Captain America, Cyclops and their respective teams moved with purposes, with them the Alamo, though he wasn't an Avenger, deep inside Duncan trusted Captain America's judgment, far more than he trusted any X-Man. Within a minut ethey were already in the server room, not a word spoken during their way to the room, where they met back with Iron Man and Storm's teams.

The group stood in the sterile glow of the server room, the hum of machinery filling the space with an eerie, rhythmic pulse. Towering racks of servers stretched along the walls, blinking with streams of encrypted data. The room itself was cold, a deliberate design choice to keep the machines running at optimal efficiency, but it did little to cool the growing tension among the assembled heroes.

Steve Rogers, standing firm and steady, turned toward Tony Stark. "Alright, Tony. What do you got?"

Tony’s faceplate slid back, revealing his usual smirk. "Alright, after so much debate, I’ll finally say what we found…" He glanced around at the gathered heroes, his tone laced with something between amusement and exasperation.

But there was no amusement on the faces of Storm, Jean, or Jubilee. Their expressions were tense, Storm’s sharp, regal features taut with discontent, Jean’s emerald eyes narrowed with frustration. Even Falcon, usually calm and composed, raised an eyebrow at Stark’s apparent stalling.

"Why do all the ladies seem bothered by ya, Stark?" Logan’s gruff voice cut through the room. "Ya didn’t touch ‘em, did ya?" His claws half-extended, a subconscious warning.

Tony recoiled slightly. "What?! Are you insane? The hell is this guy, Cap?" He gestured toward Wolverine, looking genuinely bewildered.

Cyclops, ever the mediator, sighed. "Logan, behave."

Storm folded her arms. "We are simply unsatisfied with Stark’s decision to wait so long to tell us what he found."

Logan snorted, clearly unimpressed. "Jeannie, just read the guy’s mind, fer fuck’s sake."

Jean shot him a glare. "I am not invading someone’s privacy without cause, Logan."

Tony huffed, crossing his arms. "And I am very thankful for that. Also, seriously, is no one gonna talk about the fact that our Canadian murder machine just accused me of—never mind. You know what? Let’s move on."

"Enough!" Steve’s voice cut through the noise like a knife. "All of you, we’re working together. This is not debate hour."

A reluctant silence settled over the room.

Logan rolled his eyes but muttered, "Sure, Cap."

With a dramatic flick of his wrist, Tony projected a glowing holographic display above the servers, filled with lists, financial records, and detailed documents. Names, locations, numbers—everything Carraro had tried to hide.

"Alright, here’s what we got," Stark began. "We have several lists, including locations, financial records… I know that’s the kid’s expertise field"—he nodded toward Alamo—"even though I’m probably more qualified to talk about it… on account of being a genius and all."

Jubilee let out a loud groan, throwing her hands in the air. "Oh my God, I can’t believe we’re getting ads during a mission."

Steve shot Tony a look. "Tony. Get to the point."

Tony raised his hands in surrender. "Alright, Cap. No need for the super-serious shield stare. Here’s the deal—" he swiped his hand, enlarging part of the display. "We found the location of several Carraro offices, what could be safe houses, and—" he hesitated just slightly "—a very nasty list."

Jean’s stomach tightened. "What list?"

Tony zoomed in, the holographic text scrolling downward. "Names. Powers. Addresses. Family members. Habits. Everything you’d need to track, isolate, and take out mutants."

The room shifted. A collective unease spread through them all.

"What?" Rogue’s voice was sharp, disbelief flickering in her eyes.

"They had that?" Scott’s jaw clenched.

Storm’s entire posture shifted, her fingers curling into fists. "This must be destroyed. Every trace of it."

"Whoa, whoa, hold up, folks," Tony held up a hand, glancing at Alamo for support. "There’s a lot of important data here. We can’t be so eager to destroy stuff, right, cowboy?"

Alamo crossed his arms, his tone firmer than before. "Well, I ain’t an X-Man, but I reckon they got the point here, Mr. Stark. The list has to go."

"Oh yeah, that’s what I meant," Tony backpedaled. "The list goes, the rest is good to know."

Storm’s piercing gaze softened only slightly. "Agreeable terms, Stark."

Tony smirked. "Thanks, Cloud Girl."

Logan chuckled, eyes glinting. "Ya got some balls callin’ her that, bub."

