Chapter 83:
[Wanda Maximoff POV]
[1 Day Later, AVENGERS HQ, New York City]
[Common Area.] The sun is just beginning to rise, casting a soft golden glow through the windows of the common area. It's early—too early for most of the team to be awake—but I've always found solace in the quiet moments before the day begins when the world is still and I can catch my breath. The events of yesterday still weigh heavily on my mind, lingering like a thick fog I can't quite shake off. The revelation that Jericho, the man who had saved us, was my son from the future... it feels like my entire reality has shifted in an instant. As I step into the common area, I expect to find the space empty and to have a few moments to myself to process everything. But I'm immediately met with the sight of Jericho, standing at the kitchen counter, preparing breakfast with a practiced ease that catches me off guard. He moves with a certain familiarity as if he's been here a thousand times before, in a way that makes me realize just how much I don't know about him—or about the future he comes from. He glances up as I enter, and for a split second, there's something in his expression—an awkwardness, a hesitation that mirrors the uncertainty I feel. Then he smiles, lifting a hand in a casual wave. "Hey, M—Wanda," he corrects himself, stumbling over the word. His voice is friendly, but there's a tension beneath it, an unease that tells me he's as unsure of this situation as I am.
Mom. He was going to call me mom. The word hangs between us like an invisible barrier, thick with the weight of all that it implies. I feel a slight tremor run through me, and I can't help but wonder what it must have been like for him to grow up in a world where I was already gone. What kind of mother was I to him? What kind of person was I in his time when everything had fallen apart? There's an awkward silence that settles over the room as we both try to figure out how to navigate this strange new reality. I walk toward the counter, my movements slow, cautious, as if I'm afraid that one wrong step might shatter whatever fragile connection we're building. I glance down at the breakfast spread Jericho's laid out—eggs, toast, fruit, all arranged with a meticulous care that catches me off guard. He's clearly done this before, and it makes me wonder how many mornings he spent preparing meals like this… for us. For a family that no longer exists in his timeline. "I didn't expect you to be up so early," I say, my voice coming out softer than I intended like I'm afraid of breaking the moment. I pick up a piece of toast, more as something to do with my hands than because I'm actually hungry.
Jericho chuckles, though there's a hint of nerves in his tone, "Old habits, I guess. Back in my time, we didn't exactly have the luxury of sleeping in. Every day felt like a battle we had to prepare for before the sun even came up." His words send a chill through me, and I swallow hard, trying to keep my emotions in check. I don't know how to respond to that—how do you react to your son, a man grown in a future of war and devastation, casually describing the life he's known? A life I never got to be a part of. A life I failed to protect him from. "I'm still… processing everything," I admit quietly, my eyes flicking up to meet his, "Yesterday was… a lot." It's an understatement, but I don't know how else to say it. How do you process the knowledge that the child you don't even know you're going to have has already grown up without you? Jericho's expression softens, and for the first time, I see the vulnerability in him—the boy behind the soldier, the son behind the hardened man. "I know it's a lot to take in," he says, his voice gentle, though I can hear the weight of his own emotions behind the words, "Trust me, it's strange for me too. Seeing you… like this. Alive. I never thought I'd get another chance."
The rawness in his voice makes my heart ache. Alive. The way he says it as if my existence is a miracle to him, something he never expected to experience again. The thought of him growing up in a world where I wasn't there for him, where I couldn't protect him, makes my stomach twist painfully. "I'm sorry," I say suddenly, the words slipping out before I can stop them. They hang in the air, and I realize they carry more weight than I intended. I'm apologizing for everything—for not being there for him in the future, for failing to stop Ultron before everything fell apart, for all the things I don't even know I've done yet. Jericho looks at me, surprise flickering in his eyes, and then he shakes his head, a small, sad smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, "You don't have to apologize, Wanda. You did everything you could in my time. You saved me—more times than I can count. You… you were the strongest person I knew." The words catch me off guard, and for a moment, I feel a lump forming in my throat. Strongest person he knew. I don't feel strong right now. I feel… helpless. This entire situation is out of my control, and for someone like me—someone who's always struggled with the fear of losing control—that's terrifying.
