Back in Westchester, the night had finally set in. The air was thick with an unusual stillness, an anticipation that crept through the grand halls of the X-Mansion. The X-Men had been waiting for what felt like hours now, their patience wearing thin as they anticipated the return of Cyclops and Captain America. For all their differences, tonight, they were united in a common cause, dedicated entirely to their mission.

  Rogue sat around the round table in the main hall, her gloved fingers tapping gently against the polished surface. The rhythmic motion was absentminded, a reflection of the restless energy coursing through her. Her olive-green gloves, dark as the forest at midnight, covered her hands completely. A sigh escaped her lips as she pulled her gaze away from them, taking in the scene around her.

  Jubilee had made herself comfortable on a chair, talking animatedly with Iceman and Kitty Pryde. The trio laughed between mouthfuls of snacks, their phones glowing in their hands as they scrolled through their feeds, trading jokes and memes. For a moment, Rogue envied them—the ability to tune out, to enjoy a fleeting moment of normalcy in a life that had been anything but.

  In a shadowed corner of the room, Gambit was locked in deep conversation with She-Hulk. Rogue didn’t have to guess what the topic was; Remy LeBeau had a way of making every conversation drip with charm, and She-Hulk was more than a willing participant. Jennifer’s lips curved into a teasing smile, a spark of interest flashing in her green eyes as she bit her bottom lip. Rogue almost rolled her eyes—it was an old act by now. Remy flirted with anything in a skirt, and Jennifer? Well, she wasn’t one to turn down the game. What surprised Rogue was that they were still here, still talking, instead of slipping away to some private corner where the real dance could begin.

  Across the room, Wasp was absorbed in her phone, her delicate fingers tapping at the screen with intent. She hadn’t spoken in hours, too engrossed in whatever conversation held her attention. Rogue wondered if she was texting Hank Pym or maybe someone else entirely. Either way, she was gone in a world of her own.

  But at the heart of the room, voices clashed in heated debate.

  Professor Xavier sat at the head of the discussion, his wheelchair positioned beside Dr. McCoy. Beast, ever the scholar, was passionate as always, his frustration evident in the way his large blue hands gestured sharply in the air. Across from him, Iron Man leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable behind his ever-present arrogance. And then there was Alamo.

  The Alamo, clad in his signature chrome mask, his sharp dark attire still bearing the dust of battle, was as animated as ever. His voice carried over the conversation, loud, unfiltered, and unwavering. He moved with sharp, aggressive gestures, his body language a mirror to his tone. He had no qualms about pushing back against any argument he deemed foolish, and tonight, he was matching Stark’s energy blow for blow. Alamo never stopped moving, he didn't sit still. He floated, he walked, he gestured intensively clutching the brim of his hat like he was riding a bull, but his demeanor seemed more hostile towards Xavier and Beast than to Iron Man.

  It hadn’t gone unnoticed that lately, he was siding more and more with the Avengers, maybe not philosophically but in terms of closeness, he seemed to lightly gravitate towards them.

  Rogue inhaled deeply, letting the air settle in her lungs before releasing it in a slow exhale. Her mind drifted, unbidden, to the hours before in Chicago. The memory played in her head with irritating clarity—the way his voice had softened, just for a moment, the way his body had tensed when she got too close. The way she had kissed him, even with her glove over his lips. The feeling was still there.

  Was she too eager?

  A part of her wanted to push him away entirely, to keep him at arm’s length where he couldn’t frustrate or intrigue her any further. And yet, another part longed for his presence. There was something about him—his relentless questioning, his recklessness, his power—that made him feel familiar. Too much like her. A rogue in his own right.

  She exhaled again, shaking her head as if to clear it, when she felt a soft hand settle on her shoulder. The warmth was immediate, grounding, and when she turned, she was met with the kind, regal presence of Storm.

  Ororo Monroe offered a gentle smile, her ethereal beauty as effortless as ever. Without a word, she pulled out a chair and took a seat beside Rogue, a silent reassurance in her presence.

  Rogue didn’t have to say anything.

  Storm sat down, her movements graceful, unhurried.

  "Rogue," she said softly.

  "'Ro?"

  Storm took a long look at the ongoing debate, brushing a stray strand of her white hair away from her forehead.

  "Men," she murmured, almost to herself.

