AVENGERS: Crusade

by Juyo6160

There was an idea. Bring together a group of individuals, unite them to become something more, to fight the battles no one else could, to protect and defend the world against all threats. (AU.)

86. Chapter 86

Chapter 86:

[Spartan POV]

[Days Later, AVENGERS HQ, New York City]

[Training Area.] Days blur together as we find ourselves back in the training area at Avengers HQ. The hum of the control panels echoes against the metallic walls, and the faint flicker of overhead lights casts an almost surreal atmosphere over the room. Jericho and I have been at it for hours, grinding through drill after drill, each one more brutal than the last. Today, the focus is on tactics—specifically, strategies for taking on Ultron's forces in the field. Jericho has taken charge of programming the simulations, and, as always, he doesn't hold back. When Jericho's involved, you know you're in for a hell of a challenge, and today is no exception. The scenario starts deceptively simple, like the calm before a storm. We take our positions, weapons drawn, scanning our surroundings. But within minutes, the sky fills with Ultron drones, their red eyes glowing with that cold, calculated menace. They move with terrifying precision, faster than any simulation I've run before. I don't need to check the settings to know Jericho has cranked everything to maximum difficulty—he's pushing us to the absolute limit. And it works. The drones come at us from all angles, faster, more vicious, each one feeling as real as the actual thing. In those moments, it isn't just a simulation—it's war.

Every move I make feels like it has to be perfect. One wrong step, and the drones will overwhelm us. We fight hard, relying on every tactic and every ounce of strength, but it never seems to be enough. Out of fifty drills, we lose forty. Forty. Every loss stings like a physical blow, not just because of the defeat itself but because each failure is a brutal reminder of how close we are to losing the real fight. Ultron isn't some distant, abstract threat. He's real, and every time we go down, it feels like a piece of that victory slips further out of our grasp. Every loss etches itself deep into my mind like a scar, a reminder that we aren't ready yet. Jericho doesn't say much during the drills, but he doesn't have to. The way he fights says everything. There's a hardness to him, a steeliness in his eyes that wasn't there before. He's grown tougher—more focused, more relentless. Every strike is calculated, and every movement is efficient. But even with all his skill, even with my experience, we are outmatched. The simulations are brutal, and that's exactly what Jericho wants. He's pushing us to the brink because, when the real fight comes, there won't be any room for error. We can't afford to fail. Not again.

After what feels like hours, we finally take a break. The hum of the simulation dies down, and the drones vanish back into the holographic ether. The silence that follows is heavy, weighted by the sheer intensity of the drills we've just endured. My chest heaves as I catch my breath, wiping sweat from my face. But my eyes are on Jericho. He stands there, fists clenched at his sides, pacing slightly. The frustration is written all over him—his brows furrowed, his jaw set in a hard line. I know that look. He's angry, not at the drills, but at himself. This isn't just another training session for him. This is personal. Jericho is from a future where we lost. Where Ultron won. Where everything we fought for—everything we loved—was destroyed. He carries that weight with him every single day. And I know, deep down, that every time he programs these simulations, it isn't just about making us stronger. It's about trying to rewrite his past, to undo the future he lived through. Even though it's just a simulation, to Jericho, each drill feels like a real battle—a chance to prevent the nightmare he came from.

As his father, watching him go through this is hard. I can't fully understand the burden he carries, knowing a world where we—where I—failed. Where Wanda and our friends don't survive. It crushes me to think about it. But it crushes him even more. Jericho has seen that future, lived through it, and now he's trying to make sure it never comes to pass. The weight of that responsibility is unbearable at times, yet somehow, he keeps pushing forward. I don't know how he does it. I walk over to him, the silence between us thick with unspoken words. He doesn't look up, his eyes focused on some distant memory or thought. "Hey," I say, my voice breaking the silence, "You're doing good, Jericho. These drills—they're tough, yeah, but we're getting better. That's what counts." He finally looks at me, his eyes hard, his expression unreadable. There's something there, though—anger, maybe. Frustration. "It's not enough," he mutters, barely audible but laced with bitterness. "In my time, we were 'getting better' too. It didn't stop Ultron. Didn't stop him from wiping out everyone." His voice trails off, the weight of his words settling between us like a heavy fog. "I can't let that happen again."

The heaviness of his words hangs in the air. I know what he means—this isn't just about winning battles. It's about making sure Jericho never has to see that future again. About giving him the life he should've had. I place a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently, grounding him in the present. "We'll win this," I say, my voice firm. "Ultron's not winning this time." He lets out a slow breath, some of the tension easing from his frame, though I know it's not entirely gone. The fight never really leaves you, even during the breaks. We may have paused the simulation, but the real battle is still out there, looming over us like a shadow.

