"This is Daniel Reyes, reporting live for Global News Network from just outside Cape Citadel, where Magneto, the mutant known to the world as the Master of Magnetism, seized control five days ago in a stunning and violent show of power."
"Since then, Cape Citadel has been sealed off to the public. No one knows what is happening inside. The skies above have remained clear—because Magneto controls the airspace."
"The roads are empty—because he has twisted tanks into sculptures. And the silence from within? Deafening."
Daniel turned slightly, gesturing to the blackened remains of what used to be a military checkpoint. His eyes never left the camera, although this is catastrophe for some, but it's an opportunity for him, it's his moment to shine.
"Twenty-four hours ago, Magneto struck again. This time, he was even more brutal hijacking TV all over the world showing his power and declaring war to all of us claiming himself and mutants are our betters."
"In just under one hour, the U.S. military—joined by an undisclosed number of enhanced assets—will launch a full-scale counteroffensive right here, at Cape Citadel."
"I have been embedded by presidential order to document and report this unprecedented strike. The world is watching. The question on everyone's mind: can Magneto be stopped?"
"Stay with us. The war for Cape Citadel begins now."
So yeah, that whole mess was just the prelude to the main event: the grand showdown with Magneto and his merry band of mutant malcontents.
Since SHIELD can't exactly wave their freak flag in public, the whole operation is being carried out under the US military's banner.
A fine bit of political theater, really—nothing says 'we're totally in control' like borrowing someone else's toys to clean up your mess.
This was meant to be a power flex from Uncle Sam to the rest of the world, a little reminder that the big guns still work... theoretically.
After Magneto's little stunt—televised, of course, because what's global terrorism without a good PR campaign—the military found itself sweating harder than a general in a polygraph test.
Their reputation had tanked, and now they were desperate for a win. Any win. Even one they had zero control over. Enter: this operation, which they're technically hosting but aren't really invited to.
As for SHIELD—the real puppeteer behind this circus? They only planned to send two agents.
Sure, they're top-tier, the kind of operatives who probably list 'world-ending event under hobbies, but still—just two. Because the real flag flying over this operation isn't the stars and stripes.
It's mutants. Ironic, right? The people Magneto claims to fight for are now being used as bait.
But SHIELD? Oh, they've got it all mapped out. Sit back, let the mutants go to war, and if they wipe each other out in the process?
Even better. Less paperwork. All the while, the World Security Council gets front-row seats to the 'mutants-are-dangerous' narrative they've been dying to sell.
The cruel punchline? The mutants who actually save the day—those who bleed, fight, and maybe even die—won't get medals.
No parades. No thank-you cards. Just more fear, more rejection, and a generous helping of 'look at the mess you made,' as if saving the world wasn't already a full-time job with no benefits.
As if it had all been choreographed in advance, just as the journalist wrapped up briefing the situation, the main act began to arrive.
Live, in front of the entire world, the Blackbird made its grand debut—yes, the Blackbird, sleek, black, and ominous like a very expensive bat-shaped limo.
It stopped just short of the frontlines, perhaps wisely—if it flew a bit closer, there was a fair chance Magneto would've turned it into better artwork.
When the Blackbird came to a halt, its doors opened, and out stepped a squad of undeniably strange individuals dressed in bold yellow suits. Not your average fashion choice, but hey, mutants gotta make an entrance.
Almost immediately after, a convoy of high-end SUVs rolled in with all the subtlety of a movie scene. You know the type—shiny, armored, and clearly more expensive than the average salaryman's five-year plan.
From the lead vehicle emerged two figures. First, a redhead woman stepped out—the kind you'd expect to see flipping someone over in an American spy flick.
Her outfit was so tight, one might wonder if she planned to seduce Magneto into surrender. Doubtful, but the thought certainly crossed a few minds.
The second figure was unmistakably an archer. The bow and quiver strapped to his back made that part obvious—unless he was just a hardcore Renaissance fair enthusiast.
The rest of the convoy unloaded a small army of soldiers, all kitted out in gear that screamed 'government-funded' and 'please don't ask about the budget.' Despite the impressive turnout, it was clear those first two were calling the shots.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Daniel Reyes announced from his spot in front of the cameras, his voice riding the wave of national tension, "this is the special squad deployed by the military for today's mission to apprehend Magneto."
He added, with the flair of a man who wasn't quite sure if he was narrating a battle or a fashion show, "Joining them is a group of mutants—part of a collaboration with the government to better assess whether mutants are a danger or a potential ally to society."
While his voice carried poise, inside Daniel was buzzing with awe. These people looked so striking, he couldn't tell if he should report on them or ask for their autographs. Maybe both.
Meanwhile, the actual protagonists of this unfolding drama paid the reporter no mind. They had bigger things to worry about. Magneto was no laughing matter—and they knew it.
Still, Clint couldn't resist nudging his partner with a grin. "You ready, Nat? From today on, you're going public. No more sneaking around in the shadows. No more infiltration missions. Guess you'll have to start paying for coffee."
Barton really had a knack for reading a room—or, in this case, reading a global-scale press conference.
