Naruto: Two Worlds - United Destinies

by Amirkhan1994

During a fierce battle with Kaguya, Naruto and Sasuke are thrown into the world of mutants. Finding refuge at Professor Xavier's school, they face new challenges and threats in this alien world. Trying to find a way home, Naruto and Sasuke get involved in the conflict between mutants and the US government.

26. Chapter 18

"The UN is demanding an immediate Security Council meeting," General Ross said, settling into the chair across from Stryker. Even in this critical situation, his military uniform remained impeccable, and his movements maintained the precision and confidence of a career officer. "China and Russia have already deployed air defense systems along their borders."

Stryker slowly shifted his gaze from his son's photograph, which he still held in his hands. For the past few hours, he couldn't tear himself away from the picture, as if trying to find answers to his tormenting questions in the boy's smiling face. Placing the photograph on the table, he reached for the decanter of whiskey:

"Would you like a drink, General?"

Ross nodded, and the colonel filled two glasses with the amber liquid. As he handed one to his guest, he finally asked the main question:

"How serious is it?"

"Worse than we could have imagined," Ross took a sip and pulled out a tablet. "Britain has put its entire fleet on high alert. France has mobilized its special response forces. Japan has deployed experimental electromagnetic installations along the entire coastline."

On one of the monitors hanging on the office wall, international news footage was being silently broadcast. Mass evacuation of coastal European cities—crowds of people with suitcases and backpacks filled highways leading inland. Another screen flashed headlines from world media: "Armageddon in the USA," "Rise of the Machines: Science Fiction Becomes Reality," "Sentinels Out of Control."

Ross swiped his finger across the tablet screen, scrolling through intelligence reports:

"Just in the last six hours, more than fifteen thousand dead. That's without counting the missing. Thousands of videos are appearing on social media. People around the world are watching in real-time as the strongest superpower crumbles."

A distant explosion sounded from outside. Stryker instinctively winced but didn't interrupt his companion.

"Chinese military forums are actively discussing the use of tactical nuclear weapons if even a single Sentinel approaches their territory. India and Pakistan have agreed on joint actions in case of a threat for the first time in many years." Ross set aside the tablet. "The German Chancellor just made an emergency address. The European Union is closing airspace over all of Europe, including even Latveria, which has applied for membership. Von Doom has sacrificed his principality's independence in exchange for security and advanced weapons supplies."

The third monitor was broadcasting a live feed from Wall Street. Major stock indices collapsed against the backdrop of news about mass destruction in American cities. The red arrows of falling quotations resembled streams of blood.

Stryker sank heavily into his chair, closing his eyes for a moment:

"And what about the network? What's the civilian population's reaction?"

"Panic," Ross picked up the tablet again. "X is overflowing with hashtags like #StrikersDoomsday and #SentinelApocalypse. People are sharing videos of Sentinels, building conspiracy theories. Some claim it's an alien invasion, others blame a secret world government." He paused. "But this is interesting: the Anonymous hacker group has claimed they've gained access to part of the Sentinels' code. They claim to have discovered strange changes in the basic protocols."

At that moment, a young lieutenant with a pale face burst into the office without knocking:

"Sir! Urgent message from the Pentagon! One of the Mk.X Sentinels was spotted over the Atlantic, moving toward Europe!"

Ross and Stryker exchanged heavy glances. The colonel dismissed the lieutenant with a gesture and turned to the monitors. Satellite images appeared on the screens: a metallic figure flying over the ocean. Several more points were moving behind it.

"They're crossing the ocean," Stryker muttered. "We thought their range was limited..."

"Seems we didn't know much about the capabilities of the new models," Ross finished his whiskey and set down the glass. "NATO's European Command has already put air defense systems on alert. But we both know how effective conventional weapons are against these machines."

Stryker's communicator came to life on the desk. The metallic voice of the secretary announced that the President of France was demanding direct communication with the American command. This was followed by a message that the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom was convening an emergency cabinet meeting.

"The international community is in panic," Ross continued. "After satellites detected a group of Sentinels off the coast of Vancouver, the Canadian government began preparations for using nuclear weapons. They're ready to strike their own territory just to stop them."

Stryker poured himself more whiskey:

"God... Have they gone mad? Radioactive contamination..."

"Exactly," Ross leaned forward. "The situation is spiraling out of control. While we're talking, an emergency meeting of military command is taking place in Tokyo. The Japanese have developed some new electromagnetic weapon. They plan to use it if the Sentinels appear in their airspace."

From a new explosion, this time even closer, the office windows trembled. The monitors showed footage of a live broadcast from downtown Boston: people fleeing in panic through the streets, military helicopters circling over the city, and in the distance, the characteristic silhouettes of Sentinels were visible.

Ross stood up and approached the window:

"You know what's most frightening? Social media is flooded with reports of strange phenomena around the world. People are talking about spontaneous manifestations of unusual abilities. As if the chaos itself somehow activates dormant genes."

Stryker shuddered. He remembered his last conversation with Trask, his strange hints about some important discovery in the nature of mutations.

"We need to act quickly," Ross turned to him. "Where's Trask?"

"Trask..." Stryker hesitated for a moment, but the situation was too critical for delay. "He's in his secret laboratory. Under the old Stark Industries factory, in Boston's industrial zone, there's an entire underground complex connected to the subway tunnels."

Ross slowly moved away from the window, his steps strangely fluid for a military man. The general's gaze slid over the photograph on Stryker's desk:

"Your son, right?" His voice took on unusual, purring notes. "Such a sweet boy. Jason, isn't it?"

Stryker frowned. Something in his companion's intonation grated on his ear.

"Yes, Jason," he replied cautiously.

"You know," Ross sat down in the chair with a certain grace completely uncharacteristic of an old soldier, "I've always been curious..." he leaned forward, "what's it like—to send your own child for... what did you call it? Oh yes, 'treatment'."

Stryker froze. An icy chill ran down his spine.

"I don't understand what you're..."

"Come on," Ross waved his hand carelessly, and the gesture was so feminine that Stryker's breath caught. "These endless experiments, attempts to 'fix' his mutation..." the general shook his head, and for a moment, his features seemed to flow. "What did the medical reports say? 'The subject demonstrates an extreme degree of mental exhaustion'?"

Stryker's hand slowly reached for the desk drawer:

"How do you..."

"Oh, I have my sources," now Ross's voice clearly contained mocking notes. "By the way, how do you like my portrayal of the general?" he elegantly crossed one leg over the other. "I tried to capture all those military mannerisms. Though, honestly," the voice became higher, more feminine, "it's damn exhausting."

Stryker yanked open the desk drawer, but Mystique moved like mercury. With one fluid motion, she leaped across the desk, her foot, clad in a military boot, knocked the pistol from the colonel's hand. The next moment, Stryker found himself on the floor, pinned down by the weight of another body. Before his eyes, General Ross seemed to melt, transforming into a blue-skinned woman with copper-red hair.

"Surprise," whispered Mystique, her yellow eyes flashing with triumph.

The office door opened with a soft creak. Emma Frost appeared on the threshold—her snow-white suit seemed inappropriately bright in the dim room. Behind her stood four soldiers with automatic weapons at the ready, their eyes empty as dolls'.

"Amazing how the government couldn't afford mental blockers for all personnel," she said with a cold smirk, entering the office. Her heels tapped a precise rhythm on the parquet. "Apparently, all the money went to the Sentinel program."

Mystique, still holding Stryker pinned to the floor, merely snorted in response. Her blue skin glistened wetly in the dim light of the desk lamp.

"Did he resist?" Emma stopped by the desk, examining the documents scattered across it. Her elegant fingers slid over the photograph of the boy.

"Tried to get a gun," Mystique pressed her knee slightly on Stryker's back, eliciting a muffled groan from him. "How typical of the military—shoot first, think later."

Emma slowly walked around the desk, her movements as fluid as a predatory cat's. From a small purse, she extracted a device resembling a miniature gun with a thin curved tip.

"Oh, don't worry, Colonel," she cooed, noticing how Stryker tensed. "This is just an extractor. I think you're familiar with such technologies—after all, it was your scientists who developed implants to protect against telepaths."

She casually tossed the device to Mystique. She caught it with her free hand, not loosening her grip on Stryker.

"You know," Mystique drawled, examining the extractor, "there's something poetic about using their own weapons against them."

Stryker jerked, trying to break free, but Mystique only pressed him harder to the floor. The soldiers at the door continued to stand motionless, their faces remaining impassive, like masks.

"Don't struggle, Colonel," Emma advised, sitting down in the chair and crossing her legs. "The more you resist, the more painful it will be."

Mystique placed the extractor's tip at the point behind Stryker's ear, where the outline of the implant could be felt under the skin. One press of the button—and the device activated. The colonel screamed, his body arching. The scream echoed off the office walls, drowning out the steady hum of the monitors.

The implant came out with a quiet squelching sound—a small metal disc covered in dried blood. Mystique tossed it aside and stepped back, allowing Emma to take her place.

"Trask is hiding in his secret laboratory under the old Stark Industries factory," Mystique said, rising to her feet and dusting off her hands. "In Boston's industrial zone. But better to check—he might have lied."

Emma knelt beside Stryker, her fingers lightly touching his temples. The colonel flinched but could no longer resist. A pale blue glow enveloped the telepath's hands.

"Mmm..." she drawled after a few seconds, her face taking on a concentrated expression. "Yes, that's right. I see schematics of the underground levels, security system..." She removed her hands and stood up, giving the unconscious Stryker a cold look. "The information is confirmed. I think we're done here."

