Chapter 93:
[Spartan POV]
[1 Month Later, AVENGERS HQ, New York City, USA]
[Common Area.] A month has passed since the attack on Genosha, but the weight of it still hangs over me like a shadow I can't shake. Both the Avengers and the X-Men have spent weeks buried in the rubble of that once-thriving mutant haven, trying to salvage what little we could from the devastation. Every day, we pulled bodies from the wreckage—families, children, people who believed in the sanctuary that Genosha was supposed to represent. The initial count of the lives lost seemed unfathomable at first—20,000. That number alone was hard to swallow. But as the days stretched on and more bodies were found beneath the debris, the true scale of the destruction became clear. The final count climbed to 80,000, a number so staggering that it's hard to comprehend. Each time the number was updated, it felt like a punch to the gut, a reminder of how much was lost that day. It wasn't just a physical toll but a psychological one that seemed to wear down on all of us, chipping away at the morale of those left to pick up the pieces. The cleanup efforts have been relentless. From sunrise to sundown, we've been there, clearing debris, searching for survivors, and offering whatever help we could to the people still clinging to what remains of their homes. Every day, I see the faces of those who survived—hollow-eyed, grief-stricken, trying to make sense of a world that was ripped apart in a matter of moments. It's not easy, standing in the midst of that kind of destruction, knowing there's nothing you can do to bring back what they've lost. The helplessness gnaws at me, an ever-present reminder that no matter how powerful we are, no matter how hard we fight, we can't always win. Some battles are bigger than the fists we throw or the powers we wield.
But in a strange twist of fate, the attack on Genosha did something unexpected—it brought people together. After the devastation, there was a wave of support that came crashing in from all sides, a tide of volunteers who signed up to help in the restoration effort. I've seen it firsthand: ordinary people stepping up, determined to make a difference. Builders, medics, engineers, and even kids barely out of high school—everyone wanted to do something, anything, to help put Genosha back together. It's a bittersweet irony. The same act of violence that tore apart so many lives also seemed to ignite a spark of humanity in people who might otherwise have never cared. There's a kind of unity in the aftermath, a shared resolve to rebuild what was destroyed, to stand by the mutants who've suffered so much. Standing here now, looking out the window of Avengers HQ at the skyline of New York City, it feels surreal. The bustling city below looks so normal, so untouched by the chaos that unfolded in Genosha. It's strange to be back in the heart of it all, where life seems to move on as if nothing happened, while in Genosha, the wounds are still fresh, still bleeding. I know I should feel relieved to be home, to have some distance from the wreckage, but part of me is still there, still walking through the ruins, still hearing the echoes of that horrific day.
I turn away from the window, running a hand through my hair as I think back to those first days after the attack. The Avengers and X-Men, working side by side, covered in dirt and ash, our minds running on adrenaline and exhaustion. I remember the looks we shared, silent exchanges that said everything our voices couldn't. We were tired, we were angry, and more than anything, we were grieving. But none of us could stop. We owed it to the people who died, to the survivors, to make sure that what happened in Genosha wouldn't be in vain. The volunteers—their determination has been humbling. They came by the hundreds, then thousands. The scope of the restoration efforts quickly became a global mission. Aid from other countries, supplies, resources—it all started pouring in. For once, the world seemed to be paying attention to what was happening in Genosha. Sympathies poured in, along with governments offering assistance. Celebrities tweeted out support, and suddenly, Genosha wasn't just a mutant problem; it was a human one, too. That's something, at least. For so long, mutants have been viewed as "other," as a separate issue, but this time, the world saw beyond that. They saw people.
Still, the weight of it all lingers. There's a fragility in the air, like something could break at any moment. Even with all the volunteers and all the help, I wonder if it'll ever be enough. Some losses are too great to come back from. The numbers—the sheer numbers—still don't feel real. 80,000 lives snuffed out in an instant. When I close my eyes, I see them—faces I never met but feel responsible for. Faces that haunt me in quiet moments when the adrenaline fades, and the silence takes over. It's hard to know where to go from here. I think about the X-Men, still in Genosha, still trying to bring some sense of normalcy back to a place that may never fully recover. But that's what we do, right? We keep going. We keep fighting, even when it feels like we're fighting a losing battle. Because if we stop, if we let ourselves fall under the weight of it all, then we've already lost. So we push forward, one step at a time, rebuilding from the ashes, hoping that maybe we can make things right.
