Death has lost sight of her Master. It thoroughly pissed her off, and left her without a clue. Death's nothing but a moody, lingering entity bored out of her mind until Nick Fury decides to crash into her modern lifestyle. Can Death find the one she has been seeking before she gets way in over her head? Who are these Avengers stopping her? What is Fury hiding?

Chapter One: Death is Delaneur

There are two indisputable principles that are constant throughout the multiverse, effecting everything that exists; two principles that many use as a distinction between black and white. The good and the bad. The angel and the demon. It's the facts, cold and honest, that weave such intricate patterns regarding these truths and these lies. Eventually, one will become the other; a cycle that the symbols Ying and Yang capture in the purest sense. Nothing truly dies, nor does it last in its fruition everlasting. It's something that philosophers and the religiously-involved contemplate or preach... but it is something never to be truly understood by the world at its core. They―these debaters of the realms at large―themselves can't clearly put such ideas to work, for they are almost (but not completely) clueless on the meanings.

Truly, it takes something or someone that is already nothing but an existing force to know. Humans call it an enlightenment to have answers to such questions. Others, universal inspiration. Or a dream for a miracle; a hope. Yet if there was an individual to think about it, racing thoughts shall scream out opposite opinions. It is a burden to know. A heavy reminder to that neither the highest climax of the living nor the ultimate low of the nonliving can be granted to them. A perpetual state of repetition, rebirth, and overseeing. Patience is quickly obtained from this painful truth, as is a unique personality that comes with becoming dispassionate, despondent, and jaded by the things seen.

A being such as that, a someone that has been existing since there was a singular idea for the word, place, and state of nothing, is perpetually trapped within the ideology and illusion of a confined mirrored room. This room is likened to the very fabric of nothing, for it neither contains something within nor does it allow anything to escape. The space has no set size, no ideal length or width. It merely exists as the being exists. Simply there.

This being, trapped within such an encasing boundary, is just an idea. The idea that there is in fact an end, some form of completion; be it the completion of one's entire living cycle or simply the first step in ascension to the next plane of whatever there is beyond those that simply live. Human cultures have different looks upon the idea. The Europeans, during the Dark Ages, saw it as a desolate sign of doom and damnation. It held in its dried and cracked grasp a farmer's tool, to harvest the metaphorical 'wheat' of their hearts, the soul. The Egyptians saw it as more than one idea, but actually three: A scale in which their life is weighed, a dog to record the proceedings, and a beast to eat such life if deemed unsavory in the world beyond. Those of Rome and Greece viewed that idea as a devious man who was as cold yet as hot as the pains before the end, ruling over those within his underworld caves.

So many ideas form and linger, some lost to the passages of time, but all amounting to its constant existence. This idea, this fact, this persona, this entity became glorified in colors staining its very being. Dyed bones. Tainted by the influences of the multiverse as a singular voice. Unending downpours comprised of paint, all in the end muddling together to create a dull shine out of the mucked gold luster that already forged it. Draped in a ragged cloak of blackened shadows, of the nothing it continued existing in.

But, that is only a single reflection within a mirror on the floor of the confined mirrored room, where such glorification resided of this thing. The floor was who it was, that knowledge better seen as a haunting reminder. Four other mirrors show something, reflect a view of someone or someones. A collection of corpses that lay cold clutching at what air there was, once grasping their possessions, as one young man stood shadowed. Three men with their backs turned, one clad in metal, one bearing a bow, another a shield; silent silhouettes lingered behind them. Two Gods that stood with their profiles displayed, staring at one another with clashing eyes. Two women and a dark-skinned man, dressed in black and eyes closed solemnly; blood flowed sluggishly about their legs and kept rising. The ceiling was in contrast, a reflecting mirror showing nothing but black, with a single menacing form standing stolidly facing forward. Hide skin, twisted gold armor, eyes like the entity's very own yet holding no compassion for suffering. An unconditional love that doomed all yet coveted it.

Thus was the figurative living hell for the one named Death.

