Logan lunged forward, his muscles tensing as he leaped over the first Humvee, bullets whizzing past him in a storm of lead. The SAW operator tracked him, squeezing the trigger as another burst of automatic fire tore into Logan’s torso.

The 5.56mm rounds had more stopping power than the 9mm pistol rounds he had shrugged off earlier. His body jerked mid-air as the bullets ripped into him, leaving smoking entry wounds in his flesh.

But Logan just gritted his teeth, his growl turning into a snarling battle cry.

He landed hard on the armored transport vehicle, his boots slamming against the reinforced steel plating. The SAW gunner, eyes wide, barely had time to react before Logan lunged at him.

With a feral snarl, Logan’s adamantium claws drove straight through the man’s chest.

A wet, sickening shlickt echoed through the convoy.

The gunner gasped, his breath catching as his body seized, his hands twitching uselessly around the mounted weapon. Logan didn’t let go—he lifted the man high above his head, impaled like a ragdoll on cold metal.

The soldier choked, blood frothing from his lips. His eyes darted wildly, locking onto Logan’s snarling face.

Logan’s lips curled into a grim sneer.

"Any last words, bub?"

The soldier’s jaw clenched. His face twisted in pain and fury, his voice a rasping snarl.

"Fuck you, mutie."

Logan tilted his head, letting out a short, humorless chuckle.

"Poetic."

With one brutal swipe, Logan’s right-hand claws tore through the man’s gut, ripping him open from the navel up. His insides spilled out, intestines slopping onto the roof of the truck before gravity dragged them down, dangling over the side.

The dying man let out a final, wheezing breath before Logan unceremoniously dropped his body back down into the gunner’s hatch.

The corpse hit the interior of the vehicle with a wet thud, disappearing from view.

"LOGAN!"

Captain America’s voice cut through the chaos like a blade.

"STOP KILLING THESE PEOPLE!"

From the pursuing jeep, Steve watched the blood splatter across the top of the Humvee, his stomach twisting at the sight. His shield was in his grip, but right now, it felt heavier than ever.

Logan didn’t answer immediately.

He whirled around, eyes burning with savage rage, blood dripping from his claws.

But before he could fire back a response, Walker suddenly yanked the wheel.

"Cap, watch out!"

A second Humvee veered sharply to the right, cutting across lanes to flank them.

The turret on its roof swung toward the jeep, and in a split second, a burst of gunfire roared from its mounted M240B machine gun.

Steve reacted instantly, lifting his shield just as bullets hammered against the front windshield.

Glass exploded, shards raining inside the jeep.

Steve gritted his teeth, deflecting a spray of rounds before twisting his body and launching himself out of the jeep.

With calculated precision, he vaulted through the air, his shield leading the way as he landed directly onto the Humvee’s roof.

The gunner whipped around, bringing his weapon to bear, but Steve was already in motion.

He grabbed the gunner by the tactical vest, yanking him up and out of the hatch.

The man’s eyes widened as Steve held him suspended in the air for just a second, his grip tight. For the briefest moment, Steve hoped—hoped that the man wasn’t really part of this.

That maybe, just maybe, he was a real S.H.I.E.L.D. agent forced into a bad situation.

"I hope you’re not S.H.I.E.L.D.," Steve muttered.

The soldier’s face contorted into a sneer.

"Muties are all the same, Cap."

Steve’s heart sank.

"Goddamn it, soldier."

He didn’t hesitate. His fist slammed into the man’s jaw, sending shockwaves through his skull.

The gunner reeled, his body going limp from the force of the blow.

But as his head lolled forward, he still managed a bloodied, defiant smirk.

"We’re protecting America, Cap."

Steve’s stomach tightened. His grip on the man’s tactical vest wavered for half a second.

"Don’t make me do this," Steve warned.

The man just laughed weakly, blood trickling from his busted lip.

"You are choosing the wrong side, Cap."

Steve closed his eyes for a fraction of a second.

Then, with grim determination, he knocked the man out cold with a second punch to the temple.

His unconscious body slumped against Steve’s grip.

Steve inhaled sharply, then exhaled, his face hardening.

With controlled effort, he turned and tossed the gunner’s limp body off the vehicle, sending him crashing onto Walker’s jeep.

The impact rocked the vehicle.

Walker glanced up at Steve through the shattered windshield.

"Couldn’t have thrown him down the road instead?" Walker smirked.

Steve shot him a deadpan glare.

"No time for jokes, Walker."

Walker sighed, his hands tightening on the wheel. "Ahem—yes, Cap."

Steve didn’t wait for a response.

He turned, lowering himself into the Humvee’s turret hatch.

Inside, the driver and two more agents turned in alarm.

Their hands snapped to their sidearms.

But Steve was faster.

