The silence between them was thick—the kind of silence that weighed heavy on the chest, the kind that carried the unspoken truth that neither man was willing to fully admit.

Then, the gunfire erupted.

Sharp cracks of automatic weapons split the early morning air, the echoes of rapid bursts rattling against the hollow steel of abandoned buildings and street signs. The rhythmic pop-pop-pop of pistols mixed with the deeper, more guttural reports of shotguns and rifles.

The city was already bleeding, and now it was screaming.

Alamo took to the skies in a flash of blue plasma, his silhouette a streak against the smoky dawn light. Americop didn’t need to take to the skies. He owned the ground.

His police-modified motorcycle screeched as he swerved onto the sidewalk, the deep rumble of its engine growling like an animal on the hunt. He barely slowed as he barreled straight toward the chaos, weaving between abandoned vehicles and shattered glass, the weight of his tactical armor unyielding as he reached down to his thigh holster.

The gangs were in full combat—bullets flying from both sides, bright muzzle flashes illuminating the pale, gray morning.

Americop didn’t hesitate. He never did.

He pulled up hard on the handlebars, braking abruptly as his tires screeched against the cracked concrete, stopping just a few yards from the firefight. His helmeted gaze swept over the young men, all too eager to spill each other’s blood.

"Punks, drop the guns. I give you five seconds."

Some of them turned, startled by the sudden intrusion. Their eyes darted toward the towering black-armored figure, his chrome mask gleaming in the gunpowder-stained morning light.

Then, one of them sneered.

"Fuck you, vato!"

"Time to die, cop!"

Americop sighed.

"I warned you. Playtime is over."

He raised the shotgun—a customized riot model, its barrel sawed-off just enough to keep the spread tight but the power devastating.

The first slug thundered from the chamber, sending a brutal shockwave through the alleyway.

The gangbanger—no older than twenty—jerked backward violently, his skull snapping back before his body crumpled to the pavement, lifeless.

One shot. One kill. No hesitation.

Alamo watched from above, his red eyes flickering against the morning glow.

His hands tightened into fists.

He wasn’t disgusted.

But he was shaken.

It wasn’t the violence that disturbed him—it was the truth behind it.

He’d spent most of his adult life behind books and computers, fighting with words, numbers, logic, and strategy. Now, he was out here, in the dirt, where the world was uglier, rawer, and infinitely more real.

And the worst part?

He didn’t feel sad for the dead man.

He felt like…

It was just.

And that scared him.

Because once you start feeling like justice is just a bullet away—where does it stop?

But he wasn’t about to let Americop turn Houston into an execution ground.

Alamo dove, a flash of electric blue light cutting through the haze of smoke and gunfire, striking like lightning into the center of the chaos. He landed hard in the middle of the gang members, fists clenched.

His plasma-charged punch connected with three men in an instant—one in the chin, the other across the jaw, the last catching an uppercut that sent teeth flying in a spray of red and white. The crack of breaking bone echoed over the gunfire as they collapsed, their weapons clattering against the pavement.

Americop watched from where he stood, his mask giving away nothing.

"You judge me for killing, but you don’t exactly shy away from brutality, Nenni."

Alamo exhaled sharply, shaking out his fists.

"I went too hard. I’m still gettin’ used to this."

Americop pumped the shotgun.

"Ain’t no better target to practice on than gang members."

Alamo snapped his gaze toward him, his voice suddenly sharper.

"These people are not targets."

Americop’s tone was ice-cold.

"You made your first mistake by considering them people."

Alamo felt his stomach tighten.

He stepped closer to Americop, lowering his voice, but keeping it firm.

"What’s the point in killin’ ‘em, Gallows?"

Americop didn’t lower his weapon.

"The reeducation method has failed." His voice was calm, methodical, like he was reading a report, not debating human lives. "In this day and age, a petty drug dealer comes out a violent cartel enforcer. Prison isn’t punishment anymore… it’s boot camp."

Alamo frowned.

"And the solution is to punish em' yerself?"

Americop tilted his head slightly, his mask unreadable.

"They feed off the taxpayer. Food, shelter, entertainment, exercise, healthcare… Not even our veterans get those benefits. But these people?"

Alamo’s voice hardened.

"So you expect ‘em to just die in jail?"

Americop’s grip tightened on his shotgun.

"In jail. Before. After. It doesn’t matter."