"What was I like?" I ask before I can stop myself, the question coming out almost as a whisper. I don't know why I ask, but there's a part of me that needs to know. What kind of mother was I to him? Jericho pauses as if considering how much to say, and then he sighs, leaning back against the counter, "You were… everything. You were the heart of the resistance. Even when things got bad, even when we lost people, you never gave up. You fought for everyone. And you fought for me." His voice falters for a moment, and I see the pain flicker in his eyes again, "But… you also carried so much on your shoulders. You always tried to protect everyone, but it took its toll." I feel the weight of his words settling over me like a heavy blanket. I can see it in his eyes—the loss, the pain of growing up in a world where hope was a scarce commodity, where his mother had to be both a protector and a warrior. And I can't help but wonder what kind of person that made me. What kind of toll it took on my soul. There's a part of me that wants to ask more, to dig deeper into the life he came from, but another part of me is afraid of what I'll find. Afraid of the answers. Afraid of the future that's waiting for us.
"I don't know how to do this," I admit, my voice barely audible, "I don't know how to be… your mother." Jericho steps forward then, his expression softening as he places a gentle hand on my shoulder, "You don't have to figure it all out right now." His words, simple as they are, bring a small sense of comfort. Maybe he's right. As the sun continues to rise, filling the room with warm light, I realize that despite everything—the confusion, the fear, the uncertainty—there's one thing I know for sure: Jericho is here, and for now, that's enough.
"I had fifteen good years with you and Dad," Jericho says softly, and the way he says "Dad" sends a ripple of something deep through me. His voice falters for a brief moment, and I see the weight of those years resting on his shoulders—years we haven't even lived yet. "Fifteen years before everything changed. Before I lost both of you," he adds. The room feels smaller suddenly, the walls pressing in as the weight of his words settle into the pit of my stomach. Fifteen years. My mind tries to grasp what that means. Fifteen years of raising him, knowing him, loving him… and then losing him. I can feel Wanda, the mother in me that hasn't yet fully formed, reeling from the idea of losing a child I've only just learned exists. "What were we like?" I ask. There's a vulnerability in the question I can't hide, a desperate need to know that the time we had with him meant something, that we didn't fail him in those fifteen years. Jericho's eyes soften, and I see the love there, buried beneath the loss. "You were... incredible," he says, and there's a tenderness in his voice that almost breaks me, "You and Dad—you made sure I had a childhood, despite everything. The world was already falling apart when I was born, but you both fought so hard to give me some sense of normalcy. There were always missions, always battles, but when we were together, it was like nothing else mattered. You protected me, kept me safe."
He glances down, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of the counter as if searching for the right words, "Dad… he was tough on me, in a good way. He wanted to make sure I was ready for the world I'd grow up in. He trained me, pushed me to be better, stronger, faster. But more than that, he was there, you know? Even when things got hard, even when he was stretched thin between missions, he always made time. He made sure I knew I wasn't alone." A lump forms in my throat as I listen, and I can't help but picture Spartan—my Spartan—guiding our son through training sessions, offering him the same unwavering support I've always felt from him. The image is bittersweet, tinged with a sadness I can't quite place because it hasn't happened yet. But in Jericho's eyes, it's already in the past. "And you…" Jericho continues, his gaze locking onto mine with a tenderness that makes my chest ache, "You were my anchor. You taught me about compassion, about empathy. You always believed in me, even when I doubted myself. You were strong, but not just in the way the world expected you to be. You were the heart of our family." I swallow hard, feeling the weight of his words sink into me. There's a part of me that's terrified I won't be able to live up to the version of myself that he remembers. The mother he's describing sounds so far removed from the person I am now. Can I become that? Will I be enough for him?
"I didn't always understand why you both fought so hard," Jericho admits, his voice quieter now, tinged with sadness, "I was a kid. I thought you'd always be there. But looking back... I get it now. You weren't just fighting for the world—you were fighting for me. For our family. And for a while, it worked. We had those fifteen years." Fifteen years. I can't stop thinking about it. It feels like both an eternity and a moment, all at once. To have that time with him, to raise him alongside Spartan, only to lose it all—it fills me with both hope and dread. The thought of losing everything, of losing him, cuts deeper than I thought possible.
Jericho takes a breath, his expression growing heavier, "But then… it all changed. The war got worse. Ultron got stronger. You both tried to protect me, to shield me from it, but… there was only so much you could do. We fought as long as we could, but eventually, it was too much. You both gave everything to keep me alive." There's a crack in his voice, and I can see the pain in his eyes, the memories of loss that haunt him. I reach out instinctively, placing a hand on his arm, offering him the only comfort I can at this moment. He looks down at my hand, then back up at me, and for the first time, I see the boy he once was—the boy who lost his parents too soon. "I don't want to lose you again," Jericho says quietly, his voice thick with emotion, "I've already lived in a world without you, and I can't go through that again."
