3rd Person POV
The silence in the Helicarrier's briefing chamber was almost reverent—at least, it would've been, if not for the metallic thud of boots and a voice that cut through it like a blade laced with sarcasm and contempt.
"Wishbreaker?" Gerald's voice echoed against the polished metal walls, dripping venom. "You named me after a rejected anime villain."
"Accurate," Maria Hill muttered under her breath.
"I heard that!" Gerald snarled. "Do you realize how embarrassing that name is? Wishbreaker? What does that even mean? What am I breaking? Birthday candles? Shooting stars? Grandma's hopes and dreams?"
Fury didn't flinch. Arms folded, the eye patch unblinking, he stared across the table at the only man in the room whose threat file had more redacted lines than classified nuclear protocols.
Gerald paced like a panther trapped in a cage made of bureaucratic idiocy. "You had all the creativity in the multiverse, and you landed on Wishbreaker. What's next, Agent Friendship? Captain Destiny? The Edgelord of Tomorrow?"
"Sit down, Weston," Fury said coolly, voice graveled like thunder under pressure.
"No," Gerald snapped. "You don't get to drop that name on me like it's supposed to mean something epic. Like I'm a myth forged in cosmic fire. I break people, not wishes, Fury. WISHES."
"You broke the simulation," Fury growled. "You broke Mirror-G, a synthetic designed to mimic your every move. You broke protocol. You broke containment logic. You—"
"—broke my dignity, is what you did!" Gerald cut in. "I'm not a walking, angsty prophecy! I'm a genetically rewritten ex-blacksite asset with borderline PTSD and a god-complex you people encouraged! This name? This codename?" He jabbed a finger toward the digital dossier glowing on the screen. "It sounds like it belongs on a discontinued comic book from the 90s."
Fury raised an eyebrow. "You done?"
Gerald blinked. "No. I have bullet points."
"Gerald—"
"Wishbreaker implies I grant people hope, then cruelly shatter it. That's poetic nonsense. I don't break wishes. I break arms. Necks. Weaponized androids. Occasionally egos. If you're going to slap a label on me, make it something accurate. Something that doesn't sound like a teenage edgelord's gamer tag."
Nick Fury leaned forward, steepling his fingers.
"You think I gave you that codename because it sounded cool?" His voice dropped. "I gave it to you because every time someone sees you walk into a room, their wish to survive, to win, to control the situation—breaks. That's not drama, Weston. That's fact."
Gerald's mouth opened.
Then closed.
Then opened again.
"…Still sounds lame."
Fury sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Fine. What do you want then? Codename suggestions?"
"Yes. Preferably something that doesn't make me sound like I sparkle under moonlight."
"Alright, hit me."
Gerald didn't hesitate. "Mr. Prick."
The room stopped breathing.
Hill choked violently on her coffee, turning away as she coughed and spluttered into her sleeve. "I'm sorry—what?!"
"You heard me." Gerald stood tall, arms wide, utterly unapologetic. "Mr. Prick. Or did you forget I can summon an ungodly number of dicks with my first wish?"
There was a full five seconds of painful silence.
And then—
"YOU MOTHERFUCKER!" Fury exploded, shooting to his feet so violently that his chair flew backward and crashed into the wall with a deafening bang.
Gerald didn't flinch. If anything, his grin widened.
"What?" he said, pure faux-innocence dripping from his voice. "Mentioning my ability to summon dicks bringing back bad memories, Director?"
Fury's jaw tightened. His eye twitched violently.
Because he did remember.
His mind was dragged—kicking and screaming—back to that day. The first day. Gerald's evaluation. The interrogation room.
The first wish.
"My first wish," he began slowly, drawing out the moment for effect, "is the ability to summon any shape, size, or color of... well, let's just say, I can summon numerous dicks whenever I feel like it."
And Gerald, with zero hesitation.
One dick. Just one.
Summoned directly into Fury's ass.
Perfectly aimed.
Perfectly humiliating.
Maria Hill had been in the observation booth, mid-sip of her coffee when it happened. She'd spat it all over the two-way glass. For days after, she refused to discuss it. She still refused to discuss it. She'd buried the memory in a vault, chained it shut, and mentally yeeted it into the sun.