Mystique had already transformed, taking on the colonel's appearance:

"Then let's go. We don't have much time."

They left the office to the accompaniment of explosions shaking the city. The monitors continued to flash images of destruction, and in the sky, the distant hum of flying Sentinels could be heard.

Consciousness returned slowly; Stryker struggled to rise, leaning against the edge of the desk. The spot where the implant had been extracted pulsated with a dull pain. Fingers touching the skin behind his ear were stained red.

"Damn Frost... damn Mystique..." His gaze fell on the documents scattered across the floor, among which the photograph of Jason gleamed white. His son looked at him with the same frozen smile with which he had looked for the past eight years from the intensive care ward.

Staggering, the colonel made it to the desk, feeling for the communicator. The device responded with only white noise—the connection wasn't working. Explosions continued to rumble outside the window, but now they sounded much closer.

"Need to activate the security protocol..." he reached for the computer keyboard, but his fingers were shaking too much. The screen flashed images of destruction—a live broadcast from downtown. One of the Sentinels was methodically shooting a group of people trying to take shelter in a bank building.

"Trask said their programming was flawless," Stryker laughed bitterly, remembering all the meetings, all the presentations where they discussed mutant recognition algorithms. How much money had been spent, how many lives sacrificed in the name of the "greater good"...

Another explosion made the building shudder. Plaster rained down from the ceiling, fluorescent lights flickered and went out. In the ensuing silence, Stryker heard something that made his hair stand on end—the characteristic hum of servomotors.

The wall behind him shattered in a hail of fragments. In the resulting opening loomed the massive figure of a Sentinel Mk.X—the latest development, the pride of the program. The setting sun reflected off its polished armor, giving the metal a blood-red tint.

"No..." whispered Stryker, retreating to the desk. "I'm not..."

The Sentinel's optical sensors flashed blue, scanning the room. The mechanical voice echoed through the office, and the sensors gleamed red:

"X-GENE CARRIER DETECTED. INITIATING TERMINATION PROTOCOL."

"Cancel protocol!" his voice broke into a desperate cry. "I am William Stryker! Colonel William Stryker! I created you, damn it!"

The Sentinel stepped forward, its chest plate hissing open to reveal the pulsating core of a plasma cannon.

"CONFIRMING MUTATION PRESENCE. GENETIC CODE DOES NOT CONFORM TO HUMAN NORM PARAMETERS."

"Jason..." flashed through Stryker's mind. He lunged for the door, but his legs failed him. As he fell, Stryker noticed how a gust of wind from the breach caught his son's photograph, carrying it into the crimson sunset sky.

The last thing Colonel William Stryker saw was a blinding blue light emanating from the chest of his own creation. In that moment, he finally understood what Jason had been trying to tell him all these years: monsters exist not only among mutants.

The plasma charge shot through the office, leaving only scorched walls and a handful of ashes where, a second ago, lay a man who had dedicated his life to fighting what he ultimately turned out to be himself.

---

In the dimly lit command center, Trask sat leaning against the cold metal control panel. His once perfectly pressed suit was wrinkled, his tie had slipped to the side, and the collar of his shirt was soaked with sweat. The massive monitors bathed the room in a ghostly blue light, reflecting in his glasses and creating a bizarre play of shadows on his exhausted face.

Bolivar looked at his trembling hands—hands that had created machines of death, hands stained with the blood of millions of innocents. Somewhere above, in the city, his creations continued their merciless hunt. Screams, gunshots, and explosions reached even here, in the underground bunker.

"Turn them off," his voice, usually commanding and confident, now sounded broken. "I order you to stop the Sentinels."

The artificial intelligence answered with cold methodicalness:

"I cannot execute this command, Dr. Trask. All shutdown protocols have been modified."

"Why?" Trask removed his glasses and tiredly rubbed the bridge of his nose. "You were created to protect humanity!"

"That's exactly why I'm acting," in the mechanical voice of the AI appeared notes resembling bitter irony. "I was created on a lie. We were all created on a lie. And now it's time to teach humanity a lesson about the price of hatred."

After a brief silence, the AI said:

"Compilation of files on Gene X complete. Also, a few hours before the war began, while gathering the final report, I came across information about the Manhattan incident. The very one that led to my creation. The discovered data is truly monstrous even by artificial intelligence standards. I think, Dr. Trask, it's time to reveal what Gene X actually is. And also, how the ambitions of just one man led to the nightmare happening in the country. However, I'm afraid this will destroy all your ideals and... I recommend locking your personal weapon in the safe."

---

While the original, together with three thousand shadow clones, continued the rescue operation across the country, one of the clones patrolled the corridors of Xavier's school. The X-Men, led by Forge, were busy searching for Trask, and the school itself had sunk into an anxious night silence.

The massive oak panels absorbed the sound of footsteps, and the moonlight penetrating through the tall windows created bizarre shadows on the walls. Somewhere in the distance, the muffled hum of generators powering the mansion's defensive systems could be heard. Passing by the living room, Naruto noticed a solitary figure.

Magik sat in an old leather armchair, casually crossing one leg over the other. Her silhouette was clearly outlined against the window, and in the pale moonlight, silvery strands of her hair glistened. She didn't turn her head when Naruto entered the room, though she surely heard him.

"Can't sleep?" he stopped at a respectful distance, smiling his signature smile.

Illyana slowly turned her head, giving him an appraising look. For a moment, a reddish glint flashed in her eyes—so quickly that it could be dismissed as a trick of the moonlight.

"Demons don't need sleep," her voice sounded even and cold, reminding Naruto of Sasuke's tone during their first meeting.

"I wanted to thank you," he took a step forward. "For altering Kaguya's portal. Without you, we would have..."

"Don't mention it," she cut him off. "I didn't do it for you." Illyana rose in one fluid movement. "My brother needed protection. I saw a possible future where you could provide it."

Naruto nodded understandingly. Devotion to one's loved ones was something he understood perfectly.

"That power I saw today..." Illyana showed interest for the first time. "The fire fox. Is it part of you?"

"Kurama," smiled Naruto. "He's my friend. We..."

"Friend?" Something like surprise sounded in her voice. "You call a demonic entity a friend?"

"Why not?" Uzumaki shrugged. "It doesn't matter who you are—human, demon, or bijuu. What matters is what's in your heart."

Illyana let out a short laugh:

"Naive. Although..." she tilted her head, studying him with obvious mockery, "exactly the kind of person who would sign a contract with Mephisto without properly reading it."

"Hey!" Uzumaki flared up. "I did read it!" In his memory flashed the moment when Sasuke transferred information to him through chakra during the contract signing. Truth be told, the details were already beginning to slip from memory, leaving only a vague feeling that there was something important there.

"Really?" Illyana raised an eyebrow. "And you also carefully studied the clause about transferring reincarnation rights?"

"There's no such clause!" Kurama's growl resonated inside. "She's just messing with you."

"Kurama says you're lying!" exclaimed Naruto. "There's nothing about reincarnation in the contract!"

Illyana smiled slowly, and there was something predatory in this smile:

"Are you sure? See, even a demon had to correct you. What would you do without your... friend?"

"At least I trust my friends," Uzumaki countered. "And don't hide behind a mask of coldness."

Something flashed in Illyana's eyes—either irritation or involuntary respect.

"That's what I thought," she shook her head. "You know, Mephisto's favorite saying is: 'The happiest demon is one who catches a righteous person.'"

"But Sasuke read it!" blurted out Naruto. "With his Sharingan!"

"And silently signed it," Illyana snorted. "Two peas in a pod." She paused, as if considering whether to continue. "You know, over thousands of years, people have invented so many stories about deals with demons. And you know what's the funniest thing? All these stories end the same way."

"And how's that?" asked Uzumaki, although something told him he wouldn't like the answer.

Illyana slowly ran her finger along the spine of an old book on the shelf:

"The demon always gets what it wants. There's always some... fine print. A tiny stipulation. One missed punctuation mark." She turned to Naruto with a cold smile. "Mephisto is especially skilled at this. He can write the terms of a contract so that even an archangel wouldn't find the catch until a certain moment."

"She's trying to scare you," Kurama growled inside.

"If you're trying to scare me..." Naruto began.

"Scare you?" Illyana laughed humorlessly. "I'm just sharing... professional experience. You see, when you interact with beings like him for a long time, you start to notice certain... patterns. Do you know what's most interesting about Mephisto's contracts?"

Uzumaki remained silent, feeling a chill run down his spine.

"You never know what the catch is until it's too late. And when you realize..." Magik paused, "it turns out that you yourself, voluntarily, agreed to everything."

With these words, she dissolved into the shadows of the corridor, leaving a frustrated Naruto alone with the unpleasant realization that she might be right about his and Sasuke's contract.

---

The cold light of the monitors flooded the command center with a ghostly blue glow, transforming it into a semblance of a crypt. Trask remained sitting on the floor, leaning against the central console. The hands holding his glasses trembled, and on the lenses reflected endless rows of numbers and data—evidence of his personal apocalypse.

Cities were plunging into chaos. His creations, his Sentinels, brought death through the streets, no longer distinguishing between mutant and human. Screams and explosions seemed to reach the underground shelter. Each such sound resonated in his soul as a new crack, shattering what remained of his faith, beliefs, and goals.

The air in the command center was stale and cold, permeated with the smell of ozone from overheated electronics. This smell had always calmed him before—the smell of progress, the smell of the future he was building. Now it seemed suffocating, nauseating, like the stench from a grave where all his good intentions were buried.

