Steve Rogers had seen war from the air before.
Europe had burned beneath him once, cities broken into jagged silhouettes, smoke rising like a second sky. He remembered the sound of engines, the clouds of fire and death that rose from each HYDRA base they destroyed.
From aboard a plane, it was easy to dismiss those below you; they didn't look human, just tiny dots moving around—targets to take down.
This battlefield was different.
Below them was the golden shield of Wakanda, a semi-transparent dome of energy that could easily withstand artillery strikes, tanks, bombs—anything the world had thrown at it so far was blocked.
And the people… it was truly a tragic sight. All around the dome, people surrounded it from all sides: people with guns, riding in cars with bigger guns mounted onto them… yet the most tragic part was that while Wakanda did nothing but hide—didn't attack at all—every moment, lives were lost.
And the reason? Carelessness. A total disregard for life.
While all these nations, all these armies were united in a common goal against a common enemy, they didn't fight as a united force. One army would shell the shield with artillery, and another army's light infantry would suffer casualties as they were hit by fragments or caught up in the blast.
"Are they… are those people attacking with spears?" Tony couldn't help but ask as he zoomed in on one particular section of the attacking forces.
"I believe those are the Moran Warriors from the Maasai tribe—one of the few remaining nomadic tribes left on the continent," Reed answered, equally shocked to see such a primitive weapon on this battlefield.
"Clearly," Doom's cold voice came from behind his mask, "none were left out of this conflict. Those who didn't join… were likely accused of treason. Everyone is forced to fight, even if it is with spears."
"But there are plenty of other weapons… I have the numbers for just how many weapons have been secretly funneled into this conflict, and they could easily have armed them with guns." Tony couldn't understand why they hadn't been armed.
"Greed," Magneto grunted coldly. "They could give them weapons, they could arm them, but look at it—would an extra dozen guns make a difference?"
The answer was clear to all: no. It would make no difference unless they had far stronger weapons, such as nuclear warheads. It was unlikely that anything would change soon. The energy readings from the large golden dome were stable; even the ripples in it didn't seem like progress—just the shield dispersing force efficiently.
So yes, it was greed. Those with the weapons simply didn't want to give them away.
Because they also understood that a few guns wouldn't matter. What they needed was more outrage; they needed people to die so they could blame Wakanda and pressure them.
It was war. Brutal. Dirty… it was war.
"Signal all coalition forces," Fury ordered from behind him. "Wide-band transmission. We're invoking emergency ceasefire authority under the UN Charter and Illuminati oversight."
Steve watched the tactical displays light up as the message went out, translated and rebroadcast across dozens of frequencies.
They waited… and waited… and waited… Behind them, people whispered, spoke, relayed the order again and again, got in contact with commanders and generals, ordered them to stand down.
It was never easy to stop a battle; countless orders had to be given and sent down the command lines.
And when dozens of different armies, with different people in charge… it was countless times more difficult to make them obey an order to stand down.
Even more so when many of those in charge were brutal warlords who had no regard for law and order.
The waiting stretched on.
Orders went out. Confirmations came back—partial, fractured, reluctant. Some units acknowledged the ceasefire. Others stalled. A few outright ignored it.
On the displays, artillery fire slowed… then resumed. A rocket slammed into the shield and detonated harmlessly, the golden barrier rippling like disturbed water. Shrapnel rained outward, tearing through a cluster of infantry too close to the blast zone.
Screams flickered across the audio feed before the channel cut.
Steve's jaw tightened.
"They're not stopping," Hill said quietly. "Some units never acknowledged. Others are claiming they never received the order."
"They received it," Doom replied flatly. "They are choosing not to obey."
Steve turned, anger flaring. "We give it time. You can't expect—"
"How much time?" Magneto interrupted.
Steve froze.
Magneto had been silent for several long seconds, his gaze fixed on the battlefield below—not on the shield, not on the armies as a whole.
On the people.
Another barrage fired. Another ripple. Another spray of debris. More bodies falling for no reason at all.
"How many more must die while we wait for men like them to pretend they recognize authority?" Magneto asked softly.
"Erik—" Charles began, alarm creeping into his voice.
"No," Magneto said. "I am finished waiting."
The air changed.
It was subtle at first—a pressure in Steve's ears, a faint vibration underfoot. The carrier's metal hull sang, just barely, like a tuning fork struck by an unseen hand.
"What are you doing?" Steve demanded.
Ending this.
Magneto didn't answer aloud.
He lifted one hand.
The battlefield convulsed.
Every piece of metal below responded at once.
Rifles tore themselves from hands. Machine guns twisted violently free from mounts. Artillery barrels bent like wet clay, shells spilling uselessly into the dirt. Tank treads locked, seized solid as internal components wrenched out of alignment.
A storm of steel rose into the air.
