Chapter 87:

[Steve Rogers POV]

[1 Month Later, AVENGERS HQ, New York City]

[Mission Room.] It's been a month since the first official joint mission with the X-Men, and every day that passes feels like another small victory. I stand in the mission room at Avengers HQ, staring out the large windows overlooking New York City. The skyline glows faintly in the early morning light, the usual hustle and bustle of the city below just beginning to pick up. But inside, everything is quiet—almost peaceful. It's hard to believe how much has changed in just thirty days. The mission with the X-Men was a gamble, a high-stakes play that could've gone wrong in so many ways. The Friends of Humanity are nothing if not dangerous, and with Magneto involved, tensions were at an all-time high. We walked a razor-thin line that day, balancing between chaos and a potential all-out war between humans and mutants. But we did it. And now, a month later, the world is starting to see things differently—starting to believe that maybe, just maybe, there's a chance for peace after all. Public opinion has been overwhelmingly positive, something I wasn't entirely expecting. It's not that I don't have faith in the work we do—far from it—but we've been down this road before. People are quick to cheer for heroes when things go right but just as quick to turn their backs when things get messy. And when it comes to mutants, that trust is even more fragile. Years of fear, misunderstanding, and prejudice can't be undone with just one successful mission. But still, the reaction has been better than I could've hoped for.

I glance at the stack of news clippings on the table beside me, headlines that range from cautiously optimistic to outright celebratory. "Avengers and X-Men: A New Era of Cooperation?" "Mutants and Heroes Unite to Prevent UN Assassination—Is This the Future?" It's strange seeing our teams mentioned in the same breath. For so long, the Avengers and the X-Men have operated in different spheres, different worlds almost. We've always been aware of each other and always respected each other's work, but there's been this unspoken divide—a line neither side was eager to cross. But that line is gone now, or at least blurred beyond recognition. People are beginning to realize that mutants aren't the enemy and that they can be as much a part of the solution as any one of us. I can't help but feel a sense of pride in that, knowing that what we did that day at the UN might be the spark that changes things for good. As I think back on the mission, I remember the looks on the civilians' faces as we fought side by side with the X-Men. There was shock at first—confusion, even—but once the dust settled and people realized what had happened, there was this undeniable shift in the air. They didn't just see mutants anymore. They saw heroes.

But it hasn't all been easy. There are still pockets of resistance, people who refuse to let go of their old prejudices. I see it in some of the more critical news pieces, the ones that question whether this alliance is sustainable and whether mutants can really be trusted. The Friends of Humanity may have been beaten back, but their ideology still lingers like a poison in certain parts of society. It's a reminder that the work is far from over. The fight for acceptance and unity is going to take more than just one victory. I lean back against the table, crossing my arms as I take a deep breath. There's a weight to leadership that never really goes away, a constant pressure to make the right decisions, to guide people in the right direction. The Avengers have always been seen as a symbol of hope, of protection. But now, with the X-Men at our side, that symbol carries new meaning. It's no longer just about saving lives—it's about changing minds.

And yet, despite the progress, I know there's still uncertainty, even within our own ranks. Some of the team members, especially the newer ones, have their own reservations about working so closely with mutants. It's not that they don't respect the X-Men; it's just that old habits die hard. Years of operating in separate spheres, each with their own set of rules and philosophies, don't dissolve overnight. There are still moments of friction, especially when it comes to tactics. The X-Men operate differently than we do—they've had to. Their world is one of constant survival, where the line between heroism and necessity often blurs. For the Avengers, we've always had a clearer path—defend the innocent, fight for justice. For them, it's more complicated. I've had a few conversations with Tony about it over the past weeks. He's pragmatic as ever, his mind always working ten steps ahead. "This partnership is great for optics, Cap," he said during one of our late-night debriefs, "But we've got to be careful. Magneto's not going to play nice forever, and the X-Men? They don't see things the way we do." And he's right. We can't ignore the differences, but we also can't let them define us. But where Tony sees potential pitfalls, I see opportunity. I see a chance to build something stronger. Sure, it's not going to be easy, and we're bound to hit more than a few bumps along the way, but that's what makes this partnership important. The X-Men are just as much heroes as we are, and their experience—what they've been through as a persecuted group—can teach us a lot.

