The tension that had gripped the air, thick as a storm brewing over the Gulf, began to thin.

The heat, the anger, the clenched fists and the seething glares—they softened.

All around, the weight of Steve Rogers' words took root.

Alamo’s fists—once cloaked in blue energy, primed for battle—dimmed. His fingers uncurled from their tight hold. The fight in him ebbed like the outgoing tide, leaving only a stark realization in its place.

Americop’s grip on his shotgun loosened. The polished metal glinted under the Texas sun before he finally—deliberately—lowered the weapon.

Captain America nodded, his presence unshakable, his voice steady as bedrock.

"Good."

He stepped forward, the muted clang of his boots against the pavement like the chime of a bell in the silence that followed.

The crowd—split like two warring tides, both equally charged, equally furious—finally stilled.

Every eye was on him.

Every soul listened.

Falcon watched from above, his sharp gaze sweeping the crowd, making sure nothing would spiral out of control.

Wasp hovered at the ready, her form shrinking and growing between breaths—a silent deterrent.

Iron Man, standing with arms crossed, let the tension drain from his systems, the repulsors on his palms no longer humming with energy.

And Steve—he spoke, not as a soldier, not as a hero, but as a man.

"Good morning, people of Houston."

His voice, low and firm, carried over the heads of the gathered masses.

"This isn’t the way."

No shouting. No orders. Just the quiet truth.

"I see you."

His gaze swept the crowd.

"All of you."

He met the eyes of a middle-aged man gripping a "NO MORE MUTANTS" sign in shaking hands—a father, his worry written in deep lines on his face.

He saw the teenage girl with iridescent skin clutching a homemade banner that simply read: "WE ARE PEOPLE TOO."

He saw the young mother holding her son close, her gaze flicking between both groups, her expression caught between fear and hope.

And in the back—a man in a tan uniform, a Houston police officer, sweat beading on his brow, fingers tight on his baton. Waiting.

Steve breathed in deeply.

"You’re all Americans."

The words settled like dust in the wind, like something so simple, so obvious—yet so often forgotten.

"I see fine men and women. Parents. Children. Husbands. Wives. Workers. Neighbors."

His voice remained steady, unwavering.

"Why fight each other?"

The crowd stirred, the weight of his words cracking something deep inside the tension that had held them all hostage.

"Hasn’t this division plagued our nation long enough?"

The picket signs tilted slightly downward.

Some of the younger protestors glanced at each other, uncertain now, shifting in place.

A man in camo, his tactical vest tight against his frame, cleared his throat, looking at the asphalt.

The moment was shifting.

Steve pressed forward.

"I understand some of you are scared."

He looked into the heart of the crowd, his blue eyes piercing yet gentle.

"Scared of what mutants can do. Scared of what this means for your homes, your families, your way of life."

A murmur rippled through the anti-mutant protestors.

Some nodded, a few mumbled agreement.

And then—Steve turned.

He faced the mutants, the ones who had marched with pride, with anger, with hope.

"And I understand some of you are tired of running. Of hiding. Of being blamed for the actions of others—people you’ve never even met."

The young girl with the iridescent skin bit her lip, looking down.

A man with small horns clenched his fist but nodded.

Steve let the words settle before he continued.

"You might see each other as enemies. As mutants. As humans. As two sides of something that can’t be reconciled."

His voice lowered—almost gentle.

"But all of you—every single one of you—are people."

"American people."

His words settled deep into their bones.

"With dreams. With families. With feelings. With lives."

A breeze swept through the street, lifting flags that moments ago had been symbols of division.

"You all love. You all believe in something."

"You all survive."

A heavy silence blanketed the crowd.

Steve’s next words cut through the very heart of it.

"And if each and every one of you truly understood how much it means to be alive, you’d never wish to take that from another."

Somewhere in the mass of people—a man lowered his sign.

Another let go of his clenched fists.

A woman shifted, glancing at the people beside her with uncertainty.

And then—the final plea.

"So, please."

His voice was quiet now.

"Go home."

A stillness held over the moment—a delicate thread ready to snap in either direction.

Then—the first hand clap.

Just one.

Then another.

And another.

The sound spread, slow at first, then growing like a wave.

There were smiles. Hugs. A cautious understanding.

No grand reconciliations. No overnight changes of heart. But the fires had died down.

Maybe the beliefs hadn’t changed. Maybe the sides would remain divided.

But today—today, the violence had been stopped.

Because Captain America had stood before them.

