Chapter 84:
[Spartan POV]
[1 Week Later, New York City]
It's been a week since Ultron's betrayal and declaration of war on humanity, along with Jericho's revelation of the future. Seven days, and it feels like everything's been turned upside down. How do you plan for something like Ultron? For an enemy that doesn't sleep, doesn't stop, doesn't hesitate. An enemy that evolves, adapts, and grows stronger every second while we're trying to catch our breath. Every morning for the past week, I've woken up with the same feeling—a dull weight in my chest that doesn't go away, not even after I've done my usual routine, not even after I've punched a bag until my knuckles bleed. The sense of urgency, of impending doom, presses down on me, and no matter what I do, I can't shake it. Jericho's words still echo in my head, the future he described playing over and over like some kind of sick nightmare that I can't wake up from. "Thirty years from now, Ultron wins." I've heard a lot of grim things in my life and seen a lot of dark futures hinted at by enemies trying to psych us out. But hearing it from Jericho, seeing the look in his eyes when he talked about it, made it feel... real. He wasn't trying to scare us—he was telling us the truth. The cold, hard truth that the world I'm fighting so damn hard to protect is already doomed unless we figure something out. Unless we stop Ultron before he becomes the monster that wipes out everything.
New York feels different, too. The streets are quieter and more tense. People know something's wrong, even if they don't fully understand what's happening yet. Maybe they've seen the news, the rumors of rogue AIs or tech gone haywire. Maybe they're just sensing the undercurrent of fear that's been gripping the city since the day Ultron turned on us. Whatever it is, it's in the air, thick and suffocating. I can see it in their faces when I ride through the streets on my bike—the way they glance over their shoulders like they're expecting something terrible to happen at any moment. And maybe they're right.
I've spent the last week patrolling non-stop, barely sleeping, barely eating, just trying to stay ahead of whatever move Ultron's going to make next. Every time I think I've found a lead, something that might give us an edge, it slips through my fingers. He's smarter than any enemy I've ever faced. Smarter than anyone in this city, maybe even smarter than Stark. And that's what scares me the most. He's not just a mindless machine; he's learning and adapting. Every time we think we've got him cornered, he evolves, changes his tactics, and disappears into the digital web like a ghost. And then there's Jericho. His presence hangs over everything like a shadow I can't quite shake. Knowing that he's from a future where we've already lost, where Wanda and I—where we—are gone, makes it hard to focus. Every time I see him, every time I think about what he's told us, I can't help but feel this strange pull. He's my son. Our son. And yet, I barely know him. He's a man grown, hardened by a life I can't even begin to imagine. I look at him and see flashes of Wanda, of myself, but there's something else there too—something that I don't recognize. The weight of everything he's been through, everything he's lost, is etched into his face, and it makes me wonder... How do I become the father he remembers? How do I live up to that?
It's a question I haven't been able to answer, not since the moment he revealed the truth to us. And with everything else happening, with the constant pressure of Ultron looming over us, I don't know if I'll ever get the chance to figure it out. I barely have time to breathe, let alone think about what kind of father I need to be. As I ride through the streets, the wind whipping against my face, I can't stop thinking about Jericho's warning. About what's coming. About how close we are to losing everything. My thoughts drift to Wanda, to the fact that we're expecting a child—a future that's suddenly become more fragile than I ever imagined. I haven't told her how scared I am, how much this weighs on me. I can't. She's strong, stronger than anyone I know, but I don't want her carrying this burden, too. She's got enough on her plate already, especially with Jericho's presence stirring up emotions she's barely had time to process.
But I can feel the fear gnawing at me every second of every day. What if Jericho's right? What if, no matter how hard we fight, we still lose? What if everything I do, everything we do, just delays the inevitable? I push those thoughts aside. Can't afford to think like that. Not now. Not when there's work to be done. I remind myself why I'm doing this. Why we're all doing this. For the people in this city, for the ones who don't know what's coming but are relying on us to protect them. For Jericho. For Wanda. For our future. Because as long as I'm still standing, as long as I'm still breathing, I'm not letting that future happen. Not without a fight.
As I'm speeding through the city, the streets a blur of familiar chaos and tension, EPYON flashes a notification across my visor. A distress call—high priority, flagged from an EMS team. They need assistance transporting a critical patient. I slow down instinctively, letting the rest of the world fade into the background as I read the details. For a moment, I feel an odd sense of relief wash over me, like I've been holding my breath for hours and can finally exhale. Something normal. Something human. Something that doesn't involve Ultron or the suffocating fear of what's coming next. No rogue AIs, no war declarations, no ticking clock counting down to the end of humanity. Just a medical team in need of help, doing what they do best—saving lives.
