The quiet of the early morning was a rare commodity in Avengers Tower. Most of the team preferred to sleep in after grueling missions or late-night work in the labs, but for Steve Rogers, the day always began early. At 4:30 AM sharp, he swung his legs off the bed, ran a hand through his hair—shorter now, peppered lightly with gray—and pulled on a simple training outfit: gray sweatpants, a plain navy-blue t-shirt that hugged his broad chest, and a pair of white sneakers. The ensemble was as practical as the man himself.
Padding silently through the hallways, he made his way to the kitchen. The tower was still, save for the faint hum of machinery from Tony Stark’s workshops below. The sunrise barely touched the horizon, casting faint orange hues over the skyline visible through the tower’s vast windows. Steve relished this time alone, a moment of peace before the weight of the world inevitably fell onto his shoulders again.
In the kitchen, he set about preparing his breakfast with quiet efficiency. He measured out coffee grounds and started the drip coffee maker—none of that pod nonsense Tony kept insisting on. While it brewed, he cracked a few eggs into a bowl, whisking them by hand before pouring them into a pan already sizzling with butter. Thick sausages browned in another skillet nearby, filling the room with the savory aroma of a hearty breakfast.
As the food cooked, Steve reached for the remote and turned on the small kitchen television mounted in the corner. The news anchor’s calm but somber tone filled the space.
“Developments continue in the aftermath of what some are calling a catastrophic encounter between the X-Men and anti-mutant forces in Arkansas. Among the casualties, former police officer and Army veteran Thomas Thompson, whose death leaves behind a widow and two daughters, both under the age of eighteen…”
Steve’s jaw tightened as he set his plate on the counter and poured a cup of steaming black coffee. He leaned against the counter, his gaze fixed on the screen as images of the devastated ranch and Thompson’s grieving family played.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, shaking his head. His heart ached for the family, for the daughters who had lost their father and the wife who had lost her partner. He couldn’t help but feel the weight of the situation—a man who had served his country and community, now another casualty in a conflict spiraling out of control.
“Poor man,” he said softly, his voice tinged with regret.
Captain America set there for a while watching as he saw the aftermath from the Arkansas ranch a dilapitaded ranch house, once a pristine family house now nothing more than an smoldering ruin, half rubble, half terrible memories. It had reminded him of so many ruins in the past in the countless wars he fought from World War II to Desert Storm, from Just Cause to Enduring Freedom, he had been there in the field. Even if many times he didn't agree with the conflict he was involved.
Steve fought men, aliens, demons and gods and here he was sitting at the table his heart aching as he saw the three women from Thompson's life, destroyed by the loss of their husband and father, by the wrecking of their family.
The news broadcast continued, shifting from on-the-ground reporting in Arkansas to a panel discussion featuring two prominent figures. The screen split into three sections: the news anchor in the middle, an older, stern-looking man in a crisp navy-blue suit to the left, and a younger, more polished blonde man in an elegant but modern charcoal-gray suit on the right. The chyron at the bottom of the screen read:
"MUTANT VIOLENCE ESCALATES: ARE THE X-MEN A PUBLIC DANGER?"
The news anchor, a composed woman in her late 40s with short auburn hair, turned to the first guest.
"Joining us to discuss this pressing issue is New York Police Commissioner Harvey Ellis and CEO of Worthington Industries, former X-Men member Warren Worthington III. Commissioner Ellis, let’s start with you. In light of what happened in Arkansas, does this reinforce the argument that mutants—particularly organized groups like the X-Men—pose a risk to public safety?”
Harvey Ellis leaned forward, his expression severe. He was a broad, imposing man in his late fifties, a career lawman with neatly trimmed gray hair and sharp blue eyes. His voice was deep, measured, and full of conviction.
“Absolutely, Linda. What happened in Arkansas was nothing short of a catastrophe. A father, a military veteran, gunned down in his own home. A family left shattered. And who was there? The X-Men. This isn’t the first time we’ve seen a situation like this escalate into violence. Time and time again, the X-Men claim they’re here to ‘protect’ us, but let’s call it what it is: vigilantism at best, outright terrorism at worst.”
