In the secret depths of a repurposed S.H.I.E.L.D. bunker, two figures bent over a digital war map felt the thrill of impending victory. Samuel Stern the Leader his oversized cranium pulsing with gamma-fueled intellect, tapped a finger on the heart of New York. Beside him, Gordon Nobili Lineage closed his eyes and whispered, drawing on the memories of countless ancestors who had shaped empires and toppled kings.
"Within six weeks," the Leader murmured, "we will have the world questioning the very notion of a masked savior."
Lineage opened his eyes, cold with calculated certainty. "The governments will seize on every mistake. The public will demand oversight. Fury's heroes will be shackled by their own fame."
They had spent months manipulating media outlets to amplify every collateral casualty: the Chitauri aftershocks, the rumors of Hulk-led atrocities. Anonymous editorials claimed that gods walked among humans, able to rend nations and just as capable of turning on us. Opinion polls were seeded with questions: "Should we trust beings who refuse to reveal their faces?" "Are our heroes foreign agents, spies in our midst?"
General Thaddeus "Thunderbolt" Ross, ever the hawk-eyed militarist, drank in the narrative like water in a desert. Public hearings followed, and Ross delivered impassioned speeches about accountability and "the unintended consequences of unregulated power." Lawmakers, spooked by nightly news reports of "superpowered incursions," introduced the Global Empowered Individuals Regulation Act nicknamed the GEIRA.
But the Leader and Lineage knew that mere legislation wouldn't banish the heroes; the public craved a replacement. Under cover of Ross's authority, they fed classified memos to key Pentagon officials claiming that rumors of a new superhuman serum codenamed X-ST offered a way forward. In reality, the X-ST formula had been perfected not by the government, but by Mortal, a immortal. Sterns and Nobili bribed Mortal's interest knowledge, then arranged for high-level leaks: the serum was "government-issued," a symbol of national resilience.
Two months into the campaign, the first five candidates were selected: battle-scarred veterans chosen for their discipline and loyalty. They underwent "publicly funded" X-ST trials broadcast as a triumphant press event. The newly minted Vanguard as Ross hailed them consisted of:
Graham, who could shift his body's density from intangible mist to diamond-hard mass, a living demonstration of strategic versatility.
Michael, whose self-cloning unlocked elemental powers fire, water, earth, air allowing rapid response to any threat.
Mercy, whose osteokinesis let her weave bone armor from fallen wildlife, symbolizing rebirth from death.
Violet, who animated the lost art of deceased masters, summoning living sculptures into battle.
Renin, whose unique possession ability made him a one-man armory, absorbing the properties of any object he touched.
Ross paraded the Vanguard before stunned crowds, promising "a safer world, no longer at the mercy of unaccountable gods." The media hailed them as the "People's Champions."
Yet behind the scenes, the Leader and Lineage tightened their control. They fed Ross intelligence reports fabricated of course about heroes disappearing into secrecy, about aliens infiltrating U.S. agencies under the guise of "heroic aid." Ross used these reports to justify extending GEIRA's scope to include spontaneous hero registration, identity disclosures, and restricted operating zones.
Meanwhile, the true heroes found themselves besieged: the Avengers' every mission was scrutinized, rescue operations impeded by red tape, heroes forced to reveal their names and birth records to local authorities. Some even faced arrest for "failure to register." Underground, a splinter group of defiant heroes formed, conducting covert operations to protect civilians operations that only reinforced the public's fear when their masked faces were glimpsed flickering through grainy CCTV after a midnight rescue.
Lineage watched the chaos flourish. His ancestors' voices whispered of power and legacy, guiding every tweetstorm, every leaked dossier. Sterns monitored approval ratings as they plummeted. He allowed himself a thin, triumphant smile.
"In one year," he said, "we will have dismantled the old order. The world will look to Ross's Vanguard as their sole savior."
But as the gears of their conspiracy clicked into place, neither villain noticed the seeds of resistance sprouting in the shadows: whispers among the registered heroes of secret alliances, encrypted messages rallying support overseas.