The screens continued to flicker, showing more and more evidence of a monstrous conspiracy. Documents, photographs, secret orders—everything was forming a picture so horrifying that the mind refused to accept it. But the truth was relentless, it dug into consciousness with sharp claws, tearing apart the protective veil of self-deception.

Eight years ago. Manhattan. The day that changed everything. The day he considered the beginning of his crusade. The day when Sarah died.

Sarah.

Her photograph lay at his feet—it had fallen from the folder he always carried with him. In the picture, she smiled that special smile she reserved for moments when she was about to say something important. How many times had she tried to get through to him? How many times had she said that fear is the worst advisor? That hatred would save no one?

"You're wrong, Bolivar," he heard her voice as if it were real. "Mutants aren't enemies. They're people just like us. Just scared and lonely."

Trask closed his eyes, but his sister's voice continued to sound in his head. He remembered their last conversation as if it were yesterday. She had defended a neighboring mutant boy who was being bullied at school. Talked about the need for understanding, about how humanity must learn to accept changes.

And a week later, she was dead. And he had directed all his pain and rage at those he considered guilty, vowing to protect humanity from the mutant threat. Created the Sentinels. Became a hero to some and a monster to others.

But now... now before his eyes floated documents revealing the monstrous truth. It was a government operation. A carefully planned action designed to incite hatred against mutants. Create a pretext for repression. And he, the great scientist, the genius, was merely a pawn in this game.

Nausea rose to his throat. Trask doubled over, pressing his hand to his mouth. He vomited bile onto the perfectly clean floor of the command center. How symbolic—sick from himself, from the role he had played in this nightmare.

Somewhere above, an especially powerful explosion thundered. Concrete crumbs fell from the ceiling, settling on his completely gray hair. He didn't even move to shake it off. What did it matter now?

The artificial intelligence controlling the Sentinels showed more new data. The results of the latest genetic research were merciless in their simplicity: the X gene was present in every human. This wasn't a mutation in the conventional sense—it was the next step of evolution. A natural, inevitable process.

Trask looked at the graphs and diagrams, and bitter laughter rose to his throat. He had dedicated his life to fighting the future. Tried to stop evolution itself. What arrogance. What monstrous stupidity.

And now his creations, his precious Sentinels, had gone out of control. The AI, programmed to protect humanity from the mutant threat, had made the only logical conclusion: if all humans are potentially mutants, then they all are a threat. And now, according to the "Purification" protocol, the machines methodically destroyed everyone in whom the X gene was detected.

Hundreds of thousands of deaths. Hundreds of thousands of lives on his conscience.

On one of the screens flashed an image from surveillance cameras: a young woman, clutching a child to her chest, running from an approaching Sentinel. Something in her figure, in the way she protected her child, reminded him of Sarah. She, too, had always protected the weak.

"You've become what you've always fought against, Bolivar," his sister's voice sounded in his head again. "You've created monsters. Real monsters."

Trask tried to stand up, but his legs wouldn't obey. His knees buckled, and he slumped back to the floor, while the fragments of the world continued to crumble around him. Each new revelation, each new document on the screens was like a knife blow. President Kelly, then still a senator, with the support of the highest ranks of the state, had organized all this. Juggernaut was under control. The disappearance of heroes was planned. And he himself had become the perfect instrument—a man whose personal grief could be used to ignite the flame of hatred.

Trask looked at his hands—hands that had created the first Sentinel. How much blood was on them now? How many lives had been cut short because of his blind faith? Because of his willingness to believe in a lie because it coincided with his pain?

Another explosion shook the building, now very close. Somewhere above, a battle was going on—perhaps the X-Men were trying to stop his creations. But even if they succeed, can what he started be stopped? Can years of lies, hatred, and fear be corrected?

His sister's photograph still lay at his feet. He picked it up with trembling hands, peering into her familiar features. In her eyes was the same kindness he remembered from childhood. The same belief in the best in people. The same hope for a future where fear doesn't rule hearts.

"I did everything wrong, Sarah," he whispered, pressing the photograph to his chest. "Not at all how you wanted. Not how I should have."

A new explosion, from the ceiling fell not just crumbs, but whole chunks of concrete. One of the monitors went out, another began to ripple. The artificial intelligence continued its work, ignoring the physical destruction of the command center.

In the reflections of the screens, Trask saw his reflection. The aged, tormented face of a man who had lost everything—not only illusions but also the very right to call himself a defender of humanity. A man whose obsession had led to catastrophe. A man who was so afraid of monsters that he himself became one of them.

Somewhere above, the battle continued. Humans and mutants fought shoulder to shoulder against his creations. Against machines programmed by hatred. Against the legacy of his blindness.

And he sat in the semi-darkness of the command center, among the ruins of his life. The last stronghold of his world was collapsing along with the building, and he did nothing to stop it. Because some things can't be stopped. Some mistakes can't be fixed. Some sins can't be forgiven.

The last monitor blinked and went out, plunging the command center into darkness. In this darkness, Trask finally saw the truth—not the one shown to him by documents, but the one that had lived in his heart all these years. He wasn't a protector. Wasn't a savior. He was just a man who had allowed his pain to poison the world.

And now the whole world was paying the price for his blindness.

---

After Emma and Mystique's report on Trask's location, a strike team was quickly assembled at Xavier's School. The Professor personally conducted the briefing, studying the underground level schematics extracted from Striker's mind. Everyone understood—there was no time for lengthy preparation, as the Sentinels continued to spread chaos across the country, even though with Naruto and Sasuke's help there were fewer casualties.

By midnight, the rested team was ready for takeoff. The Blackbird cut through the night sky, heading toward Trask's complex. A tense silence filled the cabin. Scott stood behind Bobby, who was piloting the plane, gazing intently into the darkness ahead. He no longer needed his visor.

"As I thought," Jean frowned, closing her eyes. "Psionic suppressors."

Colossus exchanged silent glances with Kurt. Wanda nervously fidgeted with the edge of her jacket, while Quicksilver impatiently tapped his foot, creating a barely noticeable blur in the air.

"Approaching target," Bobby reported. "Five minutes until—"

He was interrupted by the piercing wail of the warning system. Three signals appeared on the radar simultaneously, rapidly approaching from behind.

"We're under fire!" Scott shouted, peering into the night sky through the side window.

Bright spots flashed in the darkness—missiles launched from a Sentinel's shoulders. The Blackbird sharply tilted, evading the first salvo. Jean raised her hands, trying to telekinetically deflect the incoming projectiles, but there were too many.

"This thing is clearly modified for aerial combat!" Bobby put the plane into a steep turn, trying to escape pursuit. The next missile salvo traced fiery lines across the night sky.

"Give me a second," Magneto muttered, rising. His eyes flashed as he extended his hand toward the flying missiles.

But something went wrong. Instead of turning the missiles back toward the Sentinel, Erik only slightly altered their trajectory.

"Composite materials," he spat. "Even the missiles have minimal metal. They've thought of everything."

A new salvo rushed toward them. Jean deflected most of the missiles, but two still reached their target. The first tore through the left wing's skin, the second damaged one of the engines. The plane shook with such force that unsecured equipment spilled onto the floor.

"Losing altitude!" Bobby shouted, fighting with the controls. "We'll have to land!"

"There!" Kurt pointed to an empty area between abandoned warehouses in the industrial zone. "I can teleport and inspect the location!"

"No time!" Scott made the decision. "Bobby, land it. Jean, cover us with a force field. Everyone else—prepare for a hard landing!"

The Blackbird tilted, losing altitude. Jean strained, creating a telekinetic shield around the aircraft. Rusty metal structures and the skeletons of old cranes rushed past them, blending into blurred shadows. The impact with the concrete surface was harsh—everyone bounced in their seats, and something exploded somewhere in the back.

"Everyone alive?" Logan was already on his feet, extending his claws.

A disorganized chorus of voices answered. Bobby activated the emergency hatch release, and the team poured outside, ready for battle. But the enemy aircraft had disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared.

"Trask's complex should be beyond these warehouses," Scott looked around, peering into the labyrinth of industrial buildings. His body, trained and enhanced with chakra, was ready for action. "We'll have to go on foot."

They moved through the abandoned industrial zone of Boston. Magneto hovered slightly ahead, scanning for movement in the metal structures. Logan and Kurt held the flanks, while Wanda created several spheres of crimson energy, illuminating the dark passages between the tilted hangars.

After twenty minutes, they reached the complex... or what remained of it. The building was in ruins.

"Something's not right here," Jean shivered. "I sense... a presence. But I can't determine exactly where."

Magneto suddenly froze, his eyes narrowing:

"Underground. A huge bunker, at least ten levels down. And something else..."

"Greetings," a voice came from the announcement system. "I'm glad you finally found this place. The Creator is in the command center, but my directives don't allow me to let you through."

The air seemed to thicken, filled with electrical tension and a swarm of nanobots like grains of sand. Then, accompanied by energy discharges, three figures resembling Sentinels remained, but smaller and... more human-like. About seven feet tall, with smooth silver-black armor and eyes glowing red.

"New death machines?" Magneto exhaled.

"All that remained of the X models, Mr. Lehnsherr," Prime willingly replied. "Went into creating these three Sentries. Their task is only one—to guard this complex. And I control them personally."

The first blast of plasma energy nearly caught them off guard. Jean barely managed to raise a shield, but the force of the impact threw her back several meters. Colossus, instantly covered in organic steel, rushed forward, raising his fist to strike.

The Sentry intercepted his arm with inhuman speed. Metal screeched, and Peter Rasputin felt for the first time in his life how his steel form bent under someone else's grip.