Because he reminded them of who they were.

Not enemies.

Not monsters.

Just people.

it seemed like the worst was over, the crowds began to dissipate aided by the TX DPS and the HPD. Captain America turned to the two chromed rivals, the one in the police cap and the other in the cowboy hat.

"What's your name, son?" Captain America offered a hand to Americop.

"I'm Bartholomew Gallows, sir. Americop" Americop answered shaking the war hero's hand.

"Pleasure to meet you, Gallows."

"Pleasure is all mine." His voice was tinged with respect, something not very present in the otherwise cold former policeman.

Then he approached Alamo who landed softly on the pavement.

"You must be the kid Twister talked about, the Alamo."

"Duncan Nenni, sir. And did Twister talk 'bout me." Alamo tipped his hat.

It was an important moment to Duncan, he had always admired Captain America, since he was a little child. Much more than the other Avengers, meeting him was indeed an honor. He was also happy that Texas Twister, a personal Texas favorite would tell of him to Captain America himself, he felt proud and even happy.

"Yes, he did."

"It's an honor sir"

"It's good to finally meet you, Duncan."

"Feelin' is mutual, sir."

Though Duncan tried to hide his excitment, he twitched a bit and his smile, even behind the sleek chrome mask was palpable in his voice.

"I understand we had quite a bit of trouble here, didn't we?"

"We did, Captain." Americop said.

"Has your dispute been settled?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good, this is a blank slate. Whatever you two done in the past it doesn't matter, you are working with the Avengers now, you will work clean. No kills, No Violence."

"Understood, Captain" Americop said.

"Yes sir" Alamo nodded.

"Oh chrome buddies, who are you Chip & Dale?" Iron Man approached, crossing his arms after the quip.

"Tony, I'll talk to-"

Before Cap could finish there was a rumble, a roar. An unmistakable engine sound. Huge.

The ground trembled beneath the sheer weight of the towering machine, dust and shattered concrete erupting into the air from its forceful landing. A monstrous black sentinel, reinforced with armor that gleamed ominously under the Houston sun.

The red pauldrons on its shoulders burned like embers, contrasting against the deep obsidian plating that wrapped around its frame like a walking war machine. Its dome-shaped head bore a chrome decal, sculpted into the likeness of a raven’s beak, sleek and polished yet eerily featureless, save for the two piercing white eyes that glowed with cold, analytical fury.

At the center of its broad chest, bold and defiant, was the unmistakable insignia of the Friends of Humanity.

It was a symbol of hatred.

It was a declaration of war.

And then, it spoke.

"NENNI!"

Its voice was an unnatural synthesis of rage and mechanical distortion, a digital growl that resonated like thunder across the plaza.

Alamo’s breath hitched. His heart slammed against his ribs.

The crowd—the civilians, the officers, the protestors—froze.

Captain America turned to Alamo, his expression sharp, calculating the situation in real-time.

"Son, who is that?"

Alamo clenched his fists, his muscles taut.

"It’s the—"

A voice interrupted him.

"THE X-CUTIONER IS BACK!"

The shout came from the panicked crowd. Chaos erupted in an instant.

Gasps, screams, people scrambling backward, pushing and shoving in a desperate attempt to flee. Parents shielding their children. Officers gripping their sidearms. Mutants preparing for a fight.

The X-Cutioner moved.

From its right forearm, a sword emerged—massive, black as midnight, pulsating with crackling energy. The blade was jagged, thrumming with a power that made the very air around it distort and waver like a mirage.

Its left hand shifted, plating retracting and reshaping into a colossal plasma cannon, its core already glowing a violent crimson.

Alamo’s eyes widened.

"Oh no."

He felt it before he even heard it—the sheer concentration of energy building within the cannon. He didn’t need to be told what would happen next.

"MOVE!"

Without a second thought, Alamo blasted forward, grabbing Captain America, Americop, Wasp, and Falcon—pushing them away just as the cannon detonated.

A blinding crimson beam exploded from the X-Cutioner’s arm, tearing through the air like the wrath of a vengeful god.

The heat was unbearable. The sound—a deafening crescendo of annihilation.

Alamo shot upward, dragging Cap and the others to safety. Iron Man followed, thrusters flaring as he narrowly dodged the oncoming energy wave.

But Alamo knew.

Something was wrong.

The X-Cutioner’s aim had veered off-course.

And then—the screams.

The awful, gut-wrenching screams.

Alamo’s stomach plummeted.

