The city of Manhattan was a vibrant, oblivious hum when Thomas walked out of his ruined apartment, but by dawn, that hum had turned into a shrill, digital scream. Operation Gideon's Trumpet was successful. The timed cryptographic release had detonated precisely on schedule, flooding every major newsroom, watchdog server, and dark corner of the internet with the contents of Against the Idols of Steel: An Accounting.
The Deluge of Damnation
The leak was unprecedented. It wasn't just a handful of documents; it was a tsunami of undeniable evidence, cross-referenced, notarized, and legally verified by Thomas's meticulous years of work. The sheer volume and integrity of the data left no room for the usual Vought spin.
The fallout was immediate and catastrophic. Trading was immediately and indefinitely halted on all Vought-related stock the value had dropped to zero faster than a falling satellite. Government offices were paralyzed. The revelation that the very infrastructure meant to protect the world was, in fact, a decentralized criminal organization, sent waves of genuine, existential fear through the populace. Protests erupted spontaneously, with citizens finally armed with the truth burning Crusader and Soldier Boy merchandise in the streets.
The data included:
The Lightning Bolt Files: Complete forensic reports, signed affidavits from Vought legal staff, and financial records detailing the bribes paid to five separate parties to cover up the murders. The accompanying video files, showing the smug testimony of the coroner and the legal team's celebratory dinner, left no room for deniability. The files also implicated a sitting Senator who had personally helped move the bodies.
The Compound V Ledger: Encrypted communication logs proving Vought knew the substance was highly unstable in 80% of recipients and actively marketed it anyway, concealing thousands of resulting civilian fatalities and birth defects, particularly among children in low-income areas. It detailed the deliberate targeting of marginalized communities for Compound V testing, with internal documents using the term "Disposables" to refer to the victims. One chilling memo estimated the Human Cost vs. Profit Ratio and concluded that the public relations fallout of a massive cover-up was "still significantly cheaper than developing a stable variant."
Congressional Blackmail: Audio and video files proving high-ranking officials were coerced into voting for deregulation acts that allowed Vought to operate above national jurisdiction. The files included transcripts of Vought executives mocking the officials they controlled, referring to the entire legislative body as "The Puppet Show." The exposure led to instantaneous, mass resignations, pushing the US government to the brink of complete operational paralysis and triggering genuine discussion about military control.
The Soldier Boy Generation Audit: Detailed records of chemical dependencies, psychiatric evaluations, and forced disappearances (like Mind-Droid's "retirement"), painting the original heroes not as champions, but as chemically maintained, unstable weapons. It cataloged the horrifying moral decay of the Supe culture the casual violence, the open bigotry, and the absolute lack of accountability. It was a brutal exposure of the myth's foundation, revealing the heroes of the past as nothing more than glorified, dangerous criminals.
Vought's rapid response tech teams tried to initiate a systemic counter-purge, but Thomas's redundancy protocols were too deeply embedded and the volume of data too overwhelming; for every file they deleted, ten more appeared across decentralized global servers. The effort was futile, and the digital battle was lost before the sun fully rose.
Thomas, now stripped of his corporate persona and fueled only by the cold, clear light of his terrible purpose, was already on the move. He traveled only in the city's shadows, ignoring the flashing sirens and the helicopters that were now tracking the sudden, dramatic shift in his Vought transponder signal. He was a man made of purpose, not flesh, moving with the preternatural focus of a missile locked onto its final target.
The Showdown with Ingrid
His destination was not the nearest safe house or a pre-arranged meeting point. It was the top of Vought Tower the Apex of the Idols of Steel. He knew the building's physical layout and its security weak points better than the architectural plans. He bypassed all external security, riding a thermal current upward until he landed silently on the observation deck, his heavy, scarred shield clanking on the cold granite. The wind howled around him, carrying the distant, angry noise of the city.
Ingrid was there, surprisingly alone, staring out at the chaotic glow of the city. She wasn't running. She was waiting, sipping slowly from a glass of what looked like pure scotch.
She turned, her expensive suit immaculate, her cold smile finally gone. She looked tired, a woman who had just realized the structure she dedicated her life to was now dust. A faint scent of fine whiskey and expensive leather hung in the air, a final, defiant layer of luxury over the destruction.
"Gideon's Trumpet," she said quietly, recognizing the code name. "Elegant. Biblical. I knew it was you, Thomas. The data was too clean, too organized. Only a zealot could hate us this much. You used the very privileges we gave you to destroy us. That's poetic."
"It was never hate," Thomas corrected, his voice a low, resonant rumble against the wind. He gripped the heavy shield strap, feeling the familiar weight of his genuine conviction. "It was judgment. You told me I was complicit. You were right. I am here to account for my part in your sin."
Ingrid walked toward him, surprisingly fearless. She stopped, toeing the lighter, discarded titanium shield Thomas had tossed aside before the final ascent. "And your parents? I see the news. Did that give you the justification you needed? Was a worthless insurance policy the price of the world's exposure? You are a terrorist, Thomas. You broke your contract, endangered thousands, and now you've given the government the excuse they always wanted to put every last one of us in a cage. You didn't save the world. You doomed it to martial law."