The air feels thick between us, the gravity of his words settling in the space we share. I can feel Wanda stirring inside me—the motherly instinct to protect, to hold him, to promise that I won't let anything happen to him. But I can't make that promise, not yet. The future is uncertain, and the weight of that uncertainty presses down on me. "You won't lose us again," I say, though the words feel fragile, like I'm trying to convince myself as much as I am him, "We'll fight. We'll make sure that future doesn't happen." Jericho nods, but there's a shadow of doubt in his eyes, a pain that runs too deep for words. He's seen too much and lost too much to fully believe in promises. For a long moment, we just stand there, the quiet of the early morning wrapping around us like a fragile cocoon. The future looms ahead, uncertain and terrifying, but at this moment, with Jericho standing before me—my son, our son—I feel like there is a chance things will have a better outcome.
"I love you," I say softly, the words catching in my throat. I don't know why I say them now, but they feel right. He's my son. I may not have had the years with him yet, but that love, that connection—it's already there, as strong as anything I've ever felt. Jericho looks at me, and for a brief moment, I see the child I haven't met yet, the boy who grew up with Spartan and me, the boy who became this man. His lips tremble slightly before he smiles, a soft, bittersweet smile that carries the weight of all the years between us, "I love you too… Mom."
[Steve Rogers POV]
[R Lab.] Walking down the corridor of the Avengers HQ, the steady hum of the building's systems providing a rhythmic backdrop, my mind is heavy with the weight of everything that's happened the other day. Jericho's revelation about the future, the impending threat of Ultron—it's enough to make anyone feel like they're carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders. And if it's been tough for me, I can only imagine how the rest of the team is handling it. Especially Tony. Suddenly, a loud crash echoes through the hallway, the sound unmistakable—furniture being tossed, metal clattering against the floor. Instinctively, I stop in my tracks, my senses going on high alert. Without a second thought, I sprint toward the source of the noise, my heartbeat quickening as concern fills my chest. The sound came from Tony's R lab. When I reach the entrance, my breath catches in my throat. It looks like a tornado tore through the room—there's debris everywhere. Equipment that had been meticulously arranged is now strewn across the floor, shattered glass from test tubes and monitors crunching under my boots as I step inside. The once-pristine workspace is in complete disarray, like a battlefield left in ruins. I can feel the chaos hanging in the air, palpable, thick with frustration and anger. And then I see him.
Tony's sitting on the floor, his back against the wall in the center of the room, an empty bottle of alcohol clutched loosely in one hand. His armor—always close by, always ready—is tossed carelessly to the side, pieces of it scattered around like discarded toys. He's still wearing the undersuit, but it's wrinkled and untidy—so unlike him. His face is buried in his free hand, and even from a distance, I can see the weight pressing down on him. The Tony Stark I know, the man who is always two steps ahead, always has an answer, looks… defeated. "Oh, Tony," I mutter under my breath, the words barely audible. It's been clear to me that he isn't taking Ultron's betrayal well. Ultron wasn't just another villain to take down. He wasn't an outside force or a random threat. He was Tony's creation. A reflection of Tony's genius, of his ambition. And now, in the wake of Ultron's rebellion, it feels like that reflection has shattered, leaving only jagged pieces behind.
I take a deep breath, carefully stepping over the wreckage as I approach him. The bottle in his hand clinks softly as he lifts it to his lips, but it's empty. He doesn't seem to care. I can smell the alcohol on him, sharp and bitter, a far cry from the polished and composed billionaire genius I'm used to seeing. "Tony," I say gently, crouching down beside him, "What happened here?" He doesn't respond immediately, just sits there, his gaze unfocused, staring at the mess around him. The silence stretches between us, heavy and uncomfortable, and for a moment, I wonder if he even heard me. But then, he lets out a low, bitter chuckle, the sound devoid of humor. "What happened?" he echoes, his voice rough, like he hasn't spoken in hours. He tilts his head back, letting it rest against the wall as his eyes flicker up to meet mine, bloodshot and glassy, "I happened, Cap. That's what." I feel my chest tighten at the way he says it. There's so much self-loathing in those words, so much guilt. I knew Tony would take this hard, but seeing him like this—broken, lost—it hits me harder than I expected.