An alarm went off at six o'clock in the morning. A beaten, wooden bed frame creaked loudly as someone shifted. On the stained box-spring mattress, someone emerged from beneath. Discolored smoke-incensed sheets tracing the contours of an exceedingly tall form were pulled back. The mattress screamed out its desperate plea for death. A thin yet towering woman groaned deeply as the irritating beeping of the alarm rang in her ears. She sat up groggily, the sheets shoved further away. An extra large T-shirt hung off her skinny frame, a cartoon image of a round black bomb with a short fuse displayed on the front. The shirt itself was a patchy grey, little spots of ash smearing the short sleeves. Very pale skin contrasted with the colors, and a head of very long but completely black hair cascaded down the woman's back. The bangs were straight cut, long lashes framing haunting charcoal eyes. Black ink tattoos ran from the tips of her fingers up to the sleeves, disappearing beneath the fabric. They were patterns carefully mapped out, congealing together to create a depiction of dyed black bones. On the inside of her wrist, at the very base, was a triangle. A circle rotated inside, cut in half by a single straight line.

The woman's piano-fingers curled to form a fist, and with a swift downward punch she smashed the snooze button. A huff of relief escaped her. The same hand relaxed, dancing around the flat surface that bedside table blindly for a pack of plain Red & White's. The woman slipped out of bed upon wrapping her thin digits around the double pack of cheap cigarettes she sought, pulling on a pair of workmen's jeans piled on the floor. They were left unbuttoned and zipped open, showing off a bit of her ghostly underbelly and a large portion of her tacky, faded, rainbow-striped underwear. She maneuvered through her room, dodging wrinkled mountains of clothes, crushed Red & White boxes, plastic cups filled with ash, and a number of differentiating blown glass pipes for smoking more entertaining substances.

Heading out the doorway into the more organized living area, the woman mentally noted that it was high-time to clean up all that trash cluttering her bedroom. "Bloody need to get on that," she muttered. Her accent was very Cockney.

The very tall, thin yet mildly depressing woman was Death.

In the past eighty years or so, life was getting to be a bit much for her; not that she was alive in any possible fashion. Some seriously bad personal shit had happened, hitting her plenty hard. Then, following that, the emergence of 'superheroes' happened. That didn't surprise her, since she'd been around from the very, very beginning and seen her fair share. But, what really did surprise her was the crazy U.S. super-secret agency division thing that seemed to be always watching her like a hawk. Death wasn't at all pleased with that, and she made it her personal mission to mess with them in any way possible while still being a complete and utter confounding mystery. There was a good reason for wizards and witches to fear her back in Britain, and damn did she know how to!

Otherwise, Death was living a lifestyle she was content with: Owning a dead-alley warehouse from WWI that was in actuality a big dubstep-house-rap-techno club with more than enough booze and gun smugglers working out the back. Her 'apartment' (She was used to calling them flats because of a certain unmentionable individual) was where she 'lived' on and off, with her closet filled with outrageous outfits and black-market guns; her guest bedroom was converted into a storage room for her computers and electronics. Death simply lived the grimy, underground lifestyle that seemed so very dark and also highly attuned to the very acts of 'death' at its finest. She didn't walk around in her 'natural' form anymore, not since the 18th Century in London. Plus, all those damn Wizarding Wars literally threw her off-course, so there was little reason to parade around as one of the most feared beings existing. Nowadays, perhaps out of either frustration or a lack of personal interest, the deity left it to her vast armies of carrion birds to do her dirty work... and the shadows to tend to the souls newly deceased.

Death made it to her kitchen, tearing off the plastic packaging from her Red & White double pack and snatching one up. She made a grab at her Hawaiian-patterned bar lighter, easily flicking it with her thumb and holding the white butt of the smoker to the raging little flame. Clicking it off, Death took a few healthy drags of smoke, breathing out the exhaust and watching as it twisted and warped around in the oxygen-filled air. Lord, did she enjoy smoking. As one person had pointed out over the course of her infinitely long existence, the corporeal personification of Death didn't suffer like humans did from a smoking habit. Yes, Death did feel the bite of addiction, but she didn't have black lungs. Hell, she didn't even have organs, contradictory to contrary belief. The strange warming heat it provided to her bones was welcomed, since there wasn't much to feel when you're something that's even older than the very Earth itself. It gave her a semblance of peace, something that made her feel like she actually was one of the living mortals. A small comfort in a very long existence.

