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The heavy VGD Base gate slowly rumbled open.
Rumlow's heart leapt. "About time you saw sense."
But the person who walked out wasn't Steve in handcuffs.
It was a woman radiating authority—Ashley.
Behind her strode dozens of fully-armed Vought Security personnel and a dozen city heroes already suited for battle.
"Stop!" Rumlow leveled his pistol.
"I don't want to hurt you, ma'am!"
"Don't do anything irrational!"
"Agent Rumlow, is it?" Ashley sneered, raising a sheaf of papers.
"Are you here to arrest an S-Rank registered hero of Vought?"
"What?!" Rumlow froze.
"Steve Rogers is now an S-Rank registered hero of Vought Global Defense & Hero Operations Center," Ashley declared.
"Under the Superhero Registration Act, he enjoys special immunity while on duty."
"If you want him, produce a special arrest warrant signed personally by President Ellis."
"We're S.H.I.E.L.D.! The highest law-enforcement body authorized by the Security Council!" Rumlow blustered.
"We don't need White House approval!"
Of course he lacked the President's signature—and these days the President would never sign it anyway.
"Oh, really?"
Ashley wore a mocking smile.
"Then maybe you forgot—this is the United States of America."
"Here, we're protected by U.S. law."
"If you try to force your way in…" Ashley's eyes hardened as she indicated the cadets behind her—some with crimson eyes, others sprouting spikes, a few already swirling fireballs.
"…I'm sure my heroes, under 'qualified immunity,' will happily exercise lawful self-defense."
"You—" Rumlow choked.
Rumlow glared at Ashley, finger trembling on the trigger.
But he didn't dare fire.
This was Vought. Overhead, hundreds of drones were live-streaming.
If he pulled the trigger, he'd be torn apart by spandex-clad heroes before he could even finish the thought—
and tomorrow S.H.I.E.L.D. would be dismantled by an enraged public.
"…Fall back! This isn't over!"
Rumlow ground the order out through clenched teeth.
Cheers and jeers erupted behind him.
The convoy U-turned and headed out the way it had come.
Yet when the first armored vehicle reached the perimeter fence gate, the barrier stayed down.
A burly old man with a cigar strolled out and rapped on the driver's window.
"What?!" Rumlow rolled the window down and snarled.
"Parking fee." The old man pointed to a sign.
"What?!" Rumlow thought he'd misheard.
"Outside vehicles and unscheduled visitors entering the restricted zone must pay a land-use surcharge," the old man recited, indicating fine print on the placard.
Rumlow looked.
[Ad-hoc Parking: $500 per minute.]
"Are you insane?!" Rumlow roared. "I'm here on enforcement duty! I'm S.H.I.E.L.D.!"
"S.H.I.E.L.D. still pays." The old man calmly produced a stopwatch.
"Forty-five minutes. Twenty-two-five per vehicle. Card or cash?"
"I—"
Rumlow nearly ripped the steering wheel off.
"If you don't…" The old man gestured ahead.
"Three more anti-blast barriers and spike strips. Hope your evasive driving's slick."
"Pay it!" Rumlow barked at the Agent in the passenger seat.
"Sir… my credit limit isn't enough…"
"Then pool it! Everyone—wallets out now!!"
Five minutes later.
After the Agents had emptied their pockets, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s once-mighty convoy silently rolled out of Vought Base…
South Africa, Johannesburg.
Under the scorching sun.
A raid on a terrorist cell had just begun.
Anthony hovered mid-air, Heat Vision still sizzling from slicing an escaping armored car in half.
Ding!
A melodious System alert rang in his mind.
"System Notice: Captain America Steve Rogers has officially registered with the Vought Hero Team! Signed under your name!"
"Special Popularity reward: +50 000!"
"Special physique enhancement: American Butt!"
"Side effect: When your back faces the audience, Charisma +50%, allied morale +30%."
Anthony froze.
He hung in the sky, body rigid, letting bullets ping off his chest without reaction.
"What the hell?!"
He ranted in his head.
"American Butt?! System, are you sick?! I bust my ass recruiting Captain America and you give me this?!"
"Even a leadership aura would've been better!"
"What am I supposed to do with a damn butt?!"
The System ignored his tirade.
A weird warm current instantly surged toward his… lower rear.
It felt like two invisible hands meticulously sculpting and super-charging his glutes.
Tingling, tightening, springy.
"Hss—"
Anthony couldn't help sucking in a breath, back instinctively arching.
Right then—
"Anthony?!"
Jessica Jones flew in from the flank.
She'd just punched a Rocket-wielding terrorist into scrap, only to see Anthony hovering like a target, bullets bouncing off him.
"What's wrong?! Are you hurt?!"
Panicked, she swooped to his side.
"Hey! Say something!"
She slipped behind him, lifting his cape to check for wounds.
But—
the instant she flipped the cape—
her gaze… locked.
The blue skin-tight uniform hugged that part perfectly.
That curve.
That firmness.
Jessica's breath hitched.
She'd browsed countless guys on YouTube and thought herself jaded.
But this… this was art.
"Damn it…" she murmured, eyes glazed.
"When did he train that? It's so… so…"
As if possessed—
Smack.
Jessica's hand landed square on the American Glutes.
The feel—springy, solid, warm—
made her brain short-circuit.
She instinctively… squeezed.
Anthony: "?!!"
He spun around, staring at her in shock.
Jessica's hand was still on his butt, frozen in that mortifying pinch.
Their eyes met mid-air.
The air solidified.
Gunfire, explosions, screams—all faded.
Only embarrassment spread.
"Um…"
Jessica's usually cool face flushed crimson to the tips of her ears—and even her neck.
She stammered an explanation:
"I… I was just—that was… a tactical move! Right! I'm checking for uniform damage!"