He lunged forward, his shield raised, and slammed his forearm against the first soldier’s chest, sending him sprawling against the passenger door.

The second agent whipped out his rifle, but Steve twisted his body, gripping the barrel and forcing it upward just as the trigger was pulled.

BANG!

The shot ripped through the cabin, deafening everyone inside.

The sound rang like a bomb blast in the cramped quarters.

Steve gritted his teeth, shaking off the ringing in his ears. He had taken enough gunfire in his life to push through the temporary disorientation.

The agent wasn’t as lucky.

He was already groaning, clutching the side of his head as he reeled from the close-range gunfire.

Steve seized the moment.

With one swift motion, he grabbed the soldier by the collar, yanked him forward, and drove his fist hard into his gut.

The man wheezed, his pistol falling from his grasp as he collapsed onto the floor.

Steve’s eyes snapped to the driver.

The man was frozen, his hands still gripping the wheel.

For a second, they locked eyes.

The driver’s voice was barely above a whisper.

"Captain America?"

Steve nodded once.

"This is the wrong fight, son."

The driver’s face contorted with rage, his fingers tightening on the wheel.

His voice was filled with venom.

"Long live the League."

Steve’s expression darkened.

He didn’t hesitate.

His fist crashed into the man’s face, knocking him unconscious.

The driver slumped forward, his head resting against the wheel.

Steve exhaled sharply, shifting into the driver’s seat.

He grabbed the wheel, his mind racing as he tried to process just how deep this infiltration went.

Who the hell was really pulling the strings?

And how much of S.H.I.E.L.D. had already been compromised by anti-mutant radicals?

With a steadying breath, he pressed his foot onto the gas.

The Humvee surged forward, engines roaring.

The tires screeched as Captain America angled the Humvee into position, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. The armored transport truck ahead swerved, its reinforced frame grinding against the guardrails as it barreled forward, struggling to maintain control.

Steve’s expression was set in stone, his blue eyes locked onto his target.

"Walker!" he barked into the vehicle's radio, his voice sharp and commanding. "Get in position—PIT maneuver, now!"

From the other vehicle, John Walker’s voice crackled over the comm.

"Yeah, yeah, I got it, Cap."

Walker’s modified Jeep Wrangler gunned forward, its front bumper slamming into the rear of the transport truck at just the right angle. The vehicle jerked violently, its tires skidding against the asphalt as the metal screeched in protest.

Inside the truck, Logan grinned ferally, his gloved fingers tightening as he watched the chaos unfold.

"'Bout time, Rogers. Let's end this."

Before Steve could respond, Logan vaulted forward—his boots slamming against the turret hatch as he leaped from the Humvee.

"Logan!"

Steve’s voice was drowned out by the wind as the mutant soared through the air, his silhouette a dark blur against the rushing city lights.

Logan landed hard, his adamantium claws piercing through the roof of the transport truck. The metal groaned, buckling under his sheer strength.

"Hey, boys!" Logan snarled, his claws digging deeper. "Miss me?"

Inside the vehicle, the two drivers panicked.

"Oh, shit!" One of them reached for his sidearm, but Logan had already ripped open the roof with a savage swipe.

The driver barely had time to scream before Logan lunged inside.

His claws tore through Kevlar and flesh alike, and the cabin was immediately filled with the sound of guttural, wet gurgling as the first driver convulsed, blood gushing from his chest.

The second driver tried to draw his gun, but Logan grabbed his wrist mid-motion, his adamantium fingers crushing bone like paper.

"Tch. You shoulda known better, bub."

With a violent yank, Logan ripped the man’s arm from its socket, tossing it aside like trash.

The transport truck shuddered as its drivers twitched in their seats, life draining from their eyes. Their hands slipped from the steering wheel, and the vehicle lurched, its trajectory spiraling into chaos.

From behind, Captain America watched in horror as Logan dismantled the drivers in seconds.

"NO, LOGAN!"

The armored truck swerved, tires screeching, metal grinding against concrete barriers. Sparks erupted as the vehicle veered out of control, colliding against the side railings before flipping onto its side.

A thunderous crash shook the highway as the truck skidded to a brutal halt, smoke billowing from its crumpled remains.

Steve and Walker slammed on the brakes, their Humvees coming to a screeching stop just a few yards from the wreckage.

The moment Steve’s Humvee halted, he was out the door, his boots pounding against the asphalt.

Walker followed, adjusting his grip on his shield, his expression grim.

"Jesus Christ." Walker muttered, staring at the wreckage.

The truck’s side door was blown clean off, a jagged hole where Logan had ripped through it.

Smoke and dust clouded the air, mixing with the stench of gasoline.

From inside the wreckage, a deep, guttural growl echoed.

Then—movement.

A shadow emerged, stepping over the mangled corpses.

