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"What is the Insight Project for?" Pierce stood up and walked to the massive floor‑to‑ceiling window, looking down over Washington.
"For order," Sitwell replied as if reciting a script. "By using algorithms to predict threats and eliminate them before they materialize."
"Exactly," Pierce nodded. "Stark, Banner, Steve Rogers… they're all on the algorithm's list. They're threats, but… predictable threats."
"But this 'Patriot'…" Pierce's smile faded. "He's not in the algorithm. He burst out of the stone, he's unbelievably strong, and now he's fraternizing with the President."
"He's not threatening the order, Rumlow. He's... building his own order."
"And so what?" Rumlow sneered. "He's still human. Being human means having weaknesses."
"Oh?" Pierce turned to look at him.
"Weaknesses?" Pierce's voice grew cold. "Brock, give me a status report up to now."
Rumlow's smile froze.
"Well… we placed an operative behind the scenes of the 'Jimmy Show' to collect saliva from his cup. The cup 'accidentally' shattered before the operative could touch it."
"We sent a Level‑7 operative disguised as a temporary extra on the set of 'Patriot: Origin' to stage a 'chance encounter'. The extra was dismissed on the spot by his assistant Ashley for a falsified résumé before he could get into his limo."
"We even deployed our best sniper with a custom 'sampling round' to try to scrape off a bit of his skin cells."
"Result: the sniper was vaporized from two kilometres away by his heat vision, which melted his scope. The sniper is now in a psychological rehab center, convinced he saw God."
"That bastard..." sweat beaded on Rumlow's forehead.
"Brock..." Pierce sat back down, crossing his fingers.
"He can hear our heartbeats, see through our bones. Even… this pervert might be eavesdropping on us right now."
(Meanwhile, Anthony, sunbathing on a beach, suddenly flipped the bird toward Washington.)
"What do we do, sir?" Sitwell furrowed his brow.
"If he discovers us…"
"Go ahead, Sitwell. Deploy all our 'assets'. I don't care how you do it—I need his DNA."
"A single hair, a drop of blood, even a speck of skin cells."
Pierce patted Sitwell's shoulder.
"Even if he's truly a Superman… we'll have to create kryptonite."
..."My hair…"
Anthony, clad in a silk robe, stood in his massive walk‑in closet atop the Stark Tower, looking utterly annoyed.
"Ashley!"
"Yes, sir?" His chief assistant, Ashley, swept in on high heels like a gust of wind.
"Why?" Anthony pointed at the leather sofa.
"Why is there a strand of blond hair on it that isn't mine?"
Ashley froze, examined it closely.
"Sir… isn't that your hair?"
"No." Anthony's gaze was icy.
"This one… is too thick and… it's fake."
He pinched the wig strand between two fingers.
"How many times this month…?" Anthony asked calmly.
Ashley's tablet lit up: "Sir, counting the female fan who tried to 'hug' you at last night's charity gala and was knocked out by your custom suit, this is already the twelfth occurrence."
"Twelve times," Anthony smiled.
Back when he was a movie star in a past life, he'd never seen so many obsessive fans.
At first, he assumed it was just a clumsy S.H.I.E.L.D. test.
Like three days ago.
He was 'pretending' to work out in the Wat headquarters gym for a promotional shoot when a new janitor clumsily wiped the equipment nearby.
Anthony's X‑ray vision effortlessly saw through the janitor's uniform pocket to the military‑grade bio‑sampler inside.
What did he do then?
"Zzz—"
To everyone else, the janitor's phone sparked and short‑circuited with a 'zzzz' sound.
But from Anthony's perspective, he used a 0.01‑second precise heat beam to melt the sampling vial through the uniform, simultaneously scorching the phone in her pocket.
"Oh my god," he 'gallantly' steadied the woman.
"Seems your phone's subpar. Have you heard of Wat's newest V‑Phone?"
The female operative fled in panic.
Anthony was fed up.
These 'rats'… are too filthy.
He recalled the faint, lingering stench of rot inside S.H.I.E.L.D.
"Ha," Anthony laughed.
"…it's Hydra. Damn, I hadn't even looked for you, and you come after me."
His memories from a past life snapped together instantly.
"Snake Shield… damn, it's a nest of snakes and rats."
"Sir?"
"Ashley, what do you think paparazzi and obsessive fans hate most?" Anthony asked abruptly.
"…uh, getting caught by security?"
"No." Anthony shook his head.
"What they hate most… the spotlight."
"I've had enough of these bitches pulling at my hair."
"Ashley."
"Here, sir."
"Find me someone."
...Two days later, Los Angeles, a beat‑up Dodge van parked in an alley.
This is the mobile base of 'High Tide'.
Sky, sporting two massive black circles under her eyes, was on her Nth attempt to breach a S.H.I.E.L.D. encrypted firewall.
"Fuck! Failed again!" she snapped, tugged at her hair, and chugged a can of Wat energy drink.
"S.H.I.E.L.D… you bastards, what exactly are you hiding…"
"Knock, knock, knock."
Someone was pounding on her van door.
Sky's hair stood on end instantly!
She'd parked in a spot even a homeless person wouldn't dare approach!
She snatched the stun gun from under the seat and aimed it at the door.
"Who?!"
"A… fan who appreciates your talent."
Outside the door, the voice was gentle, magnetic, and oddly familiar to her.
Sky trembled as she opened the door.
The sunlight… was blocked.
The man, dressed in a red‑and‑blue uniform with an American flag cape draped behind him, bowed his head and smiled at her.
"…"
Sky's brain stalled for three seconds.
"I… what?" The stun gun in her hand clattered to the floor.
"H… Homelander?!"
"Hello, Sky," Anthony's smile was flawless.
"Do you mind if I come in and sit? And maybe connect to your Wi‑Fi while I'm at it."