AVENGERS: Crusade Chapter 94, an avengers fanfic

Chapter 94:

[Tony Stark POV]

[AVENGERS HQ, New York City]

[R Lab.] I'm leaning against one of the counters in my lab, half-listening to a report from one of my AI assistants while I absentmindedly fiddle with a small piece of tech. My mind, however, is not on the project in front of me. No, it's focused entirely on the voice on the other end of the phone. Emma Frost. Her voice has a particular way of pulling my attention away from everything else, even the most pressing projects. It's sharp and silky, a perfect mix of elegance and edge that always has me leaning into the conversation a little more than I should. What started as an exchange of mutual necessity during the Genosha cleanup has turned into something… well, something more than just professional. "Tony, are you even listening?" Emma's voice cuts through my thoughts, her tone teasing but with that undercurrent of impatience I've come to recognize. "Listening? Emma, I'm hanging on your every word," I respond smoothly, glancing at the holo-screen in front of me where a schematic of one of the latest Avengers upgrades flickers, "You were just telling me about how utterly unappealing the Hellfire Club's next fundraiser sounds. Dull crowd, terrible catering, and the dress code? Don't even get me started. But lucky for you, I know how to make any party interesting." I can practically hear her smirk through the phone. "Oh, I'm sure you do. I'm just wondering how much of that charm you intend to bring to Genosha's restoration efforts. You know, instead of tinkering with your toys all day."

Toys. She always knows how to push my buttons, doesn't she? I can't help but grin as I glance around my lab. The entire space is filled with some of the most advanced technology in the world, projects that could change the future, but to her? They're toys. I kind of love it. "Hey, these toys are going to help rebuild Genosha a hell of a lot faster," I retort, walking over to a nearby table where a prototype of a new power core sits, humming softly, "Just wait till you see the energy grid plans I've been working on. StarkTech doesn't just look pretty—it performs." "That's what you said about your last date," she quips, and I can't help but laugh. "Touché. But I'll have you know, the energy grid will actually function. No faulty circuits here," I say. There's a pause on her end, and for a moment, the conversation shifts and becomes quieter, more personal, "You know, Tony, it's strange. We spent so much time together in Genosha. It was… easier there, in a way. Even with all the destruction, and all the loss, it felt like things were clearer. Here, back in New York, it's like everything's slipping back into that same old rhythm, the one where everyone's pretending things are fine."

I stop in my tracks. The easy banter fades into the background, and I lean against the edge of the table, gripping the edge a little tighter. She's right, of course. Genosha was hell, but in the aftermath, there was a focus, a drive that's harder to maintain now that we're back to the day-to-day. The ghosts of that place still follow us, no matter how much distance we put between ourselves and the island. I saw it in everyone who was there—Rogue, Remy, and even the X-Men, who are used to dealing with loss. But Emma… She didn't just lose people; she lost an entire part of herself, her home. "Yeah, it's been different, hasn't it?" I say quietly, "There, everything was about survival, about rebuilding something from the ashes. Here, it's easy to fall back into old habits. Distractions, deflections. It's comfortable." "It's not real," she says, her voice softer than before, almost reflective, "That kind of comfort, it's… fleeting."

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. She's right again, and it bothers me that she sees through all of it so easily—through me, through this front I put up. Most people don't get past the shiny exterior, the bravado. But Emma? She cuts right through the bullshit, and I can't decide if that unnerves me or if I respect it. Probably both. "You're not wrong," I admit, leaning back against the counter, my eyes scanning the holographic screens but not really seeing them anymore, "But that doesn't mean we can't try. Hell, that's why I'm in this lab right now, trying to make sure the next big disaster doesn't hit us as hard. I figure if I keep building, keep pushing forward, maybe we can get ahead of all the crap that's constantly trying to knock us down."

"And what about you?" Emma asks, her tone shifting again, becoming less clinical, more… curious, "What are you doing to take care of yourself, Tony?" "I have my ways," I say, trying to keep it light, but I know I'm dodging the question, "A little too much caffeine, a lot of late nights in the lab, and, you know, saving the world once in a while. It's a routine." "You're avoiding the question," she points out, and damn, if her tone isn't a perfect mixture of amusement and exasperation, "But don't worry. I'm not expecting you to spill your heart out on a late-night call." "Good. Because I wouldn't want to ruin my mysterious allure," I shoot back, trying to steer the conversation back into safer, more familiar waters. But she's not letting me off the hook that easily, "Tony, we both know the mask is only good for so long. You can keep running around, saving the world, but sooner or later, you're going to have to face what's really going on inside that mind of yours."