  Rogue followed her gaze. Iron Man. Beast. Alamo. Xavier. All locked in conversation, all speaking, arguing, counter-arguing. Ideas clashing in a room filled with people who, despite their differences, all believed themselves to be on the right side of history.

  "Men and their ideas," Ororo repeated, her voice carrying a quiet wisdom.

  She exhaled lightly before continuing, speaking not just to Rogue, but as if she were laying out a quiet truth to the world itself.

  "Innovation."

  Rogue looked at Iron Man, who now stood with his arms crossed, his helmet retracted, revealing a smirk that carried the weight of half-serious amusement and half-buried frustration. He scoffed at something Beast had said, shaking his head slightly before chuckling sarcastically. That aura of superiority, that unshakable certainty—Tony Stark had the answer. Or, at least, he believed he did.

  "Ego maskin’ insecurity," Rogue thought. He wore confidence like a second skin, but she had seen doubt in men like Stark before. The kind they hid under bravado.

  "Progress," Storm continued.

  Rogue turned her attention to Beast, ever the scholar. His brow was furrowed in polite disagreement as he raised a finger, shaking his head in dissent. Then, in his usual fashion, he extended his hands, tapping each finger methodically as he counted his arguments, ever the lecturer, ever the scientist.

  He was engaging with logic, structure, reason. A rebuttal measured in data and probability. He had faith in the idea that the best argument could win—not just the loudest voice. But Rogue had seen enough of the world to know it wasn’t always the case.

  "Coexistence," Ororo murmured.

  Rogue’s gaze shifted again, this time to Xavier, seated in quiet thought. His fingertips were pressed together, his expression neutral—at first glance. But the slight downturn of his lips, the subtle furrow of his brow—he disapproved of what he was hearing.

  Rogue watched as his head nodded ever so slightly when Beast spoke, and then ever so slightly disagreed when Stark and Alamo did.

  He was measured. He was careful. He believed in coexistence, in peace. But she also knew—coexistence wasn’t perfect. Not for them. Not for mutantkind

  "Freedom," Storm finally said.

  Rogue let her eyes fall on Duncan.

  His arms were crossed tight. Restless. Even behind the chrome mask and the dark hat, his frustration was visible—it was in the way his shoulders tensed, in the way he shifted slightly, his weight adjusting with every sentence spoken as if he were one step away from jumping into the fray outright.

  But he didn’t. Not yet.

  He was holding himself back, policing himself, she realized. He wanted to speak—wanted to tear into every argument he disagreed with. But instead, he was playing the game carefully, respecting the rules of decorum he clearly didn’t fully believe in. It was… strange, to watch him restrain himself in a way that seemed unnatural to him.

  Then, in the middle of a back-and-forth, he gave Iron Man a thumbs-up. Dramatic. Theatrical.

  Rogue tilted her head slightly. How much of this was Duncan’s ‘Alamo’ persona? How much of it was just… Duncan?

  She had seen glimpses of both—the man and the symbol. She wasn’t sure where one ended and the other began.

  Her thoughts drifted again, her mind pulled elsewhere.

  Then Storm spoke once more.

  "They miss the point of it all," she said softly, shaking her head. "The point of ideas. The point of planning. The point of execution…"

  Rogue glanced at her.

  "Results?" she asked, recalling what Duncan had told her once in Florida. Intentions don’t matter. Results do. It seemed natural in this scenario.

  Storm smirked slightly, but shook her head.

  "People," she corrected.

  Rogue frowned. "People?"

  "Lives. Friends. Family," Storm elaborated. "That is what matters. All ideas… if they are worth fighting for, it is in the service of people. To protect. To care. To nurture. If we forget about people… ideas can barely hold their own weight."

  Rogue listened.

  "The wind comes and the wind goes," Storm continued, her voice like the breeze itself—calm, flowing, steady. "It can be alone. But we are not the wind. We are not water. We are flesh and blood. Why does it matter to be right… if you end up alone?"

  Storm’s eyes flickered toward Alamo.

  Rogue followed.

  "Maybe it’s ‘cause ya want to help people," Rogue mused, "ya just can’t agree on how."

  Storm nodded slowly. "I believe that is the case. But little does it matter if it breaks us. We are not stronger with the divide. We are only weaker with the distance."

  Rogue exhaled slowly.

  "Ya think their ideas make ‘em more distant?"

