"Dark Avengers?" Nick Fury snapped, incredulous. "You want to rename the Avengers? You can't—this is sacrilege. What are you doing, Secretary? Do you know what that monster nearly did to San Francisco?!"
Emil Blonsky — the Abomination — only grinned, a sound like machinery rusting. "You don't see it, Fury. The old Avengers are fractured. Some have defected to Ryuuto's side. Others are shaky. Without a new, loyal force, this nation is exposed. We need a team that answers only the state. Call it whatever calms the public — 'New Avengers' on paper, 'Dark Avengers' in private. The name fits."
"S.H.I.E.L.D. will never sanction a 'Dark Avengers,'" Fury hissed. "We don't take orders from Pentagon politics."
For a blink of a second, it looked like Fury might stand his ground. Then the Secretary of Defense — stone-faced until now — produced the alien scepter and slid it into view. Fury's eyes widened; he'd seen the footage of agents under that thing's sway. Panic flared, and he tried to bolt for the window.
A massive, inhuman hand closed around him. The Abomination had wrapped Fury in his grip, pressing the scepter to the director's chest. The metallic pulse of control slid through Fury like ice, and the resistance vanished as if it had never existed.
"Welcome to the new order," Blonsky said, voice slick with triumph.
When the scepter's influence loosened for a moment, the Secretary of Defense straightened his suit as if nothing had happened. Fury's stare had gone empty — a puppet on a gilded string. Blonsky's grin widened.
"First step: secure S.H.I.E.L.D. Then we bring in Magneto. If Erik joins, the Brotherhood follows — Mystique, Quicksilver, the lot. With their muscle, the X-Men will be boxed in. We'll break Ryuuto's movement and make him the face of a failed rebellion."
Deadpool had watched most of the exchange from the warehouse balcony, bleeding theatrically and cracking jokes. He refused to be recruited, but the gears of a dangerous plan were already turning in the halls of power.
By dawn, Blonsky had slipped out to handle logistics; Fury — compromised — began making calls he no longer meant. The "Dark Avengers" had teeth and a budget. They just lacked consent.
Morning at Axville
Ryuuto woke to the ordinary rituals: wash, brush, and head for breakfast. He expected Jean to be cooking, but instead Susan and Natasha were at the stove. The image made his face twitch — memories of Natasha's disastrous attempts at gourmet flitted through his head.
"Susan's running the show today," Natasha said with a grin like a woman who enjoyed chaos in small bowls.
Ryuuto forced a smile. "That's… comforting," he said, which meant the exact opposite.
They bantered, and for a moment the house felt like any other: noisy, warm, and oddly domestic. Then Ryuuto flicked on the TV out of habit and caught the breaking headline.
"—final trials complete. Mass production imminent," the anchor read. "A Department of Defense injection that permanently suppresses mutant gene expression is expected to ship to hospitals nationwide in days. Officials frame it as a humane path to integration: one shot to become 'normal' forever. Authorities urge voluntary registration at designated centers."
The spoon clattered from Susan's hand. Natasha's grin died. Ryuuto felt something cold click into place in his chest.
"That's not medicine," he said quietly. "It's erasure. Call it 'voluntary' all you like — the moment it's on the table, the pressure to comply starts. People who don't register will be marked."
Natasha's voice was low and hard. "And once they've set the program up, raids and coercion are just administrative steps away."
Ryuuto stared at the flickering screen. He had spoken into the world; the world had answered with laws, scepters, and monsters. The choice that lay ahead wasn't ideological anymore — it was existential.
"Get ready," he said. "If they want to wipe us out in the name of 'peace,' we'll give them an answer. Not because we want war — because we want to survive."
Outside, the nation argued and panicked, but inside Axville the decision hardened into plan. The broadcast had been a match. Now the government was pouring on oil. The flame was about to meet wind.