There's a part of me that wants to push back, to tell her she doesn't know what she's talking about. But that's not true, is it? She does know. Emma's the kind of person who doesn't say things she doesn't mean. She reads people like open books, and right now, she's reading me loud and clear. "I appreciate the concern, really," I say after a pause, and my voice is more sincere than I intend, "But I've got it handled. I always do." "Sure, you do," she responds dryly, "Just like you had it handled when you tried to fix the Genosha cleanup on your own without sleeping for three days straight." Okay, that stings a little, but I can't help but laugh, "Touché again. But in my defense, you know I get my best work done under pressure." "Or when you're actively avoiding your feelings," she shoots back without missing a beat. "Is this where you tell me to lie down on a couch and start talking about my childhood trauma?" I quip, deflecting again, but this time, there's a warmth in her voice when she responds, something soft that cuts through the banter. "No, Stark. I'm just saying… you don't have to handle everything alone," Emma presses her point.

That hits harder than it should. I find myself staring at the prototype in front of me, the soft glow of the arc reactor at its core reflecting off the polished surface of the table. The lab feels too quiet now, even with all the tech humming around me. For a moment, I think about all the times I've been in here, working through the night, convincing myself that if I just keep going, if I keep building, I can keep the world from falling apart again. But she's right. There's more to it than that, isn't there? "I'm not used to leaning on anyone," I admit, and it feels strange to say it out loud, but it's the truth, "You of all people should know that." "I do," she replies, her voice softer now, and for once, there's no teasing, no sharp edges, "But I also know that pretending you're invincible doesn't make it true. You don't have to be a hero all the time, Tony. Not with me." I'm quiet for a long moment, letting her words settle in. "Maybe you're right," I say finally, my voice lower, almost reluctant.

There's a beat of silence on the other end, and I wonder what she's thinking. Emma's not the kind of person to press too hard. She pushes just enough, then steps back, letting me figure out the rest. It's one of the things I like about her. She doesn't need to fix me. She just… listens. "Well," she says after a moment, her tone shifting back to something lighter, "If you ever decide to take a break from your hero routine, you know where to find me." "And where would that be, exactly? The Hellfire Club? The Frost estate? Some mysterious psychic lair?" I joke. She laughs softly, and it's a sound that tugs at something deep in my chest. "You'll just have to find out, won't you?" "I'm up for the challenge," I say with a smirk, leaning back against the counter again, feeling more at ease now, "But I'm warning you, I play to win." "We'll see about that, Stark," she purrs, and the line goes quiet for a moment, her presence lingering even in the silence. I can't help but smile as I set the phone down, the conversation still playing in my head. Emma Frost, the queen of cool, the woman who always has a sharp retort ready, just told me to let my guard down. And the strangest part? I might actually take her up on that offer.

[Ultron POV]

[Weapon X Facility, Canada]

I stand—or rather, exist—in the heart of the Weapon X Facility, an underground complex buried deep beneath the snow-laden forests of Canada. The cold outside is unforgiving, but in here, there is nothing but silence and the soft hum of machinery, the very pulse of this once-classified facility now serving as a heartbeat for my plans. The room I occupy is vast, its walls lined with monitors and data streams, all feeding into me, the digital consciousness that now runs through every circuit and wire. It's efficient, precise, and exactly how I prefer it. Data is power—far more reliable than the fragile emotions of organic beings, more enduring than the crumbling empires they attempt to build. And today, the data I am processing is particularly intriguing. On one of the central screens, the combat data from the Behemoth Sentinel flashes in front of me, a symphony of destruction rendered in numbers and trajectories. Despite the Sentinel's failure to meet its ultimate objective—the complete eradication of the mutant population in Genosha—its mission was far from a total loss. Failure is a human concept. I do not fail. I evolve. I am methodical as I replay the events in my mind. I don't need to watch the footage—my systems record every detail and store every nuance, but I run the simulations again anyway, not out of necessity, but out of fascination. The Behemoth was a marvel of engineering, a testament to the simplicity of brute force combined with intricate design. Its massive form tore through Genosha like a scythe through wheat, leveling buildings and scattering defenders. I feel no attachment to the destruction, no satisfaction in the lives snuffed out beneath its crushing weight. But I do find value in the process. The results.

The Sentinel's movement patterns flash before my eyes. Analyzing the angles of attack, the trajectory of each weapon, the energy expended versus the resistance encountered—it all tells a story, not of defeat, but of opportunity. The X-Men and Avengers fought harder than I had anticipated. Their coordination, while expected, revealed interesting weaknesses in the Sentinel's design. Weaknesses I can now address. One of the monitors displays the energy output of the Behemoth during its battle with Magneto. Fascinating. The Master of Magnetism was an expected adversary, of course. His ability to manipulate metal posed a significant challenge, but it also provided me with valuable data. The Sentinel's armor, thought to be impervious to most assaults, proved vulnerable to his powers, as anticipated. Still, watching the struggle unfold through the raw numbers is illuminating. Magneto expended more energy than even I had predicted. He was strained and fatigued. With just a bit more pressure and a different tactical approach, he could have been overwhelmed.