Weapons screamed skyward—thousands upon thousands of them—ripped free and hurled upward in a widening spiral. Soldiers cried out, not in pain but in shock, as the tools of war were stripped from them in an instant.
In fact, the only ones who still had weapons were the Moran Warriors; their wooden spears were immune to Magneto's power. It was almost comical: the weakest weapons, the most useless, were the only ones left.
Not that they ever mattered.
Within seconds, the battlefield was quiet.
Not peaceful.
Silent.
Steve stared in disbelief as the metallic mass hovered above the continent: a vast, writhing cloud of twisted guns, shattered artillery, and mangled war machines held aloft by sheer force of will.
"This war is over," Magneto said.
His tone was not angry.
It was absolute.
On the displays, chaos turned into confusion, then fear.
Units fell back. Commanders shouted orders that no longer mattered. Men dropped to their knees, hands raised—not in surrender to Wakanda, but to something far more terrifying.
Steve's hands clenched into fists.
"Erik, stop," he said, voice strained. "This isn't peace. This is coercion."
Magneto turned to look at him.
"How many more corpses would you like before you call it peace?" he asked.
Steve flinched.
"This is exactly what they fear," Steve pressed. "That we'll impose our will because we can. That we're tyrants."
"We are tyrants," Doom said calmly.
Steve spun on him. "What?"
"We have been granted authority above all law," Doom continued, unmoved. "If that is not tyranny, then the word has no meaning."
He gestured toward the now-silent battlefield.
"The question is not whether this is tyranny. It is whether it is justified."
Tony ran a hand through his hair, eyes glued to the data scrolling across his HUD. "I don't like it," he muttered. "I really don't."
"But?" Reed asked quietly.
"But it worked," Tony admitted. "Casualties just dropped to zero. Zero."
Reed's expression was troubled. "It sets a precedent."
"So does letting thousands die while we argue," Magneto shot back.
Steve looked at the battlefield again.
No firing. No explosions.
Just people—confused, terrified, alive.
"This can't be how we do things," Steve said, more to himself than anyone else.
Magneto's voice softened, just slightly.
"Then tell me, Captain," he said, "what you would have done instead."
Steve had no answer.
And in that silence, he felt it—the terrible weight of what they had become.
Not heroes reacting to crises.
But arbiters deciding when war was allowed to exist.
They did not meet in Wakanda.
That had been decided quickly—and unanimously.
No African leader would walk beneath Wakanda's shield after being disarmed by force, and Wakanda would not host talks while surrounded by armies that had only stopped firing because something stronger than them had intervened.
So the negotiations were held where none of them truly belonged.
Above the world.
The SHIELD aircraft carrier hovered miles above the continent, its vast shadow sliding across cloud cover and open land alike. Engines thrummed constantly beneath the deck, a reminder that gravity itself was optional here.
Steve stood at the edge of the briefing chamber, watching as delegations were escorted in under armed guard—not as prisoners, but not as equals either.
Neutral ground, Fury had called it.
Steve wasn't sure such a thing existed anymore.
Across the chamber, African leaders took their seats—presidents, generals, warlords who now wore tailored suits instead of fatigues, their expressions carved from resentment and hard-earned survival.
Opposite them stood T'Challa, prince of Wakanda and the Black Panther—one of Wakanda's known superhuman forces.
One man against a continent.
Steve couldn't help but admire the nerves required for something like that. Yet the young prince seemed unbothered by the odds. He stood with hands clasped behind his back, chin high, spine straight—a statue carved from dignity and defiance.
Steve approached him slowly.
T'Challa turned slightly, acknowledging Steve without breaking formality.
"Captain," he greeted.
"Prince T'Challa," Steve replied. "Thank you for agreeing to this."
The prince's gaze was steady, older than his years. "What alternative did I have? Stay inside a dome while my people can't sleep because of the noise? You stopped the war, Captain. For that, Wakanda owes you thanks."
His tone was even, but Steve heard the unspoken words that followed.
A silent reminder that he hadn't forgotten he had been denied a spot among the Illuminati. That this entire crisis might have been avoided if the world had listened to him instead of building armies outside his nation's border.
"I wish we had reached out sooner," Steve said softly.
"Do you?" T'Challa asked mildly. "Or do you wish we had simply been better at controlling information?"
Steve blinked.
"We both know the problem was never just a vaccine," the prince continued. "It was about power. About nations that have grown rich off Africa's resources, and a group of people who decided they would not beg for what was already theirs."
He gestured vaguely toward the chamber.
"They are not here to negotiate peace," T'Challa said. "They are here to make demands."
Before Steve could respond, the door opened.
Fury stepped in, flanked by Hill and a small detachment of security personnel.
"Alright, everyone," Fury announced, ignoring the muttering that rose from the assembled leaders. "Let's get started."