Banging around her kitchen with a cigarette hanging from her faintly pink lips, Death attempted to cook up some commercial-grade bacon with some low-grade eggs. Her pots and pans were not as bad a quality as the food she cooked in them, and not fifteen minutes later Death was sitting at the kitchen counter on a tippy barstool with a plate of bacon and scrambled eggs. She was still smoking, trying make the cheap cigarette last longer and be worth at least half the money it was; the leaves used were of better quality than the bottom-dregs tobacco in Camels, which they offer at her local corner store. God's boney thumbs, those things just tasted bad. Horrible tobacco leaves, and not to mention worst aftertaste known. Not that smoking tobacco even had a very good aftertaste, but at least her Red & Whites didn't leave that much of one. Bits of ash fell on her Habanero-sauced scrambled eggs, looking like dusted pepper seasoning. Death paused in her pointless process of eating, staring at the pinches of offending biproduct blankly, then shrugging her shoulders and shoveling the sustenance into her awaiting maw. It wasn't like that could kill her. She didn't have to eat food; it was just grossly entertaining to do so.

An hour later, her iPhone started ringing on her bedside table as she sluggishly changed for the day. Death growled, pausing in her process of stripping and snatching up the phone that was playing the song everybody nowadays associate with the term "Rick Roll'd."

"We are no strangers to love . . . You know the rules, and so do I . . . !-"

"What the hell is it now, Hendricks? If you just called because you got off with that damn peroxide princess whore hanging around by my warehouse, I'm bloody hanging up right the hell now."

"Jesus, Delaneur, don't get those teeny panties of yours in a twist! I'm callin' ya because a new shipment came in and already we got about twenty buyers for dem' all. Johnny was tellin' me not to sweat it, and that'd he'd handle the deals, but I was bein' cautious and thought to give ya' a ring," he quickly spoke. He was somewhere in his late twenties, if she remembered correctly.

Death sighed heavily. Since she couldn't go around calling herself Death like she did back in the Dark Ages, or like she did when Sherlock Holmes novels were all the rage. Death had to actually be creative and make up some type of mortal name for herself. Sure, in the beginning they were a bit… stereotypical, but after a while, she honestly got bored and started picking them out of a hat. This time around, the immortal persona was named Delaneur, which was a butchered spelling of the French version of the name Delaney. She had a thing for names starting with D, she honestly couldn't help it.

"Well, I guess I should be thankful that you are careful, Hendricks. For a former drug-smuggling bloke, you are quite talented at dealing in guns."

"Damn, you flirt with me too much, Dane-Lane. But thanks, I'll take the complement in stride."

"Anytime, Hendricks."

"See ya at 8Bits."

"Bye." Death hung up, slumping her shoulders and taking another sharp drag. The smoke slipped from her nostrils.

"By God, I need a better bunch of smugglers," mumbled Death, not really putting herself in her words. Somehow she liked her lifestyle's complications. Being poor and depraved was so much more entertaining than being some rich prick.

Delaneur went back to her dressing, slipping out of the grimy bomb shirt and freeing herself of the dirty, rainbow-striped undergarments that clad her too-pale frame. In their place was another set of rainbow undergarments, except they were newer and all in bright neon hues. Little bits of black lace bordered the trim, making her look strangely seductive with the way those sharp colors clashed with her abyssal black hair. A pair of snagged grey skinny jeans were put on, with sewn-on patches of checkered cloth to fix the holes formerly there. Then another shirt was yanked on, black with a large terminator skull promptly on the front, with the words NO FATE dripping red like the robot's red eyes. A pentangle was lazily drawn off to the side of its head, adding a very supernatural effect to it. Death buckled up her pants, a stud belt on with a car seat buckle holding them up. A jacket with a deep hood was shrugged on, made to look like one of those silly skeleton Halloween costumes little kids would wear. Death's black nails held her cigarette as she looked at herself in the mirror, nodding approvingly. Damn did she look dumb... like a dropout Scene kid or something. Perfect.