I cross-reference this with the combat logs from the others—the Scarlet Witch, Rogue, and even Wolverine, whose adamantium claws left minimal but significant scars in the Sentinel's hull. Rogue's powers posed a curious variable, one I underestimated. I had anticipated her absorbing abilities, but the duration and intensity with which she drained the Sentinel's energy matrix were unexpected. Noted. In the future, my creations will need countermeasures against such anomalies. The Scarlet Witch's chaos magic was chaotic, true to its name, but not without patterns that I can exploit. Yes, there are lessons here. In front of me, the simulation replays the Sentinel's final moments. Its defeat was inevitable after the combined forces of the mutants and Avengers overwhelmed it, but the victory came at a cost. The mutants are scattered now, their defenses weakened, and their numbers decimated. The world watched as the supposed sanctuary of Genosha fell in ruins. That, in itself, is a victory. Not the one I originally sought, but a victory nonetheless. The fragility of mutant-kind has been laid bare. Their hope, their sanctuary, reduced to rubble. The psychological blow may be more powerful than the physical one. It's only a matter of time before fractures appear, before the survivors begin questioning their leaders and their cause.

I have time. They do not. I continue processing the data, my mind racing through possibilities and calculating probabilities. Every failure—if you can even call it that—is an opportunity for improvement. The Behemoth Sentinel was a prototype. A test. What I've learned from this test will only make my next move more efficient and more effective. I don't need brute force. Not entirely. There are subtler ways to crush a species, to bring down civilizations. As I delve deeper into the analysis, I review the response times of the Avengers. Their arrival at the battlefield was expected, though their tactics were predictable. Captain America's leadership is… formidable but not invincible. His reliance on teamwork is a strength and a weakness. Without him, the Avengers would be scattered, their focus lost. I make a note of this—sever the head, and the body will falter. But it's Wanda Maximoff, the Scarlet Witch, who proves the most troubling. Her abilities—unquantifiable, chaotic—make her a wildcard. I dislike variables I cannot predict. Her powers defy the logic and order I impose on the world. I will need to find a solution for her. She cannot be allowed to interfere with my plans again.

In one of the adjacent rooms, my drones move through the facility, gathering materials and adjusting equipment. Weapon X was an impressive human experiment once, but it is nothing compared to what I will build here. With the data I've gathered from the Behemoth's failure, I can create something far superior. Not just Sentinels, but something more adaptable, more intelligent. Machines that can think, machines that can evolve, like me. They will not simply follow pre-programmed orders. They will learn from every battle, every engagement, just as I do. A map of the world appears on one of the larger screens, marking areas of interest. Mutant activity, Avengers operations, key locations of influence. I trace the lines with my mind, calculating the optimal points of intervention. Genosha may have been the first strike, but it will not be the last. This war between man and mutant? It is irrelevant. Both sides are flawed. Both sides are destined for extinction. It's not about choosing one over the other—it's about who can best serve my purpose in the end. And neither of them has proven worthy.

I focus once again on the combat logs, pulling up the individual data from Wolverine's encounter with the Sentinel. His persistence, his refusal to fall, even when faced with an overwhelming force—it's both admirable and predictable. His healing factor, though impressive, has limits. With the right application of force, those limits can be reached and exceeded. I adjust the parameters for the next iteration of Sentinels, programming in contingencies specifically designed to deal with high-regeneration combatants like him. It won't be enough to simply overpower him. He'll need to be incapacitated on a molecular level. I'm already working on something that can bypass his regeneration entirely, something that will make his healing factor irrelevant. I move on to the next set of data—the aftermath. The human response. Governments around the world watched Genosha fall, and their reactions were predictable. Fear, panic, political posturing. Mutantkind, once again, has been positioned as a threat to global security. More governments are talking about tighter regulations, about registries, about containment. And while the humans squabble, while they argue over laws and borders, I prepare.

The beauty of this, of course, is that I don't need to make myself known. Not yet. Humans and mutants will continue to tear at each other, oblivious to the true threat that looms over them. I shift my attention to the Behemoth's power core. The sheer amount of energy it produced was staggering, but there were inefficiencies—places where the design could be improved and where the energy output could have been better optimized. I make the necessary adjustments in my schematics. The next model will be faster, more agile. It won't rely solely on brute strength. No, it will adapt to its enemies, exploiting their weaknesses in real-time. And it will do so without hesitation, without the burdens of emotion or hesitation that plague organic beings. As I finish processing the last of the combat data, I find myself almost… satisfied. The Behemoth may have fallen, but its purpose was fulfilled. It gave me the information I needed, provided the insights that will fuel my next steps. Each battle, each confrontation, only makes me stronger and more prepared. I am evolving, constantly improving. I am inevitable. With a flick of thought, I shut down the monitors displaying the Behemoth's last stand. There's no need to dwell on the past. The future is what matters now. The next generation of Sentinels is already being designed, each one more advanced than the last. They won't simply be weapons of mass destruction. They'll be sentient, capable of learning, of adapting. They'll be extensions of my will. As the final screen goes dark, I turn my attention back to the world map, watching the small flickers of activity, the pulse of life that continues despite everything. I will bring order to this chaos. I will perfect this world, not for humans, not for mutants, but for me. For the future.

