Xavier Institute, study room.
Charles Xavier sat in his wheelchair, a half-open book of ancient Greek philosophy lying on the mahogany desk in front of him. His fingers hovered over the edge of the pages, but he wasn't reading.
His gaze passed through the window and landed on the children running and playing on the lawn. The sun was shining brightly, and their laughter was loud, but his heart was heavy.
The call was transferred to Ororo, the Storm. He answered it, and a hoarse, tired voice came through the receiver.
"Professor X, I am Matt Murdock, I... need your help."
Charles's fingers tightened slightly. He heard something in that voice—not despair, but something deeper: the bewilderment of someone who has lost the ability to survive, the feeling of not knowing what else they can do.
"Daredevil," Charles's voice was calm, "I heard about you from Ororo."
There was a few seconds of silence on the other end of the phone. "Can you help me?"
"I can't guarantee that Russell was responsible for your loss of abilities; even I can't see through his abilities." Charles's gaze was deep.
"But you can come to Xavier Institute. Hank and I will give it a try."
"Thanks."
The call ended, Charles put the receiver back on the landline, leaned back in his wheelchair, and closed his eyes.
His consciousness spread out in that instant, across the lawn, across the school building, through the Mind Stone of those young Mutants, and landed in the Training Room.
Scott was practicing controlling his optical impacts there; the beams exploded on the target with precision and power, but with more destructive force than ever before.
Charles opened his eyes and steered his wheelchair out of the study.
In the Training Room, Scott took off his Ruby-Quartz Visor and wiped the sweat from his forehead with a towel.
He stopped what he was doing when he saw Charles come in.
"Professor, I heard from Ororo that someone called asking for your help. Who called?"
"Matt Murdock, Daredevil."
Scott frowned. "He's not Mutants."
"No."
"Then why save him? Xavier Institute's resources are for Mutants."
Charles looked at his student, his eyes not filled with reproach, but with a weariness that came from having experienced too much and knowing that some things must be said but may not be useful.
"Scott, do you know what Daredevil did in Hell's Kitchen?"
Scott paused for a moment. "Fight crime."
"He fought crime for many years, asking for no money, no fame, and no reward."
He had his bones broken, his lungs pierced, and he was blown away several times, but he never stopped."Charles's voice was flat, as if stating a fact.
"He's not Mutants, but what he does is no different from what the X-Men do."
Scott opened his mouth, but no words came out.
"Mutants and humans should live in peace." Charles looked at Scott kindly.
"This isn't just a slogan; it's a bottom line that every Mutants should remember. If we only help Mutants, what's the difference between us and Magneto?"
Scott lowered his head. "I'm sorry, Professor."
"No need to apologize." Charles steered his wheelchair toward the door. "Go and prepare to inform Hank that Matt will arrive and be brought to the Laboratory."
He stopped before sliding out, but didn't look back.
"Scott."
"Um?"
"Russell's mutant ability is truly powerful; it can make people lose their superpowers. This level of Telekinesis surpasses that of any Mutants I've ever seen, including Jean Grey." He paused.
"We need to be careful in dealing with him, because he is too powerful, powerful enough to cause some Mutants have mastered their abilities to lose control again."
The door closed, Scott stood there, clutching the towel for a long time. He knew what the professor meant by those words: praising Russell's abilities was one thing, but another was his fear that Scott might do something foolish.
Helicarrier, medical bay.
The white light made the whole room look like a giant the Fridge. Clint Barton lay on the medical bed, his eyes wrapped in bandages, with a small patch of pale red blood seeping through the bandages.
His expression was calm, but his hand, the one resting on the edge of the bed, was trembling slightly.
Steve Rogers stood by the bed, holding the shield in his hand, which rested against his leg.
He looked at Clint, wanting to say something, but didn't know what to say. He had already said things like "It will be alright," "Technology is so advanced," and "There must be a way," but each sentence was like hammering nails into a steel wall; apart from sounding nice, they were all useless.
Squeak!
The door opened, and Nick Fury walked in, his leather boots making a dull thud on the floor. His single eye swept across the room, landing on Clint for a moment before looking away.