Warren shifted slightly in his seat, his blue eyes narrowing just enough to signal his irritation. “With all due respect, Commissioner, that’s an oversimplification. The X-Men didn’t kill Thompson. They were there investigating the connection between Trask, Carraro, and the Friends of Humanity. You know as well as I do that the FoH isn’t just some advocacy group—it’s an extremist organization with a body count that rivals actual terrorist cells.”
Ellis scoffed. “And yet, it’s Thompson who’s dead, isn’t it? A human man with no powers, no fancy abilities to protect himself from the mutants who stormed into his home.”
Captain America nodded in disagreement he had helped train the X-Men back in the early 2000's knowledge he gave Xavier, passed down to Cyclops. To have such a sad outcome made him question himself for a bit. But he knew that every war came with its costs. He had fought Doom, Ultron, Loki, Galactus and more in the past. People had died, this was no different. But still, the loss of life made him uncomfortable, it always did. More so was the growing mutant-human tension.
“Cap,” a voice broke the quiet behind him.
Steve turned, unsurprised but still mildly amused to see Tony Stark leaning against the doorframe. Stark looked every bit the billionaire genius woken far earlier than he preferred, his designer pajama pants patterned with little Iron Man helmets and a loose black t-shirt that bore the faded logo of Black Sabbath. His hair was tousled, and his expression hovered between curiosity and mild annoyance.
“Tony,” Steve greeted, his tone warm but measured. “Good morning. Didn’t expect to see you up this early.”
Tony raised an eyebrow, stepping into the kitchen and heading straight for the espresso machine. “Could say the same for you, but then I remembered you’re a human sunrise. What’s got you up? Besides your eternal war with modern coffee makers.”
Steve chuckled lightly. “Old habits. I like the quiet.” He gestured toward the TV with his coffee mug. “Though it doesn’t stay quiet for long.”
Tony glanced at the screen as he began fiddling with the espresso machine, his fingers quick and precise. The news segment replayed footage of the X-Men’s confrontation in Arkansas, emphasizing the death of Thompson and its fallout. Tony frowned but didn’t comment immediately, waiting for the machine to hiss and pour out a shot of espresso.
“Hell of a mess,” he finally said, taking a sip of the dark liquid. “But then, isn’t it always with them? They’re walking PR disasters.”
Steve’s gaze hardened, though his tone remained calm. “They’re fighting a war on two fronts—against fear and hate, not just the enemies in front of them.”
“Sure,” Tony said, waving a hand dismissively. “But they don’t exactly help themselves, do they? Big dramatic fights, collateral damage everywhere, and now this.” He nodded toward the TV. “Family man gets caught in the crossfire. That’s not gonna win them any sympathy points.”
Steve set his coffee cup down carefully, his expression tightening. “That family man served his country. He worked hard to provide for his daughters. He didn’t deserve to die like that.”
Tony tilted his head. “I didn’t say he did. But the X-Men showing up didn’t help his odds, did it? That’s the problem with their whole operation—too much collateral. Makes people question whether the cure’s worse than the disease.”
“Careful, Tony,” Steve warned, his voice quiet but firm.
Tony leaned back against the counter, unbothered. “I’m just being realistic. Mutant struggles aren’t the same as what we deal with, Steve. They’ve got the whole world against them, and sometimes it feels like they’re their own worst enemy. Take a step back and look at the optics.”
Steve’s gaze was steady, his voice carrying the weight of decades of leadership. “Optics don’t matter when lives are at stake. You know that. What matters is doing the right thing, even when it’s hard.”
“Sure, sure,” Tony said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “But doing the right thing doesn’t always look good, and looking good is half the battle these days. You think the American public’s gonna line up to support the X-Men after this? Hell, I’ve got enough PR problems with the Avengers as it is.”
Steve sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. “That’s the difference between us, Tony. You’re always thinking about how things look. I’m thinking about what’s right.”