[Steve Rogers POV]

[R Lab.] The moment I step into Tony's workshop, it feels like crossing the threshold into a different world altogether. The familiar hum of machinery fills the air, accompanied by the rhythmic whir of servos and the occasional sharp clink of metal tools against armor plates. Here, everything has its own cadence, its own symphony of innovation and precision. The rest of Avengers HQ has its unique energy—mission briefings, tactical planning, team training—but down here, it's Tony's domain, a sanctuary of brilliance and chaos fused into one. And right now, he's in his element, hunched over the latest iteration of his Iron Man armor, tweaking and adjusting like a sculptor shaping his masterpiece. The glow from his arc welder casts sharp shadows on the walls, illuminating the intensity of his focus. Sparks fly with every precise movement, and for a moment, the scene almost seems ethereal—the contrast of Tony's sharp features against the flicker of light gives him an otherworldly look. But as I watch him work, it becomes clear that this isn't just Tony Stark, the genius inventor, at peace with his craft. No, the set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the way his brow furrows deeper with each adjustment—this is the work of a man driven not by the pursuit of perfection but by something darker. Something that weighs on him like an anchor. Ultron. It always comes back to that.

We all carry the scars from that battle; the memories of Ultron's betrayal are seared into our minds. But Tony? He bears the brunt of it. He built Ultron, after all, and in his mind, that means everything that happened afterward—every life lost, every ounce of destruction—it all falls on his shoulders. No matter how many times we tell him otherwise, no matter how many times Jericho tries to reassure him that the future isn't set in stone, it's clear that Tony can't shake the guilt. It gnaws at him, fueling every sleepless night, every obsessive upgrade to his armor. This is more than just tweaking tech—this is Tony trying to fix the unfixable, trying to atone for mistakes that, in truth, aren't his alone to bear. I stand there in the doorway, watching him in silence for a while, letting him work. Tony usually has a quip ready whenever I walk in—a sarcastic jab, a witty retort—but today? Nothing. His silence is louder than anything he could've said. His movements are sharp and efficient, but there's something off, something more desperate about the way he works. I know what it is. The shadow of Ultron hangs heavy over him, over all of us, but for Tony, it's a constant, inescapable weight. That rogue AI hadn't just been another enemy—it was his creation, and it had turned into everything he feared. A legacy of destruction.

If Jericho hadn't come back from the future, armed with knowledge of how to counter Ultron, we might not have made it out of that fight alive. I don't want to think about what would've happened without his help. Still, the damage is done. Tony can't let it go. He can't forgive himself, no matter how much we try to convince him otherwise. I clear my throat softly, just enough to announce my presence without startling him, "Tony." He doesn't jump. Hell, he doesn't even flinch. The man is so keyed into his work that I doubt a bomb going off would rattle him. He stiffens for just a second before he powers down the welder and lifts the visor on his face shield. His eyes meet mine, and for a brief moment, I see a flicker of the old Tony—the one who always had a joke ready, the one who never took things too seriously. But it's gone as quickly as it appears, replaced by a weariness that I've seen more often lately. He wipes his hands on a rag, stepping away from the armor, turning to face me fully. "Cap," he says, his voice neutral but tinged with exhaustion, "What brings you down here to the land of broken dreams and shattered ego?"

I offer a faint smile at his attempt at humor, though neither of us is really in the mood for jokes. The weight of everything we've been through hangs in the air like a thick fog, and even though Tony's trying to play it off, I can see the cracks in his facade. He's always been good at hiding behind sarcasm and wit, but today, it's different. There's a heaviness in his voice, a kind of weariness that's not easily shaken. "Just wanted to check on you," I say as I step further into the lab, the soft hum of machinery filling the silence between us. The air smells like metal and oil, the unmistakable scent of Tony's world of innovation and invention, but today, it feels almost suffocating. The usual energy that buzzes around him is missing, replaced by an undercurrent of tension that's impossible to ignore. I take a slow breath, the steady rhythm of the machines offering no comfort against the storm I know is brewing inside him. "How are you holding up?" I ask, my voice gentler than usual. I already know the answer—anyone who knows Tony well enough can see that he's barely keeping it together—but I need to hear him say it. I need him to open up, to let go of whatever weight he's carrying before it crushes him entirely.

Tony doesn't look at me right away. His eyes linger on the armor he's been working on, fingers idly tracing a panel as if he's still lost in thought, lost in the endless cycle of fixing, upgrading, tweaking—anything to keep his hands busy and his mind off the guilt. "Good," he finally says, but the word sounds hollow, like an echo in an empty room, "Just keeping myself busy." There's a pause, the kind that stretches a little too long, making the silence between us feel heavy and uncomfortable. I can see it in his posture—the way his shoulders slump just a fraction, the slight tremor in his hands that he tries to hide by wiping them on a rag. He's not fine. Not by a long shot. But this is Tony, and admitting that things are falling apart isn't in his nature. He's always the one who fixes things, who finds the solutions, who carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, whether we ask him to or not. I take another step closer, crossing the invisible line between Captain America and the friend who's standing in front of me. "Busy doing what?" I ask, my tone softer, probing but not pressing too hard, "Making sure the armor's perfect? Or making sure you don't have to stop and think?" The words hang in the air for a moment, and I watch as Tony's jaw tightens, his fingers stilling against the cold metal of his suit. He lets out a short, humorless laugh, finally turning to meet my gaze. There's no deflection this time, no quick-witted retort. Just the truth lurking behind his tired eyes. "Yeah," he mutters, his voice quieter than usual, almost resigned, "Maybe both."

