by Greg Cox
“I wish I could share your optimism, Captain,” Cyclops said. An uncanny glow burned steadily behind the ruby lens of his visor, making it impossible to read the X-Man’s eyes. “But in a world where our own government can finance and develop projects like the Gamma Sentinels, we mutants have learned that sometimes the best we can hope for is an occasional lull in a never-ending battle against hate and prejudice.”
“Wish I could say you was wrong about that, junior,” a deep, raspy voice intruded from the shadows under a rear comer of the mansion. A tall figure wearing a worn brown trenchcoat stepped into the light, revealing the voice to belong to none other than Nick Fury, Executive Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. A stark black eyepatch concealed his scarred left eye, but the surviving eye looked over Cap and the other heroes without a hint of trepidation at arriving uninvited and unannounced amidst such a formidable assembly. “Best I can promise,” he said to Cyclops, “is that you ain’t the only one bothered by Sentinels and garbage like that.”
“Fury,” Captain America greeted the veteran, whom Cap had known since they first fought together against the Axis powers during World War II. “I don’t recall Jarvis letting you in.”
Fury snorted, biting down hard on the unlit cigar clenched between his rugged jaws. “A quarter-century in the cloak-and-dagger business teaches you a few things,” he remarked, “like how to make a quiet entrance when you want to.” He glanced to his left, where Bruce Banner, clad in hand-me-downs from Steve Rogers’s closet, had begun to creep quietly toward the door. “No need to make tracks on my account, Doc,” Fury stated. “Likewise for your mutant buddies.” He looked squarely at Cyclops and Storm and raised his voice loud enough to be heard all through the garden. “Get this straight, heroes. I ain’t here—not officially, that is. Who you Avengers want to hang out with in your free time is none of my beeswax. I just wanted to let you know that Fve pulled the plug on the entire Gamma Sentinels project.”
“Good to hear it,” Cap said. As far as he was concerned, the very idea of robot policemen manufactured specifically to hunt down mutants, whose only crime was being bom different, was a blatant violation of everything America stood for. He liked to think that the federal government’s occasional forays into Sentinels and Mutant Registration Acts were misguided aberrations that hardly reflected the mainstream of American thought and history, but such shameless incidents only made it harder for concerned citizens, like Cyclops and his mutant teammates, to trust the nation Cap had proudly spent his life defending. “I hope this really is the last we’ve seen of the Gamma Sentinels and their ilk.”
“Well,” Fury hedged, *1 wouldn’t be surprised if there’s still a few more anti-mutant initiatives hidden in the black ops budgets of other agencies, but I can tell you this: S.H.I.E.L.D. is out of the Sentinels business for good.” Fishing around in the pockets of his trenchcoat for a lighter, he eventually gave up and stuck his cigar into one of his coat’s interior pockets. “After all the ruckus those prototypes caused, no one’s goin’ to have the nerve to even breathe the word ‘Sentinel’ around me for another decade or so.”
“I wish I could believe you, Fury,” Cyclops said grimly. Beside him, Storm solemnly nodded in accord. “With all due respect, though, you’ll forgive me if the X-Men take your promises with a grain of salt. We’ve heard such assurances before.”
Captain America was saddened but not surprised by the X-Man’s suspicious attitude. Perhaps that’s truly the lasting difference between the Avengers and the X-Men, he thought soberly. As officially-sanctioned heroes, the Avengers fight on behalf of the very same system that the outlawed X-Men regard with mistrust and apprehension.
Only time would tell which team saw the future most clearly....