"Is that Captain America?"
Max's dull, lifeless eyes suddenly lit up, a spark of recognition cutting through the haze of despair. Even in his broken state, that name carried weight—something almost sacred in his mind. The man standing before him wasn't just another figure in a uniform. This was a legend.
Through the chaos of war decades ago, Captain America had become a symbol, a hero whose stories had inspired generations. Even seventy years later, his name still echoed through history books, news cycles, and everyday conversations. To someone like Max, he represented everything good and righteous about the world.
Whatever scandals had surfaced recently didn't matter. In Max's mind, those had to be lies, distortions created by people who didn't understand him.
"You really are Captain Steve?" Max asked, his voice trembling with excitement as he pushed himself to his feet. He took a couple of eager steps forward, instinctively drawn toward the man he had once admired from afar.
In another setting, it might have looked like a devoted fan rushing toward a celebrity. But this wasn't a meet-and-greet. This was a battlefield, littered with destruction and fear.
A sharp, slicing sound cut through the air.
Before Max could react, a small blade shot forward and buried itself deep into his lower abdomen. The impact made him stiffen, his body freezing in place as confusion overtook him.
"What…?" he muttered, his gaze dropping instinctively toward the wound, though the pain hadn't fully registered yet.
When he looked up again, a figure stepped out from behind Captain America, moving with a controlled, deliberate presence. The man carried a katana, his posture sharp and ready, and despite the change in gear, Max recognized him almost instantly.
It was Hawkeye.
The familiar sharpshooter of the Avengers now stood there without his bow, his weapon replaced, his style altered—but his identity unmistakable. That only made the situation feel more surreal.
"Stop staring at us like that," Hawkeye said coldly, his eyes narrowing as he studied Max with open hostility. "Don't think you can play dumb and fool us."
His tone carried a tension that ran deeper than the moment itself. Ever since his encounter with Daredevil, something had changed in him. His confidence in his archery had faltered, forcing him to adapt, to rely on different methods. But beneath that adjustment, there was something darker—frustration, anger, and a simmering sense of inadequacy.
His gaze lingered on Max, and for a brief second, envy flickered through it.
Why did this nobody get powers like that? Why could he command electricity like it was part of him, while someone like Hawkeye—someone who had trained relentlessly—was still just human?
The thought burned.
"Why are you even talking to him?" a calm voice cut in, smooth and controlled.
A woman in a sleek black suit stepped forward, her movements precise and effortless as she closed the distance. Her sharp eyes scanned Max from head to toe, assessing, calculating, leaving no room for hesitation.
It was Black Widow.
"Are you going to surrender," she asked evenly, her tone almost casual, "or do you want us to make the first move?"
Her composure was flawless, the result of years of training and discipline. Unless she was facing a true supervillain, she rarely let emotion bleed into her actions.
Max stared at them, his mind struggling to process what he was hearing.
"A… bitch? A bastard?" he repeated under his breath, the words feeling foreign, out of place. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. These were heroes. They were supposed to stand for justice, for fairness, for truth.
They were supposed to be better.
For a moment, he didn't even notice the blade lodged in his body. The physical wound paled in comparison to the crack forming in his perception of the world.
Nearby, movement caught his attention.
The overweight woman from earlier staggered to her feet, her face a mess of blood and bruises. Her nose was crooked, her expression twisted, but when she saw the Avengers standing there, her demeanor shifted instantly. Hope—or something resembling it—lit up her eyes.
"Captain Steve, you have to save us!" she cried, rushing forward as if she were the victim in all of this.
Her voice trembled with exaggerated fear as she pointed at Max. "That mutant freak just attacked Times Square out of nowhere. I—I barely survived. This is completely unprovoked!"
She even gestured to her injuries, putting them on display like evidence.
The sheer distortion of reality was staggering.
Just moments ago, she had been the one slapping Max, humiliating him without hesitation. Now, she stood there as if she had done nothing wrong, painting herself as an innocent victim.
"Don't worry," Captain America said, his voice steady and reassuring, the kind of tone that could calm a crowd in seconds. "We won't let any criminals get away with this."
His posture was impeccable, every movement measured and deliberate, as if he were performing on a stage.
Off to the side, Black Widow and Hawkeye exchanged brief glances, their expressions flickering with something close to disbelief before they masked it again. But they didn't challenge the narrative. They didn't question the woman's story.
To them, the conclusion had already been drawn.
Max was the villain.
Whether the woman had exaggerated or outright lied didn't matter. What mattered was the outcome, the image, the resolution of the situation in front of them.
Captain America lifted his shield, his eyes hardening with unwavering conviction.
"All that matters," he said quietly, almost to himself, "is ending this cleanly."
Then, louder, his voice cutting through the air like a command:
"Avengers, move out."
The moment the words left his mouth, everything shifted.
Captain America moved first, his figure blurring as he closed the distance in an instant. The shield in his hand came crashing down with unstoppable force, slamming into Max and sending him flying several meters across the ruined ground.
Before he could recover, Black Widow and Hawkeye were already on him.
Their movements were precise, coordinated, each strike flowing seamlessly into the next. Years of training, countless battles, and flawless teamwork turned their assault into something relentless, something overwhelming.
Max tried to react, but his control was slipping. His power, still unstable, couldn't match the refined combat skills of seasoned agents. To them, he wasn't an unstoppable force—he was an untrained threat, someone they could dismantle piece by piece.
On the sidelines, the overweight woman watched the scene unfold, her earlier fear replaced by a twisted sense of excitement. Hands on her hips, she began shouting again, her voice shrill and venomous.
"You disgusting freak! People like you shouldn't even exist!" she yelled, her words dripping with contempt. "You hit me? You think you can get away with that?"
Her face twisted further as she pointed at Max. "You're going to pay me—every last cent. And if you can't, you should just disappear!"
The audacity of it was staggering.
The one who had started everything now stood there, acting more righteous than anyone else, her voice filled with false indignation.
Max lay on the ground, his body aching, his thoughts spiraling.
"Damn it…" he muttered, his voice hoarse.
"I'm the one who's innocent!"
Something inside him snapped.
The guilt that had weighed him down moments ago began to crumble under the pressure of everything around him—the accusations, the lies, the violence. Why was he the one being punished? Why did he have to carry all of this?
Just because he had tried to be kind? Because he hadn't fought back sooner?
A sharp sound pierced the air.
Another blade drove into his chest, the impact sending a wave of weakness through his body. His vision blurred, his strength fading as the reality of his situation closed in on him.
Was this it?
Was this how it ended?
As his life force began to slip away, something primal surged within him. A desperate, overwhelming instinct to survive flooded his mind, pushing everything else aside.
No one wanted to die.
And when faced with that final moment, the will to live could become something terrifying.
The air shifted.
A sudden gust of wind tore through the ruins, swirling debris into the air as the atmosphere changed. It felt as if the world itself was reacting, the sky darkening, the energy in the air building to a breaking point.
The storm was coming.
.....
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