But now?
Now that vault was wide open again—and so was her mouth.
"Nope," Hill muttered, wheezing, "Nope nope nope— I'm gonna be sick."
Fury's hands trembled as he pulled a revolver from beneath the desk and leveled it at Gerald's forehead.
"Say one more thing," Fury hissed, "about dicks, and I swear to God I will end this with a classified execution order and a bottle of bourbon."
Gerald raised both hands in mock surrender, his voice calm but smug. "Director, I'm unarmed."
Fury's eye narrowed dangerously.
Gerald, unfazed, added, "Okay—correction. I'm always armed. But the point stands—I come in peace."
"You shoved peace up my ass."
"One time!" Gerald snapped, throwing his arms up. "One time! And you told me to demonstrate! Don't act like I just walked in and opened with rectal warfare. You gave me the greenlight, I just—"
He paused dramatically.
"—creatively interpreted the parameters."
Fury let out a strangled, guttural sound—somewhere between a growl and a death threat—and then slammed both fists down on the table.
"AAAAAGGHHH!!" he bellowed. Papers flew. Hill flinched. The lights flickered, as if the building itself was trying to recoil from the secondhand trauma.
"I am the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., not the goddamn mascot of a magical dick circus!" Fury roared.
Gerald blinked. "I do like the ring of that. Director of the Dick Circus. Classy. Bit noir."
"WESTON!"
Maria Hill had officially lost it. She slid her chair a solid three feet away from the desk and muttered, "I swear to God, if this ends with HR calling me in again to explain 'prick summoner' to the legal department, I'm throwing myself out the window."
Gerald turned to her, utterly serious. "Technically, it's not summoning. It's reality rewriting. I manifest phallic entities from pure mana. There's a difference."
Hill stared at him like he'd just explained calculus to a goat.
Fury pointed the revolver again.
"Nope." Gerald stepped back, hands up again. "No need for firearms. I'm just here to talk branding."
"You don't get branding," Fury snapped. "You get a containment cell and a psych eval!"
"But the fans will love me," Gerald said, absolutely delusional. "Imagine the merch. 'Mr. Prick™' body pillows, plushies, novelty hats. Hell, I'll go on TikTok. Do a dance with the theme song. You can't buy that kind of chaos marketing."
Hill blinked. "You want to go viral… with a dick-based combat gimmick?"
"Exactly," Gerald grinned. "Virality is the true battlefield."
"You're a war crime in sneakers," she muttered.
Fury pinched the bridge of his nose again, possibly considering self-defenestration. "If I hear the word prick one more time, I'm dropping you in a dark dimension and losing the map."
Gerald shrugged. "Fine, fine. I'll brainstorm other codenames. How about 'The Shaft'? No? 'Dongblade'? Still no? Ooh—what about 'The Fleshsmith'?"
Fury let out a noise that sounded like a dying engine.
Hill got up and left the room without another word.
"Where's she going?" Gerald asked.
"To reapply for a job at Stark Industries," Fury grumbled.
Gerald crossed his arms, suddenly thoughtful. "Okay. But seriously, if 'Wishbreaker' stays, I'm getting that name printed on condoms and mailing them to every member of the Avengers."
Fury reached for the bourbon.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The next few days were a blur of briefings, paperwork, and watching Fury's eye twitch every time Gerald made a joke. Gerald was no stranger to weird missions, but this one had a certain... flair to it. As much as Fury tried to avoid it, the fact remained: the man had talent. Unquestionable, terrifying talent.
But his charm—and by "charm," Gerald meant "shamelessness"—could only get him so far before S.H.I.E.L.D. needed to put him to work. So, on the morning of Day 3, he was called into the briefing room.
Fury was already seated, surrounded by a group of agents who were trying—poorly—to look like they weren't terrified of the guy who could conjure literal dicks with a wish. At the head of the table was a woman who Gerald hadn't yet met, a senior officer with long black hair and cold eyes that looked like they could bore through a brick wall. Her nameplate said "Agent Reynolds."
