The helicarrier hung low over the Atlantic, a vast grey blade suspended between sea and cloud. Four turbine banks churned the salt air into a constant low howl. On the flight deck, deckhands in yellow vests moved through their routines like ants crossing a steel island.
Clark Kent descended through the overcast without the sonic boom. He didn't need the speed. He wanted them to see him coming. His red cape snapped in the wind, then fell still as his boots touched the nonskid deck plating.
Two agents were already running toward him. They stopped six feet away. One raised a hand, palm out, then recognized the symbol on his chest and let the hand drop.
"Superman."
"I need to see Director Fury."
"He's in a level-three briefing. You can't just—"
"Tell him I'm here."
---
The agent spoke into her wrist comm. Two minutes passed. The deck crew stared. Clark stood motionless, cape still, eyes fixed on the tower door.
The door opened.
Nick Fury walked out alone. Trench coat. Eyepatch. Expression that could mean anything or nothing. He stopped ten feet from Clark and looked him up and down the way a man looks at a problem he hasn't figured out yet.
"You don't visit," Fury said. "You show up when the sky is falling. So tell me what's goingon?."
"Not here. Inside."
Fury's eye narrowed. He turned. Clark followed.
---
The central ops room was cold and blue-lit. Monitors lined the walls, each one tracking a different continent. Fury dismissed the junior agents with a flick of his fingers. The door sealed with a pneumatic hiss.
Fury leaned against the central console. Crossed his arms.
"Talk."
Clark reached into a compartment on his belt. Pulled out a thin data drive. Set it on the console between them.
"Play it."
Fury didn't move for a long moment. Then he picked up the drive. Turned it over in his fingers. Slotted it into the console.
The main screen flickered. Static. Then resolution. A city street. Afternoon light. A young couple on the sidewalk. The girl was mid-sentence, gesturing, smiling. The boy was listening with his hands in his pockets. The audio was faint but clear.
"—so I thought maybe we could leave. Together. Get out of this city, go somewhere quieter, you know?"
The boy smiled. "Somewhere quieter. You'd last a week."
"Shut up."
They laughed. The light was golden. The frame was ordinary.
Then the frame was red.
Impact. Sound like a wet explosion captured a half-second too late by the microphone. The girl's body ceased to exist as a whole thing. What remained sprayed across the sidewalk, the wall, the boy's face. He stood frozen. His hands still extended where her hands had been. In his grip, two severed forearms. Blood pooling in his palms. Dripping through his fingers.
The speedster stopped twenty yards down the street. The camera caught his profile. A-Train. Blue and white suit. Sweat on his face. His mouth moved.
"I can't stop. I can't—"
Then he ran. The frame was empty again except for the boy and the blood.
Fury watched without blinking. The footage played to its end. The screen went dark.
He didn't speak.
"Her name was Robin," Clark said. "The boy is Hughie Campbell. Vought's legal team visited him within six hours. Offered money. Made him sign papers."
Fury ejected the drive. Held it in his palm.
"Where did you get this?"
"A source."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I'm giving."
Fury set the drive down. His voice was quiet now. Quieter than before. "This is Vought International. Vought. You understand what you're handing me?"
"I understand."
"Do you? Vought helped fight the War. Their supes broke the enemy line at Chosin. They ran air support in the Gulf. They have friends in the Pentagon who still owe them medals. Half the Defense Appropriations Committee has Vought money in their campaigns." Fury stepped closer. "You're asking me to believe that one of their top heroes vaporized a girl on a public street and their entire operation covered it up like a spilled drink."
"I'm not asking you to believe anything. I'm showing you."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Your job."
Fury laughed. A short, dry sound with no warmth in it. "My job is to protect the world. Sometimes that means protecting it from itself. Sometimes that means protecting it from well-meaning aliens who don't understand how human politics work."
Clark's jaw tightened. The air in the room felt heavier. "This isn't politics. It's murder."
"It's both." Fury's voice hardened. "I've got a hundred and twelve active threat assessments on my board right now. Demons. Metahumans. Alien remnants. And you want me to add America's favorite superhero company to that list based on one video from an anonymous source?"
"Anonymous doesn't mean unreliable."
"Anonymous means I can't verify it. Anonymous means if I move against Vought and the source disappears, I'm the one standing in front of Congress explaining why SHIELD attacked a patriotic institution."
"The source won't disappear."
"You don't know that."
"I know him."
Fury was quiet. He studied Clark's face. Then he nodded slowly. "Him. One of yours. One of the League."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." Fury turned to the monitor. The frozen image of the empty street. The blood on the concrete. "Even if I believed this. Even if I acted. Vought would bury us. They don't fight fair. They fight with lawyers, lobbyists, press releases. They fight in the light. You're the one who taught us to fight in the light, Superman. What happens when the light is the weapon?"
Clark stepped forward. For the first time, his voice hard.
"The light is always the weapon. But only if you use it."
"Pretty words."
Fury met his eyes. The room was silent except for the hum of the turbines. Two men who had saved the world, staring at each other across a console.
"I can't help you," Fury said. "Not officially. Not until I have more than one video and a name I'm not allowed to know."
"Then I'll get more."
"You do that." Fury picked up the drive. Tucked it into his coat. "And Superman. Be careful. Vought doesn't fight fair. They never have. You do. That's your strength." He paused. "It's also your weakness."
Clark walked to the door. It hissed open. He paused on the threshold.
"I know," he said. "But it's the only way I can fight. If I change that, I'm not me anymore."
The door closed. Fury stood alone in the blue light. He pulled out the drive and stared at it.
"Damn it," he said to no one. "Damn it."
---
Outside, the sky was clearing. Clark stood on the flight deck, cape moving in the wind. Below him, the Atlantic stretched grey and endless. He could hear everything. The crew inside. The turbines. Fury's footsteps receding into the ship.
He could also hear the recording still playing in his head. The girl's laugh. The wet impact. The silence after.
He launched. The deck shuddered. The clouds swallowed him. He flew east, toward the Watchtower, toward what came next.
Whatever that was.