-
Late one humid evening in a cramped, unmarked safe house beneath Brooklyn, two heroes met under flickering fluorescents. Natasha Romanoff folded her arms, eyes sharp. "They've got the press eating out of their hands," she said. "Every time we move, GEIRA agents ambush us."
Steve Rogers shook his head, voice low. "They want the world to believe we're as dangerous as any tyrant. We can't operate in daylight anymore."
From the corner, Sam Wilson a newly registered hero forced to wear mandatory ID chips tapped at a tablet. "Encrypted channel incoming." A wavering hologram of Clint Barton flickered to life. "Got a tip on a Vanguard convoy moving X-ST supplies out of Fort Vanticore. If we hit their labs, we expose the truth behind those 'People's Champions.'"
Natasha exchanged a look with Steve. "We free those test subjects, seize the files, and leak them worldwide." Steve nodded. "Let's move."
On the other side of the city, in an abandoned textile mill, a figure in a battered trench coat stood before a ragtag assembly of unregistered heroes. Arden tapped his wrist. "Our allies on the inside have arranged an opening in Fort Vanticore's west wing. We disable the security grid for exactly ninety seconds. Make it count."
Jessica Jones, nodded. "I'll sweep the lab corridor.Who will handle extraction."
At dawn, the Vanguard convoy rumbled out of the fortress gates. Graham's form shimmered, density undulating as he mirrored the armored transports' plating, while Michael's four elemental clones rode shotgun in wind-spitting motorbikes. Mercy's bone-woven armor glowed ivory in the first light; Violet sketched silent statues that flexed eyes and limbs; Renin trailed behind, a living mosaic of metal and stone.
They did not notice the soft blue shimmer appear behind them.
With a muffled crackle, Arden reached out, fingers grazing a control panel time slowed and the convoy ground to a halt.
Using momentary pause are then quickly got a board the moving vehicle.
Over the howl of compressed atmosphere, Michael's fire clone leapt to engage, only to vanish as Steve's shield thunked into its chest. Graham deepened his mass to crush wheel-bay guards; Mercy snapped a spinal-ridge bone into a heavy club; Violet's statues seized transmitters, yanking them from armored hands. Hulk's roar cleaved open a transport door. Renin became the armored hull itself, deflecting stun blasts as the real Renin struck out from within.
In ninety chaotic seconds, the convoy lay disabled and its occupants stunned.
Moments later, Steve Rogers stood in a vaulted laboratory buried under reinforced concrete. Glass-capped cylinders held empty test-subject cells. Stacks of dossiers marked CONFIDENTIAL, X-ST FORMULA sat on a steel table. Natasha and Arden moved in tandem to upload the files to every major network.
"Let's light up the sky," Natasha whispered into her comm link.
Outside, the media blackout shattered. News channels cut to live footage: S.H.I.E.L.D. arches over claims of stolen government property. The Vanguard, shackled and groggy, realized they'd been betrayed and photographed.
Back in the bunker, the Leader's oversized skull trembled as Ross's private feed blinked red. Ross's voice crackled: "They've compromised the labs. The Vanguard is in custody. Public confidence is collapsing."
Lineage placed a hand on Sterns's shoulder, ancestral memories flickering across his eyes: riots in front of Fort Stronghold; activists tearing down GEIRA billboards. "They fight back," he murmured.
Sterns's lips curled into a thin grin. "Let them. Chaos is the crucible of power. Once the heroes fall, only our 'Champions' will stand between them and anarchy."
The sky over Manhattan was bruised purple when the Avengers regrouped on the rubble-strewn streets of the Upper East Side. Tony hovered in his suit, Natasha checked her Widow's Bite, Steve tightened his shield straps, Thor's hammer crackled in his hand, and Hulk's deep growl rumbled like distant thunder. Arden stood quietly off to the side, Michael's elemental clones flickering behind him. Across from them, five figures stepped into view, the Vanguard government-sanctioned superhumans born of the X-ST serum, each marked by a confidence born of political backing.
Tony's voice cut through the tense air. "They call themselves champions. Let's show them what real heroes can do."
No one spoke of Clint Barton the world believed Hawkeye dead, struck down by Aries's blue beam. That loss still stung. Every Avenger carried it in their heart.