Cyclops: Fear No Gods (Marvel)

The moment the fight started, Logan was on him.

Scott barely had time to shift his stance before Logan closed the distance, moving like a force of nature, unrelenting and brutal.

A slash from the right was avoided by Scott sidestepping. A follow-up thrust from the left had Scott twisting his body just enough to evade. But Logan didn't slow down, he kept coming as he immediately forced Scott back with a heavy kick aimed at his ribs.

Scott angled his body, one arm moving to block as he absorbed as little impact as possible while countering with a sharp palm thrust to Logan's face.

It barely did anything.

Instead, Logan smiled and pressed forward, throwing a heavy elbow that Scott barely ducked under before pivoting out of range. Scott stayed light on his feet, controlling the space between them, measuring the distance.

Logan wasn't just fast—he was relentless. He moved like a brawler, always taking shots if it meant closing the gap. He didn't mind absorbing damage. He didn't need to mind, not when he could heal from whatever damage was dealt to him within seconds.

Scott, on the other hand, couldn't afford to take even a single clean hit. He kept his stance fluid, staying in motion, countering with kicks and well-placed palm thrusts to control Logan's aggression, to push him back without overcommitting. He aimed for joints, for leverage points—trying to redirect rather than block, because trying to take Logan's attacks head-on was suicide.

Still, no matter how well he adjusted, Logan kept coming. Scott analyzed every move, every strike—waiting, calculating. He knew Logan's tendencies—the way he pressed forward after a failed claw strike, how he leaned just slightly to the right before throwing a left knee. There were gaps in his movements, small openings where a counter-attack could be launched.

But every time Scott saw a weakness—Logan recovered instantly. He adjusted just as quickly, reacting with sheer instinct and ferocity.

Scott feinted a high kick before shifting low, sweeping Logan's leg out from under him. Logan dropped, but before Scott could follow up, Logan had rolled with the momentum and lunged forward, claws flashing.

Scott barely twisted out of the way in time, throwing his hands up as he redirected Logan's momentum. But even midair, Logan adjusted, shifting his body and landing in a tight crouch, already moving again.

Scott exhaled sharply, forcing himself to focus.

This wasn't a fight he could win.

Not like this.

'If I used my optic blasts…' The thought lingered in his mind. 'So many openings.'

A single blast would create distance. Another could knock Logan off balance. If he wanted to, Scott could overwhelm him with raw power.

But he wouldn't.

He had set this limitation on himself for a reason.

Cyclops had been extremely skilled, but not nearly skilled enough. He had always been good enough to stall the best, to keep them occupied until reinforcements arrived or until he found an opening to use his optic blasts to land a decisive blow. But he had never been able to stand among the truly elite as a martial artist.

That was a weakness Scott refused to accept.

He was going to surpass Cyclops.

Another slash—Scott shifted just outside its range. A follow-up knee—he angled his body and countered with a sharp side kick, forcing Logan a step back. His breathing was measured, his body tense but controlled.

Logan grinned, eyes gleaming. "Not bad, kid."

Scott didn't respond.

He just kept fighting.

-X-

Scott sat hunched forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his shirt drenched in sweat as he tipped a bottle of water to his lips. The cold liquid did little to cool him down—his body still burned from exertion, his muscles aching from the constant strain of dodging, countering, and failing to turn the fight in his favor.

Across from him, Logan wiped the sweat from his face with a towel, his breathing barely heavier than usual.

Scott exhaled slowly, gripping the bottle a little tighter.

Another night.

Another loss.

He had yet to beat Logan even once.

It wasn't that he expected to—Logan had more experience, more skill, and was damn near impossible to keep down. But the fact that he still hadn't managed it gnawed at him.

Especially now.

Ever since Jean had arrived, their sparring matches had become… different. More intense. More personal.

Scott knew why.

Cyclops' emotions hated losing to Logan even more with Jean in the picture. The pride, the frustration, the deep-seated resentment of always coming in second—it bubbled up inside him, unwanted, intrusive.

Scott hated that feeling.

Hated how it made him react.

Because he—Scott—wasn't like that.

He enjoyed the challenge Logan represented, in fact, he welcomed it. Logan was a wall, a man who had forgotten more about fighting than Scott had ever and possibly would ever learn.

That wasn't something to resent.

It was something to surpass.