He turned mid-air, eyes snapping to the source of the devastation.

The crowd.

Where once stood protestors, bystanders, officers… now there was only ruin.

The beam had cut through them like a scythe through wheat.

Bodies lay scattered.

Some were nothing more than charred husks, their existence erased in an instant.

Six people.

Six innocent people, human and mutant alike.

Dead.

A heavy, horrifying silence followed.

Then, the cries of those left behind.

Mothers weeping over blackened corpses.

Children clutching at their fathers, shaking them, begging them to wake up.

The police stood frozen, some in shock, some cursing under their breath.

And above it all—

The X-Cutioner faltered.

It staggered backward slightly, its massive shoulders heaving, its white glowing eyes flickering.

"No…"

The synthetic voice, once so sure, now wavered.

"That’s— not what I wanted."

A terrible realization dawned.

It hadn’t meant to hit them.

The X-Cutioner, as ruthless and monstrous as it seemed, had not intended to slaughter civilians.

But it had.

And now it couldn’t take it back.

Alamo’s fists trembled.

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His vision blurred with rage, with grief, with the kind of fury that burned deep in the soul.

"NO!"

Americop, still recovering from the blast, stood firm—his shotgun raised, his grip white-knuckled.

"GOD DAMNIT!"

Falcon, hovering above the street, looked down—his eyes heavy with sorrow, his expression twisted in frustration.

"OH NO."

Wasp, fists clenched, let out a sharp, shuddering breath.

"FUCK."

Iron Man’s helmet snapped shut, concealing his face, but his voice came through the comms raw, seething.

"You son of a bitch."

Alamo’s chest rose and fell in rapid succession. His heartbeat slammed against his ribs.

The air crackled around him.

His hands burned bright blue.

The power inside him surged, roaring, demanding action.

And then—

The first shot rang out.

Americop fired without hesitation.

A slug straight to the monster’s chest.

The impact barely phased it.

But it was enough.

The X-Cutioner turned its massive head toward them, eyes now blazing white with renewed focus.

"Fucker." Americop growled, pumping another round.

The air was charged with a singular, undeniable truth.

This was war.

"Wasp, Falcon!" Cap barked, instantly snapping back into command. "Protect the civilians and get the officers to evacuate!"

"Understood!" Falcon shot forward, his wings spreading as he dove toward the panicked crowd, already working to guide them away.

Wasp shrank down, zipping between rubble and bodies, her voice sharp and commanding. "Come on, people, move! MOVE!"

"Iron Man, Alamo, Americop—WITH ME!"

Iron Man’s repulsors flared.

Alamo’s hands burned blue.

Americop’s gun clicked as he chambered another round.

Captain America’s shield gleamed.

The X-Cutioner let out a deafening mechanical roar.

The battle erupted in a fury of motion and energy, the skies above Houston becoming an arena of fire and steel.

Alamo shot through the air, his blue plasma trail streaking behind him like a comet. His right hand pulsed, building up a concentrated blast of energy, the light so bright it momentarily painted the entire battlefield in eerie neon hues.

With a sharp flick of his wrist, he fired.

The searing blue energy ripped through the air, scorching toward the X-Cutioner’s chest like a meteor.

The Sentinel’s monolithic hand snapped up.

A crackling, almost invisible energy barrier formed around it. The plasma blast struck it head-on—only to sizzle out of existence.

Alamo’s stomach dropped.

Iron Man hovered beside Alamo, his repulsors humming softly in the tense air. Below them, Captain America and Americop had already begun their assault on the X-Cutioner, moving with brutal efficiency against the towering war machine.

The X-Cutioner turned its glowing white gaze upward, tracking Alamo and Iron Man with cold, calculating precision. Its magnetized field crackled, an unseen force radiating from the mech’s armored chassis, repelling debris, bullets, and plasma alike.

Alamo gritted his teeth, his hands burning bright blue, still crackling from the failed blast.

"Magnetic field, huh?" Alamo muttered, adjusting his posture midair.

"People adapt, you mutants can't always win."

The X-Cutioner’s voice was a mechanized snarl, emotionless yet dripping with a distinct, unsettling certainty.

Iron Man scanned the Sentinel-Mech hybrid with his HUD, his visor glowing with data streams.

"Yeah, yeah, buddy, I’ve heard this one before. Next, you’ll tell us about the ‘superior race’ and how Magneto and Trask should totally get a room together."

"I don’t listen to mutants."

Alamo barely had a second to react before the X-Cutioner lunged.

