The Quinjet sliced through the skies, its engines humming with steady precision. The clouds parted before the sleek aircraft as it pushed toward Washington, D.C., the city looming in the distance like a silent witness to countless histories—some remembered, some deliberately forgotten.

Inside the cabin, the atmosphere was taut with uneasy anticipation. The hum of the engines filled the otherwise quiet space, only interrupted by the soft beeping of instruments. Falcon sat at the controls, his eyes locked on the flight instruments, though his mind was elsewhere.

"Cap, ETA ten minutes."

His voice was calm, professional. But beneath the surface, there was a note of uncertainty.

From his seat, Captain America—Steve Rogers—nodded, his gaze fixed on the city skyline drawing closer. The familiar weight of responsibility rested on his shoulders, his star-spangled shield gleaming beside him.

"Understood, Sam. I'll reach out to Fury when we get into D.C. airspace."

The words came automatically, carried by decades of leadership and duty.

"Understood, Cap."

But Sam Wilson, the Falcon, hesitated. His fingers tapped lightly against the controls before he leaned in, lowering his voice—almost as if unsure whether the question should be asked at all.

"Sir... do you trust the X-Men?"

The question hung in the air. For a moment, Rogers didn’t respond. His blue eyes drifted over his shoulder, where Cyclops, Jean Grey, and Wolverine sat in the rear of the cabin, their silhouettes quiet but unmistakably imposing. Years of fighting, sacrifice, and loss radiated from them like a silent aura.

Rogers finally answered, his voice steady:

"I trust them enough, Sam."

He let the words settle before continuing.

"These people have fought hard—harder than most—for the right to coexist. They’ve bled for a world that’s still afraid of them. That kind of struggle earns trust."

Falcon gave a slow nod but kept his eyes forward.

"Yeah... still. For a regular guy? They scare me."

Steve smiled faintly—an expression touched with sadness.

"It's more than just mutants, you know. It’s also about doing what’s right. Fear’s always been a part of it. But we don’t get to pick the battles that matter."

He leaned back in his seat, his gaze distant.

"My mother used to sing lullabies to get me to sleep back when I was a kid in Brooklyn. But in the 20th century... some stories were meant to scare kids into behaving."

Falcon turned his head, curiosity in his voice.

"Yeah? What kinda stories?"

Rogers looked away, almost embarrassed.

"She used to say that if I didn’t eat my vegetables or didn’t sleep early, the blue lady with the bloody hair would come and eat me."

Falcon blinked, glancing back.

"Wait—Mystique?"

"Mystique." Rogers confirmed with a grim nod.

"Mutants were myths to most people back then. Monsters, some said. The media loved to make them out to be nightmares. Even to kids."

"Damn." Falcon exhaled, shaking his head.

"Yeah, Cap. I get it. If I was a kid from Brooklyn, I’d be scared too." Falcon said, with an amused smirk in the corner of his lips.

Before Rogers could respond, a gruff voice broke through the conversation.

"Heh. ‘Skinny kid from Brooklyn.’ Ain’t that the truth?"

The raspy tone, dripping with sarcasm, belonged to Logan—Wolverine. He leaned casually against Cap's seat, his arms crossed, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His wild hair and rugged demeanor contrasted sharply with Rogers’ clean-cut appearance.

"Howlett." Rogers greeted him with a small nod.

Logan sniffed the air. "Mystique, huh? Tough shit, that one. But I’m sure Boy Scout here can handle a stray woman or two. Hell, I saw this one blow up tanks with a shield and pineapple grenades back in the day."

"That was a long time ago." Steve replied, his tone softer now.

"Not for me, it ain't." Logan grunted, his yellow-tinged gaze darkening.

"I remember it just fine."

There was a pause. A long one.

"You miss the war?" Falcon asked, his voice low.

Logan didn’t answer immediately. He stared out the Quinjet’s window for a moment, watching the clouds streak by. His reflection stared back at him—a man who had survived too much.

Finally, he spoke:

"No."

Then, almost immediately after:

"Yes."

The contradiction wasn’t lost on anyone. Logan took a deep breath, his tone harder when he continued:

"We’ve been involved in too many wars. Watched too many folks die—people who shouldn’t have. But... I gotta admit, some of the folks who did die?"

He looked back at Steve, eyes narrowing.

"Piece of shit SS officers. Dirty Commissars. People who deserved worse than what they got."

Steve’s jaw tightened.

"I don’t take pride in the deaths of those men."