It's strange seeing Tony like this—vulnerable, almost brittle. He's always been the strongest of us in ways that don't involve physical strength, but even the strongest have their breaking points. Ultron did that to him. It left scars deeper than anything he lets on, and no matter how much armor he builds, no matter how many upgrades he makes, I know he's still fighting the battle in his head. A battle that, to him, isn't over. "You know you don't have to do this alone," I say, stepping beside him, my voice firm but steady, "We're all in this together. You don't have to keep punishing yourself." Tony doesn't respond right away. He just stares at the armor for a moment longer, like it holds the answers to questions he's too afraid to ask. Then, without looking at me, he mutters, "I'm not punishing myself, Cap. I'm trying to make sure we survive what's coming."

Once he says that, my mind quickly flashes to the horrible future Jericho described—a future where everything we've fought for is reduced to ash, where the Avengers fall one by one, and the world we vowed to protect crumbles under the cold, relentless march of Ultron's army. The images play out in my head like scenes from a nightmare I can't wake up from shattered buildings, the skyline of New York scorched black, lifeless bodies strewn across the streets like forgotten relics of a world that no longer exists. The few survivors—those who managed to escape the initial onslaught—live in constant fear, hiding in the shadows, too afraid to face the storm that bears down on them with the unfeeling precision of a machine. The approaching storm that Jericho calls Ultron. I can almost hear his voice echoing in my mind, detailing every cold, calculated step Ultron takes toward erasing humanity. It's not just a fight—it's a war for survival, and in Jericho's future, we lose. I see Wanda falling, her magic not enough to hold back the endless tide of drones. I see Tony, broken and bloodied, unable to stop the very thing he created. I see Jericho, fighting alone in the ruins of our world, trying desperately to make right what we failed to prevent. And most of all, I see myself—Captain America—standing at the center of it all, unable to protect the people I love, unable to stop the destruction that rains down on us.

The weight of that vision, of that possible future, settles in my chest like a stone. It's more than just fear; it's a deep, gnawing certainty that if we don't stop Ultron now—if we don't prepare for what's coming—everything we've done, everything we've sacrificed, will be for nothing. Tony's right. This isn't about punishing himself. This is about survival, about making sure that future never comes to pass. And as much as I hate to admit it, I know exactly why he's working himself into the ground, pushing beyond his limits, refusing to stop. Because deep down, I'm doing the same thing. We all are. I turn to look at Tony, who's gone back to tinkering with the armor, his movements methodical, almost mechanical. I see the same storm brewing in him, the same urgency to be ready for what's coming. We both know what's at stake. We've seen the future through Jericho's eyes, and it's not something either of us is willing to accept. "We'll stop him," I say, my voice low but firm, as much to reassure myself as to reassure him, "We won't let that future happen." Tony pauses for a moment, the arc welder still in his hand, the light flickering across his face. He doesn't respond, but the silence speaks volumes. We both know that no matter how hard we fight, no matter how much we prepare, there's always the chance that it won't be enough. But we can't let that stop us. We can't let that fear paralyze us. Because if we do, Ultron wins before the fight even begins.

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

I stand at the front door of the X-Mansion. The sun is just starting to dip behind the trees, casting long shadows across the sprawling grounds. Despite the cool autumn breeze brushing against my face, there's a warmth to this place—a sense of history and camaraderie that's hard to shake. I knock on the door, the sound echoing slightly as it meets the solid wood. I know the trip here isn't entirely necessary. I could have easily made a call, sent a message, and kept things formal. But for some reason, I feel compelled to be here, in person. Maybe it's the weight of recent events, or maybe it's the need for a face-to-face conversation in times like these. Something about standing on the doorstep of the X-Mansion feels right. I wait in silence for a moment, the quiet around me only broken by the rustle of leaves and the distant hum of life inside the mansion. The stillness offers a brief reprieve from the storm of thoughts swirling in my mind. Then, almost as if summoned by an unseen signal, the door swings open with a soft creak. There, framed in the doorway, stands Elizabeth Braddock—Psylocke. Her silhouette is bathed in the fading sunlight, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders in soft waves. For a split second, our eyes lock, and there's a flicker of something at that moment—a connection, maybe, or an unspoken understanding. Her violet eyes hold mine, and I feel an unexpected calm settle over me, a strange but welcome feeling that cuts through the tension I've been carrying since our last mission together.

Her lips curve into a small smile, a gesture both warm and guarded. "Steve," she says, her voice smooth yet tinged with curiosity, "I wasn't expecting you in person." There's a subtle shift in her posture as if she's just as surprised by my presence as I am by the ease I feel standing here. She steps aside, gesturing for me to come in, and as I step through the threshold, the familiar sense of nostalgia hits me. The X-Mansion hasn't changed much—same old walls, the faint scent of wood polish mixed with something floral. There's an aura about this place, as if time moves differently within its halls. Every step I take feels heavier, laden with the history housed here—stories of hope, struggle, and sacrifice.

