The Fox News anchor stared into the camera, face grave.
"—We interrupt regular programming with breaking news."
The screen cut to the press hall of the Triskelion.
At the podium stood Alexander Pierce, his expression heavy with sorrow. Behind him, a massive display played surveillance footage—Steve Rogers striking agents inside an elevator.
"It is with great regret that I must inform the public," Pierce said slowly, "that the man we have long revered as Captain America—Steve Rogers—has betrayed us."
The room erupted.
"Our internal investigation uncovered a top-secret file," Pierce continued. "This file reveals that during World War II, after Captain Rogers fell into the Arctic Ocean, he was secretly captured by a HYDRA splinter cell and subjected to decades of psychological conditioning."
"The so-called 'ice preservation' was nothing more than a lie to conceal the truth!"
The screen filled with impeccably forged documents and photographs—Captain America strapped to HYDRA machinery, tubes piercing his body.
"Nick Fury, the current Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., is the mastermind behind it all," Pierce thundered. "A HYDRA agent embedded at the highest level! He awakened 'Captain HYDRA' in an attempt to overthrow world order and seize power!"
The news detonated like a bomb.
Captain America—HYDRA?
It sounded more absurd than discovering the U.S. President was a Kremlin spy.
And yet… the evidence. The authority of a former S.H.I.E.L.D. Director, now Secretary of the World Security Council.
Doubt spread like wildfire.
"Therefore," Pierce raised his voice, righteous and resolute, "in the name of the World Security Council, I hereby issue a global arrest warrant!"
"Apprehend Steve Rogers! Apprehend Nick Fury!"
"They are extremely dangerous terrorists—"
Click.
Steve turned off the TV.
There was no rage in him. Only bone-deep exhaustion.
"Captain HYDRA…" He gave a bitter smile. "Pierce, you really went all out to destroy me."
Public Enemy Number One.
And in America, his face had nowhere to hide.
WOOOO—WOOOO—WOOOO!
Sirens screamed outside the V.G.D. base.
Steve walked to the window.
More than twenty black armored vehicles had surrounded the gates—S.H.I.E.L.D. rapid-response units, FBI tactical teams. A Quinjet hovered overhead.
"Attention inside!" Brock Rumlow shouted through a megaphone, one arm in a sling, standing atop an armored car. "Immediately surrender Captain HYDRA Steve Rogers with hands raised!"
"Failure to comply will constitute harboring an international terrorist. Vought International will be forcibly searched and arrests will be made!"
The next second—
Hail. Hurricane-force winds. Lightning. Acidic blasts.
Every color of superpowered retaliation slammed down, driving the task force back two hundred meters in total chaos.
Steve sighed.
He didn't want Vought dragged into this.
This was his war—with HYDRA.
He straightened his uniform, picked up his shield, and headed for the door.
"Where do you think you're going, Captain?"
A calm voice stopped him.
Ashley Barrett stood in the hallway, unruffled.
"Mr. Rogers," she said evenly, "you do realize you're still V.G.D.'s Chief Instructor? Your contract hasn't expired. Abandoning your post carries a penalty."
"Ashley…" Steve gave a tired smile. "This isn't the time. They're calling me HYDRA. The whole world is hunting me."
"So?" she scoffed.
"If they say you're HYDRA, does that make it true? If tomorrow they say I'm the Queen of England, do I report to Buckingham Palace for my coronation?"
Steve frowned. "I can't drag you into this."
"Drag us in?"
Ashley smiled like it was nothing.
"Captain, do you misunderstand what Vought is?"
"We're Vought International. Our market cap is bigger than Boeing's. Our boss is the guy who shoved an alien god into a volcano and rubbed him into ash."
"You really think we're scared of that trash outside?"
She stepped forward and slapped a document against Steve's chest.
"What's this?" he asked, stunned.
"A new contract," Ashley replied. "And a letter Mr. Starr left for you before he departed."
"He said if you ever ran into a 'political crisis'—you should sign this."
Steve froze.
Homelander… Antony Starr?
He opened the envelope.
Inside was a single sheet of thin paper, covered in messy handwriting.
…
To the old soldier still finding his way,
Steve,
If you're reading this, chances are some self-important shadow agency stabbed you in the back.
I'm not surprised.
I've told you before—that place is rotten to the core. Can't be fixed.
None of that matters.
What matters is that I understand what you're thinking.
You think you're outdated. A relic from the last century. That your principles and morals look like a joke in this era.
That's bullshit.
Colors fade. Flags change. Even the number of stars on the Stars and Stripes isn't permanent.
But some things never change.
Courage. Sacrifice. And that instinct—when you see injustice and the whole world tells you to step aside, you plant yourself like a great oak and refuse to move.
I keep saying I'm not a real hero.
Steve—you are.
Vought doesn't need another shield-wielding enforcer.
We need a soul.
A soul that tells those lost kids that power isn't for showing off—it's for protecting.
We don't need Captain America.
We don't need a White House Captain.
We don't need a S.H.I.E.L.D. Captain.
We need—
The People's Captain.
Sign the damn contract, Steve.
Fight beside me, old soldier.
— Antony Starr
…
Steve's hands trembled.
Since waking in the Arctic, he'd been a stranger everywhere he went.
S.H.I.E.L.D. was a job.
The Avengers were colleagues.
He'd never truly belonged.
And now—
"He…" Steve's eyes glistened. "He saw this coming?"
"The boss always sees further than anyone else," Ashley said, offering him a pen. "Sign it, Captain. Once you do, you're a registered V.G.D. hero—protected under the Superhuman Registration Act."
"Arresting you will require direct presidential authorization. And President Matthew Ellis—is an old friend of ours."
Steve took a deep breath.
He accepted the pen.
At the bottom of the contract, he signed his name—slow, deliberate, resolute.
Steve Rogers.
"Excellent."
Ashley gathered the papers, a victorious smile crossing her face. She checked her makeup in a compact mirror and turned toward the door.
"I'll go deal with those annoying flies outside."
"And then—"
She glanced back.
"—we clear your name."
--------------
T/N:
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