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 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."

Captain America stood firm as the Blackbird completed its descent, its engines humming with precision as the landing gear settled onto the pavement. The sleek jet, a staple of the X-Men’s operations, cut a stark contrast against the wreckage-strewn battlefield where the massive X-Cutioner Sentinel lay lifeless, a testament to the fight that had just concluded. Smoke still rose from scattered fires, the air tinged with the acrid scent of burnt metal and ozone.

Nearby, Alamo kept his distance, his arms still crossed over his chest, posture rigid. The metallic blue of his suit caught the setting sun, but his gaze was locked firmly on the jet’s opening hatch. He had no reason to be nervous. None. And yet, as the hydraulic ramp extended and figures began to emerge, a certain tightness settled in his gut.

"Shy, cowboy?" Wasp asked, tilting her head slightly, amusement flickering behind her dark lenses.

Alamo quickly raised a hand to his mask, brushing it as if adjusting something, though it was more a nervous reflex than anything else. His voice was clipped, but the forced nonchalance was evident.

"Ahem, no."

From within the Blackbird, two figures watched the scene unfold through one of the side windows. Jubilee leaned in, pressing her hands against the glass with an amused smirk.

"Well, that wasn’t exactly unexpected."

Rogue sat beside her, arms folded, one gloved finger tapping against her bicep. She had a clear view of the battlefield—of the Avengers standing in a loose formation, and just a little behind them, Alamo, standing as still as a statue.

"Did they just take down that massive Sentinel?" Jubilee asked, squinting.

Rogue tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable, though a small smirk tugged at her lips.

"Ah think so."

Jubilee chuckled under her breath. "That’s so hot."

Rogue shot her a look. "Jubes!"

Jubilee just grinned. "What? It totally is."

Her eyes drifted back toward the lone Texan. His stance was defensive, like he was physically bracing himself for this encounter.

"Is he hidin' from us?" Jubilee mused.

"Maybe he’s just shy, Roguey."

Rogue rolled her eyes. "Of what?"

Jubilee’s smirk grew mischievous. "Seein' you again?"

Rogue visibly stiffened. "Don’t—don’t say that."

Jubilee just waggled her brows. "Mmmhmm."

The Blackbird’s hatch finally lowered completely, and one by one, the X-Men descended.

First was Cyclops, his blue uniform crisp, he wore a tactical harness with an X-Badge fixed on a strap on the right part of his chest. The three lines in his visor glowed faintly, his expression set in its usual stoic resolve. Beside him, Jean Grey moved with an effortless grace, her red hair catching the last light of the sun, emerald eyes taking in the scene with quiet intensity.

Behind them, Storm emerged, tall and regal, her silver-white hair flowing in the light breeze. Even in the aftermath of battle, she carried an air of authority and serenity that made her presence impossible to ignore. Her suit was almost like a dress, black with silver accents, with a slight cleavage.

Then came Wolverine, gruff as ever, his cigar already between his teeth, the faintest hint of smoke curling up from the corner of his mouth. His eyes locked onto the downed Sentinel for a brief moment before flicking toward Captain America and the others.

Finally, Jubilee and Rogue stepped out, side by side. Jubilee walked with an easy swagger, hands tucked into her yellow tech-wear jacket pockets, her pink shades getting the light of the sun, while Rogue’s posture was more measured, composed, though her sharp green eyes landed unerringly on Alamo. She tugged her jacket, her bodysuit not the same from Florida, this one was a lighter green with black stripes.

Alamo barely shifted, but he knew the exact moment she saw him. He felt it. That same look she always had when she was trying to figure someone out, like she was peeling back layers without asking a single question. It was unnerving.

But before anything could be said between them, Cyclops addressed the Avengers directly. His voice was firm, even, as he extended a hand to Captain America.

"Captain America, thank you for handling the X-Cutioner."

Steve Rogers took the offered handshake, his grip firm as ever.

"It was the right thing to do." His gaze flickered to the wreckage behind them. "Though I imagine this is just the beginning of something bigger."

The tension in the air was palpable. The battle had ended, but the real confrontation was just beginning.

Captain America gave Alamo a knowing glance before shifting his attention back to the assembled team. The weight of the moment settled between them all—the battle was over, but the implications of what had transpired still hung thick in the air.

“I couldn’t have done it without the Avengers and the local backup,” Cap continued, his voice steady, gesturing toward Alamo, who stood just off to the side. “Alamo and Americop provided crucial support.”

Jubilee snorted softly, crossing her arms. “Americop? Really?” Her tone was filled with skepticism, amusement even, but Rogue nudged her sharply with her elbow.