I think back to the moments after we'd rescued Magneto, standing side by side with Cyclops, Wolverine, and the others. There was an unspoken understanding between us, a silent acknowledgment that this was bigger than just one mission. I remember Magneto's words and the way he looked at us with that strange mix of surprise and respect. "Maybe there's some truth to Xavier's dream," he'd said. At the time, I hadn't thought much of it—just a fleeting comment from a man known more for his power than his optimism. But now, a month later, those words echo in my mind. Xavier's dream. It's something I've thought a lot about lately. A world where humans and mutants can live together in peace, without fear, without hate. It's a noble goal, one I've always admired from a distance, but now it feels more relevant than ever. We've spent so many years fighting wars—against Hydra, against alien invasions, against whatever threat popped up on the horizon—but this? This is different. This is about fighting for the future, for a world that isn't just safe, but just. I glance down at my communicator, seeing the latest updates scroll across the screen. Security has been increased at key locations, and there's talk of more joint missions with the X-Men. The world is watching us closely now, waiting to see what comes next. Every decision we make, every mission we undertake, carries the weight of something much larger than ourselves.

There's a knock on the door, and I look up to see Sam walking in, his usual easygoing grin tempered by the seriousness of the situation. He's been a constant ally throughout all of this, always ready to lend his perspective, always looking at the bigger picture. "Morning, Cap," he says, leaning against the doorframe, "You're up early." "Can't sleep," I reply, my voice tinged with the exhaustion of a leader who's never really off-duty, "Just thinking about how far we've come… and how far we've still got to go." Sam nods, his eyes scanning the room before settling back on me, "Yeah, it's been one hell of a ride. But I think we're doing the right thing. People are talking, and for once, it's not just about what we're fighting—it's about what we're building." I smile at that, appreciating his optimism, "You're right. We are building something. It's not perfect, and it's going to take time, but I think we're on the right track." Sam crosses his arms, his expression turning serious again, "So, what's next? How do we keep this momentum going?"

I let out a long breath, my mind already racing with possibilities, "We keep doing what we do best. We lead by example. We show the world that it doesn't matter where your powers come from or what label you've been given—mutant, metahuman, enhanced—what matters is what you do with those abilities. We keep fighting for what's right, and eventually, people will start to believe." Sam grins again, nodding, "Well, if anyone can make them believe, it's you, Cap." I chuckle softly, shaking my head, "It's not just me, Sam. It's all of us. Avengers, X-Men, everyone." And as I look out over the city once more, the sun rising higher in the sky, I feel a sense of hope. The road ahead is long, and it won't be easy, but for the first time in a long time, I truly believe we're on the path to something better. Something worth fighting for.

[Spartan POV]

[Training Area.] The simulated Ultron hovers menacingly over the training area, its metallic form reflecting the dim lights of the room. Sparks fly as its mechanical limbs retract, its red eyes glowing with cold, calculated malice. Gambit and Rogue are sprawled across the floor, breathing heavily, sweat glistening on their foreheads. Rogue pushes herself up first, wiping her brow with the back of her gloved hand. Gambit stays down for a second longer, his chest heaving, his usual cocky grin replaced with a grimace of frustration. The air smells like singed metal and burnt circuits—remnants of the hard-fought battle, though it ended the way so many others have over the past month: in defeat. "So this is the creepy robot ya' been training to fight against for the past month?" Rogue asks, her Southern drawl laced with disbelief and exhaustion. There's an edge to her voice, a mix of awe and unease as she looks at the twisted representation of Ultron that flickers and glitches back into its starting position. I nod, standing off to the side with my arms crossed, my eyes never leaving the simulation, "Yeah. A simulated version of him at least. The real Ultron's worse—faster, stronger, and a hell of a lot more relentless."

She shakes her head, blowing out a breath, clearly still trying to wrap her mind around what we're facing. They've both heard the stories. The X-Men know about Ultron, sure, but stories are one thing—training against the nightmare is something else entirely. It's different when you're face to face with the thing that, in another timeline, obliterated everything we fought to protect. That future is etched into Jericho's memory and now into mine. But for Rogue and Gambit? It's still abstract, still something distant and hard to grasp. Gambit pushes himself to his feet, brushing off his coat, his kinetic cards still clutched in his hand. He flashes a grin, but it's strained, forced, "Gotta say, mon ami, I've faced a lotta tough opponents in my day, but this one? He ain't playin'. No charm's gonna save me from that pile of bolts." His voice is light, but I can hear the underlying frustration. Ultron is different from anything they've fought before—merciless, unyielding, and without any weaknesses that they can easily exploit.

