The early morning in Houston was supposed to be quiet, the type of day where the city’s heartbeat had yet to pick up. The sky still had a muted grayness to it, the sun hidden behind a layer of thick clouds, casting a dim, pale light over the streets. The air was humid, thick with the kind of moisture that clung to the skin and made everything feel heavier than it should be.

Inside a small jewelry store, a woman worked behind the glass counter, her delicate fingers carefully polishing a diamond necklace that rested on a velvet stand. The rhythmic whirr of a small buffer tool hummed in the shop’s background, a steady, familiar sound that helped keep her nerves calm. A small television sat on the far corner of the counter, muted but still showing the morning news—live footage of the escalating protests downtown.

Her eyes flickered toward the screen, watching as the anchor narrated the situation with a mixture of urgency and unease.

"This morning, pro-mutant demonstrators have taken to the streets in downtown Houston, calling for action against Carraro Industries and Trask International—"

She sighed, shaking her head. She had seen the footage already—a sea of protestors, their signs raised high, their voices loud and impassioned. The phrase “Freedom for Mutants!” flashed across the screen in bold white letters, with footage of marchers waving mutant flags and some dressed in makeshift versions of the X-Men’s iconic uniforms.

More sirens wailed outside.

Her stomach twisted. It wasn’t uncommon for Houston to have protests, but this? This was different. The streets were packed, the sheer size of the movement larger than anything she’d seen before. The streets were practically swallowed by bodies—mutants and human allies alike, marching, chanting, and waving flags of all kinds.

Some were waving the American flag, others carried mutant-rights banners covered in Xs and slogans. Some even had flags from other causes—environmental groups, anti-corporate activists, and even a few anarchist symbols mixed into the chaos. It was a tangled mess of voices, all fighting for something, but the energy in the air felt volatile.

She wiped her hands on a cloth, stepped out from behind the counter, and moved toward the front of the store. The glass windows vibrated slightly as the protest crowd surged past, the ground rumbling beneath their marching feet.

"I should close up," she thought, moving toward the door. She reached for the “OPEN” sign and flipped it to “CLOSED”, locking the bolts with a quiet click.

"Jesus," she murmured, still staring out onto the street.

A group of teenagers in hoodies ran past, spray cans in their hands, and she watched as one of them tagged her window with red paint. Large, hurried strokes formed the word “CARRARO SCUM”, followed by a hastily drawn X symbol underneath.

She gasped, stepping back.

"This is getting out of hand..."

She turned away from the window, her hands trembling slightly as she tried to push down the fear creeping up her spine.

Then she heard it—a sudden, violent CRASH!

Her head snapped back toward the entrance just as the front door splintered apart, the hinges twisting from the force of the impact. Shards of glass exploded into the store, scattering across the floor with an eerie tinkling sound.

Her heart pounded in her chest.

A figure stepped through the broken doorway, and her breath hitched in terror.

A man with blue skin and glowing yellow eyes strode inside, his boots crunching over the shattered glass. He wore a ragged denim jacket, the sleeves torn off, revealing lean but muscled arms, his skin marked with faded scars. In his right hand, he held a revolver, the dark metal catching the dim morning light.

Behind him, a woman followed, her sharp teeth gleaming in the dim lighting of the shop. Her red eyes burned with feral excitement, her wild black hair streaked with white. She was tall and wiry, dressed in a dark hoodie and ripped jeans, the baseball bat in her hands stained with old scratches and dents.

"Give the money, lady," the blue-skinned man growled, tapping the revolver against his thigh. His voice was rough, his accent Houstonian but tinged with something older, something bitter.

"It's for a good cause!" the woman sneered, her voice high and grating as she lifted the bat onto her shoulder.

The woman behind the counter froze, her hands instinctively flying up in front of her chest. Her legs felt weak, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

The man took another step forward, pressing his revolver against the glass counter with a sharp thunk.

"Fast, bitch!" the red-eyed woman barked, her grip on the baseball bat tightening.

Her hands shook as she turned toward the cash register, her fingers fumbling over the buttons. With a beep, the drawer slid open, revealing stacks of twenties and hundreds nestled inside.

The blue-skinned man watched her closely, his gun now pointed directly at her head.

"Faster," he said, his voice dangerously low. "We know there's more."

The woman behind the counter whimpered, grabbing fistfuls of cash and shoving them toward the pair. Her hands moved frantically, bills slipping from her grasp as she trembled uncontrollably.

"FASTER," the man snapped.

"GIVE THE GOLD, BITCH!" the woman hissed, her sharp teeth flashing as she raised her bat menacingly.