I signal EPYON to pull up a more detailed map, showing me the quickest route to their location. Midtown, not far from where I'm patrolling. I can make it in under five minutes if I push it. Finally, something normal. I rev the bike's engine and weave through the thin traffic that's out this time of night, ignoring the usual stares from pedestrians. I know what they're seeing—a dark figure in combat gear, helmet reflecting the dim city lights, moving through the streets like a shadow. The silent protector. I used to hate that image and the distance it created between me and the people I was trying to protect. But right now, I'm grateful for it. I need that distance. I check the readout—there's a second alert now, something about the patient's condition deteriorating fast. Critical injuries, internal bleeding, and possible trauma to the head. The paramedics are doing everything they can, but they're stuck in heavy traffic for a full 15 minutes. I push the bike harder, feeling the engine roar beneath me as I navigate through the streets like a heat-seeking missile. This is what I'm built for—speed, precision, getting where I'm needed when time is running out. EPYON keeps feeding me updates, recalculating routes, and adjusting for traffic patterns, and I follow its instructions without question. No second-guessing, no hesitating.
In moments like this, it's easy to slip into autopilot, to let instinct take over. But even as I focus on the mission, there's a small part of me that's grateful for the distraction, for something to anchor me back to reality. I need this. I need to feel like I'm making a difference in the here and now instead of constantly staring down the barrel of what's coming. The streets start to thin out as I get closer to the EMS location. I can see the flashing lights of the ambulance ahead, caught in the middle of a snarl of cars, completely immobile. The moment I pull up beside them, the paramedics wave me down. Their faces are tight with worry, their movements quick and efficient as they brief me on the situation. The patient's condition is worse than I thought—vitals dropping, consciousness slipping. No time to waste. "I'll take it from here," I say, already moving to help transfer the patient onto my bike. The medics don't argue. They know I can get to the hospital faster than they ever could in this mess. It's not the first time I've done this.
As I secure the patient and prepare to head out, I catch a glimpse of their face. Pale, barely breathing, but hanging on. It hits me all at once—this person's life is in my hands now. The weight of that responsibility that fragility settles in my gut. And suddenly, the relief I felt earlier fades, replaced by the stark reminder that no matter how "normal" this feels compared to Ultron, it's still life or death. It always is. With a final nod to the medics, I take off, the sound of the bike roaring back to life echoing through the streets. It's just me, the road, and the patient now. I focus on the task ahead, blocking out everything else.
[Jericho POV]
[AVENGERS HQ, New York City]
[Training Area.] I step into the training area, my eyes scanning the space, taking in the subtle hum of the high-tech equipment and the polished floors that reflect the overhead lights. Everything looks pristine—brand new, untouched by the chaos that ravaged it not too long ago. It's hard to believe this is the same place that was left in ruins after the battle with Ultron last week. I can't shake the feeling of unease as I walk deeper into the room. The clang of weights and the low murmur of distant conversations from the other Avengers barely register. My focus is on the emptiness, on how wrong it feels to be here—to be in this time, this version of reality. The Avengers HQ, I remember, was a shell of what it is now. Broken, crumbling. We used to train in ruins, making do with what little we had left. Seeing it like this... it's jarring. It almost feels like I'm trespassing on a life that doesn't belong to me.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch movement, and my breath hitches for a second. Steve Rogers walks in, casual as ever, dressed in his usual training gear. But it's not the uniform or the familiar stoic expression that hits me—it's his face. Clean-shaven. He doesn't have a beard. The beard that he wore in my timeline, the one that made him look older, rougher, like he had seen too much, fought too hard, and survived more than any man should. I blink, forcing myself to focus, but the dissonance between this Steve and the one I knew makes my stomach twist. It still feels weird seeing him like this. Younger. Healthier. Almost... untouched by the weight of everything I know he's going to face.
The last time I saw my Steve was when he handed me the time device, his face set in that grim way I'd seen a thousand times before. He had the look of a man who knew the end was coming. It was just the two of us. I remember the way he put a hand on my shoulder, squeezing it with a strength that didn't match his weary eyes. "Go back," he had said, his voice gravelly from exhaustion, "Fix it. Do whatever it takes." And then he was gone. I didn't even get to say goodbye. Ultron found us barely an hour after that. The raid came swift and brutal, like a hurricane tearing through everything we had built. The memory surges up before I can stop it. I can still hear the metallic clanging of Ultron's drones, the screams, the fire. My hands instinctively ball into fists, the tension rippling up my arms. Every muscle tightens with the raw anger that bubbles just beneath the surface. I want to hit something, to punch until my hands bleed, until the memory of that day fades, but I know it won't. It never does.