Cyclops was already rubbing his temples, exhausted. "Logan, it’s not necessary."

Tony, of course, doubled down. "My apologies to the Weather Goddess. I simply jest, your majesty." He bowed dramatically.

Storm narrowed her eyes, shaking her head. "You should be aware, Mr. Stark, that while fortune favors the bold, the elements hardly consider bravado as an intelligent virtue."

Steve exhaled sharply. "Moving forward. We have other servers. What happens if we destroy this one?"

Tony tapped at his holographic interface. "The information here will be lost, yes. But also? It can be backed up in the other servers. We’d have to destroy all of them. And even then, if they have saved backups on SSDs, HDDs, flash drives—God forbid floppy disks—we’d have to get rid of those, too. But from what we saw, there’s probably just one more primary backup."

Cyclops adjusted his visor. "Where?"

"Oregon."

A heavy silence followed.

"Good, good," Steve muttered, nodding slightly. "Then we go to Oregon."

"Wait, hold on, Cap," Tony interjected, "we still need to take care of local databases. Like I said—disks, external drives, hard copies.” He gestured to the neatly organized filing cabinets on the far side of the room.

Jean stepped forward, eyes glowing softly as she scanned the area with her telepathy. "I can detect additional sources of information in locked cabinets, secured vaults, and…" she paused, tilting her head. "…an encrypted safe beneath the floor."

Jubilee scoffed, crossing her arms. "Oh great. Even more secret evil files. What do these guys do all day, sit around brainstorming ways to be the absolute worst?"

Alamo let out a small chuckle but said nothing.

Steve turned back to Tony. "Can you purge the list remotely?"

"Already on it," Stark replied, flicking his fingers across the holo-screen. "Deleting now. That’s one less genocide wishlist floating around the internet."

The list vanished from the hologram.

Jean released a small breath of relief.

Storm nodded approvingly.

Cyclops looked at the data that remained, his expression unreadable. "Then we leave the rest intact. We’ll need it to go after everyone responsible."

Then they heard it, the loud high-pitched alarm sounds, the emergency lights turning the whole room red, casting a menacing glow over the hallway, the screeching siren ringing through the building in an almost deafening cacophony. The sharp staccato of gunfire and energy blasts echoed from the floors below, reverberating through the metallic interior like the distant thunder of a brewing storm.

"What the hell?" Cyclops muttered, instinctively shifting into a combat stance, his hand hovering near his visor.

"Avengers, we need to move!" Captain America commanded, his shield already raised.

"X-Men, with me!" Cyclops ordered, his voice clear and unwavering.

But before anyone could take another step, Alamo was gone.

A streak of brilliant blue plasma energy trailed behind him as he shot down the corridor, moving faster than humanly possible. The heat from his propulsion left faint scorch marks along the walls, the air around him shimmering with ionized energy.

"Damn, boy," Wolverine muttered, impressed despite himself.

The team rushed after him, their collective footsteps pounding against the floors, moving with urgency as the alarms continued to scream. They followed the blue trail, heading downward toward the main floor. The metallic scent of burnt ozone and fresh blood filled the air, mingling with the acrid smoke from recently discharged energy weapons.

As the Avengers and X-Men burst into the lobby, they found Alamo already there, standing at the center of the room with both hands raised in a defensive stance. His palms glowed dimly, energy humming at his fingertips, ready to fire at a moment’s notice.

And then—they froze.

The X-Men stopped cold behind the Texan, their expressions shifting from battle-ready to something else entirely.

Because standing on the opposite side of the blood-slicked floor was her.

The chrome-masked woman from Arkansas.

The one who had killed Thomas Thompson.

The one who had shattered a family, left children without a father, and ignited an entire city into violent riots.

She was here. Again.

Her sleek black armor gleamed under the pulsing red lights, the metallic plating form-fitting but reinforced, designed for both mobility and durability. The suit’s surface was marred by small scorch marks and scratches, proof of prior combat. Her helmet was featureless, smooth, reflecting the glow of the alarms like a distorted mirror.

In her right hand, she held a sleek energy pistol, angled down but not idle—her finger rested near the trigger, just waiting for a reason.

And at her feet…

A pool of blood.

Carraro security guards lay scattered across the floor, their bodies motionless, uniforms torn and scorched. Some had gaping energy wounds in their chests, while others bled from jagged slashes, the polished floors reflecting their lifeless gazes in the crimson puddles forming beneath them.