Alamo’s blood ran cold.

"Jesus."

"I don’t expect them to die. I hope they don’t commit crimes. But, Nenni—" Americop’s voice didn’t waver. "They knew the risks of their decisions. And they took it anyway."

Alamo’s pulse thundered in his ears.

"And you fancy yourself as bein’ the consequences of their actions?"

Americop turned his helmet slightly toward him.

"Yes."

His voice was final. Absolute. Uncompromising.

"You break the law, you get its enforcers. But it’s not just about the law, Nenni—it’s about Justice. Right and wrong."

He stepped closer.

"And to do that, you don’t need a badge. Just common sense."

Then, the sudden roar of approaching engines shattered the moment.

Both men turned sharply as a fleet of black SUVs screeched around the corner, their tinted windows glinting under the rising Texas sun.

Then—gunfire erupted again.

Alamo’s fists crackled with plasma.

Americop racked his shotgun.

"Well, Nenni. Looks like we’re not done yet."

The roar of Americop’s engine filled the air as his modified police bike tore through the chaos, the heavy-duty tires gripping the pavement as he maneuvered through the wreckage of the gang war unfolding in the streets of Houston. The rising sun barely cut through the thick haze of smoke left behind by gunfire and burning vehicles, the city’s usual morning rhythm replaced by the violent pulse of lawlessness.

Up above, Alamo soared, his plasma aura leaving faint blue contrails in the morning sky, eyes locked on the approaching convoy of black SUVs barreling down the avenue. The dark-tinted windows reflected the golden dawn, but Alamo could already see the figures inside—guns in their hands, fear in their eyes, desperation in their movements.

They weren’t here for a fight. They were here to kill.

Americop’s voice came through the static of Alamo’s earpiece.

"Can you get rid of those cars, Nenni?"

Alamo hesitated.

"Yes. But—"

"I’m not asking something you don’t want to do, Nenni. I’m asking for you to do something for the people of this city."

There was no righteousness in his tone, no grand speech, no emotion—just the cold expectation of action. A simple demand to do what had to be done.

Alamo exhaled sharply through his nose. He didn’t like this. Didn’t like the blood already soaking into the pavement.

But Americop was right.

He nodded once, then shot forward like a streak of lightning, plasma energy flickering from his fingertips as he dived toward the first vehicle.

The lead SUV lurched as the driver caught sight of the blue blur descending toward him. His eyes went wide with panic, his hands jerking the wheel in a blind attempt to avoid what he couldn’t understand.

It was already too late.

Alamo raised his right hand, index and thumb extended in a finger gun. A faint blue glow built at the tip of his thumb, barely more than a flickering ember—until it exploded forward in a concentrated blast of energy.

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The driver’s hands wrenched the wheel hard, sending the SUV careening toward the curb before it collided headfirst into a steel light pole. The impact crushed the hood like an accordion, the metal groaning as airbags deployed, glass shattering across the asphalt.

The SUV’s doors burst open, figures spilling out in a tangle of limbs and adrenaline.

Alamo descended in a flash, his boots slamming onto the pavement as one of the men—a wiry figure with blue tattoos curling up his neck—ripped a compact Uzi from under his coat.

He barely had time to raise it.

Alamo caught his wrist mid-motion, twisting sharply, the sickening crunch of snapping bone ringing out over the chaos. The gun clattered uselessly to the ground as the gang member howled in pain, clutching his shattered wrist.

Alamo clenched his fist around the discarded weapon, metal crumpling like cheap tin foil in his grasp before he tossed it aside, shards of useless scrap skidding across the pavement.

The second gang member—younger, barely more than a kid—stumbled back, his breath ragged with fear, the cheap pistol in his hand shaking violently.

Alamo took a step toward him.

He didn’t want to do this.

"Just get out of here."

His voice lacked the usual edge of confidence. It was low, worn, almost… defeated.

The kid didn’t hesitate. He turned on his heel and bolted down the street, his weapon discarded behind him, footsteps fading into the growing sounds of sirens.

Then, the crash.

A second SUV veered hard to the left, windows splintering from stray gunfire as its tires squealed against the pavement.

From the smoke, Americop emerged like a shadow of steel and black armor, his bike accelerating down the sidewalk, a relentless, unflinching force.

He cut across the oncoming SUV’s path in an instant, his gloved fingers clenching the reinforced steel handlebars before he twisted the throttle with brutal efficiency.