Steve—this Steve—has no idea. He walks up to me, casual as ever, like everything's normal. Like we're just two soldiers about to train, not two men separated by years of war and loss. His face is calm, his posture relaxed, and for a moment, I envy him. I envy the fact that he doesn't carry the same scars I do. "Jericho," he says, his voice steady, cutting through the haze of my thoughts. He offers a small smile, the kind that's supposed to be reassuring, but it just makes me feel more out of place. I know I should be grateful—grateful that I have this chance to change things, to make sure it never gets that far. But standing here, looking at Steve, I feel like I'm walking through a dream that's too good to be real. Steve studies me for a moment, his blue eyes sharp, as if he can sense the storm brewing inside me. He doesn't say anything, though. He doesn't ask about my past, doesn't pry into the details of the future I've come from. Maybe he knows better than to dig. Or maybe he just trusts me to tell him when I'm ready. Either way, his silence is both a blessing and a curse.
"Sir," I say out of habit, my voice sharp and steady as I snap a salute, my posture straight as a rod. The motion feels natural, ingrained in me from years of service in a world that doesn't exist here. It's like muscle memory, a reflex that I can't quite shake, even though I know this Steve doesn't require it. "I'm ready for today's training session. What do you need me to do?" The words leave my mouth before I have time to reconsider them, and for a brief second, I can see the flicker of surprise in his eyes. He wasn't expecting the formality. Steve pauses, his expression softening into something I can't quite read—curiosity, maybe, or amusement. He's probably thinking it's strange for someone my age, in this environment, to treat him like a superior officer instead of a comrade. And to be honest, it feels strange to me too, but old habits die hard. My upbringing, my training, all the experiences I've lived through in my world—it's all still there, just beneath the surface. I've saluted this man more times than I can count, but that was my Steve. This one... well, he's a reminder of what was and what could be.
Still, after a beat, he seems to understand. He straightens his posture a bit, falling into the role as if it were second nature to him. For all the differences between this timeline and mine, one thing remains constant: Steve Rogers knows how to lead and knows how to wear the mantle of Captain America, whether he's on the battlefield or in the training room. There's a brief flash of something like nostalgia in his expression as if my military formality had taken him back to his own time when soldiers were disciplined, and the chain of command was everything. "Name and rank, soldier?" His voice is firm, but there's a subtle warmth to it, a hint of playfulness as he leans into the act. For a second, it feels like we're back on the battlefield, back in the trenches where respect is earned and order is maintained by rank and file. I meet his eyes, standing tall and responding with the same seriousness I always do, even though I know this is just a formality. "Jericho M. Turok. Rank: Sergeant." My voice comes out strong, my gaze is unwavering as I lock eyes with him. The name feels foreign in my mouth, not because it's new, but because it's tied to a different life, one that I've been trying to reconcile with this present. The last time I introduced myself like this, it was in a warzone, and everything around me was falling apart. It feels strange to say it here, in this pristine training facility, surrounded by an Avengers team that has yet to face the full wrath of Ultron.
There's a brief silence between us as the weight of the moment settles in. Steve's eyes study me, and I can tell he's processing more than just my name and rank. He's seeing the soldier in me, the man who's been through hell and back, even if he doesn't know the full story. And in that silence, I realize that part of me is still searching for approval, still looking for a way to measure up to the legacy of the man who taught me everything I know about leadership, about fighting for what's right. It's instinctive, this need to prove myself to him—even though this Steve doesn't have the same history with me, even though he hasn't lived through the same battles we did together in my timeline. Steve nods, a subtle acknowledgment of what I've just said, but there's more behind that gesture. It's not just a nod of recognition for my rank or the name I've given—it's an unspoken understanding. He knows I'm different that I've lived a different life. And for a moment, I wonder if he can sense the weight of the future hanging over me, if he can see the ghost of the war I've survived lingering in my eyes.
"Well, Sergeant Turok," he says, his tone lighter now but still carrying that undercurrent of authority, "let's see what you've got. I'm not one for easy drills." There's a small smirk at the corner of his mouth, and for a split second, I'm reminded of the Steve I knew—the one who always pushed me harder than anyone else because he knew I could take it. "Understood, sir," I reply automatically, though I can feel my muscles tense slightly. It's not fear or hesitation—it's anticipation. I've trained with Steve Rogers before. I know what to expect. This isn't about going easy or holding back. It's about pushing past limits, about proving to him—and to myself—that I'm ready for what's coming. No matter how heavy the burden of the future might be, I can still fight, stand beside these heroes, and make a difference.