As we move further into the mansion, I can feel the subtle glances of the other metahumans around us. Some familiar faces offer nods of recognition, their expressions warm but cautious. Others, likely newer recruits, watch us with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. I don't blame them. A visit from Captain America isn't an everyday occurrence, even here. But my focus remains on Psylocke. There's something about her presence that puts me at ease, even in the midst of all this uncertainty. It's not just her powers—it's her demeanor, that quiet strength that's become so rare in these trying times. Psylocke leads me down a familiar hallway, guiding me into one of the side rooms. The space is cozy and intimate, with large windows overlooking the mansion's garden. The sunlight filters in through the glass, casting a warm, golden hue across the room, softening the edges of the tension that hangs between us. It feels like a small sanctuary within the larger chaos of the world outside. She gestures for me to sit, and as I lower myself into the chair, I can't help but appreciate the serenity of this place. It's a stark contrast to the whirlwind of battle plans and tactics that have consumed most of my recent days.

Psylocke sits across from me, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp, always alert. There's an unspoken understanding between us, a shared acknowledgment of the gravity of the situation. We've both seen enough to know that the road ahead won't be easy. The silence lingers for a moment, comfortable but heavy before she speaks. "So," she says, her voice measured, "How do you want to approach this?" The question hangs in the air, loaded with implications. We're not just talking about strategy here—we're talking about the future of the joint team, about how we're going to face the challenges that lie ahead, not just as individuals but as a unit. I take a deep breath, leaning forward slightly as I meet her gaze. "We need to be unified," I say, my voice steady but earnest, "Operating on two separate fronts is not going to cut it anymore." I pause, letting the weight of my words sink in. Psylocke nods, her expression unreadable, but I can see the wheels turning behind those violet eyes.

Psylocke knows exactly what's at stake, just like I do. "You're right," she says after a moment, her voice quiet but firm, "We can't afford to be divided." There's a pause, and she leans back slightly, her gaze drifting out the window for a brief moment before returning to me. "But you know as well as I do, Steve… unity is easier said than done." Her words hang in the air, and she's right. We both know the challenges that come with bringing together two teams with such different histories and different approaches. But there's no other option. We have to make this work, not just for ourselves but for the future we're fighting to protect.

[Spartan POV]

[Days Later, AVENGERS HQ, New York City]

[Common Area.] I sit across from Sam and Karai in the common area, leaning back in the chair, listening to the conversation unfold. Sam has his hands resting behind his head, his eyes squinting slightly as if deep in thought, trying to wrap his mind around the terminology that always seems to spark debates among us. "I never understood the terminology used to describe Powered-Individuals," he says, his voice casual but carrying that familiar curiosity, "Is there really a difference?" He shifts his gaze to Karai, who sits with her legs crossed, tapping her fingers rhythmically on the armrest of the couch. Karai pauses for a second, her eyes narrowing in contemplation before she responds, "Yes and no." She speaks with the kind of clarity that comes from someone who's not only thought about this question before but has probably had to explain it a dozen times. "Not having the right word for it has always caused confusion," she continues, her voice smooth but deliberate, "Let's just say there are three types of power classifications. Enhanced, or Mutates, are individuals whose powers were triggered by external forces—genetic manipulation, scientific experiments, accidents. People like Captain America, or even Spider-Man, fall into this category. They weren't born with abilities but became something more through external means."

I nod slightly as she speaks, finding myself naturally drawn to her explanation. It's a topic that's come up many times before, but there's always something new to learn, some nuance to consider. Sam leans forward, a hint of interest sparking in his eyes. "So, that's like what happened to me, right? With the Falcon tech and enhancements?"

Karai gives him a small smile, her eyes flickering with amusement, "Sort of, but in your case, it's more of a technological enhancement. Enhanced Metahumans typically have their DNA altered. Then you have Specials—Mutants. They're born with their abilities, a genetic gift—or curse, depending on how you see it. They manifest naturally, often during adolescence. Think of people like the X-Men. Their powers aren't something that's forced upon them; it's who they are. It's a part of their very nature." Sam's brow furrows, "And they can't control when it shows up, right? It just... happens?" "Exactly," Karai replies, her tone softer now, "It just happens. Sometimes violently, sometimes quietly, but it's always there, waiting to emerge." I catch Sam's expression shift, a blend of realization and respect. It's clear that, despite fighting alongside these individuals for so long, there's still a deeper understanding that's eluded him. Hell, I've worked with them, too, and even now, Karai's breakdown brings a sharp clarity to how we all operate in this chaotic world of powers, abilities, and endless classifications.

"And then there's the last category," Karai continues, "Mythicals. Magic users." Her voice takes on a slightly more serious tone as she glances in my direction. "People like Wanda—individuals who harness mystical energies, forces beyond science or genetics. They operate in a realm that's harder to quantify or explain, but their power is just as real and just as dangerous. They don't fit into the same boxes as Mutants or Enhanced, but they're still a vital part of the equation." A brief silence follows as Sam absorbs the information. I can't help but think of Wanda when Karai mentions magic users. There's a weight to that category that hits closer to home for me. Wanda isn't just a Metahuman—she's someone who can warp reality itself, a force of nature in her own right. It's different when you love someone like that. There's always this unspoken awareness of the immense power they hold but also the vulnerability that comes with it. "So, Metahuman is just a blanket term," Sam says slowly, piecing it all together, "To cover everyone who falls under those categories?" "Yup," Karai nods, "It's a term designed to make things easier to explain, to put everyone under the same umbrella. But the reality is that every Metahuman is different. The source of their abilities varies, their powers vary, and their place in the world varies. It's a vast spectrum, but society likes to simplify things. Unfortunately, that's why the lines often blur between Enhanced, Mutants, and Mythicals. People don't always understand the differences, or they don't care to."