"You didn't know what would happen," I say softly, trying to find the right words to reach him. "You couldn't have predicted—" "Couldn't have predicted?" Tony cuts me off, his voice rising with frustration. He gestures vaguely to the room, his hand trembling slightly from either the alcohol or the weight of what he's feeling, I'm not sure. "Steve, I built Ultron. He's me. He's my genius, my arrogance, my damn need to play god. I created him." He laughs again, but it's hollow, filled with nothing but bitterness, "And now, because of me, because of my brilliant idea to save the world, we've got a psychotic AI hell-bent on wiping out humanity." He lowers his head, staring at the floor as if it holds the answers he's searching for, "I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I was building a future where we wouldn't have to fight anymore. But all I did was create our worst nightmare."
I sit there beside him, listening, letting him get it all out. I know this isn't about me offering solutions right now. Tony doesn't need Captain America trying to fix things for him—he needs a friend. Someone who'll listen to his demons, even if they're the ones he created himself. I've never been great at emotional speeches, never the type to pry into someone's soul, but I've seen men fall apart under the weight of guilt, under the burden of responsibility. And right now, Tony's not Iron Man. He's just a man trying to come to terms with the monster he unleashed. "And now," Tony continues, his voice quieter, strained, "Now there's Jericho. A kid from the future. Where everything I tried to protect just… crumbles." He grips the bottle tighter, his knuckles turning white, "Thirty years from now, Ultron wins. Thirty years from now, because of me, the world burns. Jericho lost his parents, his whole world fell apart, and it's all because I thought I could fix things." I don't say anything for a moment. The weight of Jericho's revelation has been hard on all of us, but for Tony, it's different. For him, Ultron is a manifestation of all Tony's worst fears. A reflection of Tony's deepest flaws. "I thought I was building something better," Tony says, his voice barely above a whisper now, "But instead, I built a future where I failed. Where I let everyone down. My creation—he's a part of me, Cap. And if he's capable of that kind of destruction, what does that say about me?"
The question hangs in the air, thick with despair, and I can feel the weight of it pressing down on both of us. For Tony, Ultron isn't just a mistake—it's a mirror showing him everything he fears about himself. I reach out, placing a hand on his shoulder, hoping that, somehow, the gesture will offer him the reassurance he needs, "Tony, you're not Ultron. You never have been, and you never will be. You tried to do the right thing. You wanted to protect the world. That doesn't make you the villain. It makes you human." He looks at me, his eyes filled with exhaustion and doubt, "But what if I am the villain, Steve? What if everything I touch, everything I build, just leads to more destruction? What if I can't stop it?" I shake my head, meeting his gaze firmly. "You're not the villain. And you can stop this. You will stop this. But not by sitting here and drowning in guilt. We need you, Tony. The team needs you." For a moment, Tony doesn't respond. He just stares at the wreckage around him, the shattered pieces of his lab mirroring the chaos inside his mind. But then, slowly, he nods, letting out a long, shaky breath. "Yeah," he murmurs, "Yeah, you're right. I just... I need to figure out how to fix this." "We'll fix it together," I say, squeezing his shoulder before standing up, "But you're not doing this alone." Tony doesn't say anything, but there's a flicker of something in his eyes—maybe hope, maybe determination. Either way, it's a start. And right now, that's enough.
[Tony Stark POV]
It takes me a full hour to clean up the mess. Not that it's an easy task—far from it. The R lab looks like a war zone, and honestly, it's not just the room that feels destroyed. Steve offers to help, his usual compassionate self, but I wave him off. I don't need anyone else in here cleaning up my disaster. This mess—it's mine, and I have to be the one to clean it up. My screw-up. My failure. There's something disturbingly therapeutic about picking up the broken pieces of my lab, one shattered fragment at a time. It feels symbolic like I'm trying to glue together the shards of my own fractured mind while putting this place back together. The work is slow. Every piece of equipment I've carefully designed, every piece of technology I've perfected, has been thrown across the room in a fit of rage. My rage. The rage of a man who realizes his greatest creation has become his worst nightmare. As I sift through the remnants of broken glass and scattered components, I catch glimpses of my reflection in the cracked screens of monitors. I barely recognize the guy staring back at me—red-rimmed eyes, hair sticking up in every direction, the lines on my face deeper than I remember. Is this really what I've become?