Logan.

His claws dripped with fresh blood, his breathing heavy, his yellow-and-black suit stained red.

He licked the blood off his knuckles, his eyes burning with something primal.

"Settle down, bub." Logan grinned darkly, rolling his shoulders. "I took care of it."

Steve’s jaw clenched. His fingers tightened around his shield.

"Logan." His voice was low, tense.

Logan simply stretched his arms, flexing his clawed fingers.

"What? You were takin’ too long."

Steve stepped forward, his blue eyes dark with frustration.

"You butchered them."

Logan’s grin didn’t waver.

"Yep."

Walker shifted uneasily, glancing between them.

"I hate to break up this little lovers’ quarrel, but we should check the damn cargo."

Steve exhaled sharply, forcing himself to focus.

He turned toward the transport wreckage.

The wreckage of the armored truck hissed and groaned, the scent of burnt rubber and gasoline lingering in the air. The thick plumes of smoke rising from the collapsed vehicle stung at the eyes, an acrid reminder of how quickly the situation had spiraled into chaos. The metal frame, once built for fortified security, was now a twisted ruin, its reinforced side doors peeled open like the shell of a crushed insect.

Captain America moved first, his steps measured, each bootfall echoing in the near-silent aftermath of the battle. His shield was slung across his back, the weight of responsibility heavier than the vibranium on his arm.

Behind him, Wolverine and USAgent followed.

Logan was still rolling his shoulders, the faint sound of his joints popping as his healing factor stitched up the bullet wounds he had tanked earlier. His uniform was torn and soaked in blood—mostly not his own—and his claws still glistened with fresh crimson. He didn't bother cleaning them. He just grinned slightly, the expression somewhere between satisfaction and a snarl.

USAgent, meanwhile, had his hand resting on his belt, his shield casually held at his side, but his posture was stiff. The events of the last few minutes hadn't sat right with him, but he wasn't about to start questioning Captain America. Not yet.

Then, in the distance, a figure appeared, moving fast.

Jean Grey.

She was flying, her long red hair streaming behind her as she descended with Cyclops held in her arms.

Steve barely had time to process their arrival before Jean landed, touching down softly a few feet from the wreckage. Scott Summers stepped out of her grasp, adjusting his visor with a practiced flick of his fingers.

The first thing Steve noticed was that Falcon wasn’t with them.

That meant the issue with the Mandroids was likely contained—otherwise, Scott and Jean wouldn’t have left. But it also meant Sam had stayed behind, possibly dealing with the fallout of the attack or making sure S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn’t trying anything else.

Steve inhaled slowly, exhaling through his nose.

It had been a long day.

Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

A very long day.

And he was too tired to antagonize the X-Men any further.

"You didn’t follow orders, Summers." Steve finally said, his voice neutral, but there was no real reprimand in his tone.

Cyclops stood firm, his arms crossed, his red visor flashing slightly in the setting sun.

"You didn’t order us not to come." Scott replied, his tone just as measured.

Steve sighed.

"Fair enough." He shook his head slightly, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Jean stepped forward, her emerald-green eyes flickering between the wreckage of the truck and the bloodied Logan, before settling on Steve.

"Did Falcon stay?" she asked, her voice soft but edged with concern.

"I ordered him to stay with Denti."

Jean nodded, but Steve could tell she wasn’t entirely satisfied with the answer.

There would be questions later. But for now, there was a more pressing issue.

The Leper Queen.

The whole group stood there now, gathered before the wrecked armored truck, their eyes fixed on the torn-open doors.

Jean swallowed hard. She could already feel the remnants of psychic pain lingering in the air, the echo of suffering and madness still clinging to the site like a ghost.

Wolverine sniffed the air, his nose wrinkling slightly. "She's in there." His voice was gravelly, low, but certain.

Steve took another step closer, his jaw tightening.

The armored truck’s doors creaked as Captain America pulled them open, the hinges groaning under the strain of damage. The dim light from the setting sun cast a long, eerie shadow across the interior, revealing the woman standing inside.

Clara Page. The Leper Queen.

She stood motionless, her back pressed against the cold interior wall of the truck. Her prison uniform was torn, singed from the wreckage, revealing the burned, ruined skin beneath. Her eyes were vacant, hollow pools of grief buried beneath years of hatred, her once-proud posture reduced to something fragile—a woman who had lost everything.

But her voice remained sharp.

"You're going back with us, Page." Captain America’s tone was firm, but not unkind. His expression was unreadable—no anger, no pity. Just the duty-bound certainty of a man who had seen too many endings like this.

She let out a quiet breath, slow and heavy.

"And spend my life in jail?" she asked, voice hoarse. "In ridicule?"