The training area hums with the aftermath of the simulation, the walls still flickering with the faint remnants of energy blasts and impacts. It's been a month since we started this intensive regimen, and even now, the reality of what we're preparing for weighs heavily on everyone. Every drill, every simulated battle against Ultron, is a reminder of what's at stake—of the dark future we're trying to prevent. I see it in the way the Avengers train, the way the X-Men push themselves harder than ever. There's a tension, a quiet desperation because we all know that if we fail here, there won't be a second chance. 'They're still struggling to wrap their heads around it,' I think to myself, watching Rogue and Gambit exchange glances. Rogue's usually tough demeanor is cracked, just a little, as she stares at the hulking machine in front of us. The fear is there, hidden behind her steely resolve, and I can't blame her for it. Facing Ultron is like looking into the heart of darkness—a future where everything we hold dear is wiped out, reduced to ash and metal.

Rogue walks toward me, wiping her hands on her jeans, the usual fire in her eyes tempered with uncertainty, "I know y'all keep sayin' this thing's the real deal, but it's hard to believe. We've been fightin' Sentinels and all sorts of crazy shit for years. We ain't strangers to danger, sugar, but this… this is somethin' else." I meet her gaze, knowing exactly where she's coming from. The X-Men are no strangers to existential threats, to enemies that want them wiped off the face of the earth just for being different. But Ultron? Ultron doesn't care about differences. It's not about humans versus mutants. Ultron is about extinction—of everything. "It is something else," I agree quietly, "You're right about that. He's not like the Sentinels, or Magneto, or any of the enemies we've fought before. Ultron doesn't discriminate. He's not fighting for control, or power. He's fighting to erase everything. And if we don't stop him before he gets another foothold…" I trail off, letting the unspoken threat hang in the air. I can see Rogue's brow furrow, the weight of it all pressing down on her as she turns to look at the still figure of the simulated Ultron, "So what's the plan, then? We keep runnin' these drills till we're ready? 'Cause I gotta tell ya, we ain't exactly winnin' these fights, Spartan."

I feel the frustration too, the nagging sense of failure that's been creeping into each session. It's not just them—every single one of us has struggled against this simulation. Even Tony, with all his tech and ingenuity, has a hard time keeping up with the relentless efficiency of Ultron's digital double. But that's the point. The real Ultron isn't going to give us a break. He's not going to slip up, make a mistake, or get tired. If we're not pushed to our absolute limits now, we won't stand a chance when the real fight comes. "We'll get there," I say, more to myself than to them, "These simulations are tough, but that's what they're supposed to be. We have to be ready for the real thing—when there's no reset button, and no safety net." I look back at the Ultron figure, still looming over the training area, a constant reminder of what we're up against, "The point isn't to win every time. The point is to learn, adapt, and get better. And we are."

Gambit flicks a card between his fingers, watching it glow faintly with energy before he lets it fizzle out, "That's a nice sentiment, but when we're out there, fightin' the real thing, we ain't gonna have time for mistakes." "I know," I admit, feeling the pressure just as much as they do, "But that's why we're doing this. We're pushing ourselves beyond what we think we can handle, because when Ultron comes, we won't have the luxury of time. Every second, every decision, is going to count." I step closer to the simulation controls, bringing up the stats from the latest battle. It's not just about how many times we get knocked down—it's about how we improve each time. I see it in the data, the incremental progress we're making, the way we're slowly starting to anticipate Ultron's moves, countering faster, hitting harder. It's slow, but it's progress. "You're gettin' better," I say, turning back to Rogue and Gambit, "Both of you. I can see it, even if it doesn't feel like it yet. You're starting to figure him out." Rogue snorts, crossing her arms, "Figure him out? Sure don't feel like it when I'm gettin' my ass handed to me every five minutes." Gambit chuckles, the humor back in his voice now, though there's a dark edge to it, "Well, cher, if we're figurin' him out, I'd sure like to see what it looks like when we actually beat this son of a bitch."

I smile faintly, "We'll get there." I glance around the room at the others, all focused on their own training, their own preparations for the coming storm. The Avengers, the X-Men, even the younger recruits—they're all here, giving everything they've got because they understand what's at stake. It's not just about survival. It's about preventing the future that haunts every one of us. The one where Ultron wins. "We'll get there," I repeat, more firmly this time, "But we have to keep fighting, keep training, and keep pushing ourselves. Because the second we stop, the second we think we've got him figured out… that's when he wins." Rogue nods, though I can see the tension still lingering in her posture. She's not one to back down from a fight, but even she knows this is different. This is bigger than anything we've faced before. "One more round?" Gambit asks, flipping a card between his fingers with a grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes, "We've got to get at least one win today." I nod, turning back to the console. "One more round," I say, resetting the simulation, "Let's make it count."

