Natasha inclined her head, accepting the plan.
"We're not waking him up with patriotic speeches," she said. "We're going to show him the world as it is now."
Hill tapped the table, and the hologram shifted.
Headlines.
Debates.
Messages supporting Iron Man.
Messages supporting the Captain.
Messages supporting Thor.
Messages supporting the Avengers Initiative.
The word Avengers, repeated in thousands of languages.
"Thanks to the video," Hill said, "as much as it annoys me to admit it, the world is already prepared to believe in something like this."
Barton clicked his tongue.
"Whoever's doing this is a massive problem… and at the same time, a huge blessing."
Fury didn't disagree.
"What matters," he continued, "is that Rogers wakes up knowing the world still needs him."
Coulson nodded, his voice barely steady.
"He'll understand."
He smiled, nervous and happy at the same time.
"I've always wanted to say this," he added. "'Sir, Captain America is alive.'"
Barton shook his head.
"You're impossible."
Natasha was already heading for the exit.
The analysis room remained dim, lit only by floating screens and streams of data.
The video LEGACY began playing again, silently.
Frame by frame.
This time, only Eric, Barton, Hill, Fury, and several technicians were present.
"Stop there," Nick Fury ordered.
The image froze.
"Zoom in," Maria Hill said.
Algorithms went to work.
"He's still in the desert? That doesn't make sense," Barton muttered.
"Not just any desert," Hill added, studying the data. "Mineral composition matches the Kunar region…"
Fury didn't smile.
"He's still there. The video didn't just tell a story," he said. "It left breadcrumbs."
The screen shifted.
Maps.
Routes.
Irregular traffic intersections.
"Matches the last signal from Stark's convoy," Hill continued. "Eighty-seven percent probability."
Fury exhaled slowly.
"Then we have a possible location. All that's left is tracking it with our new bright star."
All eyes turned to the back of the room, where Eric leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold.
"Is this a 'too late' kind of problem?" Eric asked.
"A 'too dangerous' one," Fury replied. "Hostile zone. Armed group. Zero political margin."
Eric tilted his head.
"So I'm guessing we're not sending a diplomatic email."
Fury stepped forward.
"No," he said. "We're sending someone who can get in… and get out."
Silence.
"We're deploying you," Fury continued. "Officially. Your first field mission."
Eric raised an eyebrow.
"Alone?"
"No," Fury replied, glancing across the room.
There was the familiar click of someone loading an arrow—out of habit.
"Looks like you're getting a tutor, bright light," Barton said, catching the meaning in his director's stare.
"I'll try to keep you from dying on your first day."
Eric smiled, flattered.
"I appreciate the optimism."
Clint looked him up and down.
"Rule number one," he said. "Don't do anything stupid."
"That cuts out about sixty percent of my options," Eric replied.
In the hangar, Eric's suit waited.
When he stepped into it, the systems synchronized with a soft pulse, like they recognized him.
"Anchors stable," a technician reported. "Regulators active. Environmental sensors operating perfectly."
"We're going to a desert, not a beach," Eric rolled his eyes.
"Technical concerns," the technician replied without looking up.
Eric flexed his fingers.
"It feels… right," he said.
Natasha watched from the upper walkway.
"Bring him back," she said. "Stark."
Eric looked up and nodded.
"I will."
He knew the video had struck something deep in Natasha—seeing herself fighting alongside others to protect the world.
Something she was willing to defend.
Natasha held his gaze a second longer.
"And you come back safe too," she added before turning away.
Eric smiled, sincere.
"Promise."
The Quinjet cut through the night like a sharpened shadow.
Clint checked his gear.
Eric studied the projected map in front of him.
"So," Eric said, "Afghanistan. Rescue under fire."
Clint nodded.
"Welcome to the big leagues."
Eric took a deep breath, feeling responsibility settle on him for the first time.
The Quinjet descended. The desert awaited them.
It didn't land.
It hovered just meters above the ground, as if unwilling to leave footprints behind.
"That's as far as we go," the pilot said over the intercom.
The ramp opened.
Clint Barton stepped out first, scanning the horizon with professional ease.
"Welcome to nowhere," he commented.
Eric followed, stretching like he'd just stepped out of a taxi.
His new suit glowed faintly in the darkness.
Barton glanced at him and couldn't help whistling at how good he looked, then activated his visor.
"According to intel, it should be somewhere around here."
Eric looked out over the vast emptiness.
In simple terms, Barton was asking him to find the cave.
He focused.
His body began to fragment into thousands of particles of light, lifting with the desert wind.
Clint watched with arms crossed.
"I never get used to that," he said. "It's like watching someone fall apart and put themselves back together—with style."
The light surged forward, slipping between rocks, riding air currents, threading through impossible cracks.
Eric didn't just see the desert.
He felt it.
And then he found it.
A powerful thermal anomaly.
Dense with energy.
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