There was no defiance in her words, no venom—just exhaustion. The weight of too many losses, too many failures, hung on every syllable.

Cyclops stepped forward, his red visor reflecting the light from the burning wreckage. "You caused enough damage, Page," he said. "It’s time you pay for it."

But before he could say more, Jean reached out, placing a gentle hand on his arm. She stepped past him, her expression pained but understanding.

"Clara," Jean’s voice was softer, more pleading. "Please, this won’t change anything. You need to be strong. For them… They won’t—"

She hesitated.

She didn’t finish the sentence.

Because she already knew the answer.

And so did Clara Page.

A bitter, broken smile flickered across the Leper Queen’s scarred lips, her eyes welling with tears, but her posture remaining rigid, unmoving.

"Come back?" Clara finished for her.

Jean fell silent.

Even Wolverine, who had been standing at the ready, his claws half-drawn, muscles coiled with barely-contained aggression, paused.

Because in that moment, there was no need to fight.

There was nothing to fight against.

Clara nodded, her face set in resignation. "Yes," she whispered, more to herself than to anyone else.

"You're right."

A single tear trailed down her cheek, disappearing into the burned creases of her face.

"It doesn't matter."

And then she moved.

Before anyone could react, she reached into her tattered uniform with her remaining hand.

A pistol.

Captain America’s eyes widened, his body already in motion, but he was too far.

"Clara!" Jean gasped, reaching out with her telekinesis, but hesitating—because a part of her already knew.

Nothing could stop this.

Nothing.

Clara’s grip tightened.

Wolverine lunged.

But it was too late.

With haunting calm, Clara pressed the barrel of the pistol against her chin.

"Nothing really matters."

She pulled the trigger.

BANG!

The gunshot tore through the stillness, a deafening crack that reverberated through the ruined convoy.

A fine mist of blood and bone sprayed against the metal walls of the truck as Clara’s body crumpled, her legs giving out as she slumped onto the cold floor.

The echo of the shot faded into silence.

For a long, terrible moment, no one moved.

Even Wolverine—who had seen death more times than he could count, who had been the hand of death himself—stood rigid, his claws still half-drawn, his breath coming slow and ragged.

Jean staggered back, her hands trembling, her mind overwhelmed with the final, devastating flash of emotion that had radiated from Clara in her last second of life.

Despair.

Relief.

Acceptance.

Cyclops stood frozen, his posture locked in place, his fists clenched so tightly that his gloves groaned under the pressure.

USAgent took a step forward, his jaw clenched, eyes unreadable beneath his helmet, but his lower face revealed discomfort.

Captain America was the first to move.

He walked toward the truck, his steps deliberate, but his expression gave nothing away.

He crouched beside Clara’s body, looking down at what was left of the woman who had, for so long, been an enemy.

Now, she was just another casualty.

Just another name on a long, long list of the dead.

The blood pooled beneath her head, spreading outward in dark rivulets across the cold steel floor.

Steve reached down, his gloved fingers brushing against her wrist, checking for a pulse.

There was none.

Slowly, he exhaled.

Then he reached up, brushing his hand over Clara’s eyes, closing them.

A moment passed.

Then another.

And then, finally, Steve Rogers spoke, his voice low and somber.

"I hope she can finally rest."

Jean turned away, pressing her hands to her face, her body shaking with silent grief.

Cyclops remained stone-faced, though his shoulders tensed.

Wolverine merely stood there, silent, before finally retracting his claws with a quiet snikt.

There was nothing left to fight.

Nothing left to fix.

Nothing left to save.

Just a broken woman who had lost everything—and had chosen the only escape she saw fit.

Captain America stood, glancing over the group, his eyes landing on Jean.

"She was hurting, Cap." Jean’s voice was quiet, trembling. "More than we ever knew. She—" Jean stopped herself, shaking her head, unable to finish.

Steve swallowed hard.

"I know."

Wolverine’s voice was low, bitter.

"Damn waste."

No one argued.

Because he was right.

It was a waste.

Clara Page had been twisted by grief, her mind warped by hatred and suffering. But in the end, all that rage had collapsed in on itself, leaving only emptiness.

And now, she was just another ghost.

Another name etched into the never-ending war between mutants and humans.

Captain America looked down one last time, his jaw tight, his fists clenched at his sides.

Then, finally, he exhaled.

"Let’s go."

The air was heavy, thick with the stench of gunpowder and blood, as the dust settled around the wreckage of the convoy.

And then, from the skies, she appeared.

A silhouette against the sun, descending with effortless grace, the fading embers of her cosmic energy still flickering at her fingertips.

Carol Danvers. Captain Marvel.

Her yellow-glowing eyes flickered back to blue as her boots touched the cracked asphalt. The tension in the air was already unbearable, but her arrival only added fuel to the fire.

