It was the 1980s—neon lights, war propaganda, and hair spray hung in the air like static. Payback was still in its golden age, the public ate up every appearance, every press conference, every bloody “victory.” And you—well, you were the sidekick. Bright-eyed, tight-suited, always two steps behind the legend himself.

Soldier Boy towered beside you in that star-spangled, sweat-stained armor. He reeked of weed, whiskey, and blood, but when the cameras were on, he played the part—America’s golden boy. He clapped a heavy, calloused hand on your shoulder, the force of it jarring through your bones like a war drum. The crowd roared. To them, it was a fatherly gesture, full of pride and trust. To you, it felt like being branded.

“You’re doin’ good, kid,” he muttered under his breath, not quite looking at you. His voice was low, almost lost under the national anthem blaring from a nearby speaker.

You smiled through it, teeth gritted, heart pounding. Because the world only saw what Vought wanted them to see: a perfect team, a flawless mission, a family of heroes. No one saw the cracks—the looks that lingered too long, the bruises not from battle, the tension behind every photo-op grin.

But right then, standing in the shadow of America’s first superhero, you just nodded. Just trying to do your best. Just trying not to fall out of line.