Suddenly, I feel a pair of arms wrap around me from behind, soft but firm, familiar in a way that makes my body instantly relax. I don't need to turn around to know who it is; I'd recognize that warmth, that presence, anywhere. It's Wanda. She rests her cheek against my back, holding me in silence, and for a moment, the weight of everything—the battle, the losses, the endless days of cleanup—it all fades into the background. In her arms, even with everything going on around us, there's a sense of peace, a sanctuary I can't find anywhere else. I close my eyes and breathe her in, the faint scent of her perfume mingling with the air. Her touch is grounding, pulling me back from the storm of my thoughts. Slowly, I turn around to face her, and the first thing I notice is how much her pregnancy has progressed. Her stomach is more pronounced now, a gentle curve that speaks to the new life growing inside her—our child. It hits me all over again, the surreal realization that I'm going to be a father. A father to Jericho, the son I've already met as a grown man from the future. It's a strange feeling, standing here in this moment, knowing the future holds so much more than I can possibly grasp. I can't help but place a hand on her stomach, my fingers gently tracing the curve of her growing belly.
"Little Jericho," I whisper softly, my voice barely audible above the distant hum of the city outside. It's still weird, still hard to wrap my head around the idea that somewhere in this timeline, our child is already grown, already out there fighting battles I can't even imagine yet. The image of the grown Jericho flashes through my mind—tall, strong, fierce, with so much of Wanda's fire and my stubborn determination. Seeing him in Genosha, fighting alongside us, was like looking at a reflection of a future I'm not entirely ready for. Yet here, at this moment, with Wanda's hand covering mine, it feels different. It feels real. And it feels right. Wanda's eyes meet mine, soft and searching, as if she can sense the jumble of emotions running through me. She doesn't need to say anything. She never does. That's one of the things I love most about her. We've been through so much together and fought so many battles side by side that words aren't always necessary anymore. Her gaze is enough—calm, knowing, understanding. And right now, that's exactly what I need. I look down again at her stomach, at the life we've created, and a million thoughts swirl through my mind. What kind of father will I be? What kind of world will Jericho be born into? After everything we've seen, everything we've fought for, I can't help but wonder if it's enough—if this world will ever be safe enough for him, for Wanda. I think back to Genosha, to the destruction we witnessed, the lives we couldn't save, and that familiar gnawing of responsibility starts to creep in again. But then Wanda's fingers gently squeeze mine, pulling me back to her, to the present.
"I can feel him," she says softly, her voice full of quiet wonder. There's a hint of a smile on her lips, but it's the kind that's touched by sadness, by the weight of everything we've been through. I let my hand stay there, resting on her stomach, feeling the faintest hint of movement beneath. It's like a tiny reminder that life keeps going, even in the midst of all the chaos and loss. I smile despite the heaviness that's been clinging to me all day. "He's strong," I whisper, more to myself than to her, "Just like you." Wanda's smile widens just a little, but her eyes stay fixed on mine, reading me like she always does. "It's still strange," I admit, shaking my head as I think about the Jericho from the future, "Seeing him all grown up, knowing that one day… he'll be out there, fighting. Doing what we do." There's a part of me that still can't reconcile it—the baby growing inside her and the warrior I've already fought alongside. It feels like living in two different timelines at once, and sometimes, it's hard to know where to place myself. Wanda nods, her hand still resting over mine. "It is strange," she agrees softly, "But no matter what happens, no matter what the future holds… we'll be there for him. Every step of the way." There's a quiet strength in her words, a resolve that never wavers, even when the world around us feels like it's falling apart. And in that moment, as I stand there with my hand on her growing belly, feeling the soft rhythm of life beneath my fingers, I realize just how much I believe her. I lean in, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
[Steve Rogers POV]
[Training Area.] I slam my fist into the punching bag, the impact reverberating through my arm as the bag swings violently, slamming into the wall with a dull, resounding thud. The sound of leather hitting concrete echoes through the room, followed by the sharp crack of the wall buckling under the force. The bag drops to the floor with a heavy thump, leaving a jagged dent in the plaster. I stand there, chest heaving, my knuckles throbbing beneath the wraps, but it doesn't matter. The physical pain barely registers. It's nothing compared to the weight pressing down on my chest, the heaviness that's been following me like a shadow since Genosha. I'll be lying if I said the aftermath of that attack wasn't still affecting me. Every day, it gnaws at me, a reminder of our failures. Despite the fact that we stopped the Behemoth Sentinel, despite the fact that we survived, and Genosha survived, it doesn't change the reality that 80,000 innocent lives were snuffed out in a matter of hours. I keep telling myself what I've always told myself—that we can't save everyone and that there will always be losses in this line of work. I've been a soldier long enough to understand that truth better than anyone. But knowing it and understanding it doesn't make it hurt any less.
I wipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand, my muscles still tense, as if bracing for a fight that's already over. But the fight isn't over—not in my head. Every punch I throw is a release, an attempt to get rid of the anger, the guilt, the frustration that's been simmering just beneath the surface since the attack. But no matter how hard I hit, no matter how many bags I go through, I can't shake the feeling that I could have done more. That we all could have done more. I'm not under some delusion that we can save everyone—God knows I've seen enough loss, enough war, to know better than that. But 80,000? It stings in a way that I can't put into words. I close my eyes for a moment, trying to push back the flood of memories. I can still see their faces—the people we couldn't save. The mothers clutching their children, the people buried under rubble, their lives stolen in the blink of an eye. I can hear the screams, the explosions, the sounds of buildings collapsing under the Sentinel's assault. We fought like hell to stop it, but it wasn't enough. And now, here I am, standing in this empty training room, trying to punch away the guilt that clings to me like a second skin.
The room feels too quiet, too still, and it only amplifies the noise in my head. I walk over to the broken punching bag, the weight of my steps echoing on the floor. My fingers brush over the torn leather, the damage a reminder of just how much force I'm holding back. I'm always holding back. Always trying to control the storm inside me, the one that never seems to settle, no matter how many battles I fight, no matter how many victories we claim. Genosha wasn't a victory. Not in my book. It was survival. And survival comes with a price. I pick up the bag and hang it back on the chain, my hands moving through the motions out of habit. I've done this so many times I could probably do it in my sleep. But today, it feels different. Everything feels different. I can't shake the hollow ache in my chest, the one that's been there since we left Genosha. I see the numbers in my head—80,000. It keeps playing on a loop, that damn number. I can't escape it. It follows me through every mission briefing, every quiet moment, even here, where I usually find some sense of peace. But there's no peace to be found. Not this time.
I take a step back, my fists raised, and I throw another punch, harder this time. The bag swings wildly, but I don't stop. Punch after punch, I hit it again and again, each strike fueled by the anger I can't seem to shake. Anger at the situation, anger at Ultron, and anger at myself for not being able to do more. It's been weeks, but it still feels fresh, like the wound hasn't even begun to heal. And maybe it hasn't. Maybe it never will. I think about the team, about how they're coping—or not coping, in some cases. I see it in their eyes, the exhaustion, the weight they're carrying. Wanda hasn't been the same since the attack. She blames herself for not sensing Ultron's presence in time. Tony's buried himself in work, throwing himself into the logistics of rebuilding, trying to fix the unfixable. Everyone's dealing with it in their own way, but the truth is, we're all struggling. Genosha took more from us than just the lives we couldn't save. It took a piece of us, too.
I hit the bag one last time, harder than before, sending it flying across the room again. I watch as it slams into the wall, and this time, I don't bother picking it up. My hands drop to my sides, my chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, and for a moment, I just stand there, staring at the aftermath of my own frustration. The crack in the wall, the torn leather of the bag—it's all so insignificant compared to the destruction we saw in Genosha. Compared to the destruction I still see in my mind every time I close my eyes. I run a hand through my hair, trying to steady my breathing, but the tightness in my chest remains. I've been through wars. I've fought battles I never thought I'd survive. But this… this feels different. This feels like something I can't punch or fight my way through. And that scares me more than I'm willing to admit. Because if I can't fight it, if I can't win this battle inside my head, then what am I supposed to do? How do I move forward from here?
Psylocke enters the training area with quiet grace, her presence unmistakable even before she speaks. I hear her footsteps first, soft but deliberate, the kind of steps someone like me—someone always on edge—picks up on immediately. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her figure cutting through the dim light of the room, her silhouette sharp and confident. She doesn't have to announce herself. She never does. But when she does speak, there's an ease to her tone, like she's already figured out exactly why I'm here. "Guess you and I had the same idea on how to blow off steam," she says, her voice low, with that unmistakable hint of British accent that never quite disappears. There's no judgment, no surprise—just an understanding that runs deep, a kind of silent camaraderie between two people who've seen far too much and are still trying to figure out what to do with all the weight that comes with it. "Yeah," I respond, my voice quieter than I expect, still staring at the punching bag lying in a heap on the floor and the cracked wall beyond it. It's a mess—my mess—but somehow, it doesn't feel like enough. Not for what I'm carrying. Not for what I'm trying to work through. I clench my fists, feeling the familiar ache in my knuckles, the slight sting of torn skin beneath the wraps. I know I should probably fix the bag, set it back up, and keep going, but I can't seem to move. There's something about the sight of it, lying there, that feels… right. Like that bag and that wall are the only things I've managed to crack in this whole damn situation. Everything else—everything that really matters—still feels as solid and unmovable as ever.