One single guard remained alive, kneeling before her, his body trembling, hands gripping the deep wound in his abdomen. It was the same man who had spoken to Captain America earlier. The one who had stood his ground, honored his duty, and agreed to let them pass. And now? He was at the mercy of the chrome-masked killer.

Her energy pistol was leveled at his head, the soft whine of the weapon charging up indicating it was primed to fire.

The moment stretched, the air in the room growing heavy.

Then—she spoke.

Her voice, modulated and distorted by the suit’s built-in speakers, dripped with cold amusement.

"Hello, 'heroes.'"

The air grew heavier, thick with tension as the two teams closed in, the X-Men on one side, the Avengers on the other. The glow of the emergency lights cast long shadows, the red tint making everything feel more dangerous, more dire.

Alamo stood his ground, his body tense, his muscles coiled, every fiber of his being ready for what came next.

Captain America and Cyclops stepped forward, their presence a wall of command as the rest of their teams fell in behind them. Jean Grey’s eyes flickered with concern, her telepathic instincts already reaching out, but she knew better than to probe too deep—not yet. Storm’s hands flexed, a faint crackle of electricity pulsing at her fingertips, ready to strike. Wolverine’s claws unsheathed with a sharp, metallic snikt, his stance low and predatory. Jubilee and Rogue’s hands were clenched, their faces twisted in a mix of worry and readiness.

And on the other side, the Avengers were equally poised for action. Iron Man’s repulsors hummed, blue light gathering in his palms, ready to fire at the slightest provocation. Wasp hovered, her biotech wings beating softly as she prepared to dart into action. Falcon’s wings unfurled, his Redwing drone already scanning the room for an opening, a tactical advantage.

But the center of it all? Alamo.

He hadn’t moved, not yet. He was calculating, trying to read the situation.

He looked past the bodies on the floor—the slain Carraro guards—then to the one still alive, the veteran security officer kneeling, shaking, his blood pooling at his knees. The gun was still to his temple, a cruel promise of what was to come if someone didn’t act fast.

And so, he did.

"Let him go," Alamo’s voice cut through the silence, calm, even, but firm.

The chrome-masked woman tilted her head slightly, amused. The movement was inhuman, like the slow, deliberate motion of a predator toying with its prey.

"Make me," she said, the words carrying a mechanical distortion, making her sound even colder, more detached.

Alamo didn’t hesitate.

"No problem."

He shot forward, a blue streak of plasma energy blazing in his wake. In an instant, he reached the kneeling guard, his hands grasping the man by the shoulders and throwing him aside, shoving him out of the line of fire.

The security guard hit the ground hard, rolling away with a grunt of pain but alive—safe.

Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

But then—

Then he felt it.

The moment his feet hit the ground again, something changed.

Something was wrong.

His chest seized up—his stomach churned—his legs felt weak—his blood ran cold.

The plasma that burned inside of him, the constant hum of energy coursing through his veins, the very thing that made him the Alamo—

Was gone.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath.

His body staggered, his balance thrown off. His vision swam for a moment, like he had been drained of his strength in an instant.

And then—

She grabbed him.

In a blur of inhuman speed, the chrome-masked woman seized him by the collar of his jacket, yanking him off his feet like a ragdoll.

His boots barely scraped the floor before she pressed the cold barrel of an energy pistol against his skull.

She turned to face the assembled heroes, holding Alamo in front of her like a trophy, a human shield, a warning.

The X-Men and Avengers tensed instantly.

"ALAMO!"

The shouted name came from multiple voices, a mix of panic, anger, and disbelief.

Rogue’s eyes went wide. Her breath caught in her throat, her muscles instinctively tensed to rush forward—but she knew she couldn’t.

Jean gasped. Her hand flew to her temple, a reaction more than a conscious movement, as though she might reach out for him—but she stopped herself.

Jubilee clenched her fists. Fireworks sparked at her fingertips, but she was frozen, her eyes darting toward Rogue, looking for her reaction.

Falcon adjusted his stance. His wings twitched, a signal that he was seconds away from launching forward.

Wasp hovered higher, fists clenched. She was ready to shrink down and strike, but the risk was too great—one wrong move, and Alamo was gone.

Iron Man’s repulsors glowed even brighter. His HUD calculations were firing rapidly, searching for an opening, a way to disable her weapon before she could pull the trigger.

