To be honest, what's about to happen might be the biggest war ever caught on camera—maybe even the grand prize winner of 'Most Likely to Trigger a Global Crisis' if there were such an award.
And for the first time in human history, it's going out live. Not a second of delay. Just blood, sweat, and network ratings.
Weird, isn't it? When Reed Richards's fancy spacecraft was plummeting into New York like a high-tech brick, the live feed mysteriously vanished—something about 'national security' or some other nonsense cooked up by people in suits.
But now? Now a small war is getting the Truman Show treatment. Humanity, it seems, has finally embraced its inner voyeur.
Clint stood around with Scott and the rest of the X-Men, everyone introducing themselves like this was some awkward company retreat.
He already had their files, courtesy of SHIELD's finest paper-pushers, but he played along. Politeness never hurt, unless you were Canadian.
He was well aware of how important his role was. Today wasn't just about the fight—it was about the future.
SHIELD had plans, big ones, and they wanted him to lead the superhero team they were cobbling together (There's not Captain America yet).
Clint had seniority over Natasha, didn't glow in the dark, and looked enough like a regular guy that Americans might actually trust him.
He wasn't flashy, but he was the kind of guy your mom wouldn't panic about on the news.
This battle? This was the launchpad. His proving ground. Or, if it went south, a very public funeral.
The seven of them walked openly toward the base entrance. No point sneaking around.
The whole world was watching, courtesy of drones that might as well have had neon signs blinking 'LIVE WAR FOOTAGE' on their sides.
Surprise attacks were out, unless someone had the power to bend light and reality. Which, sadly, was not on the roster.
And with sixty uniformed soldiers following them like backup dancers, subtlety had long since packed its bags and moved to another show.
The only option left was a head-on clash in front of millions. Nothing like mass violence for breakfast.
As for Magneto? He wouldn't touch the drones. Why would he? They were practically gift-wrapped. Free coverage for his 'Mutants First, Humans Last' campaign. He didn't even need to hijack a TV station this time—Global News Network was doing it for him.
…
Just like Clint suspected, inside the fortress, Magneto sat back and watched the footage roll in.
From the journalist's breathless recap to switch to drone footage, to the approaching heroes, calm as monks walking into a temple that might explode.
He wasn't angry at Charles.
No, Magneto had long accepted that his old friend believed in the myth of peaceful coexistence, like some kind of mutant Gandhi.
But disappointment? That lingered. Charles lending a hand to humanity, while he was out here fighting for their species' future—well, it stung.
The six mutants following Charles stung more. They had potential, sure. But none of them could see the bigger picture. Idealism made for nice slogans, but it didn't stop bullets.
Still, he wasn't sweating them. With Mystique's intel, he knew everything he needed to. Charles's school was barely more than a gifted summer camp, and the X-Men? Glorified student council with matching outfits.
Hank, strong as he was, would crumble under Juggernaut like a cookie under a boot. Mastermind could handle Scott and the two SHIELD agents—unless they managed to trip over their own egos first. Mystique would handle cleanup.
Jean, Warren, and Bobby? Trickier, but not by much. Warren's wings made him good at flying and not much else.
Jean couldn't control Magneto's mind, and her habit of throwing objects wasn't going to impress a man who could juggle tanks.
Bobby was the wildcard—ice powers were irritating, especially when they got in your boots—but still manageable.
Magneto was confident. He could take on the three of them at once and still be done before dinner.
Mystique and Toad would handle the grunts and stay close enough to jump in if something went sideways.
All in all, it was shaping up to be a productive day. Nothing like a good skirmish to remind the world who's really in charge of evolution.
...
When Clint and his team entered the base, it was even more desolate than the outside.
At least the exterior was just a 'desert' and had the decency to be empty, save for the nosy journalist and his crew. —but the interior? It looked like a tornado had swept through a Halloween warehouse sale.
Human remains—fingers, hands, legs, and even the occasional head were scattered around for those with the stomach to look.
Torn-apart tanks, rifles, rocket launchers, and enough firepower to start a small war lay abandoned everywhere.
The Brotherhood of Mutants apparently hadn't bothered with post-battle cleanup.
Then again, when you're a walking arsenal of genetic superiority, you probably don't lose sleep over ghosts—or OSHA violations.
"Eyes sharp, everyone," Clint said, his voice tense but steady as he scanned the eerie surroundings. "This is the outer layer of the base. If they're smart—they've left traps."
He turned toward Warren and Jean. "Angel, get your wings up and keep off the ground. I need eyes in the sky. If you see anything suspicious—other than the entire vibe of this place—call it."
"Marvel Girl," he continued, pausing as if still not over the codename. "Not sure how your telepathy exactly works, but push it to the max. I want every mind you can find on the radar."
Warren gave a small salute before taking off with a few lazy flaps of his wings, and Jean nodded calmly, already closing her eyes and extending her mind outward.
"Got something," she said after a moment. "Forty-seven minds inside. Might not be the full count, though. Some of them might be shielded like Magneto."
Magneto—the guy who made 'privacy settings look quaint. Without his helmet, his mind was a vault. With it? You'd have better luck reading a brick.
Barton nodded, in fact, according to some footage retrieved, a total of exactly 55 mutants attacked the Cape Citadel.
After, no one was detected entering again or leaving apart the 'negotiator' through the monitoring done by the satellites, still, it was better to be cautious, mutants have some strange powers, what if there's someone who could teleport and teleported others?
Jean's response reassured him, he was even wishing that the reason she detected only 47 instead of 55 is that eight were already out of the fight. Ideally, permanently.
"No movement yet," Warren called from above, wings glinting as he hovered. "But there's enough shadowy nooks to hide a circus. If they're here, they're 'committed' to the whole 'boogeyman' vibe."
He paused. "Hold up—main gate's creaking open. Party crashers incoming."
"I can also feel that all of them are regrouped and about to come out probably." Jean confirmed what Warren said while at the same time, she was silently looking at Hela floating high in the sky as if she was ready to watch a show.
""Oh yeah. I see them. We've got visuals," Warren added despite the tension. "And wow, they're not even trying to be sneaky. Classic bad-guy entrance."
Clint wasn't panicked. If anything, this was good. Arrogant enemies meant sloppy tactics, It meant they were overconfident.
If they were marching out instead of setting traps, they probably thought this would be an easy show.
He raised his voice so the whole team could hear. "Attention! You heard them—enemy incoming. Time to get serious. Remember what we're fighting for. Your friends, your families, your neighbors back home counting on you."
"If we fail today, Magneto might drop a nuke on New York just to make a point." He paused for dramatic effect. "The world's fate is in our hands."
The speech was just dramatic enough to hit the global audience right in the feels. Somewhere out there in the Queens, a little kid skinny kid in a Captain America shirt was wiping away a tear.
And then, right on cue, Magneto floated down like a judgmental grandpa on a levitating steel slab. He stared down at them, cape fluttering, expression unimpressed.
....
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