"Black Widow is offline."
Hill's voice was calm, but the faint tremor in her tone betrayed her sorrow.
Nick Fury didn't respond. He had no time to mourn—not now. His one remaining eye was locked on the small tactical display beside his command seat. The digital feed flickered for a moment, then froze on a single, chilling word:
APPROVED.
Fury exhaled slowly. "The President has authorized the nuclear strike. Every active warhead in the U.S. arsenal is now on standby."
"Then what are we waiting for?!" General Wilde barked, his face twisted with desperation. The arrogance he once wore like armor had long since been beaten out of him by the horrors of this war. "Launch everything we have at Queens! Level the entire damn district! Burn those monsters to ash!"
"General, our air units still can't enter New York airspace," Hill interjected quickly. "Even if we deploy the nukes, they'll never make it to the target. The enemy will just deflect them back at us."
"Then send them in on the ground!" Wilde roared, slamming his fist against the table. His proposal was reckless—but not entirely irrational. At this stage, sentiment was a luxury none of them could afford.
Fury, however, shook his head firmly. "Our ground forces are losing control of the situation by the minute. Without superhuman support, we can't protect a nuclear payload in that chaos. If we try, the warheads will be overrun—and fall straight into enemy hands."
"Then have the superheroes guard them!" Wilde's voice cracked under the weight of fear and fury. "Those freaks have been defying government orders for years! Let them die for something useful!"
"General," Fury said coldly, "they're not soldiers under our command. They volunteered to help us. We can't order them into a suicide mission."
"Then don't tell them it's suicide," Wilde snapped.
Fury froze. The instinct to reject the idea rose immediately—but the words wouldn't come. He met Wilde's burning stare, and for the first time, found himself unable to argue.
After all… he was a soldier too. A man sworn to protect American interests—whatever the cost.
Wilde smirked bitterly. "What's the matter, Fury? This isn't new for you. You've lied to them before."
The jab hit its mark. Fury clenched his jaw, saying nothing. The general was right. In his long, uneasy alliance with the Avengers, he'd hidden truths, manipulated outcomes, and made sacrifices behind closed doors—all for what he told himself was the greater good.
But this… this was different. This deception would cost lives, not trust. It would end heroes, not save them.
Hill hesitated. "Sir… are you really going through with this?"
Fury lowered his head, the shadow of the war map reflecting across his face. His expression was unreadable—dark, conflicted, and weary. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.
Then, finally, he spoke—his voice steady, cold, and final.
"Contact Captain America. Tell him we have an… object of critical importance that needs to be delivered to the center of New York."
Hill's eyes widened. For a long moment, she just stood there—staring at him, speechless. Then, forcing herself to remain composed, she nodded and began patching through the communication line.
---
Meanwhile, on the central front, Ant-Man was in trouble.
Even at his towering size, the relentless wave of zombies was overwhelming. Their newly evolved bone armor made them nearly impervious to small-arms fire, and the soldiers at his feet were being torn apart one by one.
To protect the handful who still lived, Ant-Man scooped them into his massive palms, raising them high above the streets. It was a temporary solution—but it left his hands occupied and his movements restricted.
Normally, his size alone was enough to crush zombies like insects. A single step could flatten dozens. But this time, things were different.
Marcus's army had evolved—and not all of them were zombies.
From a narrow alley, a massive figure emerged—a mountain of muscle encased in crimson metal. The ground shook beneath his charge. Juggernaut.
With his head lowered like a battering ram, Juggernaut slammed into Ant-Man's ankle with devastating force.
"Wha—?!"
The impact staggered Ant-Man instantly. The giant's foot twisted, and his colossal frame toppled like a skyscraper, collapsing into a row of buildings. Concrete and steel gave way beneath his weight, the crash echoing across Queens like thunder.
"Damn it! Who the hell just hit me?!" Ant-Man roared, his voice booming as he instinctively shielded his palms, protecting the soldiers trapped within his hands. They survived—but their towering protector was now pinned under rubble.
Before he could rise, another figure leapt from the shattered ruins—a man with a gleaming mechanical arm fused to his shoulder, glowing with molten light. Aldrich Killian.
He landed squarely on Ant-Man's helmet, directly over the giant's right eye lens.
"Get off me!" Ant-Man snarled, raising a hand to swat him like a fly. But the moment he felt the terrified soldiers shifting in his palm, he hesitated.
That hesitation cost him dearly.
Killian's body erupted in a wave of Extremis heat, his molten legs sinking into the glass surface of Ant-Man's visor. The molten metal fused him to the spot—immovable.
Then, his arm-cannon whirred to life.
A blazing beam of orange energy carved through the visor, melting a perfect circular opening into the reinforced lens. Ant-Man's armor—nearly indestructible against conventional weapons—melted like wax under the heat of Killian's laser.
By the time Ant-Man dropped the soldiers to safety and swung his massive hand, the damage was already done.
Killian slipped through the burning hole, disappearing into the helmet. Ant-Man's enormous hand smacked into his own head instead, the shock rattling his brain and sending waves of dizziness through his body.
Inside the helmet, Killian stood on the slick, glassy surface of Ant-Man's exposed eye. The heat radiating from his body began to sear the delicate tissue beneath his feet.
"Can we talk?" Killian said mockingly, his voice echoing inside the confined space.
The only answer he gave himself was the hiss of his cannon charging—
—and then the flash of another death beam, cutting through the darkness like a burning sun.
_____
T/N:
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