He wouldn't let Cyclops' emotions dictate how he felt about these fights. Logan was an opportunity—one he had every intention of exploiting until he won. Scott wouldn't let Cyclops' pride get in the way of his own growth.

Scott took another slow sip of water before finally speaking. "We go again tomorrow night."

Logan slung the towel over his shoulder and smirked. "Yeah, yeah. Try not to fall over next time, kid."

Scott's fingers curled slightly, his grip tightening around the bottle—but his expression remained neutral.

Logan turned and walked off, leaving the Danger Room without another word.

Scott exhaled sharply, his fists clenching at his sides.

He wasn't going to stop until he surpassed Logan, until he could stand at the top. No matter how many nights it took—no matter how many times he lost, Scott would get there.

-X-

Nick Fury sat in his dimly lit office, fingers steepled as he stared at the array of classified reports sprawled across his desk. The dim glow of the screen before him cast sharp shadows across his face, deepening the furrow in his brow. He had been reviewing everything, piecing together the scattered puzzle of what the world was becoming.

Things had changed.

Once, after the Invaders and World War II, there had been an eerie quiet. The world had settled into a fragile normalcy. Superhumans had existed in the shadows, appearing here and there, but nothing that required global attention. It had seemed—for a time—that humanity had moved beyond an era of walking gods and living weapons.

Then came the Fantastic Four.

The moment they hit the scene, everything had shifted. The game had changed with superhumans no longer just being whispered rumors anymore—they were a reality broadcasted on every news station. If the world was waking up to the presence of metahumans, then so were the forces looking to control or exploit them.

Looking at it all now, Fury was certain of one thing. 'This would be worse than the Invaders. Much worse.'

There was one growing crisis that SHIELD had been forced to address in recent years—mutants. They had been around before World War II, that much was clear. Hell, Fury had worked with some during his earliest days.

But now?

They weren't just background noise.

They were public and with publicity came fear.

Politicians had wasted no time in weaponizing the mutant issue, using propaganda to stoke panic and fuel their campaigns. The rising anti-mutant sentiment was spreading fast, and SHIELD had been pulled into the mess whether they liked it or not.

Monitoring mutants was now a top priority.

But Oscorp was another issue entirely.

Norman Osborn had been making big waves lately, unveiling powerful new weapons that had already drawn attention from SHIELD's intelligence divisions. The so-called villains—Sandman, Rhino, Lizard, Vulture, and most recently Doctor Octopus—weren't just criminals.

They were weapons.

SHIELD had gathered enough intelligence to know Osborn's playbook. The "villains" weren't just random super-powered thugs running amok—they were a manufactured threat, a marketing campaign to justify Oscorp's expansion into global weapons manufacturing. The entire show was orchestrated to lure in investors, showing them the "problems" Oscorp's technology could solve.

The worst part of it all?

It was working.

Governments were watching closely, considering Oscorp's technology as a viable solution for handling the mutant issue.

This wasn't just about criminals anymore.

It was about control.

But as dangerous as Osborn was, something else had caught Fury's attention.

Something that didn't fit.

One individual.

One person who had appeared in four different classified incidents.

The attack on Oscorp.

A battle on a train in Illinois.

An unknown skirmish in Dunfee.

Finally and most recently, the prison break at Fort Washington.

The last two events had particularly stood out to Fury, because they coincided with the disappearances of two known mutants—Hank McCoy and Robert Drake.

Both of them had vanished from their hometowns, only to reappear in Bayville just days after. Then there was another piece of the puzzle—the Avenging Angel of New York.

SHIELD had already tracked Warren Worthington III as the winged vigilante operating in New York. Now the same winged individual had been present at Fort Washington.

Fury had already cross-checked the timeline—Warren had left New York just before Fort Washington. Days later, he had shown up in Bayville.

It was too much to be a coincidence.

Someone was assembling a team of mutants.

Fury suspected that whoever had been involved in the Oscorp attack, the Illinois train fight, and the other incidents was the same person responsible for gathering mutants in Bayville.

If that was true… then SHIELD had another big problem on their hands. With their resources spread thin that did not bode well.

Fury tapped his fingers on the desk, contemplating his next move. After a moment, he grabbed his secure line and dialed.

"Hill," he said as soon as the call connected. "Get me Romanoff. I have a mission for her."