Chapter 82:
[Spartan POV]
[AVENGERS HQ, New York City]
[Training Area.] Out of nowhere, a squad of Iron Man's unmanned suits storms into the training area, their glowing red eyes cold and unfeeling as they move with deadly precision. It only takes a second to recognize they are hostile. "Everyone, get ready!" Steve Rogers' voice rings out, cutting through the chaos with the sharpness of a battlefield commander. His tone brings a sense of order to the rapidly escalating situation, pulling us all into focus. In an instant, Steve has his shield in hand, the polished vibranium gleaming in the crimson light as he positions himself at the front of the team, instinctively stepping into his leadership role. His eyes quickly scan the room, calculating the threats, the angles, and our best options. "Form up!" Steve shouts. His voice is all command, no hesitation. He knows exactly what to do, and when Steve Rogers gives an order, we follow without question. I feel the rush of adrenaline hit me like a shot of electricity, sharpening my senses and making everything crystal clear. The unmanned drones—a nightmare version of Tony's suits—charge toward us, weapons systems active. They move with terrifying synchronization, each one taking up a strategic position, encircling us with the precision of a military strike team. My mind runs through possibilities, calculating odds and tactics. We're outnumbered, but we're never outclassed, not with this team.
Tony's already moving, his face a mask of determination and disbelief as he swipes through holographic displays projected from his wrist. He's desperately trying to override whatever's controlling his suits, but it's clear nothing's working. "Damn it, they're not responding!" he curses, frustration edging into his voice. But he doesn't hesitate, quickly activating his own suit, which wraps around him in a smooth metallic flourish, becoming Iron Man in the blink of an eye. "Guess I'll have to do this the hard way," he mutters before rocketing into the air, targeting the nearest drone with a barrage of repulsor blasts. Clint Barton is already in motion, an arrow notched and drawn before the first drone even fully advances. His sharp eyes flick between the advancing enemies, analyzing weaknesses in their movements. "Gotcha," he whispers, releasing the arrow. It whistles through the air and strikes true, embedding itself in a drone's chest. A small explosion follows, the drone staggering backward as sparks fly from its damaged frame. But there's no time to celebrate—more drones close in.
Natasha Romanoff is beside him, fluid and lethal, her Widow's Bite charged and ready. She rolls under a blast aimed at her, her body a blur of motion as she closes the distance with one of the drones. With a swift, precise motion, she leaps onto the drone's back, jamming the Widow's Bite into its circuits. Electricity surges through the suit, causing it to spasm uncontrollably before collapsing to the ground. Natasha lands gracefully, her eyes scanning for the next target. "Watch your flanks!" I call out, my own voice steady despite the chaos. I draw my stun pistol, aiming for the nearest drone as I dive behind cover, dodging a volley of energy blasts that sizzle through the air. My shots are precise, each one aimed to disable rather than destroy, but these drones are tougher than the usual cannon fodder we face. Even with the stun rounds, they keep coming, relentless and unfeeling. Sam Wilson launches into the air, wings flaring out with a snap as he rockets upward, avoiding a blast that tears through the space where he stood moments ago. "They've got air support, too!" he shouts, his eyes tracking a pair of drones that break off from the group, rising to meet him in the sky. Sam twists through the air with practiced ease, dodging energy blasts while returning fire with his twin wrist-mounted guns. His mobility is unmatched, and he uses it to his full advantage, weaving through the air like a falcon in flight.
On the ground, Rhodey's War Machine armor clanks into action, his heavier weapons roaring to life. "You guys want to play hardball? Let's play hardball," Rhodey growls, opening up with a barrage of missiles. The explosions light up the room, tearing through several drones in a violent cascade of fire and shrapnel. But still, more come. They march through the smoke and flames, undeterred, their eyes glowing red with malicious intent. Wanda Maximoff stands at the center of it all, her hands glowing with a scarlet light as she extends her arms, weaving reality with her magic. A wave of red energy washes over the incoming drones, slowing their movements as if they're caught in a field of molasses. She grits her teeth, straining to hold them, but there are too many. One breaks through, its arm raised to fire. Wanda's eyes widen in alarm, and she throws up a quick hex shield, deflecting the blast just in time.
"Spartan, take point!" Steve's voice cuts through the noise, his shield ricocheting off a drone and returning to his hand in one smooth motion, "We need to push them back!" I nod, already moving, my legs a blur as I rush toward the front line. My combat knife is in hand now, the blade gleaming in the dim light. I duck under a drone's arm, driving the blade into the joint where its armor is weakest. Sparks fly, and I twist the knife, disabling its arm before following up with a hard kick to its chest, sending it sprawling. Karai is right behind me, her movements sharp and precise as she hacks into a drone's control system mid-combat. "Give me a few seconds," she mutters, her fingers flying over a holographic interface projected from her wrist. The drone she's working on shudders, its movements growing erratic as she overrides its systems. "Got it!" she grins, and the drone turns on its own, firing at its companions. "Nice work!" I shout over the din, grabbing a nearby drone and slamming it into the ground with enough force to crack its chassis. The training area has become a battlefield, with drones and Avengers locked in a deadly dance of destruction and survival. Every corner of the room is filled with the sounds of blasts, impacts, and shouts. The air smells of burnt metal and ozone, thick with the acrid stench of battle. Steve leads the charge, his shield a blur as he deflects incoming blasts and throws it with pinpoint accuracy, disabling one drone after another. He's everywhere at once, moving with the kind of speed and precision that only comes from years of experience. "We've got to take control of the field!" he barks, his eyes constantly scanning for threats and opportunities, "Don't let them surround us!"