I shift in my chair, feeling the weight of the discussion settle over us. This isn't just semantics—it's a reflection of how the world views those with powers, how they categorize us, and how they sometimes fear us. There's always been tension between humans and Metahumans, but what Karai explains is that even within the Metahuman community, there are divisions and misunderstandings. It's not just a matter of having powers. It's about where those powers come from, how they're perceived, and how they're wielded. "So, does it really matter?" Sam asks, breaking the silence again, "Does it matter if someone's a Mutant, Enhanced, or Mythical? At the end of the day, we're all fighting the same battles, right?" I lean forward slightly, my hands resting on my knees. "It matters," I say quietly but firmly, "It matters because those differences define how the world sees us and how they respond to us. Some people accept a soldier who was enhanced through a serum. They'll even cheer for them. But when it comes to a kid born with powers they can't control, or someone who can bend reality? The fear kicks in. People like neat categories because it helps them feel like they understand the unknown. But the reality is, we're all different, and that's what makes this fight—this world—so damn complicated."

Karai nods in agreement, her gaze shifting between Sam and me, "Exactly. Understanding those differences can be the key to breaking down the fear, to bringing people together instead of pushing them apart. But it starts with us knowing who we are and how we're perceived. Because, like it or not, perception can be the difference between acceptance and rejection, between peace and war." The room falls into a thoughtful silence, the weight of Karai's words sinking in. We've all seen how easily fear can turn into violence and how misunderstandings can lead to conflict. And in this world, where powers can shift the balance in an instant, understanding the differences between us isn't just important—it's essential.

Sam leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, pressing further, "What about the hate they get? How come some get a pass and others don't?" His voice is more intense now, frustration evident as he tries to make sense of the divide we've all seen so many times. "You've got guys like Steve, enhanced through a serum, and the world treats him like a hero. But then there are mutants—kids born with their powers—and they're treated like outcasts. How does that make any sense?" he adds. The room feels heavier after Sam's question. I can see it in his eyes, the way his jaw clenches slightly like he's been wrestling with this for a while now. The reality of it all weighs on him like it does on all of us. It's a question that's been hanging in the air for years—why do some get celebrated and others condemned? Why does fear still dictate how people are treated, even when they're fighting on the same side?

I sit up a little straighter, the answer sitting heavy on my tongue, something I've thought about more times than I can count. "Bigotry isn't logical," I state plainly, my voice carrying a weight that settles over the room. Sam's eyes meet mine, and for a moment, there's just silence between us, the truth of my words sinking in, "It's not about fairness or reason. It's about fear. Fear of what's different, fear of what people don't understand. Steve gets a pass because they see him as a product of their own creation—something they can wrap their heads around. But mutants? Mythicals? People whose power they can't control or explain? That's a whole different level of fear, and fear breeds hate." Karai shifts in her seat, her gaze thoughtful but sharp. "It's easier for people to hate what they don't understand. With someone like Steve, or even you, Sam, they can point to the source of your abilities. But mutants, their powers are innate. It's something people can't turn off, something they can't change. That scares them. And with Mythicals, like Wanda, they fear the unknown, the magic they can't comprehend."

Sam frowns, shaking his head slightly, "But it's not just fear. It's more than that. I've seen people turn on mutants who've never done a damn thing wrong, who've only tried to help. How is that fair?" "It's not," I say, my tone firm, "But when has hate ever been fair? The second you're different, you become a target. It's irrational, it's ugly, but it's the world we live in. People don't hate Steve because they understand his power; they hate mutants and magic users because they represent something beyond their control. Something that challenges their sense of normalcy." Sam's frustration is palpable, but he doesn't push back. He knows the truth of it, just like we all do. We've seen the way fear warps judgment and how quickly admiration can turn to suspicion when people realize they don't have control over what they're dealing with.

Karai chimes in again, her voice calm but cutting through the tension, "It's why we need to educate, to break down those walls of ignorance. But it's not easy. The world is quick to celebrate heroes when they fit their idea of what's acceptable. But the second that hero doesn't fit into that box, the hate comes out. And it's not just logical fear. It's deep-rooted prejudice that's been around for as long as humanity has." I watch as Sam sits back, exhaling slowly, his eyes distant for a moment, "So, what do we do? Just keep fighting and hope people come around?" I nod slightly, feeling the weight of the answer. "That's all we can do. We keep fighting. We keep showing them that it doesn't matter where your power comes from—it's what you do with it that counts. But changing minds takes time, and we've got to be patient, even when it feels like the world is against us." The room falls into a heavy silence, and I glance between Sam and Karai. We've all faced hatred and bigotry in one way or another, but the battle against that hate is just as important as any physical fight we take on. It's a war for hearts and minds, and it's one we can't afford to lose.