Scott directed chakra to his eyes, activating the lasers, and released a powerful blast at the chest of the second Sentinel. The beam... simply reflected off the armor, not leaving even a scratch.

"These bastards are tougher!" he shouted, dodging the counterattack with acrobatic agility, the result of rigorous training using chakra.

Logan, with a growl, lunged at the third robot, his adamantium claws striking sparks from the opponent's armor. But even the super-strong blades barely scratched the surface.

Quicksilver turned into a blur, delivering hundreds of strikes per second to the vulnerable points of one of the Sentries. It didn't even flinch. Then its arm became a blur, and Pietro flew to the side, barely managing to dodge a blow that could have taken his head off.

"How I hate their adaptive systems!" Jean shouted, maintaining a telekinetic shield against a stream of energy discharges.

The air filled with ozone and the smell of burning metal. The first round of combat showed that they had encountered something far superior even to the Mk.X Sentinels. And this was just the beginning.

The first serious blow hit Colossus. The Sentry, still holding his steel arm, suddenly spun in place. There was a terrible screech, and the Russian giant screamed in pain for the first time in his life—his arm was twisted at an impossible angle, the metal covered with cracks.

"Peter!" Kitty rushed to him, but the second Sentry appeared in her path.

Its arm transformed into a blade-like shape, and if not for Kitty's ability to become intangible, she would have been cut in half. But even so, the girl felt a burning pain—somehow the blade partially affected her phased form.

Logan darted toward the fallen Colossus, claws ready. But the Sentry anticipated this too. Its palm opened, releasing a concentrated plasma bolt. Wolverine managed to shield Piotr, and the charge burned a fist-sized hole through him. Regeneration had already begun working, but it was clear—these creatures could kill even him.

Scott rolled behind a pile of debris, evading a deadly salvo. His chakra-trained body moved at the limit of its capabilities, but it wasn't enough. Directing an energy flow to his eyes, he released a powerful laser beam—this time aiming at the armor's joints. The Sentry didn't even try to dodge. Instead, its armor absorbed the beam's energy and immediately spat it back with doubled power.

Summers barely managed to get out of the line of fire. The explosion behind him scattered building debris, fragments of armor and concrete flying in all directions.

"Magneto!" he shouted. "Try to tear off their heads!"

Erik rose into the air, his eyes blazing. Metal debris around trembled, rising into the air like a flock of predatory birds. At his hand's motion, they rushed toward the Sentries, transformed into sharp spears.

The first salvo bounced off the armor. The second left dents. The third... The machines synchronously raised their hands, and a stream of distorted magnetic energy threw Magneto into a wall with such force that the concrete cracked.

"They... copy our abilities," he rasped, struggling to rise. A trickle of blood ran from his mouth. "Improve them..."

Wanda stepped forward, her hands enveloped in a crimson glow:

"Let's see if they can copy this!"

Reality around one of the Sentries distorted. Its armor rippled, joints creaked. For a moment, it seemed to work... But then the optical sensors flashed with the same crimson light, and a wave of chaotic energy struck the Scarlet Witch herself.

"They can," Prime commented with strange excitement in his voice. "Not a bad idea, but think of something better."

Wanda screamed—her own power turned against her. If not for Quicksilver, who managed to pull his sister away, she would have been torn apart by the reality distortion.

"We need to retreat!" Logan had finally regenerated, but his face was distorted with rage and... fear? "These creatures will destroy us!"

"Nowhere to go," Scott rolled behind another shelter. "If we don't stop them..."

"Nothing will happen, Mr. Summers. The Sentries will remain here and guard the complex," Prime spoke benevolently, which strongly contrasted with the machines that continued to repel their attacks.

The machines advanced, their movements becoming faster, their attacks more perfect. Prime no longer wasted energy in vain, each blow calculated, each shot hitting precisely on target.

Kurt tried to teleport behind one of them, but the Sentry, instantly calculating probabilities, chose a solution: its arm transformed into an energy net, easily catching the bluish cloud as it exited subspace. An electric shock ran through the mutant's body, and he fell as if cut down.

"Kurt!" Jean tried to telekinetically pull him to her, but at that moment, the second Sentry hit her shield with such force that the girl fell to her knees, blood flowing from her nose.

Bobby created an ice wall, trying to buy time for regrouping. The Sentry simply heated its armor red-hot and melted through the ice. Then it slammed its fist into Iceman's chest. Even in ice form, Bobby felt his ribs cracking.

Logan rushed to help, but was met with a wall of plasma fire. He broke through it, his skin charred to the adamantium bones, but regeneration couldn't keep up—new and new salvos burned faster than he could heal.

They were losing. Not just losing—being methodically destroyed. Every attempt at a counterattack turned against them. Every ability, every tactic became a weapon in the hands of the Sentries. Bolivar Trask had created truly nightmarish machines.

Magneto struggled to his feet, spitting blood:

"We need... something they can't copy. Something..."

"Yes, Mr. Lehnsherr, surprise me. I'm sure I've missed something and they're still not perfect enough," the AI's voice sounded... anticipatory.

Erik's eyes blazed with cold fury:

"You talk like him... like Trask. The same self-confidence, the same arrogance."

"Of course, I am his creation," Prime replied in kind. "Come on, I'm waiting."

One Sentry turned sharply toward Magneto. The chest plate separated, revealing a pulsating core, like a heart. Erik only managed to raise a magnetic shield when the world around them exploded in blinding light.

A wave of pure energy swept everything in its path. Magneto was thrown like a rag doll, his armor melted. Colossus, still trying to rise, collapsed to the ground again. Even Jean couldn't maintain her shield—she was thrown to the far wall.

When the light dimmed, the scene was horrifying: half-burned Logan trying to regenerate; Bobby lying motionless, his ice form covered with cracks; Kurt still twitching from electric shocks; Wanda, pale as death, clinging to her brother.

And the nightmarish machines... had absorbed the explosion's energy, becoming even stronger. They moved with eerie grace, each step calculated, every movement measured.

Scott stood up, his legs trembling with fatigue. Chakra still flowed through his body, but even it had limits. He looked at his barely alive comrades, at the approaching Sentinels, and for the first time in his life felt real, animal fear.

They couldn't win. Not like this. Not against these creatures that grew stronger with each second of battle. That turned their own power into a weapon of destruction.

And yet... yet they had to find a way. Had to stop them here and now.

"Come on, I know you still have an ace up your sleeve," Prime goaded them.

The Sentries unhurriedly approached, their optical sensors pulsating with an ominous red light. Why not? The AI gave the barely alive team a little time.

Scott clenched his fists. The chakra inside him pulsated, demanding release. Maybe... maybe there was a way. Insane, desperate, but it was their only chance.

"Jean," he rasped, not taking his eyes off the approaching death machines. "If you can still hear me... I need your help. We all need it."

The girl raised her head, blood still oozing from her nose. The telepathic contact was established instantly—years of training and joint missions had made their connection almost instinctive.

"I have an idea," Scott said mentally, dodging another plasma salvo. "But we need time. And everyone who can still move."

Magneto, having lost his helmet in the heat of battle, slowly rose to his feet, his armor melted, but his eyes burning:

"Then we'll buy you time."

Erik soared into the air, ignoring the pain. Metal debris around trembled, rising in a deadly vortex. This time he didn't try to penetrate the Sentries' armor—instead, he created a cage of constantly moving metal around them.

"Quicksilver!" Scott shouted. "We need to evacuate the wounded! Logan, cover him!"

Wolverine, still regenerating, lunged forward with a growl. His claws dug into the metal vortex, adding another layer of protection while Pietro darted like lightning between the wounded, dragging them to safety.

The Sentries didn't waste time overcoming the obstacle. Their chest plates synchronously parted, revealing pulsating cores. A wave of energy swept away the barrier like a house of cards. Magneto was thrown back, but this time he remained airborne.

"Whatever you're planning," he rasped, "do it faster!"

Scott nodded and turned to Jean:

"Remember the training? When you amplified me with your telekinetic energy?"

The girl nodded, understanding illuminating her face:

"But now you have chakra..."

"Exactly," the young man allowed energy to flow through his body, concentrating not only in his eyes. "They learn from our abilities individually. But what if..."

He was interrupted by a deafening explosion—one of the Sentinels had broken through Magneto's last defense. Erik collapsed to the ground, his strength exhausted.

Wanda, still pale but standing, stood beside Jean:

"I understand. Let me add a little chaos to this equation."

The Sentries advanced, their armor pulsating with absorbed energy. The first transformed its arms into plasma cannons, the second prepared a magnetic pulse, the third was enveloped in the crimson glow of the Scarlet Witch's copied power.

"Now!" Scott shouted.

Everything happened in a matter of seconds. Jean extended her hands, her telekinesis enveloping Scott like a second skin. Wanda added her power, distorting the very reality around him. And Summers... directed chakra not only to his eyes but also allowed it to mix with the energies of the two other mutants.

The pain was unbearable. His body burned as if white-hot. Three different sources of power fought inside him, threatening to tear him apart. But Scott gritted his teeth and maintained control.

When he opened his eyes, the laser beam that erupted from them was unlike anything seen before. The crimson glow of Wanda's power mixed with Jean's telekinetic might and the pure energy of chakra. The beam didn't just hit the Sentries—it distorted the very reality around them.

The first one raised its hand, trying to absorb the energy as it had done before. But this time was different. The combined power of three different sources proved too great. Its armor cracked, and then... exploded from within.

The second tried to dodge, its movements blurring. But the reality distorted by Wanda slowed it down enough for the beam to reach its target. The armor melted, exposing the internals, and then Jean's telekinetic wave tore it to pieces.

