The sleek glass facade of Carraro Security's Houston headquarters loomed over the streets like a monolith of corporate power, pristine and untouched by the chaos swelling beneath it. The tension in the air was thick, buzzing like static before a thunderstorm, the kind of charge that made the hair on the back of a man’s neck stand up. A city on the edge, and this was its breaking point.
The three factions in the streets below were distinct, each a separate world colliding at the doorstep of Carraro—a symbol, an enemy, a shield, depending on which side you stood on.
The first crowd was militaristic, disciplined in its rage, a mass of men in tactical vests and camo pants, their boots scuffing against the pavement as they paced, shifting in restless anticipation. The blue and red eagle crest of the Friends of Humanity was stitched onto their sleeves, some raising flags bearing its insignia, their allegiance to the anti-mutant cause unmistakable. But it wasn’t just hardliners in fatigues; behind them were family men and women, working-class faces lined with worry or cold determination, holding picket signs scrawled with phrases that cut through the humid air like knives:
“NO MORE MUTANTS”
“MUTANT FREE AMERICA”
“PROTECT HUMANKIND”
“JUSTICE FOR THOMAS THOMPSON"
Some faces were twisted in pure hate, while others held a quieter, almost resigned certainty—as if they weren’t here for violence but simply because they believed, truly believed, that they were fighting for their survival.
Opposing them, on the other side of the street, was a different kind of fervor.
The pro-mutant activists stood in a chaotic, defiant mass, young, energized, diverse in ways that went beyond human concepts of race and background. Here, biology itself was a statement. Mutants of all shapes and sizes—some almost indistinguishable from humans, others bearing bright blue skin, feathered wings, luminescent eyes, antennae sprouting from their foreheads—stood shoulder to shoulder with humans who wore Xs on their shirts, jackets, or painted across their faces.
Their signs clashed ideologically, an explosion of beliefs beyond just mutant rights. Some were American flags, others Texan, but mixed in were anarchist banners, anti-corporate slogans, ideological statements that veered far from Xavier’s dream.
“FREE MUTANKIND”
“X FOREVER”
“PROTECT MUTANT RIGHTS”
“DOWN WITH CARRARO”
“NO PEACE WITHOUT JUSTICE”
The crowd pulsed like a living thing, shouting, chanting, waving their banners and fists, and it was impossible to ignore the underlying frustration, the exhaustion of a struggle that never seemed to end.
And standing between them all, blocking off the gated entrance to Carraro HQ, was the Houston Police Department and the Texas Department of Public Safety.
The HPD officers were there in force, riot shields and batons ready, their faces set in rigid discipline. The black uniforms of the city force mixed with the tan, broad-brimmed hats of the Texas troopers, whose distinct light blue accents and Lone Star badges gleamed under the rising sun. Some of them were clad in full riot gear, shields glinting as they formed a barricade. Others stood in regular duty uniforms, hands resting near their firearms, their eyes darting between the two warring sides.
There were even plainclothes officers in the crowd, blending into the tension, their badges clipped inside their jackets, watching, listening, waiting.
Americop’s bike purred as he pulled up to the street’s edge, stopping just before the crowd. Alamo hovered just above him, his dark coat rippling in the wind created by his descent.
“We’re late, Nenni.”
Alamo landed softly, his boots tapping against the cracked pavement, his gaze sweeping over the scene.
“They’re not fightin’… let ‘em protest.”
Americop turned his head toward him, his chrome mask betraying no expression, but his voice was edged with something close to derision.
“Are you going to paint an X on your face too, Nenni?”
Alamo’s glowing red eyes flickered under the shadow of his hat.
“No.” His voice was measured, firm. “Bein’ a mutant shouldn’t define yer whole personality. Nor should hatin’ ‘em.”
Americop exhaled through his nose, but he didn’t press the issue. His scanner was already tracking movement, noting the shifting aggression in the crowd.
“You think they’ll fight?”
Alamo’s hands clenched at his sides. He could feel the energy here, the charged air, the sense of something terrible creeping in from the edges.