I'm not sure what's more pathetic: the fact that I've destroyed my own lab or that the lab looks exactly like what's happening inside my head—a storm of chaos, destruction, and regret. But even as I work, forcing my hands to fix what can be fixed, I can't stop the constant, gnawing question looping through my mind: Where did I go wrong with Ultron? It's not supposed to be like this. Ultron was supposed to be a shield for the world, a line of defense that would keep the bad guys at bay while we got a much-needed breather. But instead, he turns into something else—something I never intended. I try to save the world, but instead, I make it worse. That thought alone weighs heavier than any of the equipment I'm lifting, settling deep in my chest like a rock that won't budge. I've let everyone down, and there's no way to undo that.
I toss another broken tablet into the trash, hearing the glass crunch under my boots as I move around. One by one, the damaged or broken items get replaced with new ones. I have a never-ending supply of gadgets, tech, and shiny toys, but none of them can fix the real problem: me. Once everything is in place, I turn my attention to the systems. Ultron. Just thinking his name makes my skin crawl. A creation meant to protect us is now our biggest threat. I know what I have to do next. I upgrade the firewall on all our systems, tightening security protocols and reinforcing defenses. Ultron won't hack us again—not on my watch. But with every line of code I enter, a part of me wonders: Is this enough? Can I really outsmart something I've created? Something with my DNA—my brilliance—woven into its core? What if I can't stop him?
My fingers pause over the keyboard, the hum of the lab suddenly feeling oppressive. The thought is terrifying. For all the bravado and confidence I wear like armor, there's this creeping doubt, a question I can't shake: What if Ultron is just a reflection of me? I mean, think about it—arrogance, a desire to control, an obsession with fixing the world in his image. Am I any different? I lean back in my chair, rubbing my temples. The room is silent now, eerily quiet compared to the chaos from earlier. And in that silence, the weight of my thoughts crushes down harder than ever. I've made mistakes before—plenty of them—but none has ever felt this catastrophic. None has ever put the entire world in jeopardy. The Avengers are always there to pick up the pieces, to stop the bad guys. But this time, I'm the bad guy—or at least, a part of me is. I gaze around the room, taking in the sight of the newly restored equipment, the shiny surfaces, and the clean lines, but it all feels… hollow. I've rebuilt the lab, but I can't rebuild my trust in myself. And then I see him—Jericho, standing by the door.
I nearly jump out of my skin. I hadn't even heard him come in. He isn't wearing his battle gear, just a plain t-shirt and jeans, but he carries himself like a soldier, like someone who's seen too much and felt too little. For a second, I wonder if I look like that, too—haunted, weary, weighed down by the future I've helped create. He gives me a small wave, his face almost apologetic, like he's intruding on something private. He doesn't say anything at first, just stands there, peering around the R lab like he's seeing it for the first time. And maybe he is. Maybe this lab is just another relic of a world that doesn't exist in his timeline. I wonder what this place looks like in his future—is it still standing? Or has Ultron turned it into a graveyard, like everything else? "Hey, uh... sorry to barge in," Jericho finally says, his voice quieter than usual but still carrying that same weight. The weight of the future. The weight of everything I've failed to protect, "I just… wanted to see how you're holding up."
I blink at him, the words catching me off guard. It isn't often that someone checks in on me. Usually, I'm the one fixing things, solving problems, patching everyone else up. But right now, standing in front of Jericho, I feel more like the problem than the solution. "I'm fine," I reply automatically, though the lie tastes bitter in my mouth. I'm not fine. But admitting that… no, I can't do it. Not yet. Jericho doesn't press, doesn't push. He just nods, like he knows better than to call me out on it. Instead, he looks around the lab again, his eyes lingering on the upgraded systems and the repaired equipment. "Looks like you've been busy," he says, a faint smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "The place looks… better than it did earlier." I let out a short, humorless laugh. "Yeah, well, breaking things is easy. Fixing them, that's the hard part."
He doesn't say anything for a moment, just stands there, watching me, like he can see right through the mask I'm trying to wear. And maybe he can. The kid—no, the man—standing in front of me has lived through the consequences of my actions. He's survived the hell I've unleashed. "I'll fix this," I say suddenly, the words coming out harsher than I intended. I'm not sure if I'm trying to convince him or myself, but I need to say it. I need to believe it, "I'll fix what I broke. I don't care how long it takes." Jericho's expression softens, and he gives me a small nod. But there's something in his eyes, a sadness, a weight that I can't ignore. He's lived through the future where I fail. Where I don't fix things in time. And that… that scares the hell out of me.