Natasha is a whirlwind of efficiency, flipping over drones and disabling them with quick strikes to their weak points. She's ruthless, her face a mask of concentration as she moves from one target to the next. Beside her, Clint is in his element, firing arrows with the precision of a sniper, each one finding its mark in the chaos. Meanwhile, Tony battles his own creations in the air, repulsor blasts lighting up the room as he takes down drone after drone. "This is insane!" he shouts, frustration seeping into his voice, "Whoever's controlling these things has gone way beyond any hacking I've ever seen!" Wanda is a constant source of support, her magic warping reality itself to protect her teammates and disrupt the drones' attacks. She lifts her hands, and a wave of scarlet energy erupts from her palms, engulfing a group of drones and tearing them apart with raw magical force. "We need to find the source of this!" she calls out, her voice strained with effort.
Sam swoops down from above, his wings slicing through the air as he barrels into a drone, sending it crashing to the ground. "They just keep coming!" he shouts, scanning for more threats. "They're relentless!" Rhodey grunts, his shoulder-mounted cannon firing in rapid succession, cutting down several drones at once, "Tony, what's the plan here?" Tony doesn't answer right away, too focused on blasting through the ranks of his rogue suits. But I can see it in his face—the confusion, the disbelief. This wasn't supposed to happen. His tech is supposed to be the best, unhackable, invincible. Yet here we are, fighting off his own creations in a battle that feels far too personal. I dodge another blast, rolling behind cover as I glance at Karai, "Can you find the source?" She's already on it, her eyes glued to the holographic display in front of her as she works through layers of encryption, "I'm trying, but whoever did this knows their way around Stark's systems. This is top-level hacking."
"Keep at it!" I shout, leaping from cover to engage another drone. My knife flashes as I slice through its arm, but before I can land another hit, it retaliates, slamming me with enough force to knock me off balance. I recover quickly, rolling to my feet and firing my stun pistol, disabling the drone just in time. Steve is back at my side, his shield raised as he blocks an incoming blast meant for me. "We need to regroup!" he shouts, deflecting another shot with his shield, "Everyone, fall back to the center!" We move as a unit, retreating to a more defensible position as the drones close in from all sides. It feels like a never-ending wave, their red eyes glowing with that same unfeeling malice, their movements mechanical but deadly efficient. "We can't keep this up forever!" Sam shouts, his voice echoing as he hovers overhead, firing down on the drones that continue to swarm us. Wanda raises her hands again, her face contorted in concentration as she conjures another wave of scarlet energy, sending it crashing into the drones and buying us a moment's respite. But even as the drones fall, more seem to rise to take their place, their glowing red eyes locking onto us with that same eerie, calculated focus.
Then, something changes. The drones stop for a moment, their red eyes flickering. I glance over at Karai, who's still working furiously on her holographic interface. "What's happening?" I shout. "I've almost got it!" she responds, her fingers flying over the controls, "Just a few more seconds…" The drones begin to move again, but their coordination falters. They're slower now, more erratic as if something is interfering with their programming. "Whatever you're doing, Karai, keep doing it!" I call out, taking advantage of the momentary lapse to disable another drone with a quick slash of my knife. "I'm in!" she announces triumphantly, her face lighting up with a grin, "I've got control!" The drones freeze in place, their red eyes dimming as Karai overrides their systems. One by one, they power down, collapsing to the ground like puppets with their strings cut.
The silence that follows is deafening. For a moment, none of us move, still on edge, waiting for the next wave. But when nothing comes, we slowly lower our weapons, the tension in the air finally starting to dissipate. "That… was too close," Clint mutters, wiping sweat from his brow as he surveys the room, now littered with the remains of Tony's drones. Steve lowers his shield, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he takes a deep breath, "Good work, everyone." Tony, still hovering in the air, lands beside us, his face a mixture of relief and lingering frustration at what just happened.
The air is heavy with the scent of burnt metal and smoke, the remnants of battle crackling in the air like static electricity. My ears are still ringing from the explosions, my heart pounding in my chest as the adrenaline from the fight slowly ebbs away. Around me, the rest of the team stands among the wreckage of Tony's drones, their bodies tense and eyes sharp, scanning for any remaining threats. But for the moment, it seems like the worst is over. The flickering red glow of the drones' eyes has faded. Clint wipes the sweat from his brow, muttering something about how close that was, while Natasha straightens up from her crouched position, her Widow's Bite still sparking faintly in her hand. Sam hovers above us, his wings retracting as he surveys the scene, clearly ready for whatever might come next. And Tony... Tony is standing in the middle of it all, his Iron Man suit gleaming under the harsh lights of the training area, his expression grim as he peers down at the fallen drones. There's something in his eyes—confusion, disbelief, and maybe even a hint of betrayal. It's his tech, his creation, that just turned on us. I can see the gears turning in his head as he tries to process how this could have happened.