Tony smirked, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And that’s why you’re the moral compass, Cap. Keeps the rest of us on track. But maybe that compass needs a bit of recalibrating for the modern age.”
Steve’s expression softened slightly, his voice taking on a gentler tone. “It’s easy to get cynical, Tony. I’ve been there. But you don’t fix the world by sitting back and criticizing. You fix it by standing up, doing the work, and showing people there’s a better way.”
Tony studied him for a moment, then shrugged, turning back toward his espresso. “Well, I’ll leave the better-way speeches to you. I’ll stick with making sure we don’t all get blown up.”
Steve watched him for a moment, then turned his attention back to the television. The footage of Thompson’s family played again, and he felt that pang of sorrow in his chest.
“Poor man,” he murmured again.
Tony glanced at him sideways. “Don’t take it all on yourself, Cap. You’re not Atlas. You don't have to carry the world... or at least... not America”
Steve offered a faint smile. “I know.”
The two men fell into a companionable silence, the weight of the world lingering in the quiet space between them.
The peaceful kitchen of Avengers Tower was growing livelier by the minute, a gradual but familiar morning ritual for its residents. Steve Rogers, standing near the counter with his coffee in hand, glanced up as a cheerful voice cut through the quiet.
“Cap, Tony. Good morning.”
Janet Van Dyne—The Wasp—walked into the kitchen with her signature effortless grace. Her sleek dark bob framed her face, and even in casual attire, she exuded the sharp elegance that had earned her a place in the fashion world. Today, she wore a light sweater with a stylized wasp logo, paired with tailored joggers that somehow looked runway-ready.
“Good morning, Janet,” Steve said with a polite smile.
Tony Stark turned from his espresso machine with a smirk. “Morning, Van Dyne. Looking sharp as always. Love the Wasp PJ’s. Ever thought of sending those to H&M? Bet they’d make a killing with a Janet Van Dyne line.”
Janet arched an eyebrow, her lips curving into a sly smile. “Tony, please. I prefer other designs. Pajamas are… childish. Dresses? Now, that’s where it’s at.”
Tony leaned casually against the counter, raising his espresso cup in a mock toast. “The star of Milano Fashion Week, ladies and gentlemen. Janet Van Dyne—queen of couture.”
Janet inclined her head as if acknowledging applause. “Thank you, Tony. And may I say, Mr. Forbes cover, your humility is as charming as ever.”
“Hah!” Tony barked a laugh. “Always.”
The exchange was interrupted by a thunderous voice that reverberated through the walls.
“GOOD MORNING, MORTALS! MAY ODIN BLESS THIS DAY AND YOUR MEAGER EFFORTS TO SUSTAIN IT!”
Thor strode into the kitchen, his golden hair flowing and his cape billowing dramatically as if he’d conjured a personal wind machine. He was already dressed in his armor—complete with Mjolnir in hand—because, of course, he was.
Steve turned to him with a bemused look. “Morning, Thor.”
“Thor,” Tony said, raising his espresso cup again. “Always a pleasure. Planning to go into battle before breakfast, or is that just your version of casual wear?”
Thor grinned broadly. “A warrior must always be prepared, Stark! However, I did smell the enticing aroma of mortal cuisine.” He pointed toward Steve’s plate. “Might I partake in this wondrous meal?”
“Help yourself,” Steve said, sliding the pan of eggs toward Thor.
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As Thor piled his plate high, Bruce Banner shuffled into the kitchen next, looking like he’d barely slept. His hair was a mess, and his glasses were askew. He wore a threadbare sweater over plaid pajama pants, carrying a tablet tucked under his arm.
“Morning, Bruce,” Steve said warmly.
Bruce muttered a distracted, “Morning, Steve,” as he headed straight for the coffee maker. He gave Tony a side-eye. “Please tell me you didn’t break this one again.”
Tony feigned offense. “I’ll have you know that I saved this coffee maker from its own mediocrity. If anything, you should be thanking me.”