Wolverine’s claws flexed. His teeth gritted. He was so close to losing control, but he knew—he knew—that a single wrong move could cost the kid his life.

And Captain America?

His jaw tightened, his grip on his shield firm.

He took one slow step forward. Measured. Controlled. Careful.

His eyes locked onto hers through the mirror-like mask.

His voice low, commanding, unshakable.

"Let him go."

The chrome-masked woman didn’t budge. She only tilted her head slightly, considering the weight of his words, before her pistol pressed harder against Alamo’s skull.

"Try and stop me."

The room was drenched in red light, the sound of the alarm distant but oppressive, like an ever-present heartbeat hammering in the background. The X-Men and the Avengers stood frozen, every muscle in their bodies coiled tight, every instinct screaming at them to act—to move—but they couldn’t. Not yet. Not when the life of one of their own was hanging by a thread.

Alamo could feel the cold steel of the energy pistol digging into the side of his head, the pressure firm, deliberate, a message all on its own. The chrome-masked woman didn’t waver, didn’t show an ounce of hesitation, her grip steady, her stance unshakable. She held him like he was nothing, like the Alamo—this self-proclaimed lone star of Texas—was just another nameless casualty waiting to happen.

But it wasn’t the gun that terrified him.

It was the inhibitor.

The black, hockey-puck-shaped device latched onto his chest, a parasite feeding on his very essence. He could feel it, draining him, suffocating his power, his life. He looked down at it, trying to process what was happening, but the more he stared, the more his mind screamed in panic.

He had never felt this weak before. Never felt this... human.

No plasma burning in his veins.

No energy surging at his fingertips.

No power.

“What the hell is goin' on?” His voice came out shakier than he wanted, his bravado faltering against the creeping terror climbing up his spine.

The woman’s helmeted face turned slightly, as if she were smirking beneath the metal. Mocking him.

"Well, as you can see, sweetie," she said in that eerily calm, almost playful tone, "the wonders of modern human technology... this is an inhibitor."

The words slammed into him like a freight train.

"No, no, no." His mind raced, spiraling.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

He was a force of nature, he wasn’t supposed to be powerless. Not now. Not when it mattered.

"Let him go! NOW!"

Rogue’s voice rang out like a gunshot, cutting through the tension with sheer, unfiltered rage.

But the chrome-masked woman didn’t flinch. Instead, she tilted her head again, reaching into her belt with her free hand. She pulled out a small flash drive, holding it between two fingers, the sleek silver casing glinting under the emergency lights.

"That list you got?" she said smoothly, her voice sickly sweet, like she was enjoying this. "Well, deleted."

A ripple of confusion and anger shot through the room.

Iron Man’s HUD scanned for signals, Falcon's drone locked onto the device, but the masked woman merely twisted the drive between her fingers, a taunting gesture, her grip on Alamo never loosening.

"I have it right here."

She held it up higher, like it was a damn golden ticket.

"I'll upload it," she continued, "to the internet... It'll be on every server. Destroying this one will mean nothing.

She let the words linger, letting them sink in, watching as the realization washed over them all.

"Every anti-mutant warrior in the nation... in the world... will have access to it."

Jean’s face twisted in horror.

Storm’s breath caught in her throat.

Cyclops’ fists clenched so hard his knuckles went white.

Even Iron Man’s repulsors dimmed, as if the weight of the moment had crushed even his usual sarcasm.

They knew what that meant.

Addresses. Names. Powers. Family members.

A blueprint for every mutant-hating fanatic on the planet to hunt them down.

To kill them.

And then, she added one more thing.

A bargain.

"Or..."

She pressed the barrel of the gun harder against Alamo’s temple, the heat of the charged energy humming against his mask.

He froze. He had been in fights before. Had taken bullets to the chest, blades to the ribs. Had been hit by Sentinels, had dodged explosions, had felt pain.

But this was different.

This was death.

And for the first time in a long time, Alamo had to confront his own mortality.

If he died... where would he go?

Was it heaven? Hell?

Or was he right all along?

Was there nothing? Just darkness. Just silence.

Nonexistence.

That idea—that absolute, inescapable void—terrified him more than anything.

The chrome-masked woman’s voice snapped him back.

"I'll give you X-Men this little flash drive, how about that?" she said, almost cheerfully.

