Inside the monitoring room.
The ship's power had been restored, and the system was rapidly playing back the security footage.
However... the data showed that the bottom of the Argo had collided with something. Following the surge of seawater, the entire ship's power had cut out, and the cameras had simultaneously failed.
Just then—
"What is that...?"
"Shit! Open fire! Open fire!"
"Rat-tat-tat!"
"Something's in the lower hold! Something's—!"
"Fuck!"
On Hill's SHIELD frequency and Mr. Nobody's CIA channel, the shouts of their respective agents suddenly erupted, followed by the chaotic staccato of various weapons firing.
A few moments later.
A few surviving agents returned, faces pale and hearts pounding, reporting to Hill and Mr. Nobody who had rushed to meet them: "There's a monster."
Hill and Mr. Nobody exchanged a look. 'The creature that attacked the Argo hasn't left?'
However, when the mutated giant octopus with a detonated head was eventually dredged up by the support vessels and hoisted into the air, the two commanders looking up from the deck felt more confusion than relief.
The giant octopus dangled in the air, its countless severed tentacles still flailing and thrashing blindly. Even though its head was gone, the nervous system in the limbs hadn't fully shut down.
From the brief clips of recovered surveillance, they had a general idea of the nightmare the Argo had endured.
But what happened next? How did this mutated octopus—capable of warping magnetic fields and blocking all communications—end up with its head blown apart? What exactly had happened on the Argo after the initial slaughter?
A name flashed through Hill's mind. Locke Broughton.
But she immediately shook her head. When they had first landed, they saw that Locke and the others had stayed on the deck. Upon discovering the ship was a ghost vessel, they hadn't wandered off to investigate. They hadn't acted like the typical cast of a horror movie, splitting up to be picked off one by one.
Moreover, the octopus was clearly alive and well when Locke's group was refueling; it had attacked the helicopter to trap them.
"What exactly happened?" Hill muttered to herself. Then, turning her attention to the other tragedy, she asked Natasha, "Has the Poseidon been found?"
Natasha nodded. "Found, but... she's already sunk. We only found a few floating bodies on the surface. The rest likely went down to the bottom with the ship."
Hill fell silent.
The Poseidon had nearly 3,700 people on board. The Argo's manifest was similar. This meant over 7,000 lives had likely been lost in this patch of ocean.
This was a massive news story.
Could they suppress it? Hardly. This wasn't a matter of a few dozen people; it was thousands. A cover-up was impossible.
However... Hill looked up at the headless monster that was still claiming the lives of agents even in death. She looked at Mr. Nobody. "We can't hide the Poseidon hitting a rogue wave, and we can't hide the disappearance of the Argo's crew. But this mutated octopus? We can keep that under wraps."
If the public found out about the scenes in the lower engine room—the bone-yard and the acid-melted victims—the media would spiral into a frenzy of apocalyptic speculation.
...
In fact, the media was already in a frenzy.
Countless reporters had swarmed New York's JFK Airport, desperate to get the first interview with the survivors of the Poseidon disaster.
The transport of Locke and the others should have been a secret. Normally, that would be the case, but New York reporters were incredibly resourceful. If a D.C. reporter knows when a Senator eats, a New York reporter knows if a single person on an incoming flight is worth a headline.
Fortunately, the press wasn't allowed onto the tarmac.
George and Helen Stacy were there, along with the parents of Cindy and Kahn.
Helen looked at the sky with frantic eyes. "Where is the plane? Why isn't it here yet? Nothing else went wrong, did it?"
George opened his mouth to comfort her, but hearing her words, he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "Honey, they're on a Department of Homeland Security transport."
Helen shot him a look. "So what if it's DHS? They're just like any other agency—bullying people into confessions and framing the innocent."
George: "..."
Ever since the Department of Homeland Security took the "fall" for SHIELD's earlier interrogation of Locke, their reputation in New York had plummeted. Especially after Midtown High won the Decathlon, people saw Locke's name and immediately associated it with the "persecution" by DHS.
"Oh, you mean that agency that likes to frame good people, just like the FBI?"
God as his witness, the Secretary of Homeland Security was already regretting taking that particular bullet for SHIELD. It was a PR nightmare that wouldn't end. Every time Locke Broughton appeared in the news, DHS was dragged out for another public lashing.
And this time? The Secretary looked at the survivor list his subordinates had handed him. Seeing Locke's name at the top, he leaned back in his chair, feeling utterly powerless.
DHS was about to be whipped by the media again.
...
After a while, the silhouette of a plane appeared in the clouds.
Helen's eyes lit up with excitement. "Is that it?"
George looked up. "It should be."
On the plane, after being rescued and given a hot shower, a quick medical exam, and fresh clothes, Locke and the others were finally approaching New York.
Gwen, wearing a fluffy and somewhat cute down jacket, adjusted her ponytail. She looked out the window at the approaching runway. "We're finally home."
Locke, sitting across from her sipping a glass of bourbon, said nothing.
Technically, he was underage and shouldn't be drinking, but one look from him had secured the bottle. 'I just escaped certain death. If I want a bourbon to settle my nerves, who's going to stop me?' It was a perfect excuse.
The DHS agents hadn't found a single reason to say no. After reporting it, they simply served him.
"Mr. Broughton," a DHS agent approached, looking at Locke and his glass. "We're about to land."
Locke looked at the agent, drained the remaining bourbon in one go, and handed the glass back. "Thank you."
The agent's lip twitched. He could swear he had never seen a minor this bold—drinking in front of federal agents with such casual confidence that they felt awkward even trying to stop him.
Gwen watched the agent walk away and whispered to Locke, "Aren't you afraid they'll keep an eye on you and bust you for underage drinking later?"
Locke shook his head. "No. Because I'd countersue them for trespassing the moment they stepped on my property. My aim is good, and if the gun license hasn't arrived yet, there's always the Castle Doctrine. Plus, I have a legal team."
When he turned eighteen next year, the first thing he planned to do was have George help him with a concealed carry permit. After that, with the Castle Doctrine in play, he could drop any SHIELD agent who broke into his house without a problem. No warrant? Trespassing. Dead? Justified defense.
Gwen laughed, choosing to ignore the casual bloodlust in his words. She looked at the others. Cindy and Kahn had fallen asleep against each other. Jennifer and Christian were whispering with their heads together, while Robert Ramsey sat in his seat with his arms crossed. Dylan and Maggie were talking in low voices, while little Connor slept against the window.
"Pepper isn't with us," Gwen noted.
"Different status, I suppose," Locke said.
Once they were cleared, Tony Stark's private plane had arrived. He had taken Pepper and Happy and left ahead of the government transport.
Gwen nodded. "True. If the media knew Stark was here too, I can't even imagine the swarm of reporters outside."
The plane touched down with a slight jolt, the engines roaring as it slowed. After taxiing for a few minutes, it began to turn toward a private hangar.
The mood in the cabin shifted. For the first time, genuine smiles and the joy of a second chance at life appeared on everyone's faces.
"I'm going to sleep for a week when I get back."
"Me too. I'm going to sleep until the world ends."
"Locke, want to find a place for a drink later?"
Locke looked at Robert Ramsey's invitation and Dylan's wink. He gave a dry laugh but looked at Robert. "It's an option. Robert, you were the Mayor; if we get caught, you have the connections to settle things with the DA, right?"
Robert laughed loudly. "You're a hero, Locke. The DA isn't going to prosecute a hero for having a drink."
Locke: "..."
***
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