The Last Prince's voice trembled through television screens across the globe, raw and unguarded—an aristocrat brought to his knees, not in surrender, but in desperate plea.
"[I did not ask for any help from anyone... I will descend upon the battlefield alone if I have to!]"
His words hung in the air like the aftershock of an explosion. In living rooms from New York to Tokyo, viewers sat frozen, their breaths caught between horror and awe.
Then came the evidence. CIA. MI6. KGB. SHIELD. The names flashed across screens, each more damning than the last. Classified documents. Black-budget invoices. And then—
—the videos.
A child, no older than six, her tiny fingers tipped with bone claws, strapped to a steel table. A mother screaming as soldiers tore her infant from her arms. The cold, clinical voice of a scientist: "[Subject #4472 shows promising regenerative properties. Proceed with organ extraction.]"
In a London flat, an elderly woman clutched her rosary, tears streaking her wrinkled cheeks. *"Sweet Mary, Mother of God..."*
In a Tokyo office, a salaryman vomited into his trash bin.
And in a suburban American home, a father turned to his wide-eyed daughter and, for the first time in his life, had no words to explain the cruelty of the world.
---
President Ellis's coffee cup shattered against the Resolute Desk.
"Director, is this TRUE?"
The CIA director's Adam's apple bobbed like a drowning man gasping for air. "Sir, I— The context—"
"DON'T!"* Ellis's roar rattled the windows. "I want every American boot OUT of Genosha by dawn! And someone get me Fury on the line NOW!"
---
Triskelion - SHIELD Headquarters—
Nick Fury's office had become ground zero of a political nuclear blast. Phones rang off hooks. Monitors flashed with emergency alerts. On one screen, the Prince still knelt, his tears glistening under the studio lights.
Maria Hill burst in, tablet in hand. "Sir, we've got—"
"I KNOW what we've got, Hill!" Fury snarled, slamming his fist on a blinking console. "A global PR nightmare wrapped in a royal pain in my ass!"
The live feed showed protesters already gathering outside embassies worldwide. In Berlin, a crowd chanted "Blut für Genosha!" In Moscow, someone burned an FSB flag.
Fury's eye narrowed at the most damning footage—a SHIELD emblem stamped on a cargo manifest next to "12 Meta-human juveniles."
"Who the hell authorized Weapon X liaisons?" he growled.
Hill's lips thinned. "Records show Stryker had Level 7 clearance under Project Wideawake."
"Of course it was Stryker," Fury muttered.
United Nations - Emergency Session, The Secretary-General adjusted his glasses, his face projected on jumbotrons worldwide.
"The United Nations had no prior knowledge of these alleged operations. We will immediately deploy peacekeepers to—"
A chorus of boos drowned him out. The camera panned to the Genoshan ambassador—a Moreau loyalist—now cowering as protesters pelted his podium with rotten fruit.
Genoshan Rebel Camp - Hidden Jungle, A grainy radio broadcasted the Prince's words to fifty ragged freedom fighters. When the transmission ended, their machetes rose as one.
"For the Prince!"
Their cry echoed through the trees, carried on the wind toward Hammer Bay.
The moment the broadcast ended, Nick Fury's office became a warzone of ringing phones and flashing monitors. The director stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, his reflection fractured by the emergency alerts scrolling across glass screens.
"Maria," Fury growled, not turning from the view of D.C. burning in metaphorical flames, "find out who authorized our operations in Genosha. And why the hell we're buying humans like groceries."
Maria Hill didn't flinch. "Already on it." She pivoted on her heel, phone pressed to her ear.
Fury's eye slid to Phil Coulson, who stood waiting like a soldier at parade rest. "Phil. That prince just became the most dangerous man on Earth without firing a shot. Get to him before the CIA turns him into a martyr."
Coulson's smile didn't reach his eyes. "And if he refuses to talk?"
"Just…try," Fury finally turned; his face shadowed. "Something's off about that kid. Normal royals don't play 4D chess with classified files on live TV."
In the slums of Hammer Bay, a projector flickered against a crumbling wall, broadcasting the prince's interview to hundreds of gaunt faces. When the footage showed a familiar scarred woman strapped to an examination table, a man screamed.
"Lina! THAT'S MY WIFE!"
His wail ignited the crowd. Machetes appeared from hiding places. A teenage boy with bark-like skin raised a handmade flag—the Morvayne crest stitched from bloodstained rags.
"For the prince!"
The chant spread like wildfire through the shantytowns, reaching even the guarded villas of Moreau's elites. Behind gilded gates, generals exchanged nervous glances. The chessboard was shaking.
Stepping out of the Daily Bugle building, Prince Sai was immediately swallowed by a sea of humanity. Reporters shoved microphones like bayonets. Protesters waved signs reading "GENOSHA LIVES MATTER" and "USA OUT OF GENOSHA!"
"Your Highness! How do you respond to—"
"Prince Sai! Will you seek UN intervention—"
A burly man in a "Free Genosha" shirt broke through the cordon, embracing the prince with tearful fervor. "Keep fighting! For Genosha!!"
The prince accepted the hug with regal grace, but his eyes—sharp as obsidian—scanned the rooftops. Right on cue:
"Leave, you black suits! Child murderers!" A middle-aged woman hurled a rotten tomato at a lurking CIA agent. The splatter drew cheers.
Then, cutting through the chaos like a scalpel:
"Your Highness?"
Phil Coulson emerged from the throng, his receding hairline gleaming under camera flashes, smile polished to diplomatic perfection. "Phil Coulson, Strategic Homeland—"
"BANG!"
The sniper round struck the prince's left shoulder in a spray of crimson.
Time fractured.
The prince collapsed into his guards' arms; his scream raw with betrayal. Coulson stood frozen; his impeccable suit now speckled with royal blood.
"You bloody murderer!" the prince gasped, clutching his wound as his security detail dragged him toward a waiting car. "You try to assassinate me on your own soil?!"
Cameras captured every second—Coulson's stunned expression, the prince's pale face, the blood pooling on American concrete. By the time the black sedan screeched away, the narrative was already crystallizing: SHIELD just shot the Last Prince of Genosha.
Triskelion - Three Minutes Later
Fury's monitor displayed the assassination attempt from six angles. He didn't blink when Hill burst in, her tablet showing a viral hashtag: #Royalassasination
"Sir," Hill said tightly, "we didn't authorize this."
Fury's jaw worked. "Get me everything we know about this prince. And prep the Helicarriers."
"You can't seriously be considering—"
"That prince just turned the world against us with one interview and a shoulder wound." Fury finally turned, his eye burning. "Now either we control the narrative, or we become the villains in his fairy tale."
In a Malibu lab, Tony Stark activated satellite surveillance over Genosha.
And in a speeding armored car, the "wounded" prince smiled as Sebastian pressed a glowing hand to his perfectly intact shoulder.