Bruce grunted as he poured himself a cup. “Sure, Tony. Thanks for ‘fixing’ things that aren’t broken. Again.”
“Now, now, Banner,” Thor said, clapping a heavy hand on Bruce’s shoulder, making him nearly spill his coffee. “You should embrace the morning with vigor! The sun rises, and so should you!”
Bruce gave Thor a flat look. “I need coffee before vigor, Thor. And maybe after.”
“Morning, everyone,” Natasha Romanoff said as she entered, her voice smooth and low. The Black Widow was already dressed in workout gear, a sleek black ensemble that made her look like she was ready to scale a building. She grabbed a piece of fruit from the counter and leaned casually against the fridge, surveying the scene.
“Natasha,” Steve greeted. “You’re up early.”
She smirked. “Mission prep. Besides, someone’s gotta keep an eye on this crew.”
Tony spread his arms dramatically. “We’re perfectly capable of handling ourselves, Romanoff. Stark-tested, Avenger-approved.”
Natasha gave him a wry smile. “Sure. That’s why we have a kitchen fire suppression system… because you’re all so capable.”
“Touché,” Tony said, raising his cup in mock surrender.
Clint Barton strolled in next, barefoot and wearing a faded t-shirt that read This is my superhero costume. He rubbed the back of his neck and blinked blearily at the group. “Morning, team. What’s for breakfast?”
Steve gestured toward the eggs and sausage. “Help yourself, Clint.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Clint piled a plate high and dropped into a chair at the table. “Thor, can you pass the salt?”
Thor grinned and slid the shaker down the table with an unnecessary flourish. “Salt, as you mortals request!”
Finally, Sam Wilson entered, looking polished as ever despite the early hour. He wore a fitted gray hoodie and track pants, his sneakers pristine. He clapped Steve on the shoulder as he passed. “Morning, Cap. Everyone.”
“Sam,” Steve said with a smile. “Didn’t think I’d see you this early.”
Sam grinned. “Came to check on you. And, you know, make sure Tony didn’t reprogram the toaster.”
Tony raised an eyebrow. “You wound me, Wilson. I’m more of a waffle iron guy anyway.”
As the group settled into their morning routines, the kitchen buzzed with quiet energy. Steve’s gaze returned to the TV, still tuned to the news, but now muted. His mind lingered on the report about Thomas Thompson and the X-Men’s mission in Arkansas. The room grew quiet as the others noticed his expression.
“Something on your mind, Cap?” Natasha asked, her tone softening.
Steve hesitated, then nodded. “Just thinking about the news this morning. That family in Arkansas. A man’s dead. Two little girls lost their father.”
The group fell silent for a moment. Even Tony, usually quick with a quip, didn’t interrupt.
“It’s not just about what happened,” Steve continued. “It’s about what it means. The distrust, the fear… it feels like the world’s tearing itself apart.”
Sam stepped closer, his voice steady. “That’s why we’re here, Cap. To help hold it together.”
Steve nodded, though the weight on his shoulders didn’t seem any lighter. “Yeah. That’s the hope.”
The Avengers shared a quiet moment of reflection, the camaraderie in the room underscored by the unspoken understanding of the burdens they all carried. The morning had started like any other, but the day ahead promised challenges they could already feel on the horizon
The Avengers' quiet morning routine was interrupted again when the TV’s news cycle shifted to a new story, the ticker at the bottom scrolling with provocative headlines. Steve Rogers, still nursing his coffee, stood by the counter, his brow furrowing as the newscaster’s voice filled the room.
“Are the Avengers losing touch with the younger generation? Recent polls show a surge in support for younger heroes like Ms. Marvel, Nova, and Brawl, while trust in established teams like the Avengers has stagnated. Critics say the Avengers represent outdated ideals that no longer resonate with today’s youth. At a California Youth Activism Event last night, Captain America was openly called a ‘fascist’ by attendees, sparking heated debate on social media. Meanwhile, Tony Stark, also known as Iron Man, is accused of reinforcing the so-called ‘capitalist patriarchy.’”