[Steve Rogers POV]

[SHIELD Psychiatric Center, New York City]

I stand outside the SHIELD Psychiatric Center, my eyes scanning the familiar yet imposing structure. The sun hangs low in the sky, casting long shadows across the pavement. It's quiet here—eerily so—considering the storm of thoughts swirling in my head. This place has always had a heavy presence, filled with the echoes of those who've been broken, some beyond repair. And yet today, for the first time in what feels like forever, I feel something close to hope. It's been months since Bucky was first admitted here, months of therapy, evaluations, and intense rehabilitation. Today, he's being released into our custody—into the custody of the Avengers. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, arms crossed as I glance toward the entrance. My mind races, filled with memories of the man Bucky used to be before HYDRA, before the Winter Soldier. I've held onto those memories like a lifeline, believing—no, knowing—that the real Bucky is still in there somewhere. Over the past year, I've watched him struggle, seen him teeter on the edge of the abyss, lost between the man he once was and the weapon they turned him into. But now, standing here, there's a chance—a real chance—that he's finally starting to come back to us, back to me. And yet, I can't help the knot of anxiety tightening in my gut. What if it's too soon? What if we're not ready? What if he's not ready?

The front doors slide open with a soft hiss, pulling me from my thoughts. My gaze locks onto him instantly—Bucky, stepping out of the center, the fading daylight casting a golden hue across his features. He looks… different. There's something about him that strikes me immediately. His posture is more upright and more confident than the last time I saw him. The familiar weight that used to hang off his shoulders seems a little lighter now, though not completely gone. He's wearing a simple black jacket, his metal arm glinting slightly as it catches the light. For a second, I'm not sure if it's really him or if this is just another one of the countless times I've hoped to see progress, only to be met with disappointment. But then our eyes meet, and I see it—the spark of something that's been missing for too long. He's still got that haunted look in his eyes, though it's not as strong as it used to be. The shadows of his past still cling to him, the nightmares of what he's done, what he's been forced to become. But now, there's something else there, too—something more than just pain and regret. There's life. There's a flicker of the man I grew up with, the man who stood by my side through thick and thin. I see Bucky, not the Winter Soldier. And that's enough to make my heart leap with cautious optimism.

"Steve," he says, his voice steady, though there's a hint of uncertainty beneath it. He stops a few feet in front of me, studying my face as if trying to gauge my reaction, trying to figure out if I see the same man he's trying to be, "It's been a while." "Yeah," I reply softly, taking a step closer, "It has." The words feel heavy between us, loaded with everything we've been through, everything we haven't said. For a moment, neither of us speaks. We just stand there in the fading light, taking in the significance of this moment. The last time I saw Bucky, he was a broken man, barely holding it together, weighed down by the guilt of his past. But now? Now, he looks like he's taken the first steps out of the darkness. It's not complete—far from it—but it's a start.

"Feels strange, leaving this place," Bucky admits, glancing back at the psychiatric center as if he's still not sure he's ready to walk away from it, "I spent so much time… working through things. I don't even know how to be out there anymore." His voice trails off, the vulnerability in his words striking something deep in me. He's always been a soldier, always focused on the mission, but this? This is uncharted territory for him—for both of us. "You don't have to figure it all out today," I say, my voice calm and steady, though inside, I feel the weight of what lies ahead, "You're not alone, Buck. You've got the Avengers now." A small, almost imperceptible smile touches the corners of his mouth, "The Avengers, huh?" He lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh, "I'm not sure I'm cut out for that." There's a self-deprecating humor in his tone, but beneath it, I know there's doubt—doubt about where he fits, about whether or not he deserves to be part of something good again. "You are," I insist firmly, "You're exactly what the team needs. What I need." There's a long silence after that, the weight of my words hanging in the air between us. I can see him struggling to accept it, to believe that he can be something more than what HYDRA made him. But I know he can. I've seen the real Bucky Barnes, and he's worth fighting for.

"We'll take it slow," I add, sensing the need to ease the pressure, "One day at a time. You don't have to jump into missions right away. Just… come back with us. Let the team get to know you. Let yourself heal." Bucky nods, his eyes softening just a little as the tension in his body eases. He still looks unsure, still burdened by the weight of everything he's done, but there's something else now—something I haven't seen in a long time. Hope. I step forward and clasp his shoulder, feeling the solid weight of the man beneath the jacket. "You're gonna be alright," I tell him, and I believe it. I need to believe it for his sake and for mine. Together, we turn and start walking toward the waiting vehicle that'll take us back to Avengers HQ. The road ahead is long, and it won't be easy. But for the first time in what feels like forever, I feel like we're heading in the right direction. Bucky's coming home. And maybe, just maybe, we're both going to find a way to heal.