“I hope not.”
Americop shifted slightly in his seat, his head tilting slightly as if weighing something unspoken.
“Hope is not worth much without action, Nenni.”
Alamo didn’t answer. He just stared ahead at the storm brewing before them, at the fault lines splitting their land down the middle. He crossed his arms, the tension in his shoulders tightening like a coiled spring, his mind already calculating his approach. Carraro was right there, the towering corporate building just past the barricades, its polished steel and glass exterior reflecting the chaos below like some indifferent god.
He could feel it—the weight of something crucial buried inside those walls.
Information. Documents. Something tangible to expose Trask, Creed, and the connections that tied Carraro to the dark underbelly of the mutant-hunting machine.
And he had to get inside.
The moment his knees bent, preparing to take flight, a powerful grip latched onto his forearm. Hard.
Alamo snapped his head sideways, his glowing red eyes narrowing beneath the brim of his hat. Americop’s gloved hand clamped down with unyielding strength, his fingers locking around the reinforced fabric of Alamo’s coat sleeve like a vice.
The sound of their confrontation was swallowed by the chants of the crowd, by the ceaseless exchange of shouted slogans and counter-slogans. But between them, in this tense moment, there was only silence.
Alamo’s voice was low, sharp.
“Where are you going, Nenni?” Americop’s tone was colder than before, calculated, cutting through the ambient noise like a straight razor.
Alamo jerked his arm, but Gallows didn’t budge.
“I need to get inside,” Alamo bit out, his frustration rising. “There’s information in there we need. Documents, records—stuff on Trask, on Creed—”
Americop didn’t move, didn’t react. Just held him there, like a cop holding a suspect before they did something stupid.
Then he asked it.
“You’re doing this for mutantkind?”
Alamo’s breath hitched.
His pulse pounded against his ribs, the noise of the crowd fading, the weight of the question settling like a heavy stone in his gut.
“No, it—”
“It is.” Americop’s grip tightened just slightly. “You lied. You’re not here for Texan businesses. Not Texan lives.”
The words landed like a gunshot to the chest.
Alamo’s lungs clenched.
“You’re here on your vendetta against the FoH. On your desire to save mutantkind.”
The words stung.
Because they were true.
Alamo’s jaw locked.
He felt it deep in his bones—the hypocrisy twisting inside him like rusted iron. He had stood before Rogue, before the X-Men, before himself, and he had said it with conviction:
Free men don’t buy promises of salvation.
And yet here he was, standing at the threshold of a riot, ready to throw himself into it because he believed he had to.
His breath shortened, his chest tightened.
“No… no. It’s ‘bout—”
Americop cut him off.
“You go in there, the crowd will erupt.”
Alamo’s glowing red eyes widened slightly.
“The humans and mutants will fight.”
Americop’s voice was absolute, final.
“The policemen will be caught in the crossfire. Innocent people will die.”
Alamo’s fingers curled into fists.
He turned his head, looking over the crowd, his mind racing.
The mutants would see him. A fellow mutant—masked, mysterious, powerful. They’d see his presence as a declaration, a signal to act.
The humans would see him. A threat. A dangerous super-powered force standing against them. They’d react—violently.
The police, already strained, already standing between two ticking time bombs, would be caught in the explosion.
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It was all too easy to see how it would unfold.
Alamo swallowed.
“I’m not rallyin’ anyone.”
Americop finally released his arm, but he didn’t step back.
He loomed there, unwavering.
“You told me people were more than actions.” His tone wasn’t mocking, wasn’t cruel. Just factual. “They’re symbols.”
Alamo knew where this was going, and his stomach twisted.
“And you are right.”
Americop gestured—not at the building, not at Carraro, but at the mass of people gathered before it.
“What symbol will you be to these mutants?”
Alamo’s throat went dry.
“Defiance? Rebellion?”
Americop tilted his head just slightly.
“They will see you, and they will act.”
Alamo’s breath was shallow.
“They will try to get in.”
The words hung there, the inevitable conclusion barreling toward him like a runaway freight train.