The woman let out a quiet sob, her knees nearly buckling beneath her.

"Please," she choked out. "Please don't hurt me, I swear, please!"

The blue-skinned man’s expression darkened, his patience wearing thin. He leaned forward, pressing the cold muzzle of the revolver against her forehead.

The barrel was cold, its weight heavy with intent.

"I was nice so far," he said, his voice disturbingly calm. "Please, lady… faster… or I'll blow your brains out and get everything myself."

And then—

BANG.

The moment the gunshot rang out, it shattered the fragile tension in the air.

The female mutant’s head snapped backward, her skull bursting open from the impact of a slug round, sending a gruesome spray of blood and bone splattering across the counter and floor. Her lifeless body crumpled instantly, twitching violently for a few seconds before she finally stilled, her arms sprawled awkwardly.

Her baseball bat clattered onto the tile with a hollow clunk, rolling slightly before settling beside her corpse.

The blue-skinned mutant’s eyes went wide, his pupils shrinking in absolute terror as his chest tightened. He sucked in a ragged breath, his lungs burning, his instincts screaming at him to run—but his legs wouldn’t move.

His trembling hands gripped his revolver tighter, his entire body going stiff as he stared through the thick smoke that still hung in the air.

Through it, he saw the shooter emerge.

A towering figure, 6’4, broad-shouldered, his presence imposing as a storm front. He moved with purpose, slow and methodical, his steps deliberate, heavy boots thudding against the tile.

The smoke began to clear, revealing his uniform—a dark, padded tactical suit, armored across the chest and shoulders, the silver star of a badge gleaming just above his heart. It wasn’t Houston PD.

A massive shotgun rested in his gloved hands, the metal still smoking from the shot, the barrel thick and customized—a weapon built for absolute lethality. The pistol grip was worn, molded to fit his grip perfectly, the pump-action smooth as he chambered another round with a deliberate clack-clack.

His face was hidden behind a mask—chrome-plated, reflective, and completely featureless. No mouth, no eyes, no nose—just an eerie, expressionless void.

Atop his head sat a black eight-point police hat, adding to the grim, authoritarian presence he carried.

The robber’s breathing became erratic, his fingers twitching as he scrambled back, his revolver jerking upward in desperation.

“Goddammit!” he cursed, his voice cracking with fear.

His back hit the glass display counter, the surface cold and unforgiving against his spine.

The towering figure took another step forward, his boots crushing the scattered shards of broken glass beneath his weight.

“Drop the weapon.”

The voice came distorted, metallic, filtered through a modulator embedded inside the mask. It was deep, commanding, utterly devoid of emotion.

The robber’s hand shook violently, his gun bouncing slightly in his grip as he aimed at the figure’s chest.

“Fuck off, man!” he shouted, his voice a mixture of panic and raw desperation.

The chrome-masked enforcer remained unmoved, his trigger finger steady, his stance unshaken.

“Three.”

The countdown was calm, unflinching, like a judge passing sentence.

The robber sucked in a sharp breath, his mind racing, his muscles frozen in indecision.

“Fuck—”

“Two.”

The barrel of the shotgun never wavered, held steady like an executioner’s axe.

The robber’s heartbeat thundered in his ears, his forehead dripping sweat, his lungs tight.

“What are you?!” he demanded, his voice cracking.

The answer came without hesitation.

“One.”

The shotgun roared.

A thunderous blast ripped through the air, the force so powerful that it nearly shook the glass cases.

The slug struck the robber square in the face, the sheer impact obliterating his skull in an instant. Bone, flesh, and brain matter sprayed across the counter and walls, a grotesque splatter of crimson and gray.

His mangled headed corpse jerked backward, his arms limp, the revolver slipping from his fingers and clattering to the floor. His legs gave out, and his body collapsed into a lifeless heap, pooling in the rapidly expanding puddle of blood beneath him.

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The store fell deathly silent, save for the soft drip, drip, drip of blood trickling from the shattered glass counter.

The chrome-masked figure stood over the body, his grip unwavering on the shotgun, his presence still and cold, like a specter of judgment.

"I'm the Americop"

The jeweler gasped for air, her body trembling violently, her knees buckling beneath her as she collapsed to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably.

"AHHHHHH!"

Her cries echoed in the hollow silence, her hands shaking so badly that she could barely keep herself upright.

The figure turned toward her, his helmeted head tilting slightly, as if observing her reaction. Then, finally, he spoke.

“You are safe, lady. Call the police.”

His voice was calm, almost mechanical, unfazed by the bloodshed around him.

