The 1980s arrived, and with them, the brutal, commercial demand for standardization within Vought-American. Crusader was profitable, but his severe zealotry was a statistical anomaly a risk factor in a corporation dedicated to smooth, predictable assets.
He was too outspoken, too pure in his condemnation of "idolatry" and "false gods," and too loud about "righteous judgment."
This fervor was a liability to Vought's new corporate guard, who saw the future in sleek, youthful figures designed for global synergy, not aging knights railing against sin. The market was shifting; Vought needed a brand that was aspirational, profitable, and devoid of the messy, unpredictable element of genuine faith.
Crusader was finally pulled out of the Midwest and into Vought's secondary corporate headquarters a sterile, glass monolith that felt antithetical to the earth and wood of his youth. The air conditioning was too cold, the lighting too harsh, and the silence felt unnatural, broken only by the quiet hum of servers protecting secrets.
The call came from higher up, bypassing Denton and landing Crusader in the office of Ingrid Volkov a figure of pure, terrifying corporate efficiency. Ingrid was all sharp angles, power suits the color of glacial ice, and a voice that delivered soul-crushing ultimatums with the detached calm of a market report.
She didn't offer a contract extension; she offered moderation in exchange for a massive, irreversible elevation.
"Thomas, let's be honest," Ingrid stated, her eyes assessing his rough-hewn armor with unconcealed disdain. "You're a phenomenal asset. Your rescue numbers are untouchable. But your messaging is niche and antagonistic. You talk about 'holy war' when we need 'brand synergy.' We want to put you on national commercials, transition you from regional tours to a national platform, potentially even a slot on the future Justice League roster. But you need to stop calling other Supes 'false idols.' It's bad for the ecosystem. It generates negative press synergy and hurts shareholder value. We need you to align the Crusader brand with a broader, less exclusionary version of American patriotism."
The offer was a sophisticated lure, designed to exploit both his burgeoning pride the promise of global influence and the deep, raw shame over his family's perpetual financial instability. Ingrid offered a guaranteed seven-figure medical and dental plan a necessity Thomas could never afford for his aging, chronically ill parents and, crucially, access to a Vought image team dedicated to refining his brand.
She was offering the security and influence he had compromised his morality for in the first place, but at a far greater cost. The medical plan, in particular, was the cruel, shining hook.
Thomas knew his father's weak heart needed that security, and his own conscience screamed at him for even considering the trade. He was being forced to choose between his spiritual purity and the very real physical well-being of the only people he genuinely loved.
His internal debate was excruciating, a violent, sleepless fight that lasted 72 hours. He was torn between the foundational teachings of Silas and the calculating voice of Thomas's own ambition. "To defeat the Devil, you must step into his parlor," he rationalized, twisting his father's stern warnings into an excuse.
He convinced himself that if he stayed small and pure, Vought would inevitably sideline and neutralize him, and he would never be close enough to truly expose the rot. He had to become one of the Idols to learn how to topple them.
He accepted the compromise reluctantly, rationalizing it as a necessary, tactical entry into the enemy's fortified castle. This was his spiritual self-delusion: the ends justified the means, even if the means were profoundly corrupting his soul.
The cost of this elevation was immediate and steep, an orchestrated degradation of his public identity. The Vought image team stripped away the grit and severity of his character. They softened his slogans, replacing verses from Revelation and the prophets of judgment (like the terrifying Hosea 8:7) with feel-good, vague quotes from the Gospels all light, no fire.
His signature rough-hewn steel shield was confiscated and replaced with a lighter, polished titanium alloy replica a piece of manufactured compromise that he despised. The new shield felt weightless and fragile, reflecting every flashbulb a constant, painful reminder that he was now performing for the light, not serving the shadow.
Even the crimson leather of his armor was subjected to a chemical wash to make it look less grim and more vibrantly marketable, transforming his penitent's garb into a costume. He had traded his authenticity for perks and access, and the knowledge tasted like bitter ash, a constant, low-level spiritual infection.
However, the new access immediately delivered the terrible, unforgivable truth he was seeking. Now that Crusader had Vought medical and a higher security clearance (necessary to coordinate with emerging national figures), he saw the systemic rot up close. He wasn't just dealing with Denton's petty bribery; he was dealing with institutionalized crime and murder.
During a high-level briefing on a recent 'containment event' involving a minor celebrity Supe named Lightning Bolt, Thomas realized the sickening reality. Lightning Bolt hadn't just 'misused his powers,' as the internal memo claimed.
Lightning Bolt had raped and murdered two civilians after a club appearance. Vought's legal team, in conjunction with an in-house medical unit, was actively fabricating suicide notes for the victims, bribing local police forces, and tampering with Compound V traces at the crime scene to ensure the hero's perfect record remained intact.
The file was clinical, brief, and utterly devoid of human empathy, detailing the suppression of evidence as casually as a quarterly sales report. The bureaucratic efficiency of the evil was the final, devastating blow.
Thomas, who had spent his life striving for moral purity, felt a physical wave of nausea so intense it almost made his invulnerability fail.
This wasn't professional negligence; this was corporate evil on a demonic scale, a moral plague far deeper than he had imagined. The contrast between the scripture he preached and the horrors he read was unbearable. He immediately demanded to speak to the head of the legal team, convinced that if he just showed them the evidence of their sin, they would retreat.
He was met with cold, amused silence and a dismissive wave toward Ingrid.
"Crusader, you need to understand the economy of truth," Ingrid explained, leaning back in her chair with a predatory smile. "Lightning Bolt is a Compound V success story. He generates eleven figures in merchandise. Two dead civilians generate zero. We don't care about justice; we care about profit protection. We are protecting the shareholders, Thomas. And now, you are one of the assets protecting the shareholders." She let the phrase hang in the sterile air: "You are protecting the shareholders." The deliberate use of the word 'protecting' in relation to the coverup was a spiritual obscenity.
The implicit threat was chilling and total. By accepting the contract, the perks, and the medical plan for his parents, Crusader was no longer just a contracted hero; he was now a complicit witness a co-conspirator bound by non-disclosure agreements, the fear of losing his family's security, and the chilling knowledge that Vought would ruin him utterly if he broke rank.
His faith in Vought, in the possibility of external reform, and even his simple faith in the general goodness of humanity didn't just fracture they shattered into dust.
The world was a cesspool, and his father's small, moral farm had merely been a sandbox. He began to see every other Supe not as a flawed hero, but as a potential monster, sheltered and enabled by a powerful, unholy church. The only entity he trusted now was his own ability to judge and execute, unbound by earthly law.
This discovery fueled a dark, private obsession that replaced his previous humility. Crusader continued to perform his duties perfectly the softened sermons, the political nods, the endless photo-ops but internally, he began a relentless, meticulous operation.
He used his elevated security clearance, working late into the night, printing documents in black and white, cross-referencing coverups, and noting names and dates of victims.
His private journal, which would soon be titled Against the Idols of Steel: An Accounting, became his sanctuary, a private accounting ledger of Vought's sins. His initial, naïve goal of bringing God's law through influence curdled into the fierce, singular objective of destroying the entire corporate structure from the inside, regardless of the necessary violence.
His bitterness was now permanent, an acid bath for his soul, and the seeds of the greatest Betrayal had been planted, ready to sprout into a holy war of one. He was still the Crusader, but the crusade was now silent, and aimed inward.