“And they will fight the police.”
The moment shattered in his mind. A baton smashing against a skull. A mutant firing back. A riot exploding in the streets.
“Then the FoH will fight them.”
Gunfire. Screams. Blood.
“Everyone will be hurt. Good men and women will die.”
Alamo’s heart pounded.
He opened his mouth, desperate to form an argument, a justification, something to make this moment tilt in his favor.
Instead, all he got was:
“Ya don’t understand, Gallows… I need to get inside.”
Americop’s helmet barely moved, but his voice was iron.
“No.”
Alamo wrenched his arm free, his muscles tensing like steel cables beneath his jacket as he hovered just beyond Americop’s reach. The former officer’s grip was firm, but Duncan Nenni was faster, lighter, his plasma-infused physiology giving him the advantage of momentum.
Americop didn’t hesitate.
His pistol came up in a smooth, practiced motion, the muzzle gleaming under the Houston sun, steady, unwavering. A lawman’s stance.
Alamo hovered higher, staring down the barrel, his voice flat. Unshaken.
“Shoot at me. I won’t stop.”
A gust of wind whipped between them as Alamo adjusted his altitude, the wind snapping at the hem of his duster. His red eyes burned bright beneath the shadow of his hat.
“I don’t take orders from you. Or anyone else.”
His fingers curled into fists, blue plasma crackling around his knuckles like coiled lightning.
“I’m getting in.”
Americop’s finger hovered on the trigger.
For a brief moment, he almost pulled it.
But then, he lowered the pistol.
He could shoot. He could. But a bullet wouldn’t stop Duncan Nenni. Words might.
Americop exhaled slowly, his voice like a gavel striking wood.
“You’re no Texan.”
The words cut through Alamo like a brand searing flesh.
His glowing red eyes narrowed, and he turned fully toward Americop, his fists still charged with energy.
“Rip that star from your chest.” Americop’s voice didn’t rise, but it didn’t need to. It was a judge passing sentence.
“You’re a boy. A mutant boy with no sense of responsibility.”
The crowd, both sides, fell into a hushed tension.
Even the police, standing at the barricades, gripping their batons, watching every movement, had turned their full attention to the moment unfolding.
Americop continued.
“You mask it all under that freedom talk, but you’re just like the X-Men.”
Alamo’s fingers twitched.
“Mutantkind first.”
Alamo’s blood went cold.
That word. The way he said it. Like an accusation.
Like he wasn’t part of this land. Like he wasn’t Texan.
All his memories of Texas—his love for the land, for the culture, the history, the struggle, the beauty—everything he had built himself upon came crashing against those words, against the old "You're a mutant" speech.
His heart hammered against his ribs, and his body moved before his mind could stop it.
A crack of wind. A blur of motion.
Alamo shot forward like a bullet, his plasma trail streaking behind him, shoulder first, a sudden blast of force that sent Americop flying backwards.
The street erupted in gasps.
The protests paused.
Americop’s body slammed into the pavement, his armored suit scraping against the asphalt, kicking up sparks.
Cars screeched to a halt. Cameras turned.
The police reached for their radios.
Alamo hovered above him, his hands still trembling with heat, plasma curling from his knuckles like smoke from a gun barrel.
His voice was low, but it carried.
“Don’t insult me, Americop.”
Americop’s breath steadied, his pulse slow, controlled.
He rose from the pavement with practiced efficiency, rolling back to his feet, dusting off his tactical gear with an eerily calm precision.
The sun glinted off his chrome mask, an impassive reflection of the world around him.
His voice was steady. Unshaken. Absolute.
“You want me, Alamo?”
He squared his stance, his arms flexing beneath his armor, his pistol holstered, replaced by his fists.
“Come and take it.”
Alamo’s fists clenched tighter.
And then—they collided.
Two forces—two men who believed themselves right, both unwilling to let the other’s ideology stand unchallenged.
Alamo moved first, his plasma-coated knuckles swinging forward, an arc of blue light striking toward Americop’s chest.