The bike surged forward, slamming against the SUV’s front quarter panel in a bone-rattling collision. The driver jerked the wheel in panic, but the momentum had already sealed their fate.

The vehicle lurched sideways, its frame twisting as it slammed into the brick wall of a nearby storefront. The force of the impact launched the occupants forward, their bodies flung through the shattered windshield like ragdolls hurled from a catapult.

Alamo could only watch in stunned silence as they collided with the unyielding concrete, the wet crunch of breaking bones reverberating across the empty street. Their bodies slumped awkwardly, limbs bent at impossible angles, the life already fading from their eyes before they even hit the ground.

Americop didn’t even slow down.

Still astride his bike, he reached down with his left hand, drawing his sidearm in a single fluid motion.

A lone survivor—one of the gang members who had been thrown from the SUV but miraculously avoided a fatal landing—was already scrambling to his feet, panic twisting his features as he sprinted toward an alleyway.

His fingers barely brushed the brick wall, his body already shifting to vanish into the maze of backstreets.

Americop raised his pistol.

One shot.

The gun snapped like a firecracker in the morning air.

The fleeing man collapsed mid-stride, his skull exploding in a fine red mist, his body skidding lifelessly across the pavement.

Alamo stared.

His hands clenched.

His stomach churned.

Americop holstered his weapon without a word.

The tension between them thickened like the humidity, a heavy weight pressing against the city’s cracked asphalt as the rising sun cast long shadows over the bodies littering the pavement. The smell of gunpowder and burnt rubber still clung to the air, mixing with the distant echoes of sirens and the growing unrest in the city.

Alamo stood his ground, his gloved fists clenched at his sides, the residual heat from his plasma aura still faintly flickering off his knuckles. His glowing red eyes beneath the shadow of his hat were locked onto Americop’s chrome-masked face, but there was no reflection there, no sign of humanity—just cold, featureless steel.

Americop, standing tall beside his still-purring, heavily modified patrol bike, had already reloaded his shotgun, the distinct chhk-chhk of the pump-action a mechanical punctuation mark to his ideology.

"Stop killin’ people, goddamnit." Alamo’s voice cut through the silence, his usual calm Texas drawl carrying an undercurrent of anger he wasn’t even sure he knew he had. "I won’t stand fer this damn bloodshed, Gallows."

Americop didn’t flinch.

"You break the bones," he said, his voice a deep, unwavering monotone, the distorted modulation from his helmet’s built-in comms making it sound almost inhuman. "What do you think they will do? Huh? They will hate you, forever. You took their 'jobs' away. In every mutant, they will see The Alamo and they will want revenge."

Alamo exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. "Well, not every mutant is me."

"But it won’t matter." Americop’s head tilted slightly, the gleaming visor giving nothing away—but his words dripped with absolute certainty. "Then what? Send them to prison? So they can continue their violence there? They don’t stop, Nenni. The justice system has failed to keep America just and safe."

Alamo’s jaw tightened. "So the solution is to kill all criminals?"

Americop let out a short, sharp breath, more mockery than amusement. "Not all. The violent ones. The ones who will never stop. What’s your solution? To trust the government?"

Alamo’s glowing red eyes dimmed for a fraction of a second, a reflex of frustration. "I don’t trust nor like the government. A lot problems are only made worse by addin’ the government into the mix."

"Exactly." Americop’s tone was steel-edged certainty. "Bureaucracy kills, Nenni. Every goddamn son of a bitch here should be rottin’ in a federal penitentiary. But here they are... still breathin', still killin’, while innocent people die from their violence and their drugs."

Alamo took a step forward, his boots scuffing against the pavement littered with spent shell casings. His fists unclenched, then clenched again, a war raging inside him, one he wasn’t sure he knew how to fight.

"But they’re not animals, Gallows. You can’t go puttin’ ‘em down like this."

Americop stood unmoving. "I know," he admitted after a pause. "They have families... crying mothers pleading to Virgin Mary that their sons will see it right. And I sympathize with them... but actions get consequences, Nenni. This is theirs."

Alamo ran a hand over his mask, a deeply human gesture from someone trapped between his morals and the reality before him. He looked around—the bodies on the ground, the dried blood staining the cracked pavement like an irreversible mistake.

"This ain’t what heroes are supposed to do."