Tony, lounging at the counter with his espresso cup, let out a sharp laugh. “Oh, that’s rich. The capitalist patriarchy? I’m not even gonna argue with that—because, you know, capitalism works. But come on, fascist? Really? That’s what we’re doing now?”
"Really Tony, not even patriarchy?" Janet retorted.
"Ha, patriarchy? Women love me Janet, they love to listen to me, to be with me... Also Potts is the acting President of Stark Industries, isn't she? I employ women and men. They're just mad I'm not giving free stuff at this point... Which I do by the way, through Howard Stark Foundation" Tony sarcastically added.
Steve’s face didn’t change, but the tightening of his grip on the coffee mug betrayed his feelings. He didn’t look away from the screen as the story transitioned to another segment.
Steve ignored the banter he never cared much about politics, left, right or center. His principles were still the same Liberty, Justice and Hope. He didn't care what Republicans or Democrats had to say. But he was growing bothered with the usage of 'fascism' to name an ever increasing number of opinions. Opinions that in his view were not even close to Fascism.
Steve sighed, setting the mug down with care. “A relic. That’s what they think of us now.”
Sam Wilson stepped beside him, his expression earnest as he placed a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Don’t do that to yourself, Cap. You’re a true hero. An inspiration. Not some fascist.”
Steve glanced at Sam with a tired smile. “Thanks, Sam. But sometimes it feels like people don’t even know what that word means anymore.”
Thor, who had been happily working through a plate of eggs and sausage, stopped mid-bite and furrowed his brow. “What is this ‘fascist’ of which they speak? Is it a title of honor in this land?”
Bruce Banner cleared his throat. “Uh, no, Thor. Quite the opposite. It’s… complicated.”
“Overused is what it is,” Natasha Romanoff added dryly from her perch near the fridge. “People throw it around for anyone they don’t agree with these days. But you, Cap? That’s just ridiculous.”
“Who's Brawl?” Clint Barton asked around a mouthful of toast, breaking the somber tone.
“Amadeus Cho,” Sam replied, sitting down at the table. “Kid’s got brains, brawn, and an attitude. He’s running with the younger crowd—Ms. Marvel, Nova, that whole crew.”
Tony raised an eyebrow. “Cho? That kid’s brilliant. I tried to recruit him once. He told me I was a ‘corporate sellout.’ Never got over it.”
“You’re a real inspiration to the youth, Tony,” Natasha quipped.
The room chuckled lightly, but Steve’s attention stayed fixed on the screen as the next segment played.
The news segment transitioned smoothly, the ticker at the bottom updating with fresh text:
"WHO IS 'THE ALAMO'? THE MYSTERIOUS MUTANT VIGILANTE MAKING WAVES IN TEXAS AND BEYOND"
The camera cut to an aerial shot of Orlando, Florida, zooming in on the aftermath of a recent conflict—the ranch house, its roof half-collapsed, burn marks and debris scattered around, with authorities swarming the area. Some of the fires still smoldered in the night as emergency responders worked to secure the scene.
The segment cut to a street interview in Houston, where a man in his mid-30s, wearing a work uniform with a "Lone Star Mechanics" patch, spoke to the camera.
“I ain’t got a problem with The Alamo. He’s the only one who’s actually doing somethin' about these damn extremists. They burned my cousin’s business to the ground just ‘cause his wife’s a mutant. Where was the law then?”
Another clip showed a young mutant woman, her face partially obscured by a hood, speaking quickly to the reporter.
“The X-Men are great and all, but we need people like him. He’s not waiting for permission to protect us.”
Back in the studio, Rachel Vasquez sighed. “Public sentiment is shifting. People are tired of waiting for the government to do something about anti-mutant violence. The Alamo represents something new—direct action. That’s why he’s becoming a symbol, even if he’s an unpredictable one"
Captain America changed the channel again, he opened his mouth to speak before he was cut by Tony.
"People hate mutants or people love mutants? I don't even know anymore"
"Hard to know, it used to be that everyone hated them, after what happen with Angel and the All-Winners... When you know" Sam started.
