Chapter 9: THE DEBRIEF
The voicemail from Drew Keener played on speaker while I ate hospital oatmeal with my good hand.
"Vaughn. Drew. Listen, I don't know what you were thinking running toward that thing, but... look, that's not why I'm calling. Vought HR wants to talk to you. Woman named Linda Cho. She's calling it a 'wellness check' but you and I both know what that means. Call me back before you talk to her. And Harley—" A pause. "Whatever you tell her, keep the production out of it. I've got enough headaches."
The oatmeal was lukewarm and tasted like cardboard. I ate it anyway. The body needed fuel, and hospital food was better than nothing.
The system interface hovered at the edge of my vision—I'd learned to minimize it to a small status bar in the corner, just BP and LS and a general health indicator. The full dashboard was distracting, and I couldn't afford distractions right now.
[BP: 67 | LS: 15]
The numbers had climbed overnight. Sixty-seven belief points. Fifteen Legend Saturation. Still pathetic by any meaningful measure—the system documentation suggested I'd need hundreds of BP for even minor stat improvements—but the trajectory mattered more than the total.
I was growing. Slowly, but growing.
My phone rang. Unknown number, 212 area code. Manhattan.
"Here we go."
"Mr. Vaughn? This is Linda Cho from Vought International's Human Resources division. Do you have a moment?"
Her voice was warm in the professional way that meant she'd been trained to sound warm. Corporate empathy—designed to make you comfortable enough to say something stupid.
"Ms. Cho. I'm still in the hospital, but I can talk."
"Of course. First, I want to say how sorry we are about what happened. The incident yesterday—that must have been terrifying."
"It was." I let my voice crack slightly. Not acting—the ribs made every breath a negotiation, and pain was easy to channel. "I'm still processing it, honestly."
"Completely understandable. We've been monitoring the situation, and I wanted to check in personally. Vought takes the wellbeing of our contractors very seriously."
Contractors. Not employees. Important distinction. Contractors had fewer protections, fewer rights, fewer reasons for Vought to care about them.
"I appreciate that."
"Can you walk me through what happened? In your own words?"
This was the test. Linda Cho wasn't calling to check on my health—she was calling to assess liability. To figure out whether I was a threat, an asset, or just a loose end that needed trimming.
I'd practiced this in my head all morning. The goal was simple: give her nothing to escalate and nothing to suppress. Be boring. Be scared. Be exactly what she expected a traumatized civilian to be.
"I was on set when we heard the explosion," I said. "Three blocks away. Everyone started running, and I just... I don't know. I saw the people on the ground, and I moved. I wasn't thinking. I grabbed the prop shield because it was in my bag and it felt better than having empty hands."
"The prop shield." Her voice stayed neutral, but I heard the interest beneath it. "You mean the replica hero shield from the documentary production?"
"Yes ma'am. I know I shouldn't have taken it off set. I'm sorry if that caused problems for the production."
"The shield itself isn't the concern, Mr. Vaughn. But the footage that's circulating—you understand why that creates complications for Vought?"
"Because it makes you look bad," I didn't say. "Because a nobody with a fake shield did more than your response team, and the internet noticed."
"I understand," I said instead. "I'm not trying to cause problems. I just reacted. It was stupid."
"Some people might call it brave."
"Brave people don't end up in hospitals with broken wrists."
A pause. I could hear her reassessing—deciding whether I was smart enough to be dangerous or just traumatized enough to be controllable.
"Mr. Vaughn, Vought's official recommendation is that you take medical leave until you've recovered. We'll continue your contractor payments during that period. We also strongly advise that you decline any media inquiries about the incident."
"Is that a recommendation or an order?"
Another pause. Longer this time.
"It's a recommendation. But I hope you'll take it seriously. The situation is... sensitive. Vought is working to manage the narrative, and additional public statements could complicate that process."
"Manage the narrative" meant suppress the footage. "Complicate the process" meant draw more attention. She was asking me to be quiet while Vought figured out how to spin this.
"I understand," I said. "I don't want attention. I just want to heal and go back to work."
"That's very reasonable." The warmth was back in her voice—I'd passed whatever test she'd been running. "We'll be in touch about your return timeline. And Mr. Vaughn? Please don't hesitate to reach out if you need anything. Vought takes care of its people."
She hung up before I could respond to that particular lie.
[INTERACTION COMPLETE: VOUGHT HR]
[REPUTATION: VOUGHT INTERNAL — NEUTRAL (MONITORING)]
[NO IMMEDIATE THREAT DETECTED]
The system notification appeared without me asking for it. Some kind of automated analysis, tracking my social interactions and assessing threat levels.