"Course ya don’t." Logan scoffed.

"Always the righteous one, Rogers. But lemme tell ya somethin'—ya can’t be a soldier if you’re afraid to break some skulls. The war? The war didn’t care if we were happy about it or not."

"I did what I had to do." Steve said firmly. "I do what I have to. But never with a smile. Never with pride in the killing. Only in the cause."

Logan’s eyes glinted—something feral behind them.

"But you did take pride in victory."

Rogers didn’t flinch.

"That’s different." He looked Logan dead in the eye. "I’m not ashamed of what we fought for. The nation I serve. The ideas I uphold. The brothers I fought beside. But killing? That’s not something you celebrate. It’s something you survive."

Logan held his gaze for a long moment before finally backing off with a rough laugh.

"Heh. Always the same ol’ Steve Rogers."

The cabin settled into uneasy silence, tension hanging thick in the air.

But then, another voice—calm, soothing, almost ethereal—broke the stillness.

"You both carry your past like shields. But also like a burden."

It was Jean Grey. She had been sitting quietly beside Scott Summers, her hands folded neatly in her lap. But now, as her voice drifted across the cabin, both men turned their heads. Her eyes—green, deep, and knowing—met theirs.

"Always with that philosophizin’, Jeannie." Logan grumbled, though his tone lacked any real bite.

"Maybe." Jean smiled faintly. "But it doesn’t make it wrong."

She leaned forward slightly, the soft red of her hair catching the dim light in the cabin.

"We’re heading into something none of us fully understands. Something bigger than all of us. I don’t need telepathy to sense the weight you two carry. The past has lessons to teach us, yes—but don’t let it blind you to what’s in front of us now."

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Her gaze flickered between Steve and Logan, lingering for a moment before softening.

"Don’t let your ghosts decide the future."

The words hung in the air like a prayer.

For a moment, the cabin was quiet again.

Then, Cyclops finally spoke, his voice calm and precise.

"Wise words, Mrs. Summers." He adjusted his visor slightly, his gaze fixed forward.

"You always knows what to say"

Jean didn't say anything but she smiled softly back at Scott.

Steve nodded slowly.

"Agreed."

The Quinjet began its descent. The skyline of Washington, D.C. stretched wide before them—the Capitol Dome, monuments, and government buildings bathed in the orange glow of the setting sun.

The Quinjet hummed steadily as it descended through the clear skies over Washington, D.C., the sprawling cityscape of power and politics stretching beneath them. The concrete and steel structure of S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters came into view—a fortress of brutalist design, standing tall with its insignia gleaming under the fading light of day. The jet’s sleek frame reflected the sunset as it prepared to land.

Inside the cockpit, Falcon leaned forward, fingers gliding expertly over the controls. The radio crackled to life as he initiated contact with the base. His voice was calm, professional—a soldier's discipline underlying every word.

"S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ, this is Alpha Quebec. Do you copy?"

A moment's pause. Then static, followed by a clear, clipped response.

"Alpha Quebec, solid copy. Over."

Falcon exchanged a glance with Captain America, who stood behind him, watching the approach through the cockpit window.

"Requesting authorization to land. Over." Falcon continued, his tone steady.

There was another brief silence before the reply came through, sharp and procedural.

"Request authorized. Proceed to port three. S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ out."

With a faint smirk, Sam Wilson leaned back in his seat.

"We're landing. Everyone seated and fasten your seatbelts."

Logan's gravelly voice broke the momentary silence.

"Gotcha, birdie." He leaned back lazily, arms crossed, though his sharp gaze remained fixed on the descending skyline.

"No funny business, Logan." Cyclops muttered, adjusting his visor.

"Yeah, yeah, One-Eye. I’ll behave." Logan replied with a toothy grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

Jean Grey smiled faintly at the exchange, though her posture remained poised. The tension in the cabin was palpable, even after the fight they'd just endured. The past weighed heavy on everyone here—and they all knew it.

"Approach steady. Touchdown in thirty seconds." Falcon’s voice broke the tension as the landing struts deployed with a soft hiss.

The Quinjet descended smoothly onto Port Three, its landing gear touching down with a soft thump. The engines powered down with a low whine, and the metallic hiss of the ramp lowering echoed inside the cabin.

"Showtime." Rogers said simply, stepping toward the ramp.

The team rose—each carrying their own burdens, their own histories—ready to face what lay ahead.