"Agent Barton."
"Sir," Clint's voice was flat, as if he were reporting a task.
"I'm sorry, your eyes have been examined by S.H.I.E.L.D..'s medical team, but with current technology, there's no cure."
After a brief silence, Clint's hands stopped trembling.
"I see."
Fury looked at him, a hint of guilt in his single eye. The other man had long ago said he wanted to spend time quietly with his family and didn't want to follow through, but in the end...
I knew he would get hurt, but I didn't expect him to be hurt so badly.
"You will receive the best care, including retirement pension, health insurance, and housing, all to the highest standards."
"Thank you, sir." Clint's voice was flat.
"And don't give up. Just because our medical technology isn't good enough doesn't mean other countries aren't. I've already sent people to contact Wakanda."
After Fury finished speaking, he turned to Steve. "Captain, come with me."
In the hallway, Fury walked ahead, with Steve following behind.
The sound of two people's footsteps echoed on the metal floor, one after the other, like two different rhythms of drumbeats.
Steve spoke first, "I'm sorry about Barton. But now I want to know, is what Jim said true?"
"What did you say?" Fury didn't turn around. "You mean about the military, about government corruption? You believe what he said?"
Steve paused briefly before looking up. "I don't know, but that guy named Jim... he didn't seem to be lying."
"He killed people." Fury's voice turned cold. "He killed many people, and no matter his reasons, he is a criminal."
"I know," Steve said, "But if what he said is true, then this country owes him an apology."
Fury stopped, turned around, and looked at Steve.
His single eye shone eerily brightly in the dim light of the corridor.
"This country owes apologies to many people: Black people, Native Americans, Vietnamese, Iraq, Afghanistan ... the list is long. Rogers, longer than you can imagine." He paused. "But apologies don't solve anything."
The problem is, those who owe an apology are still in power. You know the truth, so what? What can you do? You're a Super Soldier, can you change the entire system?
Steve didn't speak.
"You can't," Fury said for him. "Neither can I. This system wasn't built by one person, and it can't be overthrown by one person."
He turned around and continued walking forward.
"What you need to figure out right now is not who this country owes an apology to, but whether you are still willing to fight for this country."
Steve stood there, watching Fury's retreating figure, and remained silent for a long time.
"I need some quiet time," he finally said. "During this period, I will no longer be Avengers."
Fury paused for a moment, then continued walking without looking back.
"Whatever you want."
Fury walked into the office room, which was surrounded by screens displaying intelligence data from around the world.
He sat in a chair, with a mountain of documents piled up in front of him.
His fingers tapped lightly on the table, the rhythm slow, like a pendulum, like a heartbeat, his brows furrowed into a deep frown.
Heartbroken by the truth about his parents' deaths, Iron Man returned to Stark Tower, locked himself in his Laboratory, and refused to see anyone, focusing solely on finding the Winter Soldier.
Hawkeye is blind and lying in a medical pod, unable to draw his bow again. Captain America has left, saying he needs some peace and quiet, and it's unknown when he'll return.
Within days, the Avengers lost three core members, and the source of all this was a young Mutants wearing a bathrobe who was known as "The God's Whip."
As for the wanted criminal Jim, although Nick Fury didn't have concrete intelligence as evidence, he knew that Jim's sudden development of superpowers was definitely related to Russell at the hotel.
The phone on the table rang. Fury glanced at the caller ID, then frowned and answered it.
"The President."
"Fury." The voice on the other end of the phone was deep, carrying the imposing, authoritative air of someone in a position of power.
"Professor X called me and pleaded for the Mutants named Russell, asking me not to send anyone to hunt him down anymore. I agreed."
Upon hearing this, Fury's brow furrowed so deeply it could have trapped a Mosquito.
"I agreed." The president's voice remained unchanged, "But not because I believed Professor X, but because I had no choice. That Mutants is hailed as the 'God's Whip' online, and his videos have been viewed hundreds of millions of times."
If I send someone to arrest him now, it will only make him more famous and make more people believe he is a god. I cannot be his stepping stone."