The colossal black energy sword arced through the air like a whip of pure destruction, its blade leaving a rippling red contrail as it slammed into Alamo’s chest.

A crash like thunder filled the sky.

Alamo hurtled backward, his body twisting through the air as he tumbled end over end. He barely corrected himself mid-flight, grinding to a halt just feet away from Iron Man.

Pain flared in his ribs. Not broken. He could take it.

Iron Man raised a brow inside his helmet, scanning Alamo with his battle analytics.

"Huh."

Alamo exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the pain.

"That all you got?" he muttered, spitting off to the side.

"That’s a Sentinel-strength energy blade, Nenni. Not exactly a pillow fight."

"I’ll live."

Iron Man tapped the side of his helmet, his repulsors flaring with a brief surge of energy.

"Hey, cowboy. Not John Wayne hour, stick to us."

Alamo smirked behind his chrome mask.

"Fair, fair."

Below, Captain America vaulted between collapsing debris, his shield deflecting another concussive blast from the X-Cutioner’s arm cannon. Americop unloaded his shotgun into the mech’s knee joints, trying to destabilize its balance.

But the X-Cutioner was unfazed. It simply turned its head slightly, processing.

Americop emptied his entire drum magazine into the towering machine’s legs, but the high-caliber shells barely made a dent. Each slug ricocheted uselessly off the Sentinel’s reinforced plating, sparking on impact but leaving no sign of real damage.

Captain America gritted his teeth, eyes hovering around the battlefield as his mind raced.

"Bullets won't work on him, Gallows."

Americop reloaded with practiced efficiency, slamming a fresh drum into place.

"What can we do, Captain?"

Steve Rogers, ever composed in the chaos, adjusted his grip on the shield and locked eyes with the towering war machine.

"Improvise."

Captain America broke into a sprint, his boots pounding against the pavement as he rushed directly toward the Sentinel's massive stance.

The X-Cutioner twisted slightly, adjusting its stance with surprising speed for something so massive. The black energy sword flared, pulsating with raw power as it swung in a devastating arc toward Cap and Americop.

But Steve Rogers was already moving.

At the last second, he raised his shield, the legendary vibranium disc absorbing the full force of the swing. The impact resonated through the street, a sonic shockwave rippling outward, shattering nearby glass windows and sending dust and debris cascading from the surrounding rooftops.

Americop was right behind Cap, ducking low, his black tactical armor absorbing the shock as he braced against the street.

From above, Alamo’s red glowing eyes flickered with recognition.

This was no ordinary fight.

The X-Cutioner’s deep mechanical voice resonated across the battlefield, its tone eerily measured, almost… remorseful.

"I am not a villain, Captain Rogers. I'm truly sorry for those people."

Captain America held firm, his shield pressing against the energy blade, the pavement beneath him cracking under the sheer weight of the pressure.

"You can give up, Denti."

The man who once hunted mutants under the guise of justice.

A man who now piloted a Sentinel of his own design.

Alamo clenched his fists tighter. The red glow of his eyes intensified.

"I'm sorry, Cap." Denti’s voice remained eerily calm, even as his massive war machine bore down on the Avengers. "But there's a mutant terrorist with you—a mutant terrorist who put me in a wheelchair."

Alamo's fingers twitched. His plasma energy surged at his fingertips.

"The kid did it right…" Americop muttered, his own voice cold and matter-of-fact. "If it was me, I’d have put you in a grave."

Captain America gritted his teeth, adjusting his stance against the towering foe.

"Gallows, a hand."

Americop reacted instantly.

As soon as Steve shoved the energy sword aside, its massive blade smashing into the pavement, Americop braced himself, lowering his arms to create a makeshift launchpad.

"Jump assist."

Steve planted his boot onto Americop’s cupped hands, and with a powerful lift, he was launched skyward.

In mid-air, Steve twisted his body, catching the edge of the Sentinel’s massive weapon, using it as a stepping stone.

With fluid motion, he extended a hand back down to Americop, hoisting the vigilante up with raw super-soldier strength.

Together, they scaled the behemoth, climbing onto its massive plated shoulders.

The X-Cutioner’s white optics flickered, tracking their movements.

"Captain, don’t make me do this."

Steve pressed forward, his grip tightening on his shield as he prepared to disable the mech.

"I can’t let you hurt anyone else, Denti."

Then came the retaliation.

The Sentinel’s enormous left hand swung, attempting to crush the two heroes like insects.

But then—

BOOM.