Americop let out a soft scoff, shaking his head as he crossed his arms. "Do you still believe in this 'hero' crap?"

"I do."

"Then you’re a fool." Americop gestured around them, to the bullet-riddled vehicles, the bloodied corpses. "Heroes and villains are social constructs, Nenni. Do you think Magneto sees himself as a villain? Or Doom? Or HYDRA?"

"They don't, they think they're heroes." Alamo’s voice was steel, his fists still clenched at his sides. "That’s the danger of their ideologies."

"And heroes are the same way." Americop took a step forward now, his towering frame cutting an imposing figure under the rising Texas sun. "Not everyone thinks Rogers is a hero. Otherwise, why would those California kooks call him a fascist?"

Alamo bristled, the red glow in his eyes flaring faintly. "Cap ain’t a fascist, and we both know it."

"We do. But it only proves my point." Americop’s voice was a measured growl, slow and methodical. "No matter what you do, even a saint like Steve Rogers gets sacrificed at the altar of public opinion. So stop giving a shit about it and start acting. Actions matter. Not what a bunch of career students think of you."

Alamo’s breath came sharp through his teeth, his heartbeat steady but loud.

"It matters."

Americop remained silent, letting the words hang between them.

"Heroes are symbols," Alamo continued, his voice heavy, like carrying something that didn’t belong to just him. "People don’t only think ‘bout actions. They also think of ideas. And I ain’t sure you’re bringin’ ‘em a good idea to believe in."

Americop stood still, the morning breeze rolling through the bullet-riddled streets, shifting the dust and discarded debris. The city was waking up—sirens in the distance, voices rising from alleyways, the fading echo of gunfire replaced by the murmurs of a city always on edge.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Alamo wasn’t sure if they were at a standstill or a battlefield.

The streets of Houston roared with the deafening mix of chants, sirens, and revving truck engines. It was chaos barely held together by thin strands of police lines and rising tension thick enough to choke the morning air.

Americop's scanner blared with updates as he weaved through the streets, his custom patrol bike growling like a caged animal ready to strike.

"Both protestors are closing in on the Carraro Office in the city. If they clash, people will die."

His voice was calm, detached—cold steel in the face of impending disaster.

Alamo, flying above like a specter of fire and fury, looked down at his partner in this uneasy alliance. "What will ya do, kill ‘em all?"

"Don't patronize me, Nenni. I want both of these people alive, I don’t care if they’re humans or not."

Alamo let out a breath. "Thank you."

"Let's move."

Americop twisted the throttle, his bike roaring forward like a charging stallion, weaving between incoming police cruisers and ambulances flashing red and blue. Alamo followed above, his plasma aura flickering faintly around his hands, his mind a storm of conflicting thoughts.

"What are these people even fightin' fer?" He thought.

Then he saw it.

The Friends of Humanity parade was making its way through downtown—a sea of lifted F-150s and F-250s, roaring diesel engines, American flags flapping violently in the Texas heat. Interspersed among them were Thin Blue Line banners, POW/MIA flags, and military patches.

And then, there it was.

The Gadsden flag.

His stomach coiled tight at the sight.

To him, the Gadsden flag was a sacred emblem, a symbol of defiance, of individual liberty against an overreaching state. It was a warning to tyrants, a call for independence.

But this?

This wasn’t that.

This was different. The coiled snake wasn’t hissing at oppression—it was hissing at people. At mutants. At anyone who wasn’t like them. The meaning had rotted, twisted into something ugly, something venomous.

Alamo couldn’t stand it.

He dove like a missile, tearing the Gadsden flag from its pole, then ripping down the Lone Star, the Texas flag, from another truck. His hands clenched them like a vice, his breath coming sharp and uneven through his mask.

"These are symbols of liberty, not hate."

The moment the words left his mouth, the crowd turned.

Eyes locked onto him, faces twisted in anger and something deeper—something uglier.

One burly man in a cutoff flannel and trucker hat pushed forward, his sun-reddened face twisted in contempt.

"Texas is not a land of mutants. Mutants have no place in this state, in this nation."

That was it.

That was when something inside Alamo snapped.

"THIS IS MY FUCKIN’ HOME!"

Before the man could spit another word, Alamo shot forward like a bullet.

His knee struck the man’s face with a sickening crack— the unmistakable sound of bone shattering under raw, unfiltered force. Blood splattered onto the pavement as the man crumpled, his body hitting the asphalt in a heap.