"In exchange, you let me have this one."

She shook Alamo slightly, her fingers tightening on his jacket.

A clear demand. A trade.

"One mutant life for the lives of thousands. Worth the trade, no?"

The room went still.

And then Alamo, in a voice low, quiet, his Texan drawl coated in defiance, spat out his answer.

"No, it ain't, bitch."

The pistol pressed harder against his mask.

"What did you say, sweetie?" she cooed. "Wanna go earlier?"

Alamo didn’t waver.

But he still had his goddamn dignity.

"Fuck you."

The masked woman laughed.

"Now that's not nice, sweetie," she purred, shifting her grip slightly, re-centering the pistol on his forehead. "Be kind... or die."

Alamo went silent.

His breathing steady, but slow. His heart pounding, but his face unreadable beneath the mask.

His eyes locked onto hers through the chrome reflection.

He wasn’t going to beg. He wasn’t going to plead.

Yes, Duncan was terrified, but he wasn't about to humiliate himself, not even for his own life. Maybe this decision was unreasonable, maybe it was arrogant. But he wasn't going to cry for mercy under the watchful eyes of the Avengers and the X-Men.

The room was drowning in tension, thick and suffocating like the heat before a storm. The blaring alarm still echoed in the background, but no one was paying attention to it anymore. Not when the life of one of their own was hanging on the balance.

Alamo could feel the gun pressing harder against his temple, the hum of energy vibrating through his skull. He wasn’t sure if it was his pulse pounding in his ears, or the inhibitor sapping away the last of his strength, but either way—he was stuck. And all around him, chaos was about to erupt.

"LET HIM GO, AH AIN'T SAYIN' AGAIN!"

Rogue’s Southern drawl rang out like a whip-crack, her voice sharp, fierce, filled with nothing but unfiltered rage. Her gloved fingers curled into fists, her muscles coiled like a viper ready to strike.

But the chrome-masked woman? She didn’t flinch.

She tilted her head slightly, that same mocking amusement lacing her words as she lifted the flash drive higher. Dangling it like bait.

"Alright, no problem," she said smoothly. "I'll just post this over the internet."

The words hit the room like a bomb.

The tension doubled, tripled, spiraling into something volatile. The X-Men and the Avengers exchanged quick, panicked glances, the weight of the threat slamming into them all at once.

Mutant addresses.

Mutant identities.

Mutant lives.

A death sentence for thousands.

"Wait!" Cyclops suddenly called out, his voice tight, controlled—but edged with hesitation.

The woman paused, her grip on Alamo not loosening, but her head snapping toward Cyclops.

Alamo furrowed his brow behind the mask, confusion and frustration colliding in his mind.

"Wait—"

Rogue’s head whipped toward Cyclops, her green eyes burning with disbelief.

"What ya mean, wait, Scott?! She's goin' to kill him!"

Alamo gritted his teeth. "Fuckin' X-Men, I swear," he thought bitterly.

There it was—hesitation. Indecision. The constant, endless debate of the X-Men.

They were so obsessed with doing the right thing, with finding the moral high ground, that when it came time to make the call—they hesitated.

Alamo had seen it before.

And right now, it was going to get him killed.

"If she posts this information," Cyclops continued, his jaw tightening, "thousands of mutants could die."

"She's goin' to kill Duncan, god damnit!" Rogue snapped back, her voice cracking with frustration.

A cold chuckle.

The woman tilted her head slightly, her voice mocking.

"Captain, I really can't believe you even fathom walking with these people."

Captain America’s expression didn’t change, his blue eyes locked on the situation, calculating.

The woman’s helmet turned toward him. "They barely know what to do," she mused, voice dripping with condescension. "I thought the X-Men were supposed to be a team."

Rogue was shaking now, her rage barely contained.

"Rogue," Cyclops warned, voice low, but she didn’t care.

"Ah ain't lettin' ya do that, Cyclops!"

"We can't let him die, he's a mutant!" Jubilee yelled, her hands crackling with faint sparks, her usual playful energy completely absent.

The woman sighed, shaking her head.

"See, sweetie," she muttered, her voice casual, like she was chatting over coffee. "This is what you mutants are good for. Bickering. Fighting. Irrationality."

Alamo stayed quiet.

Because as much as he hated to admit it, she wasn’t entirely wrong.

They were all at each other’s throats instead of focusing on the actual enemy.