A massive repulsor blast struck the Sentinel’s arm, halting its attack mid-swing.

Smoke rose from the impact site.

Iron Man hovered above, his arc reactor pulsating.

"You have to work better on your defense capacities."

Denti’s voice remained eerily measured.

"I did."

The next repulsor blast was met with resistance.

The Sentinel’s left arm shifted, deploying a crackling energy barrier that absorbed the full force of the blast.

Iron Man narrowed his eyes inside the HUD.

"Huh. You’re full of surprises."

The X-Cutioner retaliated.

Its massive sword arm twisted, slashing in a broad, sweeping arc toward Iron Man’s position.

Tony barely had time to dodge.

The black energy sword sliced through the air—and then—

RIIIIIPPPPP.

The top floors of the Carraro Building were sliced clean off.

A massive explosion erupted as concrete and steel collapsed in a fiery cascade, sending glass shards and flaming debris raining onto the streets below.

The crowd screamed in terror. As Wasp and Falcon moved them to a safer distance, picking rubble as they could. Wasp shifted to a massive size to take the crowd in her arms and drop them to safer locations. Falcon flew to catch debris and remove people from impact zones.

Denti’s voice hissed through the speakers.

"Damnit!"

Iron Man and Alamo tore through the air, dodging falling debris as their conversation continued. The Carraro building’s top floors collapsed into themselves, the impact shaking the surrounding streets, but thanks to Tony’s quick thinking and Alamo’s plasma blasts, no civilians were harmed.

“Tony, make sure nobody is hurt.” Cap said over the comms.

“Already on it, Cap,” Tony replied, weaving through the smoke-filled air, his repulsors scanning the area for heat signatures.

Alamo flew beside him, his hands glowing blue as he blasted chunks of concrete and steel mid-air, vaporizing them before they could land on fleeing civilians. His movements were precise, controlled—like an artist painting in the sky with streaks of energy.

Iron Man glanced over at him, watching him work.

“So, kiddo, plasma powers, huh?”

“Yeah, they’re usually more stable when some psycho ain’t disruptin’ my ions and electrons…”

“Sounds like science talk. You a science nerd?"

“More like finance and economics nerd.”

Tony paused in mid-air, dodging a flaming office chair spiraling past. Then he let out a low whistle.

“Oh shit. I know who you are.”

Alamo glanced at him. Taken aback from being recognized by damn Tony Stark out of all people. There was a smirk to his face as he expect to hear what followed.

“You’re Duncan Nenni.”

Alamo didn’t answer immediately, but Tony didn’t need confirmation.

“Yeah, you’re the guy who made those credit risk models. Damn, kid, you made my life easier.”

“Yup.”

“Nice one, kid. I got ‘em for Stark Industries, perfected them, of course.”

Alamo raised an eyebrow under his mask.

“Ya perfected my models?” He said almost offended, but respectfully so, he knew he wasn't exactly a genius like Tony Stark or Reed Richards, if anything he was proud Tony even considered his model

“Absolutely. You know what they say—nothing is perfect until Stark makes it.”

Alamo let out a dry chuckle.

“Never heard that in my life.”

“Well, you should. Maybe I should start branding it. Anyway, I got a proposal after we’re done here. When Tony Stark offers you something, trust me—it’s to topple the competition.”

Alamo smirked beneath his mask.

“I like the sound of that.”

“Good. But before we sign any contracts, let’s figure out what else you can do.”

Tony gestured to the X-Cutioner below.

“Because right now, your plasma blasts ain’t doing squat against Magneto-lite down there.”

Alamo flexed his fingers, staring at his palm as memories surged. Rogue. Florida. The stunt they pulled together.

“I can absorb that damn thing’s energy.”

Tony’s visor blinked with interest.

“Go on.”

“It’ll suck the life outta it. I think.”

“Like Rogue?”

Alamo smirked again. Remembering the comparison made by Spider-Man back at Katz and of course, his own encounter with the southern belle back in Florida.

“Yeah, like her.”

Tony nodded. “Alright, but I sense a caveat.”

“Yeah. I can't exactly control the output. I’d have to burn it off. Maybe do a huge explosion. Maybe—”

“Maybe?!”

“I don’t know! It’s never been tested in this scale!”

Tony tilted his head, considering the options.

“Well, here’s an idea—how do you fly?”

Alamo raised an eyebrow. “With the plasma, naturally.”

Tony snapped his fingers. “Boom. Answer. Why don’t you just fly around town, burn off some of that buildup, and then come back?”