She lifted her tear-streaked face, her eyes wide with shock and horror, her breath coming in broken sobs.

“And… what do I even tell them?!” she stammered, her voice cracking.

The masked figure slowly turned away, his shotgun resting at his side, the dim morning light glinting off the featureless chrome of his helmet.

Then, in a voice as cold as steel, he answered.

“Tell them justice was served.”

Americop stepped into the sunlight, his heavy boots clicking against the pavement as he emerged onto the street. The morning air was tense, sirens echoed in the distance, but there was no immediate police presence here. Instead, there was chaos—shattered glass, overturned newsstands, and broken store signs littered the sidewalks as rioters moved in and out of looted shops.

Across the street, a convenience store had just been ransacked, the door still swinging open as three robbers sprinted out, their arms weighed down by stolen merchandise and hastily grabbed cash. Their faces were covered in bandanas, but their panicked movements betrayed their lack of experience. They weren’t professionals—they were opportunists.

From the far side of the sidewalk, a woman’s voice rang out, desperate and pleading.

“Someone stop them! Police!”

Americop’s grip on his shotgun tightened, the polymer handle cool against his gloved hands. His head tilted slightly, the chrome mask reflecting the chaotic scene around him like a warped funhouse mirror. The city was lawless this morning, the line between protest and riot already blurred beyond recognition.

His voice, deep and distorted through his modulator, came out as a calm declaration of absolute judgment.

“Gladly.”

Before any of the robbers could even react, Americop raised his shotgun, the movement smooth, practiced, lethal—and fired.

BOOM!

The first robber’s spine arched unnaturally as a slug tore through his back, punching straight through his chest and bursting out the other side in a gruesome spray of crimson. His body collapsed mid-stride, momentum sending him skidding forward before he came to a halt, lifeless.

The second man screamed, flinching as blood splattered across his face, but before he could turn—

BOOM!

The second shot ripped through his ribcage, sending him crashing onto the curb, his stolen goods spilling across the ground in a useless pile.

The third man barely managed to let out a single breath before—

BOOM!

A slug slammed into the back of his skull, his head snapping forward violently as he crumbled into a heap next to his accomplices, his lifeblood pooling onto the pavement.

The street was silent.

Americop slowly lowered his shotgun, smoke still drifting from the barrel as he stepped forward, his boots splashing through warm, fresh blood without hesitation.

He bent down, retrieving the bag of stolen goods, and walked toward the woman who had cried out for help.

She stood frozen, eyes wide with horror, but when he held out the bag to her, she hesitated before taking it. Her fingers trembled against the fabric, but she swallowed dryly, nodding.

“Th—thank you.”

Americop’s voice, strangely warm despite its cold distortion, responded simply.

“You’re welcome, ma’am.”

He turned sharply, striding away as the hushed murmurs of bystanders filled the space behind him, whispers of shock and approval mingling in equal measure.

Americop moved swiftly, ducking into a nearby alley, his path leading to a sleek, heavily modified police-inspired motorcycle parked in the shadows. The bike was a beast—all matte black plating, reinforced frame, with police siren lights subtly embedded along the sides and a reinforced holster for his shotgun mounted on the handlebars.

But he wasn’t alone.

Standing near the mouth of the alley, arms crossed over his chest, was another masked figure.

shorter, draped in black, not much differently from him.

His wide-brimmed cowboy hat cast a shadow over his chrome mask, the reflective surface glowing faintly in the light. Unlike Americop, this mask had eyes—red, piercing, flickering like embers beneath the brim of his hat. A white star adorned his chest, bold and gleaming, stark against the dark coat he wore.

The Alamo

His white gloves flexed slightly, fingers curling and uncurling as if resisting the urge to move toward his weapons.

Americop stared back, his own chrome mask unreadable, but he already knew who this was.

“Killin’ ain’t the answer, partner,” the Alamo said, his voice young but guttural in that West Texan accent, heavy with disapproval.

His stance was relaxed, but there was a tense readiness beneath it—an unspoken understanding that violence was one wrong move away.

“The hell are ya?”

Americop studied him for a moment before replying.

“I’m the Americop.”

There was a beat of silence.

The name lingered in the air, heavy, charged with meaning.

Alamo’s jaw tensed beneath his mask. The name rang with the weight of something more than just a title—something symbolic, something twisted from its original meaning. But also something amazingly cheesy, like it was taken from a comic book itself, maybe it even was.

He swallowed dryly.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“The hell kinda name is Americop? Who came up with that?”

Americop didn’t answer.

Instead, he lifted his shotgun, resting it against the side of his motorcycle, keeping it within easy reach.

