The New York nuclear catastrophe dominated every headline across the globe. The disappearance of over a hundred thousand U.S. soldiers and the transformation of New York City into something resembling the surface of Mars triggered the greatest public outcry in human history.
The White House's official explanation—a so-called "nuclear leakage accident"—was so absurd that it only inflamed public anger. Before long, furious crowds flooded the streets of Washington, surrounding the White House and demanding answers. The protest continued all night without pause.
Meanwhile, in Congress, every politician had gathered in emergency session. What should have been a meeting about national recovery instead became a ruthless blame game. Each faction—Republican, Democrat, and every lobby in between—was desperate to shift responsibility. Every official in that chamber understood one thing: whoever carried this burden would be remembered for all eternity as the man or woman who destroyed America. There would be no redemption—only infamy.
Across the nation, chaos spread like wildfire. Looting, riots, and violent crime skyrocketed overnight—tripling in a single evening, and that was only what made it into official reports. Opportunists, conmen, and extremists seized the moment, turning fear into fuel. America, once the self-proclaimed beacon of civilization, was rapidly becoming the most unstable country on Earth. Within days, even the phrase "one of the most unstable" would no longer apply.
Then came the satellite photos—images of the post-nuclear wasteland where New York had once stood. They spread across the internet within hours. Even the wildest prophecies—the Mayan apocalypse, the 1999 doomsday myth—looked childish in comparison. This was the true end of the world, a vision so apocalyptic that humanity could no longer deny its fragility.
And yet, through all this, the U.S. Department of Information maintained its silence. The government still clung to its "nuclear accident" narrative, refusing to acknowledge the existence of the zombie virus. But the lie fooled no one. The devastation was too vast, too deliberate. Theories flooded social media: aliens, mutant creatures, interdimensional invaders—every possible horror people could imagine. Fear spread from America to every corner of the globe.
But fear wasn't the only consequence.
What truly plunged the United States into ruin wasn't just the loss of lives—it was the economic fallout. The city destroyed wasn't Los Angeles, wasn't Chicago… it was New York—the beating heart of global finance, the home of the United Nations, and the center of the world's economy.
Every day, trillions of dollars flowed through Wall Street. New York going dark for even an hour was enough to shake the national economy. Now it was gone—erased from the map.
No one could even begin to count the losses.
How many contracts were broken? How many companies collapsed? How many workers became unemployed overnight?
The numbers were beyond comprehension.
A wave of unemployment swept the country. The stock markets crashed. International trade froze. Within days, the U.S. faced an uncontrollable financial storm. And in a capitalist nation, when the economy dies—so does everything else.
America was finished.
That was the grim conclusion reached by anyone who understood the chain reaction that had begun.
And as if to confirm that truth, that very night, White House security found the President of the United States dead in his office—his own handgun lying beside him.
It was the only decision left for a man who had watched his country crumble before his eyes. What else could he do? Step out before the furious masses and offer meaningless reassurances? He would never have survived the walk to the podium. The mob would have torn him apart before he said a word.
Neither the Republicans nor the Democrats could salvage the wreckage now. The government's credibility had collapsed completely.
And in that chaos, there remained only one person who might still command the faith of the American people. One who had never been a politician, but a symbol.
A hero.
---
Late that night…
Captain America awoke with a start. The sound of breaking glass and distant shouting echoed outside the small, unfamiliar room. His head throbbed as he sat up, clutching it with both hands. The walls were bare, the furniture simple—some ordinary suburban home, no different from a thousand others.
"Where… am I?" he murmured.
The last thing he remembered was being thrown through the air by the shockwave of the nuclear explosion. There had been a flash—a burst of purple light—and a sudden wrenching force dragging him backward. Then, nothing.
Before he could piece the memory together, a faint shimmer filled the air in front of him—a violet light that twisted and bent space itself. A glowing portal unfolded like a tear in reality, and from its depths stepped a young woman with dark hair, sharp eyes, and a sleek, form-fitting leather suit.
"Good," she said with a relieved sigh, her voice carrying both fatigue and warmth. "You're awake. Thank God—I thought I was a few seconds too late. At least the Professor's final wish wasn't in vain."
"Wait—Professor?" Captain America's instincts sharpened instantly. "You're one of the X-Men? What do you mean, final wish?" His heart clenched at the implication. "Professor Xavier… he's dead?"
The woman's tone was light but her eyes betrayed sorrow. "If he were alive," she said softly, "he'd be scolding me in my head right now. So, yeah… I'm afraid he didn't make it."
She caught her breath, forcing a faint smile, and straightened her posture. "My name's Clarice Ferguson. Codename: Blink. I'm an X-Men trainee. My ability, as you've probably guessed, lets me open spatial portals for teleportation. Still pretty rough around the edges."
Captain America managed a faint smile and shook her hand. "I'm Steve Rogers. And… thank you, Blink. I take it you're the one who pulled me out of Queens?"
Blink nodded, but her expression clouded with guilt. "I'm sorry. If I'd been faster, I could've saved more people. Maybe even the Professor."
"You did enough," Steve said, his tone calm and steady—the same reassurance that had inspired soldiers for generations. Then he hesitated, his brows furrowing. "But… why me? You said you were supposed to get Professor Xavier out first. So why save me instead?"
Blink looked up, her eyes shimmering with tears, yet filled with resolve.
"Because," she said, her voice steady, "the Professor's last words to me were clear—only you can save America."
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