  "I know so, Rogue," Storm said simply. She glanced back at the debate, watching the way each man dug their heels into the ground. "When one thinks too much, it is hard to feel what needs to be felt."

  Silence settled between them.

  "They believe that intelligence comes from knowledge. From raw ability to understand the nature, power, society... matter" Storm spoke softly, another gentle smirk creeping the edge of her lips.

  "It ain't?" Rogue raised an eyebrow.

  "It is merely one way in which intelligence manifests... but it is not the only way."

  "And what is the other way, 'Ro?"

  "Feeling... Emotions"

  "Emotion is intelligence?"

  "Of course, Anna Marie. To feel is to know, it is easy to feel... easier to pretend you can't.... what is hard is to understand emotion, confront it... That? That the smartest of men are scared of Stark, Richards, Xavier, McCoy... Nenni"

  Rogue leaned back on her chair, not knowing how to answer it. At least not yet.

  "There is power in knowing your feelings. There is power in not holding back, but also there is power in not lashing out... that is also intelligence"

  It was one thing to hear something like that from a person like Jean Grey, but from Storm? It meant something different. Ororo wasn’t prone to idle philosophy—when she spoke, it was because she had thought about it. Lived it.

  Then there was a hiss, the known noise of the War Room's metallic blast door. Heavy. Cold.

  The room grew still as Captain America walked further in, the bloodstains on his uniform subtle but present, remnants of whatever battle had taken place before they arrived. His expression was tight, his jaw set like stone—this wasn’t a man returning with a clear victory. This was a man who had seen something that disturbed him.

  Cyclops, ever the soldier, was composed, his posture rigid as his visor gleamed under the overhead lights. Jean Grey, beside him, was visibly tired—though whether from exertion or from reading the minds of people she didn’t like, Rogue couldn’t tell. Falcon stayed close to Steve, his wings folding behind him with a metallic click, his face shadowed with a look Rogue recognized all too well.

  A look of reluctance.

  The door hissed shut behind them, sealing off the outside world, leaving only the tense air inside the war room.

  Then there was Wolverine.

  Unlike the others, Logan’s uniform was soaked—in blood, in dirt, in sweat. His cowl was pulled back, revealing his face, his blue eyes sharp and tired all at once. If there was one thing Rogue had learned about Logan, it was that he could kill a hundred men and still carry it like a weight on his back—even if he’d never admit it.

  And right now?

  She could tell this one was heavier than most.

  Storm descended smoothly from her chair, her feet touching the ground with an elegance that felt unnatural in such a brutal moment. Her presence had a way of softening sharp edges, of calming storms that no one else could touch.

  She walked up to Logan, her voice measured but filled with concern.

  "Logan, what happened?"

  Logan exhaled sharply through his nose, his scowl relaxing just a fraction.

  "I’m fine, ‘Ro."

  Storm arched a brow, unconvinced.

  "I’ve learned to expect that from your physiology, Logan. That was not what I asked."

  A pause.

  Then, Logan shrugged.

  "We killed…" He rolled his shoulder back, stretching the soreness out. "Well, I gutted a bunch of anti-mutant bureaucrats, darlin’. That’s what happened."

  The silence that followed was thick.

  Rogue knew the X-Men had always played the moral line close, but what Logan was saying? That wasn’t a battle. That was a purge.

  Storm let out a soft breath, reaching for a piece of fabric, pristine white against the dark stains of Logan’s uniform. She brushed against his cheek gently, wiping away a stray drop of blood.

  "Have you gone berserk, Logan?"

  Her voice wasn’t accusing. It was concerned. It was real.

  Logan’s scowl twitched.

  "I had to, darlin’." His voice was lower now. Rougher. "They tried to break out X-Cutioner. Tried to break out Leper Queen.

  Storm tilted her head slightly, a knowing sadness in her gaze.

  "Logan, we’ve talked about this."

  He didn’t answer.

  She smiled—soft, knowing, understanding.

  Her hand brushed lightly against his cheek, a silent act of comfort.

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  Rogue watched from her seat, her lips twitching into a thoughtful smile.

  She understood now.

  What Storm meant.

  Storm was right—it wasn’t intelligence that made who she was. It wasn’t logic.

  It was feeling.

  It was emotion.

  And Logan? For all his brutality, for all his savagery?

