Pierce felt like a thunderbolt had struck him square in the skull.
"Temporary custody?!"
He roared into the phone, his voice cracking with uncontrollable fury.
"That's SHIELD property! By what right do you hand it to Vought—
to that cape-wearing, third-rate actor?!"
"Watch your language, Pierce."
The Councilor's voice was ice-cold.
"You are the Secretary-General of the World Security Council—not the Director of SHIELD."
"And the Helicarriers are not SHIELD's property. They belong to the Council."
"SHIELD does too."
"The transfer has already been completed."
"Do your job, Pierce."
Beep—beep—beep.
The line went dead.
Pierce stood there, frozen.
Outside the window, the three massive Helicarriers still hovered in the sky.
The cannons were still aimed.
The engines still hummed with apocalyptic power.
But they were no longer his.
The Sword of Damocles he had spent decades forging—
countless resources, countless lives—
Had been stolen at the very instant it was about to fall.
Stolen legally.
Stolen publicly.
Stolen under the eyes of the entire world.
"Ha… ha…!"
Pierce couldn't catch his breath. He clutched his chest, staggered backward, and collapsed onto the sofa.
"Vought… Homelander…"
His teeth ground together, venom dripping from his eyes.
"You thief…
You despicable thief!!"
"Sir, please take care of yourself."
"Rumlow" stepped forward, concern perfectly calibrated into his tone.
"Shall I call a doctor?"
"Get out!!"
Pierce exploded.
"You think you've won?!"
"You think stealing a few flying tin cans means you've crushed me?!"
He shot upright, staring straight at "Rumlow."
"We still have cards left to play."
"As long as Hydra exists—we haven't lost!"
"Rumlow! Depart immediately. Go to Sokovia!"
"Find Baron Strucker. We need more power—
power capable of opposing that blond bastard!"
"Understood, sir."
"Rumlow" snapped into a flawless Hydra salute.
"Hail Hydra."
"Go… go…"
Pierce waved him away weakly, suddenly looking every bit his age.
-----
That night.
V.G.D. Base cafeteria.
A very unusual welcome party was underway.
Long tables overflowed with pizza, burgers, fried chicken, cocktails, and beer.
James Buchanan Barnes—
the man once feared as the Winter Soldier—
Now sat in a corner wearing a cheap T-shirt printed with Antony's oversized smiling face.
Left hand: a slice of pizza.
Right hand: a bottle of beer.
His expression was pure, bewildered confusion as he watched the chaos of dancing, laughing "heroes."
"Hey! Metal-arm guy!"
Pietro slid over with a drink in hand.
"That arm is awesome! Can I check it out? I wanna post a video!"
Bucky glanced at him. Didn't respond.
"Whoa! So cool!" Pietro exclaimed anyway.
"Ignore the idiot."
Jessica Jones walked over, setting down a plate of plums.
"Steve said you like these."
She studied Bucky for a moment.
"Welcome aboard. This place is basically a reform school for problem kids—but it's… home."
Bucky stared at the plums.
Picked one up.
Bit down.
Sweet-and-sour juice burst across his tongue.
Time passed.
The party slowly died down.
Drunk trainees were hauled back to dorms.
Cleanup crews collected the wreckage of empty bottles and grease-stained boxes.
In the corner, beneath a dim yellow light—
The atmosphere grew heavy.
Bucky sat alone.
The beer can in his hand was empty, but he still gripped it tightly.
His gaze dropped to his metallic left arm.
The cold surface reflected faint light as his fingers idly scraped against the wooden table.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Boots echoed on concrete.
Antony approached, Steve and Ashley behind him.
Ashley carried a freshly printed stack of documents.
"Not really a party guy, huh?" Antony said casually, pulling out a chair and sitting across from him.
"I'm thinking," Bucky replied stiffly. He wasn't used to talking anymore.
"Don't." Antony waved a hand.
"Thinking's the root of most human suffering."
He took the documents from Ashley and slapped them onto the table.
Thud.
"This is a complete identity purge. New Social Security number. New passport.
Even a forged Harvard degree."
Antony leaned back, confidence radiating off him.
"Sign the last page, and James Barnes, the Winter Soldier, officially stops existing."
"You'll get a new arm too—one that bleeds."
He tapped the papers.
"After that? You can be a top-tier V.G.D. instructor.
Or a full-fledged superhero with a fan club."
"Vought can make any of it happen."
"Stay, Bucky."
Steve stepped in immediately, gripping Bucky's arm.
"It's safe here. Antony loves attention, sure—but he keeps his word."
"No brainwashing. No orders. No forcing you to be something you're not."
"We can train recruits together—
like Brooklyn. Like before."
Bucky slowly raised his head.
His steel-blue eyes were bloodshot, lost, filled with pain.
He looked at Steve.
Then at Antony.
Then gently—but firmly—pulled his arm free.
"I can't, Steve."
His voice was quiet. Unshakable.
"I can't stay."
"Why?!" Steve blurted. "You're free of Hydra!"
Bucky tapped his temple.
"I know I did things. Terrible things."
"Sometimes, when I sleep… I see flashes. Gunfire. Screaming. Blood."
"But I don't know who they were.
Or why."
He swallowed hard.
"I barely remember who you are, Steve."
Steve's hopeful expression shattered Bucky's resolve. He closed his eyes in pain.
"I need to find out."
Bucky opened his eyes again.
This time, they were sharp.
"I need to know my past."
"I need to know how much I owe this world."
Antony leaned back, expression unreadable.
"Honestly?" he said calmly.
"That's a bad idea."
"Sometimes, forgetting is mercy."
He leaned forward, voice dropping.
"The truth hurts more than lies."
"That emptiness you feel?
Might be your mind protecting itself."
"If you dig up what's buried…"
his gaze flicked briefly to Steve, then back to Bucky,
"…you might find consequences you can't survive."
"Things that'll destroy whatever you have left."
"I don't care."
Bucky met his gaze without blinking.
"If those are my sins—then they're mine."
"If I killed people, I'll face their families."
"I won't hide here pretending to be a hero."
He stood straighter.
"I accept whatever comes. Even death."
--------------
T/N:
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