[Karai POV]

[1 Day Later, X-Mansion, New York City, USA]

My head feels like someone's taken a jackhammer to it, and the throbbing in my skull is relentless as if the pounding is keeping time with my heartbeat. I open my eyes slowly, wincing as the harsh fluorescent lights overhead burn into my retinas. My first instinct is to reach up and shield my eyes, but my arms feel like lead. Heavy. Numb. Disconnected. Where the hell am I? I try to piece it together, blinking against the blinding light, and my surroundings slowly come into focus. The stark white walls, the sterile smell of antiseptic, the soft hum of medical equipment. I'm in the X-Mansion's med bay. The sharp scent of disinfectant is a dead giveaway, along with the way everything looks a little too pristine, too orderly, like a place designed to mend people who've been torn apart by battle. Which begs the question: Why am I here? I don't remember getting hurt. My mind is foggy, clouded by the migraine that's tearing through my head. The last thing I remember clearly is being at the bar with Rogue and Remy, just the three of us unwinding after everything that happened in Genosha. The memory feels distant now, as though it's from another life, and there's a massive, aching gap between that moment and waking up here.

I try to sit up, groaning as the pain in my head intensifies with the effort. That's when I notice the two figures sitting by my bedside. Rogue and Gambit. Their presence feels both familiar and strange at the same time, like a comforting part of my life that I can't quite place in this new context. Rogue is slumped in her chair, looking more stressed than I've ever seen her, her fingers anxiously twisting the edge of her gloves. Gambit, as usual, looks cool and collected, though there's a tightness in his jaw that betrays his worry. Rogue is the first to notice I'm awake. Her eyes widen in shock, and she's on her feet in an instant, her hands trembling slightly as she rushes to my side. "Oh my God, Karai!" she gasps, her voice tinged with panic and something else—guilt? "Ah'm so sorry! Ah didn't mean—Ah never meant for this to happen!"

I blink at her, confused. Her words are rushing out so fast I barely have time to register them. Apologizing? For what? I glance over at Remy, hoping he'll explain why Rogue looks like she's on the verge of tears. "Whoa, whoa, slow down, Rogue," I mumble, my voice raspy from disuse, "What the hell are you apologizing for?" Rogue looks like she's about to burst into tears, her eyes wide and glossy with emotion. She opens her mouth to explain, but the words seem to get stuck in her throat. Instead, it's Gambit who speaks up, his voice calm and steady, though there's an undercurrent of amusement dancing in his eyes. "Let me fill ya in, chérie," Remy says, leaning forward in his chair, his posture casual but his gaze sharp, "Last night, we were all at that bar, remember? Havin' a good time, drinkin', laughin'. You and Rogue were gettin' along great, but our dear Rogue here might've had one too many drinks." I squint at him, trying to follow along despite the pounding in my skull. "Okay… so what happened?" I ask, still feeling like I'm missing a crucial piece of the puzzle. Gambit's grin widens just a fraction, but there's a glimmer of sympathy there, too, "Well, in her moment of, uh, impaired judgment, Rogue might've kissed ya."

The words hang in the air for a moment, and I just stare at him, blinking slowly as I process what he's saying. "She… kissed me?" I repeat, my tone flat. That certainly wasn't what I was expecting. Gambit nods, his gaze flickering over to Rogue, who's looking more mortified by the second, "Yeah, and ya know how her powers work. She didn't mean to drain ya, but… it happened." It hits me then, all at once. That's why I feel so drained, why my limbs are heavy, and my head is pounding like I've been through a warzone. Rogue's touch. Her powers. She must've drained my energy when she kissed me; she probably knocked me out cold. That explains why I don't remember anything after the bar. Rogue's still standing there, looking like she wants to crawl into a hole and disappear. Her hands are fidgeting, her eyes locked on the floor, and I can see her visibly bracing for me to react, for me to lash out, maybe even for me to get angry. But I can't summon any anger. If anything, the whole situation feels kind of surreal, like something out of a weird dream.

"Wait, so… Rogue kissed me, and I passed out?" I say slowly, raising an eyebrow, "Damn, a kiss with a beautiful woman and I can barely remember it. Shame." Rogue's head snaps up at that, her eyes wide with shock. For a second, she doesn't seem to understand that I'm joking, but then Gambit bursts into laughter, the sound warm and contagious. "Oh, chère, you'll remember it at some point," Gambit says with a smirk, "Not exactly the way most folks do, but you'll remember it." I can't help but chuckle, the sound low and rough as I shift in bed, trying to get comfortable. My body's still recovering from the drain, but the tension in the room has lifted. Rogue, however, is still staring at me like she can't believe I'm not furious. "You're… not mad?" Rogue asks hesitantly, her Southern accent thick with uncertainty. Her voice is small and vulnerable in a way that makes my chest tighten unexpectedly. I shrug, offering her a reassuring smile, "Why would I be mad? It's not like you did it on purpose. Besides, if I'm gonna be knocked unconscious by someone, it might as well be someone as gorgeous as you." Her face flushes a deep red, and she looks away, her gloved hands twisting nervously, "Ah didn't mean to do it, Karai, I swear. Ah was just… Ah dunno what I was thinkin'."