But even as I fall into step beside him, ready to begin whatever hellish regimen he has in store, my mind drifts back to the Steve I left behind—the one who handed me the time device, his hands shaking with exhaustion, his face worn from years of battle. The last thing he said to me was to keep fighting, no matter what. And now, standing here with this version of him, I realize that's all I can do. Keep fighting. Keep pushing forward. For him. For the future. For the world that we've yet to save. "Ready when you are, sir," I say, feeling the weight of my past settle into the present. Because no matter how much has changed, some things remain the same. And I'm still that soldier, still that sergeant, still fighting the same war—just on a different battlefield.
[Steve Rogers POV]
[Observation Room.] I stand behind the glass, arms crossed over my chest, watching Jericho move through the training arena with a precision and force that speaks volumes about his abilities. The way he dismantles the squad of training drones is methodical, almost surgical in its efficiency. Each strike, each movement is deliberate, no wasted energy, no unnecessary flash. It's clear he's been trained well, but it's more than just technique. There's a rawness to the way he fights, a kind of controlled aggression that reminds me of his father. But there's also something else, something more fluid and unpredictable—his mother's influence, no doubt. I watch as he sends a wave of red energy cascading from his hands, disintegrating the last drone with ease. Scarlet tendrils of magic flicker in the air, dancing for a moment before vanishing like smoke. It's a sight to behold, and as much as I try to analyze it objectively, there's a part of me that can't help but be in awe. He's a walking testament to both of his parents—Spartan's relentless combat skill and Wanda's chaotic power melded into one formidable force. The way he moves between the physical and the metaphysical, seamlessly blending them in his attacks, it's almost unsettling. It's like watching the future of warfare unfold in front of me. And yet, there's something familiar in the way he carries himself, a hint of the young soldier I once was, before the serum, before the shield.
Natasha's quiet footsteps pull me out of my thoughts as she enters the observation room, moving with that silent grace she's always had. She doesn't say anything at first, just comes to stand beside me, her sharp eyes flicking to the scene unfolding below. "How's Jericho's performance?" she asks, her voice low and even, though I can hear the curiosity beneath her words. Natasha's always been a keen observer, and I know she's already picked up on things I might have missed. That's her gift—seeing the nuances, the little details that tell the bigger story. I turn my head slightly, glancing at her before returning my gaze to the window. "Good. Real good," I reply, my voice carrying a weight of certainty. "But that shouldn't be a surprise, knowing his background." I can't help but feel a flicker of something—pride, maybe, or something deeper—when I see him out there, holding his own, pushing through the drills like they're nothing. He's got the instincts of a soldier, the focus of someone who's seen more battles than his age should allow. And yet, there's also something... burdened in the way he fights. Like he's carrying the weight of a war that hasn't even started yet.
The red-headed spy leans forward slightly, narrowing her eyes as Jericho takes down another drone with a blast of crimson energy, his face set in grim determination. "He's fast," she remarks, almost to herself, "But controlled. Like he knows exactly how much force to use, no more, no less." I nod in agreement. She's right. There's a precision to his power, a kind of restraint that's rare for someone with abilities like his. Most people with that kind of raw strength struggle to contain it, to channel it without losing control. But Jericho? He's got it down to a science. "He's had to be," I say quietly, thinking back to everything he's told us about his future. The battles he's fought, the people he's lost. It's hardened him in ways I can't fully understand. He's young, but there's an old soul behind those eyes, someone who's seen too much, too soon. I know that look. I've worn it myself after the war, after losing Bucky, after waking up in a world that wasn't mine anymore. Jericho's been carrying that same weight since the day he arrived here.
Jericho's eyes narrow as the final drone disintegrates under the pulse of his red magic, his chest rising and falling steadily, as though the entire exercise barely put a dent in his endurance. But we're just getting started. I signal to the control panel, initiating the next phase of his training. This isn't about pushing his physical limits—not yet. It's about testing his resilience and his adaptability. The next wave of training will challenge him on every front: combat, strategy, and control over his own emotions. The floor shifts beneath his feet as metal panels slide open, and from the ground, more drones rise, but these aren't the standard models. They're faster, more aggressive, their attacks unpredictable, designed to simulate real combat situations where there's no time to plan, only to react. I watch closely as Jericho's stance shifts subtly, bracing himself for what's to come. He's ready.