I sit there, absorbing the weight of the conversation with Sam and Karai, my mind still turning over the complexities of being a Metahuman in this world when suddenly, EPYON chimes in through my visor. The familiar, cold, yet efficient voice of the AI breaks the moment of quiet reflection, cutting through the heavy atmosphere. "Emergency alert, Spartan. An assassination attempt is currently in progress at the United Nations building. Magneto is the target, standing trial under heavy security. Friends of Humanity militia forces are on-site and armed. It's a critical situation." I freeze; the gravity of the situation hit me like a punch to the gut. "Oh, shit. This is bad," I mutter under my breath, the words slipping out instinctively. The room immediately shifts, tension sparking like electricity in the air. Sam and Karai look at me, their casual postures snapping into alertness, their faces serious as they wait for more information. There's no need to elaborate—they know that if EPYON is flagging this as a high-level threat, it's something serious.

I push myself out of the chair and stand up, already thinking several steps ahead. I tap the side of my visor, and the mission details flash across the HUD, a rapid-fire stream of intel flooding my field of vision. My muscles tighten, adrenaline kicking in as the reality sinks in. Magneto, one of the most powerful and controversial figures in the world, is standing trial at the UN, and the Friends of Humanity, a radical anti-mutant militia, are trying to take him out. The implications of this hit hard. If they succeed, it won't just be an assassination—it'll be a declaration of open war between Mutants and humans. The fallout could be catastrophic. "EPYON, relay this to all Avengers on-site. We need to move now," my voice is steady, though my mind races. I look at Sam and Karai, who are already on their feet, "We're being called in. Magneto's on trial at the UN, and the Friends of Humanity are making a move to kill him. We need to stop this before it escalates." Sam exhales sharply, shaking his head in disbelief, "The UN? They're really going to hit the UN building?" His voice carries a mix of anger and disbelief, "They've crossed a line this time." Karai doesn't say anything, but the cold determination in her eyes says enough. She's already moving, grabbing her gear as she prepares for what's coming. The three of us move quickly, heading for the briefing room where the rest of the team will be gathering. The halls of Avengers HQ are alive with activity as the alert spreads through the building. Agents, staff, and operatives hustle past us, knowing something big is about to go down.

We reach the briefing room just as the others arrive—Captain America, Iron Man, Black Widow, Hawkeye, War Machine, Falcon, and Scarlet Witch. The core Avengers team is assembled and ready for action. Tony's already pulling up schematics of the UN building while Steve stands at the center, his expression as grim and focused as I've ever seen. Natasha and Clint are checking their gear, methodical and efficient, while Wanda stands quietly, her eyes dark with thought. I can feel the weight of her power, barely restrained, as she listens to the plan. "Alright," Steve starts, his voice steady and commanding, "We have a situation at the UN building. Friends of Humanity militia forces are attempting to assassinate Magneto during his trial. This isn't just an attack on one man—this is an attack on the fragile peace we've been trying to maintain. If Magneto goes down, it could spark an all-out war. We can't let that happen."

Tony steps forward, his gauntlet raised as he projects the layout of the UN building in midair, "Security is already high, but the FOH has managed to breach their perimeter. They're armed with advanced weaponry, and we can assume they're targeting Magneto directly. We need to neutralize the threat, secure Magneto, and minimize collateral damage." I cross my arms, thinking about the bigger picture. The Friends of Humanity are fanatics, and this kind of attack isn't just about taking out Magneto—it's about sending a message, one that could lead to Mutants being hunted down on a global scale. But beyond that, there's the matter of Magneto himself. He's powerful, dangerous even in custody. If he gets pushed too far, this could turn into something even worse. "We won't be alone on this one," Steve adds, glancing around the room, "The X-Men are already en route. Cyclops, Wolverine, Gambit, Rogue, Storm, Bishop, and Psylocke will meet us at the UN. We'll be coordinating with them to secure the area and protect Magneto." The mention of the X-Men brings a sense of reassurance but also a reminder of how high the stakes are, and we'll need them if this goes south. "We don't have time to waste," I say, stepping forward, "The longer we wait, the more likely the FOH is to reach their target. Let's move."

[Quinjet.] With a single motion, we head for the quinjet. The hum of the engines ignites beneath our feet as we take off, speeding toward the UN building. From the sky, New York looks calm, the city unaware of the chaos brewing beneath its surface. But I know what's coming. The Friends of Humanity don't pull punches, and neither will Magneto if he's cornered. We're walking into a powder keg, and one wrong move could set it all off. I glance at Wanda, who's sitting across from me, her eyes focused but distant. There's a lot riding on her in this mission. Her powers are unmatched, but they come with a cost. I reach out, giving her a nod, a silent reminder that we've got each other's backs. She returns it, her hand resting protectively over her stomach. Even in the face of this chaos, we both carry the weight of something more personal—our family, our future. The quinjet streaks across the skyline, and in the distance, I can see the UN building coming into view. Below us, I can see the flashes of gunfire, the telltale signs of a firefight in progress. "Buckle up, folks," Tony's voice crackles over the comms, "This is going to get messy."