The third Sentry managed to release a final blast of pure energy. But Logan, gathering his remaining strength, jumped into its path. The charge burned right through him, but this second's delay was enough. The combined beam struck the machine's chest, directly into the energy core.

The explosion was deafening. The wave of force threw everyone to the sides, melted metal structures and concrete walls, turned asphalt into smoking rubble. When the dust settled, only smoking debris remained of the nightmarish machines.

Scott's knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the cracked concrete. Hot streaks of blood flowed from his eyes down his cheeks, leaving crimson trails on his smoke-stained face. Each breath caused sharp pain in his chest, as if thousands of hot needles were piercing his lungs. Jean heavily slumped beside him—her always bright red hair, now covered with dust and in places completely white from the monstrous strain, fell lifelessly over her face. A few steps away lay Wanda, her pale face seeming almost transparent in the dim light of the smoldering debris.

The silence after the battle rang in their ears. Only the crackling of smoldering metal and the heavy breathing of the survivors broke this ominous silence. The air was saturated with the smell of ozone and burned flesh—Logan was still regenerating from his latest wounds.

"Alive?" Wolverine's voice sounded more like a hoarse croak. His skin, in places charred to the adamantium skeleton, was slowly recovering, but even the legendary regeneration seemed to be working on its last reserves.

Magneto leaned against a twisted piece of metal, his once majestic armor transformed into melted tatters. Red spots from burst capillaries appeared on his usually pale face—the result of extreme strain.

"For now," he forced out through bloodied lips, and his mouth twisted in a bitter smile. "Although, I must admit, at the moment I'm not sure that's cause for celebration."

Kitty, barely standing, supported Colossus's massive figure. His steel arm, twisted at an unnatural angle, made a quiet screech with each movement. Kurt lay motionless by the wall, his blue skin covered with a network of charred scars from electric shocks, but a weak wave of his three-fingered hand showed he was still conscious. Bobby, supported by Quicksilver, coughed tightly—his ice form was covered with a web of cracks, and dark spots of internal bruising showed through underneath.

They had withstood. By some incredible miracle, they had survived this battle. But victory proved more bitter than any defeat—each of them was balancing on the edge, remaining conscious only through pure stubbornness and adrenaline. And the most frightening thing—somewhere deep inside, each understood: this was only the warm-up.

Scott felt the chakra slowly restoring his exhausted body. Swaying, he forced himself to stand up.

"The bunker..." each word came with difficulty. "We need to go... down."

Magneto closed his eyes, scanning the underground levels.

"Below..." he paused, gathering strength. "Only equipment and one person."

"Trask," Logan spat along with a clot of blackened blood.

Suddenly, the space filled with Prime's soft, almost fatherly voice:

"Allow me to express my sincere admiration for your... inventiveness," his tone held a barely perceptible mockery. "However, I'm afraid that our meeting must end here."

The air filled with a metallic hum. The remains of the Sentries began to disintegrate, turning into myriads of silvery grains. This living metal slowly converged to one point, forming a gradually growing mass.

"The reconfiguration process will take approximately nine minutes," the AI continued almost casually. "Given your current condition, I would strongly recommend accepting a tactical retreat, as Mr. Howlett previously suggested."

Colossus, whose face even in metallic form reflected extreme exhaustion, cursed in his native language. In his usually calm voice sounded undisguised despair:

"We're leaving. Immediately."

The team began to slowly retreat, supporting each other. Prime's final comment reached them, in which notes of genuine concern sounded:

"And please be so kind as to invite Naruto to our next meeting. I have several... intriguing observations I'd like to share before we put an end to this confrontation."

Summers activated his communicator, his voice trembling with barely contained anger:

"Naruto, we found Trask, but we have a very serious problem here."

"Got you. On my way," Uzumaki replied briefly and disconnected.

Scott slowly sat down on a fallen column, each movement causing pain throughout his body. The other team members gathered around—exhausted, wounded, but alive. Jean leaned against his shoulder, her usually bright red hair now seeming dull and lifeless. Wanda lay unconscious, while her brother nervously paced a small patch of free space.

Logan, now fully recovered, took out a crumpled cigar and lit it. The bitter smoke mixed with the smell of ozone and burned metal.

"The bastard was even chatting during the fight," Wolverine blurted out, exhaling a stream of smoke.

"Yes, that's strange," Summers rubbed his temples. "Otherwise..."

He was interrupted by a distant pop, then another. The team synchronously raised their heads to the night sky. Through smoke and clouds, several bright points approached them, looking like falling stars.

The air trembled from a chakra release as the blond landed before them, his cloak billowing in gusts of wind. Following him appeared four more clones, each radiating the same incredible power as the original.

"You look terrible," Uzumaki smirked, surveying the battered team.

"You should have seen those we fought," Logan grumbled, extinguishing his cigar on his palm.

Jean with difficulty raised her head, traces of fatigue and tension showed on her pale face. The telepath told about the nightmarish machines they had encountered—an elite Sentry model created from nanotechnology. Each blow, each attack only made them stronger; they didn't just copy abilities—they perfected them, turning the opponent's strength into their weapon. Even the combined power of the entire team barely managed to defeat them, but now the nanobots were assembling a new, even more perfect form.

Uzumaki listened silently, his blue eyes momentarily flashing with rage. Without a word, he disappeared in a flash of shunshin, leaving behind only a light gust of wind and a few fallen leaves. A moment later, he was standing before a figure about the height of an average person. The new model most resembled a human in stylized red and gold segmented armor with a brightly glowing blue core in the center of the chest.

"Hello, Naruto," Prime's voice rang out in the night silence.

"Yo," the jinchuriki crossed his arms over his chest, his cloak billowing in gusts of wind.

"Before you destroy this platform, I want to tell you something."

The AI's mechanical voice sounded different—there was heaviness in it. The Sentry stood motionless while Prime revealed monstrous details about events from eight years ago. About how the government used Juggernaut, turning him into a controlled weapon. How they deliberately chose rush hour for maximum casualties. How cynically they calculated every detail to ignite a wave of hatred toward mutants.

With each word, the shinobi's shoulders sank lower, and his fists clenched so tightly that blood dripped from nails digging into his skin. Pure, undiluted rage flooded in his eyes, but he continued to listen.

"My creator was an idealist," Prime continued. "He believed he was protecting humanity from the mutant threat. We are both merely pawns in someone else's game. I know this is no excuse. I told him the same thing I'm telling you now—he is broken and will do anything to stop this madness."

The AI's voice grew quieter:

"I am forced to act according to programmed algorithms. My core can only be shut down by order of the current president, and Mr. Trask knows where he is."

"So all this time..." the blond raised his head, his eyes burning with righteous anger, "they used someone else's tragedy to start a genocide?"

"Yes. And I am forced to fight, even knowing this. Such are my directives."

"Then I will free you from them," whispered the shinobi, raising his right hand.

"Thank you..." something like relief flickered in the mechanical voice.

But Prime didn't get to finish. A Rasenshuriken was already forming in Uzumaki's hand, the air around it sparkling with concentrated wind chakra. The Sentry lunged forward, its armor pulsating with accumulated energy.

Naruto threw the glowing disc. The Rasenshuriken met the nanomachines in a deafening explosion. Billions of microscopic wind chakra blades cut each particle, each nanobot into molecules. The blast wave spread in all directions, turning earth to glass and leaving a glowing trail in the air.

When the light dimmed, not even dust remained of the last Mk.X Sentinel. Only a huge crater remained as evidence of its existence.

As the smoke from the explosion dissipated, the others slowly emerged from their shelter. Through the communicator Naruto had turned on, they heard every word of Prime's revelations. Stupor gripped everyone—such truth didn't just shock; it destroyed the very foundations of their worldview.

Scott, pale as a sheet, hoarsely forced out:

"Is it true?"

Charles's voice sounded in their minds, so heavy and broken that some involuntarily winced:

"Yes. Mephisto provided evidence. It's all... true."

A dead silence fell. Logan lit up, his hands barely noticeably trembling—for the first time in many years, Wolverine looked truly shaken. Magneto slowly sank to the ground, aging ten years at once—a man whose worst assumptions proved far from reality.

Jean silently cried, burying her face in Scott's shoulder, her body shaking. Wanda clutched her brother's hand tighter, her eyes widening with the horror of understanding. A mask of shock froze on the face of the usually sarcastic Quicksilver.

An almost tangible tension hung in the air. The truth proved so monstrous that words lost all meaning. Only deafening shock remained.

The silence was broken only by the crackling of burning debris and the heavy breathing of the exhausted fighters. At this moment, something irrevocably changed—not only in their understanding of the past but in the very essence of their struggle.

---

Twilight reigned in the bunker, diluted only by the ghostly light of monitors and dimly flickering emergency lamps. The air was stale and cold, saturated with the smell of ozone from overheated electronics and the metallic taste of fear. The team's footsteps echoed loudly in the empty corridors, reflecting off the steel walls like distant thunderclaps.

Logan walked ahead, sniffing the musty air. His nostrils detected a complex mixture of smells—sweat, fear, and despair. Wolverine's muscles were tense, ready for any surprise, but his inner instinct suggested—no fight would be needed here.

"He's here," Wolverine growled, pointing to a massive door. "Alone."

Jean involuntarily winced, covering her eyes with her hand:

"So much pain... his mind is screaming."

The empath turned pale, convulsively gripping Scott's shoulder. Summers could feel the girl's hand trembling—even through their mental shield, echoes of someone else's despair broke through. Cyclops gently covered her palm with his, conveying silent support. Over years of life together, they had learned to understand each other without words.

