The next day, every news channel was in overdrive.
Headlines screamed across screens. Anchors spoke faster than usual. Footage from Midtown—missiles streaking through the sky, the sudden appearance of the dragon, civilians running—played on loop.
What the government had tried to bury only made it worse.
Public anger boiled over.
People weren't debating mutants anymore—they were furious about the military.
Taxpayer money. Missiles fired into a populated district. Orders given with civilians still in the blast radius. If not for one intervention, thousands would have died.
That single fact changed everything.
By noon, protests erupted across the country.
Crowds filled streets, signs raised high, voices raw with rage.
"WE ARE NOT COLLATERAL."
"STOP BOMBING YOUR OWN PEOPLE."
"PROTECT CIVILIANS — NOT LIES."
"MIDTOWN COULD HAVE BEEN US."
Some signs were shakier, handwritten in haste:
"TODAY IT WAS MUTANTS. TOMORROW IT'S US."
News helicopters hovered over packed avenues. Social media feeds flooded with clips from Lucy's livestream—reuploaded, mirrored, impossible to erase. Analysts tried to spin it. Officials dodged questions.
But the damage was done.
For the first time in a long while, the narrative had slipped out of the government's control.
And people weren't asking what mutants might do anymore.
They were asking what their own leaders had been willing to do to them.
As for the facilities that vanished yesterday—those barely registered. Government warehouses. State-owned depots. Power and logistics sites with no public face. No homes. No hospitals. No civilians displaced.
So people shrugged.
If anything, the reaction was coldly practical: good. Those weren't public properties. No families lost roofs. No neighborhoods erased.
Compared to missiles over Midtown, missing government facilities felt insignificant—almost irrelevant.
In the White House, the atmosphere was suffocating.
Monitors covered the walls—Midtown from every angle. Missile trails. Civilians running. The room smelled faintly of cold coffee and panic.
The President stood at the head of the table, jaw tight.
"Who," he said slowly, voice cutting through the room, "is the idiot who ordered a missile strike in the middle of Midtown?"
No one spoke.
Then—almost in unison—every head turned.
Toward William Stryker.
He stood rigid at the side of the table expression unreadable.
The President followed their gaze. His eyes locked onto Stryker.
"…You," he said flatly.
Stryker didn't flinch. "Mr. President, the target was a Class-A threat. Uncontained. Uncooperative. The risk assessment—"
"The risk assessment involved thousands of civilians," the President snapped. "Live media. Urban density. You authorized mass-destruction weapons in the center of a city."
"He was not human," Stryker replied coldly. "And hesitation would have cost more lives in the long term."
A senior advisor slammed a tablet onto the table. "Sir, protests are erupting nationwide. Allies are demanding answers. The phrase 'acceptable losses' is trending."
Another voice added, tense, "Public confidence is collapsing. They watched us try to bomb our own citizens."
Stryker's tone didn't change. "Public opinion is temporary. Survival is permanent."
The President stared at him, disbelief hardening into anger.
"You didn't just cross a line," he said. "You erased it. You turned a containment failure into a national scandal."
He leaned forward.
The President's voice cut through the room, cold and absolute.
"You will give me a full report. Every authorization. Every override. Every name involved."
His voice hardened. "After that, you will be court-martialed, stripped of your rank, and sentenced for your crimes."
William Stryker didn't flinch.
He didn't argue.
Didn't defend himself.
Instead… he smiled.
It was subtle. Wrong.
Then the lights flickered.
A pressure rolled through the room—not physical, but mental. Like hands closing around the inside of their skulls.
One by one, the people seated around the table winced. Some grabbed their temples. Others sucked in sharp breaths, eyes unfocusing for just a heartbeat.
A dark influence seeped in—silent, invasive, unseen.
The feeling passed almost as quickly as it came.
The President straightened.
So did the generals. The advisors. The aides.
Their expressions had changed.
The tension was gone. Doubt erased. Replaced with something disturbingly calm.
Stryker tilted his head slightly, watching them with interest.
"Hm," the President said at last, his tone no longer sharp. Measured now. Agreeable.
"You're correct."
A few officers nodded along unconsciously.
"In dealing with threats of that magnitude," the President continued, "acceptable losses are… unavoidable."
Stryker's smile widened just enough to notice.
Around the table, heads nodded again—slow, synchronized.
***
On the mutants' side,
They stood at the edge of the island, staring.
Where there should have been bare land and ocean wind, there was now a mini town—rows of buildings, roads already laid out, power lines humming faintly. It looked lived-in. Functional. Impossible.
Confusion spread through the group.
"This island was supposed to be empty," Charles said slowly. "Completely barren."
Erik turned, eyes narrowing. "Then someone explain to me," he said, voice sharp, "how a town appeared overnight."
Jean hesitated. Explaining it felt like trying to describe a dream that had happened while awake.
"Well… it sort of just happened," she said finally. "Yesterday."
Clarice nodded. "He waved his hands. Things moved. A lot of things."
That didn't help.
Charles looked around again, thoughtful now rather than stunned. "It's… impressive. And it would give our people stability." His tone shifted, cautious. "But it's also exposed. An island is a fixed position. If humans decide to strike—"
"You don't need to worry about that."
Luke's voice cut in casually.
They turned.
He was walking toward them with a pizza box in one hand, chewing without urgency, like this was just another afternoon. He stopped beside them, took another bite, then gestured vaguely around the island.
"There's security."
Erik frowned. "Security?"
"No one's getting through," Luke said calmly. "As long as security is here."
That security was none other than Esdeath.
Luke had given her exactly one instruction: if anyone attacked the island, she was free to do whatever she wished. No limits. No restraint.
And he knew William Stryker—the mutant hater to his core—would never ignore something like this. An open island. A visible refuge. A symbol.
It was inevitable he would strike.
Which made it perfect.
One move, two outcomes:
Esdeath would finally get the battle she craved, without restraint or boredom—
and the island would gain a deterrent so absolute that no second attack would ever be considered.
Two birds.
One strike.
*****
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