Psylocke steps closer, her eyes following my gaze to the bag and the damage I've done. She doesn't say anything at first, just takes in the scene, the evidence of my frustration. But I know she gets it. She's been through her own battles—both in and out of the field. We've fought together enough times for me to know that she's not the type to lecture, not the type to offer hollow comfort. And right now, that's exactly what I need. Someone who just… gets it without the need for words. "Rough day?" she asks, though we both know that's an understatement. Her voice is calm, but there's an edge to it like she's wrestling with the same kind of thoughts that have been tearing through me all day. Maybe longer.
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding, my shoulders slumping slightly. "Something like that," I reply, running a hand through my hair. I don't know how to explain it—this gnawing sense of failure that's been eating away at me since Genosha. It's not just the number, though 80,000 lives lost is more than any of us should have to deal with. It's the weight of knowing that no matter how hard we fought, no matter what we threw at that thing, it still wasn't enough. And it's not just Genosha. It's everything leading up to it. Every loss, every close call, every time we thought we had the upper hand, only for the rug to be pulled out from under us. The war against Ultron feels endless. The stakes keep getting higher, and every time we think we've won, it's just another temporary victory. Psylocke leans against the wall, crossing her arms, her eyes still on me. "You're thinking about Genosha," she says, not as a question but as a statement. She knows. Of course, she does. We all are. It's been a month, but the scars left by that attack run deep—deeper than any of us are willing to admit. It's not something we can just punch away, no matter how many bags we go through.
"Yeah," I say, my voice tight, "It doesn't go away, you know? That feeling, like we could've done more. Like if we were just a little faster, a little stronger, maybe…" I trail off, knowing how ridiculous it sounds but also knowing I can't shake it. The 'what ifs' are what keep me awake at night, what keeps me coming back to this training room, trying to beat them into submission. Psylocke doesn't respond right away. She lets the silence sit between us for a moment, the weight of it pressing down like the air is thicker here. I can feel her eyes on me, studying me, but not in a way that makes me uncomfortable. She's assessing, probably seeing more than I'm saying. That's one of her gifts, after all—seeing through the layers we put up to hide what we're really feeling. "You know, we're soldiers," she says quietly, her voice steady, "But that doesn't mean we're invincible. We take the hits just like anyone else, maybe even more. We carry those losses with us." She pauses, her eyes darkening slightly as if she's seeing something from her own past, something she's not ready to share, "Genosha was a massacre, Steve. There's no getting around that. But we were there. We fought. And we saved lives—maybe not all of them, but enough. And sometimes… sometimes that's all we can do." Her words hit me hard, and I know she's right. It's easy to get lost in the numbers, to feel like we failed because we couldn't save everyone. But we saved some. We stopped the Behemoth. We fought until there was nothing left. And that counts for something.
Psylocke reaches up; her fingers are soft but steady as they brush against my cheek, lingering for just a moment before her hand settles there, warm and reassuring. I feel her presence even more acutely now, the weight of her gaze drawing me in as her thumb lightly grazes my skin. There's an unspoken understanding between us in this moment—one that goes beyond the battlefield, beyond the missions, beyond the weight we've both been carrying. Her eyes meet mine, and I can see the reflection of the same pain, the same exhaustion that's been gnawing at me for weeks. But in her touch, there's something else too—a quiet strength, a resolve that tells me she understands in ways words never could. She guides me gently toward her, and before I can even think, her lips press against mine. The kiss is slow, unhurried like the world around us has paused for just this moment, just this brief escape from the chaos that always surrounds us. The tension that's been coiling tight in my chest since Genosha seems to loosen, just a little, with each passing second. Her lips are soft and familiar, and in this fleeting moment, everything else falls away—the war, the losses, the anger I've been carrying. All of it melts into the background, leaving only the sensation of her warmth, her presence grounding me in a way I haven't felt in a long time.
There's a calmness in the kiss, a gentle stillness that I haven't been able to find anywhere else—not in the training room, not in the missions, not even in the rare quiet moments I've had alone. Psylocke's touch is like an anchor, pulling me out of the storm that's been raging inside me, guiding me to a place of temporary peace. I can feel the weight of the past month—the battles, the guilt, the relentless push to keep going—start to lift, if only for this brief reprieve. It's not much, but it's enough. Right now, it's all I need. I close my eyes, letting myself sink into the moment, into the quiet connection between us. The kiss deepens, not with urgency but with purpose, as if we both know this is what we've been searching for—somewhere to rest, to let the heaviness slip away, even if just for a little while. Her hand stays on my cheek, the gentle pressure a reminder that she's here, that we're here, and that for once, there's no need to rush.