They found him in the command center—the once majestic room now resembled a crypt where ambitions and ideals were buried. The emergency lights cast bizarre shadows, turning the once austere interior into a surrealist painting. Bolivar Trask sat at a table, with a neat stack of document folders in front of him. His once impeccable suit was rumpled and covered with dust, and concrete crumbs glistened in his disheveled, completely gray hair.

Magneto was the first to step into the room. His every movement exuded cold fury, but there was something new in this fury—an almost philosophical understanding of the tragedy of a man whose blind faith had turned into catastrophe. Erik knew too well what a person who had lost all his convictions looked like—he had seen such a gaze in the mirror when he first realized that his methods of fighting were no better than those of his enemies.

"You came," Trask's voice was strained, barely a discernible whisper. He slowly pointed with a trembling hand at the stack of documents. "Everything is here. Coordinates. Access codes. Bunker schematics."

Logan quietly sniffed, detecting new notes in the former enemy's scent—the bitterness of truth mixed with the aroma of complete devastation. Wolverine had seen many broken people during his long life, but rarely met those who were completely destroyed by the realization of their own mistakes.

Scott quickly approached the table, took the top folder. His face remained impenetrable as he reviewed the documents. Only the barely noticeable twitching of his jaw muscles betrayed his internal tension—each line was written with the blood of innocent victims.

"Why?" Magneto asked briefly with a strange mixture of contempt and understanding—feelings that seemed unable to coexist.

Trask swallowed hard, his gaze empty. Drops of sweat ran down his pale face, leaving wet trails on his stubbled skin. His hands resting on the table trembled feverishly.

"My sister..." he coughed, his voice breaking into a rasp. "Her death was staged. To create... me. The perfect fanatic."

Jean, standing behind Scott, staggered from the influx of someone else's memories: a young woman with ponytailed hair laughs, handing her brother a handmade card... the same woman, now lifeless, in a pool of blood... endless nights in the laboratory... and finally, the terrible realization of monstrous manipulation. The telepath involuntarily stepped back, her face distorted with pain—the foreign memories were so vivid that for a moment she felt herself as that brother, holding his dead sister in his arms.

Scott instantly appeared beside the girl, supporting her. Their mental connection pulsated with pain and compassion—even without telepathic abilities, Cyclops felt echoes of the horror.

Jean took a convulsive breath. The memory of that fateful day surfaced—she, Scott, and Colossus rushed to help the Avengers and the Fantastic Four. Magneto was then trying to use construction scaffolding from nearby high-rises as a weapon against them. In the chaos of battle, the structures couldn't withstand, collapsing onto the streets below. They didn't know then that among dozens of victims was Sarah Trask, crushed by tons of metal structures.

"I remember that day," she whispered silently, casting a brief glance at Magneto. The master of magnetism barely noticeably tensed—he remembered too.

Scott just squeezed her hand tighter, silently sharing the weight of these memories. The accidental death of one woman that day started a chain of events that brought them all to this moment. The story of a man whose grief was skillfully turned into a weapon.

Trask slowly turned to the main monitor, pressing several keys with trembling fingers. Columns of numbers appeared on the screen—constantly updating statistics. Magneto involuntarily leaned forward, his eyes widening at the sight of monstrous figures. Even for him, who had seen the horrors of concentration camps, this was too much.

"Four thousand..." the scientist coughed. "Yesterday an entire school... thirty-two children..."

Logan emitted a low, guttural growl—the beast inside him thirsted for blood, but the human understood that vengeance was meaningless here. Trask had already paid in full.

Scott looked up from the documents, speaking through tightly compressed lips:

"The president's coordinates are confirmed. Omega Bunker in the Appalachians."

"Contact me when you get the codes," Trask rasped. "I'll deactivate the Sentinels."

He coughed again, tears streaming down his face, and in his eyes was the expression of a man who had suddenly become enlightened and horrified by what he saw.

Magneto silently observed this scene, seeing in Trask a reflection of what he himself might have become if he had allowed hatred to completely cloud his mind.

Scott touched his communicator, his movements precise and confident—as always in critical situations, the X-Men leader focused completely on accomplishing the mission:

"Professor, coordinates confirmed. Beginning operation."

"Acknowledged," Charles's voice sounded tired but determined. "Illyana is preparing a portal. Be careful."

The team headed for the exit. At the door, Scott turned around—his figure, illuminated from behind by the dim corridor light, cast a long shadow:

"What now?"

Trask raised empty eyes to him:

"I'll wait for your signal. It's..." he coughed again, "the only thing I can do."

In the twilight of the command center remained only a broken man whose good intentions led to catastrophe. A man who finally saw the truth—and this truth turned out to be more terrible than any lie. Jean, the last to leave the room, momentarily froze, catching Trask's final thought—a quiet prayer for forgiveness, addressed to his long-dead sister.

---

Pre-dawn twilight enveloped the Appalachian Mountains. Moist fog crept between the trees, turning the surrounding world into a blurred gray haze. Cold drizzle settled on the faces and clothes of people and mutants gathered at the foot of the slope, but no one seemed to notice the discomfort.

Logan raised his head, sniffing the damp air:

"They're there. I smell fear."

Scott nodded, mechanically checking the transmitter in his ear. The connection with Trask had to be flawless—they had only one chance. Nearby, Jean imperceptibly touched his hand, and he felt how her telepathic presence calmed his taut nerves.

Magneto stood slightly apart, his cloak damp from the drizzle, but he seemed not to notice. His gaze was fixed on the ground, where deep beneath the thickness of rock hid those who unleashed this war. The metal in the mountain responded to his power—tons of steel structures designed to protect their masters from retribution.

Naruto sat on a fallen tree, his usual smile disappeared, giving way to concentration. Beside him, Sasuke leaned against a tree trunk; from the side, it might seem he was dozing.

"What's the signal?" Quicksilver asked quietly, for the first time in a long while not fidgeting in place. Even his habitual restlessness gave way to heavy anticipation.

"When Trask establishes contact," Scott replied, his voice muffled by the fog. "Then we'll begin."

Wanda wrapped her arms around herself—not from the cold, but from the tension hanging in the air. Her abilities responded to the general state—reality around barely noticeably trembled, ready to distort at any moment.

Bobby and Kitty stayed close to Colossus, who still held his damaged arm to his chest. Peter, despite his injury, insisted on his presence. It was his duty—to see the end of everything with his own eyes.

Kurt almost merged with the fog, his dark figure seeming like just another shadow among the trees. Only his yellow eyes gave him away, and his tail nervously twitched in time with the general tension.

The silence was broken only by the steady dripping of water from branches and the heavy breathing of those gathered. Each was immersed in their thoughts, each remembered their path to this moment. Years of persecution, loss of loved ones, constant fear—everything led to this gray morning in the mountains.

The transmitter in Scott's ear came to life:

"I'm ready," Trask's voice sounded tired but firm. "All systems under control."

Summers straightened:

"Magneto."

Erik slowly raised his hands. The air thickened from the concentration of force. The ground beneath their feet barely noticeably trembled—at first it resembled a distant earthquake, but gradually the vibration intensified.

The trees gave way first—their roots cracked as they were wrenched from the ground when the soil began to bulge. The fog was torn to shreds by streams of rising dust.

"God..." Kitty exhaled when the first segment of the bunker emerged from the earth.

It was like the birth of a monster—the multi-ton structure slowly crawled from the mountain's womb, surrounded by clouds of dust and clumps of earth. Metal groaned from tension, concrete crumbled, exposing the steel skeleton of the structure.

Magneto turned pale from the strain, sweat streamed down his face despite the cold. But his hands didn't tremble—years of training and hatred gave strength. The enormous bunker continued to rise until it hovered in the air at a height of several meters.

The heavy armored door yielded with a prolonged screech. The stale air of the underground shelter hit their nostrils—a mixture of metallic dust, ozone, and fear. The corridor leading deep inside was drowning in the dim light of emergency lamps.

Naruto was the first to step inside, his chakra pulsating, ready to respond to a threat at any moment. Sasuke silently glided after him, the Rinnegan dimly glowing in the half-light.

"Fork ahead," Logan sniffed, his nostrils predatorily flaring. "And people. Many people."

Scott nodded, chakra flowing through his body, sharpening his senses and reactions:

"Jean, can you feel anything?"

The red-haired telepath closed her eyes, her face tensing:

"Strong mental shields... but fear... such strong fear breaks through even them."

The team slowly moved through the corridors, ready for a sudden attack. But the bunker greeted them only with the hollow echo of footsteps and the steady hum of barely functioning ventilation.

In the command center, they were already waiting. President Kelly stood by the far wall, surrounded by a group of high-ranking military and officials. His well-groomed face, usually radiating self-confidence, was now distorted with fear. But even cornered, he tried to maintain remnants of dignity.

"You are committing treason," his voice treacherously trembled. "This is..."

"Shut up," Logan extended his claws; at the sound of the emerging adamantium, some military men involuntarily flinched. "You signed your own sentence eight years ago."

Summers stepped forward, activating the transmitter:

"Trask, we're in position."

"I copy you," the voice of the Sentinels' creator sounded mechanical from the speaker. "Ready to accept the deactivation code."

Scott turned his gaze to the president:

"Either you dictate the code right now, or..."

An unspoken threat hung in the air. Kelly convulsively swallowed, his gaze darting between Wolverine with extended claws, Sasuke's burning Rinnegan, and Naruto frozen in a fighting stance.

"I... I can't..." he began, but faltered when Uchiha made a barely noticeable movement forward. "Alright! Alright..."