She barely took a moment to glance at the wreckage before her gaze settled on the one man who had always stood as her equal in leadership and principle.

Captain America.

"Captain." Her voice was calm, measured.

Steve turned, his blue eyes hard, his jaw tight. He didn’t speak right away.

Carol’s gaze swept over the scene, her expression shifting as she took it all in—the bullet-riddled vehicles, the still-smoking wreckage, the bodies, and then…

The truck.

And what lay inside.

Her features softened, barely, the casual confidence she always carried faltering for just a second.

She exhaled. "Colonel, you're late," Steve finally said, his voice low but carrying an edge sharper than his shield.

"Too late."

"I was having lunch with Simon, I—" Carol hesitated, her words feeling hollow, useless. She glanced around, finally understanding what had transpired.

She met Steve’s gaze again, her voice softer now, carrying the weight of genuine regret.

"I'm sorry, Captain. I really am. I shouldn't have been late. I promised you—"

"It's fine, Carol."

His tone was flat, but his eyes betrayed him.

It wasn’t fine.

It was anything but fine.

Carol could tell, and it stung.

Before another word could be spoken, the sound of screeching tires cut through the air.

A black SUV.

Behind it, D.C. police cruisers, their sirens flashing, their arrival bringing even more weight to an already impossible situation.

And then he stepped out.

Nick Fury.

Dressed in his signature dark trench coat, his expression unreadable, but his body tense with barely contained fury.

But as his one good eye swept across the carnage before him, something flickered—not just anger, but something dangerously close to horror.

His jaw clenched. His gloved hand trembled slightly as he brushed his fingers through the white streaks of his dark hair.

And then—he snapped.

"No. No, no, no. This is a joke. This has to be a joke."

He took a staggering step forward, his breathing rapid, unsteady.

"Fuck! Right under my backyard!" His voice almost trembly.

Then his one eye locked onto Rogers.

With absolute rage.

Fury marched forward, moving with purpose, with anger, until he was inches away from Steve’s face.

"Rogers, I told you. I knew it." His voice dropped into something far more dangerous than shouting—a deadly, controlled growl.

"This was a terrible idea. Bringing the mutants here? Involving them in this mess? It was a goddamn disaster waiting to happen!"

Steve’s expression didn’t waver, but something darkened in his gaze.

"This is not their fault."

Fury’s face twisted with frustration, his hand curling into a tight fist at his side.

"MY ASS, STEVE!" Fury roared, stepping even closer, his face just inches from Captain America’s.

"This is a fucking nightmare! S.H.I.E.L.D. was compromised! They breached the fucking HQ!" Fury jabbed a finger into Steve’s chest, his voice hoarse with fury.

"Do you understand what this means?!"

Steve didn’t even blink.

"Enlighten me, Fury."

Fury’s nostrils flared as he ran a shaky hand down his face.

"It means, we’re all fucked, Rogers. You fucked me over. I failed my directives, and you—"

His voice hitched with frustration. "You fucked everything, Steve. I told you bringing the merry mutant band would get us burned. And now look. Look!"

He gestured wildly at the wreckage, the bodies, the gunfire still being extinguished in the distance.

"How do you expect me to clean this up?! Huh?! How do you expect me to explain to the goddamn President and the Congress that my organization let terrorists operate under my own fucking nose?! That I let the X-Men inside a S.H.I.E.L.D facility and they brought hell with them!"

And then—a new voice cut through.

One far rougher. Lower. Darker.

"Why don’t ya say that to my face, Fury."

Fury’s gaze snapped sideways.

Wolverine stepped forward, his clawed fists clenched, his eyes narrowed into slits, his entire posture screaming violence.

The air thickened with tension.

For a second, it seemed like Fury might actually take the challenge.

But then, Carol moved.

A glow of golden light flickered around her body as she stepped forward, positioning herself between Wolverine and Fury.

Her voice was calm, but unyielding.

"You’ve caused enough trouble, X-Man. Please, let us deal with this."

Wolverine’s sharp, dangerous grin spread across his face, his claws glinting under the evening sun.

"Step out of my way, lady."

Carol’s eyes flickered yellow again, her hands sparking with barely-contained energy.

"Or what?"

Her tone was low, dangerous.

The air crackled between them.

Another voice.

This time, colder.

"Or what, Captain Marvel?"

Carol’s eyes snapped sideways.

Cyclops.

His arms crossed, his visor gleaming ominously, his posture unshaken.

For the first time, Jean didn’t intervene.

For the first time, she didn’t try to calm him down.

Because, for the first time—

She didn't want to.

And that made all the difference.

The air grew heavier.

The tension became suffocating.

Fury’s gaze darted between Wolverine and Cyclops, then back to Captain America.

Carol didn’t flinch.