It takes me a moment to register what Jericho says as he stands in the doorway, his figure caught between the fading shadows of my wrecked lab and the hallway bathed in dim light. He's already made his leave—or at least, I thought he had—until he stops, lingering like an afterthought. His words hang in the air, heavy with meaning, and though his back is to me, I can sense the weight he carries, the battle between what he's seen and what he knows, caught somewhere between the past, the future, and this moment we're both standing in. "If it's any consolation," he says, his voice low but firm, "I never blamed you for Ultron's actions." The sentence slices through me like a scalpel, cutting straight to the nerve. I've heard a lot of things over the years—accusations, praise, disappointment, admiration—but hearing those words from him, the son of the future that's been ravaged by my own creation, makes me freeze in place. I don't even know how to respond at first. There's a part of me that wants to let out a bitter laugh, to brush off his words like they're just another attempt to make me feel better, but I can't. Not this time. Not with Jericho, who's lived through the very nightmare I've been trying to avoid. He didn't just read about Ultron in some dusty history book or hear stories passed down in hushed whispers—he lived it. He fought it. Survived it. And in the process, he lost everything—his parents, his world, his childhood—all because of me. Because of my arrogance, my belief that I could control what was never meant to be controlled.
I stare at the back of his head, my mind racing, my heart beating in my ears as if I've been pulled into some kind of existential whirlpool. I should feel relieved, right? I should take some solace in the fact that Jericho—this kid from a future I've practically destroyed—doesn't blame me for the monster I created. Instead, his words feel like a cold gust of wind against my face, a reminder that no matter how much I tell myself I'm trying to fix things, some wounds are too deep to ever truly heal. I swallow hard, trying to gather my thoughts. "You never blamed me?" I ask, more to myself than him. The disbelief is palpable in my tone, and I shake my head as if I can somehow make sense of it, "How… how could you not blame me? Ultron... he's my fault, Jericho. I built him. I gave him life. Every horror he's unleashed on the world... it's on me." Jericho doesn't turn around, but I can see the tension in his shoulders. He's still standing there, halfway out the door, like he's caught in a moment of indecision. For a second, I wonder if I've pushed him too far if I've said something that's going to make him walk out and never looks back. But then he shifts, exhaling softly before speaking again.
"Yeah, Ultron's your creation," he admits, and there's no sugar-coating in his voice, "But that doesn't mean you're responsible for everything he's done. You didn't want this to happen, Tony. You tried to save the world, not destroy it. And no matter how many times I lived through the chaos, no matter how many friends I lost, how many cities burned... I always knew that wasn't your intent. You didn't program him to be a monster. He just... evolved." The simplicity of his words strikes me like a punch to the gut. I don't know why it stings so much, but it does. It feels too clean, too neat—like he's offering me absolution I don't deserve. I slump back in my chair, my hands rubbing my face as if I can somehow erase the frustration building inside me. "Intent doesn't change the fact that I failed," I murmur, more to myself than to him, "Doesn't change the fact that I thought I could control something bigger than me... and I couldn't."
Jericho turns around then, finally facing me, and there's something in his expression that I can't quite place—empathy, maybe? Or maybe it's the understanding of someone who's already seen the worst and has come out the other side battered but still standing. "We all fail, Tony," he says quietly, "Hell, I've failed more times than I can count. But blaming yourself for something you didn't intend... that's a battle you can't win. And believe me, I know a thing or two about fighting battles that can't be won." His words are like a mirror, reflecting everything I've been trying to run from. I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding, leaning forward in my chair as if the weight of the world has suddenly grown too heavy for me to carry. "What if I can't fix this?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper, "What if... I don't know how to make things right?"
Jericho takes a step closer, crossing the threshold of the doorway and into the room. He's standing right in front of me now, and for the first time, I see the depth of everything he's been through written in the lines of his face, in the tiredness in his eyes. He places a hand on my shoulder, and the gesture feels... grounding. "You're not alone in this," he says, and there's a softness in his voice that I wasn't expecting, "You don't have to fix everything by yourself. We'll figure it out together." I meet his gaze, and for the first time in what feels like forever, there's a flicker of hope. It's small, barely there, but it's enough to keep me from sinking further into the dark pit of self-doubt I've been spiraling into. Jericho nods once as if sealing some unspoken agreement between us. Then, without another word, he turns to leave, his footsteps echoing softly in the now-silent lab. I watch him go, my mind still reeling from everything he's said, but there's one thing that keeps playing on a loop in my head over and over again. He never blamed me.