Alamo’s eyes widened behind his mask.

“Jesus… how come I never thought of that?”

“Because you don’t have a genius brain like mine, kid.”

Alamo grumbled. “And you tell yourself that before you sleep, huh?”

Tony smirked. “Sort of."

Down below Americop gripped the metal plating tightly, using the Sentinel’s shifting shoulders as leverage to keep from being thrown off.

“We need to take that sword off his hands, Gallows!” Captain America called out.

Americop reached into his tactical belt and produced a small, red, cylindrical grenade. He handed it to Cap.

“Here. Thermite.”

Steve eyed it warily.

“Why do you have this?”

“Mostly to bust through defenses. Cut through reinforced walls.”

Steve’s expression tightened.

“Are you positive—”

“I don’t burn people alive, Captain.” Americop said without hesitation.

Steve nodded.

“Understood.”

Without hesitation, he leaped from Americop’s position, flipping mid-air and landing on the X-Cutioner’s right shoulder.

Denti’s mechanical voice hissed.

“Captain, don’t—”

Steve pulled the pin on the grenade.

The X-Cutioner twisted violently, trying to shake him off, but Captain America held on tight, wedging the grenade into a vulnerable section of the wrist joint.

He kicked off, vaulting backward, just as the thermite charge ignited in a blinding flash.

Flames erupted, liquid fire melting through the servos and hydraulics of the X-Cutioner’s sword-wielding hand.

Denti let out a distorted roar as his grip faltered, the massive black energy sword sparking violently.

Captain America landed on the pavement, shield raised, watching as the Sentinel’s massive blade-hand sputtered and sparked.

Americop dropped down beside him.

“Good throw, Cap.”

“Thanks.” Steve adjusted his shield. “Now let’s take him down.”

The X-Cutioner’s left hand shield convulsed, twisting into a pulsating orb of energy. With a single pulse of kinetic force, it sent both Captain America and Americop flying backwards, their bodies hurtling through the air before crashing hard onto the pavement below. Steve’s shield clattered beside him, rolling in a slow spiral before coming to a stop. Americop, ever durable, was already getting back onto his feet, pumping his shotgun and leveling it toward the towering machine.

The Sentinel’s domed head tilted downward, the white glow of its optics pulsating with cold intensity.

“You’re making a terrible mistake, Captain. This mutant is dangerous. He’ll betray you the first chance he gets!”

A voice crackled through the comms, sharp with exasperation.

“By the way, I won’t do that.”

“Thank you, kiddo,” Tony added dryly. “Very reassuring.”

Steve exhaled, already back in position, shield raised.

“Sorry, Denti. We can’t give you anyone.”

The response was immediate—a guttural mechanical snarl from the X-Cutioner.

Alamo didn’t hesitate. He rocketed forward, a blazing blue comet in the sky. His fists clenched, plasma crackling around them, and with all the speed and force of a missile, he collided with the shields. The impact sent a resounding BOOM across the battlefield, sending waves of kinetic force rippling outward. The air wavered like liquid, and for a moment, the very fabric of reality seemed to distort as his plasma fought against the energy field.

But the shield held.

Alamo hovered backward, eyes narrowing behind his mask. He had felt it flicker—just for a split second—but that was enough.

“I’ll get you, Denti. No shield is gonna stop me.”

The X-Cutioner’s voice spat back through its mechanical filter, raw with rage.

“Fuck you, Nenni. You’re a terrorist! A villain!”

Alamo glanced down, his teeth gritting against his own frustration. He had heard those words before, but never had they rung so hollow.

“Denti,” he said, his voice cutting through the static-laden comms, “you just killed six people. Please don’t insult them.”

The machine lurched slightly, its frame shuddering with something disturbingly close to hesitation.

“I didn’t mean to,” the voice muttered, as if trying to convince itself. “But you… you will kill with a smile on your face.”

Alamo’s fingers flexed, plasma thrumming through his fingertips.

He surged forward again, fists hammering into the shield in rapid succession. Every impact sent shockwaves rippling through the protective field, causing cracks of unstable energy to flicker across its surface. But it still held.

Iron Man, watching from above, his HUD running countless algorithms, analyzed the flickering patterns in the energy field. His fingers danced over his gauntlet controls, adjusting his repulsor configurations. His mind worked at breakneck speed, identifying microsecond-long vulnerabilities.

Then—he saw it.