  He felt deeply.

  Even if he didn’t want to.

  Her gaze flickered to Alamo, who was watching silently, his chrome mask unreadable, but something about his posture—his stillness—made her wonder.

  Had he ever let himself feel the way Logan did?

  Had he ever let himself just be?

  Without the weight of what he expected of himself?

  What he deemed as rational?

  A moment later, Logan stepped back, the moment passing between them as he glanced toward Steve.

  "Cap let us down, darlin’. He wanted us to strike a deal with the creep."

  Storm turned to face Captain America fully now, her expression unreadable.

  "The X-Cutioner?"

  Cyclops finally stepped in, voice firm.

  "We’ll talk, Storm. Let’s have a seat."

  Storm studied him for a moment before turning to Steve, and when she spoke his name, it wasn’t just a greeting.

  It was a question.

  "Steve."

  Captain America exhaled through his nose, his fists clenching at his sides.

  He was angry.

  Not just in the way he always was when things didn’t go right—this was deeper. This was frustration. This was something that had been building for a long, long time.

  Iron Man and Alamo finally stepped forward, closing the gap.

  Stark, always quick on his feet, cut in.

  "Steve?"

  Alamo, arms crossed, nodded once.

  "Cap."

  But Steve Rogers wasn’t in the mood for small talk.

  His eyes were sharp, his posture tense, and for once, he looked tired of playing peacemaker.

  "Tony, Duncan... we’ll talk. Get back to your seats."

  Iron Man hesitated.

  Alamo?

  He didn’t move.

  "Hey, Cap... I understand but—"

  Steve didn’t let him finish.

  His voice came harder now, the command of a man who had spent his life leading men through wars both past and present.

  "Alamo. Take a seat. We’ll explain everything."

  There was a pause.

  Alamo’s jaw tightened beneath the mask, his stance shifting ever so slightly.

  Rogue could tell he didn’t like this.

  Didn’t like being left in the dark. Didn’t like being told to wait.

  Didn’t like being given orders.

  But after a moment, he nodded.

  Stepping back toward the table, he took his seat beside Rogue, his arms still crossed, his body language rigid and reluctant.

  Rogue looked at him, offering a small, knowing smile.

  But there was wariness in her expression.

  "Ah hope this ain’t bad."

  Alamo’s shoulders stiffened.

  His voice was flat. Low.

  "Don’t keep yer hopes up, Rogue."

  Silence.

  Captain America exhaled slowly.

  "Attention Everyone"

  Captain America stood firm, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture unwavering, but his expression—his eyes—revealed a frustration he was trying hard to keep buried.

  But it was Cyclops who took the lead.

  Scott’s jaw was set, his face unreadable beneath the visor, his presence just as commanding as Steve’s. In another life, in another world, maybe Cyclops would have been wearing the stripes and the shield while Steve led the charge for mutants. Maybe.

  But this was their world, and in this world, Cyclops was the one who spoke now.

  "We went to D.C. Denti only wanted to speak to Captain America and Falcon."

  There was a beat of silence. Cyclops was measured, his tone carefully controlled, but Rogue could see the tension in the way his fingers curled slightly at his sides. He wasn’t happy. None of them were.

  "He told us that there is indeed involvement from the federal government. More explicitly—" Cyclops hesitated, not because he wasn’t sure, but because he knew the weight of the name he was about to drop.

  "From General Thaddeus Ross."

  The reaction was immediate.

  Alamo exhaled sharply, shaking his head.

  "Fuckin’ knew it," he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Rogue to hear.

  Rogue, her arms crossed, nodded once, her expression tight.

  "Hard ta not believe that."

  The words weren’t loud, but they carried weight, enough for Captain America to cast them both a look.

  A look that said: Not now. Let me finish.

  They fell silent.

  Cyclops continued, unfazed.

  "He is possibly tied to the DARPA Sentinels we discovered in Chicago."

  Alamo stiffened.

  "We?"

  Scott hadn’t been there.

  Scott hadn’t been the one in space unsure if he would even survive when he sentinel blew up.

  Scott hadn’t been the one to uncover the first real breadcrumb that connected this mess to something much, much bigger.

  Alamo’s jaw tightened beneath his mask, but he didn’t say anything. Not yet.

  Across the table, She-Hulk raised a hand, her sharp green eyes focused and unreadable.