Her other hand finds its way to my chest, her fingers spreading across the fabric of my shirt, and I can feel the subtle, steady rhythm of her breathing matching mine. It's like the world outside this room has faded into silence, the usual chaos replaced by this moment of shared quiet between us. It's strange, the sense of calm that washes over me. For weeks now, I've been fighting—fighting against the memories, the anger, the endless 'what ifs' that haunt me every night. But here, with her, it feels different. Like I can finally let go of some of it. When we finally pull apart, it's slow, neither of us rushing to end the moment. Her eyes are still locked on mine, and for a second, I see something there—something beyond just the understanding of a fellow warrior. There's a softness, an unspoken promise that whatever happens next, whatever battles we still have to face, we'll face them together. She doesn't have to say it. I can feel it in the way she looks at me, in the way her hand lingers against my chest, her fingers splayed over my heart.
I rest my forehead against hers, my breath still heavy, but the tightness in my chest has eased. The silence between us isn't uncomfortable—it's filled with the kind of peace that's been missing for too long. For the first time in weeks, I don't feel like I'm drowning in the aftermath of Genosha. I don't feel the crushing weight of responsibility pressing down on me like it has every day since the attack. I just feel… present. Here. With her. "Thank you," I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper, but I know she hears me. I don't need to explain what I'm thanking her for. She knows. She always knows. She doesn't say anything, just gives me that small, knowing smile, the one that tells me she understands exactly what I'm feeling, exactly what I've been carrying. Her fingers linger against my cheek for a moment longer before she steps back, but the warmth of her touch stays with me. In that moment, there's a sense of calm. It's not the kind of peace that erases the past, not the kind that takes away the pain or the memories. But it's enough to remind me that I'm not alone in this.
[Spartan POV]
[New York City]
I sit on my bike, the rumble of the engine low and steady beneath me as I watch the city stretch out in every direction. It's late, but New York City never really sleeps. Even now, with the sky bruised by the fading remnants of twilight and the streetlights flickering to life, there's a constant pulse to the city—cars honking, people moving, the low hum of life that keeps this place alive long after the sun sets. My visor flickers with data, scrolling through news feeds and local alerts, but nothing catches my attention right away. The night seems quiet, at least by New York standards. EPYON hums softly in my ear, a constant companion on these late patrols. It's strange, really—how used to it, I've become. This endless cycle of patrolling, fighting, watching. It's part of the job, part of the life I've chosen. The lingering aftermath of Genosha still gnawing at the back of my mind, or maybe it's just the weight of responsibility that never seems to get lighter, no matter how many times I go through the motions. "Anything interesting?" I mutter, more to myself than to EPYON, though I know the AI is always listening. "Nothing critical in your immediate vicinity," EPYON responds, its voice smooth and neutral, "Although, there have been reports of elevated gang activity in the Bronx. Potential areas of interest if you wish to investigate."
I nod to myself, adjusting the throttle slightly as I begin to ease the bike forward. The Bronx. It's not a surprise. The gangs have been pushing harder recently, testing the limits of what they can get away with. But I'll deal with that when it comes. For now, I let the bike carry me forward through the dimly lit streets, the cool night air rushing past me. Patrols like this are often a mix of routine and unpredictability—sometimes nothing happens, and other times, the city throws everything at you in the span of a few hours. Tonight feels like one of those nights where the calm is just waiting to be broken. As I glide through the streets, weaving in and out of traffic, I let my mind drift for a moment. Genosha. The destruction, the loss—it's still fresh, still raw. Even a month later, it feels like the scars are too new, too deep to be ignored. I push those thoughts aside. Can't dwell on that now. There's work to be done here, in this city, and that's what I need to focus on.
Suddenly, EPYON's voice cuts through my thoughts, sharp and urgent, "Alert. I am detecting suspicious activity in your vicinity. A convenience store on the corner of 53rd and Lex is currently being robbed." I blink, the data immediately flashing on my HUD as a map highlights the store's location. It's not far—just a few blocks over. I feel my heart rate spike slightly, not from nerves but from the familiar rush of adrenaline that always kicks in when things start moving. Without a second thought, I rev the engine and push the bike harder, speeding toward the location. The streets blur as I move, the city flashing by in a kaleidoscope of lights and shadows. "Details," I say, my voice clipped as I focus. "Four individuals. Armed. Appeared to have entered the store approximately three minutes ago. The cashier is likely being held at gunpoint," EPYON says. I curse under my breath. Robberies like this can go south quickly if handled poorly. Three armed suspects. It's not an ideal scenario, but it's nothing I haven't dealt with before. The key here is to get in, assess the situation, and de-escalate before anyone does something stupid—namely, pulling a trigger.