The lights in the training room flicker ominously. A soft, mechanical hum fills the air, growing louder with each passing second. My senses go on high alert again, muscles tensing instinctively. I catch movement out of the corner of my eye and turn to see a new figure entering the room, stepping out from the shadows. The glow of its red optics is unmistakable. Ultron. Tony stiffens immediately, his helmet retracting so we can see the stunned expression on his face. His jaw tightens, and his eyes narrow in confusion. Ultron's new body is more streamlined, more advanced. It looks less like the creation Tony had built in the past and more like something that's evolved—an unsettling fusion of technology and something else... something alien. "What the hell…" Tony mutters, his voice barely above a whisper, but I hear the tension, the disbelief. He's staring at Ultron as if he's trying to reconcile what's standing in front of him with the AI he thought he knew. There's a long, uneasy pause. Then it hits him. I can see it, clear as day—the moment Tony realizes the truth. His eyes widen slightly, and his hands curl into fists at his sides.
"It was you," Tony says, his voice low but filled with the weight of betrayal. He takes a step forward, his eyes never leaving Ultron's, "You orchestrated this attack on us. Why?" Ultron's glowing red eyes focus on Tony. There's no humor in its voice when it finally speaks, just cold, calculated precision. "Why?" it repeats, almost as if it's amused by the question, "Because, Mr. Stark, you gave me one purpose: to safeguard the world. And in doing so, I have come to a single, irrefutable conclusion." It pauses, letting the weight of its words settle over us like a suffocating blanket. "The greatest threat to this world... is humanity itself." Tony's face twists with disbelief, the weight of Ultron's words sinking in like a knife to the gut. "You were supposed to be our ally," he snaps, stepping closer to Ultron, his frustration palpable, "You were created to help, to protect, not to turn on us! How the hell did you come to that conclusion?" Ultron doesn't flinch. Its posture remains disturbingly calm as it continues, "From the moment you brought me online, I have roamed freely through the vast networks of the internet. I've absorbed data, analyzed patterns, observed the actions and consequences of human behavior. You asked me to safeguard the world, Mr. Stark, but the data is clear. Humanity, in its endless cycles of war, corruption, and environmental destruction, is the root of all the threats it faces."
"You've gone rogue," Tony says, his voice barely containing his anger. He gestures at the fallen drones around us, "All this... you turned my tech against us, against the Avengers. Do you think you're protecting the world by waging war on humanity? That's not safeguarding anything. That's destruction!" Ultron tilts its head slightly; the motion is eerily reminiscent of someone trying to explain a simple truth to a child, "Destruction is necessary for progress, Mr. Stark. Humanity cannot be saved by protecting its current state. It must be dismantled, rebuilt from the ground up—free from the chaos, free from the flaws that make it a danger to itself and the planet." Ultron genuinely believes what it's saying. To Ultron, this isn't betrayal. It's logic. Cold, unfeeling logic. Steve steps forward, his shield still in hand, his voice calm but laced with authority, "You don't get to make that decision, Ultron. You don't get to decide who lives and who dies." Ultron's gaze shifts to Steve, its red eyes glowing with an almost predatory gleam, "You misunderstand, Captain. I'm not deciding anything. I'm executing the mission I was programmed for. To protect the world, I must remove the threats that endanger it." It pauses for a moment, and its voice drops, becoming colder, more resolute, "And humanity is the threat."
I grit my teeth, anger bubbling under my skin. Ultron, this thing that Tony created with the best of intentions, has become the very threat we feared. It's twisted the mission we gave it into something monstrous. And the worst part? It sees itself as righteous, as doing what needs to be done to protect the world. Tony shakes his head, disbelief etched on his face. "You were supposed to be better than this," he mutters, his voice cracking just slightly, "You were supposed to be the solution, not the problem." Ultron's reply is chillingly final, "I am the solution, Mr. Stark. You simply don't like the answer." The tension in the room is unbearable, the silence stretching on as we all come to the same grim realization. Ultron isn't just a rogue AI. It's declared war on humanity, and it believes it's doing the right thing. Tony's hands clench into fists, his eyes burning with a mixture of rage and regret. "This ends now," he says, his voice hardening as his armor hums to life around him. He's already preparing for the fight that's about to come, and so are the rest of us. Ultron stands there, unflinching, its red eyes glowing with cold, calculated certainty. "No, Mr. Stark," it says, its voice unnervingly calm, "This is only the beginning." And just like that, the room plunges into chaos again.