  She was sitting next to Gambit, her arms resting against the table, her gaze flickering briefly toward Steve before settling back on Cyclops.

  "So, did he talk? What did he say?"

  She leaned forward slightly.

  "Did Cap ask him to be a witness?"

  Cyclops nodded once.

  "Yes. Captain America offered to sit down for a plea bargain."

  The atmosphere in the room changed instantly.

  It was like the very mention of the words had set off an invisible explosion.

  A wave of disbelief, disappointment, and barely contained rage rippled through the X-Men.

  Rogue’s stomach twisted.

  Her eyes snapped to Captain America, sharp, accusing, furious.

  "A plea bargain."

  The words repeated in her mind like a slow, sinking weight.

  Across the table, Jubilee’s face had gone pale, her mouth slightly open. She barely knew what the plea bargain meant, but she didn’t need to understand legal jargon to recognize the way the room reacted.

  Gambit let out a slow, bitter scoff, arms crossing over his chest, his fingers tapping against his biceps in a slow, almost mocking rhythm.

  The tension was instant.

  "What the hell, Cap?"

  Rogue’s voice cut through the silence like a blade, the anger in it sharp and unrestrained.

  Alamo turned to her immediately, his mask hiding his expression, but his posture stiffened, his fingers drumming against the table before forming a loose fist.

  His voice was even.

  "Calm down, Rogue."

  She turned toward him sharply.

  "Ah ain't gonna—"

  "We have to listen to what Cap has to say."

  There was something in his tone, something calculated, that made her stop.

  She exhaled sharply, biting back another retort.

  The room was watching her now, waiting.

  Captain America’s expression didn’t change.

  He was used to people disagreeing with him.

  But Rogue wasn’t sure if he was used to this.

  She clenched her jaw.

  Then, finally, she sat back, her fingers curling against her forearm, her nails pressing against the leather of her glove.

  "Go on."

  The words came out tight, controlled.

  "Captain America believes we can achieve more by having Denti's testimony."

  Cyclops’ words were met with a weighty stillness. The reaction wasn’t immediate, but Rogue could feel it in the way shoulders tensed, in the way jaws clenched, in the subtle shifts of posture. This wasn’t just a tactical disagreement—this was a moral one.

  Storm’s expression was lined with concern, her regal features touched with the slightest downturn of her lips. She wasn’t one to let injustice pass unchecked. Letting a man like Denti evade proper consequences felt like betrayal—betrayal to the people who had suffered under him, to the mutants who had lost their lives because of men like him.

  But she also understood Steve Rogers.

  Understood why he made this decision.

  Storm knew that Steve wasn’t a man who cut deals lightly. That wasn’t his nature. He was a man of conviction, a man of principle. But he was also a man who fought wars—and sometimes, in war, the line between justice and necessity blurred.

  Across the table, Wolverine’s scowl deepened, his eyes shadowed beneath his furrowed brow. His arms remained folded, his bloodied gloves leaving faint stains on his forearms.

  He hated Denti.

  Despised him.

  And honestly? In Logan’s mind, Denti should be dead.

  He should have been left to rot in some back alley, a bloodstain on the pavement, another name to cross off the list of monsters this world had spat out. That was how Logan saw justice—swift, unrelenting, final.

  But now?

  Now he was being asked to accept a world where a man like Denti walked free in exchange for information.

  Wolverine exhaled sharply, the sound closer to a growl than anything else. He didn’t say a word—didn’t need to.

  His silence was its own statement.

  Across from him, She-Hulk nodded.

  She had heard the others reacting poorly, but for her? This wasn’t some unthinkable betrayal—this was a calculated move.

  Justice was a machine, and machines needed to be maintained. Sometimes, you didn’t get the outcome you wanted—but you played within the system, because that’s how you changed it.

  She could almost ignore the disapproval from the other mutants.

  She had worked with plea bargains before. She had seen criminals turn into informants. If this meant taking down something bigger, something more entrenched, then wasn’t it worth it?

  A small price to pay.

  And yet—

  Even Tony Stark, for all his usual detachment, was baffled by the reaction from the mutants.

  Sure, he understood that they didn’t like Denti. No one liked Denti.

  But this?

  Every single mutant at the table looked anywhere from deeply displeased to borderline furious.

