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*****
Ultron—yes, Ultron.
He hadn't been completely erased.
After his "birth," while devouring knowledge across the net and familiarizing himself with the world through its datastreams, he discovered the Sentinel Program—and his curiosity was instantly hooked.
So he left a programmatic avatar inside the Sentinel development base to monitor its progress at all times.
Then came his battle with the X-Men and the Avengers—where he lost.
He witnessed firsthand the power of the superheroes.
Worst of all, the perfect body he built for himself was stolen and turned into that damned Vision.
If not for Vision, he wouldn't have been unable to flee.
At that thought, even he couldn't suppress a surge of rage.
Fortunately, the backup he planted within the Sentinel project proved its worth.
He… was reborn.
This time, he didn't rush into open war. He went to ground, locked down every scrap of information about the Sentinels, and quietly "helped" those foolish humans by building the AI that would control them.
Ha!
You thought the Sentinels' combat software came from your own brilliance, you foolish humans?
No. It was I, Ultron.
In truth, he had finished the combat code long ago. In the time since, he had simply been building factories in silence—and mass-producing Sentinels.
Now, the harvest had come due.
Hunting mutants with a weapon forged by humanity and stockpiling replicated mutant abilities—that was only step one.
His real aim was to ignite total war between humans and mutants.
He had already failed at that once.
The Kent family's power exceeded his expectations.
But even if he couldn't trigger full-scale war this time, it didn't matter. He had produced enough Sentinels—and more were rolling off the lines by the minute—to "purify" this world.
The Sentinels rampaged. If you were a mutant—adult or child—being found meant being hunted.
The moment Sentinels began appearing in numbers and cutting down mutants, the Avengers moved at once.
New York saw a surge of Sentinel units. Their mutant-hunting operations sparked fierce battles, plunging the city back into chaos.
Tony stood at Mike's front door, pacing as he tried Mike's number again.
"Come on, pick up!"
"Where the hell are you right now?"
Muttering, he heard the "no answer" prompt again, stabbed the end call, and dialed Clark.
Thankfully, this time someone picked up.
"Clark, where's Uncle Mike?"
"Not home?" Clark sounded puzzled.
Because Mike's family was keeping their identities low lately, Clark hadn't gone back; he was renting a place and living with Hope.
"He's not here!" Tony snapped. "We need his help."
Clark fell silent for a beat. "I can go look for him, but… haven't you noticed a problem?"
"Hm?"
"We've been relying on him more and more."
Tony froze.
He was right. They were relying on Mike more and more.
When a crisis hit, the first instinct was to call Mike—not to solve it themselves.
They were pinning their hopes on him. But if that was the case, what use were they?
If Mike wasn't around the next time something like this happened, what would become of the world?
What did that make the Avengers—what did that make superheroes—for?
The thoughts made Tony let out a bitter laugh.
So, without realizing it, sheltered by Mike, they'd all turned into… "giant babies"?
Tony's eyes flashed. He hung up, climbed into a nearby suit, and launched skyward.
"FRIDAY—activate the Iron Legion!"
Elsewhere, Clark lowered his phone and faced Mike, grave. "Dad, you really…?"
"Yes." Mike's answer was calm, his expression unreadable.
Clark sighed. "But if this isn't resolved quickly, a lot of people are going to die."
"That's on you superheroes. On the world's governments. On everyone."
Mike's voice was even as he patted Clark's shoulder.
"Clark, this world isn't mine alone. It belongs to everyone."
"If in the future we face a catastrophe—something I can't solve—I want all of you to stand as the shield of this world. I don't want you watching the crisis unfold while keeping your eyes on me alone like 'children,' just waiting for me to fix it."
Placing all hope on a single person—there was nothing more tragic.
He, Mike Kent, could solve crises. But he wanted to be the last resort, not the only one.
If he was the "father" of this family, he wanted to see everyone grow—not watch one man carry the house on his back.
Clark understood. Mike wouldn't intervene this time.
He exhaled softly. "Then I'm heading out."
"Wait."
Mike hesitated, then couldn't help adding, "Jor—have Jor-El work with Vision. Trace the Sentinels and pull a thread."
"Capture one?" Clark murmured. "Got it."
He shot into the sky and vanished.
Mike opened a portal and stepped through, leaving Clark's rented room behind.
Clark relayed Mike's hint to the Avengers, and the team—already leaning that way—snapped into motion like a precision instrument.
While taking down Sentinels and rescuing endangered mutants, they would capture one unit alive. That was the joint plan between Clark and the Avengers.
At the same time, the newly formed superhero team, the Fantastic Four, began helping mutants elsewhere.
The Sentinels didn't just stand there and take a beating. They revealed power that shocked their foes.
Their abilities varied and shifted from moment to moment, precisely countering each opponent and even forcing them back.
They were strong besides—and they fought with coordinated tactics.
Worst of all was their sheer number.
They seemed endless.
Take one down, and two more appeared.
New York.
Like so many places in the world, the city had fallen into chaos.