The first drone shoots forward with blinding speed, a blur of motion that would catch most off guard, but Jericho moves with a reflexive swiftness that's almost preternatural. His body pivots on his heel, narrowly dodging the assault as the drone's electric blade whizzes past his face. Before the drone can recalibrate its position, Jericho delivers a sharp kick to its torso, sending it spiraling into the wall. The instant his foot makes contact, two more drones close in from behind, firing off high-voltage plasma rounds aimed directly at his back. Without missing a beat, Jericho spins, a shield of red energy flaring to life around him, deflecting the plasma bolts in every direction. The drones adapt quickly, splitting off to attack from opposite sides. Jericho drops the shield and, in a single motion, thrusts his hands outward. Tendrils of magic lash out like living whips, snaring the drones mid-flight. He pulls them toward each other with a forceful jerk, and they collide with a violent crash, their metallic shells denting on impact before crumpling to the ground. But this isn't enough. I raise the difficulty level. He needs to push harder. A low rumble echoes through the arena as the walls themselves begin to shift. Panels slide apart, revealing towering mechanical arms equipped with rotating saws and flamethrowers. Simultaneously, the ground splits open in jagged lines, spewing bursts of flame in random intervals. It's chaos by design, a battlefield with no rules and no mercy.
Jericho's eyes widen, but only for a second. He adjusts quickly, his body moving with fluid grace as he leaps over one of the gaps, narrowly avoiding a burst of fire. One of the mechanical arms swings down, the blade whirring dangerously close to his head, but he rolls under it, coming up in a crouch just as two drones descend from above. With a flick of his wrist, crimson energy spirals upward, catching them mid-flight and slamming them into the ceiling. He's relentless, a force of nature, moving from one threat to the next with a precision that feels almost unnatural. And yet, as I watch him fight, there's something raw in his movements—a fury barely contained. It's as though every strike, every pulse of magic, is fueled by something deeper than just the desire to win. I see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way his eyes harden with each new obstacle. One of the mechanical arms swings down again, but this time, Jericho doesn't dodge. Instead, he meets it head-on, catching the blade with a shield of energy. Sparks fly as metal grinds against magic, the force of the impact reverberating through the room. For a moment, it looks like a stalemate, but then Jericho lets out a roar, his muscles straining as he pushes back, shattering the blade with a burst of power.
Natasha, standing beside me, raises an eyebrow. "He's pushing himself hard," she says, her voice low but filled with a hint of concern, "Too hard, maybe." I nod but don't look away, "He has to. He knows what's at stake." Jericho isn't done yet. He's barely scratched the surface of what this training session has in store for him. From the far end of the arena, a new threat emerges. Larger drones—heavily armored and armed with energy cannons—march forward in unison, their footsteps shaking the ground. These aren't like the others. These are built to withstand punishment, to dish out overwhelming force. Jericho doesn't hesitate. He charges forward, his fists crackling with energy as he leaps into the air, driving his fist into the first drone's chest. The impact sends a shockwave rippling through the arena, but the drone barely staggers. It swings its arm, catching Jericho in mid-air and throwing him across the room. He slams into the ground hard, but he's up in an instant, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth as he wipes it away with the back of his hand.
He's not invincible. He's learning that. But he's not backing down, either. With a grunt, he thrusts both hands forward, and a massive wave of red energy surges from his palms, slamming into the drones with enough force to crack their armor. One of them falls, its circuits shorting out in a shower of sparks, but the others keep advancing. Jericho grits his teeth, sweat pouring down his face as he summons another blast of energy, this one larger, more unstable. It crackles and spits as it takes form, a testament to just how much strain he's putting on himself. The blast hits the remaining drones head-on, disintegrating their outer shells, but as the smoke clears, I can see him falter. His knees buckle for just a second, his breathing labored, but he doesn't stop. He can't afford to stop. The final challenge is the most difficult. The arena darkens, and from the shadows, holographic projections of enemies begin to appear. Not just any enemies, though. These are people from his past—figures that I recognize from the future he's spoken about. His comrades. His family. People he's lost. They stand before him, weapons drawn, and for a moment, Jericho freezes. His hands drop to his sides, and I see the conflict in his eyes. He knows these aren't real, that they're just simulations, but that doesn't make it any easier.