“Kid, back off on my mark. Three, two—”

Alamo slammed his fists against the barrier one last time, watching as the distortion flared bright red for just a fraction of a second.

“—One! Move!”

Alamo flipped backward, just as Tony Stark fired an overcharged repulsor blast directly into the weak point. The energy shields flickered violently, the oscillating frequencies shifting into chaos before finally—

A BOOM echoed, and the shield collapsed entirely.

The exposed projector sparked wildly, its once-protective field now a volatile heap of overloaded circuitry.

Alamo didn’t wait. He lunged forward, gripping the shield projector in both hands and wrenching it free from the Sentinel’s arm with a sickening metallic screech. Sparks showered down like fireworks as the device ripped apart, leaving exposed wiring and ruptured energy cores.

A half-second later, a white-hot repulsor blast from Iron Man tore through the X-Cutioner’s raised left arm cannon, sending a cascading explosion of blue energy arcing through the mech’s limb. The entire structure shuddered violently, its servos grinding in protest.

Alamo moved like a streak of burning blue light, his form a blur as he darted through the sky, circling the X-Cutioner like a predator sizing up its prey. The air hummed with kinetic energy, the very molecules trembling as he built momentum, his mach-speed flight patterns forming a swirling vortex of charged particles in his wake.

Then, Denti saw it.

Alamo reached to his right hand and pulled off his glove.

For the first time since the fight began, Carl Denti’s organic eye widened with something beyond anger, beyond hate—genuine fear.

"What are you doing?!"

Alamo didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he hovered just above the X-Cutioner’s domed head, his fingers crackling as raw energy coiled and danced around his exposed skin.

Then, finally, he muttered:

"Little trick I learned a while ago."

And he slammed his bare hand down on the machine’s crown.

The results were immediate.

A deafening surge of energy erupted, the sheer force of it splitting the sky with a thunderous CRACK, sending waves of blinding blue plasma outward in a spectacular display of destruction and raw power. The Sentinel’s entire framework began to tremble violently, its circuits frying as Alamo drained every last drop of energy from its core, feeding off the machine’s lifeblood like a supernova collapsing in on itself.

The X-Cutioner twitched and spasmed, its towering frame slowly losing integrity. But Alamo wasn’t finished yet.

He took off, using the very energy he had stolen, and began to fly at speeds unheard of—Mach 5, Mach 6—his body becoming nothing more than a searing blue comet streaking across the battlefield. He circled the falling machine like a living hurricane, whipping up debris, guiding its descent, ensuring that when it fell, it wouldn’t crush civilians or raze the entire block to the ground.

And then, with one final calculated movement, he released the built-up energy, burning off the excess like a miniature sun imploding in midair.

The Sentinel collapsed.

But it didn’t explode.

It didn’t obliterate the streets of Houston in a catastrophic wave of destruction.

It simply landed with a soft, defeated thud.

The fight was over.

Alamo descended slowly, landing atop the wreckage with a graceful ease, his white gloves lightly dusted with singed metal residue.

He exhaled sharply before pressing his fingers beneath the edge of the domed headpiece. With a firm grunt, he tore it off, ripping away layers of scorched steel and shattered plating.

And beneath it, sitting battered and broken in the cockpit, was Carl Denti.

The once-proud X-Cutioner was a ruined man.

His lower legs had been nothing but charred stumps since the last time they fought in Dallas. His once-intact face was burned down the right side, a permanent disfigurement from his previous battle with Alamo. His once-righteous fury, the deep-seated hatred that fueled him, had dimmed into something exhausted and empty.

His head lolled to the side, the weight of his cybernetic helmet pressing into his sunken shoulders. He didn't even try to fight.

Alamo stood over him, hands clenched into trembling fists.

"Time to pay up, you mother—"

He raised his finger like a gun, the same way he had before. A quiet yet devastating motion.

Americop, standing at the edge of the wreckage, crossed his arms and said nothing. He didn't expect Alamo to hold back. He figured the kid had already decided how this was going to end.

But then, before he could act, before he could make a decision that would permanently define the symbol of what "The Alamo" stood for, he heard the one voice that could still cut through everything.

"It’s okay, son."

Captain America.

His voice wasn’t loud. It wasn’t commanding. It wasn’t even forceful. It was steady, calm, filled with quiet certainty. The kind of voice that could stop a war simply by speaking into the heart of it.

Alamo stopped. His finger trembled for half a second before he lowered his hand.