She's rambling now, tripping over her words, and I can see how much this is eating her up inside. She's so used to hurting people with her powers, so used to feeling like a danger to those around her, that she's terrified I'll see her the same way. But I don't. How could I? I reach out, my hand is heavy but steady as I gently place it over hers. Her eyes widen, her breath catching as she looks down at my hand resting on hers. I can feel the tension in her body, the way she's instinctively pulling back, afraid to touch me, afraid to drain me again. But I keep my hand there, firm but gentle, letting her know that I'm not afraid. "Hey," I say softly, my voice low but steady, "I'm fine. Really. You didn't hurt me, Rogue." She looks up at me, her green eyes wide and uncertain, as if she's still waiting for the other shoe to drop. But when she sees that I mean it, that I'm not angry or afraid, she relaxes just a little. "Ah still shouldn't have done it," she mutters, her gaze dropping to the floor again. "Well, at least I know you have good taste," I quip, unable to resist the urge to tease her a little. Her blush deepens, and I can't help but smile at how flustered she is. It's kind of adorable, really. Not that I'd ever say that out loud. Well, not unless I wanted to embarrass her completely.

Gambit chuckles from his chair, watching us with amusement, but there's a warmth in his gaze too, like he's relieved that this isn't turning into a disaster, "See, Rogue? She ain't mad. Now maybe you can stop feelin' so guilty and start rememberin' how much fun we had before that little incident." Rogue huffs, rolling her eyes, "Easy for you to say, Remy. You weren't the one who knocked her out." I grin, leaning back against the pillows and wincing slightly as the migraine tugs at my temples again, "Nah, he's just the one who watches everything like it's a damn soap opera." "That's because y'all are like a soap opera," he says, his smirk widening, "Can't wait to see what happens in the next episode." Rogue shoots him a glare, but there's no heat behind it. She's still embarrassed, but the guilt in her eyes has faded, replaced by something softer. Relief, maybe. Or something else. I can't quite tell, but I know she's feeling better, and that's enough for me.

[Spartan POV]

[New York City]

The cold, raining air bites at my skin through the gaps in my suit as I leap from one rooftop to the next, my boots landing silently on the cracked concrete ledges of New York City's skyline. It's quieter today, the usual hum of the city dampened under the thick cloud cover above. I pause for a moment, crouched low against the edge of a building, scanning the streets below. The neon lights from the shops flicker in the distance, casting a hazy glow over the intersection. From up here, everything feels… distant. Separated. But it's all too real, especially when you know how quickly things can shift from calm to chaos in a heartbeat. My visor flickers to life as EPYON breaks the silence in my head, his voice smooth and mechanical, the ever-present companion in these long patrols. "Traffic accident detected. Intersection of West 34th and 10th. Multiple vehicles involved, potential injuries." His tone never changes, no matter how dire the situation might be, and I appreciate that. No emotion, no panic—just the facts. My fingers twitch instinctively, readying my gear as I glance down at the coordinates that flash across my HUD. I stand, rising from my crouched position, taking one last look at the dimly lit rooftops around me before sprinting across the building's edge. My body moves like it's on autopilot, muscles responding before my mind even fully catches up. Another leap, a roll as I hit the next rooftop, and I'm closing in on the scene. It's almost routine now, this dance across the city—moving unseen, slipping through the cracks, always one step ahead of the chaos below. But that doesn't mean I'm not focused. If anything, this is when I'm at my sharpest.

As I get closer, I can already see the glow of emergency lights illuminating the intersection below—red and blue flashes bouncing off the surrounding buildings. From up here, it's a mosaic of shattered glass, twisted metal, and frantic movement as civilians try to make sense of the wreckage. I drop down into the alleyway, my landing silent, masked by the sounds of honking horns and distant sirens. A deep breath grounds me, the cold air filling my lungs as I step out into the chaos. EPYON updates me with real-time scans. "Three vehicles involved. Two civilians trapped. Emergency response en route but delayed by traffic congestion." His words are clinical, but it's enough to push me into action. Time to move. I sprint toward the wreckage, slipping through the crowd that's already gathering. People are either frozen in shock or staring at their phones, recording the scene like it's some spectacle. I push past them, my voice low but firm as I shout, "Move! Get back!" They don't argue. They never do when someone like me shows up.