"Magneto butchered him?" Tony asked.
"Those were another times, another mutants. The X-Men are not the same as the Brotherhood." Steve said crossing his arms as he watched the TV.
"Are they, Captain?" A voice came from down the hall. Disciplined, powerful but also weary.
All heads turned down the hallway. To Captain Marvel, she stepped in wearing cargo pants and a white tank top, her own dog tag around her neck.
"Should we forget what Rogue did to me?"
"Carol it is not like that, that has been in the past, she was manipulated."
"Was she Steve? Because I still have trouble remembering a lot of things, I'm sure she does not."
"Mutants are not the problem-"
"I'd like to believe that, Steve. I really do. But it's hard seeing their growing forces, the X-Men, they are not Avengers, you know. They are reckless..." She pointed at the TV towards footage of the Alamo.
"He's not an X-Man"
"How long until he is one. Like Wolverine... a killer, a-"
"Carol that is enough. Get your breakfast and do not insult people who served to defend your liberties."
"Understood, Captain." She silenced herself moving to the kitchen to have breakfast.
Steve remained in silence, he thought. He looked at the footage. It was grainy and his face was never in frame, always blinded by the red glow of his eyes.
"I want to meet this kid. These people need guidance not just criticism, it will just make them more radical, more extreme. That what made Erik snap."
The television screen flickered, bathing the dimly lit room in a muted glow. The channel changed again, this time landing on a national broadcast—a panel discussion hosted by one of the most divisive voices in New York media.
The large, bold banner at the bottom of the screen read:
“HEROES OR MENACES? THE MUTANT QUESTION & VIGILANTISM DEBATE”
And there they were—two rivaling titans of journalism, both deeply ingrained in the New York media machine:
J. Jonah Jameson, the loud, boisterous, and ever-infuriated editor-in-chief of the Daily Bugle. He was leaning forward, his fists clenched, his gruff, cigar-stained voice rattling through the speakers as he ranted endlessly.
Ben Parker, the respected, measured, and widely admired chief-editor of the New York Bulletin. A stark contrast to Jameson, Parker sat calmly, hands folded in front of him, speaking with a quiet confidence that commanded respect rather than demanded attention.
The debate was already in full swing.
"It’s outta control, Parker! I’ve been saying it for years! These vigilantes—these so-called heroes—are operating above the law, unchecked, unrestricted, and don’t even get me started on the mutants!"
Jameson gestured wildly, his thick mustache twitching with every syllable. He slammed his fist on the table for emphasis.
"We got a menace swingin’ around New York, leavin’ a trail of destruction! We got mutants who think they can just fly through the sky, throwin’ around their fancy powers like confetti at a parade! You tell me, Parker, why should the average, hardworking citizen have to be afraid to step outside because some mutant or masked lunatic might throw a car at ‘em?"
The moderator, a composed woman in a navy suit, turned to Ben Parker.
"Mr. Parker, your response?"
Ben adjusted his tie, exhaling softly before speaking. His voice was steady, warm, the voice of a man who had seen both the best and worst of people.
"Jonah, I understand your concerns, but let’s stick to the facts rather than jump to hysteria."
Jameson opened his mouth to argue, but Ben held up a hand calmly, stopping him before he could even start.
"Let’s talk about Spider-Man, since you love discussing him so much."
Jameson grumbled under his breath, crossing his arms.
"The statistics don’t support your claim that he causes mass destruction. In fact, if you actually read the incident reports, you’d find that Spider-Man has kept civilian casualties at an all-time low compared to other large-scale crime events in this city. He’s prevented collapsing buildings, saved police officers, and stopped multiple terrorist attacks."
Ben turned slightly toward the camera, his expression firm but composed.
"Now, you say he’s ‘above the law,’ but the law is flawed, Jonah. The justice system is slow, bureaucratic, and at times, completely broken. Criminals walk free on technicalities, corporations destroy lives, and people like Norman Osborn are allowed to buy their way out of accountability."