“He's gone now, I'm afraid,” Cap added, throwing a brief glance toward where Gallows had disappeared into the streets of Houston, swallowed by the city as quickly as he had emerged from it.

“Oh, so the X-Crew is late for the show.” Stark’s voice cut through the moment, casual as ever, his helmet retracting with a metallic hiss as he smirked toward the X-Men.

Cyclops exhaled sharply, his stance unwavering even as the corners of his mouth twitched ever so slightly. “Hello to you too, Stark.”

“Summers, don’t be such a rigid guy.” Stark tilted his head, his tone dripping with playful sarcasm. “I’d think you were Cap with how stiff you’re standing right now.”

Falcon gave Cyclops a nod, the silent but mutual respect passing between them. “Cyclops.”

Jean acknowledged Sam with a warm but brief nod before Wasp chimed in, her tone lighter. “Hey, Mr. Summers.”

Cyclops, despite himself, gave a small nod back. Then, with purpose, he turned his attention fully toward Alamo, stepping forward and extending a hand.

“Thank you for helping, Alamo.”

The younger mutant hesitated for a split second before taking the offered handshake. His grip was firm, but not aggressive. His gloved fingers, still warm from the energy he had absorbed from the X-Cutioner’s systems, pressed against Summers’ palm.

“Yeah, yeah. I can't let y'all keep a monopoly on mutantkind.” His voice carried that same wry edge, but there was something else underneath it—something unspoken. A quiet weight.

Cyclops was about to respond when he blinked, tilting his head slightly. He squeezed the handshake just a little, a momentary note of curiosity slipping into his voice.

“Your hands—”

Alamo immediately pulled back, shaking his head. “They’re warm, get over it, I know.”

Stolen story; please report.

That was the last thing he needed—another comment about it. He had heard it so many damn times.

From teachers and doctors when he was a kid.

From researchers trying to figure out what was his mutant classification.

From the people who had tested his abilities.

From people who hadn’t yet learned the cost of plasma.

And yet, here it was again. Casually noticed. Pointed out. Like a fun fact. Like it wasn’t tangled up with everything that defined him.

Captain America smirked slightly, arms crossed. "I noticed that too." His voice was light, teasing even, but Alamo wasn’t in the mood.

It settled into his chest, that tight feeling—one he had buried so deep for so long.

It wasn’t just the comment. It wasn’t even about his mutation, not entirely. It was what it reminded him of. The weight of something he had spent a long time pushing to the back of his mind. A memory that he didn’t want here. Not now.

Alamo let out a sharp exhale, shifting uncomfortably. He moved his fingers slightly as if shaking off the tension, rolling his shoulders before muttering:

“Ahem, can we get back to the topic at—”

And then his words cut off.

Because he saw her.

For just a moment, his brain went static.

Not because he hadn’t expected to see her.

Not because they hadn't crossed paths.

But because it was different now.

Because seeing Rogue, in this moment, hit somewhere deeper than he thought it would.

He smirked under his mask, his attention drawn toward her without even meaning to. Just for a moment, barely anything. But enough. Enough that he felt it settle in his gut.

His body reacted before his mind caught up, a flicker of something like familiarity, like recognition, like comfort. Not because it was entirely a good thing. Not because it was something he had resolved.

But because it was familiar.

Because she understood. The danger of touch. The power of it. The cost of it.

Alamo snapped back to reality, shaking his head as if brushing it off, but the moment had already happened.

There was some strain in his voice now, deeper than the usual awkwardness when he spoke again.

“Ahem, great, great, yeah—can we move past that?” His voice was casual, but it didn’t land right. It carried something weightier beneath the surface.

A note that wasn’t just frustration.

But something older. Something he didn’t want to put into words.

And Rogue was looking at him now.

Really looking at him.

Like she had caught something in the way he had reacted.

Like she had seen through the mask.

And Alamo felt that tightness in his chest again.

Rogue stood quietly, her arms crossed, eyes flickering toward Alamo from beneath her auburn bangs. Since Florida, he had lingered in her mind in ways she hadn’t expected. There was something about him—something about the way he had spoken.

"Free men don’t buy promises of salvation."

She had heard a lot of philosophies in her time, from Mystique, from Destiny, from Magneto, from Xavier. But his? His words weren’t some grand ideology. They were just him. A belief that seemed to be carved into his very existence.

She had been afraid he would be alone. That his stubborn pride, his distrust of both sides—mutant and human alike—would leave him isolated in a world that wasn’t kind to those who stood between lines. But seeing him here, standing with the Avengers, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Steve Rogers, of all people…

She exhaled softly, relief settling in her chest. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t as alone as she had feared.