Alamo’s posture didn’t change, but his stance shifted just slightly, just enough to be ready for whatever came next.

“Ahem, well,” Alamo muttered, tilting his head slightly. “I sure as hell don’t appreciate this whole killin’ people left and right.”

Americop finally responded, his voice calm, unwavering.

“Go back to Midland, Nenni.”

The name hit harder than a bullet.

Alamo stiffened.

His muscles tensed, his hands flexed slightly, but he didn’t move.

He knew.

This bastard knew his name. His hometown.

Maybe he’d done his research, maybe he’d heard it from the news, maybe it was just simple detective work—but it still stung. The fact that someone like this knew who he was…

Alamo exhaled slowly, forcing himself to push past the anger.

“Sorry, I won’t do that, Americop.”

Americop didn’t react. He simply tilted his head, as if studying him.

“If you’re here to defend mutantkind, first—you’re late. Secondly, I have nothing against your kind. Just criminals.”

Alamo’s brow furrowed beneath his mask.

“I ain’t here fer mutantkind. I’m here to defend Texan businesses, Texan lives—human and mutant alike.”

Americop’s voice was matter-of-fact.

“Too bad. You're late”

Alamo exhaled through his nose, his voice lowering just slightly.

“Hell, I ain’t here fer a joke. I’m tryin’ to make sure this don’t blow up in our faces.”

Americop finally moved, shifting his weight slightly as he reached for his bike.

He swung one leg over the seat, settling in comfortably as he grabbed the handlebars. The engine rumbled slightly, a deep, guttural growl waiting to be unleashed.

Alamo took a step closer, boots scuffing against the pavement.

His voice was quieter now, but dead serious.

“What are ya doin’ here?”

Americop’s hands tightened slightly on the grips.

“Same as you. Making sure criminals pay.”

Alamo’s glowing red eyes flickered beneath his hat, his shoulders squaring slightly.

“In the process killin' em' too?”

Americop’s head tilted just a fraction.

“It’s the only process that works.”

Alamo didn’t move, didn’t blink.

His jaw clenched beneath the mask.

“I can’t let ya go ‘round bein’ judge, jury, and executioner here, partner.”

Americop’s hand flexed slightly on the throttle.

The bike rumbled, as if responding to the silent tension between them.

And for a long, long moment—neither of them moved.

Then, Americop spoke.

"Listen here Nenni, I don't give two shits on who you are... I don't care if you were birthed from damn Sam Houston himself, don't give this sanctimonious crap to me. You want to defend the city of Houston, it's fine. Do it. But if you're going to stand in my way, I'll put you down... not because I want to or because I like it... but because people need it, the more you talk, the more people die."

"Well, ya certainly ain't keepin' em' alive, either."

"These are not people, they are violent criminals, animals. Mutant and Human alike"

He spoke just like Alamo had spoke seconds ago.

"Dang it."

"If you want to help me, fine, do it... just don't stand around doing nothing."

"Alright, I'll... help. Just don't expect me to go all in and kill people."

"You do things your way, I do mine."

Americop’s bike roared beneath him, the engine’s deep growl reverberating off the buildings as they tore through the war-torn streets of Houston. The city, his city, was burning—not in flames, not yet—but in something far worse.

Hatred. Chaos. Lawlessness.

Americop heard the police chatter over his scanner.

"There's is some gang violence spilling in Midtown. We're headed there."

The streets were filled with marchers, protestors, rioters, and opportunistic criminals—all tangled together in a toxic whirlwind that blurred the lines between right and wrong.

And here he was.

The only thin blue line that mattered.

Beside him, Alamo hovered just above the pavement, his dark form illuminated by the morning Texas sun. His plasma signature burned faintly, leaving a soft blue contrail behind him, but he kept his pace steady with Americop’s.

There was an uneasy silence between them.

Both men rode toward war, but they weren’t soldiers on the same side—not yet.

Alamo glanced at Americop, taking in the heavy Kevlar plating, the tactical rig, the unmarked badge on his chest, the reflective chrome mask that concealed every emotion.

Then, he finally spoke, his voice smooth but cautious.

“So, ahem… ya a local?”

Americop didn’t turn his head.

“Yes, Nenni.” His voice was matter-of-fact, firm, almost robotic. “I was a police captain for fourteen years.”

Alamo exhaled sharply, raising an eyebrow behind his mask.

“Jesus Christ. Ya got a name, Captain?”

For the first time, Americop hesitated. It wasn’t hesitation out of weakness—it was something else. Something darker.

Then, with a voice as cold as steel, he answered.

“Bartholomew Gallows. And don’t call me Captain.”