The ramp lowered with a hiss of hydraulics, revealing the wide expanse of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s landing bay, bustling with agents in tactical gear, technicians moving equipment, and the hum of nearby aircraft. But it wasn’t the activity that caught the eye—it was the waiting figures standing at the base of the ramp.

There, in his signature black trench coat and eye patch, stood Nick Fury. His stance was as authoritative as ever, one hand resting on his hip, the other clasped behind his back. The sharp lines of his face bore the weight of secrets and wars few others could imagine. Maria Hill stood to his right, dressed in her standard tactical uniform, her posture rigid, expression unreadable. Beside her was Sharon Carter, composed and alert, offering the faintest nod when she caught Rogers’ eye.

As the Avengers and X-Men descended the ramp, Captain America took point, his broad shoulders squared, shield slung confidently across his back. The afternoon light gleamed off the polished star at its center.

Fury didn’t move. He simply waited.

"Fury." Steve greeted, his tone polite but clipped.

"Rogers." Fury nodded once.

"Good to see you." He glanced past Steve at the others disembarking behind him—Logan, Jean, and Scott. His eye narrowed faintly. "Admittedly, I'd prefer a better company, but this will do."

The subtle jab wasn’t lost on anyone.

Before anyone could react, Steve’s voice cut through the air—calm, controlled, but carrying the unmistakable edge of warning.

"Watch it, Fury. They're with me."

The landing pad seemed to still for a moment. Even the hum of engines in the distance seemed to fade as Fury turned his full attention back to Rogers.

For a moment, only silence.

Then, slowly, Fury lifted his chin, offering the faintest smirk—a gesture as much of challenge as it was of acknowledgment.

"My apologies, Captain."

His tone didn’t soften, but the tension eased by a fraction. "Business, not personal."

From behind Steve, Logan stepped forward, his adamantium claws retracted but the danger in his eyes ever-present. His gaze locked with Fury’s, the two men sharing a silent, unspoken history that didn’t need retelling.

"Fury." Logan growled.

"Howlett." Fury replied, as if tasting the name. "Still hard to kill, I see."

"Takes more than Sentinels and governments to put me down." Logan grunted.

"Yeah. I figured." Fury said with a slight nod.

Steve glanced briefly at Sharon Carter, who met his gaze evenly. No words passed between them, but her subtle nod said enough. Maria Hill, meanwhile, kept her arms crossed, her sharp eyes scanning the group like a field commander measuring her soldiers.

Fury finally stepped forward. His boots echoed against the steel of the landing pad.

"Rogers." He gestured toward the sprawling structure of S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ, its concrete walls oppressive as it looked sturdy. A massive brutalist bunker under the Washington sun.

"I’ve got business to take care of. Important business. For now, Deputy Director Hill will take you from here."

He glanced at Hill, who simply gave a curt nod in response.

"You’ll find what you’re looking for soon enough." Fury added, his voice dropping just slightly. There was something else behind those words—a warning? A promise? It was hard to tell.

Steve watched him for a moment, reading the man who had been both ally and obstacle countless times. But Fury gave no more. His face was stone, his single eye cold with secrets.

Finally, Captain America turned toward Maria Hill.

"Shall we move, Deputy Director?"

Hill gave him a crisp nod.

"We shall, Captain" she echoed, voice clipped and professional.

Without another word, she turned on her heel, striding toward the entrance of S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ. The group fell in step behind her, their footsteps echoing through the landing bay. As they walked, the shadows of the past seemed to lengthen behind them—wars fought, alliances broken, and truths long buried.

The towering S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters loomed around them—a fortress of brutal utilitarian architecture and bureaucratic authority. The Quinjet's engines had barely cooled when Sharon Carter and Maria Hill took the lead, their stride purposeful, expressions as unreadable as the secrets buried within these walls.

The X-Men and Avengers followed, moving through the vast, echoing lobby of the headquarters. The place buzzed with activity—agents typing furiously at terminals, officers briefing politicians, armed security. Yet, all movement slowed when the group entered.

Dozens of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents turned their gazes, eyes narrowing in unison. Their stares weren’t simply curious—they were guarded, suspicious, as if Mikhail Gorbachev himself had just stepped into the White House during the Cold War. Their hands lingered a little too close to holstered weapons.

The hostility in the air was palpable.

Logan took note first.

Then Scott

"They don't look happy to see us."

His voice was low, but the gravel in it echoed, his sharp gaze sweeping the place. The tension in his stance was subtle but unmistakable.