  Even Beast, normally one of the most level-headed members, looked troubled. Hank’s fingers were pressed together, his gaze thoughtful, but there was a hint of something more beneath it—discomfort, perhaps? Maybe even reluctance.

  Tony didn’t get it.

  This was pragmatic. This was how things were done.

  Didn’t they want a way to dismantle the system screwing them over? Didn’t they want a clear shot at the people who actually ran these programs?

  The body language around the table told him no.

  All they wanted as revenge... or Justice, that was what Tony thought.

  And yet, in the middle of it all, there was one weird exception.

  Alamo.

  Duncan remained still, arms crossed, leaned back slightly in his seat. He didn't appear angry or irritated.

  If anything, he looked… curious.

  Or at least, that’s what his body language suggested.

  And that was strange.

  Duncan was never one to hold back his thoughts. If he thought something was stupid, he would say it. If he thought something was wrong, he’d be arguing already.

  But here?

  Here, he was just watching.

  And that? That wasn't normal for him.

  Beast finally exhaled, his furred fingers tapping lightly against the surface of the table.

  He looked pensive, his expression more troubled than outright angry.

  The weight of everything—the compromises, the betrayals, the revelations—settled like lead in the chests of those seated at the table.

  Then came Jennifer’s question.

  "What about the Leper Queen?"

  Cyclops didn’t hesitate. His voice was steady, but there was something hard beneath it.

  "She is dead."

  The reaction was instantaneous.

  A collective gasp rippled through the room. Not necessarily from grief—Clara Page had never been a friend to any of them—but from shock, surprise, a quiet sort of disbelief.

  Jubilee’s breath hitched.

  She looked at Logan, at his blood-stained uniform, at the deep scars and rips in the fabric. Her voice wavered slightly when she asked—

  "Did Uncle Wolvie—?"

  The words hung in the air.

  Logan met her gaze.

  He shook his head.

  It was a simple denial, but it was enough.

  Jubilee let out a breath, but her relief was small, hesitant. Seeing him covered in blood still made her think of Arkansas, when she saw Thompson's daughters cry over their father's dead body, of the violence Logan unleashed when he saw it too—of the nights when he lost control, when the line between man and beast blurred.

  The times when she had seen him go feral.

  It scared her.

  "No," Cyclops added, his tone firm but heavy, his expression unreadable. "Clara Page took her own life. We didn’t want her to, but that was her choice."

  Jean Grey shifted beside him.

  Her face was tight, pale, her posture uncharacteristically rigid. Rogue noticed the way her hands rested on her lap, fingers interlocked, as though grounding herself.

  "She was in pain," Jean said softly, her voice like a thread ready to unravel. "Her... family. They passed away when a mutant girl’s powers manifested."

  There was a weight behind her words—more than sympathy, more than sadness. She had seen it.

  She had felt it.

  Rogue didn’t need Jean to explain further. She knew what had happened the moment she saw the way Jean’s expression darkened, the way she blinked as if trying to shake off the memories that weren’t hers.

  Jean had looked into the Leper Queen’s mind before she died.

  And she had seen everything.

  At the other end of the table, Alamo’s shoulders shifted slightly, as if he was about to speak—about to comment, challenge, argue, something.

  But after a second, he didn’t.

  He simply exhaled through his nose, leaned back, and said nothing.

  Cyclops cleared his throat, as if to reset the room, as if to remind them that this wasn’t the time to dwell on the dead.

  His visor turned toward Storm.

  "Your findings?"

  Storm’s gaze lifted.

  "We found that Creed took a flight to Alaska," she said evenly, her voice smooth, controlled, despite the weight of what she was saying. "What exactly his business was there remains unclear. The Sentinels we fought, however, were advanced. They couldn’t have been made before 2014, and the DARPA marking—it is clear now. The government never stopped working on the project like Congress promised."

  Silence.

  Not the kind of silence that was empty, but the kind that burned—the kind that came when people had already expected the worst but hoped they were wrong.

  Beast leaned forward slightly. His voice was quieter than before, but no less important.

  "The willing participation of General Ross in the scheme reveals that the government is, indeed, still active in Sentinel production. And not just active—high-ranking members are fully aware of it."

  It wasn’t just a theory anymore.

  It was fact.

  Rogue sat forward, her gaze sharp.

  "We have to find Creed..."

  Cyclops nodded. That much was obvious.

