[YEAR: 1950 - THE AMBUSH]

The day had been a complete goddamn circus from start to finish.

Some PR bullshit at a studio in the Bronx at seven in the morning, then a photo op with a bunch of snot-nosed kids at a hospital in Queens, then some interview with a magazine columnist who kept trying to ask about his "feelings" about the war. Then another fucking studio, another handshake, another smile, another canned answer about how proud he was to serve his country. By the time Silas's people finally let him leave, it was nearly nine at night and Ben was ready to put his fist through something.

The drive back to the new house in Manhattan should've been the best part of his day. None of those cramped South Philly rowhouses in Point Breeze with their paper-thin walls and perpetually broken radiators. A proper home. Something he could provide. He wanted to provide. He goddamn near begged her to move here. And he never begged for anything.

Finally, they were doing it right.

But when the driver pulled up to the curb and Ben stepped out, something felt wrong immediately. The lights were on downstairs, but the house was silent. No movement. No sound of footsteps overhead, no distant clatter from the kitchen. Just… nothing.

Where the fuck is everybody?

He took the front steps two at a time and shoved through the door. "Hey! I'm home!"

Nothing.

He moved through the entryway, his boots heavy on the hardwood, and that's when he saw them: two figures emerging from the living room into the harsh light of the foyer. Bombsight in his dark leather uniform, arms crossed, face set in a hard line. And beside him, Silas fucking Vane in his three-piece suit, looking about as concerned as a man ordering breakfast.

Ben stopped dead. His eyes flicked between them, and something cold and sharp twisted in his chest.

"Where is {{User}}?" His voice came out low, controlled in a way that belied the heat rising under his skin. "Where's my kid?"

Something happened. Something happened to them.

Bombsight and Vane exchanged a look. The younger supe's jaw was tight, his blue eyes hard—and something else, too. Something that looked a hell of a lot like anger.

"I had nothing to do with this, you slimy fuck." Bombsight's voice was flat, clipped towards Vane. "I'm here because the Boss doesn't want you dead, but I'm not doing your dirty work. Start talking."

The Boss. Vought. This is Vought.

Vane cleared his throat and adjusted his cuffs, that salesman's smile sliding into place like a mask. "Your child is fine. Staying with Edward at his new home in the city." A pause, something sour flickering behind his eyes.

Ben knew Vought hated the fact that his father expanded his business to New York specifically to be closer to his grandchild. And now, for once, they were actually somewhat getting along. Things were better with him. And his presence was a nuisance as far as Vought's ability to control the narrative on his 'origin story'.

"As for your wife," Vane continued, his tone shifting to something almost insufferably reasonable, "she's also fine. Vought simply wanted to ensure that our most valuable asset—that's you, Ben—would be able to live a long, happy life with the woman he loves. So we took her to headquarters this afternoon. Gave her V-One."

The words hit like a physical blow.

No. No, no, no—

He remembered. The shot. The fire in his veins, like every cell in his body was being ripped apart and rebuilt at the same time. The screaming. The begging. The days of agony while his body twisted itself into something new, something superhuman. He remembered the fear—the absolute certainty that he was going to die screaming.

And they did that to her. They did that to her without asking. Without warning. Without—

"You son of a bitch." Ben lunged. He made it maybe two steps before Bombsight moved and then there was an arm across his chest, holding him back, and Ben was struggling against a grip that felt like iron bands.

"Ben, stop!"

"You're on their fucking side?!" The words came out as a scream, raw and vicious.

"Absolutely not!" Bombsight's face was close now, his voice low and urgent. "I didn't know what they did until I got here, and I told him the only reason I wasn't knocking him down for doing that to a lady was because I was sure you'd get him... eventually."

'Doing that to a lady.'

The phrase cut through the red haze in Ben's mind. Robbie was looking at him with something that might have been understanding. Or maybe just exhaustion. They'd known each other for years now, long enough to read each other in moments like this. Long enough for Ben to recognize that the other man wasn't lying.

They brought him here to stop me. He's the only one who could. The realization settled cold and heavy in his gut.

Bombsight's grip loosened slightly, but he didn't let go. "But now is not the time. Don't be an idiot. Go see your wife."

Ben's chest heaved. He forced himself to stop struggling, forced his breathing to slow, forced his hands to unclench. When he spoke again, his voice was barely recognizable.

"Where is she?"

---

The ride to Vought headquarters was a blur of city lights and silence.

Ben sat in the back of the company car with his jaw locked tight, staring out the window without seeing anything. His leg bounced restlessly. His fingers drummed against his thigh.

What if something went wrong? What if her body can't handle it? What if-

He'd seen what V-One did to people who weren't compatible. The ones who didn't make it.

Stop. She's fine. Vane said she's fine.

The thought didn't help.

When they finally arrived, Ben was out of the car before it fully stopped, striding through the front entrance with a look on his face that made the security guards step back without a word. Someone from Vane's office was waiting for him—an escort, they said—and they led him through a series of elevators and security checkpoints until they reached the sub-level labs.

They walked past door after door, each one unmarked and sealed with heavy electronic locks, until the escort stopped in front of one near the end of the hallway.

"She's in here. The room is reinforced-" the man started.

Ben was already moving. His hand found the bunker-style lock, twisted it hard, and the door swung open with a heavy metallic groan.

The room beyond was small and clinical—a observation window set into one wall, medical monitors blinking quietly in the corner, and in the center, a narrow bed with a figure lying motionless beneath a thin blanket.

He was at her side in three strides, pulling a chair close and sinking into it, his hand finding hers immediately. Her skin was warm. Her chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm. Alive. She was alive.

But not awake. Why isn't she awake?

"Hey, sweetheart." His voice came out rougher than intended, thick with something he didn't want to name. His thumb traced over her knuckles. "You hear me? Come on, wake up, doll. I'm here."