Logan, walking beside him, didn’t even bother to hide his scowl.

"It's S.H.I.E.L.D., Slim. It'd be funny if they did."

Jean Grey stayed silent, her green eyes watching the agents carefully. A flicker of telepathic concern brushed lightly over her teammates—a silent reassurance that she was monitoring the thoughts in the room, should things escalate.

Captain America, ever composed, took a step closer to Maria Hill.

"Hill, I thought military protocol dictated prohibited carry inside secure facilities."

Hill didn’t break stride or glance back. Her clipped voice cut through the tension like a blade.

"These agents are internal security forces, our very own military police corps. It’s a necessary precaution."

Steve Rogers furrowed his brow but said nothing.

The group continued down a long corridor, passing security checkpoints guarded by agents who stared them down with barely concealed hostility. The metallic hum of the facility buzzed in their ears. The air smelled faintly of gun oil and sterilized metal.

Finally, they reached a secured door, flanked by armed guards. As the doors slid open with a hiss, the holding cell area came into view—a cold, sterile place lined with reinforced glass cells and dim overhead lights.

The atmosphere grew heavier.

Suddenly, a crackling sound erupted from Cap's comm. He instinctively raised a gloved hand, pressing the side of his helmet.

"Cap, it's Tony."

"Sitrep, Tony." Steve's tone sharpened immediately.

"Well, Creed was in Alaska—at least, that’s where he went three days ago." There was a pause on the line. "We were attacked. But we are all stable"

Captain America’s steps slowed. His gaze hardened.

"FoH?"

"No. Sentinels. All of them marked with DARPA logos."

A tense silence filled the corridor. The only sound was the faint hum of the lights. Steve Rogers's expression darkened, his jaw tightening.

"DARPA?" he repeated, more to himself than to Tony. His mind immediately ran through possibilities, none of them good.

Falcon leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper.

"Sir?"

Steve turned to him.

"Government-designed Sentinels. DARPA tech."

Falcon cursed under his breath.

"Damnit."

"Calm down, Sam." Steve’s voice remained steady, the tone of a leader holding his ground in the face of uncertainty. "We'll sort this out."

Logan, who had been trailing behind, stepped forward. His sharp gaze narrowed.

"What's goin’ on there, Cap?"

"Tony said they didn’t find Creed, but they were attacked by Sentinels."

"The kids good? Storm?" Logan's tone softened, if only slightly. Beneath the gruffness, there was genuine concern.

"Tony says everyone’s stable."

Logan gave a small nod.

"Good. They're good at what they do. Was just makin' sure."

Steve turned back toward the hallway. The news gnawed at him. DARPA? Government Sentinels? Something wasn’t right.

Sharon Carter reappeared from a side hallway, her face composed but her tone firm.

"Denti is ready for you, Steve."

Captain America straightened.

"Understood."

But as the group began to move, Sharon raised a hand.

"He said he would see you and Falcon. Not a single X-Man."

Cyclops took a step forward immediately, his tone sharp.

"Are you sure about that?"

"Absolutely." Sharon’s gaze didn’t waver.

Jean Grey placed a calming hand on Scott’s arm, her touch gentle but firm.

"Scott. Let them handle it."

Scott hesitated, red visor glinting under the harsh lights. He didn’t like it—but Jean’s steady gaze anchored him.

"Just tell us what you find, Captain." Cyclops said at last, stepping back.

"I will." Steve nodded. "Trust me."

Logan snorted from the back.

"Hmph. Trust. That's a tall order around here. But I can make that exception for ya, soldier boy"

As Captain America and Falcon followed Sharon Carter deeper into the holding cell wing, the tension in the air thickened. Behind them, the X-Men remained behind glass doors, under the scrutiny of armed S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, while the distant hum of energy shields echoed faintly.

The sterile interrogation room was cold, bathed in harsh white light that reflected off its steel surfaces. The air was stiff with disinfectant and tension. There were no windows—only thick, gray walls and a single metal table in the center.

Seated at that table, Agent Denti cut a frail but defiant figure. The wheelchair he sat in gleamed with new alloy supports. His brown hair, streaked with white along the sides, framed a sharp, angular face. His blue eyes, hidden behind aviator prescription glasses, held a cold bitterness that even time hadn’t dulled. The man wore a pressed button-up shirt with rolled sleeves, his posture stiff but proud despite his confinement.

Whatever they had to ask, it seemed Carl Denti already had an answer.