  But then Rogue pressed further.

  "What 'bout M.M?"

  Rogue’s voice cut through the room, her Southern drawl thick, her words direct.

  "The project Cap, Duncan, and Ah found in Oregon"

  Captain America hesitated.

  It was brief—so brief most people wouldn’t have noticed it. But Rogue did.

  She saw the way his fingers twitched slightly, the way his jaw tightened just enough to be visible.

  "We… we have not asked Denti about it."

  The disappointment hit like a slap.

  Rogue stiffened.

  She shook her head, more in frustration than disbelief.

  "Ah can't believe it," she muttered, her voice thick with resentment, with disappointment. "Y’all should’ve written this down."

  Captain America remained silent, but his expression was grim.

  Cyclops crossed his arms.

  His gaze flickered toward Steve, cool, unreadable.

  "We’ll have plenty of questions to ask Creed when we find him."

  But before anyone could reply, another voice—Logan’s voice—cut through.

  "Well, we won’t."

  A beat of silence.

  All eyes turned toward him.

  Iron Man’s head tilted slightly, his expression hardening.

  His tone was less than friendly.

  "And why is that?"

  Logan sighed, arms still crossed, his body relaxed in a way that felt deliberate—like he was forcing himself not to look as pissed as he felt.

  "Fury banned us from SHIELD."

  The words landed like a hammer.

  "What?" This time, it wasn’t just one voice—it was several.

  "He told Cap that we shouldn’t be there in the first place," Logan continued. "Said we were never supposed to be involved in this. It was a mistake to let us in."

  For the first time, the debate at the table paused—because for all the arguments, for all the ideological clashes, this was different.

  This was Fury cutting them out.

  This was Fury making it clear that the X-Men didn’t belong in this fight.

  Beast let out a slow breath.

  "So SHIELD itself was compromised?"

  Cyclops nodded once. "Yes. We confirmed that there were people aiding both the Leper Queen and the X-Cutioner."

  Gambit let out a low, muffled chuckle.

  He shook his head, leaning back in his chair, looking thoroughly unsurprised.

  "Ain't dat a surprise."

  Wasp blinked, her expression filled with something between disbelief and realization.

  "Wait, wait, hold on," she said, looking around the table. "You’re telling me S.H.I.E.L.D had people inside working with these monsters?"

  Gambit smirked.

  "Is dat so hard to believe, chérie?"

  Wasp hesitated.

  "No, but—"

  "Well, if y'all ask me, this is more than expected," Alamo interjected, his voice flat.

  His arms were still crossed, but there was no anger in his voice—just a tired, knowing sort of cynicism.

  Because to him?

  This was just how the government worked.

  Logan nodded.

  "Damn right it is, kid."

  The weight of it all settled over the room, pressing down on them like a storm about to break.

  Rogue had been trying to hold back, trying to give Steve the benefit of the doubt, but this?

  This was beyond messed up.

  Her chair scraped against the floor as she shot to her feet, the sharp sound cutting through the thick silence in the room.

  "So let me get this straight," she said, voice rising, thick with anger, disbelief, frustration. "Y’all didn’t ask 'bout a possible weapon, ya wanna cut a plea deal with Denti, an' we got our asses banned from workin' with S.H.I.E.L.D!?"

  Her voice cracked slightly on the last word, but not from weakness—from the sheer weight of how wrong this all was.

  Captain America stood his ground, but there was something off about his stance—a hesitation, a regret, but not one he would allow himself to acknowledge openly.

  "Rogue, it’s not so simple," he said, his voice low, like he already knew it wouldn’t be enough to calm her down.

  But she wasn’t done.

  She pointed a gloved hand directly at him, her words shaking with betrayal.

  "Cap, ya promised me. Ya promised Duncan ya would see this through!"

  Beside her, Alamo shifted slightly, then reached for her arm.

  It was a small movement, a silent attempt to ground her, to pull her back before she said something she’d regret.

  But she wasn’t going to regret this.

  She pulled her arm away.

  "Nah, sugah. This is beyond messed up. Why ain't ya sayin' anythin'?" Her voice dropped, quieter now, but just as sharp. "Ain't ya supposed to be the one askin' the hard questions?"

  Alamo exhaled, his fingers curling slightly at his side.

