Avengers temporary headquarters (renovated Stark Tower), early morning.
Steve Rogers finished his unvarying morning training, sweat soaking his gray training vest, outlining muscles that were still at the peak of human perfection. He wiped his neck with a towel and walked to the common lounge, preparing to rehydrate and refuel.
On the giant LCD screen, the morning news was playing. As the scene changed, a striking blue emblem—the Hero Association's shield with a star and olive branch—once again caught his eye. Following that were clips of Sandman controlling a sandstorm to engulf mechs, The Silent Heart Master calming chaos with a single word "Silence," and the Association's Logistics Department efficiently clearing battlefields. The news anchor reported in a slightly excited tone how this nascent organization was handling increasingly frequent superhuman incidents in the city with "professionalism" and "high efficiency."
Steve's hand, holding the water cup, paused slightly, his brow furrowing unconsciously, his blue eyes filled not so much with opposition as with deep confusion.
"Hero… Association?" he repeated the name softly, as if trying to discern some special meaning from it. To him, the phrase carried an indescribable sense of detachment and… institutionalized coldness.
In his understanding, the word "hero" carried too much weight. It represented the courage to stand up in dark times, the fearlessness to sacrifice for beliefs and others, and a calling that transcended personal interests, stemming from the purest sense of justice within. This was everything he had personally experienced and fought for. When his brothers in Bucky's Howling Commandos roared and charged HYDRA's positions, who thought about salary and health insurance? When he piloted a plane full of nuclear bombs towards the ice cap, who mentioned a retirement plan to him?
And now, this man named Wilson Fisk, this "entrepreneur" whose background he vaguely felt was not simple, was tightly binding "hero" with words like "Association," "profession," and "five insurances and one housing fund," and trying to promote it as a widely accepted… industry standard?
This clashed violently with his deeply ingrained beliefs.
"Captain, you saw that news too?" A voice came from behind him. Sam Wilson, the Falcon, walked over with a coffee, his gaze also falling on the screen. "It's pretty popular; everyone's talking about this 'Hero Association' now."
"Sam," Steve turned around, an undisguised look of confusion on his face, "What do you think? Professionalizing… heroic acts?"
Sam shrugged and took a sip of coffee: "To be honest, Captain, it's a bit complicated. On the good side, it seems to allow those with abilities and a willingness to help to act without worries. You and I both know that not everyone is as rich as Stark, or like you… well, like you." He deftly avoided the sensitive phrase "frozen in ice for seventy years."
"But?" Steve heard the unspoken meaning.
"But," Sam put down his coffee cup, his expression becoming a bit more serious, "something just feels off. 'Hero' becoming a salaried job? Will its core essence change? When saving others becomes a performance review, when acting heroically requires calculating points and rewards… will that initial, purest motivation still be there? I worry this will give rise to a batch of… sophisticated egoists, rather than true heroes."
This was exactly the vague unease Steve felt, but couldn't articulate so clearly. He nodded, his gaze returning to the blue emblem on the screen.
"And this Fisk…" Sam lowered his voice, "S.H.I.E.L.D.'s files aren't very friendly towards him. A man with that kind of background, suddenly transforming to become the 'boss' of all heroes? It sounds like… it sounds like…" He searched for a suitable analogy.
"Like someone trying to replace the honor of soldiers on the battlefield with the contract terms of mercenaries," Steve finished his sentence in a deep, heavy tone.
"Exactly! That's the feeling!" Sam slapped his thigh. "Captain, you always summarize it best."
Just then, Tony Stark, in a flashy custom suit, a donut in his mouth, sauntered in, clearly having just finished (or interrupted) an all-night research session.
"Yo, what serious topic are the old soldier and the birdman discussing?" he mumbled, his gaze sweeping over the screen, and he immediately understood. "Oh, talking about Kingpin and his 'superhuman human resources company' again?"
His tone was filled with characteristic Starkian sarcasm.
"Tony," Steve looked at him, his tone serious, "Do you think his concept is truly feasible? Is it good for this World?"
Tony swallowed the donut in a few bites, brushed the sugar from his hands, walked to the screen, crossed his arms, and examined the Association's promotional video with the eye of someone scrutinizing a tech product.
"Feasible? From a business management and technological integration perspective, that guy's doing… damn well." Tony pursed his lips, seemingly reluctant to admit it, "His mission assignment system, and the logistical technology displayed, even the short-term growth curve of that big guy who can turn people into sand, all reek of uncanny efficiency."
He changed his tone, a familiar expression of pride mixed with disdain appearing on his face: "But, Rogers, you ask me if it's a good thing? My answer is still—no!"
He turned around, pointing to his chest: "What is a hero? Inspiration! Breakthrough! A unique legend! Look at me, look at you! Which of us was trained according to some damned 'professional standards'? Were we hammered into a mold, shaped by KPIs and regulations?"
"His system might produce qualified 'crisis handlers,' but it will absolutely not create true 'heroes'!" Tony's tone was decisive. "It will turn individuals with extraordinary potential into standardized products on an assembly line, eroding their individuality and stifling their creativity! Think about it, if some 'Association' had dictated to me back then, telling me I had to miniaturize the arc reactor by a certain time, would there even be an Iron Man?"
Steve listened in silence. While Tony's views were extreme, they also touched upon his internal concerns from another angle. He believed in the importance of order and discipline but also firmly believed that human spirit, conviction, and autonomy were irreplaceable.
"I'm just… not sure, Tony," Steve finally said slowly, his gaze deep, "Times are changing, threats are changing. Perhaps the ways of responding also need to change. But his method… so directly linking the responsibility of protecting others with material rewards, I cannot easily agree with it."
Peggy Carter's image flashed in his mind; he remembered the people of their era, who, for a common, noble goal, could give everything without regret.
"We need to keep an eye on this, Steve." Natasha Romanoff, who had been silent until now, appeared at the doorway. She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, her eyes sharp. "Kingpin is not a simple philanthropist. He's investing such vast resources; there must be a deeper purpose behind it. This 'Hero Association' is likely just the first step in his grand plan."
Steve nodded. As Captain America, he had experienced too many conspiracies and betrayals. He harbored an innate wariness towards any overly "perfect" or "efficient" solution.
The news had already switched to the next topic, but that blue emblem and the concept of "hero professionalization" were like a stone thrown into Steve Rogers's heart, the ripples far from subsiding.
He stood before the giant floor-to-ceiling windows, looking down at the city gradually waking below. In this city, which he had once sworn to protect but now felt somewhat unfamiliar, a new force was rising, redefining "hero" and "responsibility" in a way he couldn't fully comprehend.
Confusion, like the thin morning mist, enveloped the heart of this warrior from the past.
He knew he needed time to observe and understand this new era, and the complex and contradictory new phenomena it had spawned, like the "Hero Association."
But one thing he was certain of—no matter how times changed, some core values, such as courage, sacrifice, and selflessness, should never be given a price tag.