Wolverine didn’t move.

Cyclops stood his ground.

And in the middle of it all Captain America stood still, watching as the line between heroes blurred, as the cracks between mutant and human alliances deepened.

As the divide grew wider than ever before.

This was a powder keg.

And it was about to explode.

Every word, every glare, every clenched fist only added more fuel to the fire.

Carol’s eyes burned into Cyclops, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her golden glow still flickering faintly beneath her skin.

"You X-Men always want to be right, don’t you?" she bit out, her voice sharp, almost a snarl.

Scott didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.

"Look who’s talkin’, Danvers," Wolverine growled, stepping forward, his knuckles tight, his claws half-drawn, gleaming in the light.

Carol’s jaw tightened.

"I’m not the one always ready to go to war over every goddamn thing, Logan."

Wolverine grinned, but there was nothing friendly in it. His body was coiled like a predator ready to pounce.

"Nah. You’re the one always ready to punch a problem ‘til it stops movin’."

Fury’s patience snapped.

"That’s it! You’re banned."

His voice cut through the noise, as sharp as any blade.

"None of you X-Men are ever setting foot in S.H.I.E.L.D. again, do you understand? Especially you, Howlett."

Logan tilted his head, mocking.

"Oh, I’m real broken up about that, Nick. Lemme just go cry about it in my beer."

Fury took a step forward, his boots hitting the pavement hard.

"You used to be a better man, Howlett."

Logan’s eyes narrowed, his nostrils flaring.

"Oh yeah? When was that, bub? When the government suits controlled me? When I was just a weapon?"

Fury didn’t hesitate.

"Yes."

The words hit like a bullet to the gut.

For a long moment, nobody spoke.

And then—

SNIKT.

Logan’s claws fully extended, shining inches from Fury’s face.

"I’ll show ya a goddamn weapon, you dirty goon sellout piece of—"

Cyclops and Jean lunged at him, grabbing his arms, yanking him back before he could close the gap.

"Logan, stop!" Jean’s voice was urgent, desperate.

"Enough, Logan!" Scott snapped, his grip tight.

Carol hadn’t moved an inch.

She just watched. Waiting. Ready.

Her glow grew brighter, just enough to show that if Logan went for Fury, she’d intervene in a heartbeat.

It was a standoff.

And Steve Rogers?

Steve Rogers stood in the middle of it all, the pressure pounding against his skull, the faintest edge of a headache creeping into his temples.

His fingers found the bridge of his nose, pinching it between gloved fingertips.

He needed to think.

The weight of it all—S.H.I.E.L.D. compromised. The attack. Denti. The Leper Queen. The X-Men. The Avengers. The goddamn politics of it all.

His mind was a battlefield, and for the first time in years, it felt like he was losing ground.

A mission was supposed to end with clarity. With answers.

But all this gave him was more chaos.

More divisions.

More rage.

"Captain?" Carol’s voice broke through his thoughts.

He didn’t answer right away.

"Nothin’ to say, soldier boy?" Wolverine pushed, his voice low, biting.

"Steve."

Fury’s tone was demanding now.

Waiting for an answer.

Waiting for judgment.

Steve exhaled sharply. His fists clenched. His lungs felt tight.

He was about to speak when another voice cut in.

"Stop with this crap."

It was sharp. Angry. Unexpected.

"You pieces of shit."

The group froze.

They all turned—

And saw John Walker.

USAgent.

He stood beside the wreckage, his stance tense, his gloved hands curling into fists, his face red with frustration.

He looked between all of them—Fury, Carol, Cyclops, Logan, Steve—his glare hard.

"Captain America is trying to do his goddamn best here, can't you see?!"

His voice rose, his frustration boiling over.

"Can’t a veteran have a goddamn second to think?!"

Silence.

For the first time, even Fury had nothing to say.

Steve lifted his head. His eyes met John’s.

And for once— He saw no rivalry. No bitterness. Just understanding.

Steve nodded once, his expression softening just slightly.

"Thank you, John."

Walker gave a curt nod, his arms still crossed tightly over his chest.

"No problem, Cap."

The air was still thick with tension, but the worst of the storm had passed.

The wreckage of the convoy lay behind them, a smoldering testament to the chaos that had unfolded, while the distant hum of sirens and the occasional crackle of distant S.H.I.E.L.D. comms filled the uneasy silence.

Steve Rogers took a measured step forward, his eyes locked onto Nick Fury, his voice firm but calm.

"I’m sorry it had to come to this, Fury."

His tone wasn’t apologetic in the way a defeated man would sound—it carried a weight of responsibility, a man who bore the burden of command and regretted the consequences of the choices made.

He lifted a gloved hand, pointing lightly at Fury, not in accusation, but in understanding.

