"What was Project Insight built for?"
Alexander Pierce stood up and walked toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, overlooking Washington, D.C.
"For order," Jasper Sitwell replied automatically, like he was reciting from a manual.
"Through algorithms—predicting threats and eliminating them before they materialize."
"Exactly." Pierce nodded. "Tony Stark. Bruce Banner. Steve Rogers. All of them are on the list. Threats, yes—but predictable ones."
His smile faded.
"But this Homelander…"
"He didn't come from the algorithm. He came out of nowhere. He's absurdly powerful—and now he's on a first-name basis with the President."
Pierce turned back slowly.
"He isn't threatening order, Brock."
"He's building his own."
"So what?" Brock Rumlow snorted. "He's still human. And if he's human, he has weaknesses."
"Oh?" Pierce's eyes hardened.
"Brock, give me a status report."
Rumlow's grin froze.
"…We planted an asset backstage at The Jimmy Show. She attempted to collect saliva from his water glass. The glass 'accidentally' shattered before contact."
"We inserted a Level-7 operative into the Homelander: Origin set as a background extra, hoping for a controlled encounter. She was fired on the spot by his assistant—Ashley—on the grounds of résumé falsification."
"We even deployed our best sniper with a specialized 'sampling round.' The goal was to scrape off skin cells."
Pierce let out a cold chuckle.
"The scope was vaporized from two kilometers away by heat vision."
"The sniper is currently in psychological rehabilitation. He insists he 'saw God.'"
"…That bastard," Rumlow muttered, sweat forming at his temples.
"Brock," Pierce said calmly, interlacing his fingers.
"He can hear heartbeats. He can see through bone. For all we know… he may be listening to us right now."
------
(Meanwhile, on a sun-drenched beach somewhere, Antony casually flipped Washington, D.C. the middle finger.)
"So what do we do?" Sitwell asked nervously. "If he finds out—"
"Go," Pierce said flatly.
"Activate every asset we have. I don't care how."
"I want his DNA."
"A strand of hair. A drop of blood. Skin flakes—anything."
Pierce rested a hand on Sitwell's shoulder.
"Even if he is Superman… we'll make kryptonite."
…
"My hair…"
Antony stood in his silk robe inside the massive walk-in closet atop Starr Tower, irritation written all over his face.
"Ashley."
"Yes, sir?"
His chief assistant rushed in on high heels.
"Why," Antony pointed at the leather sofa,
"is there a blonde hair on it that does not belong to me?"
Ashley froze, then leaned in to examine it.
"Sir… isn't that yours?"
"No."
Antony's eyes went cold.
"This one's thicker. And it's fake."
He pinched the strand between his fingers.
"How many times this month?"
Ashley's tablet lit up.
"Counting last night's 'fan' who attempted to hug you at the charity gala—before being stunned by your electrically insulated suit—this makes twelve."
"Twelve."
Antony laughed softly.
In his previous life as an award-winning actor, he'd never seen stalkers this persistent.
At first, he'd assumed it was SHIELD probing him clumsily.
Like three days ago.
He'd been "working out" in Vought Tower's gym for promo photos when a new "cleaner" kept wiping machines nearby—awkwardly.
His X-ray vision had instantly spotted the military-grade bio-sampling kit hidden in her uniform pocket.
What did he do?
"Bzzz—"
To everyone else, her phone short-circuited.
To Antony, it was a 0.01-second precision heat-vision burst that melted the sampler—and the phone along with it.
"Oh my," he'd said politely, catching her as she stumbled.
"Looks like your phone quality isn't great. Have you considered the new V-Phone by Vought?"
She ran.
Antony was done playing.
These rats were filthy.
And now that he thought about it…
SHIELD's internal stench finally clicked.
He smiled.
"Hydra," he muttered.
"I hadn't even come looking for you—and you came sniffing at me."
Old memories lined up instantly.
"SHIELD. Hydra. Same nest of snakes."
"Sir?" Ashley asked carefully.
"Ashley," Antony said suddenly.
"What do paparazzi and stalkers hate the most?"
"…Security?"
"No."
He shook his head.
"They hate the spotlight."
His smile sharpened.
"I'm done letting these bitches pull my hair."
"Ashley."
"Yes, sir."
"Find me someone."
Two days later.
Los Angeles.
A beat-up Dodge van parked in a forgotten alley.
This was Rising Tide's mobile base.
Skye, dark circles under her eyes, slammed her laptop shut for the Nth time.
"Damn it! Again?!"
She raked her fingers through her hair and chugged a can of Vought Energy.
"SHIELD… what the hell are you hiding…"
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Someone was at the door.
Every instinct she had screamed.
Nobody came here—not even the homeless.
She yanked a stun gun from under the seat and aimed at the door.
"Who's there?!"
"A fan," a calm, magnetic voice replied.
"One who appreciates your talent."
Skye swallowed and cracked the door open.
The sunlight vanished.
A man stood there.
Red and blue suit.
Stars and stripes cape.
Looking down at her with a flawless smile.
Her brain shut down for three full seconds.
"…Holy—"
The stun gun slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor.
"Homelander?!"
"Hi, Skye."
Antony's smile was warm, effortless—terrifying. "Mind if I come in?" "And maybe… borrow your Wi-Fi?"