Her gaze drifted downward, toward his gloves. The faint light that had flickered in his fingertips was fading now, the last remnants of energy draining from his body. She knew what that meant.

He had absorbed something. Not just heat, not just light—raw power.

And that was something she understood better than anyone.

Before she could say anything, Storm stepped forward, her presence as commanding as ever.

"It is good to see you, Captain," she said, her voice carrying its usual regal calm.

"Mutual, Ororo," Cap responded, offering her a respectful nod.

Storm’s sharp gaze turned toward the fallen X-Cutioner mech, its massive blackened form sprawled across the pavement like a toppled titan. "How did you manage to bring it down?"

Before Cap could respond, Tony Stark—ever the showman—stepped in.

"Oh, let me chime in on that one." He stretched, rolling his shoulders. "Cap and the Chrome-Faced RoboCop handled the big guy’s sword situation—very dramatic, very heroic, very on-brand for our boy scout."

Jubilee’s eyes widened, her hands clapping together. "So cool."

"Jubilation," Storm warned, but there was no real heat in it.

"And then, of course, yours truly handled some of the heavy lifting," Tony continued. "But you know who really stole the show?" He threw an arm around Alamo’s broad shoulders, patting him like they were old drinking buddies.

Alamo didn’t react, didn’t stiffen, just stood there and let Stark talk.

"This big boy here sucked all the energy out of that thing, just drained it like a mutant battery pack."

Rogue’s head snapped up, her green eyes locking onto Alamo instantly.

"Like… in Florida."

The air shifted. A quiet passed over them.

Alamo nodded, his voice level. "Yup. What works, works."

She smirked, but there was something else in her expression. Something knowing. Something almost… challenging.

"Glove an’ all?" she asked, tilting her head slightly.

Alamo nodded again, his mask hiding whatever he was thinking. "Yes, ma’am."

Her smirk deepened, just a little. "Ah wanted to be here to see it."

He shrugged. "There will be other opportunities."

Jubilee groaned dramatically, throwing her hands in the air. "Oh man, I wanted to see too!"

Stark laughed, nudging Alamo playfully. "Oh yeah, you guys should’ve seen it. He was all in, took the gloves off and everything—" he placed a dramatic hand over his heart, "—a real homage, really." Tony Stark winked to Alamo.

Rogue raised an eyebrow, but before she could say anything else, Jean Grey shot Stark a look.

"Mr. Stark."

He put his hands up. "Alright, alright. I’ll behave."

Cap exhaled, shaking his head. "Shall we head inside?"

Storm nodded. "Yes, Captain."

With that, the Avengers, the X-Men, and the Alamo turned toward the towering gates of Carraro.

The protest crowds had mostly dispersed now, thanks to Cap’s earlier speech, but there were still murmurs, still whispers. The battle had been won, but the fight—the real fight—was only beginning.

And as they stepped forward, Rogue cast one last glance toward Alamo.

He wasn’t looking at her.

But she could feel it.

That weight between them. That understanding. That unspoken thing that neither of them quite wanted to name yet.

But it was there.

The room fell into a heavy silence. The weight of the day’s losses pressed down on them all, from the Avengers to the X-Men to the lone mutant in the middle of it all—Alamo. It was the reality of what they did. No matter how fast they were, no matter how powerful, no matter how righteous their cause—sometimes, they lost. And today, they had lost people. Mutant and human alike.

Captain America’s voice was steady, but there was an unmistakable gravity to it as he spoke. "There were casualties."

Storm’s expression darkened. "How many?"

"Mutant and human," Cap clarified.

Storm inhaled sharply, her regal composure momentarily shaken. "By the goddess..."

Jean Grey shut her eyes, feeling the weight of every life lost in the psychic echoes that lingered in the air. The cries, the pain, the final thoughts of people who would never go home again. She had trained herself to shield from the worst of it, but even through her barriers, she could feel the loss.

Rogue swallowed hard. She had seen too much death, but it never got easier. Even if it wasn’t their fault, it was still blood spilled. And it would still be blamed on them.

Iron Man exhaled, shaking his head. "That’s terrible."

Cyclops, ever pragmatic, ever the leader, squared his shoulders. "Where are the bodies?"

Captain America hesitated for a moment before answering. "I’m afraid their retrieval was impossible."

Jean’s brows furrowed, an unsettled look passing between her and Storm. "Impossible?"

Tony Stark, who had already been running calculations in his head, spoke the words that turned their stomachs.

"They were vaporized."

The room went cold.

Wolverine let out a sharp exhale, shaking his head. "Damn shame. Should’ve gutted the bastard when we had the chance."

