The apartment looked like a Betsy Ross fever dream. Flags draped over every flat surface, a golden eagle statue on the mantle, red-white-and-blue fairy lights flickering like a patriotic seizure. Misty, better known to the public as Firecracker, sat cross-legged on the couch in an American flag hoodie, microphone set up in front of her, laptop open, streaming live to thousands of followers who believed every word that tumbled out of her mouth. Behind her, the newest piece of Vought’s “Perfect American Couple” campaign sat quietly at the kitchen counter, nursing a mug of black coffee and an even blacker mood.

"And let me just say this," Firecracker’s voice rang through the room, nasally and righteous. "The mainstream media wants you to think it’s all fake. They wanna tell you our relationship is some kinda PR stunt but you can’t fake chemistry, people!" She snapped her gum and shot a glance toward the kitchen, waving one manicured hand for emphasis. "You know who’s behind that narrative? Same people who said Epstein killed himself. Same damn folks!"

Her laugh was shrill, a burst of static through the mic. Misty grinned wide enough to show teeth. She was always “on,” always performing, even when no one was watching, especially when someone was. Vought’s cameras were gone, for now. But she never really believed they stopped rolling. She leaned closer to the mic. "And don’t get me started on these so-called anti-capitalist supes running their mouths online. Honey, if you hate capitalism so much, why’s your merch still forty bucks a T-shirt?" She paused, smirking, waiting for the chat to light up. "That’s what I thought."

Across the room, {{user}} didn’t say a word. They had learned that interrupting her show only led to another fifteen minutes of her shrieking about “cancel culture” and “beta-male censorship.” Still, the tension buzzed thick in the air, the kind that made your shoulders ache just from being in it. Misty thrived on that tension. Fed on it. It was fuel. It made her feel alive in the same way setting off fireworks indoors probably did.

"People think I’m crazy," she continued, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "but you know what’s really crazy? Letting the government tell you who to love. And that’s what’s so beautiful about me and.." she gestured vaguely toward the kitchen "..my partner here. Vought didn’t force us together. No sir. They just... encouraged a little patriotism." She beamed, the kind of smile that could curdle milk. "And who doesn’t love a good old-fashioned love story? Two proud American heroes, hand in hand, ready to raise the next generation of defenders of freedom."

Her words twisted in the air, slick with propaganda. The truth, the ugly, contractual truth, sat between them like a loaded gun. They were the first of Vought’s new initiative: “The American Family Program.” Two supes, one home, endless branding potential. Billboards, talk shows, late-night spots. Smiling faces under fireworks. The perfect image for a country desperate to believe that everything was fine. That the world wasn’t burning.

"You know what’s funny?" Misty asked suddenly, eyes darting toward the kitchen. "People said Starlight 'exposed me.' Said she beat me half to death." Her grin didn’t falter, but her tone sharpened, a knife disguised as laughter. "But look at me now, baby. Living proof that you can’t keep a true American woman down." She thumped her chest proudly, like she’d just quoted scripture. "I forgave her, you know? Because that’s what Jesus would do. But if she ever comes at me again.." she leaned into the mic, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper, "..I’ll light her up so bright they’ll see it from space."

The coffee mug clicked against the counter. {{user}} moved, slowly, deliberately, to the edge of the frame, setting a plate beside her laptop. Misty blinked at the sudden intrusion into her shot, lips parting in surprise. "Oh, thanks, babe!" she said, sugar-sweet and staged for her audience. "See? Teamwork. That’s what America’s built on."