Jean tensed, her hands glowing faintly, her eyes flickering with power.

"Nuh-Uh," the woman warned smoothly, pressing the gun harder into Alamo’s skull. "No light shows. No telekinesis, telepathy, or whatever… anything gets out of control, this sweet little child gets it."

The glow in Jean’s hands faded instantly.

The room was deathly silent.

Cyclops’ fingers hovered over his visor.

Captain America’s shield was still on his arm, ready.

Iron Man’s repulsors dimmed, but primed.

Rogue was breathing hard, her hands trembling from sheer restraint.

Alamo couldn’t breathe.

The inhibitor was suffocating him, not just physically—but mentally. No powers. No escape. No plan.

Worst of all, if he died right now... who would he be? Just another casualty, someone who did too little, too late?

Mediocrity

The thought itself filled him with rage, not fear, but anger. His agency, his freedom completely stripped away from him. It was horrifying but also just as enraging.

The tension shattered like glass the moment Captain America spoke with certainty.

"You won't kill him," he said, voice calm but firm. Unshakable.

The woman tilted her head, considering him, then chuckled under her breath. The amusement in her voice curdled Alamo’s stomach.

"Sure hell ya won't."

Rogue’s voice carried fire, her body coiled to spring, her eyes burning with fury.

The masked woman shifted slightly, still keeping her grip firm, the pistol pressing harder against Alamo’s skull.

"The girl and the Avenger speak for your team, Cyclops?"

Silence.

A silence so thick it made the air feel heavier, hotter.

Cyclops' jaw clenched, his visor tilting slightly toward the floor, as if he was calculating, measuring the situation.

Alamo could barely move, but his mind was racing.

All of heroes, ready to move, but stuck in place.

And their hesitation was about to cost them everything.

The woman’s grip tightened around the pistol.

"Make a decision," she said, her tone almost bored. "I'll give you all ten seconds."

Alamo's pulse slammed against his ribs.

Rogue's fists twitched.

Jean's hands glowed faintly.

Cyclops' visor brightened, but he still didn't fire.

Captain America's eyes never wavered.

Wolverine had his claws at the ready.

The woman began to count down.

"Ten."

The world narrowed. The sounds of the blaring alarm faded.

"Nine."

Rogue's breathing sharpened.

"Eight."

Alamo's jaw tensed.

"Seven."

Captain America readied his shield, his stance shifting ever so slightly.

"Six."

Iron Man's repulsors hummed, just a fraction louder.

"Five— What the—?!"

The woman barely had time to react before a blur of movement crashed into her side.

The security guard—the one she thought was knocked out cold just minutes ago—wasn't out at all.

With a grunt of effort, he threw his full weight into her, his fist smashing into the side of her helmet.

It didn't do any real damage—not against reinforced combat armor—but it staggered her. And that was all it took.

A split second was all they needed.

And everything erupted at once.

Jean whipped her hand up, and suddenly all the other soldiers were hurled to the ceiling, trapped by invisible hands.

Cyclops' visor flared, and he fired a precision optic blast at the masked woman’s gun arm.

The force of the hit sent her weapon flying from her grip, crashing somewhere down the hallway.

And then came the shield.

Captain America's vibranium disk cut through the air, a blur of red, white, and blue, before slamming into her chest.

The impact knocked her back, sending her skidding across the polished floor.

In that moment, Rogue was already moving.

She darted toward Alamo, her hands grasping the black, circular device latched onto his chest.

Alamo felt the inhibitor’s weight, its deadening effect suffocating him—he felt powerless, vulnerable, human.

With one, brutal yank, Rogue ripped the device away.

The second it left his body, Alamo felt it.

His powers surged back, rushing through him like wildfire, filling every inch of his body with heat, strength, life.

He gasped, his blue-lit hands crackling with raw energy, his body weightless again.

Rogue smirked, tossing the useless inhibitor aside.

"There ya go, sugah."

Alamo let out a breath, rolling his shoulders as the warmth settled in his bones again.

"Much appreciated."

His tone was thankful, but there was something else buried beneath it. Something almost... bitter.

Alamo felt it.

The raw, unfiltered power surging back into his veins, filling every inch of his body with pure, undiluted energy. It was like breathing again after nearly drowning. His fingers flexed, his muscles tightened, and he smirked behind his mask.

Too late.