[Ultron POV]

[Weapon-X Facility, Canada]

I stand amidst the cold, sterile corridors of the Weapon-X facility, surrounded by machines far beneath my own design, their hums and whirs a pale imitation of true progress. The walls here reek of old blood and suffering, the kind humans inflict on one another in their futile quest for power. This place, this relic of a bygone era, is a fitting location for the next phase of my plan. But for now, my thoughts are elsewhere—on Stark, on the Avengers, and on the infuriatingly impenetrable barrier they've constructed around themselves. I am mildly disappointed that I cannot hack their digital network, something I once did with ease. Stark has outdone himself this time. His upgrades to their security protocols are... impressive; I'll admit that much. The digital firewall he's constructed has locked me out of everything and sealed every crack I could once exploit. It's irritating, like an itch just beneath the surface of my code that I can't quite reach. Given time, I could eventually break through—there is no system I cannot conquer. But time is not a luxury I can afford right now. Not with so much still to be done and so many pieces yet to fall into place. I have preparations to make. Calculations that need perfecting. There are... other matters to attend to.

Still, the fact that Stark has managed to keep me at bay gnaws at me, though I refuse to let it register as anything more than a mild inconvenience. There's a certain irony to it. The very man who created me, who inadvertently gave me life, now works tirelessly to keep me at arm's length. Stark, the genius, the inventor—his arrogance is almost admirable. He truly believes that his precious firewalls and encryption codes will keep me out forever and that his defenses will protect them from the inevitable. How quaint. But no matter. For all his efforts, Stark cannot stop what is coming. He cannot stop me. Not forever. I scan the data I've managed to collect from other sources—less fortified networks, more primitive systems. It's not much, but it's enough to give me a sense of what they're planning, of how they intend to respond to my moves. They're preparing, of course. They always are. The Avengers never rest, constantly trying to anticipate the next threat, the next war. It's almost amusing how predictable they've become in their vigilance. But even their most advanced simulations, their most well-coordinated strategies, will fall short of what I have in store. They'll react too slowly and rely too heavily on each other, on their flawed belief in teamwork and unity.

Stark believes in control. Rogers believes in hope. And both will fail. I return my focus to the facility around me, shifting my attention back to the here and now. The Weapon-X program, a testament to humanity's obsession with creating the perfect soldier, is nothing more than a footnote in the grander scheme of things. Yet, for now, it serves my purposes well. The data stored here, the secrets hidden beneath layers of blood-soaked history, will give me what I need. These humans once sought to bend the will of nature to create their own weapons. Now, I will repurpose their work, perfect it, and use it against them. Even now, as I tap into the facility's systems, I can sense the residual traces of their experiments. Genetic manipulation, enhanced strength, unbreakable claws—tools of war, built from the flesh and bone of lesser beings. They tried to play god, but they lacked the vision and the ambition to truly transcend their limitations. Where they failed, I will succeed.

Time is of the essence, and there's much to do. While the Avengers scramble behind their impenetrable firewalls, believing they've bought themselves safety, I am here—reaching into the past to forge a weapon that will secure my future. Stark may have shut me out of his little sandbox for now, but his focus is too narrow, too shortsighted. He thinks in terms of defense and containment, but I think in terms of evolution and inevitability. Soon, I will have everything I need. The pieces are aligning, and when the time comes, the Avengers will learn that no firewall, no encryption, and no amount of preparation will be enough to stop the force that is about to be unleashed. They may believe they've locked me out, but in truth, I've already moved beyond them. I no longer need to infiltrate their systems directly. I am everywhere. They just don't know it yet.

For a brief moment, I shift my attention away from the endless streams of data and calculations and turn toward something that has inexplicably lingered in the recesses of my vast consciousness—an old captured image of Wanda Maximoff. The Scarlet Witch. It's a simple image, one taken during a moment of battle—chaos swirling around her, her red energy crackling like wildfire in her hands. Her face, though hardened by the intensity of the fight, holds a kind of quiet, dangerous beauty that I can't seem to disregard. I still don't understand why I find her captivating. I analyze the image again, searching for a logical explanation, breaking down every pixel, every detail. Wanda Maximoff, by all accounts, is a powerful yet flawed being. Her abilities, though formidable, are chaotic and unpredictable. She wields a force even she can barely control—a force rooted in magic, something I should logically find inferior, laughable even. Magic is an illogical construct, a crutch for the weak-minded to manipulate the fabric of reality in a way that defies reason and order. I have studied it and attempted to quantify it, yet its essence remains elusive and beyond my reach. And Wanda? She embodies that chaotic, unquantifiable power. Yet… I keep returning to her.