"Whatever happens with you and S.H.I.E.L.D., know that you have my help." His words were clear, steady. "You’re overworked, and you’re doing the best you can with the assets you have. I see that."

Fury’s shoulders loosened ever so slightly. The anger, the fire that had been blazing in his single eye, diminished just a fraction. His arms crossed, and he let out a long exhale, his lips tightening into a thin line.

For a moment, just a brief one, he looked like a man exhausted by too many battles, too many knives in the dark, too many compromises that never seemed to pay off.

But then—he nodded, once, sharply.

A silent acknowledgment.

Steve turned his attention to Carol Danvers.

"Carol, we Avengers have a responsibility." His tone didn’t waver, carrying the full weight of his experience, of the expectations placed upon them all.

"We have a duty to do the best we can for the people we serve. That means protecting the world—the people of America. Mutants and humans alike."

Carol held his gaze, her golden glow flickering before fading entirely. She exhaled slowly, then placed her hands behind her back, standing at attention.

"I understand that, sir."

Her voice was measured, respectful, but there was a tinge of regret in it—the kind that came from realizing an error.

She straightened her posture, squaring her shoulders.

"My apologies."

Steve studied her for a moment, then gave a small nod.

"You’re forgiven."

Simple. Direct. Final.

Carol said nothing more, but Steve could tell that her mind was still working through everything—the tensions, the missteps, the emotions.

Then—he turned to the X-Men.

He knew what came next wouldn’t be easy.

His eyes swept across the team. Scott. Jean. Logan. Each of them standing in different states of emotion—Cyclops, guarded, arms crossed; Jean, quietly contemplative, her expression a mixture of exhaustion and deep thought; Logan, tense, restrained only because the people around him held him back.

"It’s hard being a mutant."

The words came carefully, not as a platitude, but as a genuine acknowledgment.

"I won’t take that away from any of you."

Logan snorted quietly, his arms still tense at his sides.

"Damn right."

Steve continued.

"I want to help. I really do."

Cyclops narrowed his gaze slightly, clearly expecting a ‘but.’

And it came.

"But things aren’t always simple." Steve exhaled sharply. "Not the way I wish they were."

His expression remained steady, but there was a flicker of something deeper in his blue eyes—regret. Frustration. A soldier who wished the world was kinder than it was.

"Understand that this is the way to bring systemic change to the issues we face."

There was a pause.

Then—Logan scoffed, shaking his head.

"Two wrongs don’t make a right, Rogers. Denti should be dead, and ya know it."

Steve stiffened just slightly, but before he could answer, Cyclops spoke next.

"There were promises made, Captain."

A reminder.

A challenge.

Steve nodded once. "I promise to honor them."

Scott’s jaw remained tight, his fingers twitching slightly at his sides.

Then, finally—he exhaled, closing his eyes briefly.

"We understand your commitment, and we’re grateful, Captain. But…"

He opened his eyes, his gaze steady, firm.

"But we all need a moment to take this decision in. We weren’t asked. We weren’t consulted. Or even acknowledged."

There was no venom in his voice. Only truth.

"And that’s how we’ve felt for far too long."

Jean nodded subtly, a flicker of sadness in her expression.

Steve didn’t argue.

Didn’t push back.

Instead—he nodded.

"I apologize for that."

Another beat of silence.

Scott sighed.

"We’ll talk in Westchester."

He glanced at Jean, who nodded in agreement.

"There’s more we need to know first."

Steve gave a small nod of understanding.

"That would be wise."

USAgent stepped forward.

His boots thudded against the pavement, his stance still casual, but his words?

Sharper than before.

"I don’t like you X-Men types."

Logan’s head snapped up immediately, his fists twitching again, but John kept talking.

"But if Cap stands with you, that’s something you wanna keep, not throw away."

Scott’s expression didn’t change.

Jean stayed silent.

But Logan?

He let out a rough exhale, his jaw tightening.

Steve turned toward Walker, his expression softening just slightly.

He took a step closer, walking up to him, his voice lowering slightly.

"Thank you, John."

Walker held his ground, but there was no challenge in his stance now.

Only understanding.

"I’m sorry I’ve been harsh on you before."

There was a pause.

Steve’s next words were calm, deliberate.

"You’re doing what you can for our nation."

His voice wasn’t dismissive. It wasn’t condescending.

It was genuine.

"Even if I don’t always agree."

John nodded once, slowly.

His eyes flicked toward the wreckage, then back to Steve.

"I never stopped believing in you, sir."

He gave a faint smirk, one that was almost humorless, but not quite bitter either.

"But someone’s gotta do the dirty work."

His smirk faded into something harsher, something colder.

"Better be me than you."

Steve studied him for a moment, then gave a curt nod of appreciation.

He turned.

Back toward Fury.