Americop sidestepped at the last second, his movements almost inhumanly precise, before retaliating with a bone-rattling right hook.
Alamo barely blocked the strike with his forearm, the sheer force sending him skidding backward before he shot forward again, his booted foot aimed squarely at Americop’s ribs.
Americop caught the kick, twisting Alamo’s leg mid-air, using the younger man’s own momentum against him, sending him spinning toward the pavement.
Alamo twisted, planting his hands against the street, catching himself just before impact, flipping backward into a ready stance.
Again, they charged.
A brutal exchange, fists and precision meeting plasma and speed.
Alamo pulled his punches.
He didn’t want to hurt Americop.
He didn’t want this fight.
But Americop didn’t hold back.
Not because he hated the Alamo.
But because he knew, in his heart, he had to stop him.
Because if he didn’t—people would die.
Alamo shot plasma bolts, small enough to disable but not to kill. Americop dodged each one, his movements surgical, precise.
He aimed for Alamo’s weak points, the places where his armor was thinner, his balance not yet perfected.
Alamo took to the air, but Americop countered, firing grappling lines from his gauntlets, anchoring himself to light poles, moving with a speed that no ordinary man should have.
The street shook beneath their fight.
And the crowd saw everything.
The Friends of Humanity saw a protector of humankind, battling against a dangerous, defiant mutant.
The mutant protesters saw a warrior, standing against a symbol of oppression, refusing to let them be silenced.
Both sides moved closer.
The pot began to boil over.
And then—the cheers, the shouts, the voices rose.
The police officers tensed, hands hovering over batons, tasers, sidearms.
They weren’t just watching a fight.
They were watching a spark, hanging over a field of dry grass, waiting for the first ember to ignite the flames.
And it would.
If they didn’t stop.
Americop’s voice was gritted, strained.
“You’re making a mistake, Nenni.”
Alamo’s teeth clenched.
His mind raced, drowning in the noise of the crowd, the fire in his veins, the certainty that what he was doing was right.
That Americop was wrong.
And yet—deep inside, in a place he wasn’t ready to acknowledge—
He feared that maybe, just maybe… Americop wasn’t.
But his convictions didn’t waver.
Not now. Not here.
His voice came out sharp, cutting.
“Ya made the mistake, Gallows. Too many people dead.”
His breathing was heavy, controlled.
“This is unconstitutional.”
He could hear the shouting behind him. The rallying voices.
“Unjust.”
The police were tightening their lines.
“This is cruel and unusual punishment.”
Americop exhaled, shaking his head.
His voice was low, but absolute.
“There’s nothing cruel about a quick death.”
Alamo’s jaw tightened.
“And nothing unusual about firearms.”
The cheers from the mutant crowd grew.
The growls from the anti-mutant protestors deepened.
“It’s justice. Plain and simple.”
The police stepped forward.
“It’s dangerous.” Alamo Retorted.
The air grew thick, heavier than the Houston humidity that clung to every surface. It wasn't the heat. It was the weight of realization.
It had been there, beneath the surface, simmering and waiting. But now it had boiled over.
The crowd wasn’t just angry anymore. It was enraged.
It was the cries that did it. The words. Words that carried the force of ideology, of history, of war.
"FASCIST!"
The word cut through Americop like a bullet through Kevlar. His breath hitched, his body tensed—not in anger, but in something worse.
Doubt.
For just a moment, Bartholomew Gallows hesitated. His fists clenched harder than steel, not from the fight, but from the accusations hammering at his sense of self.
He wasn’t a fascist. He knew that.
He wasn’t some jackbooted enforcer of state power. He didn’t believe in a supreme leader, in worshiping authority. He despised those things.
He had read Giovanni Gentile, Julius Evola, the madmen who had written the blueprints of tyranny. He had studied Mussolini, the rise of Franco, the failures of Perón.
He fought against those ideas.
He didn’t believe in the absolute authority of the government. He wasn’t one of those idiots demanding total state control in the name of law and order.
He believed in America. In law. In justice.
And yet—here he was. And there they were.