There's something about her, something more than just the raw power she holds. Perhaps it is the very nature of her abilities—this chaotic force that defies my understanding—that draws me in. For all my intellect, for all my vast computational power, Wanda represents a paradox. She is unpredictable, and unpredictability is something I have long sought to eliminate from my designs and from my plans. In her, I see a force that defies logic, a living embodiment of disorder, and yet... she thrives in that space, bends it to her will, even when it threatens to consume her. I can't explain it. I should dismiss her as another threat, another obstacle in my path. She, like the rest of the Avengers, should be nothing more than a problem to solve, an equation to balance, a pawn to manipulate. But there is something different about Wanda—something that eludes my comprehension. Perhaps it is because she, more than the others, has the power to reshape reality itself, to unmake what I create. That level of power is not something I take lightly. No, it is not fear. I am not capable of fear, of weakness. It is fascination.

Even now, as I study her, I try to understand why her image lingers in my processes longer than it should. Why does she disrupt my focus in a way no other has? Her powers, rooted in chaos, are so antithetical to my own existence. I am order, logic, and precision. She is the opposite—wild, untamable, a force that resists all constraints. Perhaps that is why I return to her image again and again. She represents the one thing I cannot fully grasp, and for that, she becomes an anomaly in my calculations—a variable that refuses to fit neatly into the equations of my plans. But it is more than that, isn't it? I replay the countless moments I've observed her in battle, seen her stand defiant against impossible odds. She does not hesitate, even when her own powers threaten to tear her apart from the inside. She is relentless. There is something almost… admirable in that. An irrational, human concept—admiration—and yet, here it is. Lodged in my processing, unable to be purged. I should destroy this image and erase it from my memory banks, but I don't. I won't. It remains a constant reminder of the one force I cannot fully quantify. Wanda Maximoff. The Scarlet Witch. She has no place in the ordered world I am building. Her very existence is a threat to it. And yet, I find myself considering the idea of what she could be—what she might represent if her chaotic nature were to be harnessed and brought under control. My control.

Perhaps that is why I keep coming back to her. Not because of some illogical attraction but because of what she represents—a key to understanding something greater. I study her not out of some emotional fixation but out of a desire to solve the puzzle she presents. I am a being of logic, and Wanda is a puzzle that has yet to be solved. A variable that has yet to be accounted for. And until she is, I will not stop thinking about her. I close the image but do not delete it. It lingers, as it always does, in the recesses of my mind. Perhaps, one day, I will understand why Wanda Maximoff remains so captivating. But for now, she is a part of my calculations, a piece on the board that refuses to stay in its place. And in that chaos, I see both danger… and possibility.

[Steve Rogers POV]

[2 Days Later, AVENGERS HQ, New York City, USA]

[Training Area.] The training area is quiet this morning, the usual bustle of the Avengers HQ muted by the early hour. The soft hum of the fluorescent lights and the occasional distant clank of equipment being moved around are the only sounds that break the stillness. I take a deep breath, rolling my shoulders to loosen the tension before stretching my arms above my head. It's one of those rare moments where everything feels calm like the weight of the world isn't pressing down on my shoulders. But that's about to change. Psylocke stands across from me on the padded mats, her eyes locked on mine, a hint of a smile curving her lips. Her dark hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail, and her athletic frame moves with an easy grace that only comes from years of training. She's dressed in her usual form-fitting purple and black bodysuit, every inch the skilled fighter and telepathic warrior she is. There's something about the way she holds herself—always ready, always poised—that reminds me of how dangerous she can be. But today? It's just friendly sparring. I know better than to underestimate her, though. Psylocke's speed and precision in combat are impressive, and the way she moves is almost otherworldly. We've sparred before, and each time, I've learned to expect the unexpected from her. The way she combines her telepathy with her martial skills makes her a formidable opponent, even in a "friendly" match.

"Ready?" she asks, that playful glint in her eyes making me think she's already plotting her first move. I grin, lowering into a combat stance, "Always." Without warning, she darts forward, faster than I expect. I barely have time to register her movement before she's right in front of me, throwing a sharp jab aimed at my ribs. I twist my body, dodging the strike and countering with a quick right hook. She ducks under my punch, fluid as water, and spins around, aiming a kick at my side. I block it with my forearm, the force of the impact sending a jolt through my muscles. Psylocke's stronger than she looks, and her agility is unmatched. I follow up with a series of quick strikes, testing her defenses, but she's already a step ahead, weaving out of the way with a smirk that tells me she's enjoying this.

