Tony Stark drew a long breath, saying nothing to Pepper about what was happening off-camera in Budapest. Hungary was now under martial law. Nearly all opposition parties had been wiped out. Hidden dealings long buried in the dark were dragged into the open. Orbán's power swelled to unprecedented heights, to the point he could alter the constitution and rule autocratically. In truth, many opposition figures were executed on the spot without trial. Those who tried to flee Hungary were hunted down by Latovinian and Hungarian forces working together and locked into prisons.
These reports were tightly sealed. Only a select few knew the truth, and Tony had learned of it only through his Pentagon contacts. It drove him into a pit of despair. He knew Solomon had terrifying power projection and decapitation capability. What he couldn't understand was the haste. The alien fleet was still some distance from Earth. There was still time for nations to cooperate. But if NATO began military action, no one on Earth could stop Solomon from striking world leaders and corporate dynasties, plunging Europe and even the United States into a nightmarish state of leaderless chaos.
"Congress wants the Avengers to stop him, buy time for NATO to gather its forces. But that might mean my death." His voice was low. "I know Solomon. Anyone who stands in his way dies. Even me. I… I've never seen him move this massively before. There's something more to this."
At Avengers HQ, the air was thick and heavy. Outside of contracted support staff, most of the former S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives who now handled intelligence felt the storm about to break. Twenty minutes ago, the Secretary of State's motorcade rolled into the compound. Secret Service replaced Avengers security. Some of the team had gone into the conference room with him—and hadn't come back out. Maria Hill stood at the door with her arms crossed like a woman guarding a bomb that might explode any second.
Anyone with an eye on international news could guess why. These former S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives had lived through Hydra's betrayal, had been fugitives, then screened and cleared. This base was their only refuge. None of them wanted to see the Avengers dissolved—because that would mean prison. They knew the interrogation methods of America's agencies; they had used them themselves. They also knew no amount of counter-interrogation training would save them.
"Where's Dr. Banner?" Steve Rogers sat at the sleek glass conference table in a minimalist black leather chair. The expressions around him varied—each Avenger carrying their own worries. Not all cared about why the Secretary had come.
Natasha Romanoff, just back from Europe, looked grim, her brows knotted. She understood the purpose of this meeting but cared far more about what she had been chasing overseas. Always, she caught just a glimpse of her target before it slipped away. She could not fathom why—except that it wasn't the Immortal City leaking intel. They were too busy rebuilding Latovinia. To Natasha, the "target" posed a bigger threat to the Avengers than any treaty.
Sam Wilson, the retired soldier known as Falcon, had no such clarity. He had spent the past days searching for a man who could shrink—and had no desire for others to know about the humiliation. Pietro Maximoff looked drowsy, worn from his sister's relentless calls urging him to flee Avengers HQ. She had warned him what was coming. Though Pietro half-expected it too, he clung to optimism that the matter would be resolved peacefully.
Colonel James Rhodes—War Machine—was already fully briefed by both the Pentagon and Tony. He supported the Accords without hesitation. As a soldier of the U.S. military first, the chain of command mattered more to him than the Avengers.
"General Ross, we have strong evidence Dr. Banner's disappearance is tied to you."
"I have no idea what you're talking about. And besides, this meeting doesn't require a beast at the table. Also, I'm not a general anymore. I'm Secretary of State and Deputy Secretary of Defense. Not just a general." Thaddeus E. Ross, now in a business suit, had shed all the roughness of his Army years. He even smelled of cologne. "I'm here on behalf of the White House and the Pentagon to negotiate with the Avengers."
"This isn't negotiation. It's coercion." Steve Rogers glanced at Tony Stark—silent—and at Vision, equally silent. Then he crossed his arms and addressed Ross directly. "You know our position."
"Need I spell it out again? Sokovia. South Africa. The Avengers were meant as S.H.I.E.L.D.'s emergency measure. Back then, at least Fury kept you from disasters beyond control. Now, with no S.H.I.E.L.D., you run around like headless chickens, causing more trouble than you fix. The UN won't allow that. The Avengers must be regulated. You'll act only when the UN agrees you are needed."
"You're mistaken about one thing, Ross." Steve's voice rose slightly, meant for everyone to hear. "I don't oppose oversight. I oppose oversight by governments we cannot trust. I can already see what happens once we sign. Where do you send us? Afghanistan? Syria? Yemen? Somalia? Palestine? You want us to occupy oil fields? Seize grain? Burn the crops of drug lords who won't play ball with the CIA? Experiment on locals in labs? I joined the Army to fight for justice. This isn't justice. And maybe you'll try to send us to Latovinia too—just because of a televised death threat?"
"In twenty-four hours, dozens of CIA assets in Hungary have been arrested. Research institutes backed by the U.S. military have been raided, staff captured. FBI and DHS report that American-linked cybersecurity firms have been bombed. You've seen the rest on social media. And at home, mass protests are erupting. People are demanding American troops be brought back."
Ross was prepared. He activated the conference room's projector, displaying footage from CIA operatives in Hungary and FBI investigations into the bombed firms. Under mounting pressure, the machine of the state was grinding forward with frightening efficiency, surfacing countless threads.
Onscreen, the Avengers saw dossiers of suspects, their methods, their weapons, their logistics.
The operations bore the hallmarks of CIA-style insurgency—but executed with far greater skill. Each trail was as elusive as a white feather on snow, impossible to pin down. From online chatter to weapons caches to the operatives' links, the U.S. intelligence community was baffled. Inside government buildings, DHS and FBI nearly had their hands at CIA's throat demanding answers.
But CIA swore repeatedly it wasn't them.
That only deepened the dread. A ghost was moving across America—smuggling weapons, stirring crowds, funneling funds with consummate skill. And the only trace was faint data leaks from domestic servers whose owners had no idea anything had happened.
Even these scraps were enough to chill veterans to the bone. Retired CIA and FBI agents whispered that they were facing an enemy like a phantom, and the pressure they felt exceeded even the KGB at its worst.
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