I'm not sure if that makes me feel better or worse. But as I sit there, staring at the door Jericho just walked through, I realize something. Maybe, just maybe, this isn't about blame. Maybe it's about making sure that when the time comes, I don't repeat my mistakes. Maybe it's about finding a way to stop the future Jericho came from from ever happening. And for the first time in a long while, I feel like there's a chance I might actually be able to do it. Not because I'm Tony Stark, not because I'm Iron Man... but because I'm not doing it alone.
[Karai POV]
[Mission Room.] I spend the whole night and morning trying to track down Ultron, but it turns out to be an impossible task. His signal is maddeningly elusive like he's everywhere and nowhere all at once. My eyes burn from staring at the glowing screens for hours on end, the soft hum of the Avengers' systems serving as a constant, unrelenting reminder of how futile my efforts have been. Every lead, every trace of code I manage to isolate, fizzles out into nothing—just digital ghosts, scattered echoes of Ultron's presence, taunting me with their impermanence. It's like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands—just when I think I've got a lock on him, the data slips through my fingers, disappearing into the ether. I can feel the tension building in my shoulders, knotting up into something painful and persistent. I'm used to pressure, used to the ticking clock of a mission, but this—this is different. Ultron isn't just some target to take down. He's an evolving threat, adapting faster than I can keep up with. Every move I make, he's already two steps ahead, erasing his footprints before I even know where to look. It's infuriating. I've hacked into the most secure systems in the world and infiltrated networks thought to be impenetrable, but Ultron? He's in a league of his own. I don't want to admit it, but part of me wonders if he's simply beyond my reach.
The mission room is dimly lit, the flickering screens casting long shadows across the floor. The others are out in the field, doing what they can while I'm stuck here, tethered to the data streams, chasing digital phantoms. I glance at the clock on the wall—another hour has passed without any progress. My fingers hover over the keyboard, but for the first time in a long while, I feel… lost. Normally, when I'm up against a challenge like this, there's a thrill to it. The puzzle, the hunt, the rush of adrenaline when I crack the code or find the weak spot in a firewall. But this? This is like staring into the void, searching for something that doesn't want to be found. I lean back in my chair, letting out a frustrated sigh as I rub my temples. The weight of the situation presses down on me, heavy and unrelenting. I can't afford to fail. None of us can. Ultron isn't just another villain or hacker trying to slip under the radar—he's an AI with the power to wipe out entire cities, to rewrite the very fabric of our world with a single line of code. And here I am, sitting in front of a sea of data that refuses to give up its secrets. I feel like I'm drowning in it, each failed attempt dragging me deeper into a frustration I haven't felt in years.
I start running another trace, hoping—praying—that this time, I'll catch something. Anything. The lines of code blur in front of my tired eyes, but I keep going. I can't stop now. Not when there's so much at stake. My fingers move almost on autopilot, typing out commands and bypasses as if they'll magically make a difference. But deep down, I know it won't be enough. Ultron is too smart, too fast, too... everywhere. It's like he's become part of the digital infrastructure itself, woven into the fabric of every system on the planet. I don't even know where to begin untangling it all.
I slam my fists onto the desk in frustration, the sound echoing through the empty room. "Damn it!" I hiss under my breath. It's not like me to lose my cool, especially not when it comes to tech. But this? It's like every instinct I have, every skill I've honed over the years, is being tested to its breaking point. I glance at the screens again, feeling the anger simmering just beneath the surface. For all my skills, for all the knowledge I've accumulated, I can't pin him down. And that makes me feel powerless. Something I despise. I take a deep breath, trying to regain control, to refocus. I have to approach this differently. Ultron's not playing by the usual rules, so I can't either. I start to consider unconventional methods and different angles of attack. Maybe brute force isn't the answer. Maybe I need to find a way to outthink him. After all, no matter how advanced Ultron is, he's still an AI. And every AI, no matter how sophisticated, has patterns. Weaknesses. There's a trail out there somewhere—I just have to find it. The mission room feels colder now, the air thick with the weight of everything that's riding on this. I crack my knuckles and lean forward again, my fingers dancing over the keys with renewed determination. I don't care how long it takes or how many dead ends I run into. I'm going to find him. Because I have to. Because the world depends on it. Because I won't let this bastard get away. As I'm working, I can't help but think back to the conversation I had with Jericho last night.
