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Pierce felt a bolt of lightning strike the top of his head.
"Take over?!"
He shouted into the phone, his voice cracking with extreme anger.
"This is S.H.I.E.L.D.'s asset! On what grounds do you give it to Walt?! To that third‑rate actor in a cape?!"
"Watch your language, Pierce. You are now Secretary‑General of the Security Council, not Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.," the councilor said coldly. "And the helicarrier isn't S.H.I.E.L.D.'s asset; it belongs to the Security Council, even S.H.I.E.L.D. is!"
"The hand‑over procedure is complete."
"Finish your job, Pierce."
"Beep—beep—beep—"
The call ended.
Pierce stood there, stunned.
He looked out at the three massive ships hovering in the sky.
They were still there.
The gun barrels remained fierce.
But they no longer belonged to him.
He had spent decades, countless effort and money, to forge this very Damocles Sword.
In the final second of its unsheathing,
it was snatched away.
And it was taken openly, legally, under the eyes of the whole World.
"Hoo—hoo—!"
Pierce couldn't catch his breath; he clutched his chest, staggered backward, and collapsed onto the sofa.
"Walt… Homelander…"
Pierce gritted his teeth, his eyes full of venom.
"You scoundrel… you despicable scoundrel!!"
"Officer, please take care of yourself," Rumlow stepped forward, concerned.
"Do you need me to call a Doctor?"
"Get out!!"
Pierce roared in fury:
"Do you think you've won?!"
"You think a few broken ships can finish me off?"
Pierce snapped his head up and looked at "Rumlow."
"We still have a trump card."
"As long as HYDRA lives, we haven't lost!"
"Rumlow! Depart immediately. Go to Sokovia."
"Find Baron Strucker; we need more power. We need the strength to confront that blond bastard!"
"Understood, Officer."
Rumlow gave a standard HYDRA salute.
"Long live HYDRA."
"Go… go…" Pierce waved his hand as if his time was up… that very night.
In the cafeteria of the V.G.D. Base.
A uniquely lively "welcome party" was underway.
The long tables were piled with pizza, burgers, fried chicken, and a variety of cocktails and beers.
Bucky Barnes, the once‑feared Winter Soldier, now wore a T‑shirt printed with a big portrait of Homelander, sitting in the corner.
He held a slice of pizza in his left hand, a beer bottle in his right, staring blankly at the surrounding "superheroes" dancing like demons.
"Hey! Ironhand, brother!"
Pietro came over, cup in hand.
"Your arm is so cool! Can I borrow it? I want to film a video for Twitter!"
Bucky gave him a look but said nothing.
"Wow! So cool!" Pietro shouted excitedly.
"Ignore that fool."
Jessica Jones walked over and placed a plate of plums in front of Bucky.
"Steve said you like this." She looked at Bucky, "Welcome to the crew. Though this is a troubled‑youth school, everyone gets along."
Bucky stared at the plate, picked up a plum, and took a bite.
The sweet‑sour juice burst in his mouth.
Time flew, and the once‑noisy party was drawing to a close.
Most of the trainees were drunkenly helped back to their dorms, leaving only a few janitors to clear the leftover dishes.
In the corner, under the dim overhead light, the atmosphere grew heavy.
Bucky Barnes sat there, the beer can in his hand empty yet still clutched.
He lowered his head, gazing at his cold‑glowing metal left arm; his mechanical fingers idly traced the wooden table, making a faint scraping sound.
"Thud, thud, thud."
The sound of leather boots on cement broke the silence.
Homelander approached, followed by Steve and Ashley.
Ashley held a stack of freshly printed documents.
"Looks like you're not keen on a youth party?"
Homelander pulled out a chair and sat opposite him with a grand gesture.
"I'm thinking." Bucky's voice sounded unnatural; he hadn't spoken much in decades.
"Don't overthink. The biggest trouble is thinking too much."
Homelander took the documents from Ashley, tossed them on the table with a soft "pop."
"This is a full identity‑wiping package: new social security number, passport, even a forged Harvard diploma. Sign the last page and Winter Soldier James Barnes will vanish from this World, and you'll get a new arm—one that can bleed."
Homelander pointed at the papers, a confident smile curling his lips.
"From now on, you'll be a senior instructor for V.G.D., or… you could be a superhero with a fan club. Walt can make it happen."
"Stay, Bucky."
Steve eagerly added, gripping his arm tightly.
"It's safe here. Anthony loves the spotlight, but he keeps his promises. No one will brainwash you here, no one will force you to do anything you don't want. We can train newcomers together, like back in Brooklyn…"
Bucky lifted his head; his gray‑blue eyes were bloodshot, filled with deep confusion and pain.
He looked at Steve, then at Homelander, and slowly withdrew his hand.
"No, Steve."
Bucky shook his head, his voice soft yet resolute.
"I can't stay here."
"Why?" Steve pressed, "You've left HYDRA…"
Bucky pointed to his temple, his gaze hollow and unsettling.
"I know I've done many things. Many bad things. Some scenes flash when I sleep—gunshots, screams, blood… I don't know who they belong to or why."
"I even… can't quite recall who you are, Steve." Bucky looked at Steve's hopeful face, closed his eyes in pain, "I want to look for them."
Bucky opened his eyes again, his stare sharpening.
"I want to find my past. I want to know… how much I owe this World."
"You want to retrieve the past?" Homelander leaned back, "Frankly, that's not a good idea."
"Sometimes forgetting is a mercy, Bucky."
Homelander's body tilted slightly forward, his tone becoming profound.
"You know? Truth often hurts more than lies. Your blank now may be a subconscious protection."
"If you truly dig up that buried past…" Homelander paused, his gaze flickering between Steve and Bucky, "you may discover consequences you simply can't bear, possibly destroying the little you still have."
"I don't care."
Bucky met Homelander's stare without hesitation.
"If it's my sin, then it's my sin."
"If I killed someone, I should face the victims' families, not hide here pretending to be a hero."
"I calmly accept any consequence, even death!"