"The price was my soul, Ingrid. The insurance policy just proved your Absolute Malice that you would make a man trade his morality for a lie. The platinum plan was a sham designed to secure my obedience, just like the Compound V was a sham designed to secure your profit. It proved you are the Whore, and you must be purged."
Ingrid laughed, a genuine, brittle sound of despair. "Purged? Thomas, you think you've won? You've only confirmed what we always knew: Supes are unstable, chaotic liabilities. Now, the government won't ask Vought to regulate us. They'll just put a bullet in every one of us, starting with the problem assets. You didn't purify the church; you burned the entire country down." She took a final, sharp breath. "But the narrative can still be controlled. We can still make you the villain."
Suddenly, the elevator doors burst open. It wasn't Vought security, but Ingrid's last, desperate attempt at damage control. It was the Soldier Boy Generation's two remaining functional members Crimson Countess and a heavily armed Mind-Droid's replacement, a silent, hulking Supe named Bastion. They were disoriented by the chaos, their faces pale with panic, but unified by primal, self-preserving rage against the man who had ruined their careers.
"That pious little freak," hissed Crimson Countess, her face contorted with fury. "He brought this down. My endorsements are gone. My contract is worthless!" She focused her immense thermal energy, and the air around her instantly shimmered.
Ingrid stepped aside, calmly. "He's yours. Clean up the loose end. The government needs to see us controlling the situation. They need a monster, Thomas. And you've volunteered."
The Wrath of God Unleashed
Thomas knew this was his final stand. He was not there to escape; he was there for a sacrificial act to eliminate the final vestiges of the old regime before his inevitable capture. He centered his mind, the memory of his ruined farmhouse and his father's trust dissolving the last sliver of self-preservation. He was no longer Thomas; he was the vessel of Consequence.
Countess fired first. A searing, focused beam of heat pure energy designed to incinerate buildings slammed into Thomas's chest. The titanium shield Vought had given him would have melted instantly. But his scarred steel shield, the one he had spent years hammering against walls in his isolation, was pure iron and faith. It absorbed the impact, throwing off a blinding plume of steam and dust, but remaining intact. The iron was hot enough to scorch the air, but Thomas barely registered the pain, using the kinetic shock to deepen his focus.
"You brought a toy to a holy war, Countess," Thomas roared. He moved with a speed and ferocity he had always hidden behind the polite facade. He didn't use beams or brute force. He used his shield as a concussive weapon, a tool of precision honed by years of silent, violent practice in his apartment. This was not a brawl; it was a surgical execution of Vought assets.
He spun, slamming the heavy iron edge into the side of Bastion's head. The force was tremendous, built from years of contained rage and kinetic focus. The brute Supe's enhanced skull cracked audibly, and Bastion's knees buckled. Before the hulking Supe could recover, Thomas unleashed the one power he had always held back: a highly concentrated sonic prayer, a shockwave of focused sound that felt like the hammer of God.
The sound tore through the observation deck, shattering glass, concrete, and the very air. The focused frequency caused the delicate inner workings of the Supes' enhanced biology to vibrate violently. Countess, temporarily deafened and disoriented, stumbled, her thermal energy flicking wildly around the room, useless. Thomas pressed his advantage, not with a killing blow, but a disabling one. He caught her ankle as she moved, dropping his shield and using his sheer invulnerable mass to pin her down. With a sickening crunch, he focused his strength and shattered her kneecap, neutralizing her ability to focus her powers and ending her threat permanently. She screamed, but the sound was quickly lost in the alarms and the roar of the wind. Bastion, his mind scrambled by the sonic blast, collapsed, curled in a fetal position and weeping blood.
Ingrid watched, utterly unnerved, as Thomas stood over the two defeated assets, his original shield resting on the bloody granite. He looked inhumanly calm, the fury in his eyes cold and final.
"You're a monster, Thomas," Ingrid whispered, clutching her throat.
"I am the Consequence," he replied, picking up his shield. He looked at Ingrid, the last surviving symbol of the corporate lie. He raised his hand, not in a threat, but in a final salute. "My sacrifice is required. Yours is merely inevitable."
He didn't harm her. He didn't need to. His purpose was done. The evidence was out, and the corruption was exposed. He had accounted for his sin and sealed Vought's fate.
The Final Descent
As the wail of sirens grew closer and he heard the distinct whop-whop-whop of military helicopters outside, Thomas walked calmly to the massive hole Bastion had created in the window. He paused, feeling the cold wind scour the moral filth from his skin. He looked down at the city, now drowning in the truth he had unleashed, and felt a strange, terrifying peace.
The long, agonizing wait was over. The Altar of the Asphalt was broken, and his final, terrible prayer was answered.
He stepped off the ledge, dropping his heavy, scarred steel shield a moment before he surrendered his own body to the void. The shield, a symbol of his genuine, broken faith, clattered down the side of the tower, hitting the ground moments before the searchlights converged on the falling hero. His final act was not about survival, but about the permanent, undeniable signature of his defiance a fall from grace that was simultaneously an ascent to martyrdom. He fell toward the inevitable capture, but in his mind, he was finally flying home, a free man in the face of his own doom. The last thing he saw before the darkness was the massive, illuminated Vought logo on the side of the tower, shattered and dark.