With that, Death grabbed a backpack and ran out the door, cigarette smoke trailing behind her.

"I'm here at the back, Hendricks."

"Alrighty, Dane-Lane. I'll buzz ya' in."

BIIIIIIIUUUUUUZZZZZZZZ…

"Thanks. I will be up shortly. Tell Johnny to call Jackie and Beck in for gun checks. Don't need this shit to go south on poor old John while putting my club in jeopardy."

Hanging up, Death strolled through the brick-based warehouse, climbing the steel stairs leading up to the VP lounge. Most of the big gun deals were conducted there. Technically, Death wasn't actually affiliated with anyone on a gun-dealing basis. It was Johnny, or Johnny T. Reaves. The man was a gangster if she ever saw one, who knew plenty of people and was wanted by just as many. The bloke was a master when it came to guns dealing with modern warfare, being a former army man himself way back when he was in his twenties. Now he was in his late forties, still playing hard and dealing dirty. Hendricks, the late twenties ex-drug dealer, was a weasel among weasels and had a talent for taking shipments of whatever you wanted over more than one border and ocean. If Johnny knew people, Hendricks knew everyone on the entire planet. He and Johnny simply used her place as a hang out, and only involved Death (or should she say Delaneur?) because it was her club they were using… Not that a few extra guns being kept as blackmail didn't hurt to influence their choices. Death by definition was a tricky individual, and had her fair share of complex riddles up her sleeves.

Walking in through one of the many doors overlooking the entirety of the warehouse, Death was greeted by the sight of both mortal men. With a single glance, she could see everything about them that could cause their very demise. Johnny was a sex addict, had a thing for weed, and had even more of a thing for overdosing on his special painkiller prescribed by his not-so-honest doctor. He'd probably find his end by a combination of drugs and weed, or by one of his own smuggled guns when he ripped off another Russian extremist. Hendricks was simply Hendricks. Everyone was out for him, and he was ingesting unhealthy amounts of meth per day. It was a miracle the weasel hadn't even died yet, but Delaneur thought her shadows were catching up with him. Those dark charcoal eyes saw the lives of everyone's future, up to the very end. Nothing could be hidden from her... Just as nobody could hide from Death, besides its Master.

She winced at the very thought. Lord, if Delaneur even lingered on that line of thought, she'd go to some unsavory places in her memory. Mentally shaking it off, she sat herself down on one of the posh leather couches she had in the lounge.

"So," she started, "Am I just to observe these proceedings, or do I actually have to help with the deals? Because you arse-heads probably forgot I don't do deals."

Johnny smirked, "Course not, baby. You just gotta make sure it all goes smoothly. After all, this is your place."

Delaneur grunted like an overworked car engine. "Damn night, you foolish leaf-chucker. If it at all gets tar-tracked into my establishment, I'm handing you over to those Secret Service blokes. I like my club and care more for it than both of your existences."

The two shifted nervously, feeling the haunting edge to her voice that seemed far beyond a well-meant warning. More like a promise to end them. And that didn't sit well with the two men.

They quickly shrugged it off though, taking twitchy swigs from whisky glasses and motioning to a pair of their lackeys to retrieve the goods. Moments later they came back, followed by two very drab-looking women. They were Jackie and Beck Green. Those sisters were usually the reason half the guns were even sold. The pair were always buying them and selling them off for higher prices than what they were worth, giving half their take to Johnny and Hendricks. Death felt something stir in her bones at the sight of them, and not something all that good.

"Hey Dane-Lane, watching the proceedings?" asked Jackie.

"Yeah, got any smokes?" questioned Beck.

Death rolled her eyes as she crossed her legs, showing off her studded sandal feet. She was on her third cigarette of the day, and wasn't about to hand out freebies to those cruel women. Slutty whores, those two, thought Death. The pale-skinned being growled low watching as the spineless sisters swiftly backed away, hands up in surrender.

"Alright, alright! Don't get all touchy," spoke Beck, backpedalling to the couch Johnny sat at. They took up either side of him, already working their charms on the man while whispering breathily in his ears.

