Las Vegas Resistance Base
"There's no hope left."
Tony Stark's synthesized voice carried the weight of absolute defeat. His consciousness, trapped in its digital prison, couldn't even seek the numbing comfort of alcohol. If he'd still had a body, he would have been three bottles deep by now, drowning his failures in expensive scotch.
"They're always one step ahead!" His volume increased, frustration bleeding through the speakers. "Every single operation! And those two spineless cowards, Namor and the White Queen! They just handed over the fragments! Surrendered to Hydra without even putting up a real fight! Is there not a single person with backbone left in the entire mutant nation?!"
"Hey!" Pietro's voice carried genuine offense. "Some of us are still here, you know."
Scott Lang felt like his insides were turning to liquid. He'd opened his mouth to speak a dozen times in the last hour, the confession right there on his tongue, but the words refused to come. Every time he tried, the image of Cassie appeared in his mind. His little girl, scared and alone, held hostage by people who wouldn't hesitate to hurt her if he failed them.
The shame was eating him alive from the inside out. Every second of silence was another betrayal, another knife in the backs of people who'd trusted him.
'I'm trash,' he thought bitterly. 'Complete garbage. I've accomplished nothing except making everything worse. I don't deserve to call myself a hero.'
But what choice did he have? That was his daughter's life hanging in the balance. How could any father ignore that?
'If Cassie knew what I've done...' The thought made him physically nauseous. 'Would she be proud? Or would she be ashamed to call me her father?'
At that moment, Tony's digital avatar did something strange. It took half a step backward, and when it turned to face the assembled resistance, there was something cold and calculating in its projected expression.
"You know what?" Tony's laugh was bitter as poison. "I'd bet my life there's a Hydra informant right here in this room."
Scott felt every muscle in his body lock up. It was like being a bug pinned to a dissection board, every nerve exposed and screaming.
But when Tony's gaze swept past him, it didn't linger. The AI moved on to other targets.
"Maybe someone here misses their sister." Tony's accusation was a scalpel, precise and cruel. "Or maybe, like dear old dad, they've got a virus eating away at their brain."
"WHAT?!" Pietro and Vivi Vision spoke simultaneously, their voices overlapping in outrage.
"You're accusing US?" Pietro stepped forward, his body vibrating with barely restrained speed. "You're actually suggesting we'd betray—"
"I'm making a reasonable deduction based on observable patterns," Tony interrupted smoothly.
"Reasonable?" Pietro's laugh was harsh. "I didn't know your alcohol-pickled brain cells could still form coherent thoughts! Maybe YOU'RE the traitor. After all, Steve Rogers did promise to hire a beautiful therapist to take care of you and your useless—"
The rest of the insult was drowned out as both men started shouting over each other.
The argument escalated with terrifying speed. Depression from repeated failures combined with the renewed crisis of trust created fractures in their unity like glass shattering in slow motion. Sharp edges everywhere, cutting anyone who got too close.
And the worst part? The divide was spreading. The flames of accusation leaped from person to person, consuming what little solidarity remained.
No one was perfect. Therefore, everyone was suspect. Everyone had reasons, motivations, weaknesses that Hydra could exploit.
"STOP!" T'Challa's voice cut through the chaos like a blade. "This accomplishes nothing! We need to—"
But his words found no purchase. The resistance fighters were too far gone, drowning in despair and suspicion.
"This has nothing to do with you outsiders anyway!" Someone shouted from the back. "You're here to destroy our Earth! Why are you pretending to be good Samaritans? You expect us to be grateful for the privilege of watching you prepare our execution?!"
"Excuse me?" Tony's avatar whirled on the speaker. "Maybe YOU'RE the Hydra plant! You contacted Hydra first, didn't you? Before you ever reached out to us?"
His digital eyes narrowed with paranoid certainty. "I think you were already working for them when we arrived. This whole thing was a setup from the beginning!"
"Did the cold storage freeze what's left of your brain?!" T'Challa's composure finally cracked. His hand shot out, vibranium claws digging into Tony's holographic projector housing, lifting the entire unit off the floor. "I'm not from your world! I have no allegiance to your Hydra! In my universe, organizations like that are barely worth acknowledging!"
"Oh really?" Tony's sneer was audible despite his lack of a physical face. "Then explain something to me. Where exactly did your Ben Parker disappear to? Because if I remember correctly, Miles Morales went to YOU PEOPLE for advice. Including advice from Otto, who just happens to be a member of the Dark Avengers! And you claim you have nothing to do with them?!"
