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The corner of Anthony's mouth twitched.
"Letter."
"However, Miss Queen."
Anthony leaned close to Jessica and whispered in her ear.
"It's too noisy here… come to my room tonight and inspect it slowly."
"Get lost!!"
Jessica felt her brain short-circuiting.
Gnashing her teeth, she spun around to hide her embarrassment and roared at the Terrorists below:
"What are you looking at?! All of you—drop dead!!"
Boom—!
She turned into a streak of violet light, venting every ounce of her shame and rage on those unlucky wretches… Washington, Triskelion Building.
Alexander Pierce stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, the hand holding his whisky trembling slightly.
The "authority" he'd prided himself on was collapsing.
In his day, controlling public opinion had been simple: place a call to the editor of the New York Times or have a few Senators deliver a stern statement on the evening news, and black would become white.
But the World had changed.
Dozens of channels and countless real-time social-media feeds crashed down like a multicolored avalanche.
The faces on the screens were no longer stiff news anchors but countless youngsters filming on phones in their bedrooms.
On YouTube, a video titled "S.H.I.E.L.D. vs. Vought: Who's Lying?" racked up 120 million views in three hours.
In it, a green-haired vlogger spliced Pierce's earlier press conference accusing Captain America with Steve's World War II documentary footage, adding goofy music and frantic memes.
"Captain HYDRA? Come on, is the old man senile? Steve Rogers was punching Hitler while Pierce was still in diapers!"
The comment section below was a bloodbath:
"#DisbandSHIELD# They spend taxpayers' money and slander our hero?"
"Vought is forever god-tier! Look what Homelander's doing—saving people worldwide! And S.H.I.E.L.D.? Playing office politics in Washington!"
"My Grandpa's a World War II vet; he wanted to smash the TV. Screw you, Pierce!"
And it got worse.
Vought-owned The Daily Bugle ran no editorial—just a few "blurry" yet suggestive photos.
They showed several senior S.H.I.E.L.D. Agents secretly dealing with notorious South-American warlords.
The caption read only: "Whose shield is S.H.I.E.L.D.??"
This wasn't an even-matched war of narratives; it was a massacre.
Vought's PR team didn't just argue—they meme-farmed, stoked emotions, turned "anti-S.H.I.E.L.D." into a trend, a new political correctness.
"Sir."
Agent Sitwell pushed the door open, pale as paper, the hand holding his phone shaking.
"The White House… the President refuses to take our calls. And our 'friends' in Congress are all distancing themselves. Three Senators just announced an independent inquiry into S.H.I.E.L.D.'s funding."
Crack!
Pierce crushed the crystal tumbler; whisky mixed with glass shards dripped down his hand.
He had lost.
Lost to this damned internet age.
"It can't go on."
Pierce closed his eyes, steadied his breath, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and calmly wiped the blood where glass had sliced his palm.
His gaze turned cold and resolute again.
"We need damage control."
"Damage control?" Sitwell asked, bewildered.
"When a leg goes gangrenous, you cut it off before the poison reaches the heart."
"That's the price."
Pierce stepped to his desk and lifted the secure phone.
"Notify the action team—execute Operation Janitor."
That afternoon an even hotter press conference began.
Only this time the lead wasn't Pierce—it was the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
The FBI Director, dead-serious, announced: "After a multi-agency probe, we've uncovered a shocking infiltration. Senior S.H.I.E.L.D. advisor and veteran Agent Jasper Sitwell has been confirmed as a sleeper for the terrorist group HYDRA."
On screen, Sitwell was shoved head-first into a squad car by two burly Agents, despair and disbelief written on his face—he only realized he was the "price" at the last second.
"This individual forged false files on Captain Steve Rogers and tried to sow internal strife to weaken Earth's defenses…"
Next, several HYDRA strongholds around the globe were "raided by S.H.I.E.L.D."
Over a dozen "HYDRA agents" were killed or arrested.
S.H.I.E.L.D.'s official Twitter declared: "We're cleaning house. Justice may be late, but it will never be absent."
A ruthless self-amputation indeed.
Humiliating, but at least the S.H.I.E.L.D. brand didn't completely collapse.
And every dormant HYDRA cell stirring chaos worldwide fell silent overnight.
Pierce glared at a report on Homelander's global crime-busting tour, grinding his teeth.
He'd engineered chaos to force the Security Council to approve the Insight Project.
Result? The chaos arrived, the Council didn't call him—instead they begged Vought.
Every city Homelander saved sent Vought's market cap up and S.H.I.E.L.D.'s budget down.
This wasn't terrorism—it was free set-dressing and a hype squad for that blond bastard!
"Call it off."
Pierce slumped in his chair, looking ten years older.
"Tell everyone… to stand down. Stop handing Vought achievements."
…and the World was suddenly at peace.
No explosions, no attacks; even muggers seemed to have gone home for Christmas.
Anthony hovered over Syria, staring at the quiet city below, smacking his lips in disappointment.
"They chickened out already?"
He'd planned to farm a million popularity points in the Middle East.
"HYDRA guys have such fragile nerves—this was nothing."
Anthony sighed with regret.
"Fine—going home."
…New York, JFK International Airport.
It was probably the most crowded day in aviation history.
Tens of thousands of fans broke through security, packing the tarmac solid.
As the black Gulfstream G650ER burst through the clouds and touched down, cheers drowned out the engines.
The cabin door opened.
Anthony stepped out first.
A smile lit up the whole World.
He waved at the crowd, his cape snapping in the wind.
Behind him came the members of The Seven.
Jessica Jones fought to keep a cold face, but the corners of her mouth kept curling up.
Watching teenage fans holding light-boards of her chibi likeness, her heart melted.
Angela blew kisses at the cameras, drawing screams.
Robbie scratched his head bashfully.
Pietro Maximoff—once a street punk in Sokovia—now wore oversized goggles, hands in pockets, chewing gum, strutting like he owned the place.
"Quicksilver! Quicksilver! I wanna do you—!!"
A cluster of girls shrieked at him.
Pietro paused, lifted his goggles, and shot that direction a playful wink.
Ooh—!!!
The decibel level hit a new record.
Pietro's heart pounded—because of this feeling.
This sense of being needed, worshipped, treated like a god.
In Sokovia, he'd been a despised punk as a kid and a lab rat later; here, at Vought, he was light.
He glanced instinctively at Homelander leading the way.
"This is life.…" Pietro murmured.