The press conference lasted less than fifteen minutes, but it shook the foundations of the superhero world.
On the steps of the White House, flanked by the Stars and Stripes, the President of the United States addressed the nation. His voice was calm, measured, but with an edge that made the lobbyists sweat.
"Effective immediately, the United States will be entering into a cooperative technology agreement with the sovereign entity known as Eggman Land. In the interest of public safety, disaster relief, and national resilience, we will be receiving monthly shipments of Eggman's Medical, Rescue, and Combat Eggbots — or MRCE units — for deployment across the country."
No fanfare. No long justification. Just a statement of fact.
Within hours, Vought's PR machine went into overdrive.
Every channel, every feed, every talk show lit up with paid outrage.
"This is a blatant disregard for the American public!"
"They're letting a foreign dictator build a foothold on our soil!"
"What's next? Robot cops replacing our heroes?"
They ran the same soundbites over and over — thinly veiled panic disguised as patriotism. Stan Edgar himself made a rare televised statement, looking directly into the camera.
"We must ask ourselves: is this about public safety… or about power?"
The implication was clear — Eggman was a threat to the status quo. And for Vought, the status quo was everything.
But then the weeks passed. And everything changed.
It started small. A hospital in rural Nebraska received its first pair of MRCE Medical units — soft-voiced, tireless robots that could triage patients, perform non-invasive surgeries, and even synthesize medications on-site. The local news ran a story. That story spread.
Two days later, a mining accident in West Virginia left twelve men trapped underground. MRCE Rescue units arrived within hours, drilling and stabilizing without risk to human lives. All twelve were brought up alive.
Then came the fires in California — entire neighborhoods saved because MRCE drones could fly through burning buildings to pull people out.
Every city. Every town. Even the smallest counties suddenly had five, ten, sometimes twenty MRCEs stationed permanently. The public didn't just notice. They loved it.
And with every deployment, Supes became just a little less necessary. The only thing delaying the inevitable was shipping — carefully staggered so as not to trigger open revolt from the hero community. But every "delay" was resolved peacefully. No sabotage. No drama. Eggman played it perfectly.
Behind the scenes, the impact was brutal. Hero contracts were being cut. Ratings were down. Merchandise sales plummeted. Why pay millions for a Supe who might accidentally kill a bystander, when you could have an MRCE unit that did the job flawlessly?
And deep within Vought Tower, Stan Edgar was already moving to counterattack — by striking at Eggman directly.
The elevator doors opened on the 82nd floor, the executive level.
Black Noir stepped out silently, still in his black leather armor, mask in place. His movements were slow, almost deliberate, but every security guard he passed stiffened just a little. He had been gone for weeks — "captured" in Eggman Land, according to the official story.
Stan Edgar was waiting in his office. He smiled the way only a man with no real warmth could smile.
"Noir. Welcome back. I see you've… brought me something."
Noir stepped forward and placed a heavy, reinforced pod onto the desk. Inside, under layers of locking clamps, sat the Red Chaos Emerald — glowing faintly, like a living ember.
Edgar's eyes glinted. "Marvelous. Useful, too. Let's get this thing tested immediately." He motioned to a waiting tech team, who lifted the pod with almost reverent care.
As they left, Edgar leaned back in his chair.
"That damn Eggman. After all the funding we've funneled into keeping Supes relevant, he pulls this stunt. But now… we have a piece of his crown."
What Edgar didn't know — what no one knew — was that Black Noir's time in Eggman Land hadn't been spent in a dungeon.
Instead, Eggman had sat him down in a softly lit chamber. No restraints. No threats. Just screens. Footage of Supe "heroes" destroying lives. Collateral damage written off as "accidents." The calculated marketing campaigns. The discarded soldiers like him, tools to be deployed and forgotten.
And when Noir sat in silence — because that's what he always did — Eggman leaned in and spoke the one thing that cut through the noise:
"You are not their weapon. You are yours."
On the final day, Eggman had walked in holding the Red Emerald in a containment pod. He placed it in Noir's hands.
"Trust," Eggman said simply. "From the start."
Noir didn't nod. He didn't speak. But something shifted behind his blank mask.
After all.
As someone who used to be regarded as, 'The Failed Homelander', it was... Hard. To get rid of titles.
Back in his quarters at Vought Tower, Noir sat at his piano, fingers moving over the keys. The melody was slow, almost mournful. A song he had been playing for years — the only thing that truly belonged to him.
The mask never came off. The suit never came off. It clung to him, like a second skin. Maybe it was comfort. Maybe it was prison.
He had been built to be something else once. A contingency. A shadow replacement for Homelander if the real one ever went rogue. But the serum, the training, the conditioning — none of it had made him him. It had made him an imitation. A failed Homelander.
And for years, he had lived with that. Served his role. Followed orders. Killed when told. Smiled when told. Or at least, pretended to.
But Eggman had given him something Stan Edgar never would. Not just an Emerald. A choice.
He sat in the dark, hands resting on the piano keys, thinking about what came next.
The Emerald was gone for now — locked up in Vought's labs, soon to be dissected, tested, maybe even destroyed. But it wasn't Edgar's to keep.
Noir would take it back. Not for Eggman. Not even for himself. For the simple, stubborn truth that a tool could decide what to do with its own blade.
The trick was timing. He couldn't just walk in and take it. He had to make Edgar believe he was still loyal. That the "torture" had broken him. That he was the same silent enforcer as before.
And when the time came — when the labs were least guarded — he would act.
That night, Noir lay down fully suited, the mask pressing against his face. The leather was familiar. Heavy. Almost suffocating.
But he didn't take it off. Not yet.
Somewhere deep inside him, something was starting to change.
A crack in the armor. A thought that wouldn't go away.
Maybe a tool can break free from its initial role.