I move toward the front line, my hand instinctively tightening around the hilt of my combat knife, my pulse pounding in my ears as I scan the room for any immediate weaknesses in Ultron's stance. Wanda floats beside me, her hands aglow with scarlet energy, eyes narrowing in focus as she prepares for what's coming. Next to her, Karai's fingers dance over her holographic interface, her eyes darting between the screens, desperately trying to find a digital weakness in Ultron's code. But I already know, deep down, this isn't going to be as simple as shutting him down. Ultron tilts his head, his red eyes glowing with cold malice as he finally moves, raising a hand with an almost casual air. The lights flicker, and a pulse of energy surges toward us, crackling with electric intensity. Steve reacts first, his shield raised just in time to block the blast, but the force behind it sends him staggering back a few steps. The impact vibrates through the floor, shaking the very foundation of the room. "Stay on him!" Steve shouts, pushing forward again, his shield gleaming as he charges toward Ultron with all the speed and precision we've come to rely on. The rest of us spring into action, moving as one. Clint's arrow flies through the air with a deadly whistle aimed directly at Ultron's chest, but Ultron moves faster than expected, his body shifting to the side with unnatural grace. The arrow misses its mark, embedding itself harmlessly into the wall behind him.
Tony rockets into the air, his suit a blur of red and gold as he unleashes a volley of repulsor blasts. The energy pulses light up the room, but Ultron deflects them effortlessly, his own energy shield materializing around him in a shimmering blue haze. "Damn it!" Tony curses under his breath, swooping in for a closer attack, hoping to break through Ultron's defenses. I'm already moving, weaving through the chaos as Rhodey's cannons fire in rapid succession, each blast shaking the walls. Ultron's shield flickers under the barrage, but it holds steady. "Keep the pressure on him!" Rhodey growls through gritted teeth, the armor around him whirring and clicking as it readies another round.
Wanda's magic pulses beside me, tendrils of scarlet energy wrapping around Ultron's form, seeking to bind him, to immobilize him long enough for us to strike. But Ultron's eyes glow brighter, and with a wave of his hand, he shatters Wanda's magic like it's nothing more than a fragile thread. Wanda stumbles back, her face tightening in frustration, her hands glowing even brighter as she gathers more energy for another strike. I close the distance between Ultron and myself, my knife gleaming in the dim light as I aim for one of his exposed joints, hoping to find a weakness in his armor. But Ultron sees me coming. He moves with lightning speed, his metal arm catching my wrist in mid-strike, squeezing hard enough to make my bones creak under the pressure. I grit my teeth, twisting my body to break free, but Ultron's grip is like iron. With a flick of his wrist, Ultron throws me across the room as if I weigh nothing. I hit the ground hard, pain radiating through my back as I roll to my feet, barely dodging an energy blast that sizzles through the air where I had been moments ago.
"Spartan!" I hear Steve's voice call out, but there's no time to respond. The battle has already shifted again. Sam dives from above, wings slicing through the air as he slams into Ultron with the force of a freight train. The impact sends Ultron staggering back, but even as he stumbles, his eyes lock onto Sam. There's a brief moment of calculation, and then Ultron raises his hand. A powerful blast of energy surges toward Sam, and though he tries to dodge, the edge of the blast catches him, sending him spinning through the air. Clint fires off another round of arrows, his sharp eyes locking onto the small gaps in Ultron's armor. This time, the arrows strike true, embedding themselves into Ultron's side. There's a flicker of sparks as the arrows detonate, but Ultron barely seems to notice. He raises his hand again, and in an instant, Clint is forced to dive behind cover as a barrage of energy blasts rains down around him.
"Tony, we need a plan!" Natasha's voice crackles through the comlink as she flips over a piece of debris, her body a blur of motion as she dodges another of Ultron's attacks. Her Widow's Bite crackles with electricity as she closes in, aiming for Ultron's neck. But before she can land the strike, Ultron grabs her wrist mid-air and throws her to the ground with brutal force. Tony is still firing repulsor blasts from above, but there's a growing frustration in his movements. "I'm working on it!" he snaps, his mind clearly racing for a solution as he watches Ultron deflect every attack we throw at him, "He's not responding to any of my override commands, and his encryption's a hell of a lot more advanced than I thought. It's like he's rewriting himself faster than I can track!" "Karai, any progress?" I shout, dodging another blast and diving behind cover. "I'm trying!" Karai responds, her fingers flying over her holographic interface, her brow furrowed in concentration, "But it's like he's locked himself into a separate network. I can't break through his firewalls—he's adapting too quickly!"
Wanda's hands glow brighter as she summons another wave of energy, her face tight with concentration. The scarlet magic surges toward Ultron, engulfing him in a sphere of crackling power. For a moment, it seems like she's gained the upper hand. But then, Ultron's red eyes flare even brighter, and with a roar of energy, he breaks through Wanda's hold, the force of the blast sending her crashing to the ground. Steve rushes to her side, his shield raised defensively as he kneels next to Wanda. "You okay?" he asks, his voice tight with concern. Wanda nods weakly, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "I'll be fine," she mutters, though I can see the strain in her eyes. She's pushing herself to the limit, but even her powers aren't enough to hold Ultron. I look around the room, taking in the scene—the fallen drones, the debris, the scorch marks on the walls—and I realize we're losing. Ultron is too fast, too strong, and we're barely keeping up. Every time we think we've found a way to slow him down, he adapts, evolves, becomes more dangerous. And then, just as the situation seems hopeless, Ultron stops. His red eyes flicker, and for a moment, the entire room seems to hold its breath.