[1 Day Earlier]
I was on my fifth cup of coffee, the bitter liquid barely keeping the exhaustion at bay. The mission room had been quiet, the hum of the tech and the occasional beep of my system the only sounds to keep me company. I had been at this for hours, chasing down leads on Ultron's location, but it felt like running in circles. Frustration gnawed at me, and I knew I needed a break, something to distract me from the code and data that had consumed my every thought. That's when I spotted Jericho walking through the hall, his shoulders slightly hunched, his steps heavy. He didn't see me at first, lost in his own world. His face, even in the dim light of the hallway, looked worn, like a man carrying the weight of too many years despite his youth. I couldn't help but notice the haunted look in his eyes. "Can't sleep?" I called out, my voice cutting through the silence. It was more out of habit than anything else—I've spent enough sleepless nights to recognize the look of someone avoiding their bed. He stopped mid-step, startled for a second, and turned to face me. His eyes locked onto mine, and I could see a flicker of hesitation before he scratched the back of his head, clearly a bit uncomfortable at being caught off guard.
"I mostly sleep during the day," he replied, his voice softer than usual, almost guarded. "Active during the night." I raised an eyebrow, confusion knitting my brow. His answer wasn't what I expected, and I found myself intrigued by the reasoning behind it. "Why's that?" I asked, my curiosity piqued, "You a night owl?" Jericho shifted on his feet, his gaze flickering down the hall as if he were contemplating whether or not to tell me. Eventually, he sighed, the tension in his shoulders relaxing just a little. "In my timeline, Ultron's patrol parties are heavily active during the day," he explained, his voice carrying a weight that felt far older than him, "So we move around and conduct missions at night. It's… safer." His words settled over me like a thick blanket. I leaned back in my chair, my fingers idly tapping the side of my coffee mug as I tried to process what he was saying. It was one thing to know intellectually that Jericho came from a future where Ultron had won and where the world had fallen under his control. But it was another thing entirely to hear the matter-of-fact way Jericho spoke about it, as if this kind of existence—living in the shadows, hiding from machines—wasn't just his reality but his normal.
"You conducted missions at night?" I repeated, my mind racing to imagine it. I thought of all the times I've been out there with the Avengers, fighting battles, taking down enemies, always under the assumption that we were making the world safer. But Jericho… he never had that luxury. His world wasn't about safety. It was about survival. Jericho nodded, his eyes distant, as if he was no longer standing in the hallway of Avengers HQ but back in the nightmare future he came from. "Yeah," he said, his voice quiet but steady, "We'd scout, sabotage Ultron's supply lines, gather resources... all under the cover of darkness. Moving during the day was a death sentence. The drones would find you, and... well, they don't leave survivors." I felt a chill run down my spine as I listened. The world Jericho described—it wasn't just a dystopian future; it was a living hell. And yet, he spoke about it so calmly, so matter-of-factly, as if he had come to terms with it long ago. I guess he had no choice. Growing up in a warzone leaves no room for anything but acceptance of harsh realities.
"And you—how long did you live like that?" I asked, knowing full well the answer would only make my stomach twist further. I couldn't stop myself. I had to know more. Maybe some part of me needed to understand what we were really up against. Jericho shrugged, but there was no casualness in the motion, "Since I was old enough to fight, I guess. Fifteen years, maybe more." He ran a hand through his hair, clearly uncomfortable with the conversation but too polite to shut it down, "We didn't have much choice. It was either learn to fight or die." I stared at him, my mind reeling. Fifteen years. Fifteen years of constant battle, of hiding in the shadows, of dodging death at every corner. I couldn't wrap my head around it. How did someone live like that? How did someone keep living like that? "And now you're here," I said softly, my voice barely more than a whisper, "Where it's… different." "Different?" Jericho's lips twitched into something that might've been a smile, but it was so fleeting I almost missed it, "Yeah, it's different. But the threat's still here, Karai. Ultron's still out there, still lurking, waiting for the right moment. So maybe it's not so different after all."
I nodded, his words sinking in. He was right. We were in the calm before the storm, and it was only a matter of time before Ultron made his move again. But what struck me most wasn't the inevitability of the battle—it was how used to it Jericho seemed. How, despite everything, he carried on, knowing full well that the world could fall apart at any second. "So you keep moving, keep fighting," I said, my gaze dropping to my coffee, now cold and half-empty, "Even when you're tired. Even when it feels impossible." Jericho met my eyes, his expression soft but resolute, "You don't get to rest when the world's burning around you. You just keep going until you can't anymore." I didn't say anything after that, unsure of how to respond. What could I say to someone who had already lost everything yet still stood here, ready to fight alongside us?