Again, another eye roll was extracted from Death. When did humanity become so degraded? She missed the days when honor actually meant something, and women actually had pride. Now nobody had anything but materialistic valuables and pointless lives sitting in front of computer screens. Or a chair in front of a television. At least the party animals that frequented her club tried to live an active life. These ridiculous crooks weren't even classy like Al Capone or the mobs back when people smuggled alcohol to live the high life instead of guns and drugs. And damn did Death get along with Al Capone in those days! That criminal had style…

Delaneur's attention was drawn back to the deal at hand, watching as the two nameless lackeys unbuckled the reinforced cases and threw back to lids.

Then Death froze, shocked stiff. A curse slipped from her painted red lips, "Fuck."

Johnny looked up. "What?"

The being's pale face contorted with anger as she stared at the newly acquired weapons. "FUCK!" she yelled, jumping from her seat and briskly walking back and forth with her cigarette between stained, ashen fingers. The smoke whirled around her chaotically as she moved.

"What's got you wound up all the sudden? There's nothin' in that case that ain't clean," complained Hendricks.

Death snapped her head in his direction, "Clean? CLEAN?! You think those goddamn things there are clean?! Do you even know what the fuck those bloody weapons are? Because I can tell you right now that you are fucking mental if you think they are clean!"

"Oh, pleeeze. Dane-Lane, they're collector's grade. Nobody's gonna be out for 'em. Those things just look like bad news," drawled Jackie.

Delaneur couldn't believe the nerve of these dumb arses as she looked straight at the offending artillery. About seventy years ago, when the Second World War was raging and the fatality rate kept her and the helpers quite busy, Death had the pleasure of familiarizing herself with the weapons they used. H.Y.D.R.A. was one of the more creative divisions of the Nazi Party when it came to weapons manufacture. The guns were charged with something unlike anything Death had seen, and when hit with a single shot of the charged ray it expelled, the human body would disintegrate and leave nothing; not even a trace of the human soul. And before her, set snugly in foam beds, were twenty of them with the well-known insignia of the former Nazi science division. Those super-secret government agents were bound to come bite her sorry arse upon busting this deal.

"Get this complete and utter rubbish out of this establishment. Get. It. OUT."

"Why should we?" Challenged Johnny. Foolish arse.

"Because you are all incompetent, sorry excuses for criminals. Now take your crap and leave this club. I do not want to ever see you walk in here again."

"Like Hell, Dane-Lane! You're in just as deep as us, you can't just kick us out!" Cried Hendricks.

"Damn motherfucking right I can! Get the fuck out!" Death bellowed.

But it was a moment too soon, as downstairs in the club, the front doors were busted open and a flood of armored men stormed in. The back entrance could also be heard crashing against the wall as men barked out orders. The four chicken-shits for crooks looked around wildly, the sisters screaming out hysterically.

Death felt calm amongst the chaos, maybe dispassionate. A feeling annoyance burned in her at the fact she'd have to give up her business with warehouse clubbing and move on to yet another profession. And she liked the current job so much…

"See what you have done?" She spoke quietly as they all tried to speak over one another in their panic. With one last drag of her third Red & White cigarette, Delaneur threw it down just as the soldiers came rushing in. She vanished with the plumes of tobacco smoke, backpack clutched in her right hand.

Nick Fury was a very resourceful man. He liked having options, and he liked knowing them. Fury was also an extremely paranoid man, being someone in charge of one of the most secretive organizations that exist on the planet, not counting British Intelligence. He used his wide selection of options to keep track of possible threats and pending discoveries, making sure nothing jeopardizes the safety of the world nations.

But there were days when something would pop up on his ever-watching radar, something that usually warranted his full attention. One of those days happened about five years ago, in fact, in the month of July. She showed up out of nowhere in the middle of the San Francisco Airport, dressed in punk-rock clothes with charcoal eyes that were like the deepest pits of hell. Literally appeared out of thin air on CCTV camera. That had immediately gotten his attention, and since then he'd been trying to track her movements for years. Somehow she always left without a trace, leaving nothing but a cloud of smoke in her wake and a heap of trouble.

And now she was reported to have escaped the scene of a gun deal with relic H.Y.D.R.A weapons. Nick Fury wasn't at all amused.