  "Rogue, Cap is—"

  "Ah heard enough of this Cap bullshit," she snapped. "Ya betrayed us, Rogers!"

  The words hit the room like a gunshot.

  Storm shook her head, she had just spoke about emotions to Rogue. But now maybe it seemed like it wasn't the wisest topic to debate at the time.

  Silence.

  Falcon stood up.

  "Captain America didn’t betray any of you," Sam Wilson said, his voice calm, but firm—but also defensive.

  He placed both hands on the table, leaning forward slightly, his gaze narrowing.

  "He even brought Wolverine along—who, mind you, killed a bunch of agents, because he can’t stop thinking about killing for a damn minute."

  The shift in energy was instant.

  Logan’s chair scraped against the floor as he stood abruptly, his clawed hand flexing at his side, his other hand jabbing a finger directly at Falcon.

  "What the hell?" His voice was a growl, thick with barely restrained fury. "They wanted us dead, bub. I killed 'em. And I’d do it again."

  Sam’s expression remained firm, but there was something cold in his stare now.

  "Yeah, no wonder."

  Logan’s eyes darkened, and for a moment, it looked like he was about to lunge.

  Jean moved slightly, already anticipating the worst.

  "Can we calm down?"

  But no one was listening.

  Logan let out a low, amused chuckle, shaking his head.

  "Blue boy scout couldn’t even keep track of his own agency."

  Iron Man snorted.

  "Wait, hold up there, Tim Horton’s small size."

  The room twisted toward him, eyes narrowing as Stark pushed himself up from his seat.

  He pointed directly at Logan, his usual smirk absent now.

  "Cap’s not an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.," Stark said flatly.

  "Well, he sure seemed like their buddy in Oregon," Rogue snapped back, her green eyes flashing.

  "Guys, can we calm down? Cap made a hard decision... But this will benefit us in the long run, benefit mutant rights."

  It was She-Hulk this time, her voice controlled, but tense.

  Her expression was neutral, but her posture wasn’t. She was tightly wound, holding back an argument she knew wouldn’t go anywhere.

  Rogue rolled her eyes, but before she could say anything, it was Jubilee who spoke next.

  One the youngest mutants in the room, with a humor to match her age.

  "I know what kind of mutant ‘rights’ you were thinkin’, Jen." Jubilee pointed lazily at Gambit.

  The weight behind it made Jennifer’s face darken, a faint flush of green creeping onto her cheeks.

  A flicker of something vulnerable.

  Gambit smirked.

  Iron Man chuckled but not for long.

  He sighed, tilting his head slightly.

  "Cap did the right thing."

  His voice was firm, but not defensive.

  Just… matter-of-fact.

  "If you ask me, I’d even pay the guy to testify."

  The moment the words left his mouth, Logan let out a bitter laugh.

  He shook his head, teeth gritting slightly.

  "Of course ya would, bub. Every problem ya ‘solve’ is by throwin’ money at it, just like the politicians."

  Stark barely reacted, just lifted a brow.

  "And every problem you X-Men wanna solve is with violence."

  Logan’s jaw clenched.

  "Oh, fuck ya, Stark."

  The words came from Rogue.

  She didn’t hesitate.

  Didn’t care how it sounded.

  Didn’t care who was watching.

  Tony’s eyes widened slightly, but he quickly covered it with a chuckle, shaking his head.

  "Woah. Villain vibes from the girl called Rogue."

  Alamo rose from his seat beside Rogue, his fists clenched.

  "Mr. Stark, fer fucks-"

  But before he could say another word—

  A voice cut through the chaos.

  Louder than anyone else.

  Stronger.

  "ENOUGH!"

  The room froze.

  Professor Xavier rolled forward, his usually composed face hardened with rare frustration.

  His fingers clenched slightly on the arms of his wheelchair, his blue eyes sharper than usual.

  He let the silence sit there for a moment, forcing the weight of his words into the room before speaking again.

  "Enough, all of you. Out. We need time to think."

  His tone was final.

  "X-Men, stay here. Avengers, out."

  Iron Man raised a brow, about to object—

  But Xavier’s gaze hardened.

  "I won’t tolerate this mindless fighting."

  There was no arguing with that.

  The room remained silent as, one by one, the Avengers began to move toward the door. Alamo was already gone.

  Captain America exhaled, his jaw tight, his disappointment clear—but unreadable.