By now, Marcus had learned nearly everything he needed from Hawkeye. The good news and bad news balanced each other out, but his next phase of the plan hadn't yet arrived. So he kept the conversation going, maintaining the image of a curious, loyal survivor.
"Hawkeye," Marcus asked casually, "if—just hypothetically—the U.S. or another country really did drop a nuke on New York… America wouldn't truly be finished, would it?"
Hawkeye gave a short, incredulous laugh. He looked Marcus straight in the eye, then tapped a finger firmly against the floor beneath them.
"New York is America—or at least, the heart of it," he said solemnly. "This city is the world's financial capital, home to some of the brightest minds on the planet. It's the backbone of our economy. If New York is wiped off the map, the resulting financial shock would plunge the U.S. into bankruptcy overnight. That would trigger a total collapse—economic, political, social. The country would tear itself apart."
He paused, his voice tightening. "So yes, you could say that launching a nuclear strike requires the highest kind of resolve—because it would mean destroying our own future."
"So the question is," Marcus murmured, pretending to reflect, "save humanity… or save America?"
Hawkeye hesitated, then sighed deeply. "I hate to admit it, but yes. That's the reality. And believe me, as long as there's still a chance to turn things around, the government will never sacrifice this country for the sake of the world."
He patted Marcus on the shoulder and forced a reassuring smile. "We just need time, kid. Give the military a little longer, and they'll crush these things. The vaccine's coming too. One day soon, this nightmare will end. Things won't get any worse than they already are."
Marcus smiled faintly. 'Don't worry, Hawkeye,' he thought darkly. 'I'll make sure it does.'
But another thought crossed his mind—one far more intriguing. If Hawkeye is willing to defy the world for his country… would he defy humanity itself for someone he loves?
That idea was worth testing.
"This kind of talk might shake people's faith," Marcus said, offering a knowing smile before Hawkeye could warn him. "Don't worry, I won't mention any of it to the others."
Hawkeye nodded approvingly. "Good man. You've got a level head."
Before either could continue, a voice broke the tense quiet.
"Hey! Guys—something's wrong!"
One of the med students burst up the stairs, panting heavily. "Hawkeye, it's Armstrong… he's not going to make it!"
The air in the room turned heavy. Hawkeye immediately stood, motioning for silence, then followed the student downstairs.
The faint, flickering lights illuminated a grim scene. Armstrong lay motionless on a mattress, drenched in sweat. The young med student who had volunteered earlier was desperately trying to bandage his wounds, his hands trembling as he worked.
Hawkeye approached quickly. "What's going on?"
The student looked up, his face pale and defeated. "The wound's badly infected. His body's too weak to handle the infection and the blood loss. We need proper surgical tools to stitch it up, or he won't last the night. But…" He gestured helplessly toward the small first-aid kit beside him. "All we've got are basic supplies. It's not enough."
"Damn it," Hawkeye muttered under his breath. "After everything we did to save him…"
The crowd of survivors—who had only hours earlier celebrated Armstrong's survival—fell silent again. The joy and relief had drained away, replaced by guilt and despair. Their fleeting hope had only made the blow feel crueler.
Someone began to whisper a prayer.
"God, please… spare this poor soul. He's suffered enough already."
Another voice broke in, desperate. "Isn't there anything we can do?"
"Yes," Marcus said suddenly.
All eyes turned toward him.
He raised his hand and pointed through the shattered window toward the opposite side of the street. "Everything we need is over there."
Across the road stood a large pharmacy, its faded sign barely visible through the shadows. It was only a short distance away—but the street between was carpeted with corpses, and no one knew how many more lurked inside that dark building.
"Too dangerous," someone said immediately.
Marcus gave a faint, confident smile. "Dangerous? I carried Armstrong out of a swarm of those things alive. This is nothing compared to that."
Another survivor shook his head pessimistically. "Even if we find medicine, it might not be enough to save him. We could lose more people for nothing."
"So we just give up on him?" Marcus's voice rose sharply. He leapt onto a checkout counter, towering over the others as his words rang through the store. "Tell me—what happened to all that talk about freedom and human rights? Don't you people call this the land of the free? 'Human rights first,' you say—well, those aren't gifts from the government, they're something we fight for ourselves!"
He swept his gaze across the room, his tone burning with conviction. "If we keep turning away every time the cost is too high, who's going to help us when we're the ones left behind? Maybe the army abandoned us—but does that mean we abandon each other too? What happened to that American spirit you're all so proud of?"
The room fell utterly silent. Then, at last, Hawkeye stepped forward.
"I'll go with you," he said firmly. "You're right. This is America."
"Thank you, Hawkeye." Marcus reached down, extending his hand. Hawkeye clasped it without hesitation.
"Kid," Hawkeye said, with a rare, genuine smile, "you remind me of someone I used to fight alongside—a man named Captain America."
Marcus smiled modestly. "That's an honor."
Watching the two of them standing side by side—the nation's symbol of heroism and the charismatic young survivor—the others felt a surge of pride and courage rise within them.
One of the med students clenched his fists, eyes blazing with determination. "Count me in."
"Me too!"
"And me!"
"God bless America!"
One by one, hands stacked together—united by purpose, fueled by Marcus's words. What had begun as despair now burned as renewed faith. In moments, the Armstrong Rescue Squad was formed.
They turned toward the pharmacy across the street, its dim silhouette glowing faintly in the night. It stood as a symbol of hope—and none of them noticed the faint smile tugging at the corner of Marcus's lips.
He raised his fist high. "For the spirit of America! For our belief in what's right!"
The survivors echoed in unison, their voices filling the air:
"For the spirit of America! For our belief in what's right!"
____
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