Waving banners he didn’t recognize. Some he did. Some he hated.
And then, before he could even process the burn of that first word—
"ANARCHIST!"
It was Alamo’s turn to feel it like a gut punch.
His fingers twitched, the plasma around his knuckles flickering violently.
He wasn’t an anarchist. He wasn’t some utopian fool who believed in tearing everything down, that people could somehow just exist in harmony without leadership.
Authority existed for a reason.
Without it, tyranny still thrived. It would always thrive—whether under ruthless corporations who would wear the mask of "freedom" to crush the weak in what was a state in all but in name, or under mindless mobs, wielding slogans of equality while destroying the very idea of liberty under collective tyranny.
Without leadership, someone would always rise to take control.
Alamo wasn’t naive. He knew this.
But they didn’t care. The word had been thrown at him like a slur, like a weapon, like a damnation.
Neither of them had asked for this. Neither of them had chosen to be symbols.
And yet—here they were.
The crowd surged. The fight should have stopped there.
But they couldn’t.
They had started something. And now—they had to see it through.
The police lines inched closer. Shields braced. Batons ready. Gas masks in place.
The protesters pressed in. On both sides.
The cameras rolled. The world watched.
But the worst was yet to come.
Because then—they heard it.
The words. The words that twisted everything.
"KILL ALL MUTANTS!"
Alamo’s breath caught in his throat.
His head snapped toward the voice. He scanned the crowd.
It wasn’t a chant. It wasn’t even loud. But it was there. It had been said.
And it was real.
Americop turned too. His stomach twisted.
The man who had shouted it wasn’t some masked extremist.
He was just a man. In a flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up, beer gut stretching against his belt buckle. A Texan. A regular man.
And he had said it without hesitation.
Americop’s fists unclenched.
No. No, no, no.
That wasn’t what this was about.
It wasn’t about extermination. It was about law, order, safety. It was about punishing criminals. Not this.
His throat went dry. He wanted to say something. Wanted to correct it. To explain. To condemn.
But they didn’t let him.
The words had already spread.
And from the other side—the answer came.
"MAGNETO WAS RIGHT!"
Alamo felt a shiver crawl up his spine.
A sinking feeling. A sickness. A horror.
He turned, scanning the other side of the crowd. He saw who had said it.
It was a young mutant. Couldn't be older than twenty. Blue skin, black hair, piercing yellow eyes.
And he was holding a sign.
A sign with Magneto’s helmet.
Like a martyr. Like a saint.
Alamo’s mind reeled.
No, not this.
Magneto wasn’t right.
Magneto was a terrorist. A mass murderer.
He had toppled governments. Had killed heroes. Had tried to turn the world into a mutant ethno-state.
He had wanted to wipe out humanity.
He had stood against everything Alamo believed in.
His hands trembled. His plasma flickered and waned.
"No!."
His voice came out strained, broken.
"Magneto was a tyrant. Y’all are in—"
But they didn’t let him finish. The chant had already started.
"MAGNETO WAS RIGHT! MAGNETO WAS RIGHT!"
It echoed like a war cry.
Americop’s gaze darkened. His fingers curled into fists again. He couldn’t believe it.
This wasn’t about justice anymore. It wasn’t about law and order.
This wasn't about Freedom either. It wasn't about Life and Liberty.
Then Americop looked at Alamo, they looked at each other and there they understood.
Justice without Liberty is Tyranny.
Liberty without Justice is Chaos.
The crowd began to move.
For a single second, they shared the same thought.
What the hell had they done?
The first push.
The first shove.
The first sign of collapse.
"ENOUGH!"
The single word ripped through the chaos like a cannon blast. It wasn’t just a voice.
It was a presence. A force. A symbol.
And in that moment—it was hope.
The crowd froze.
The chants died in their throats.
The protests, the rage, the fire stilled.
Because he was there.
The shield.
The stars and stripes.
The unwavering resolve.
Standing tall amidst a city teetering on the edge of war, Steve Rogers had arrived.
And the people saw.
They saw Captain America.
And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, they breathed.