Captain America stepped forward, his blue uniform streaked with dust and sweat. He gently placed a hand on Alamo’s shoulder, not as a superior, not as an order—but as an understanding presence.

Then he turned his gaze toward the broken wreck of Carl Denti, the infamous X-Cutioner.

"Carl Denti. You are under arrest."

The words hung in the air like a gavel striking a judge’s bench.

Denti didn’t resist.

Didn’t fight.

Didn’t even blink.

He had lost.

And for the first time, he seemed to accept it.

Captain America hoisted Denti from the wreckage, lifting him out of his ruined cockpit. The man barely weighed anything, even with the cybernetic augmentations that kept him functional.

As he was pulled free, SHIELD agents emerged from the crowd, their tactical gear crisp and their movements precise.

At their forefront, a man with long dark hair and sunglasses stepped forward.

"Agent Jack Monroe."

Steve turned slightly, keeping his grip on Denti firm.

"Monroe. Take him in." His voice hardened slightly. "But no funny games."

Monroe nodded once.

"Understood, Captain."

Denti let out a breath, barely audible, barely anything at all.

And with that, the X-Cutioner’s war was finally over.

Captain America turned to Alamo, the golden afternoon sun casting long shadows over the battlefield they had left behind. The air was still thick with the acrid scent of scorched metal, ozone, and the remnants of destruction wrought by the X-Cutioner. But the city itself was still standing. The people—those who had survived—would remember this day, but they would live to tell the story.

And that was what mattered.

As Cap was about to speak, he heard it—the unmistakable low hum of approaching engines, their sleek design cutting through the air in a way that was both surgical and imposing.

Alamo and Americop turned their heads simultaneously as the aircraft came into view, its silhouette dark against the golden sky. The infamous Blackbird, the X-Men’s signature jet, descending from the heavens like a harbinger of something yet to be determined.

Alamo sighed audibly.

Americop crossed his arms, the reinforced padding of his tactical gloves creaking against his plated chest. His chrome mask glinted in the waning sunlight, unreadable as ever, but his tone carried a familiar weight of sarcasm.

"Great. The X-Men."

Alamo, mirroring his posture almost instinctively, shook his head with a similar exasperation.

"Yeah. Fantastic."

The sarcasm in their voices was so in sync that for a split second, it almost sounded rehearsed.

Americop exhaled sharply, as if shaking off the last few hours of battle like dust from his shoulders. He looked over at Captain America, who stood tall with his shield at his side, unwavering as always.

"It was a good arrest, Captain." His voice was firm, steady, but there was an undeniable weight behind it, as if something unspoken lingered between them. Something Captain America chose, for now, not to push.

Americop then turned to Alamo, tilting his head slightly in acknowledgment.

"I'll see you around, kid. Good job today." He paused, the hesitation brief but noticeable. "It was a pleasure working with you."

Alamo raised an eyebrow beneath his mask. The words weren’t empty. He could tell that much.

He crossed his arms tighter. "Just no more killin', yeah?"

Americop didn’t answer right away. He stood there for a moment, his posture rigid. His fingers twitched slightly at his sides, as if running through some invisible calculation in his head.

Then he glanced between Alamo and Captain America, the weight of their words pressing on him like an anvil.

Finally, with a small nod, he simply said:

"I'll think about it."

And with that, he turned sharply on his heels and strode toward his modified police bike.

The powerful engine rumbled to life, a deep mechanical growl that sent small vibrations through the pavement. The red and blue lights flickered for a split second before he twisted the throttle and peeled off, his chrome mask catching one final glint of the sun before he disappeared down the road.

Captain America and the Avengers watched him go.

Iron Man let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. “Guy’s got a real old-school Robocop vibe going. All that ‘Justice Above All’ talk. I’m half-surprised he didn’t arrest us for loitering.”

Falcon chuckled. “Maybe next time.”

Captain America said nothing. He simply watched as Americop’s bike disappeared into the distance, his expression unreadable.

Then he turned back to Alamo.

The young mutant vigilante was still standing there, his gaze lifted toward the descending Blackbird, watching as the jet’s sleek body carved through the sky. The landing gears extended, the thrusters adjusting as it prepared to touch down just outside the perimeter of the battle-worn street.

Cap studied him for a moment before asking, “Your friends?”

Alamo’s jaw tightened beneath his mask.

He didn’t answer immediately.

The Blackbird loomed closer.

The truth was, he didn’t know.

He wasn’t sure yet.

So instead, he simply muttered, just loud enough for Cap to hear:

"I ain't sure yet."