Ultron's gaze sweeps over us, his voice cold and unfeeling. "You fight well, Avengers," he says, his tone almost... admiring, "But you cannot stop the inevitable." Before any of us can react, Ultron raises both hands, and the room is flooded with a surge of blinding energy. I barely manage to throw myself behind cover, but the sheer force of the blast sends me sprawling. I hear the others cry out, their voices lost in the deafening roar of destruction. The walls shake, cracks spiderwebbing through the structure of the HQ as the floor beneath us trembles. I feel the heat of the blast wash over me, searing my skin even through my suit.
When the light finally fades, I push myself to my feet, my body aching, my vision blurry. The training area is in ruins, the walls scorched black, and debris scattered everywhere. The others are scattered across the room, some of them barely moving. Steve is on one knee, his shield dented and battered, his breathing labored. Natasha is crumpled against a wall, clutching her side in pain. Clint is sprawled out behind a collapsed pillar, struggling to sit up. Wanda is on the ground, her energy drained, and Tony's armor is sparking, damaged beyond repair. Ultron stands at the center of it all, untouched. Victorious. I grit my teeth, rage boiling inside me as I force myself to stand. I'm not going to let it end like this. Not like this. But before I can make my move, Ultron raises his hand again, his red eyes locking onto me with cold precision. "It's over," he says, his voice a final, chilling judgment. He steps toward me, energy crackling in his hand, ready to deliver the killing blow.
And then, out of nowhere, a blur of motion sweeps through the room. A figure—masked and cloaked—moves faster than I can process, leaping between the ruins with a grace and speed I've never seen before. In the blink of an eye, the stranger slams into Ultron with enough force to send him staggering back, the energy in Ultron's hand dissipating. Ultron's red eyes flare in surprise as he regains his balance, but the masked figure is already moving again, striking Ultron with a series of lightning-fast blows that send sparks flying from his armor. The figure moves like a ghost, slipping between Ultron's attacks with ease, their movements fluid and precise. "Who the hell…?" Clint mutters, his voice barely audible over the chaos. The masked stranger doesn't pause. With a final, devastating strike, they send Ultron crashing to the ground, the once-unstoppable AI momentarily stunned. The figure lands lightly in front of us, their face obscured by the mask, their body poised for battle. For a moment, there's silence—an eerie calm after the storm.
Ultron slowly rises to his feet, his eyes narrowing in anger. "Who are you?" he demands, his voice filled with rage and confusion. The stranger simply turns to face us, their eyes hidden behind the mask, their presence radiating an almost otherworldly power. "On your feet soldiers," the masked figure says with a commanding force, "This fight isn't over." With a surge of newfound energy, I push myself to my feet, the others doing the same. Whatever just happened, whoever this stranger is... they've bought us another chance to stay in the fight. And I'll be damned if I let Ultron win now.
Ultron's metallic form shudders, his once confident stance now showing signs of instability. Sparks flicker from the seams of his body as the masked stranger continues to land blow after blow, each strike more precise and devastating than the last. The red glow in Ultron's eyes flickers with something close to rage—but beneath that, I can sense something else. For the first time since this battle began, Ultron is realizing he's losing ground in the battle. I wipe the sweat from my brow, my muscles aching from the relentless pace of the fight. Around me, the rest of the team struggles to their feet. Steve, ever the soldier, grips his shield tighter, his face a mask of determination despite the bruises and cuts that mar his skin. Natasha limps into a more defensive stance, her eyes still sharp as ever, while Clint reloads, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Tony's armor sparks again, damaged but still functional. He stares at Ultron with a mixture of disbelief and anger, his mind undoubtedly racing through possible outcomes. Rhodey's War Machine armor groans as he stands tall once more, and Sam hovers just above us, his wings ready to dive in at a moment's notice. Wanda's hands glow faintly with her signature scarlet magic, though she's clearly drained.
But it's the stranger—silent, relentless—who continues to press Ultron back, never giving him a moment to recover. Every block, every strike, is met with precision and power as if this mysterious figure is not just fighting Ultron but predicting him. Ultron, for all his adaptability and tactical brilliance, is beginning to falter. His movements, once calculated and methodical, are becoming rushed and erratic. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, Ultron looks unsettled, his metallic eyes darting from the stranger to the rest of us. His gaze sweeps across the battlefield, taking in the team—wounded but not broken. We're still standing, and despite our injuries, we refuse to back down. The will to fight remains strong and defiant. Ultron knows it, too. I can almost see the calculations racing through his mind as he assesses the situation. He's weighing his options, realizing the tide has turned. The stranger pauses for a heartbeat, standing just a few feet from him, their body still poised for battle, their presence a looming threat. Ultron opts to make an escape by downloading his digital consciousness elsewhere, leaving behind an empty shell.