[Headquarters of the United Nations, New York City]

The quinjet roars overhead, banking hard as we approach the UN building. Below, chaos erupts in every direction—screaming civilians, security forces scrambling to contain the situation, and the unmistakable rapid flashes of gunfire. The Friends of Humanity (FOH) militia is already inside, spreading like a virus through the building, armed to the teeth and hell-bent on one thing—taking out Magneto. I lean forward in my seat, every muscle in my body tensing as the landing zone comes into view. We're barely touching down before the ramp lowers, and we're moving, boots hitting the pavement in unison, weapons drawn, senses sharp. "Alright, people, this is it," Steve's voice carries through the comms, steady and composed, "We move fast, hit hard. Magneto's our priority—secure him first, then take out the FOH militia." His shield glints in the fading daylight as he leads the charge, the rest of us falling into formation like a well-oiled machine. To my left, Tony takes to the air, the repulsors in his suit firing up with a loud hiss. War Machine follows close behind him, the heavy thrum of his weapons systems priming as he scans the battlefield for targets. Above us, Falcon swoops in low, already gathering intel on the militia's position, his wings cutting through the air with a precision that speaks of countless hours in the sky. I move beside Wanda, my stun pistol already in my hand, ready for whatever we're about to face inside.

As we approach the building's entrance, a deafening explosion rocks the ground. The front doors are blown wide open, and through the dust and debris, I catch sight of the FOH goons rushing into the grand hall, rifles raised, barking orders at the terrified civilians still trapped inside. There are at least twenty of them—heavily armed and heavily motivated, their hatred for mutants practically radiating off of them. "Fanatics," I mutter under my breath. My grip tightens around my pistol as we close the distance. No hesitation. "Sam, cover our entry!" Steve calls out as we breach the main entrance, Falcon already soaring high above, his wings extending wide as he fires off quick bursts from his twin SMGs. The FOH soldiers on the balcony scramble for cover as Falcon's shots force them back, giving us just enough room to get inside. Steve is the first to enter, shield up, deflecting the barrage of bullets coming our way. Behind him, Natasha and Clint move in tandem, slipping into the shadows like ghosts, their movements smooth and efficient. Black Widow takes out one of the gunmen with a swift kick to the chest, her Widow's Bite arcing with electricity as she sends him crashing into a marble pillar. Hawkeye is a few steps behind her, his bow snapping up as he loses an arrow that explodes in mid-air, sending two more militia men flying across the room.

"Karai, disable their communications," I say, already hearing the chatter of the FOH's radios as they try to coordinate their attack. Karai nods, slipping a small device from her pocket and tossing it into the air. It emits a high-pitched whine before the militia's radios go silent. The confusion on their faces is almost satisfying. "They're blind now," Karai confirms, her fingers dancing across her gauntlet, eyes scanning the HUD for any further threats, "Let's make this quick." The fight moves fast—almost too fast. The FOH might be fanatics, but they're organized, and their weaponry is advanced. From across the room, I catch sight of War Machine tearing through their ranks like a living tank, his shoulder-mounted cannon firing rapid bursts of plasma that take down three men in quick succession. The concussive force shakes the ground beneath us, and I can feel the heat from his blasts even from this distance. Tony swoops in next, his repulsor beams lighting up the darkened corners of the room as he targets the snipers on the balcony. His aim is flawless, each shot precise as he takes them down one by one. "Got your back, Cap!" Tony calls out, his voice laced with that ever-present confidence, even in the middle of a firefight.

Steve doesn't even look back, trusting in Tony's cover as he barrels forward, slamming his shield into another militia member's chest with a force that knocks the wind out of him. I follow close behind, my stun pistol firing quick, accurate shots that hit two more men in the legs, dropping them to the ground before they can even aim their rifles. Wanda steps forward then, her hands glowing with red energy as she raises them toward the remaining militia. There's a flash of light, and in an instant, half of their weapons are ripped from their hands, disassembled into their base components as they clatter uselessly to the floor. The militia freezes, fear flickering in their eyes as they realize just who they're up against. I can't help but smirk beneath my mask. Wanda's power is a force of nature, something that can't be quantified or controlled—and they know it.

But even as we push forward, taking down the militia one by one, I can feel the tension rising. This isn't just a rescue mission. This is a powder keg waiting to explode. And Magneto? He's not someone you simply "rescue." He's a man who wields power like a weapon, and the last thing we need is for him to turn this situation into something far worse. I catch a glimpse of him, restrained in the center of the room, his helmet still on, his expression unreadable. Even in chains, there's a dangerous calm to him. As we close in on Magneto's location, the FOH militia makes one last desperate push, firing wildly at us from behind overturned tables and broken statues. But they're no match for us, not with the combined strength of the Avengers and the X-Men. Wolverine charges forward in a blur of adamantium and rage, his claws slicing through the militia like paper. The sound of metal against bone is unmistakable, and in his wake, Gambit follows, tossing kinetic-charged playing cards that explode on impact, sending debris flying in every direction. Rogue is right behind them, her fist slamming into the ground with enough force to crack the marble floor, sending shockwaves through the room.

Storm hovers above us, her eyes glowing white as the air around her crackles with electricity. She raises her arms, and a massive bolt of lightning strikes the ground in front of the remaining militia, sending them scattering in every direction. The smell of ozone fills the air as the thunder echoes through the halls. Cyclops, ever the tactician, is coordinating with Steve, his optic blasts cutting through the militia's defenses with pinpoint accuracy. Bishop provides cover fire, his energy absorption ability allowing him to deflect any stray bullets or blasts that come their way. Psylocke moves like a shadow, her psychic blade glowing as she cuts down two more militia members before they even realize she's there. We're closing in now, the last of the militia falling as we make our way to Magneto. He stands tall despite the restraints, his helmet gleaming under the harsh lights. I can see the tension in his jaw, the barely concealed fury simmering beneath the surface. "We've got him," Steve calls out, motioning for Wanda and me to move in and secure Magneto, "Get those restraints off him and let's get out of here."