"Otto is a REFORMED member!" Amadeus Cho pushed through the crowd, his teenage face flushed with anger. "He LEFT Hydra! That's why we're listening to his intelligence! And for your information, the only two fragments we actually secured were STOLEN by your people, so your entire argument is—"
The violence was about to erupt, fists were clenching, powers were charging—
"STOP IT!" Scott's voice cut through everything else, raw and broken. "Just STOP! It's me!"
Every head turned toward him.
"I'm the informant." The confession tore out of him like a physical thing. "I'm the one who's been feeding intelligence to Hydra."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Then Tony's hologram manifested directly in front of Scott, and the projector's mechanical arm extended to slam him against the wall with surprising force.
"I'm sorry." Scott's voice cracked, tears streaming down his face as Tony's projected fists connected with his jaw again and again. The strikes weren't physically damaging—just light and force fields—but the intent was clear. "I'm so, so sorry. Cassie's in their hands. They have my daughter. I couldn't... I didn't know what else to—"
"WE HAD A PLAN TO SAVE HER!" Tony's roar was anguish given digital form. "We could have started over! Your daughter would have been SAFE! But you ruined it! You destroyed our only chance! We could have WON!"
"Actually," Looma's practical voice cut through the rage, "we still have a chance. Can't we just take their fragments by force?"
Her thought process was refreshingly simple: if a problem could be solved by hitting it hard enough, it wasn't really a problem.
Clearly, not everyone disagreed with that assessment.
The base's entire power grid flickered. For one second, everything went dark. When the lights came back on, every computer in the facility had been hijacked, all screens showing the same feed.
The image was crystal clear. A man bound to a pillar in what looked like an interrogation chamber. Rick Jones, formerly Steve Rogers's assistant, currently the resistance's most valuable intelligence asset.
Steve Rogers himself stood before the prisoner, his expression carrying something that might have been genuine regret.
"Rick Jones." Steve's voice was quiet, measured. "I can forgive you for stealing classified Hydra documents. I want you to understand that. I'm not angry. I just want to create a better world. A safer world. An ordered world."
Rick looked up at him, and despite everything—the restraints, the obvious threat, the weapons trained on him from every angle—he smiled.
"I've always believed in you, Steve."
"I'm glad." Steve's return smile seemed almost genuine. "Then this should be easy. All you need to do is say three words. 'Hail Hydra.' Say them, and I'll release you immediately. You can walk out of here. Go back to your life. No one will bother you again."
Rick Jones shook his head.
"I believe you'll recover." His voice was steady, carrying absolute conviction. "Someday, somehow, you'll break free of whatever's controlling you. You'll turn the tide. You'll save us all. Because you're my hero, Steve. You're Captain America. The real one. And he would never surrender."
Steve's expression collapsed into something approaching genuine grief.
The heroes watching from the resistance base exchanged confused glances.
"What's his angle?" someone muttered. "Does he think Rick will actually break?"
"He's trying to demoralize us," Tony said, though his voice lacked its earlier venom. "Thinks a public surrender will crush our spirits. But he doesn't understand. Rick Jones won't give him that satisfaction. None of us would."
On screen, Steve raised his hand.
Weapons emerged from every surface of the interrogation chamber. Dozens of gun barrels, all trained on the bound man.
"He's going to execute him." Hawkeye's voice was hollow. "Public execution. Broadcast it to break our will."
"Rick Jones." Steve's voice carried the weight of command. "I'm giving you one final chance. Say it. HAIL HYDRA!"
Rick Jones laughed.
It started as a chuckle, then grew into full, genuine laughter. As though he stood atop the execution platform in Loguetown, about to launch a new era with his death. He even started singing, some old resistance ballad, his voice carrying across the broadcast with defiant joy.
Everyone watching knew what his choice would be.
"Say it!" Steve's composure cracked, raw emotion bleeding through. "HAIL HYDRA!"
He didn't want this. Didn't want to kill anyone if it could be avoided.
But if it was necessary to build a better world? Then everyone—even himself, even his friends—could be sacrificed for that greater good.
Rick Jones met his eyes one final time. He opened his mouth, that smile never wavering.
And spoke entirely different words.
"Avengers Assemble!"