[Convenience Store, New York City]
I screech to a halt just outside the convenience store, parking my bike in the shadows. The storefront is well-lit, a stark contrast to the darkness of the night outside. Through the glass windows, I can make out the faint silhouettes of the suspects inside. The clerk is standing rigid behind the counter, his hands raised in a universal gesture of surrender, fear etched across his face. The suspects are moving quickly, shouting commands, their movements frantic and erratic. Taking a deep breath, I step off the bike. No weapons drawn yet. If I'm going to de-escalate this, I need to make sure I don't escalate it myself. I step closer, my feet quiet on the pavement, until I'm right at the door. The store is small and cramped, with narrow aisles of products, and the space itself could easily become a trap if things go wrong. But there's no time to overthink it. I push the door open, the bell overhead jingling softly as I step inside.
Immediately, the closest suspect—a guy wearing a dirty gray hoodie and brandishing a handgun—whips his head around, eyes wide. "Who the hell—?" I raise my hands, palms out in a gesture of peace. "Easy," I say, my voice calm, steady, "I'm not here to fight. Let's just take a minute and talk this out." The other two suspects notice me now, turning their attention away from the terrified cashier. They're younger than I expected—late teens, maybe early twenties. Desperate, by the looks of them. The guns in their hands shake slightly, and I can see the fear behind their tough posturing. That's good. Fear means they're still thinking, still weighing their options. "Who the hell are you supposed to be?" the guy in the hoodie sneers, stepping closer, his gun aimed squarely at my chest now, "You some kinda hero? Think you're gonna save the day?"
In a flash, I move, instincts taking over before the guy can even register what's happening. My hand shoots out, grabbing his wrist with precision, and in one fluid motion, I twist the gun from his grip, the weapon slipping from his fingers before he can react. The look of shock on his face is almost comical, but there's no time for humor. I drive his arm behind his back, trapping him in a hold so tight his shoulder blades nearly touch. He lets out a sharp yelp, his body jerking instinctively against the sudden surge of pain as I apply just enough pressure to make sure he understands who's in control now. "Feel that?" I mutter through gritted teeth, my voice low and controlled as I keep him firmly pinned. He struggles, his muscles tensing as he tries to pull free, but it's futile. He's stuck, and he knows it. I add just a bit more pressure, enough to make him wince again, "That's pain compliance. It means your body and your brain are telling you to do two different things at the same time."
He groans, the sound of frustration and fear blending into one. I can feel the tension in his muscles, the fight-or-flight response kicking in, but there's no escaping this hold. His mind wants to resist and wants to keep struggling, but his body is sending him a very different message—the pain intensifies with every slight movement he makes. His breathing comes in ragged gasps now, his panic setting in as he realizes that every bit of resistance only makes the pain worse. I keep him locked in place, his arm twisted at an unnatural angle, one wrong move from him and I could easily break it. But that's not the goal here. I'm not here to hurt him—not if I don't have to. I need to make him understand that this isn't going to end well if he keeps pushing. "It's simple," I say, keeping my tone calm but firm, "Stop fighting. Let this go. No one needs to get hurt."
I glance over at the other two suspects, their eyes wide with shock as they watch their friend writhe in pain. Their bravado is gone now, replaced by the creeping realization that they're in over their heads. They're frozen, unsure whether to drop their weapons or make a move. But they're smart enough to know that if they try anything, I'll be on them just as fast. I see the hesitation in their eyes and the way they glance at each other, silently weighing their options. The guy in my hold grits his teeth, his breath coming in shallow gasps as the pain courses through his arm. "Fuck you! You don't scare me," he hisses, trying to sound tough through the pain, but his voice cracks, betraying his fear. I lean in closer, my grip unrelenting. I tighten my hold just enough to make him wince again, his body jerking involuntarily as the pain spikes. He's close to breaking—I can see it in his eyes, the way his resolve crumbles with each passing second. His breathing is erratic now, his body stiff with the effort of trying to fight back the urge to give in, but the more pressure I apply, the more his body betrays him.
The room feels heavy with tension, the silence pressing down on all of us as they weigh their options. His two friends are frozen in place, still gripping their guns but not moving an inch, waiting for a signal from him—anything to tell them what to do next. But he's got nothing. His mind is too preoccupied with the sharp pain in his arm, his breath shallow and labored. Slowly, I ease up just a little, giving him a moment to breathe, to think, "This is the part where you decide," I say quietly, "Is it worth it? Is this worth what comes next? I promise you, it's not." He's panting now, sweat beading on his forehead as he nods frantically, his voice barely a whisper, "Alright, alright, man… okay… just— just let go…" I ease up further, loosening the grip but not releasing him entirely. Slowly, shakily, he raises his hand in surrender. The fear in his eyes is unmistakable now; the fight drained out of him completely.