Cap turned toward him, his face impassive but his voice firm. "Sergeant Howlett, that’s not the way the Avengers do things."

Logan’s eyes flickered toward him, sharp and challenging, but not disrespectful. "Well, Cap, war is war. You an’ me both know that."

Steve’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. He did know that. Knew it too well.

It was Cyclops who broke the silence. His voice was measured, but there was an unmistakable edge to it. "Captain, why is this the concern of the Avengers?"

Steve had expected the question. He didn’t blame Scott for asking it—he would have asked the same if the roles were reversed. But that didn’t make it any less frustrating.

He had seen too much.

He had heard those words in New York. That voice, trapped in the cold shell of a metal prison. "Kill me," it had begged.

His hands curled slightly at his sides. The same experiment, the same horror—first on humans, then on mutants. Or maybe it had been the other way around. Maybe it had always been both.

He hated the idea that there had ever been a distinction. That they had ever been treated as anything but people.

He exhaled through his nose and answered plainly.

"We found evidence to suggest that there might be some connection between Trask and some experiments with humans in New York. The scientist we interrogated pointed out this particular facility."

Jean’s head snapped up, eyes sharp with concern. "So it goes beyond mutants."

"Possibly," Cap admitted. "But we have yet to confirm. Maybe it’s unrelated, but I find that unlikely."

Cyclops crossed his arms, his face unreadable behind his visor. He had spent years fighting Trask’s creations. Sentinels. Mutant-killing machines. If Trask was experimenting with humans now, it raised an unsettling question.

What was the purpose? And how long had it been going on?

The weight in Steve’s gut only grew heavier. Trask had never cared about humanity. Not really. His only concern was control. If he was turning his experiments on humans now, it meant one of two things: Either his machines were no longer effective at wiping out mutants… or he was looking for a more permanent solution.

And then, something else came to mind. Something Cyclops had tried to brush past, but Steve wasn’t about to let it go.

"What happened in Arkansas, Summers?"

The X-Men tensed. There was no mistaking it—the way their expressions shifted, the way Rogue’s hands clenched into fists at her sides, the way Jubilee bit her lip and looked away.

Steve narrowed his eyes slightly. "You didn’t kill Thomas Thompson, did you?"

Cyclops squared his shoulders. "No, Captain. We didn’t. There was someone else."

Jean, ever the diplomat, stepped in. "It was a terrible loss."

"We messed up," Jubilee admitted, her voice uncharacteristically quiet. "We couldn’t save the guy."

"There was some woman in power armor. She killed him." Rogue added. "Ah couldn't save him, none of us could."

Alamo felt his blood run cold.

The X-Men hadn’t done it. But that didn’t mean anyone would believe them.

His mind raced. He had seen the news coverage, the way the Friends of Humanity had twisted the story before the body had even cooled.

"Thomas Thompson, the martyr."

"Murdered by the X-Men."

It didn’t matter that it wasn’t true.

To the people marching in the streets, it didn’t matter who had pulled the trigger. They chose to believe who the villain was, regardless of facts.

Alamo remained quiet, his arms crossed as he processed everything. The X-Men had never been his enemy, not really. But they weren’t his team, either. He had always been wary of them—of their cause, of their ideology, of what he perceived as their willingness to fight battles that weren’t theirs to fight.

But standing here now, in the middle of Houston, looking at the people who had bled today, looking at Captain America himself standing side by side with them… he wasn’t sure what to think.

Maybe he’d been wrong about them.

Cyclops turned to face him fully, his posture still stiff but not hostile.

"I presume you’re here for Trask too, Alamo."

His name—his title—felt different coming from Summers’ mouth.

Alamo nodded. "Yup, I started the investigation."

There was a beat of silence. Then, to his surprise, Cyclops nodded with something almost like respect.

"We never thanked you for the data you gave us."

That made Alamo pause.

He hadn’t expected that. Not from them.

He had expected hostility, skepticism—anything but gratitude.

"Oh…" He was caught off guard, struggling for a response. "Ain’t nothin’, really."

But then Rogue spoke, her voice softer than he had anticipated.

"Ya did a good thing fer us, Du—" She stopped herself, but the slip was there. His name. His real name.

She knew it. She hadn’t forgotten.

Alamo smirked behind the mask, but his heart stuttered for just a second.

"No worries, y’all." He tried to keep his voice even, tried not to let it show. "I reckon it’s… important to help."

Jubilee grinned, stepping up beside Rogue. "Oh, come on, dude. Don’t downplay it. You were awesome."

He blinked. "Huh?"

Jubilation Lee was practically bouncing on her feet now.