Jameson gritted his teeth but didn’t interrupt—yet.
"So tell me, Jonah, would you rather have a city where no one fights back? Where no one puts on a mask and says, ‘I can make a difference’? Because I think we both know how that story ends."
"Oh, please, Parker," Jameson finally exploded, leaning forward aggressively. "That webhead is just one case! What about the mutants, huh? What about the X-Men?"
Ben sighed, as if he had been waiting for this.
"The X-Men," he repeated. "A group of highly trained individuals dedicated to saving people—"
Jameson cut him off with a loud scoff.
"HAH! Saving people? More like playing judge, jury, and executioner! They think just ‘cause they’ve got laser eyes and weather powers, they get to decide what’s right and wrong! We got registered superheroes, we got federal law enforcement, we got S.H.I.E.L.D., and yet these guys run around unchecked! You know how dangerous that is, Parker?!"
Ben didn’t flinch.
"Jonah," he said calmly, "The X-Men aren’t the ones bombing mutant neighborhoods. They aren’t the ones making life harder for mutant children trying to go to school. The X-Men are reacting to a world that refuses to let them exist peacefully."
His voice, though calm, had a rare edge to it—a deep conviction that resonated in his words.
"You like to paint them as this militant army, but have you ever actually interviewed one?"
Jameson hesitated just for a second, his brow furrowing.
"I—"
"Have you ever sat down and asked why they fight? Have you ever talked to a mutant who was beaten in the streets for existing? Who was denied a job because their DNA didn’t match the status quo? Because I have, Jonah. And what I’ve found is that they don’t want war. They just don’t want to be erased."
A brief silence hung in the studio, the weight of his words sinking in.
Jameson, however, was never one to be quiet for too long.
"All I know is," he said gruffly, "if you let people run around unchecked, eventually someone gets hurt."
Ben shook his head.
"And if you do nothing, people get hurt anyway."
The morning energy shifted in an instant, the casual camaraderie of breakfast giving way to the business of being Earth’s mightiest heroes. The news broadcast had barely finished when Sam Wilson, ever the sharp and steady hand, stepped forward with his tablet in hand, the screen glowing faintly as he scrolled through a series of updates. His expression was calm but focused, his years of working alongside Steve Rogers giving him a knack for delivering news without unnecessary drama.
“Captain,” Sam said, glancing up. “We’ve got reports of activity here in New York. NYPD just flagged a potential lead on an AIM cache in Staten Island. They’re requesting Avengers assistance to secure the site.”
Steve’s eyes narrowed slightly as he processed the information. He straightened, already shifting into mission mode, his earlier weariness replaced with the quiet determination that defined him. “Alright,” he said, his tone firm. “It seems we have a place to go.”
“I’ll get the jetpack ready for you, sir,” Sam said, already tapping commands into his tablet to relay the necessary instructions to the tower’s systems.
Steve nodded, his gratitude evident in his voice. “Thank you, Sam.”
Sam gave a small smile, the kind that spoke of respect and camaraderie. “My pleasure, Steve. I’ll always have your back.”
Before Steve could respond, Janet Van Dyne stepped forward, her usual confident stride carrying her to Steve’s side. Her dark bob swayed as she looked up at him, her expression a mixture of eagerness and determination.
“I’ll go with you,” she said simply, her voice light but steady.
Steve turned to her, his brow lifting slightly in surprise. He hadn’t expected anyone to volunteer so quickly, but Janet’s resolve was unmistakable. He nodded, appreciating her willingness to jump in. “Alright, Janet,” he said. “Let’s move.”
Janet smiled, a spark of excitement flickering in her eyes. “Good. I’ve been itching for some action, and it sounds like this AIM lead could be interesting. Besides, I can’t let you hog all the fun.”
Tony leaned back against the counter, swirling the last dregs of his espresso with a smirk. “Staten Island, huh? Thrilling. AIM lab, that's my kind of gig. I'll go with you guys. Let just me... finish the cereal here."