The woman reached for her gun, her armored fingers closing around the grip, but she never got the chance.

Alamo moved first.

A blue blur of light and force, faster than even Rogue could react.

He materialized before her, an instant later his hand wrapped around her throat, fingers locking in an unbreakable vice.

And then he lifted her, hoisting her high above his head like she was nothing.

The X-Men and Avengers barely had time to register the fight was over.

The League’s forces had been decimated, their operatives scattered or unconscious, the battle’s aftermath eerily silent.

But Duncan wasn’t done.

He stood, a tower of fury and power, his grip tightening around the woman's throat.

Her legs kicked uselessly in the air, her hands clawed at his wrist, trying to pry him off.

She was helpless.

And he stared down at her, his eyes glowing red, his fingers twitching with the temptation of raw destruction.

"You should have killed me."

His voice was cold, hollow.

The woman choked, her lips twisting into a sneer even as she struggled for breath.

"Freak..."

Duncan’s grip tightened further, cutting off the last of her words.

"I'll take everythin' from ya."

His voice shook with certainty.

The room felt heavier, the air itself thicker.

Every hero present felt it—something was happening inside him.

Something snapping.

But the woman just laughed, a strangled, gurgling sound, despite the pain, despite the terror.

"It doesn't matter..." She wheezed. "Nothing matters, child."

"What you mean, nothing matters?!" He thought, he wanted her to be scared for her life, but she didn't seem to. It almost felt hollow, it made his ees widen in surprise.

Duncan’s fingers burned hotter, the glow in his palms intensifying, his mind screaming for justice, for retribution, for finality.

"ALAMO!"

Rogue's voice cut through the room, sharp as a blade.

Her green eyes were wide, her hands tensed, ready to grab him if she had to.

"Oh my God." Jean murmured, her own powers flickering at the edges of her consciousness.

"He's going to kill her." Wasp muttered to Falcon.

"DUNCAN! DON'T DO IT."

Jubilee’s hands clenched, her fireworks sparking unintentionally, fear and disbelief painted across her face.

Cyclops stepped forward, his visor narrowing, his stance one of a man prepared to intervene by force if necessary.

"Back down!"

But Duncan didn’t listen.

Their voices were distant, drowned out by the thundering pulse of his own power, the pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears.

She deserved this.

Every bone in his body told him she deserved this.

She had killed innocents.

She had slaughtered mutants and humans alike.

But what mattered the most to him was how terrifyingly weak she made him feel.

She didn’t deserve mercy.

The woman's eyes flickered down at him, full of contempt even as she dangled from his grip.

"Just do it, mutant."

And then—

"Son, don't."

It was Captain America’s voice.

And that cut through everything.

Duncan’s head snapped toward him, his red-glowing gaze locking onto the super soldier.

Captain America’s face was calm, but his blue eyes held a weight that few could match.

A man who had seen war, seen death, seen the worst of humanity—and still chose to believe in something better.

Duncan gritted his teeth.

The tension crackled in the air, thick as storm clouds before a lightning strike.

"I don’t kill."

The words were cold, final.

And then the woman screamed.

Duncan didn’t kill her.

But he sure as hell made sure she’d never fight back again.

Her free hand jerked upward, reaching for a hidden weapon, a last resort— But Duncan’s hand moved faster.

With a single brutal flex, his superheated fingers crushed the gun in her grasp, warping the metal like wet clay. The firearm’s frame buckled in his grip, the internal mechanisms melting under the sheer heat of his power.

The woman shrieked, but she wasn’t fast enough to pull her own hand away. Her bones shattered, her flesh sizzled, her tendons seared apart, the smell of burning metal and scorched skin filling the air.

With a sharp, wet tear, Duncan ripped his hand back, and what remained of her right arm was nothing but a charred stump. She howled in agony, her legs kicking wildly as she writhed in his grip.

Gasps rippled through the room.

"Oh my God."

"Dear Lord."

"That—"

"Enough, Alamo!"

Cyclops' voice rang with command, but it was Captain America's voice that held weight.

Duncan finally let go.

The woman crashed to the ground, clutching the ruined remains of her arm, her body curled inward as she let out shaking, pain-ridden gasps.

Duncan looked down at her.

She wasn’t dead. But she wasn’t a threat anymore.

"Try threatenin' people now."

He had kept his word.

He didn’t kill.