Then—chaos.

"KILL HIM!"

Alamo barely had time to think. Two men pulled handguns from their belts.

With one violent swing, Alamo ripped the driver’s side door off the truck and hurled it at them like a makeshift missile. The metal crunched against their bodies, sending them sprawling, unconscious before they even hit the ground.

Another man leveled an AR-15 at him.

Alamo’s eyes narrowed.

With the Texas flag still clutched in his hand, he shot forward, closing the gap in an instant. He grabbed the barrel of the rifle and bent it effortlessly, twisting the metal like it was made of soft clay.

The man stumbled backward, his eyes wide with terror.

"What the hell are you?!"

"Doesn't matter what I am"

Alamo yanked the rifle away, flipping it around in his hands. He slammed the stock into the man’s face, sending him sprawling into the pavement.

Then—movement.

His head snapped to the side, and he saw another man digging into the back of a truck.

His hands wrapped around something.

Alamo's stomach dropped.

The man turned—and in his grip was something monstrous.

A Sentinel blaster.

The barrel glowed an eerie blue, the whining charge-up of mutant-seeking technology filling the air.

How did these people get that?

The moment stretched into eternity.

His instincts screamed to move. To dodge. To fire back.

Then—crack.

The FoH goon felt the impact before he heard it.

A searing-hot pain tore through his chest, knocking the wind from his lungs as the world tilted sideways.

He felt himself falling.

Falling fast.

Then—darkness.

The last thing he saw as he turned, before his vision blurred, was Americop standing at the end of the street, his shotgun raised, smoke still curling from the barrel.

“I see you pulled a number on them, Nenni. Offended you, I can see.”

Alamo exhaled sharply, his red-glowing eyes dimming a little beneath the shadow of his dark cowboy hat. He was tired. Tired of the same damn song and dance, the same damn arguments.

"I'm sick and tired of puttin' up with the FoH's bullshit," he muttered. His fists clenched at his sides, the Texas flag still in his grip, crumpled but unbroken. "I won't be treated as a god damn second-class citizen in my own land. I'm a son of Texas, and I won't let ‘em define what I am just ‘cause I have different genes.”

Americop nodded slightly, silent for a beat. He knew that kind of anger. He’d felt it before, years ago. It had shaped him into what he was now. A cold hand of justice. Not a hero. Not a villain. Just consequences.

"Ya didn’t have to kill em'," Alamo said, finally. His voice had lost its fire, replaced with something quieter, wearier.

Americop’s head tilted slightly as he regarded the younger man, his featureless chrome mask reflecting the chaos of the street. "They want the summary execution of your kind. Was it wrong to tell US soldiers to stop killing SS officers? Or maybe tell the French Resistance to stop killing their invaders?”

Alamo’s jaw tensed. He hated how much sense it made in the moment.

The Friends of Humanity would kill mutants without hesitation if given the chance. And yet, wasn’t that the whole reason people feared mutants in the first place? Because men like Magneto had justified the killing of humans who hated them?

A cycle.

A damn bloody cycle.

And the worst part? He wasn’t sure it would ever stop turning.

He let out a slow, measured sigh. “It’s a slippery slope, Gallows." His voice was quiet, firm, laced with a tension he couldn't quite shake. "They hate us precisely ‘cause men like Magneto thought it was justified to kill humans who hated mutants."

"If you say so, Nenni."

Americop wasn’t interested in philosophy. He had seen too much violence, too much failure of the system. All he cared about was results. Whether Alamo wanted to admit it or not, this fight was already set in stone.

The men lying in the street—some dead, some injured—they had made their choices. Choices had consequences. Simple as that.

Americop took a step back toward his bike, mounting it in a single fluid motion. “These will be down for a long time. And if you don’t kill them with your hands, they’ll surely die when they see the medical bill.”

Alamo snorted, shaking his head. “I hope it’s real expensive.”

Americop gunned the engine, the sleek, matte-black machine purring beneath him. His gloved fingers tapped against the scanner mounted on his forearm, the police band blaring reports into his earpiece.

"Let's move, Nenni. They're closing in at Carraro, we have to stop them before innocent people get hurt.”

Alamo rolled his shoulders, the plasma flickering faintly around his fists. His body still ached, but he had work to do.

"Got it.”