The commercial break cut away, leaving only the glow of Times Square's massive screens reflecting off Alex's face. His jaw clenched as he stared upward, mind spinning.
Spider-Man. Missing.
It wasn't like he knew Peter Parker personally, but the weight of that news landed hard. The city was different—colder, emptier—just from those words. If someone like Spider-Man could vanish without a trace, then what did that say about the rest of them?
Before Alex could sink too deep, Deadpool leaned against his shoulder with a dramatic sigh.
"Well, there it is, folks. Spider-Man's gone. Poof. Kaput. Probably taking a nice sabbatical in Tahiti. And the city's crying like they just found out their emotional support barista moved to Brooklyn."
Alex shot him a side glance. "…Really?"
Deadpool nodded solemnly. "Yup. And you know what this means, don't you? More screen time for yours truly. Finally. I've been waiting for years to headline the Spider-Man: No Way Home 2.5 director's cut." He turned to the sky, cupping his hands around his mask. "HEY FEIGE! THIS IS MY TIME, BABY!"
People stared. Alex pinched the bridge of his nose.
Then the sound came.
Not sirens. Not an explosion. Something heavier. The wet crack of knuckles against bone. A yell. A thud.
Both Alex and Deadpool's heads whipped toward the noise. A crowd had already formed a block down, circling around the source.
"Uh oh," Deadpool muttered, "either someone's hosting a very underground fight club, or someone forgot the rule about not looking at Butcher funny."
They pushed through the throng, and sure enough—there he was. Butcher.
His coat was torn, his shirt spattered with blood that wasn't his, fists hammering into the face of a man sprawled on the pavement. The poor bastard looked half-dead already, but Butcher wasn't slowing. Not with that look in his eyes.
The kind of look that said he wasn't here to win a fight. He was here to make an example.
Around him, four other guys—members of the same gang judging by their colors—were circling, shouting, knives flashing under the streetlights.
"You stupid motherf—" one of them lunged, and Butcher's fist shot out, catching him square in the throat. The man dropped like a sack of bricks, gagging for air.
The crowd roared, some backing away, others egging it on.
Deadpool leaned forward like he was watching pay-per-view. "Ohhh, and in the red corner, weighing in at one hundred ninety-five pounds of pure rage and suppressed daddy issues—it's Biiiiillllllly Butcher! And in the blue corner—oh wait, nope, never mind, blue corner's already unconscious."
Alex grabbed Deadpool's shoulder. "We need to stop him before he kills someone."
Deadpool tilted his head. "Do we, though? I mean, the choreography's pretty solid. 9/10 for brutality, 10/10 for creative use of pavement."
Another gang member rushed Butcher from behind. Butcher didn't even look—just spun, elbow cracking against jaw, then slammed the guy into the side of a car so hard the alarm went off.
Alex hissed. "He's losing it."
Deadpool tapped his chin. "…Or—and hear me out—we let him burn off the crazy, and then swoop in before the NYPD arrives. That way I don't risk my pretty face."
Alex glared.
Deadpool raised his hands. "Fine, fine, I'll help. But if I get blood on my suit, you're paying the dry cleaning."
The last of the gang members were hesitating now, looking less like predators and more like prey caught in the wrong fight. Butcher stood there in the center of the wreckage, chest heaving, eyes still locked in that fury that didn't care about witnesses, law, or consequences.
The crowd murmured, phones already up, recording every second.
Alex pushed forward through them, Deadpool trailing lazily behind.
"Oi!" Butcher barked, slamming a boot into the unconscious man's side before anyone could speak. "Any of you mugs wanna try your luck, then? Come on! COME ON!"
The gang members didn't move. But the street was seconds away from tipping over into chaos.
Alex knew it. Deadpool knew it.
And Butcher? He didn't give a damn.
The crowd buzzed, phones lifted high, every lens focused on the wreck in the middle of the street. Butcher stood over a man whose face was already swollen to pulp, knuckles split and dripping. The air reeked of blood, sweat, and asphalt heat.
Alex shoved through the onlookers, Deadpool bouncing behind him like this was his favorite concert.
"Butcher!" Alex shouted, voice sharp. "What the hell are you doing?!"
Butcher didn't answer. His teeth were bared, lips curled in a snarl, eyes burning with something raw and untethered.
Another gang member lunged with a switchblade. Butcher twisted, caught the wrist, and snapped it like a twig. The scream tore through the air.
Alex froze. He hadn't even seen how it started. One second, Spider-Man's disappearance was the headline. The next—Butcher was tearing into people like a rabid dog.
Deadpool leaned to Alex's ear. "Ohhh… someone skipped their therapy session. This is some grade-A, unfiltered childhood trauma right here."
"Not helping," Alex snapped.
"Wasn't trying to. Just narrating."
