"Are you leaving?" Steve Rogers stared intently at the Sokovia Accords lying on the table, his face full of distress. His actions had failed to demonstrate the necessity of oversight, and he hadn't managed to uncover who was truly behind Rumlow and the remaining Hydra loyalists or what their objective was. After asking Agent Maria Hill to hand over the Ebola virus sample, he hadn't pursued the matter further—not even questioning why a country like Nigeria had such an advanced virology lab. "I haven't heard your opinion about the Accords," he said. "I want to know what everyone thinks."
"I know what you think, and I know what Stark thinks. It's hard to choose, because you're both right. Stark's afraid of weapons going unregulated. You're afraid of those weapons being used in the wrong place. If someone could tell right from wrong here, it certainly isn't me." Natasha Romanoff shrugged. But she had picked up something unusual in Steve's words—something he said that only that man could've said. Though Steve had never told anyone, he was not a trained counterintelligence agent, and she had caught the clue. "To me, the best outcome would be for the Avengers not to split up. But it looks like that's impossible now. I used to be a spy, but now I have the Avengers, a family. And yet, when that family breaks apart, I'm powerless... Think of me like a teenager watching their parents get divorced. I'm going to drive to New York for some fun, maybe see if I can find anything on Dr. Banner."
She tried to downplay the whole thing with a cheerful tone, a tactic that usually worked on most people.
"Thanks, Nat."
"No need." The red-haired agent winked, slipped on her sunglasses, and threw on her leather jacket. Just before leaving the meeting room, she turned back and said, "If you ever want to talk about that mission... I found some evidence—about that virology lab. I've got a list. Those people might have been Rumlow's buyers."
"No need. I think I already know what's going on."
Natasha nodded and left the room, zipping her jacket up as if trying to choke herself with the collar. She hurried to the underground garage via elevator, found her custom garage slot, and fired up her modified motorcycle. With a roar from the engine, she shot up the concrete ramp and turned right, heading toward New York. She didn't look as energetic as she seemed—that was just a façade. In truth, she hadn't slept in a day. This trip to New York was about settling scores, about finding out what was really going on. She still remembered that she held a ticket—one that gave her a bargaining chip. The moment she left, Steve Rogers reached out, picked up the Sokovia Accords from the table, and flipped through it aimlessly.
At Solomon's recommendation, he had read countless records and documents, and in those, he saw how everything he had fought for had become a joke. During the war, he had been reduced to a stage actor selling war bonds. Even after proving himself, the following 70 years turned him into a teen idol. It all seemed perfect, but filming public service shorts hadn't helped anyone. He'd watched firsthand as educated young people were sent to places they shouldn't be—to kill and be killed—while those pulling the strings drank the blood of both Americans and Afghans, amassing unfathomable wealth.
Steve Rogers understood now: he had to change. This was his last chance.
He would be branded a traitor. Neither Democrats nor Republicans would support him. Only a few clear-headed individuals would understand why he did it. From now on, the title "Captain America" would represent shame, not honor. He would destroy the reputation he had built with his own hands. The White House would simply install a new "American hero" to replace him and continue selling patriotism. Once inside the system, one could only play by its rules—just like the premise of The Matrix, a movie Sam had recommended to him. The system didn't allow anyone to escape the machine that generated endless wealth for the elites. To sustain the illusion of safety, it kept manufacturing fake threats and increasingly extreme politics. That's why he didn't support Tony Stark becoming Secretary of Defense.
He, Steve Rogers, was now a provider of false comfort under the guise of "Captain America" and the "Avengers"—a pacifier, a consumer product, a cultural symbol hijacked by capital. Americans happily drowned in this fake sense of security. That made him feel unbearably sad.
The only thing he still wondered about was why Solomon had, so boldly and so long ago, given him those banned books—books that were taboo in the U.S. Back then, Solomon didn't know who Steve really was or whether he'd accept the ideas in those books. Yet Solomon had still done it, and even in front of Nick Fury, he hadn't tried to hide it. Maybe ever since their first meeting, Solomon had already planned out Steve's path. Steve remembered vividly the moment Solomon lashed out at Fury in private, condemning his use of Agent Orange in Vietnam. Maybe that outburst had been staged—meant for Steve to overhear and spark his curiosity, pushing him to explore the West's sins in the post-war era. Perhaps even bringing him to Eastern Europe to take part in a war was all part of that plan.
But Steve Rogers leaned toward another possibility.
"Could it be... he can see the future?" He'd always been skeptical of that idea—even knowing Solomon was a sorcerer. But judging by Solomon's actions over the years, every move seemed to correspond with future events. When others were caught off guard by a crisis, Solomon had already made preparations.
If he truly could see the future, it would explain why, after the Battle of New York, when everyone else celebrated, Solomon refused to be in the spotlight, refused to let others know who he was. He openly disdained Alexander Pierce, who held great power at the time, and even slapped a senator in the face. Solomon had long since committed to his chosen path. He had seen through the true nature of the Avengers from the beginning. That foresight still left Steve in awe.
Was the world too foolish? Or was Solomon too clear-eyed?
Steve Rogers couldn't decide. After seeing the devastation in Eastern Europe, he had made an impulsive decision. Regardless, he had no choice. That blood-red shield was sitting in his room. It was time to use it.
——————————
Flickering yellow streetlights illuminated trash-strewn pavement. Old bicycles lay abandoned on sidewalks, their outlines smudged by the encroaching darkness. Aged canvas billboards loomed overhead, only a few working bulbs still faintly lighting the fake smiles of washed-up celebrities. From window after window came the bleating noise of televisions, all blending into a drone like flies buzzing over a garbage heap. The barking dogs, drunkards cursing, and the occasional car that passed by and quickly fled—everything about the place screamed decay. Natasha Romanoff was familiar with neighborhoods like this. She didn't glance at the usual scenes below. Instead, she looked up at the man standing on the steps.
"You gave Rogers a shield?"
"Yes. And it's highly advanced—comes with a directional ion shield."
Natasha hadn't tracked him to some hotel suite but rather to a neighborhood in Brooklyn. The local crime rate was awful—but recently, all the street thugs had vanished. First came an unknown man who sailed off with a boat full of high-profile felons. Then a lunatic nicknamed "The Punisher" wiped out every gang den. Crime in Brooklyn plummeted to record lows. Even the police dared enforce laws in the slums again. All of this could be traced back to the man standing in front of her. But at the same time, this man was also deeply entangled with the very crime syndicates operating in New York. The evidence she had found showed countless connections between him and the heads of organized crime.
Solomon stood in his crimson relic-woven robe. A golden-winged mechanical eagle perched on his raised armored forearm. His gauntlet bore sharp talons, and under the polluted moonlight, the yellow-white glow gleamed along their razor edges, as if they were torn from some war machine.
Natasha Romanoff wasn't naïve enough to think he was showing off new gear. She quietly speculated just how much blood those claws had spilled during that last assault.
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