The first projection steps forward—a woman with dark hair and fierce eyes. Jericho's breath hitches, and for a second, I think he's going to stop. But then his expression hardens, and he moves. He fights them just like he's fought everything else today, but there's a difference now. His movements are slower and less precise. There's hesitation in the way he strikes like he's fighting against himself as much as the enemies in front of him. I exchange a glance with Natasha. She doesn't say anything, but I can tell she's thinking the same thing I am. This part of the training isn't about physical endurance. It's about his mind, about confronting the ghosts that haunt him. The projections close in, and Jericho falters again. His magic sputters for a moment, the crimson light dimming as his breathing becomes ragged. One of the projections, a man this time, raises a weapon, and for a split second, Jericho just stands there, frozen in place. The blast hits him square in the chest, sending him flying back. I wince. He's losing control.
But just as I'm about to step in, something shifts. Jericho pushes himself to his feet, blood dripping from a gash on his forehead. His eyes glow with that familiar red light, but there's something different now. It's not just anger. It's determination. Pure, unrelenting willpower. He raises his hand, and the arena erupts in a storm of magic. The projections are obliterated in an instant, wiped out by a wave of power so intense that the entire room shakes. When the dust settles, Jericho stands alone, his chest heaving, his fists still crackling with energy. I nod to Natasha, signaling the end of the session.
[Hallway.] Exiting the observation room, the cool air of the hallway greets me, and I can feel the shift from the adrenaline-charged atmosphere of the training area to something quieter, more reflective. Natasha walks beside me, her footfalls barely making a sound, a subtle reminder of her assassin's grace. The silence between us is comfortable, but I can feel the weight of everything we just witnessed lingering in the air. We're halfway down the hall when I spot Jericho ahead, standing tall, waiting. The moment he sees us, he straightens, his body snapping into a sharp salute, his posture as rigid and disciplined as any soldier I've ever seen. It's a gesture I've grown used to in the military—commanding respect and inspiring loyalty. But here, in this quiet hallway, with a man who isn't from our world, who carries the weight of a future we can't even begin to comprehend, the salute feels... heavier. There's something in the way Jericho does it, a reverence, almost like he's saluting not just me but the idea of who I am or maybe who I'll become in his world.
I return the salute with a nod, the motion automatic. "That'll be all for today, Sergeant," I say, keeping my tone formal, though there's an edge of softness in my words. Jericho holds my gaze for a moment, then turns sharply on his heel and walks down the corridor, his movements precise and efficient—everything a soldier should be. As he disappears around the corner, Natasha shoots me a glance, her eyebrows raised ever so slightly, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "Yup," she says, her voice low but laced with amusement, "Definitely a soldier through and through. As far as I've seen, he only salutes you. Wonder why?" Her question hangs in the air for a moment, and I can't help but mull it over as we continue down the hallway. The gesture, the formality—it's more than just military decorum. There's something personal in it, something tied to his past or maybe his future. I let out a small sigh, rolling my shoulders to ease the tension that's built up over the last hour. "If I had to guess," I start, keeping my voice even as my thoughts churn, "I think my future self is his commanding officer."
Natasha raises an eyebrow but doesn't say anything right away, her eyes flicking toward the direction Jericho disappeared. There's a pause, a moment where we both reflect on the weight of what that means. For Jericho to salute me like that, with such respect, it's more than just habit. It's respect born from experience, from a connection forged in battle—one I can only imagine. "And if that's the case," I continue after a beat, my voice quiet but firm, "Then he's seen a lot more of me than I have of him. More of the man I'll become, the decisions I'll have to make. The weight of command." My words feel heavy as I speak them because I know the burden of leadership all too well. In my world, I've led men and women into battles where not everyone came back. I've made choices that haunt me. And if Jericho's coming from a future where things went wrong, where we lost—then I must have been the one giving orders, trying to steer a sinking ship. Natasha gives me that look she's so good at—quiet, thoughtful, but sharp. She's always been able to read between the lines, picking up on the things I don't say. "So, what do you think happened?" she asks, her voice softer now, more serious, "In his future. Between you two."
I shake my head slowly, my thoughts swirling with possibilities, but none of them settle. "I don't know," I admit, my voice low, "But it's enough to make him trust me in ways I don't even fully understand yet." I glance down the hallway again, where Jericho had just been. "The way he looks at me... it's like I'm more than just a leader to him. Like I'm..." "Like you're his anchor," Natasha finishes, her tone laced with understanding. I nod slowly, "Yeah. Something like that." There's a silence between us again, the kind that only comes when you're standing on the edge of something you don't quite know how to face yet. Jericho's presence here, his knowledge of the future—it's changed the dynamics of everything. I'm not just leading the Avengers anymore; I'm leading someone who's already seen the worst of what's to come. And in his eyes, I'm supposed to be the one who knows what to do, who has the answers. But the truth is, I don't. Not yet. "You ever wonder," Natasha says after a long pause, her voice thoughtful, "What it would be like to meet your future self? To know what's coming and how to stop it?"