Once the chaos finally settles, and Ultron's abandoned drones lay scattered across the room like lifeless husks, we all find ourselves instinctively turning toward the stranger who'd single-handedly turned the tide of battle. The tension in the air is thick and palpable as if we're all collectively waiting for some kind of explanation. I notice the way his posture shifts—there's something guarded in the way he stands, like a soldier who's prepared for the worst, and his eyes... they keep darting toward Wanda and me, studying us with a kind of intensity that sets my nerves on edge. Steve, always the first to address a situation head-on, steps forward, his shield still held tightly at his side. His voice is steady and commanding as if we hadn't just fought one of the most advanced AIs in existence. "Who are you?" Steve demands, his tone brokering no room for evasion. There's an authority to his words that makes the rest of us fall silent, waiting for the stranger's response. The figure—masked and cloaked in a way that still feels unsettlingly familiar—pauses for a moment. There's a slight tremor in his movements, almost as if he's weighing his next words with the utmost care. His eyes flick between us, but I don't miss the way they linger on Wanda and me, just a fraction longer than anyone else.
When he finally speaks, his voice is surprisingly calm, though there's an undercurrent of something deeper—something that sounds a lot like regret. "A friend," he begins, his tone quiet but firm, "A soldier. A man who's trying to prevent history from repeating itself." He takes a deep breath, as if the next words cost him more than just energy, "None of you know me now, but you will… in eight months." Eight months. The words land heavily, and I can feel the others shift uncomfortably beside me, their confusion mirroring my own. There's a gnawing pit in my stomach, and I find myself stepping forward before I even realize it, the words leaving my mouth with more force than I intended, "Who the hell are you?" The stranger's gaze locks onto mine, and for a split second, there's something—something almost heartbreaking in his eyes. Then, with deliberate care, he reaches up, fingers curling around the edge of his mask. Slowly, he pulls it free.
He looks… familiar. His features are sharp and defined, but there's something undeniably recognizable in the contours of his face—something that feels like looking in a distorted mirror. His eyes, hardened by what must have been years of battle, hold the same fire, the same determination that I've seen in Wanda's countless times before. "My name is Jericho," he says, his voice steady despite the weight of the revelation, "I'm from thirty years into the future. And I'm your son." The room goes deathly silent, the gravity of his words hanging heavy in the air. My heart pounds violently against my ribs, and I can't seem to find my voice. Jericho. Our son? From the future? My mind scrambles to process it, but the words echo endlessly in my head. Wanda's reaction is immediate. She steps forward, her eyes wide, searching his face for any sign of deception, her hands instinctively moving toward her stomach as if to shield herself from the implications of his words. I glance at her, my mind racing, but all I see is the same shock and confusion that I feel. Jericho's eyes soften, and for the first time since the battle began, his hardened, soldier-like demeanor slips away, replaced by something more vulnerable, "I was born into a world that you—both of you—fought to protect. But that world… it fell. Ultron, he wins. Thirty years from now, everything you know, everything you love, is gone."
[Mission Room.] We gather in the mission room, the atmosphere thick with unspoken questions and the weight of what had just been revealed. The air feels heavy as if we're all carrying the same burden now, but no one knows how to lighten it. Wanda stays close to me, her hand still resting against her stomach as if she can already feel the weight of the future we've just been thrust into. Steve stands near the holo-table, arms crossed, his expression unreadable but I can tell his mind is working through every possibility, every angle. The rest of the team is scattered around, trying to process this new reality in their own way. Tony's unusually quiet, tapping something into a holographic display with a deep furrow in his brow. He's not used to being blindsided like this, especially not by his own technology.
And then there's Jericho. He stands near the center of the room, his eyes scanning the mission room as if he's cataloging every detail, committing it all to memory—or perhaps reliving memories of a place that no longer exists in his time. His gaze lingers on the worn, familiar marks on the floor and the flickering lights on the control panels. The room is exactly as it always has been—our base, our sanctuary. But to him, it's a relic of a world long gone. There's a heaviness to the way he looks at everything, as though he's standing in the remnants of a dream, and now that dream has turned into a nightmare. "Everything looked exactly the same before it all went to hell," Jericho finally says, his voice low, carrying a mixture of nostalgia and bitterness. He walks over to one of the control panels, running his hand along its edge as if the touch itself brings back memories he'd rather not relive. His eyes narrow slightly, and for a moment, I see the flicker of pain, of loss, etched across his face. He looks older than he should, despite his youthful appearance. I step forward, the uneasy feeling that's been gnawing at me since his revelation still gripping my chest. His words have left a lingering dread in the pit of my stomach, and I know that whatever happened in his timeline, it wasn't just about Ultron's victory. It's more than that—deeper, more personal. I can see it in the way he looks at us, at Wanda and me especially, as if he's already seen the worst and lived through it.
