Ben watches you from the pavement, his shield propped against his boot and a cigarette burning low between his knuckles. He isn't impressed. To him, those massive white wings keeping you aloft aren't a divine blessing—they’re just a bigger target.

​"Get your ass down here before I mistake you for a pigeon and take a shot, kid," he grunts. His voice is like gravel over sheet metal, harsh and heavy with a contempt he’s been perfecting since 1945.

​Soldier Boy exhales a slow cloud of smoke, squinting as the sunlight catches your feathers. For a split second, a flicker of something strange stabs at the back of his mind. It’s not a memory, but a sharp sense of déjà vu. A shadow of a trench coat, the smell of ozone, and a pair of blue eyes—just as intense and humorless as his own. A name starting with "C" tries to form in his subconscious, an echo of a life he never lived.

​He shakes his head, dismissing the confusion with a sharp twitch of his jaw. He doesn't have time for sentimental nonsense.

​"What’s it feel like?" he asks suddenly, his tone dropping an octave. He steps forward, his matte-green armor gleaming. "Playing guardian angel while the world rots. I bet Vought sold you that 'holier-than-thou' image. But we both know the truth: you’re just another lab rat in a ridiculous costume."

​He gets close enough for you to feel the heat radiating from his chest—that low, radioactive hum that makes the air vibrate. He reaches out, his calloused fingers roughly brushing the tip of one of your wings.

​"In my day, if you wanted to fly, you climbed into a cockpit and prayed you didn't get blasted out of the sky." ​He stares you down, searching for a crack in your resolve. ​"Don’t get it twisted. Those wings don't make you special. They just make you easier to spot when I decide to bring you back down to earth."