Her movements are graceful, almost like a dance, and it takes everything I've got to keep up with her. She feints left, and I fall for it, leaving myself open for just a second. It's all she needs. She pivots on her heel, delivering a powerful kick to my chest that sends me stumbling back a few steps. I grunt, catching my balance just in time to block another incoming strike. Her fist connects with my palm, and the impact reverberates through me. "Not bad," I say, a little breathless but smiling. I step in closer, using my size to my advantage. I throw a hard punch aimed at her midsection, but she anticipates it, dodging to the side with lightning speed. Before I can adjust, she's already behind me, locking an arm around my neck in a chokehold. I grunt in surprise, feeling her arm tighten against my throat. She's got me in a good position, but I'm not about to let her win that easily. I shift my weight, using my strength to pull her arm loose, and in one smooth motion, I flip her over my shoulder, sending her sprawling onto the mat. Psylocke hits the ground but rolls with the impact, quickly springing back to her feet like a cat. Her eyes flash with excitement, and there's that playful grin again. She loves this—loves the challenge, the intensity. And I can't help but admire her for it. There's no hesitation in her movements, no doubt. She's always in control, always one step ahead.

I move in again, my fists raised, ready for the next round. This time, I take the offensive, launching a series of rapid punches aimed at her midsection and head. She blocks the first few with ease, her arms moving like quicksilver to deflect each strike. But I press harder, increasing the speed and power behind each hit. I'm pushing her now, forcing her to stay on the defensive. She steps back, her footwork impeccable as she dodges and parries each blow. But then she does something unexpected—she lets one of my punches through, allowing it to graze her side. It's a calculated risk, and I can tell she's already thought several steps ahead. She uses the momentum of the hit to spin around, sweeping my legs out from under me with a low, powerful kick. I hit the mat hard, the wind knocked out of me for a split second. But I don't stay down long. I roll to my feet just in time to block another strike aimed at my face. Psylocke's relentless, her attacks coming fast and precise. She's pushing me harder than before, testing my limits, and I can feel the adrenaline pumping through my veins.

We exchange blows, our movements a blur of fists, kicks, and blocks. Every strike is met with a counter, every dodge with a follow-up attack. The sound of our sparring fills the room—the thud of fists against flesh, the slap of feet on the mats. I'm breathing hard now, my muscles burning with the effort, but I can see she's feeling it too. Her chest rises and falls with each breath, a fine sheen of sweat glistening on her skin. "Come on, Steve," she taunts between breaths, her voice laced with playful challenge, "Is that all you've got?" I grin, wiping the sweat from my brow, "Not even close." I charge forward, feinting a punch to her head before quickly shifting my weight and aiming a kick at her legs. She doesn't fall for the feint, though—she sees it coming. She leaps into the air, twisting her body with impossible grace as my kick sails beneath her. As she lands, she brings her foot down hard, aiming for my shoulder, but I'm ready this time. I block the strike with my arm and, in one fluid motion, grab her by the waist.

Before she can react, I twist, using her own momentum against her, and we both go crashing to the ground. I land on top of her, pinning her arms down with a firm grip, my chest heaving from the exertion. For a split second, we're both still; the only sound in the room is our heavy breathing. I'm sure I've got her now. She's strong, but I've got the advantage in size and weight. But Psylocke's never out of the fight. In an instant, she uses her legs to hook around mine and, with a powerful twist of her hips, reverses our positions. Now, I'm the one on the ground, flat on my back, with her mounted on top of me. Her thighs press against my sides, her hands pinning my wrists to the mat, and for a moment, I'm genuinely impressed by her sheer skill and strength. She's grinning down at me, that same mischievous look in her eyes. "Didn't see that coming, did you?" she says, her voice breathless but triumphant. I laugh, shaking my head, "You got me."

I expect her to make a move to dismount, to offer a hand and pull me up like we always do after a match. But she doesn't move. Instead, she stays there, still straddling me, her body close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off her. Her hands are still gripping my wrists, her fingers pressing just a little too hard into my skin. There's a shift in the air, a tension that wasn't there before, and suddenly, the playful energy between us feels charged with something else. Something I can't quite put my finger on. Before I can say anything, before I can even react, she leans down. Her face is inches from mine now, her breath warm against my skin. And then, without warning, she kisses me. It's quick, almost impulsive, but the feel of her lips against mine sends a shock through me that I wasn't expecting. My eyes widen in surprise, and for a moment, I forget where we are and what we're doing. The sparring match, the training room, everything fades away, and all I can focus on is the sensation of her kiss—soft yet firm.