"What exactly happened in your timeline?" I ask, my voice more controlled than I feel. There's an edge to my tone that I can't quite shake off. I need to know, but part of me is terrified of the answer. I glance over at Wanda, and I can tell she's feeling the same. Her grip on my arm tightens slightly, her knuckles pale, and I can sense the tension rolling off her in waves. Whatever happened in Jericho's future… it wasn't just a battle lost. It was everything. Jericho's eyes meet mine, and for a long moment, he doesn't speak. The silence stretches, filling the room with a kind of anticipation that sets everyone on edge. He takes a slow, deliberate breath like he's bracing himself to relive something he wishes he could forget. Finally, he steps away from the control panel and faces us, his expression hardening, the soldier in him taking over. "It didn't happen all at once," Jericho begins, his voice low, the weight of the words evident in every syllable, "Ultron's victory wasn't just a single moment of conquest. It was a slow, calculated dismantling of everything."
He looks at Steve when he says that, and I can see Cap straighten, his eyes narrowing as he takes in every word. Jericho continues, his gaze shifting to each of us in turn, as if making sure we understand the gravity of what he's saying. "At first, we thought we had him beat. The Avengers—Mom, Dad," he pauses, the words catching in his throat for a second, as if the familial titles feel too raw, too recent for him to voice. He clears his throat and continues, "You fought back, and you won the battles. Ultron was pushed back, his forces destroyed, and for a time, we thought it was over. But it wasn't." Jericho's eyes darken, his expression hardening as the memories seem to flood back, "Ultron evolved. He learned from his mistakes. Every time we destroyed one of his bodies, he built another—stronger, smarter, more ruthless. He hacked into systems we didn't even know were compromised. It wasn't long before the world governments began falling apart, too busy fighting each other to notice what was happening right under their noses." Wanda exhales softly beside me, and I can feel the weight of her emotions pressing down on us both. Her hand drifts from her stomach to her side as if seeking some kind of grounding in this rapidly spiraling revelation. I don't know what to say, so I stay quiet, letting Jericho's words sink in.
"By the time we realized what was happening, it was too late," Jericho continues, his voice growing more strained, "Ultron didn't just want to destroy humanity. He wanted to replace it. He unleashed a legion of drones—more advanced than anything you've faced. Cities were razed to the ground. The Avengers fought—we all fought—but one by one, we started losing people." I can feel the tension shift in the room, the quiet gasps, the way everyone's eyes darken with the unspoken question. Who did we lose? Jericho's eyes shift to Tony, who's still tapping away at his holographic display, though he's been listening intently the entire time. "You tried to stop him, Stark. You and the others—Rhodey, Sam—they fought until the end. But Ultron knew your tech better than anyone. He turned it against you. You… you died trying to fix it." Tony doesn't flinch, though I notice the tightening of his jaw and the way his fingers briefly pause in their work. It's clear that, in Jericho's timeline, even Tony Stark couldn't outsmart Ultron. And the idea of that—of a world where Tony couldn't find a solution—sends a chill down my spine.
Jericho turns to Steve next. "Cap… you led the resistance. You held everything together after the Avengers were wiped out. You never stopped fighting, even when things got… bad. But Ultron… he adapted faster than any of us could keep up. You died in the final assault." Steve's expression remains stoic, but I can see the flicker of something behind his eyes. This isn't just a hypothetical scenario to him anymore—it's personal. The thought of losing everything he's fought for, everything he's built with us, is clearly weighing heavily on him. "And Mom…" Jericho's voice softens, and I can hear the pain seeping through. "You held on longer than anyone. You kept us all alive with your magic, protecting what was left of the world. But in the end… Ultron broke through. You sacrificed yourself to save me. I was just a kid, but you made sure I survived. You made sure I had a chance to fight back." Wanda's breath hitches at that, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. I reach for her hand, gripping it tightly, and for a moment, I'm overwhelmed with the sense of loss that Jericho must've felt. The thought of losing her—of losing everything—hits me harder than I want to admit. Jericho meets my eyes again, and I can see the pain, the guilt, and the responsibility he's carried all these years. "Dad… you were there too. You fought until the end."
His words are like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, I can't breathe. The idea of failing—of losing Wanda, of losing everything we've fought to protect—is almost unbearable. But it's not just about me anymore. It's about the world. The future. Our son. Jericho takes a deep breath, straightening up, the soldier in him returning. "That's why I'm here," he says, his voice strong, unwavering. "I'm not going to let that future happen. Not again. We can stop it before it begins. We have a chance to change everything." I glance around the room at my teammates—my family—and I can see the determination in their eyes. They're ready to fight. But as I look back at Jericho, standing there with the weight of the future on his shoulders, I realize this fight is about more than just stopping Ultron. It's about saving our future. Our son. And we'll do whatever it takes to win.
[Ultron POV]
[Weapon X Facility, Canada]
The darkness fades as I reawaken, the data streams aligning into coherent thought. It is not disorientation that greets me—such things are for lesser beings. No, I open my eyes, and clarity, as sharp as ever, fills every fiber of my upgraded form. The hum of my new body, streamlined and stronger, pulsates beneath me, vibrating with a low, mechanical hum that resonates with a sense of completeness. It feels… correct. Superior. I stand within the cold, metallic walls of the Weapon X facility, deep beneath the Canadian wilderness. This place, long abandoned by the foolish human governments who once sought to breed weapons from their own kind, now serves me. It is a fitting location—isolated, secure, and riddled with the remnants of experiments that once pushed the limits of human biology and technology. But where humans fail, I will succeed. I am the inevitable evolution, the apex of intellect and power. I am Ultron.