I release his arm, pushing him forward just enough to put distance between us as he stumbles, catching himself on a nearby shelf. He doesn't reach for his weapon. He's done. His friends, seeing him back down, quickly follow suit, dropping their guns to the floor with a clatter. The tension in the room breaks like a dam, and the heavy silence is replaced with the sound of labored breathing, the adrenaline slowly leaving everyone's systems. I take a step back, keeping my eyes on all of them. "Good choice," I say, my voice calm again, the edge of danger gone. The guy I disarmed rubs his shoulder, wincing as he tries to stretch the arm I nearly twisted out of its socket. He glares at me, but there's no real fire behind it anymore. He knows I could have done much worse. I glance at the cashier, who's still standing behind the counter, pale but unharmed. His wide eyes meet mine, and I give him a small nod, letting him know it's over. As I stand there, surveying the room, waiting for the police to arrive, I feel the familiar sense of calm that always comes after the storm. The situation is handled. No one got hurt. That's how it should be.
[Karai POV]
[Bar, New York City]
The soft hum of conversation mixes with the clinking of glasses and the steady beat of music that vibrates through the floorboards beneath my feet. The bar is dimly lit, just how I like it, with a warm, almost cozy atmosphere. It's the kind of place where you can lose yourself in the crowd and just… be. A refuge from the chaos that's been our lives lately. I can still feel the weight of the Genosha attack pressing down on my chest, though I try my best to ignore it. It's not easy. The memories are too fresh, too raw. We lost so many—too many—and no matter how hard I try to push it to the back of my mind, it lingers like a shadow that won't leave. But tonight, I'm determined to enjoy myself. Even if I can't get drunk, I can still relish the sensation of being surrounded by my friends, feeling human, or at least as close to it as I can get. Remy and Rogue are here with me, their presence a comforting reminder that some things, some people, remain steady even when the world feels like it's falling apart. I sit between them at the bar, leaning back in my chair, one arm draped casually over the backrest, watching the ebb and flow of people as they laugh, flirt, and lose themselves in the night. Gambit's been telling some ridiculous story about one of his heists gone wrong, his hands moving animatedly as he speaks, painting a picture with every word. His accent is thick, like molasses, and it makes everything he says sound just a little more charming, even if half the time I know he's embellishing. He's good at that—talking, spinning tales, making people laugh. And tonight, that's exactly what we need. Something light, something to distract us from the heaviness that clings to the air ever since Genosha.
Rogue is laughing, throwing her head back in that carefree way she has when she's relaxed, her white streaks catching the dim light. She elbows me playfully, nudging me back into the conversation. "You gonna tell us one of your stories, sugar, or just sit there broodin' all night?" she teases, her Southern drawl dripping with warmth. I smirk and shrug, my voice low as I answer, "I'll leave the storytelling to the experts." I tilt my head toward Remy, who's grinning at both of us like a Cheshire cat, clearly enjoying the attention. "Nah, you've got stories, chérie. We all know it," Gambit says, wagging a finger at me, "Ain't no way you're sittin' on a life like yours without a tale or two that'll knock us off our feet." "Maybe," I concede, leaning forward to take a sip of the soda in front of me. It's not the same as alcohol, but I like the sharp, fizzy bite of it against my tongue. Bio-augmentation may have robbed me of the ability to get drunk, but at least it hasn't taken away the small pleasures, "Maybe some other time." "Suit yourself," Rogue says with a grin, reaching for her drink.
I'm content, just sitting here, listening to their banter. It's familiar, easy, and for a moment, I almost forget about the devastation, the loss, the bodies we pulled from the rubble. I almost forget the feeling of standing in Genosha, looking at the destruction left behind, knowing we couldn't save everyone. The guilt still gnaws at me, but here, now, it's dulled by the laughter and the warmth of being surrounded by friends. The bartender, a young woman with a tired smile and bright eyes, slides over to refill Rogue's drink. She's been running back and forth all night, handling the increasingly rowdy crowd with more patience than I'd have in her position. I watch her work, admiring her calm under pressure. The bar's getting busier as the night wears on, more bodies pressing in, more voices rising over the music. That's when I noticed him.
