SHIELD Headquarters. The Situation Room.
Nick Fury burst into the room, skipping dinner. His trusted inner circle was already assembled: Maria Hill, Phil Coulson, and Clint Barton (Hawkeye). Natasha Romanoff was leaning against the wall, her arms crossed.
"The Sokovia Accords," Fury announced, slapping a folder onto the table. "Superhuman Registration Act."
He looked at his team. "Lucas Chen wasn't kidding. The future is a bureaucratic nightmare."
Coulson adjusted his tie. "It makes sense, Sir. If the number of enhanced individuals is about to explode, governments will panic. They'll want names, addresses, and DNA samples."
"And control," Fury added darkly. "Which is exactly why Stark and Rogers go to war. Freedom vs. Security. It's the oldest debate in the book."
"Speaking of enhanced individuals," Coulson interjected, pulling up a holographic display. "We have a new player in Queens. The locals call him 'Superman.'"
Fury frowned. "Superman? Isn't that a comic book character?"
"Yes, Sir. And this guy is leaning into the branding. Asian male, late teens or early twenties. But here's the kicker: Witnesses can't describe his face."
"Can't describe him?" Natasha asked, intrigued.
"It's like a cognitive blind spot," Coulson explained. "They see him, they talk to him, but five minutes later? They can't recall if he had a nose or a mouth. We suspect some form of low-level psychic manipulation or tech-based camouflage."
"And his power set?" Fury asked.
"Classic brick," Coulson listed. "Super strength. Super speed. Super durability. We analyzed the bone fractures of the thugs he hospitalized. It's like they were hit by a cement truck moving at 60 miles per hour. But here's the interesting part: None of them died."
"He holds back," Natasha noted.
"Precision strikes," Coulson nodded. "Shattered kneecaps. Broken wrists. He disables them permanently, but he doesn't kill. That takes control. Emotional and physical."
"How does he compare to the Hulk?" Fury asked the million-dollar question.
"Hard to say," Coulson admitted. "Hulk is a force of nature. Rage equals power. This 'Superman' seems to have a static power level, but his control is superior. He's not a monster. He's a martial artist with the strength of a tank."
"Is he a threat?" Barton asked, polishing an arrowhead.
"Currently? No," Fury decided. "He's cleaning up Queens. But the line between Super Hero and Super Villain is razor-thin. Today he's breaking muggers' legs. Tomorrow? Maybe he decides the Mayor is corrupt and throws him through a window."
"That's the problem with vigilantes," Fury sighed. "They answer to no one. And when they have the power of a god... that's a recipe for disaster."
"Keep tabs on him," Fury ordered. "But don't engage. If he has psychic camo, he might have other tricks. I don't want to spook him."
"Understood, Sir."
Fury looked back at the diary notes on the screen.
"Age of Ultron... Meteor City... Civil War."
"The world is changing," Fury murmured. "We used to chase spies and terrorists. Now we're chasing Gods and Witches. And soon, we'll be chasing our own friends."
"We need to be ready," Fury said, his voice steel. "When the Registration Act drops... SHIELD needs to be on the right side of history. Or whatever is left of SHIELD by then."
Meanwhile, in Queens.
Lucas Chen sneezed.
"Someone's talking about me," he muttered, rubbing his nose.
He was sitting on his rooftop, looking out at the city. The lights of Manhattan twinkled in the distance—Stark Tower (soon to be Avengers Tower) standing tall among them.
"Day 15," Lucas noted. "Still no kidnapping. Tony, please. Go to Afghanistan. I need to buy the dip."
He looked at his new glasses in his hand.
"The Superman persona is working," he thought. "But SHIELD is definitely watching. Coulson is probably already building a file."
He put the glasses on, transforming back into the mild-mannered tutor.
"Let them watch," Lucas grinned. "As long as I have these, I'm just a face in the crowd."
"Besides," he looked up at the stars. "I have bigger problems. If the Chitauri are coming... I need to learn how to fly."
He stood up, looking at the edge of the roof.
"Up, up, and away?"
He crouched, focusing his Kryptonian muscles.
Jump.
He soared into the air... about thirty feet. And then gravity took over. He landed with a heavy thudon the next roof over, cracking the concrete.
"Okay," Lucas winced. "Not quite flying. More like... falling with style."
"Practice makes perfect."