I chuckle softly, but there's no real humor in it, "Sometimes. But I think that would be too easy. Life doesn't work like that. We're all just doing the best we can with the information we have." She gives me a sidelong glance, her smirk returning, "Always the optimist." I shrug, "Someone's gotta be." But even as I say it, the weight of Jericho's future, of the war with Ultron, presses down on me. If he's right, if everything goes the way he says it will... then we've got a hell of a fight ahead of us. And it's not just about saving the world anymore. It's about living up to the man Jericho believes I am—the man I'm supposed to become. The man who, in his timeline, led him into battles I can't even imagine. I shake my head, pushing the thought aside. "Let's focus on what we can control for now," I say, turning to Natasha with a slight smile, "Tomorrow's another day." She nods, but I can see the flicker of doubt in her eyes. She knows as well as I do that tomorrow is never guaranteed. But for now, it's all we've got.
[Spartan POV]
[2 Days Later, AVENGERS HQ, New York City]
[Common Area.] The soft hum of conversation fills the room as Wanda, Jericho, and I sit around the small dining table in the Avengers HQ. The headquarters is oddly peaceful today. We've been here for a while now, sharing a quiet lunch and trying to ease into this strange new family dynamic. Jericho, my son from the future, is sitting across from us, his posture stiff yet composed, as if he's always ready for something to go wrong. I can't help but feel the weight of everything unsaid between us, the unspoken history that binds us even though we've only just met. Wanda's eyes keep drifting between Jericho and me, a subtle mixture of curiosity and affection in her gaze. She's always been good at reading people, sensing their emotions without them having to say a word. But today, she seems a bit quieter and more introspective, maybe because she's still processing the idea of motherhood, just like I'm trying to come to terms with fatherhood.
I take a bite of my sandwich, though the food doesn't really matter. What matters is this moment, sitting here with both of them, trying to build something that feels like family amidst all the chaos that's surrounding us. Jericho's eyes flicker with a glimmer of something lighter as he tells us stories about his life before Ultron's uprising, before everything fell apart in his future. He's been careful about what he shares, probably not wanting to burden us with too much of the weight he carries. But today, I think he's making an effort to show us more of who he was before the war, before the relentless fight for survival hardened him into the soldier we see before us. Wanda leans forward, her elbows resting gently on the table as she listens intently, a soft smile playing on her lips. I can tell that she's been waiting for this—waiting for Jericho to open up a bit more, to let us in. Her hand brushes against mine under the table, and I squeeze it gently, a small, silent reassurance. She and I haven't really talked about what it means to be parents to a grown man who's lived a lifetime we know nothing about. But we don't need words to understand that this is uncharted territory for both of us.
Jericho starts to talk about his childhood—about how, before Ultron took over, life was simpler, almost normal. There's a softness in his tone, a sense of nostalgia that feels strange coming from someone who's lived through so much darkness. He talks about the little things, the kind of moments that seem insignificant until you don't have them anymore. The way he and his best friend, Morgan, would hang out around Avengers HQ, getting into mischief and pulling pranks on the other Avengers. Jericho laughs lightly as he recalls how he and Morgan would set up these elaborate traps, harmless pranks that would send the Avengers grumbling but never angry. "We once swapped out all of Clint's arrows with foam-tipped ones," he says with a smirk, "He didn't realize until halfway through a training op." Wanda chuckles softly beside me, clearly amused at the idea. "What did Clint do when he found out?" she asks, a playful glint in her eye. Jericho shakes his head, grinning, "He wasn't happy, that's for sure. But after that, he kept an eye on us every time we were near his gear."
The mention of Clint and the pranks eases some of the tension that's been lingering between us, like Jericho's finally letting us in, bit by bit. I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms, listening intently as he goes on. "We used to mess with Steve too. He was always so serious when he was in his workout routine. Morgan thought it would be funny to rig the punching bag to drop every time he hit it. He never saw it coming." Jericho's smile fades slightly, and I can see the flicker of a more bittersweet memory behind his eyes, but he presses on, "It was all just simple kid stuff. I guess we didn't really think about how different things were going to become. We didn't have to. Not yet." At the mention of Morgan again, both Wanda and I exchange a curious glance. The name feels familiar, but we can't quite place it. I tilt my head slightly, narrowing my eyes at Jericho, the curiosity pulling at me. "Who's Morgan?" I ask, trying to piece together the connection. Wanda's gaze sharpens a little, too, clearly interested in this new piece of information. Jericho's answer comes casually, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, "Morgan Stark. Tony's daughter."