But before I can take a step, I feel it—a sudden shift in the air, like the calm before a storm. I turn, my eyes scanning the room, and that's when I see it. One of the militia members, still standing, barely conscious, has managed to activate a device on his chest. A bomb. "Everyone get down!" I shout, my voice hoarse as the realization hits me. I move fast, too fast to think, diving toward the man and firing my stun pistol. The shot hits him square in the chest, but it's too late—the device is already ticking down. Wanda moves faster than I've ever seen, her hands glowing with scarlet energy as she envelops the device in a shield, containing the explosion just as it detonates. The force of it shakes the room, but Wanda's shield holds, absorbing the impact and keeping the rest of us safe. I can see the strain on her face, the way her body trembles as she fights to contain the blast, but she doesn't falter. When it's over, the room is eerily silent, the last echoes of the explosion fading into nothing. I catch my breath, my heart still pounding in my chest, as I glance over at Wanda. She's standing, but barely, her face pale from the effort. I move toward her, my hand resting gently on her shoulder, a silent thank you for saving us all.

Magneto watches the scene unfold, his expression unreadable, but there's a flicker of something in his eyes—respect, maybe. Or perhaps recognition. He knows how close we came to losing everything. Steve steps forward then, his voice calm but firm, "Let's get him out of here." We move quickly, securing Magneto and making our way toward the exit. As the dust settles and the last remnants of the FOH militia are either incapacitated or in custody, the room falls quiet. The battle is over, but the air still feels thick with tension. Magneto, now free from his restraints but still keeping that imposing, unreadable aura, stands amidst the aftermath, surveying the destruction. His helmet gleams under the fading sunlight streaming in through the shattered windows, casting long shadows that dance across the debris-littered floor.

We're regrouping near the main hall's exit, preparing to extract Magneto from the chaos when he turns toward us. His eyes scan the room, taking in the sight of the Avengers and the X-Men standing side by side—humans and mutants working together, some bruised, others breathing heavily, but united in their shared victory. He crosses his arms, his expression thoughtful, almost amused. "I must admit," he begins, his voice low but filled with a quiet intensity that commands attention, "I am surprised to see the Avengers and X-Men fighting alongside one another. A team of metahumans with humans among their ranks, working alongside mutants… willingly." He pauses, his tone laced with subtle admiration, though his pride won't allow him to fully admit it, "Maybe there's some truth to Xavier's dream after all." I glance over at Steve, whose expression remains steady, but I can see a flicker of acknowledgment behind his eyes. Even Tony, hovering just above us in his armor, offers a moment of silence, perhaps out of respect or contemplation. It's a rare thing for someone like Magneto to recognize Xavier's vision, even if only for a fleeting moment. "Doesn't mean we're there yet," I say, my voice low but firm as I guide Magneto toward the exit, "But it's a start."

Magneto chuckles softly, his eyes glinting with something I can't quite pin down—maybe amusement, maybe skepticism, "A start, indeed. But the road ahead is long and paved with conflict. I'm not so easily convinced that humans and mutants will ever truly see eye to eye." Wolverine grunts behind me, clearly having no patience for philosophical musings right now, but Storm steps forward, her presence commanding, her voice calm yet filled with purpose. "You're right, Magneto. The road is long, and there will be more battles. But if today shows us anything, it's that cooperation is possible. That perhaps, Xavier's dream of peace isn't so impossible after all." Magneto regards Storm with a thoughtful expression, his usual arrogance giving way to something more introspective, "Perhaps, Ororo. But you know as well as I do, the world is more complicated than that." Steve, ever the diplomat, steps forward. "Complicated doesn't mean impossible," he says, his voice full of conviction, "We fight because we believe in something better. That's what brings us together—Avengers and X-Men. We're fighting the same battles, just from different perspectives."

I watch as Magneto considers Steve's words, a subtle shift in his posture revealing more than he probably intended. He may not say it out loud, but I can tell there's a part of him—however small—that hopes Xavier's dream isn't a complete fantasy. "Xavier always was the idealist," Magneto finally says, the edge returning to his voice, "But even I can't deny the power of unity when it's necessary." We push forward through the debris-filled halls of the UN building, the weight of Magneto's words hanging in the air. Around us, the remaining FOH militia lie subdued, the last sparks of resistance stamped out by our combined efforts. The battle is won, but Magneto's words leave an unmistakable truth lingering—this fight, this fragile alliance, it's only the beginning. As we emerge into the afternoon light, the roar of sirens and the chaos of the city waiting just beyond the gates, I glance at Wanda walking beside me. Her hand brushes against mine for a moment, a silent acknowledgment of everything we've been through, everything still to come. We all know the road ahead is far from clear, but standing here, shoulder to shoulder with both Avengers and X-Men, it's hard not to believe—even if just for a moment—that maybe, just maybe, there's hope for something more. Something better.