A man, maybe in his forties, with a scruffy beard and a swagger that tells me he's had one too many drinks, sidles up to the bar beside the bartender. His eyes are glazed, and there's something in his posture, in the way he leans in too close to her, that sets off alarm bells in my head. I've seen this kind of thing before—too many times. A drunk guy emboldened by alcohol, overstepping boundaries, thinking he can get away with anything because he's had a bad day or because he's entitled to something. At first, I try to ignore it, hoping he'll get the hint when the bartender gently pulls away, her smile tight but polite. But he doesn't. Instead, he leans in closer, his hand brushing against her arm in a way that makes her stiffen. I can see the discomfort flash across her face, and something inside me snaps. It's subtle, but it's there—the tension in my muscles, the narrowing of my eyes. I'm not the type to sit back and watch this kind of thing go down. "Excuse me," I mutter to Rogue and Gambit, sliding off my stool and making my way toward the bar.
I don't make a scene. I don't need to. I just walk up behind the guy, my presence alone enough to make him pause for a moment, glancing over his shoulder at me. His eyes flicker with a mix of confusion and annoyance. He doesn't know who I am—doesn't know what I'm capable of—but that doesn't matter. I lean against the bar, my gaze steady, locking onto his. "Hey," I say, my voice calm but firm, "She's not interested. Back off." The guy blinks at me, his brow furrowing. For a moment, I think maybe he'll listen, maybe he'll do the smart thing and just walk away. But then he sneers, his breath reeking of cheap beer, and I can see the shift in his posture, the way his shoulders square up as he tries to make himself look bigger, tougher. He's not. But he doesn't know that. "Mind your own business, sweetheart," he slurs, turning back to the bartender, who's looking more uncomfortable by the second. I feel my jaw tighten, but I keep my voice level, "This is my business. Now, I'll say it again—back off." Behind me, I hear Rogue and Gambit shifting in their seats, their attention clearly focused on the situation now. I know they've got my back, but this isn't going to get that far. I can handle this guy. I've handled worse.
The man turns fully toward me now, his face red with frustration and alcohol-fueled bravado, "Who the hell do you think you are?" I don't answer. Instead, I take a step forward, closing the distance between us, my body language leaving no room for misinterpretation. I'm not here to play games. He stumbles back a little, his bravado faltering as he realizes just how close I am, how calm I am. Drunk or not, even an idiot can sense when someone means business. "I think," I say quietly, "That you're going to walk out of here. Now." He opens his mouth to argue, but before he can get a word out, I hear the soft scrape of a chair behind me. I don't have to look to know it's Remy, who's been watching this whole thing unfold with that lazy, confident grin of his. He walks over, flipping a card between his fingers casually, his red-on-black eyes gleaming in the low light. "Mon ami," Gambit drawls, his voice smooth as silk, "You should listen to her. Ain't worth the trouble, non?"
The man looks between me and Gambit, his bravado deflating as the reality of the situation sinks in. Two people staring him down, both of us calm, not even the slightest bit threatened by him. He mutters something under his breath, something unintelligible and angry, before finally throwing his hands up in surrender. "Fine, whatever," he grumbles, stumbling away from the bar and out the door. I watch him go, my muscles still coiled, ready for action, until the door swings shut behind him. Only then do I allow myself to relax, rolling my shoulders to release the tension that's been building. The bartender lets out a shaky breath, her eyes wide with a mixture of relief and gratitude. "Thank you," she says softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, "I… I didn't know what to do." I offer her a small smile, nodding, "It's alright. Some guys just need a little reminder of their manners."
Rogue sidles up beside me, a smirk on her face as she tosses an arm around my shoulders, "Well, that was fun. Ain't no one gonna mess with you, sugar. Not with that look you gave him." I shrug, feeling a faint flicker of amusement tug at the corner of my lips, "He wasn't worth the trouble. But he needed to know that." Remy chuckles, flipping the card he's been holding back into his coat pocket, "Ain't no one gon' argue with you, chérie. That man's lucky he walked outta here in one piece." I roll my eyes, but there's a warmth in my chest now. A strange sense of satisfaction that I didn't expect. Maybe it's just the camaraderie, the shared moment with my friends, or maybe it's knowing that even in a world full of chaos, we can still do some good. Even if it's just something as simple as stopping a drunk idiot from harassing someone. As we settle back into our seats at the bar, the tension from the altercation already fading into the background, I take another sip of my drink. I'm not drunk—can't get drunk—but that doesn't matter. The buzz I'm feeling isn't from alcohol. It's from being here, with Rogue and Remy, with people who get it, who get me. The noise of the bar swells around us again, the music picking up as if nothing happened, as if the night didn't just shift for a brief moment into something dangerous and then back to normal again. But that's life, isn't it? One moment you're laughing, drinking, telling stories, and the next, you're staring down some asshole who thinks he's invincible because he's had one too many. You handle it, move on, and keep going.