That catches me off guard. I sit up a little straighter, staring at him, unsure if I heard that right. Tony Stark, a father? I find it hard to wrap my head around the idea of Tony settling down, let alone having a kid. "Tony's daughter?" I echo, still trying to absorb the shock. It feels strange to imagine Stark with a kid—Tony, the self-proclaimed genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, now apparently adding 'father' to the list. Wanda raises an eyebrow, her expression softening with surprise. "Tony has a daughter?" she asks, her voice tinged with curiosity. She leans closer to Jericho, eager to hear more, and I can tell she's just as blindsided by the revelation as I am. Tony's always been so consumed with his tech, his ego, and his endless projects—it's hard to picture him in full-on dad mode. I can't help but mutter under my breath, half to myself, half out of pure curiosity, "Wonder who's the mother."
Jericho, catching the question that wasn't meant to be loud enough for him to hear, answers without hesitation, "Her mother's Emma Frost." Now, that stops me dead in my tracks. I blink, my mind racing to put the pieces together. Emma Frost? The White Queen of the Hellfire Club? Tony Stark and Emma Frost? That's a combination I never would've predicted. I feel the words forming in my mouth, but they don't quite come out. Instead, I just stare at Jericho, half expecting him to say he's joking. "Emma Frost?" I finally manage, my voice incredulous, "Tony... and Emma?" I shake my head slightly, trying to make sense of it. Stark's taste in women has always been, well, let's say, 'eclectic,' but this? This is on a whole different level. "That's... unexpected," I say. Wanda, on the other hand, doesn't seem as shocked as I am, though I can see the gears turning in her mind. She's heard of Emma Frost, of course—everyone in our world has—but the idea of her with Tony is clearly something she's trying to process, too. "Emma Frost," Wanda muses aloud, her tone thoughtful, "She's powerful in her own right, but... with Tony? How did that even happen?"
Jericho shrugs, though there's a small, knowing smile on his face, "Apparently, they met at some diplomatic summit. One thing led to another, and, well..." He trails off, but the implication is clear. He's talking about a future that we haven't lived yet, a version of events where Tony Stark and Emma Frost, of all people, end up together. And their daughter, Morgan, becomes someone who means a lot to Jericho. I let out a low whistle, shaking my head again in disbelief. Tony always had a thing for complicated women, but Emma Frost? That's a whole different ballgame. "I can't even picture it," I mutter, more to myself than to anyone else. The idea of Tony with Emma, the two of them actually working as a team—both brilliant, stubborn, and full of themselves—it's almost hard to fathom. But then again, in this life, nothing ever really makes sense. Jericho leans back in his chair, his eyes thoughtful, as if he's considering how to explain it to us, "It worked, somehow. They balanced each other out. Morgan—she got the best of both of them. Smart like her dad, but she's got her mom's sass." He pauses, a faint smile on his lips, but there's something deeper in his eyes, something that speaks to the complexity of his relationship with Morgan.
"She sounds incredible," Wanda says softly, her voice full of genuine warmth, "I hope we get to meet her someday." There's a faint flicker of sadness in Jericho's expression, one that disappears almost as quickly as it appears. He doesn't respond to Wanda's hope, and that silence speaks volumes. Whatever happened to Morgan in his timeline, it's clear that it weighs heavily on him. I decide not to push it, even though there are a million questions buzzing in my mind. For now, it's enough to know that Jericho's childhood wasn't all darkness. He had Morgan, a connection to a world that still had light, and that means something. Maybe, in some way, it's a reminder that we haven't lost everything yet. "Well," I say, breaking the silence with a small grin, "If she's anything like Tony, I'm sure she kept you on your toes." Jericho chuckles softly, nodding, "You have no idea." And just like that, the tension lifts a little. We go back to our meal, the conversation flowing a bit easier now, but I can't shake the thought of Tony Stark as a father. I wonder what he'd say if he knew about this future. Hell, I wonder what I'd say if I ever met Morgan. But that's a question for another day. Right now, it's just about being here with Jericho and Wanda, figuring out this strange family dynamic, one step at a time.