"Jubilee and Rogue spoke highly of you," Storm clarified.

Alamo turned his head slightly toward the two women, caught off guard again. They had?

"Y’all did?"

Jubilee threw her arms in the air dramatically. "Oh yeah! That thing with the Sentinels in the swamp? That was insane! You totally ripped them apart!"

Alamo remembered that night well. He hadn’t been alone in that fight. Rogue had been there. He could still hear the sound of Sentinels breaking apart, of metal screaming as he absorbed and redirected energy with reckless abandon.

It had been… a good fight.

Rogue nodded, her voice carrying something different. Something deeper. "Ya helped us a lot, Alamo."

She meant it.

He felt that.

And for once, he wasn’t sure what to say.

There was a beat of silence before he finally exhaled through his nose, smirking again under the mask.

"Don’t worry ‘bout that none."

"Yet you are highly critical of us." Storm cut the moment.

Rogue hadn’t expected Storm to question him so soon. She had expected a more measured approach, maybe even a softer attempt to understand him. But Ororo Munroe, in all her quiet grace, could command a storm just as fiercely as she could calm one.

Alamo stopped floating mid-air, his plasma dissipating softly at his feet. He smiled behind the mask, though they couldn’t see it.

"A little bit of diversity of thought ain’t much fer the X-Men, I hope."

Storm’s gaze was steady. "It didn’t seem like diversity of thought. It seemed like animosity."

That made him pause, just for a second.

"Against y’all?"

"You called us ‘Mutant Police,’ did you not?"

Alamo tilted his head slightly, his arms crossing over his chest.

"Y’all are wearin’ badges."

Storm narrowed her eyes just slightly.

"We’re not policemen."

"Even if we were," Jean added, her voice calm but firm, "it doesn’t seem like you cared working with... Americop."

Alamo let out a soft, almost amused breath through his nose. They caught that, huh?

His response was immediate, as natural as a reflex. "Bartholomew Gallows spoke fer himself and himself only. There’s no Americorps, there’s no group. It’s him, alone."

He floated back down to the pavement, hands resting on his belt.

"And even then," he added, "I have more disagreements with him than with y’all X-Men."

That seemed to give them pause.

Because it was the truth.

For all his wariness of the X-Men, for all his skepticism about their methods and their role in mutantkind's future… he understood them. They believed in something bigger than themselves, and they fought for it.

Americop? Americop was different.

He didn't disagree with Americop just in philosophy. His methods highly disturbed him too.

Alamo’s issues with the X-Men weren’t about personal vendettas. They weren’t even about whether or not they meant well.

It was about what they represented. More than method, more than philosophy.

"Okay, can we, like, lower down the tension here a bit?"

Jubilee, ever the voice of chaotic neutrality, raised her hands in surrender, breaking the stare-down with an exaggerated eye-roll.

Alamo sighed, letting his shoulders relax just slightly.

"I'm sorry if I have stoked fires on those who wanted to hear what I had to say," he admitted, his voice steady. "I didn't mean to make yer job harder... Not at all. But we must question ourselves a bit to grow... I know it. Everyone seems to question me on somethin’ or the other... It's good, good to listen to other opinions."

Iron Man let out a short chuckle, crossing his arms over the glowing reactor in his chest.

"The kid is right. Not all opinions are right, though."

Jean sighed, but she didn't press the issue further. Captain America gave Alamo a small nod, not necessarily in agreement, but in quiet acknowledgment.

They had reached the gates.

The Carraro security guards, who had initially braced for confrontation, froze in place as they took in the sheer force of the group standing before them.

The Avengers. The X-Men. Captain America himself.

They were trained professionals—hardened men, most of them military veterans. But this wasn’t just any squad of mutants or enhanced individuals.

It was one thing to deal with a rogue super or some powered troublemakers. It was another thing entirely to face Steve Rogers standing at your doorstep.

The moment they saw the shield on his back, a quiet understanding rippled through them.

Cap wasn’t just a superhero.

To them, to men who had served, who had sworn oaths, he was an ideal. A leader. A brother-in-arms.

The hesitation was immediate.

The older guard at the front, a man with a graying buzz cut and a scar running down his cheek, gave a slow, deliberate nod.

No words were exchanged. None were needed.

He turned, motioning to his team. The heavy metal gates groaned as they swung open.

Beyond them, the Carraro headquarters loomed, eerily untouched despite the absolute warzone that had erupted outside.

There were no sirens. No alarms blaring.

The people inside were still working, moving as if nothing had just happened.

As if the top of their damn building hadn't been ripped off.

Alamo narrowed his glowing red eyes beneath the mask.

Something about that wasn’t right.