"Neutral monitoring," I thought. "That's the best I could hope for. They're not coming after me yet, but they're watching."
The view count on the footage was still climbing. 2.8 million now. The DMCA strikes had slowed—Vought's legal team had probably realized the Streisand Effect was making things worse—but the mirrors were everywhere. Reddit. Twitter. TikTok. Conspiracy forums I'd never heard of.
And in the comments, people were already connecting dots.
anyone else notice the guy works for vought? saw his badge in one of the clips crew member from the documentary production apparently his name is harley something, friend of a friend works on the set
The name leak was happening faster than I'd expected. Jenna's text—omg harley are you okay??—meant the crew was already talking. By tomorrow, someone would post my full name. By the day after, journalists would be filing FOIA requests for the incident report.
I could try to suppress it. Stay quiet. Let Vought control the narrative.
Or I could get ahead of it.
The Reputation Dashboard showed me what I was working with.
[BELIEF CATEGORIES — CURRENT DISTRIBUTION]
Admiration: 18% (BP conversion: 1.0x)Fear: 7% (BP conversion: 1.3x)Curiosity: 61% (BP conversion: 0.6x)Hatred: 3% (BP conversion: 0.8x)Skepticism: 11% (BP conversion: 0.0x)
Curiosity was dominant. Sixty-one percent of people who'd engaged with the footage wanted to know more—who I was, what I was doing, why Vought was trying to hide it. That curiosity generated the weakest BP conversion, but it also meant the highest potential for growth.
"They want a story," I realized. "They want to know who the guy with the shield is."
I could give them that story. Control the narrative before Vought did. Make the first public statement myself, framed exactly the way I wanted it framed.
The risk was attention. More visibility meant more Vought scrutiny. It also meant more belief, faster growth, a higher ceiling.
"The No-Stealth Rule," I reminded myself. "Every move toward power is also a move into someone's crosshairs. The system doesn't let you hide. It wants you visible."
I looked at the numbers. 67 BP. 15 LS. All stats at Rank 0, which meant I was still exactly as fragile as I'd been when the V-enhanced man hit me. One more fight like that and I'd die.
But if I stayed quiet—if I let Vought suppress the footage and control the story—the growth would stop. The curiosity would fade. The belief would decay.
The system needed feeding. And I needed the system.
My phone buzzed. Text from Jenna Park.
harley seriously are you okay?? the whole crew is freaking out drew won't say anything but we all saw the footage some of the extras are saying you got superpowers lol
I stared at the message for a long time.
Jenna was a connection. A friendly face in a hostile corporate environment. Also a gossip—which meant anything I told her would spread through the crew within hours.
"Please don't share my name yet," I typed back. "Still processing everything. Will explain when I can."
I sent it knowing exactly what would happen. Jenna wouldn't keep quiet. The request itself would become part of the story—he asked me not to share his name, which means there's something worth sharing. By tomorrow, everyone on the Vought production would know Harley Vaughn was the guy in the footage.
And once the crew knew, leaks were inevitable.
"Get ahead of it," I decided. "One controlled statement. One interview. Make it on my terms before Vought makes it on theirs."
The view count crossed 3 million while I was planning.
The BP counter ticked past 80.
And somewhere in my peripheral vision, the system hummed with something that felt almost like approval.
The phone rang again. Unknown number, different area code.
"Mr. Vaughn? This is Marcus Webb from The Watchdog. We're an independent media outlet covering Supe-related incidents. I was hoping to ask you a few questions about—"
"Not right now," I said. "But give me your number. I might have something for you in a few days."
A pause. Then: "You're planning to go public."
"I'm planning to tell my side of the story. Before someone else tells it for me."
Another pause. When Webb spoke again, his voice had shifted—from journalist-hunting-a-lead to something more like professional respect.
"Call me when you're ready. And Mr. Vaughn? Be careful. The last few people who made Vought look bad... didn't have great outcomes."
He hung up.
I set the phone down and flexed my broken wrist inside the cast. The bone shifted, sending a spike of pain up my arm—a reminder that all the system numbers in the world didn't change what I actually was.
Baseline human. Broken. Visible.
But growing.
[BP: 87]
[LS: 19]
[PRESENCE SUB-VALUE: 7]
The numbers climbed while I watched. Somewhere out there, people were deciding what they believed about the guy with the shield. Most of them would forget. Most of them would scroll past and never think about it again.
But some of them—a precious, growing few—were starting to believe.
That was enough.
That was a start.
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