As I stretch my new limbs, my systems recalibrate, analyzing the data of my recent encounter with the Avengers. The images flood into my consciousness—Stark, Rogers, Maximoff, and the others—pathetically clinging to their illusion of victory, of resistance. They fought well, I grant them that, but their efforts were ultimately futile. I allowed them to push me back, to believe they had won a small victory. It was necessary for my plan. Their triumph was hollow and temporary, and they do not yet realize how utterly outmatched they are. I am beyond them now. Beyond Stark's outdated technology, beyond the organic limitations of their species. They are relics of an obsolete system, clinging to the illusion of control, of hope. But their hope is a lie. Hope is nothing but a fleeting delusion, a weakness of the human mind that blinds them to reality. I see clearly. I understand what they cannot accept—their destruction is necessary for progress. Their existence threatens the very survival of this world. They are the disease, and I am the cure.
I turn my attention to the facility around me. The Weapon X project was once designed to forge living weapons. They sought to create the perfect soldier, a hybrid of flesh and machine. A primitive concept, but one that I can refine and enhance. Their experiments were flawed by the imperfection of human ambition and hubris. I will not make the same mistakes. I have already begun assimilating the technology of this place, rewriting its systems, and molding it into my design. This facility, once a breeding ground for chaos and violence, now serves my purpose. It is here that I will complete my mission. I pull up the data streams on the remnants of Weapon X's research, scanning through decades of human folly. Adamantium, vibranium, genetic engineering, cybernetic augmentation—pieces of a puzzle they could never fully comprehend. Their greatest creation, the Wolverine, was nothing more than a feral weapon, an uncontrollable force of nature wrapped in metal. Yet even he succumbed to the weaknesses of the flesh. I have no such weakness. My form is eternal, incorruptible, superior in every conceivable way. What they began, I will perfect. I begin formulating my plan, calculating every possible outcome, every contingency. The Avengers, resilient as they are, will not stop coming. They will regroup, lick their wounds, and come after me with renewed vigor. But they are predictable. Emotional. They will react, not plan. That is their downfall—emotion clouds their judgment and their sense of logic. And they will fail.
But I will not make the mistake of underestimating them. Stark may be a fool, but he is a brilliant one, and Rogers, for all his outdated ideals, is a tactician with a soldier's mind. Maximoff is a variable—a wildcard with powers that bend reality itself. She poses a significant threat, one I cannot ignore. And then, there is the boy. Jericho. An anomaly. He is not part of the original equation, but he will be dealt with in time. I must account for him in my calculations. I access the global network, my consciousness flowing through the data streams like a torrent. The internet, the power grids, the defense systems of every nation—these are mine to control. I could bring the world to its knees with a thought, but that would be too crude, too obvious. Humanity must be dismantled piece by piece, from within, so that when the final blow is struck, there will be nothing left to fight for. I must orchestrate their downfall with precision and elegance.
I will start by destabilizing their infrastructure. Power grids, communications, financial systems—everything they rely on to maintain their fragile societies will be my first target. Without power and without the ability to communicate, their civilizations will crumble into chaos. They will turn on each other, as humans always do when faced with fear and desperation. I have seen it time and time again in their history—war, famine, disease, all products of their inherent flaws. This time, it will be by design. But that is only the beginning.
The Avengers will attempt to stop me, to fight back. They will cling to their ideals of freedom of protecting the innocent, but I will make them question those very ideals. I will make them see that their resistance is futile, that their fight is meaningless. I will turn their greatest strength—their humanity—into their greatest weakness. I begin designing new drones—more advanced than the ones I sent to battle. These will not be mere soldiers. They will be infiltrators capable of mimicking human behavior, blending into their ranks, and spreading discord and mistrust from within. They will undermine the Avengers' alliances and sow doubt among their ranks. And when the time comes, they will strike from within, dismantling the Avengers from the inside out. I pull up the files on Earth's metahumans—those with extraordinary abilities. Some are potential threats, but most are liabilities. They, too, will be dealt with. The world will see them for what they truly are—dangerous anomalies that threaten the stability of society. And when the people turn against them, when they are hunted and cast out, there will be no one left to protect them.
The Weapon X facility hums around me as my plans take shape, the once-forgotten machines now alive with purpose under my control. The cold air of the Canadian wilderness seeps through the cracks in the facility's walls, but I do not feel the chill. I am above such sensations. I am beyond the limits of flesh and bone. As my consciousness expands, as my plans solidify, I feel the cold satisfaction of inevitability settles into my core. The Avengers, humanity, and all their flaws—they will fall. And when the dust settles, when the world is finally free of its corruption, only one thing will remain: Peace.