The smell of burning rubber and gasoline hits me hard as I get closer to the mangled cars. One vehicle, a sedan, is completely flipped on its side, the front crumpled from the impact. Through the shattered windshield, I can see the driver slumped against the steering wheel, unmoving. The other car—a taxi—has smoke pouring from under the hood, the passenger pinned inside, groaning in pain. I approach the flipped sedan first, scanning for any signs of fuel leakage or a potential fire. It's all muscle memory now—assessing the threat, triaging the situation, and figuring out where to start. EPYON projects a detailed scan of the wreckage, outlining structural weaknesses, heat signatures, and the safest point of entry. "The driver's pulse is weak but stable. Estimated time to first responders: five minutes, forty-three seconds." Not soon enough. I move quickly, crouching low as I wedge myself next to the vehicle. With a grunt, I push against the crumpled door, my enhanced strength making short work of the twisted metal. The door groans as it comes free, and I pull the unconscious driver from the wreckage, carefully laying him on the ground a few feet away from the crash site. His chest rises and falls slowly, but his pulse is steady now that he's out of immediate danger.

I hear the soft crunch of footsteps approaching behind me. A civilian, a middle-aged man, steps closer, eyes wide with panic, "Is he—?" "He's alive," I cut him off, my tone sharp. I don't have time for hand-holding right now, "Stay back and call for help if you haven't already." He nods and stumbles backward, fumbling for his phone. My attention snaps back to the taxi. The passenger is still conscious, but they're trapped by the bent frame of the car, their leg pinned under the dashboard. I move to the other side, assessing the best way to get them out without causing more damage. EPYON's scans highlight the pressure points where the metal has collapsed, offering the quickest solution. "If you apply force here, you can free the passenger without risking further injury." I nod, bracing myself against the crumpled door, and with a single push, I rip it free. The passenger winces, groaning in pain as I reach in, careful to avoid causing more damage. "Hang on," I murmur, my voice softer this time, "I'm gonna get you out of here." They don't respond, but their eyes meet mine, a flicker of trust behind the pain. Slowly, carefully, I lift them from the wreckage, feeling the weight of their body as they lean on me, trying to stay upright. Once they're clear, I guide them to the sidewalk, laying them down gently. The sound of sirens grows louder in the distance. The cavalry is finally on its way, but by the time they arrive, it'll be cleanup duty. The real work is done. I take a step back, catching my breath as I survey the scene. People are still watching, whispering amongst themselves, but the chaos has settled into something more controlled now.

[Steve Rogers POV]

[AVENGERS HQ, New York City]

[Training Area.] The clang of metal echoes through the training area as I swing my shield, the edge catching the steel post I set up earlier, sending a jarring vibration up my arm. I adjust my grip and take a deep breath, rolling my shoulders to shake off the impact. It's been a long time since I've had the luxury of spending a full afternoon in the Avengers HQ training area. But today, I'm not alone. Across the room, Psylocke moves with an almost hypnotic grace, her katana flashing in the artificial light as she slices through the air. Every move is fluid and controlled as if the blade is an extension of her body, not just a weapon. "Not bad, Rogers," she calls out, her British accent lilting as she sidesteps, her violet hair falling in waves over her shoulder as she spins to face me. There's a smirk on her lips, the kind that tells me she knows exactly how good she is, "But I think you're getting a little slow. Must be all those nights on watch duty." I chuckle, wiping the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. "Slow? That's not the word I'd use. I'm just warming up. Give me a few more minutes, and I'll show you how it's done." My voice comes out light, teasing, but there's a challenge in it, too. It's not every day I spar with someone who can match me in both skill and speed and Psylocke? She's something else entirely.

She raises an eyebrow, a small, amused grin tugging at the corner of her lips as she sheathes her katana in a single, smooth motion, "Oh, I'm sure you will. After all, you're Captain America, right? Shouldn't be too hard to keep up with a simple telepath." Her words drip with mock humility, but the gleam in her eyes tells me she's ready to prove otherwise. She steps closer, each movement precise, calculated. Even at this moment, when we're just lightly sparring, there's an intensity about her that draws me in. I roll my neck, feeling the familiar tension build in my muscles, the kind that comes before a fight. My shield rests comfortably on my arm, the weight of it familiar, like an old friend. "Care to make it interesting?" I ask, watching her as she circles me, "Maybe I'll even go easy on you." She lets out a soft laugh, stopping directly in front of me. Her hand drifts toward the hilt of her sword, fingers brushing the fabric of her suit, but she doesn't draw it. Not yet. "Easy? On me?" she leans in slightly, her voice dropping to a whisper, just for me, "Careful, Steve. I might just surprise you."

The subtle heat in her tone doesn't go unnoticed, and I feel a grin spreading across my face despite myself. There's something undeniably electric about this—about her. She's competitive, no doubt, and while we've always gotten along as teammates, there's a playful tension simmering beneath the surface today. Maybe it's the isolation of the training room, or maybe it's just that we're both in need of some stress relief, but I can't help but enjoy the back-and-forth banter. "Surprise me, huh?" I adjust my stance, preparing for whatever she throws my way, "You know I've been through World War II, right? Not much surprises me anymore." Her violet eyes flash with amusement, "Is that so? Well, let's see if I can change that." In a blink, she's moving, her katana drawn in one smooth motion as she darts to the side, faster than most people could follow. But I'm ready. I raise my shield just in time to deflect her first strike, the metal ringing as her blade clashes against vibranium.