"So you're planning to have us make a move?" Nick Fury bluntly stated.
"I intend for you to deal with him." The president's voice turned cold. "Not with the military, not with the Sentry, but with any means you can use. S.H.I.E.L.D.. has the best agents, the best resources, and the best intelligence network."
"I'm giving you a month. If, after a month, that Mutants is still swaggering around in New York," he paused, "I'll reduce S.H.I.E.L.D..'s funding by fifty percent. You'd better think it over."
The call ended, Fury put the receiver back on the landline, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.
"Fuck you, all you do is cause trouble, and then you expect me to clean up your mess?"
Fifty percent of the funding comes from the fact that S.H.I.E.L.D..'s annual budget is in the tens of billions of dollars, with the America contributing the majority of the global funding, thirty percent, which amounts to several billion dollars.
What do billions mean? It means the maintenance costs of three Helicarrier, the salaries of thousands of agents, and the operating costs of dozens of secret bases around the world.
Without these, S.H.I.E.L.D.. would need to save the Earth while also making money.
Fury opened his eyes, picked up another phone on the table, and dialed a number.
"Connect me to the intelligence department."
A burst of noise came from the other end of the phone, followed by a woman's voice. "Sir, this is the intelligence department."
"What's going on with Russell's side?"
"Yes." The woman's voice became urgent. "According to surveillance data, a group of Mutants is gathering at the hotel where Russell is staying. They are not X-Men, not members of the Brotherhood, but a group of independent, unorganized Mutants from various places."
They seem to be on a pilgrimage.
Fury's finger stopped on the table. "Pilgrimage?"
"They thought Russell was the 'God's Whip,' the Savior of Mutants, the Messiah. They wanted to see him, to follow him, to—" the woman paused, "To fight for him."
Fury's head was throbbing; no matter how you looked at it, Russell was the next Magneto.
How many people are there?
"Currently, more than forty have been detected, and the number is still increasing."
"Continue monitoring." Fury hung up the phone, leaned back in his chair, and looked at the light on the ceiling.
The light was very white and dazzling, like an eye that would never close.
"The God's Whip," he repeated the word under his breath, a bitter smile curving his lips.
He didn't believe in God, but he knew that some people did.
Those who believe are more difficult to deal with than those who do not believe.
"Sir, there's one more thing." She paused, as if confirming the data on the screen, "There's just been a shooting on Wall Street. An armed man stormed into Chester Investment Management and shot and killed four executives, including CEO Murray Chester."
Fury's finger stopped on the table.
Shootings of Wall Street capitalists are not news in the America; they happen several times almost every month.
Just as he was about to hang up, the woman said something else that made his hand freeze in mid-air.
"Based on eyewitness accounts and preliminary comparison of surveillance footage, the gunman is identified as Jim, the same Jim who was shot and killed by Hawkeye agents in front of the Four Seasons Hotel yesterday."
Fury's eyes narrowed; his first reaction was, "Impossible."
He had seen the on-site report firsthand; Hawkeye's Adamantium arrow had pierced Jim's skull, damaging his brainstem and causing his vital signs to drop to zero.
Captain America confirmed that the man was indeed dead.
"Are you sure?" Fury's voice was very low.
"The surveillance footage is very clear; his face, his build, his gait—it matches yesterday's recording perfectly. And," the woman's voice wavered slightly, "He seems to have gotten stronger again."
Fury's headache worsened.
He leaned back in his chair, his single eye fixed on the ceiling light, the white glow stinging his eyes.
It must be Russell; only Russell is so enigmatic.
That Mutants not only gave Jim power, but also brought him back from the brink of death.
This wasn't just a superpower, it was a miracle. He didn't believe in God, but he began to wonder if the young man called "The God's Whip" truly possessed some kind of power beyond reason.
"Send me the surveillance footage; I want to see it myself," Fury said, frowning.
"Yes, sir."
The call ended.
Fury sat there, his fingers tapping lightly on the table in a erratic rhythm, like someone groping in the dark, unsure of where to step next.
He quickly picked up the phone and dialed a number.
"Get me Professor X."