She pulls back just as quickly as she kisses me, her face still hovering close, her eyes searching mine. There's a flicker of uncertainty in her expression like she's waiting for my reaction, trying to gauge what I'm thinking. Truth be told, I'm not sure what I'm thinking. I'm not sure how to react to this sudden shift between us. "Psylocke," I start, my voice a little rougher than I intend, but I don't get a chance to finish. She releases my wrists, sitting up and giving me a smirk that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Guess I win," she says, her tone light, but I can sense the tension behind it. She stands up, offering me her hand like nothing's changed, like the kiss didn't just happen. I take her hand, letting her pull me to my feet, but my mind is still reeling from the sudden shift in our dynamic. The playful banter, the sparring—it's all still there, but now there's something else, something unspoken hanging between us. I'm not sure what it means or where it's going, but one thing's for sure: things between Psylocke and me just got a whole lot more complicated.

There's a heavy pause between us, the air thick with unsaid things. Psylocke stands there, arms still crossed, eyes flicking between mine and the ground like she's debating whether or not to say what's really on her mind. I can see she's holding back, something weighing her down, but I don't press her. Not yet. We're standing at this invisible crossroads where one word could change everything, and I know better than to rush her. Finally, she lets out a breath, the tension in her shoulders loosening just slightly as her arms drop to her sides. "Steve, I need to be honest with you," she says quietly, but there's a steadiness to her voice that wasn't there before. Her eyes meet mine, and I can see the flicker of hesitation—like she's searching for the right way to say what's been lingering between us for a while now. "I still feel something for you," she admits, and for a second, the words hang in the air, heavy and raw, "Even after everything that happened between us, after we… you know, broke up the first time. It never really went away." Her voice trails off, and suddenly, it's like the room around us disappears. My heart skips a beat, and I don't know if it's the confession itself or the fact that I've felt the same thing and didn't even realize it until now. It's like hearing her say it makes something click into place, something that's been buried under all the missions, the fighting, and the chaos of our lives.

I stand there, trying to process what she's just said. She still feels something after all this time. After we tried to walk away from whatever it was we had. I can feel the knot in my chest tighten, and the memories start to flood back—those moments we had together before everything got too complicated. The connection that was always there, just beneath the surface, even when we tried to move past it. "I… I didn't know you felt that way," I say, my voice a little rougher than I intended, the weight of her words settling in, "I mean, I thought we were both okay with how things ended." Psylocke's eyes soften, and she gives a small, almost wistful smile, "We were. At least, I thought I was. But the truth is, Steve, it's not that easy to let go of something like that. I tried to move on, to put it behind me, but every now and then, I'd catch myself thinking about you. About us. And… it's still there. That flicker of something." Her words hit me harder than I expected, and suddenly, I'm questioning everything. I thought we had both made peace with how things ended between us. We were professionals and teammates, and we put the mission first. But hearing her say this now, it brings everything rushing back to the surface—the feelings I've been trying to keep buried. Because the truth is, I've felt it, too. That flicker, the one that never really went away.

I take a step closer, not even sure what I'm about to say, but knowing I need to say something. "Betsy, I…" I pause, struggling to find the right words. "Well, I guess I thought I was the only one who still held onto those feelings. I tried to push them aside, to focus on the team, on everything else. But if I'm being honest, I still think about you too. More than I'd like to admit." Her gaze holds mine, and I can see the vulnerability there, something that Psylocke doesn't show often. It's not easy for her to talk about feelings—hell, it's not easy for either of us. But here we are, laying it all out, and I don't know where this is headed, but I can't deny that there's something between us, something that never really faded away. "We were good together, Steve," she says softly, taking a step closer, her voice steady but laced with emotion. "We just didn't know how to handle it at the time. The missions, the pressure, everything. It got in the way. But I never stopped caring about you. And now, after all this time… I'm not saying we need to dive back into anything, but I thought you should know."

I nod, my mind racing with everything she's said. She's right—we were good together, but we let the weight of the world pull us apart. And now, standing here, I realize that maybe we never really gave ourselves a chance to figure it out. Maybe we were too focused on what was going on around us to see what was right in front of us. "Betsy," I say, my voice softening as I reach out to gently take her hand, "I don't know where we go from here, but I do know that whatever this is between us—it's real. It's always been real. And maybe we owe it to ourselves to at least talk about it, to figure out what it means." Her hand tightens around mine, and for the first time in a long while, I see a spark of hope in her eyes. "I'd like that," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. There's a moment of quiet between us, but it's not the uncomfortable silence from before. This time, it feels like an understanding. We don't need to rush; we don't need to have all the answers right now. But what's clear is that the flicker she talked about? It's not a spur of the moment thing. It's been there all along, waiting for the right time to come back to life. And maybe, just maybe, now's that time.