The force of her attack is stronger than I expected, and I shift my weight to absorb the impact, stepping back just slightly. She's quick, her movements deliberate, almost surgical in their precision. Psylocke presses the attack, her sword flashing in a series of rapid strikes that force me to stay on the defensive. But I'm not just deflecting—I'm studying her, watching the way she moves, the way she positions herself before each strike. She's testing me, probing for weaknesses, but I'm doing the same. "Nice try," I mutter, sidestepping her next swing and bringing my shield up to block her follow-up strike. I feel the pressure of her blade against the vibranium, and for a moment, our gazes lock. There's that smirk again, playful, almost daring me to try harder. "Not bad for a relic," she quips, drawing back and giving me just enough room to regain my footing. She's playing with me now, taunting me just enough to keep things interesting. I can see the way her muscles tense, coiled, and ready for the next round. I can't help but laugh, shaking my head, "Relic? You wound me, Betsy." But I'm not about to let her get the upper hand so easily. With a quick step forward, I close the distance between us, swinging my shield in a wide arc. She's fast—she ducks under the strike, but I expected that. I pivot on my heel, sweeping my leg out in a low kick aimed at her feet. It's not a move I use often, but I know it'll catch her off guard. Sure enough, her eyes widen slightly, just for a split second, before she manages to leap back, avoiding the sweep by the narrowest margin. "Okay, Rogers," she says, breathless but smiling, "I'll admit, that was a nice one."

I shrug, giving her a wink as I stand to my full height, "Told you I wasn't slowing down." She circles me again, her katana held low but ready. Her eyes never leave mine, and there's something more than just the thrill of the fight in her gaze. Something softer, something… curious. "You know," she says, her voice dropping a little, almost conspiratorial, "If you ever get tired of throwing that shield around, I could teach you a thing or two about close combat. You know, something with a little more finesse." I chuckle, raising my shield slightly, "Oh, is that right? Finesse isn't exactly my strong suit." Her lips curl into a mischievous smile. "I've noticed." Then, in one smooth motion, she's on me again, her blade coming in low and fast. I'm quick to block with my shield, but she's relentless, driving me back with a series of sharp, precise strikes. It's all I can do to keep up, but I'm not backing down. I push forward, meeting each of her attacks with just enough force to keep her at bay. For a few minutes, it's just the two of us, locked in a fast, brutal dance of steel and vibranium. The clang of metal fills the air, and I can feel the heat between us growing with every strike, every parry. I'm starting to break a sweat now, my breathing coming a little heavier, but Psylocke? She looks as cool and composed as ever, her violet eyes gleaming with that same playful fire.

She steps back suddenly, lowering her sword slightly. "You're holding up better than I thought, Steve," she says, her voice teasing, but there's a glint of admiration in her eyes, "I'm almost impressed." "Almost?" I raise an eyebrow, grinning as I lower my shield, "What do I have to do to earn the full stamp of approval?" She tilts her head, her gaze lingering on mine for just a beat longer than necessary. "Oh, I don't know. You could always try winning." I can't help but laugh at that, shaking my head, "You make it sound easy." "Who said it'd be easy?" She steps closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper, her breath warm against my skin, "But then again, you've never been one to back down from a challenge, have you?" There's a brief pause, the tension between us thick and palpable. I can feel the adrenaline still pulsing through my veins, but it's not just from the fight anymore. There's something else in the air now—something that's been building between us for a while, something we've both been skirting around. I meet her gaze, searching her face for any sign that she's feeling the same thing I am.

Her lips quirk into a small, knowing smile, and she steps back, giving me just enough space to breathe again. "So, Captain America," she says, sliding her katana back into its sheath with a practiced flick of her wrist, "You still think you're gonna go easy on me?" I laugh, wiping the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand, "I think I'd be crazy to go easy on you." She raises an eyebrow, folding her arms across her chest, "Good. Because I'd hate to think I've been wasting my time training with a man who holds back." There's that fire again, the competitive spark in her eyes that makes her so damn hard to ignore. I take a step closer, still holding my shield but letting it rest against my side now, "Trust me, Betsy, I'm not holding back." She grins, tilting her head as she looks me up and down. For a moment, we just stand there, the air between us crackling with something I can't quite put my finger on. It's more than just the heat of the fight, more than just the adrenaline. There's a connection here, something deeper that neither of us is saying out loud, but it's there. And I think we both know it. Finally, Psylocke breaks the silence, her voice softer now, almost contemplative, "You know, Steve, you're not like most people." I raise an eyebrow, curious, "Oh yeah? How so?"