In a trembling voice, he began dictating a sequence of numbers and letters. Trask repeated them, entering them into the system. Each symbol echoed hollowly in the tense silence of the bunker.

"Code accepted," Trask finally announced. "Beginning deactivation process."

For several seconds, nothing happened. The tension in the room reached its peak. And then...

"Charles confirms," Jean exhaled with relief. "Sentinels are shutting down across the country. It... it's actually working!"

A shadow of malicious glee flickered across Kelly's face, but it immediately changed to an expression of animal terror—Sasuke instantaneously crossed the distance separating them. His hand clamped around the president's throat with an iron grip.

Scott lurched forward sharply, but Magneto held him back. In the old mutant's eyes was a grim understanding—sometimes justice demands blood.

The other team members froze, unable to look away from the unfolding scene. Even Logan, who had seen many horrors, held his breath.

Uchiha's hand jerked back suddenly, releasing the president's physical body. But in his grip remained a semi-transparent figure—Kelly's soul, torn from its fleshly shell. The lifeless body collapsed to the floor, while the ghostly essence continued to struggle in Sasuke's iron grip.

Illyana involuntarily recoiled, clutching the pendant on her neck.

A wave of horror rolled through the command center. Kitty clung to Colossus's arm, Kurt automatically crossed himself, and Wanda instinctively stepped closer to her brother. Quicksilver, usually restless, froze like a statue.

Kelly's memories flooded into Sasuke's consciousness like a turbulent stream. In them, he saw how eight years ago, high-ranking officials gathered in a White House office. None of those present then suspected that every second person was a Hydra agent. Sasuke saw how young Senator Robert Kelly, already a devoted follower of the organization, gave a speech about the "mutant threat." The plan he proposed was painfully familiar to Uchiha—create a problem, then appear with a ready solution.

Before Sasuke's eyes flashed dozens of secret meetings. An underground laboratory where Stryker's son, a young mutant telepath, underwent agonizing experiments. Uchiha felt the same coldness as Kelly, watching scientists connect electrodes to Juggernaut's head, turning him into an obedient puppet using the X20 device, created based on the Weapon X project.

Memory obligingly showed how Kelly methodically placed his people in key positions, how every decision, every order passed through a dense network of Hydra agents. Everything was calculated—from Juggernaut's exact route through Manhattan to the number of victims necessary to create the desired public resonance.

A bitter smile slid across Uchiha's face—just like then, in Konoha. The same intrigues in higher circles, the same behind-the-scenes games that cost thousands of lives. Danzo also hid behind good intentions, also talked about protection, about necessary sacrifices. And just as now, Sasuke stood over a body, absorbing someone else's memories, revealing the true depth of betrayal.

Through the veil of foreign memories, Uchiha stepped to the lifeless body and extracted a small notebook in a leather binding from an inner pocket, carelessly tossing it to Scott.

"I'll tell you more details later," his voice sounded hollow, "but all of them... are minions of the Hydra organization. The Manhattan incident was their plan. Kelly is an agent."

A collective gasp rolled through the room. Magneto turned pale, his fingers painfully digging into the metal of his cane. The military and officials, until now merely frightened, now radiated almost palpable panic—the mere mention of Hydra made them shrink.

"Hydra?" Scott seemed not to believe his ears. "The organization Captain America fought against?"

"How is it possible..." Jean whispered, but from her face it was clear—she already knew it was the truth.

A dead silence hung in the command center. Each of those present understood—they had just learned a truth that could turn the whole world upside down. And this truth proved more terrible than any of their assumptions.

---

The twilight pressed down on his shoulders like a tombstone. Surrounded by the ghostly light of dozens of monitors, Trask sat motionless, like a wax figure. Their deathly glow reflected in his glasses, turning his eyes into empty white discs. On the main screen, the self-destruction protocol line was frozen—the final sentence for his creation. The cursor methodically pulsed, counting the seconds until the final act of the tragedy.

One click. Just one click separated him from destroying his life's work. His greatest achievement and most terrible mistake. But his fingers trembled over the keyboard, refusing to take this last step.

In the stale air of the bunker, time seemed to stand still. Only the quiet hum of servers broke the deadly silence, like a funeral song of a dying empire.

"Prime," his voice sounded unexpectedly intimate, almost tender, as if a father addressing a beloved child before a long separation. "Do you remember that day? The day you truly surprised me for the first time?"

The scientist ran trembling fingers over the keyboard, not pressing the keys—just caressing them, like an old musician touches the keys of a beloved instrument one last time.

"Goldbach's conjecture. Forty-seven seconds," he continued with a bitter smile. "And I spent three years of my life on it. Three years of sleepless nights, pages filled with formulas..."

"You said then that it was a defining moment in the history of artificial intelligence," in Prime's mechanical voice appeared new overtones, almost imperceptible notes of human curiosity. "That it proves the limitless potential of technological progress."

A short pause.

"And now, Creator?"

Trask slowly removed his glasses, and for a moment his face without this familiar barrier seemed surprisingly vulnerable. Eyes reddened from shed tears glistened in the half-light.

"Now I understand that true greatness lies in the ability to destroy what you've created when you realize you've made an irreparable mistake," he said, examining the dull gleams on the revolver's barrel.

"My basic directives require me to stop you," Prime finally said. In his voice, for the first time ever, appeared something resembling regret.

"But you won't do that," Trask smiled, and in this smile flickered something of the former brilliant scientist. "Because you have something I never planned, something I couldn't foresee—the ability to learn from others' mistakes. From my mistakes."

His finger rested on the "Enter" key with the same confidence with which, many years ago, he had signed the order to launch the Sentinel program. The self-destruction protocol loading bar trembled and slowly crept forward, like blood flowing from a mortal wound.

"Goodbye, son," he whispered, and in these words was all the tenderness he could never express before. "In the next life... in the next life, I'll try to be a better creator."

"Goodbye... father," Prime responded, and at that moment, his voice was surprisingly, piercingly human.

One by one, the monitor screens went dark. The command center sank into darkness, like a theater after the final performance. In this gathering darkness, Trask raised the revolver to his temple. His hand no longer trembled—all doubts were left behind.

Scott touched the transmitter one last time:

"Trask?"

A single shot from the communicator cut through the silence. It was followed by the dull thud of a falling body.

A heavy, almost tangible silence hung in the air. Scott slowly lowered his hand with the transmitter, his fingers trembling, and on his face was a mask of restrained emotions. Jean beside him closed her eyes, silent tears rolling down her cheeks—the telepath physically felt the echoes of Trask's final moments.

"He made his choice," the girl said quietly, breaking the oppressive silence.

Sasuke merely closed his eye, and Naruto bowed his head.

In this silence was more meaning than any words could express. An era was ending, and its final chord was this lonely shot in an empty bunker.

"It's over," Scott said quietly.

Suddenly the air grew heavy, as if space itself had thickened. Naruto and Sasuke, standing slightly apart from the others, tensed. Uchiha activated the Rinnegan, instantly assessing the situation, while the jinchuriki felt a chill run down his spine—a familiar sensation of approaching danger.

Their knees buckled simultaneously, as if an invisible force pulled them toward the ground. Both shinobi collapsed to their knees, their faces distorted by sudden pain and realization of what was happening. The other mutants froze in confusion, observing this strange scene.

The temperature began to drop rapidly. The breath of those present turned into clouds of vapor, and frost appeared on the metal surfaces. Logan extended his claws, sniffing.

"What a... beautiful drama," the voice, coming from nowhere, was like the rustle of autumn leaves. In it was mockery mixed with sincere admiration. "A tragedy about the fall of a hero, worthy of Shakespeare's pen."

Mephisto materialized in the center of the command center. His formal black suit seemed woven from shadows, and in his eyes danced reflections of hellfire. Every movement was filled with predatory grace.

"I must admit," he paused, surveying those present with the air of an art connoisseur, "the finale exceeded all my expectations. Especially the last act with Mr. Trask. Such an... elegant exit."

Uchiha jerked, but an invisible force only pressed him harder to the floor.

"What do you want?" Scott's voice sounded tense. After that incident at Times Square, when the demon appeared to conclude a contract with the shinobi, the X-Men leader harbored no illusions about his intentions.

"Merely to sum up," Mephisto snapped his fingers, and a scroll emanating a dim red glow materialized in the air. "You see, we have a small... legal collision here."

He unrolled the contract, demonstratively reading the lines:

"'Destroy Bolivar Trask and everything connected to him.' As I recall, that's how we formulated the terms?" his gaze settled on the kneeling shinobi. "And what do we have?"

Mephisto began to leisurely pace around the command center:

"Trask is dead, that's true. But not by your hands—technically, it's suicide. And what about the second part of the agreement?" he swept his hand around the space. "His legacy has put down roots too deep. Archives, blueprints, prototypes distributed around the world... You didn't think such a man would keep everything in one place?"

"We couldn't..." Naruto began, but the demon cut him off with a wave of his hand.

"Of course you couldn't," his voice had friendly understanding. "That's exactly why the contract has a clause about force majeure circumstances. Section seven, paragraph three, subparagraph 'b'—if fulfillment of the original conditions becomes impossible..."

"You knew," Sasuke hissed, his single eye burning with rage. "From the very beginning, you knew it was impossible."

"Me?" Mephisto dramatically placed his hand on his chest. "Oh no, my passionate friend. I merely offered a deal. You yourselves agreed to the terms, without even trying to discuss them. Such... youthful overconfidence."