Natasha could face Magneto, assassinate a billionaire, or infiltrate the White House without breaking a sweat. But step into the spotlight in front of a camera? Instant nerves.
It made sense, though. Since childhood, she'd been trained to be a shadow, an invisible whisper in the dark. A 'Black Widow' wasn't supposed to trend on social media or pose for magazine covers.
Being a superhero-celebrity hybrid was not in the job description. Especially not when you've got a body count that could fill a small stadium.
Still, somewhere deep inside, buried under layers of training and trauma, there was a tiny spark of hope. Maybe she could try living like a "normal" person—if saving the world every few weeks counted as normal.
She glanced at Clint and gave him a real, genuine smile. The kind that didn't come with a knife in the back or a hidden agenda. "Guess it can't be worse than being an agent, right?"
Clint blinked. He'd seen her smile a hundred times before, but this one was different. No mask, no edge. If he wasn't already a married man with kids and a mortgage, he might've fallen for her right then and there.
"You deserve a shot at normal, you deserve better" he said with a nod. "Try to enjoy it, Nat."
She smirked. "Lead the way, boss. Let's go meet our adoring fans."
Natasha followed him, falling into step. She was technically the more sociable one of the two, but for once, Clint was in charge. He had the leadership quality that said "I know what I'm doing," even when he absolutely didn't.
...
(Jean's POV)
"Wow, if it's not the legendary Hawkeye and the Black Widow," Hela said, floating leisurely toward the two SHIELD agents. Of course, no one else could see her, which—depending on how you looked at it—was either a blessing or a curse.
That she recognized them at all and spoke with something close to admiration meant a lot coming from her.
If Hela of all people had something nice to say about someone, it usually meant they'd passed some invisible checklist of hers. After spending enough time around her, I had a pretty solid idea of what that list looked like.
Loyalty was one of those recurring themes she liked to bring up, often unprompted.
It slipped into casual conversations the way some people talked about the weather. But then again, she was a ruler—makes sense she'd be into the whole loyalty and devotion thing. Occupational hazard.
Out of everyone we've run into so far—Professor Xavier, Hank, Warren—she's never paid much attention. In Scott's case, it was actually the opposite. If glares could detonate, there'd be nothing left of him but the visor.
I was curious to ask what exactly made these two stand out to her—what was it about them that earned the approval of an Asgardian death goddess?—but I held back.
Mostly because I'd noticed a journalist and a cameraman nearby, and I wasn't about to get caught chatting with empty air on live television. Not the vibe we were going for.
And to be fair, my impression of SHIELD agents wasn't exactly glowing to begin with—especially after catching that Hill woman's private thoughts about us.
I watched as Scott stepped forward. He was technically our leader, even if he didn't always carry himself like one.
On the surface, he looked calm and composed. Beneath that? Not so much. His mind was a storm of pressure and calculation. He knew eyes were on him—millions of them.
He knew these agents were trained killers. And he definitely knew that the guy we were here to confront wasn't just dangerous—he was the most dangerous mutant alive.
I felt a flicker of sympathy. Being the face of the team wasn't easy on a good day. And today? Not even close. Hela's nickname for him, 'Flashlight Guy,' didn't help his case, though I had to admit, it was pretty accurate.
'He's nervous.' That was the thought I caught from Barton—Hawkeye. I blinked, a little surprised.
Scott was good at putting on a front. If you didn't have telepathy—or Hela whispering commentary in your ear—you'd never know what was going on behind the mask.
But somehow, this guy had picked up on it. Not through powers, but through sheer observation.
Impressive. Even more so when I sensed a similar impression from the red-haired woman next to him. Black Widow. She hadn't said a word yet, but her read on Scott was just as sharp.
Either they were just that good... or Scott needed to work on his poker face.
Then Hawkeye took the lead, stepping forward and offering a handshake, his tone even and professional. "Hello, I'm Agent Hawkeye, the one in charge of this operation."
Despite the chilly vibes we'd all gotten from Hill, Scott responded politely. Optics mattered, and Charles had reminded us enough times: don't let personal opinions ruin the image of the X-Men.
The world didn't need to see us acting petty or defensive. It needed to see heroes.
"I'm Cyclops, the representative of the X-Men," Scott replied. Not 'leader,' I noticed. Smart move—sounded less like a power play.
He gestured toward the rest of us. "This is Marvel Girl, Angel, Iceman, and Beast."
That finally got a reaction from the red-haired woman. Her eyebrows rose slightly, and a small, almost amused smile tugged at her lips. "Wow, cool codenames. As for me, I'm Black Widow. Kind of a sad name when you think about it."
She said it so earnestly I might've believed her—if I hadn't picked up the earlier flickers of judgment from her.
Something about us playing at superheroes, not understanding the risks, and having codenames that sounded like we picked them off cereal boxes.
Still, credit where it's due: she delivered the line like she meant it. Professionalism must be part of the SHIELD training.
END of the chapter
Okay guys, we are 13, just a little more to recuperate or due place, also, I don't know, do you have some kind of suggestions? I'm all ear.