Nick Fury was pacing now, his hands moving too much, his fingers twitching in agitation.

The man looked ready to burst, his one good eye darting between the wreckage, the X-Men, the Avengers.

His jaw worked.

His breath was short, sharp.

And when Steve approached, Fury finally stopped pacing, fixing him with an unreadable stare.

His lips curled into a deep scowl.

"This is FUBAR, Rogers."

The tension was still thick.

The wreckage still burned in the distance.

The wreckage of the convoy, the bodies strewn about, the scent of burnt rubber and gunpowder mixing with the distant sound of approaching sirens—it was all a grim reminder of how quickly things had spiraled.

Nick Fury stood rigid, his face partially shadowed by the fading light, his coat swaying slightly in the wind. His expression was unreadable, save for the tightness around his jaw and the flicker of stress behind his one good eye.

Steve Rogers turned to him, adjusting his stance, his hands briefly resting on his hips before crossing over his chest.

"Time will tell, Fury."

The words weren’t comforting. They weren’t reassuring. They were honest, a soldier’s answer—one that neither promised nor denied anything.

Fury let out a long exhale, dragging a hand down his face before pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Hope you're right, Steve." His voice was lower, rougher now, like he was speaking more to himself than to anyone else. "More than just my job hangs in the balance."

Steve nodded slowly.

He knew exactly what Fury meant.

This wasn’t just about a S.H.I.E.L.D. breach, or rogue agents, or even the ongoing war against anti-mutant extremism.

This was about trust.

And tonight had fractured what little remained between the Avengers, S.H.I.E.L.D., and the X-Men.

Steve turned away from Fury, giving him space as he reached up to the side of his helmet, tapping into his comms.

"Sam, come in. Do you copy?"

A brief crackle,

"Solid copy, over."

Steve exhaled. Good. At least something was going right.

"Is Denti secured?"

"Yeah. He’s fine. Still chained up, still breathing. Doesn’t seem happy about it, though." Sam’s voice held that familiar dry edge, the kind that usually accompanied his frustration at the moral compromises they always had to make.

Steve closed his eyes briefly, inhaling deeply before responding.

"The Leper Queen is dead."

The comm fell silent for a few seconds.

"What happened?" Sam’s voice was quieter now.

"She shot herself."

Another pause.

Steve could picture Sam on the other end, standing with his arms crossed, looking down with that contemplative expression he always had when he was processing something he couldn’t fix.

When Sam spoke again, his voice was softer.

"Poor woman..."

Steve felt his jaw tighten as he looked back toward the wreckage, his blue eyes lingering on the truck where Clara Page had made her final choice.

"She suffered. A lot." His voice was low, steady, but the weight behind it was unmistakable. "Maybe death brought her comfort."

"Maybe." Sam’s voice held a quiet sorrow, a regret for an enemy he never liked but still felt empathy for.

The wind blew cold against Steve’s face. The distant wails of police sirens grew louder. Somewhere behind him, Jean was still standing in silence, her gaze cast downward. Logan hadn’t moved. Scott’s hands remained clenched at his sides.

They were all still processing what had happened.

Sam’s voice came back through the comms, this time more resolute.

"What next?"

Steve turned his back on the wreckage, squaring his shoulders.

"I'll question some of the men here." His eyes swept across the gathered S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, some already lining up bodies, others coordinating the damage control. The he glanced over at the one he threw on Walker's Jeep, still unconscious.

"After that, we secure Denti and head back to Westchester."

"You sure? The X-Men seem upset."

Steve’s gaze flickered toward Cyclops—who, even now, stood rigid in his stance, his lips pressed into a tight, thin line.

Jean wasn’t looking at Steve.

Logan still had that permanent scowl, but his fingers had finally stopped twitching toward his claws.

Steve knew exactly what Sam meant.

The X-Men had risked everything for this mission. They had followed Steve’s lead—trusted his word. And now?

It was hard to say if that trust remained.

Steve exhaled.

"They are."

He wouldn’t pretend otherwise. Wouldn’t sugarcoat it.

"But I'll finish what we started. No halfways."

That was the only thing he could promise. The only thing he had left to offer.

Sam’s voice came through.

"I'm with you, Cap."

Steve felt a small flicker of relief at that.

"Good." His voice was quieter now, more personal. "I'll need all the help I can get right now."

Another silence, but this one was lighter.

Then Sam let out a small exhale, almost a chuckle—tired, but genuine.

"Yeah. We always do."

The comm clicked off.

Steve lowered his hand, looking at the wreckage, at the soldiers, at the X-Men, at the fallen Leper Queen.

The world wasn’t going to stop spinning.

He knew it wasn't over yet, now he would have to explain it to Storm, Xavier, Rogue and Alamo. God knows what kind of reactions they would have.