"He did it on purpose, Tony."
Natasha's voice was cool, razor-sharp. "This is called narrative control."
She pointed at the paused broadcast on the massive screen.
"If he'd stepped in from the start, the story would've been 'Homelander and Iron Man stop a conspiracy together.' But now?"
She let the words hang.
"Now the story is this: Iron Man failed. The Avengers were absent. And when every hero fell short… Homelander descended from the sky and saved the President. Alone."
"Son of a—"
Tony slammed his fist into the bar. "That narcissistic bastard!"
"Calm down, Tony."
Steve's voice was steady as bedrock as he stood and moved beside him.
"No matter how you feel about it—he saved your life."
Steve stared at the screen. At the man standing shoulder to shoulder with the President, bathing in camera flashes. His expression was conflicted, troubled.
Tony went quiet.
He stared at the frozen image. The anger in his eyes slowly cooled—replaced by something darker.
"…JARVIS."
"Yes, sir?"
"Buy me a ticket."
"A ticket?" Steve turned. "For what?"
Tony's mouth twisted into a humorless grin.
"Homelander: Origin. Premiere night."
He grabbed another glass.
"I wanna see just how spectacular this asshole's 'origin story' really is."
-----
The Helicarrier – Command Deck
Nick Fury stood before the massive viewing window, hands clasped behind his back, staring down at the clouds below.
He hadn't moved in over an hour.
Maria Hill entered, her footsteps echoing across the bridge.
"Sir."
"Report." Fury didn't turn around.
"Starr Group's market valuation jumped forty-five percent overnight," Hill said flatly.
"Capitol Hill is drafting legislation to reallocate part of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s domestic enhanced-threat budget… to Vought International."
Fury snorted.
"Reallocate. That's what they're calling it now? 'Outsourcing.'"
"Sir, this doesn't make sense," Hill said tightly. "We're a World Security Council–authorized global agency. How could President Ellis—"
"Why wouldn't he?"
Fury finally turned, his single eye glinting in the dim light.
"Tell me something, Hill. When Air Force One was hijacked last night—what was our intel division doing?"
"We… we were tracking the Mandarin's movements—"
Fury cut her off, ice-cold.
"You were chasing a third-rate actor hiding in Pakistan."
He slammed his fist against the glass.
"The President of the United States was taken hostage. Air Force One. Nuclear codes onboard. And we didn't have a single operative within a hundred miles."
He turned fully now, fury barely contained.
"We spent hundreds of billions building a flying aircraft carrier. We have Project Insight. We have the Avengers."
His voice dropped.
"And in the end, the President needed a freelance hero in a stars-and-stripes cape to save him."
Hill clenched her jaw. "Sir… our intelligence flow clearly malfunctioned—"
"That wasn't a malfunction."
Fury's voice was deadly calm.
"That wasn't lag. That wasn't miscommunication."
He stared out at the clouds again.
"That was betrayal."
Hill's heart skipped. "Sir… you mean the Vice President?"
"No." Fury shook his head slowly.
"I mean my house."
She froze.
"There's a rat in this organization, Hill. Big. Fat. And very good at hiding."
Questions raced through Fury's mind.
Why had tracking the "Mandarin" been so easy?
Why had Killian's operation never triggered a single red flag?
Why did rapid-response deployments keep getting "delayed" at critical moments?
"We were played," Fury said. "Someone inside has been steering our attention. Leading us by the nose."
"You think we have… a mole?"
"I don't think."
Fury turned, eyes burning.
"I know."
"Since the Battle of New York, everything's been too convenient. Stark gets attacked—we're late. The President gets kidnapped—we're blind."
"And Homelander?" Fury narrowed his eye.
"How did he know? Private intel networks? Please. He wasn't faster than us."
He exhaled slowly.
"He wasn't on our path at all."
Fury clenched his fist.
"That blond bastard is now the President's savior. He's got federal authority. He turned superheroes into a business—and made it legal."
"He went around us," Hill whispered.
"No," Fury corrected grimly.
"He stepped on our faces and leapt over us."
He turned sharply.
"Hill. Initiate Ghost Protocol. Effective immediately."
"Sir… you mean—"
"From now on, I trust no one but you."
His eye hardened.
"I want to know how many people on this ship salute me while whispering 'Hail Hydra' in their heads."
…
"…Hail Hydra."
Alexander Pierce shut off the micro-recorder on his desk, a faint, amused smile on his lips.
"Nick… Nick…" he murmured.
"You've always been sharp."
He leaned back.
"Too bad you're late."
The office door slid open silently.
Brock Rumlow, STRIKE Team leader, entered with his usual grim expression. Behind him stood Jasper Sitwell, pale and sweating.
"Sir," Rumlow said.
"Relax, gentlemen." Pierce gestured to the couch.
"Coffee? Or shall we talk about our… golden-haired friend?"
Sitwell wiped his brow nervously.
"Sir… Fury's suspicious. He's launched a top-level internal audit."
"Let him."
Pierce poured himself a Scotch, unbothered.
"Nick thinks he's hunting ghosts. He thinks he's chasing rats."
A smile curled his lips.
"He doesn't realize… he's already inside the cage."
Pierce turned to Rumlow.
"What I'm more concerned about is our unexpected variable."
Rumlow's jaw tightened.
"Homelander."
He swallowed.
"I saw the Florida footage. That wasn't a fight. That was slaughter."
He paused.
"Those heat vision beams… even the Winter Soldier wouldn't survive that."
The room fell silent.
Somewhere far above, the age of heroes was quietly being rewritten.
And the old order was starting to crack.