimson cape billowing in the desert wind. Lightning sparked around his form. In one hand, he held the familiar Mjolnir. And in the other...

The replica.

"This isn't a fake," Thor said, his voice thundering with divine resonance. "It's an unfinished version."

He held both hammers out, side by side. "Look closely. There are differences, yes. Small ones. Detail. Balance. Spirit. Mjolnir is the original—alive with soul, forged by dwarven hands in the heart of a dying star. This one—" he nodded at the replica, "—has no soul. No voice."

With another motion, he flung the replica back toward Daniel. The weapon trembled in the air before settling in Daniel's palm.

"Still," Thor said with a faint smile, "it's not useless. It has potential. And I grant it to you."

Daniel looked down at the weight in his hand. His jaw clenched.

"From this moment," Thor declared, "this hammer is yours. Use it wisely. And when the time comes… may it answer your call."

Lightning crackled in the sky above.

And thus, the unfinished hammer found a bearer.

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