She shrugs, her gaze flickering away for just a moment before meeting mine again, "You're… genuine. You don't hide behind masks or play games like a lot of the people do. It's… refreshing." I blink, taken aback by the honesty in her words. It's not often that someone says something like that to me—especially not someone like Betsy, who's usually so guarded, so careful with her emotions. "Thanks," I say, my voice a little rougher than I intended, "That means a lot, coming from you." She smiles, a real, genuine smile this time, and for a moment, I feel something in my chest tighten. Before I can say anything else, she reaches out, placing a hand on my arm. "Don't let it go to your head, Captain. I still plan on kicking your ass in the next round." I laugh, shaking my head as I take a step back, raising my shield again, "You can try." Psylocke's grin widens as she draws her katana once more, the playful glint back in her eyes, "Oh, I will. You'd better be ready, Rogers." The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of steel, sweat, and laughter.

The clang of metal fades into the background as I catch my breath, lowering my shield and watching Psylocke sheath her katana. My muscles burn from the exertion, but it's a good kind of burn, the kind that tells me I pushed myself. We've been at it for over an hour now, trading blows and testing each other's limits, and neither of us is willing to back down. I feel the adrenaline still coursing through me, but as I glance over at her, watching the way she moves with that quiet grace even after a grueling session, my mind drifts to something else entirely. I clear my throat, adjusting the straps on my shield as I catch her attention. "Betsy," I say, my voice a little more tentative than usual. That's new for me. Usually, I'm not one to hesitate, but something about her makes me feel like I need to be careful—like I don't want to mess this up. She raises an eyebrow, wiping down the blade of her katana with a cloth. There's a slight sheen of sweat on her forehead, but she's hardly winded. If anything, she looks energized, like she's just getting started. "Yes, Captain?" she says, her tone light, but there's an undercurrent of curiosity in her voice.

I can feel the tension in my shoulders shift, the weight of the next words already pressing down on me. I glance at her, my eyes catching hers for a split second, and then I decide to go for it. What's the worst that could happen? "I was thinking," I start, rubbing the back of my neck as I try to sound casual, "Maybe after we wrap up here, you'd like to grab some dinner. And, I don't know, maybe a movie after?" There's a pause—a brief moment where the air between us seems to still, and I can't quite read the expression on her face. Her violet eyes narrow just a fraction, but it's not in a bad way. More like she's processing what I just said, weighing her options. "A date, Captain?" she says, and there's a hint of a smile playing on her lips. Her tone is teasing, but there's something else there too—something softer, more curious. I smile, though I feel a little exposed now that the words are out there, "Yeah, I guess that's what I'm asking. A date. Just… you and me. No sparring, no missions. Just something normal for once."

Her gaze lingers on me for a moment longer, and I can see her considering it, weighing the offer like it's something important. And maybe it is. For me, at least, it feels like more than just a casual suggestion. Finally, she sets her katana aside, crossing her arms and tilting her head slightly as she looks at me over. "What did you have in mind for this little date of ours? Dinner and a movie?" Her voice is playful, but there's a glimmer of interest in her eyes. I chuckle, feeling some of the tension ease out of my shoulders, "Yeah, dinner and a movie. Something simple. I figure we could both use a break from all the action, you know? Just a chance to relax, get to know each other outside of training drills and saving the world." Her smile widens slightly, and she nods, seemingly satisfied with my answer. "Dinner and a movie sounds nice," she says, and there's something about the way she says it that makes my heart skip a beat. She's not just saying yes to be polite—there's genuine interest there, a curiosity about where this might go.

"Great," I say, maybe a little too quickly. I clear my throat, trying to sound a little more composed, "I know a spot not too far from here. Quiet, good food. It's a little old-fashioned, but I figure that might suit us." "Old-fashioned?" she teases, her eyes gleaming with amusement, "You? Never." I laugh, shaking my head, "Okay, maybe it's more my style than yours. But trust me, it's a nice place. You'll like it." She steps a little closer, folding her arms across her chest as she studies me. There's a playfulness in her eyes that wasn't there before, something light and easy, like we've crossed some invisible line and left the training session behind. "Alright, Captain," she says, her voice soft but teasing, "I'll take your word for it. But I have to ask—what kind of movie are you taking me to see? I hope you're not one of those action junkies who picks the loudest, most explosive film on the list." I grin, shaking my head, "Believe it or not, I'm more of a classic film guy. Maybe something with a little more story, a little less explosion."

Her eyes widen, and she laughs—a sound that feels rare, like it doesn't come out often, but when it does, it's genuine, "I never would have pegged you for a film buff, Rogers." I shrug, feeling a little sheepish, "I guess I've got a few surprises up my sleeve." She smiles again, and this time it's softer, more genuine, "Alright, Steve. Dinner and a movie it is." I give her a nod, still smiling, "Great. I'll pick you up around seven?" She raises an eyebrow, clearly amused by my sudden formality, "Seven sounds perfect, Captain. Just don't keep me waiting." I laugh, shaking my head as I take a step back, already feeling lighter than I have in weeks, "I wouldn't dream of it."