Alamo rolled the name in his mind for a second. It was old school. Harsh. Heavy. It fit him.

But the name itself wasn’t what mattered. It was the way he said it.

It was a name from another life.

“What happened?” Alamo finally asked.

Americop’s knuckles tightened on the throttle, the leather of his gloves creaking under the pressure.

For the first time in their conversation, his voice lowered, but not in anger.

In something else. Something worse.

“The justice system is rotten, Nenni. That’s what happened.”

Alamo frowned, his red eyes narrowing slightly behind his mask.

“I reckon that’s not untrue… Took ya fourteen years to realize that?”

Americop’s silence was deafening.

Then he spoke.

“Took the life of my daughter.”

Alamo’s chest tightened. His throat went dry.

“Oh.”

Americop didn’t slow his bike, didn’t react, didn’t even turn his head.

But his voice changed.

There was no fury in it—just a hollow, bottomless void where something else used to be.

“She was twelve. Just a little kid. When they took her life.”

Alamo felt his fingers twitch.

He wasn’t even sure why—was it anger? Was it sorrow? Was it guilt?

It didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

Because then, Americop said the words that cut deeper than any knife ever could.

“They had their way with her.”

Alamo’s stomach turned violently. His whole body went stiff, a sickening feeling creeping into his bones.

For the first time in a long time, his mind didn’t have a response.

No philosophy.

No bravado.

No conviction.

Just cold, gut-wrenching horror.

“Oh my God…” Alamo muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Americop kept talking, and that was the worst part.

“The bastard was connected.” His voice was still flat, emotionless, like he was just reciting a police report from years past. “Local politicians. Attorneys. The D.A… He had all of them in his pocket. I was a Captain, and even then, the bastard got away.”

Alamo swallowed hard, forcing himself to speak.

“Did ya—”

“Yes.”

Americop’s answer was immediate.

He didn’t explain. He didn’t hesitate.

He just said it.

Because it was fact.

“I killed him. Slowly and painfully.”

Alamo felt the weight of that confession hit him like a freight train.

And for the first time since meeting him, he understood.

This wasn’t a man with a vendetta.

This wasn’t some psychopath playing judge, jury, and executioner.

This was a father—a father who had lived through something no man should ever live through.

This was a man who had lost faith in everything—the system, the laws, the idea that justice even existed.

And so he became the law himself.

Alamo felt his fists clench.

“I see now… I reckon any father would have done the same…” He exhaled through his nose, carefully choosing his next words. “But these people… they ain’t rapists, are they?”

Americop didn’t answer immediately.

Then, after a moment, he spoke.

“No.”

Alamo held onto that.

“So… is this about vengeance? Like the Punisher?”

Americop actually scoffed, but there was no humor in it.

“I’m not Frank Castle.”

His gloved fingers curled around the throttle of his bike.

“This isn’t about vengeance. This is about keeping trash off the streets. And making sure they stay away… forever.”

Alamo set his jaw.

“I understand that. But ya don’t have to outright kill. I don’t—”

Americop cut him off immediately.

“I don’t give a shit about what you do or don’t, Nenni.”

Alamo’s red eyes flickered sharply.

Then he fired back.

“Mutants can’t have the luxury of killin’ people like that.”

Americop finally turned his head slightly toward him.

The chrome mask reflected the blue plasma of Alamo’s flight trail, giving him an almost ghostly glow.

His voice hardened like concrete.

“I’m not a mutant.”

Then he turned back to the road.

“And I don’t give a shit about bad press.”

Alamo felt his own frustration rise, but he pushed it down.

They rode in silence for a few moments before he finally spoke again.

“Well.”

Americop didn’t respond.

Alamo exhaled sharply through his nose, then pushed further.

“Kid, not everything is about mutants.” Americop’s voice was measured, calculated. “You mutants think that your individual right to express your powers supercedes people’s safety.”

Alamo bristled.

His voice came out low and sharp.

“Y’know… those who give up freedom for safety deserve neither.”

Americop actually laughed.

It wasn’t amused.

It wasn’t friendly.

It was mocking.

“Save that mantra for young, impressionable mutants who give a damn. Don’t be a smartass around me, Nenni.”

Alamo’s eyes burned.

“I ain’t. This is conviction. Why should I be forced to comply?”

Americop’s voice didn’t waver.

“Laws exist to protect people. You have dangerous powers, so follow the law and shut up.”

Alamo’s jaw clenched.

Then, finally, he threw the question back at him.

“Are you followin’ the law, Gallows?”

Americop didn’t answer.

And the silence was louder than any siren in Houston.