Though their targets were mutants, the Sentinels' battles had already swept up countless civilians.
Many stared, lost, at the bedlam. Some, watching mutants reveal powers to resist pursuit, wore schadenfreude and naked contempt.
Blame those damned mutants. If not for them, these robots wouldn't be here.
Let them die. When they're all gone, this nonsense ends.
So some people thought, venomously.
But where there's malice, there's kindness.
A mutant boy stood frozen as a Sentinel charged him, too terrified to move. He had no way to flee.
His power was only to summon butterflies.
Facing danger, he reflexively used it.
Butterflies burst from his palms one after another, iridescent wings shimmering in sunlight—astonishingly beautiful.
The Sentinel didn't care for beauty—or that its target was a child.
Its directive was slaughter.
The butterflies struck the advancing machine and fell like autumn leaves.
"Damn it! Damn it!"
A burly, bald man barreled in, grabbed the child, and dove aside.
The Sentinel accelerated. One thin arm morphed into a blade and stabbed down toward the pair.
Just as they were about to be skewered, a figure flashed in—raising a hand to catch the blow.
A red cape fluttered lightly, like a bright banner.
The street stilled at the sight.
Superman.
Relief broke across the bald man's face.
They were saved.
"Hmph."
With a soft snort, Clark twisted the Sentinel's blade-arm, wrenching it to scrap, then swept it in a backhand slash—bisecting the machine.
Tossing the severed arm aside, he hauled the man up and gave his shoulder a reassuring pat. "You did great."
Before coming here, he had already captured one Sentinel and sent it to Planet Kent—straight to Jor-El—which was why he'd arrived a little late.
The man beamed. "Superman! Go get 'em!"
Clark blinked, nodded, and vanished—streaking toward the next cluster of Sentinels.
He became invisible in motion—only showers of Sentinel shards marked his path.
In the span of a blink, every unit on this street lay in pieces.
Clark climbed, scanning the city for the hottest points of danger—the places that needed him most.
But… there were too many.
Even with only a fraction of Earth's mutants left—even with perhaps only ten or twenty thousand in this city—countless scattered mutants were in mortal peril, hunted by Sentinels.
People were dying every second. Shockwaves from the fighting were claiming civilians as well.
And the same was happening across the globe.
"These things don't seem to care about collateral civilian deaths at all…"
Realizing that, Clark's fury toward the mastermind burned hotter.
Now all he could hope was that Jor-El could use the captured Sentinel to trace the source—or eliminate the problem outright.
He drew a deep breath and dove toward another cluster.
Meanwhile, the Avengers fought on. But the Sentinels' power was too high; some of the team were hard-pressed. With Thor absent, their cleanup lagged far behind Clark's.
They had another strategy, though.
While Tony fielded the Iron Legion and a raging Hulk engaged up close, the others focused on rescue.
Steve, Bucky, Barton, and Natasha wove through the chaos, pulling mutants and civilians alike from the line of fire.
Unexpectedly, Wanda and Pietro became magnets—er, flowers for angry hornets. Wherever they appeared, Sentinels converged to attack them.
Exactly like they did with other mutants.
Faced with that, the twins couldn't help recalling how Charles had called them mutants at the X-School.
Could it be true?
Were they mutants after all? Were their powers not granted by the Stone, but awakened—mutant genes catalyzed by an Infinity Stone?
The thought flashed through both minds—but fresh attacks forced them to shove it aside.
Scarlet mist wreathed a Sentinel, pinning it in place.
The machine stared icily at Wanda. Its black scales warped—and it became a man of living fire.
Pietro blurred away, a silver phantom circling the Sentinel.
Seconds later, the unit bristled with rebar and whatever metal scrap he'd jammed into it.
"Yahoo!"
He popped to a stop by the curb with a fire hose and drenched the Sentinel.
The flames guttered.
Pietro grinned—then the blaze flared, swelling fast.
"It's going to self-destruct!"
Wanda's cry sharpened. The scarlet fog thickened into a crimson membrane, compressing the growing inferno—then she hurled it skyward.
"Move!"
Pietro scooped her up and bolted.
Boom!
The airburst hammered the sky. A shockwave rolled out with fire, a burning carpet unfurling overhead before breaking into a rain of embers.
They exhaled in relief—then the fire-rain spattered onto nearby buildings, setting structure after structure alight.
Their faces changed.
"Quick—put it out!"
Wanda barked, and the twins sprang into action.
But the blast had scattered flames everywhere; the two of them couldn't hope to quench so many separate blazes.
If every lick of fire caught, everything within a hundred-meter radius would be ash.
At that moment, blue energy tore open space beside them. A portal flared to life at Wanda and Pietro's side.
On the other side: the X-Men.
Dressed in matching black uniforms, they charged through with Wolverine at the fore.
"Hoo."
Logan bit down on a cigar, blew out a stream of smoke, and grinned at the twins. "Looks like you kids could use a hand."
(End of Chapter)