"That wasn't you, Bucky!" Steve sprang to his feet, emotion breaking through his composure.
"That was HYDRA! You were controlled! You're not a murderer!"
"But the finger that pulled the trigger…"
Bucky lowered his gaze to his metal arm, voice cold and flat.
"…was mine."
Silence fell like a brick wall.
Steve stood there, pain and helplessness written across his face.
He had finally found his best friend again—only to watch him choose the road away.
Antony watched the two of them, calculating.
Bucky's mental state was unstable. Keeping him at V.G.D. was a ticking PR bomb. One bad episode, one dead trainee, and it would be a media catastrophe.
"…Alright."
Antony suddenly shrugged, wearing that familiar what-can-you-do smile.
"If you're dead set on chasing redemption, I won't stop you."
He turned to Steve.
"Captain."
"Yes, sir!" Steve straightened instinctively.
"I'm assigning you a long-term external mission."
He pointed at Bucky.
"Go with him. If he's our person, then we don't let him wander the world like a homeless ghost."
"Help him dig up those damned memories. Tear open HYDRA's old graves together."
Steve froze.
He had been agonizing over how to even ask for leave. As V.G.D.'s chief instructor, he was needed more than ever.
And yet—
"Antony…" Steve's voice wavered. "This… this breaks protocol."
"My protocol is protocol."
Antony stood and walked over to Bucky.
"Listen to me, Sergeant Barnes."
"You're free to wander. To atone. To do whatever the hell you think you need to do."
"But remember one thing."
He raised a finger, pointing to the dim ceiling light above them.
"Steve belongs here. And this place will always keep a light on for you."
Bucky stared at him.
For the first time, the constant wariness in his eyes wavered.
After a long silence, he nodded.
"…Thank you."
Antony turned back to Steve, voice snapping into command mode.
"As for you, Steve—Bucky is an employee I've already claimed."
"You take him out, you bring him back."
"Understood?"
Steve snapped a crisp salute.
"Understood, sir!"
He knew this wasn't just permission.
It was Antony protecting his dignity—
and indulging his heart.
In a world ruled by profit and optics, this kind of favor was priceless.
Ding! Special Popularity +5000! (From Steve Rogers)
Ding! Special Popularity +5000! (From James Barnes)
Antony listened to the system chime in his head, satisfied.
"Don't get too sentimental," he said over his shoulder.
"I'll be in my office waiting for your expense reports."
He waved casually and disappeared through the cafeteria doors.
…
Somewhere deep in the mountains.
One of Nick Fury's many "safehouses."
Calling it a safehouse was misleading—it was a luxury villa built atop a Cold War–era bunker.
Lead-lined walls blocked radiation and scans.
A self-sustaining ecosystem could support years of isolation.
The wine cellar alone held hundreds of premium bottles.
Click.
The sealed door opened.
Lights came on automatically.
A fireplace ignited.
Soft jazz filled the air.
Clint Barton walked in, bow on his back, hauling two massive tactical packs.
He scanned the place, eyes widening at the open-plan kitchen—bigger than his living room back home.
"Wow."
He dropped the bags and flopped onto an expensive-looking sofa, testing the bounce.
"Seriously, boss," he called to Fury, who was brewing coffee.
"You have this, and we were eating ration bars in a rat hole?"
"Smart rabbits have multiple burrows," Fury replied, handing him a cup.
"That bunker dodges conventional tracking. This place—"
He pointed upward.
"—dodges the Eye of God."
Clint straightened.
"Insight satellites?"
Fury's expression darkened.
"Exactly. Our names are probably top ten on the kill list."
He took a sip of coffee. It tasted bitter.
"So we prepare for a long stay."
"Long?" Clint caught the word instantly.
"Yes." Fury set his cup down.
"Our names are almost certainly at the very top of Insight's list."
"As long as those satellites are up, as long as that algorithm is running…"
He pointed skyward again.
"—it can see the second hand on your watch. Step outside, and within a minute, kinetic rounds turn you into paste."
"So, Clint."
Fury turned to him, deadly serious.
"Prepare yourself. We may be here a long time—until we find a way to destroy Insight completely."
Clint's grip on his mug tightened.
"How long is 'long'?"
"Months? Years?"
He stood and began pacing, agitation building.
"Boss, I've got a family. Laura. The kids. Cooper's finally improving at math. Lila's ballet recital is next month."
"And the tractor on the farm still isn't fixed. If I don't go back, the corn's ruined."
"This is for their safety!" Fury snapped.
"If you go home now, you lead HYDRA straight to your doorstep! You want Laura and the kids watching you get your head blown off?!"
Clint went silent.
He collapsed back onto the sofa and downed the rest of his coffee.
"Damn Pierce… damn HYDRA…"
Then—
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The encrypted communicator on the table lit up.
Fury stiffened, grabbed it, and inserted a decryption key.
"Fury here."
Static crackled, then a voice—heavily altered.
"Fury…"
"Get to the point," Fury said.
"Moments ago, the World Security Council passed an emergency resolution."
"Control of the three Helicarriers—and the entire Insight system—has been fully transferred to Vought International."
"They no longer answer to Pierce."
"Their temporary custodian is… Homelander."
"What?!" Fury's hand shook. He nearly dropped the device.
"Vought? Homelander?!"
Clint sensed something was off.
"What is it? HYDRA?"
"No…" Fury slowly looked up, eyes unfocused.
"Something even more absurd."
"Inside source. The Council just voted."
"Insight… has been handed over."
"Handed over?" Clint frowned. "To the military?"
"To Vought." Fury tossed him the communicator.
"Full transfer. Those carriers now belong to Starr."
Clint blinked.
"Wait—if Vought controls them… does that mean no one's going to use them to kill us?"
"In theory," Fury admitted, pacing.
"Homelander's a bastard—but he won't use weapons of mass slaughter for a purge."
"So we're safe?" Clint jumped up. "I can go home?"
"Temporarily safe," Fury corrected.
"The sword's still in someone else's hand."
Clint didn't care. He was already packing.
"I'm calling Laura! Telling her that damn tractor's finally getting fixed!"
Watching the suddenly relaxed archer, Fury felt torn.
Relief—millions of lives had been spared.
But dread lingered.
Without the carriers firing, HYDRA never fully revealed itself.
Which meant—
He had no proof.
To the world, he was still the embezzling, terrorist-colluding
"rat inside SHIELD."
Fury grabbed his coffee and took a long gulp.
Goddamn bitter.
--------------
T/N:
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