Location: Vought Tower – Sublevel 3, Crime Analytics Division
Time: 9:17 AM
The door hissed open as Markus stepped into the sterile, low-lit glow of the Crime Analytics Division. Blue-tinted screens covered every wall, with holographic maps, suspect profiles, news feeds, and active event grids blinking across digital boards. Operatives sat at their terminals, heads buried in data, code, and satellite surveillance feeds.
Most didn't look up — until he walked in.
Even in his newer suit, barely a day old, his presence drew gravity. The glowing snowflake emblem over his chest pulsed like a heartbeat of controlled power, while the respirator mask covering his mouth gave off soft vapor flares with every breath — like a dragon in permafrost. Eyes bright like cracked arctic crystal scanned the room.
He didn't need to say anything. People moved.
"O-Oh!"
A clatter of a dropped stylus broke the silence. From behind a curved workstation near the west wall, Anika Sharma jolted up, her bun coming slightly undone. Indian-American, maybe mid-20s, sharp eyes behind wide glasses — she was bright, ambitious, and completely losing her cool.
"Hi, hi! Agent Glacius—Sir—uh, wow. You're actually here."
Markus chuckled, eyes crinkling faintly. "Didn't know I had a fanbase down here."
Anika stammered as she stood, "I-I mean, yes, I've watched every tactical breakdown clip, all your ops are on the VoughtNet archives, and your Detroit incursion was flawless. That moment where you flash froze the guy mid-sentence—!"
She mimed it, awkwardly stiffening like a block of ice, and immediately turned red.
Markus smirked behind the mask, "You're not bad at that."
Anika laughed nervously, "I—I try. I cosplay sometimes. Not of you. I mean. Not yet. Um, what can I do for you, sir?"
He stepped closer, arms crossed, voice now shifting into professional calm.
"I need a real-time scan of all active Radiant Dawn cells. I want to see what's left."
"Right. Yes, absolutely."
She turned back to her terminal, fingers dancing across the console. Data streamed across the large screen above her station. Red X's marked obliterated cells. Yellow dots blinked for dormant clusters. A few green ones remained — more than a few in South America, two on the East Coast… and one larger signature in central Iowa.
"That one."
He pointed to the Iowa cell, blinking steadily.
Anika scrolled, "That's the largest operational structure left—an estimated 18 to 20 active members. Three suspected Temp-V boosted, one confirmed tech support with drone surveillance experience. One unknown supe flagged by satellite heat sig last week."
"They're planning something."
"We intercepted a few cracked codes from chatterlines. One phrase repeated—'Crash the gates of the machine.' Sounded like rhetorical garbage until this came in this morning."
She pulled up a photo — a digital flyer extracted from an encrypted message board:
🎡 Voughtland Family Weekend Spectacular – Free Entry to All Veterans!
Featuring: Homelander Extreme Flight • Brave Maeve's Inclusive Kingdom • Glacius Ice Ring • Soldier Boy, Ahoy! • Woke Wok & More!
Anika flicked the image aside and showed a second one — a redacted operations memo marked with the Radiant Dawn logo in crude, hand-drawn style. In the bottom corner was a crude phrase:
"Let them celebrate before the frost hits back."
Markus's eyes narrowed. "They're targeting Voughtland."
Anika nodded "It lines up. Surveillance teams spotted two confirmed RD scouts near park exits last week. They were wearing family disguises. No action taken—yet."
"They'll wait for maximum bodies. Kids, families. Collateral."
He stared at the holo-map silently for a beat. Then, without a word, he extended his hand.
Anika blinked, confused.
"Sync the cell info and field recon logs to my pad. Include chatter archives and thermal readings from the last 48 hours."
She handed him the pad, fingers brushing his glove slightly as she did. He took it, then lightly ruffled the top of her head with his other hand.
Markus smirked, "You're good at what you do, Anika. Don't let anyone down here tell you different."
Anika stood frozen like she'd just been knighted.
"Thank y—Yes. Yes, sir. Anytime."
As he turned to leave, the elevator door opened with a chime.
Courtenay Fortney stepped in like a hurricane of perfume, crisp clicks of heels echoing behind her. Designer sunglasses hung from her shirt, a Vought Studios badge pinned to her hip. A team trailed her, wielding lights and camera rigs.
"Glacius! There you are, sugar. Stan wants a set of new media stills before your next kill op. We're doing tabloid-friendly — Voughtland is your new stomping ground, remember?"
Markus replied dryly, "Let me guess. Ice ring photo op?"
"We already booked it. But for now? Let's grab a few in front of the analytics board. You look deadly and brilliant in equal parts."
She tapped her comm.
"Joel, set the temperature to Arctic. I want vapor trails."
Anika scurried off to make herself scarce as Markus gave a weary sigh and stood in frame. Lights flared. Courtenay fluffed his collar slightly, checking her monitor.
Courtenay spoke to her team, "Get that glow off his mask — no, leave the eyes alone. That frost shimmer is everything. God, you're making Homelander look like a community college mascot."
After three rapid shots, Courtenay stepped back, satisfied.
Alright, frostbite. You're good to go."
Markus tilted his head. "Always a pleasure."