Gerald took a seat, drumming his fingers on the table. "So, what's the game plan, Fury? Another mutant uprising in the sewers? Alien shapeshifters running a car dealership? Or do I get to be the one-man army on a suicide mission?"
"Not quite," Fury said. "This is a covert op. Top priority. You're being assigned to a task force, Weston. You're going to be working with people."
Gerald grinned. "Ah, people. I've heard of those. Are they expendable?"
Fury sighed. "You'll be working with professionals. Which means you follow orders, you don't improvise, and you keep your damn wish powers in check."
Gerald's grin widened. "That sounds suspiciously like a challenge."
Agent Reynolds spoke up, her voice icy and direct. "We've got a situation in Prague. A group of mercenaries have been trafficking high-tech weaponry, and there's been chatter about a potential terrorist attack targeting U.S. assets overseas. We don't have all the details yet, but we've got a 48-hour window to strike. You'll be working with a tactical unit."
Gerald raised an eyebrow. "So you want me to babysit some mercs and a bomb? Just point me to the trouble. I'll handle it." He paused. "Unless you need me to wish for an army of clones to do it for me. That's always fun."
Agent Reynolds shot him a look that could've frozen an ocean. "No wishing. We need precision, Weston. No creative interpretations this time."
Gerald's face fell. "Fine. But it'll be boring."
"Your task force will be Agent Reynolds, myself, and a few more specialists. Expect backup in the field," Fury said, ignoring Gerald's pout. "The mission is simple: get in, neutralize the mercenary threat, and retrieve the stolen tech. If it turns out there's a larger conspiracy, we'll adjust."
Gerald leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers thoughtfully on the edge of the table. "So, I'm joining a squad of buttoned-up, 'by the book' S.H.I.E.L.D. agents to stop a group of mercs with weapons that are probably way cooler than anything you've got in your arsenal?"
Reynolds didn't flinch. "Yes."
Gerald smiled, half-amused, half-annoyed. "So, you trust me enough to keep me around, but not enough to let me use my powers. Got it. I see how it is. You think you can keep me contained with rules and procedure. Cute."
Fury shot him a dangerous look. "Don't get cocky. This mission is high-risk. We don't need chaos on top of it. Do your job, Weston, and we'll all get through this in one piece."
Gerald's smile turned into something more dangerous. "Yeah, yeah, I'll be a model agent. For now."
Reynolds handed him a folder with mission details. "We leave in two hours. Get your gear. We're meeting at Prague's drop zone."
Gerald took the folder and stood up, but before he left, he turned back to Fury. "You know," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm, "if you need a cool codename for me on the field, 'Mr. Prick' sounds like a perfect fit."
Fury didn't even look up as he said, "If you don't shut up, I'll send you to a blacksite in the middle of the ocean."
Gerald smirked. "See you in Prague, Director."
Two Hours Later...
Gerald found himself standing in the midst of a team of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, all equipped with the usual gear: high-tech weapons, tactical suits, and expressions that screamed we've seen some shit. Agent Reynolds stood at the head of the group, checking her equipment and giving out assignments. Gerald leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, watching them prepare.
"Alright, everyone, check your gear," Reynolds said, her voice cutting through the chatter. "This isn't a drill. We've got a target: Mercs in Prague, armed with stolen experimental weaponry. Intel suggests they've been hiding out in an old factory near the city center."
She looked at Gerald. "Weston, you're with me. Keep your head in the game."
Gerald smirked. "Don't worry, I'm as serious as a S.H.I.E.L.D. briefing can get." He shot a look at the agent next to him, who immediately shifted uncomfortably.
Reynolds gave him a long, hard look, her brow furrowing. "You're here because you're the best at what you do. Don't make me regret bringing you along."
Gerald straightened, all humor vanishing from his expression. "You won't. I work when I have to."
With that, the team moved out, heading to the drop zone. Gerald couldn't help but feel a little thrill. As much as he hated playing by the rules, there was something about the mission that sparked his interest. A challenge was always more exciting when there was a chance to break it.
The mission was about to get complicated—and dangerous.