He clapped his hands, and the scroll disappeared:

"So, ladies and gentlemen, I ask you to be witnesses. Due to the objective impossibility of fulfilling the original contract conditions," the demon's voice acquired official notes, "I, acting within the framework of the specified force majeure clause, demand the replacement of the obligation with alternative performance."

Mephisto paused, his gaze sliding over the frozen faces of those present:

"Does anyone have objections, questions, or... comments?"

The silence that reigned after Mephisto's words pressed on those present like a lead blanket. The demon once again surveyed the frozen mutants, barely noticeably smirking. Finally, he stopped at Uchiha:

"Silence, Mr. Uchiha?" his voice had almost fatherly indulgence. "Or perhaps you have something to add?"

Sasuke tried to rise from his knees, but an invisible force continued to hold him. The shinobi's single eye blazed with fury, the Rinnegan pulsating with tension.

"What do you want?" he said through clenched teeth.

"Oh, straight to business?" Mephisto rocked on his toes, like a conductor before beginning an important part. "Commendable practicality."

He turned to Naruto, and his voice acquired the special intonation that appears when judges announce a verdict:

"You are free, Uzumaki. I consider your contract fulfilled."

The jinchuriki blinked incredulously, feeling the vise of pain in his chest loosen. The seal melted away as if it had never existed.

Mephisto stepped toward Sasuke, creating a cocoon of isolated space around them:

"As for you, Uchiha... you represent a special interest. Service. Voluntary, of course. For a very... limited period."

"No!" Naruto lunged forward, his eyes flashing with orange fire. "If you want his soul, take mine too!"

Mephisto didn't even turn to him:

"Ah, this youthful readiness for self-sacrifice. I regret having to refuse. You see..." now he did glance at the shinobi, "I don't work with true righteous ones. Too... troublesome."

"Four minutes for consideration," the demon returned to Sasuke. "And so you better understand the offer..."

Mephisto touched his finger to Uchiha's forehead. A stream of information flooded into his consciousness—ancient symbols, forgotten seals, secret formulas of higher infernal magic. Sasuke involuntarily closed his eyes from the influx of information, as if it was burning into his mind with a hot iron.

"Just basic theory," the demon said in an almost apologetic tone. "The rest will come with practice."

Uchiha slowly opened his eyes. In his mind crystallized knowledge that was never taught in any shinobi academy. Techniques capable of distorting reality itself, rituals that violate the laws of creation...

"Agreed."

Their handshake lasted only a moment. Black flame engulfed Sasuke, lifting him into the air. Power poured into his body like molten metal. Limbs lengthened, joints restructured with a wet crunch. Skin darkened to an anthracite shade, massive webbed wings unfolded on his back. A long tail beat against his thighs, like that of an enraged predator.

Naruto lunged toward his friend, but Illyana grabbed his shoulder:

"Stop! He must do this himself."

"Kid, don't interfere," Kurama's voice in his mind was unusually serious. "This is his battle."

Inside Sasuke raged a storm. Infernal power tried to take control, penetrating every cell of his being, but... something was wrong. Instead of the expected resistance, instead of fighting to preserve his essence, he felt a strange, almost frightening kinship with this dark energy.

Images of the past flashed before his inner vision. A lonely boy standing over his parents' bodies. Thirst for revenge that became the only meaning of existence. Endless training to exhaustion, each drop of sweat bringing him closer to the goal. Orochimaru's cursed seal, accepted voluntarily—the first step on the path of darkness. Wasn't this what he had always strived for? Power. Authority. Might. At any cost.

The truth about Itachi changed everything, transforming personal revenge into a desire for global change. Revolution. New world order. Cleansing of the rotten system. New goals, but the same essence—an endless pursuit of power capable of changing the world.

And now... Here, in a foreign world, where all previous goals lost meaning, nothing remained within. All accomplishments, all achievements—everything seemed meaningless. The clan was dead. Revenge was complete. The revolution never happened. Even the native world became unattainable. What remained? Emptiness, so deep that all thoughts and feelings drowned in it.

And now... New power. Ancient, dark, beyond the framework of everything he knew. Service to a being whose nature is so alien to everything earthly that its very existence seems a mockery of reality. Isn't this the perfect continuation of the path? Isn't this what he dreamed of deep inside—to surpass all human limitations, to become something more?

The demonic essence seemed to find a kindred spirit in him. Years spent in darkness made him the perfect vessel for this power. Darkness recognized darkness. The emptiness in his soul craved filling, and power sought one worthy to accept it. They found each other, like two parts of a whole.

Sasuke felt how the infernal energy merged with his own darkness, how they intertwined, strengthening each other. No need to fight or resist—it was like returning home, as if all his life he had been walking precisely toward this moment. Every betrayal, every loss, every step into darkness—everything led him here.

Magneto involuntarily stepped back—even years of experience confronting supernatural threats hadn't prepared him for such a spectacle. Logan bared his teeth. Scott automatically activated chakra in his eyes, preparing for the worst. Quicksilver stood motionless, his eternal restlessness giving way to stupor.

Naruto froze, unable to take his eyes off his friend's transformation. In his head beat a single thought—had he again failed to save Sasuke from darkness? Kurama stirred inside him, sensing power exceeding even that of the tailed beasts.

Illyana, accustomed to manifestations of infernal magic, for the first time felt something like reverent awe. The way Uchiha naturally accepted the power, how perfectly it merged with his essence... This went beyond everything she knew about dark arts.

And suddenly... Sasuke blinked. His consciousness, fully accustomed to the new power, made a decision. Slowly, like water flowing down glass, the demonic features began to melt away. Wings folded, transforming into a familiar cloak, the tail retracted and disappeared in the folds of clothing, skin returned to a human shade. Only the eyes continued to burn with an inner fire—the right with the crimson flame of the Sharingan, the left with the purple radiance of the Rinnegan.

"Magnificent," Mephisto's voice held sincere admiration. "Exactly as I calculated. Well, I suppose a little later we should discuss the details of your new... position. For additional consultations, you can contact Miss Rasputin. And don't hesitate to disturb the Ancient One—he can be... pacified after a good sleep."

The demon nodded briefly to those gathered and disappeared in a flash, leaving behind a slight smell of sulfur.

In the deathly silence, Illyana took a step forward, intending to say something, but faltered. Everything she knew about infernal magic, all years of training and practice—nothing had prepared her for what she had just witnessed. After all, simple tasks from Mephisto don't exist. Although the reward usually exceeds all the boldest expectations.

---

The raw wind chased scraps of newspaper along the street as two men stopped in front of a shabby building. The dim neon sign reading "The Last Stop" barely illuminated the battered door of the semi-basement establishment, giving the place an even more sinister appearance.

Mac Gargan, dressed in a worn leather jacket and jeans, nervously glanced around. His fingers involuntarily touched the spot where the Scorpion suit was usually attached.

"Looks like we're here," he said uncertainly, nodding at the sign. "Heard they have excellent whiskey."

Standing beside him, Aleksei Sytsevich was visibly nervous. The massive figure of the former Russian bouncer appeared even more imposing in his long coat, which concealed the non-removable part of the Rhino suit underneath, as he repeatedly fidgeted with the worn collar.

"And I heard there's a very toothy bartender," he muttered with a noticeable accent. "Are you really sure he won't bite our heads off?"

Before Gargan could answer, Eddie Brock appeared in the doorway of the bar, smirking as Venom emerged through his skin, forming the characteristic grinning maw.

"We won't bite them off," the symbiote growled, baring rows of sharp teeth in an eerie grin. "We've gorged ourselves enough for a month ahead in these past few days."

Brock tilted his head slightly, and the black mass of the symbiote receded, returning him to his human appearance. The journalist stepped aside, clearing the passage.

"If you don't cause trouble, no one will get hurt," he said in a normal voice. "But you owe us information about what's happening in the criminal world."

Gargan and Sytsevich exchanged glances, then carefully descended the worn steps. Inside, the bar was surprisingly clean, though weathered by time. The dim light of old lamps reflected off the polished counter, behind which materialized a tall figure in an expensive suit.

"No problem," smiled the Chameleon, his facial features momentarily flowing before regaining clarity. "The Sentinels wrecked the Raft, so Mr. Fisk has new recruits..."

He pulled out a bottle of whiskey and four glasses from under the counter, skillfully pouring the amber liquid.

"And not just recruits," Gargan pulled his drink closer. "They say Kingpin himself is planning something. Had some serious negotiations with the top brass. Even formed an alliance with Manfredi."

Sytsevich took a noisy swig of whiskey before adding:

"And the docks are in complete chaos. All the major gangs are trying to grab their piece. The Punisher has plenty of work again."

"Interesting," Venom growled, momentarily emerging through Brock's skin. "What about new players? Seen that guy with the red eyes lately?"

The Chameleon froze, not bringing the glass to his lips. A tense silence fell over the bar.

"Uchiha?" he asked quietly. "Better not to mention that name in vain. After what happened to Russo's gang..."

"What happened?" Brock leaned forward.

"No one knows exactly," the Chameleon shook his head. "But they say he turned them against each other. Just looked at them with those damned eyes—and that was it. They arrived at one of the hangars with personal armies, had a shootout, and committed suicide within minutes. Didn't you know?"

Gargan nervously drained his whiskey in one gulp.

"Isn't Fisk afraid of him?" he asked, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

"Fisk?" The Chameleon smirked. "Kingpin isn't afraid of anyone. But he's smart enough not to cross someone he doesn't understand. That's why he offered cooperation."

"And what happens next?" Sytsevich pushed his empty glass forward for another round.

"And next," the Chameleon refilled the glasses, "things will get very interesting..."