He stepped out of the lights, pulled up his hood, and slid into the elevator. The pad in his hand buzzed softly as the data was transferred.
Next stop: Stan Edgar.
As the doors closed, he muttered to himself.
"They're going after a symbol.Bold and Desperate"
The frost on the floor hadn't melted by the time he was gone.
-----
Location: Vought Tower – Executive Briefing Room, Floor 79
Time: 10:04 AM
The conference room was sleek and brutally efficient, a cathedral of glass and polished metal perched high above New York. A panoramic digital screen displayed a 3D rotating render of Voughtland, complete with colored tags marking areas of concern: the Homelander Extreme Flight ride, Soldier Boy, Ahoy!, and most notably — the Glacius Ice Ring, glowing in cool blue.
Stan Edgar stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back, calm and unreadable as always.
Madelyn Stillwell sat at the head of the table, composed in a navy-blue suit, a coffee in one hand and a tablet in the other. Though her lipstick was crisp and her posture straight, her energy betrayed something… lighter. She spoke with practiced grace, but there was a softness around the edges. Markus had seen it before. He wasn't the only one who noticed — but no one dared comment.
"Public ticketing is through the roof. Voughtland's projected to bring in sixty-eight million over the three-day event. If Radiant Dawn turns it into a war zone…"
Stan cuts in, calmly, "We'll not only lose profit — we'll lose control. A terrorist strike on Voughtland makes us look incompetent. It makes them look righteous."
Markus — Glacius — leaned forward slightly at the table's edge. His breath hissed softly through the filter, venting small wisps of frost. He tapped his finger against the holo-map, bringing focus to the red-marked quadrant behind the Glacius Ice Ring: the Western Commons, an open area near the stadium stage.
"They'll hit the commons. It's the biggest gathering space — multiple bottlenecks, poor evacuation design. And plenty of cameras."
"Perfect for a statement."
Stan adds in without turning, "Exactly. And the only member of The Seven available to oversee crowd safety…"
Stan turned at last, pacing calmly to the head of the room and opening a black dossier folder on the table with a crisp snap.
"…is you."
Glacius responds dryly, "Of course."
Stan slid another folder toward Markus.
"And you won't be working alone."
Markus flipped the folder open, and his eyes paused.
Crimson Countess – Real Name: Redacted
"Soulful Performer. Fire Manipulator. Former Member of Payback."
Currently resides at Chimp Country Sanctuary – Voughtland construction annex. Touring Voughtland's soft-stage venues with "Soldier Boy, Ahoy!" revival show.
Photo: A smirking woman with thick curls of red hair, eyes sharp with manufactured innocence. Glittering stage attire. Surrounding her were apes in t-shirts, one clutching a ukulele.
Markus raised an eyebrow.
Stan raised his own.
Glacius finally speaks low, calm, "She lives in a trailer behind the stage?"
Stan replies evenly, "She prefers the term mobile performance suite. Regardless, she'll be your co-liaison during this op. She knows the park better than anyone."
Madelyn added offhand, "Besides, the rest of the Seven are booked. Homelander's got national press, Maeve's filming the LGBT Turkey Leg ad spots, and A-Train's doing a VoughtFitness sprint challenge for his rebranding arc."
Glacius half-laughed, "Fascinating priorities."
Madelyn answers wryly, "PR never sleeps."
"Noir is still sweeping the Massachusetts cell. They're close to collapse. Which makes this Radiant Dawn operation the last truly dangerous piece on the board. You'll finish it."
Glacius stared at the file for a moment longer, flipping through notes: reports of Countess going off-script, flirtations with extremism in the '90s, therapy logs, increasingly unstable energy spikes logged during her shows.
He shut the folder with a quiet click.
"I'll leave within the hour."
"Try not to provoke her. She's emotionally… delicate. But if she steps out of line, contain her."
Madelyn smiled faintly, "She likes to sing during ops. Just… a heads up."
Glacius stood, gave a nod of acknowledgment to both, and turned toward the exit.
Stan called after him,"And Markus…"
He stopped at the door.
"Make sure there's a park left when it's over."
Markus gave a short nod and stepped out.
Location: Midwest – Radiant Dawn Outpost: "The Fold"
Dark. Mildewed. A converted fallout shelter buried beneath a long-defunct public library. Inside, crude red banners lined the concrete walls. A map of Voughtland lay across a table, dotted with pins and circled zones of engagement.
Wendell Shaw stood over it, fingers stained with marker ink, jaw clenched.
Spectre, eyes glowing faintly, ran his hands along a cracked iPad.
"We hit the commons, cause confusion, then ignite payloads near the Countess stage. Fire plus panic equals mass footage. We drown the news cycle."
"And if Glacius shows?"
"Then we unleash her."
Vought Tower Hangar Level: 11:37 AM
Markus stepped onto the sleek black VTOL platform, now dressed in his full suit, breath misting calmly behind his mask.
He tapped his pad, scanning the Chimp Country Sanctuary Site, already loading blueprints and surveillance records. Voughtland's absurd façade loomed in the distance — rides, castles, giant Homelander billboards. Beyond the gates, a small stage lot shimmered under sun and steel.
The dossier on Crimson Countess buzzed softly in his hands.
"Showtime."
He stepped aboard, and the VTOL lifted off.