The crowd roared as more gang members rushed in at once. Three of them. They didn't care about odds anymore—one had a bat, another chains wrapped around his fists, the last screaming bloody murder.
Butcher didn't retreat. He met them head-on. The bat swung, cracked against his forearm, but he didn't even flinch. He drove his fist into the guy's jaw—bone gave way with a sickening pop. The chain guy swung wild, wrapping Butcher's arm, trying to pin him, but Butcher yanked him close and rammed his forehead straight into the guy's nose. Blood sprayed like a burst pipe.
Alex winced. "Jesus Christ…"
Deadpool clapped like he was watching fireworks. "BRAVO! Standing ovation! This is what I call cinema!"
The last of the trio tried to tackle him, but Butcher planted his boot into the man's chest, sending him flying back into the hood of a car.
The car alarm blared.
That sound was the tipping point.
The gang's backup came pouring from the alleyways, at least a dozen more, all bristling with knives, bats, chains—whatever they could grab. The crowd shrieked, scattering, though some idiots still kept filming from a distance.
Alex stepped back, heart hammering. "Oh, fuck me…"
Deadpool drew both katanas with a flourish. "Nope, not gonna. But I will definitely murder some street thugs for free. Finally, some cardio!"
The swarm descended.
Butcher was already in the thick of it, tearing into bodies like a machine. Alex barely had time to react before one came at him with a broken bottle. Instinct snapped in—Alex ducked, shoved the guy away, and drove a knee into his gut. The bottle shattered harmlessly on the pavement.
"What the hell even started this?!" Alex shouted, dodging another swing.
Butcher, lost in the storm, didn't answer. He had one guy by the throat, slamming his head against a lamppost again and again until it bent.
Deadpool sang as he spun through attackers, his blades slicing chains, knocking bats out of hands. "♫ Do you hear the people scream, screaming the song of angry men? ♫" He decapitated a thug mid-spin and paused. "Wait—wrong musical, my bad."
Alex blocked another strike, shoving the attacker into Deadpool's path.
"Much obliged," Deadpool said, stabbing the guy in the thigh.
The gang wasn't coordinated, but there were too many. Every time one fell, two more lunged from the shadows.
Butcher didn't slow. His face was splattered with blood, his coat ripped, but he kept swinging. Every hit carried enough rage to crush bones.
Alex grabbed his shoulder mid-swing. "BUTCHER! Stop! You're gonna kill—"
Butcher shoved him off, not even recognizing his voice. "Stay outta my way!"
Alex stumbled back, shaken.
Then he saw the lights—flashing blue and red, sirens cutting through the chaos. NYPD was on its way.
The gang didn't care. They kept coming.
Deadpool stopped mid-fight to wave toward the sirens. "Oh great, here comes the cavalry. And by cavalry, I mean the people who'll shoot first and ask questions later!"
Alex clenched his fists. This wasn't a brawl anymore. It was a goddamn warzone. And they were in the middle of it, with no clue why Butcher had lit the fuse.
The sirens wailed closer, bouncing off the walls of every building on the block. Blue-and-red flashes painted the brawl like a twisted rave. Butcher was still pounding into the gang like he had a personal vendetta against every bone in their bodies. Deadpool whirled in the middle, blades dripping, singing some off-key version of Sweet Caroline. Alex just tried not to get stabbed.
The cops skidded up in cruisers, doors flung open, guns raised. "NYPD! Drop your weapons—"
BOOM.
A blur of red and steel slammed into a gang car, flipping it like it was a toy. The entire crowd froze. From the smoke staggered a massive bear of a man in a torn red suit, clutching his back like he'd just pulled something.
"HAAAA! Red Guardian is here to save pathetic capitalist city once again!" the man bellowed, chest puffed. "Your crimes end now, puny gangsters! Face the might of Mother Russia's true Avenger!"
"Oh my God," Alex muttered, dragging a hand down his face.
Deadpool's mask turned to him. "Santa Claus just hit the steroids, my dude. I'm aroused and concerned."
Before anyone could process, another figure landed beside him with a perfectly timed eye-roll—Yelena Belova, in black tactical gear, dual batons crackling with electricity. She pointed at Red Guardian without hesitation.
"Alexei, you cannot even walk down stairs without your knees crying, and yet here you are, flipping cars." She snapped at the gang. "This is embarrassing. Even for criminals. Please—stop fighting so I do not have to ruin this new vest. It is dry clean only."
More chaos. A cloaked figure flickered into view—Ghost, warping in and out of tangibility, her movements sharp, surgical. She kicked a bat out of one thug's hand and phased through another's swing like it was nothing. No words, just precision.
Then came the clank. Heavy boots, tactical armor, and a goddamn shield shaped suspiciously… like a taco.
John Walker—new Captain America, or whatever branding nightmare he was trying to own—stood tall, gripping the curved, awkward shield. He barked: "Everyone stand down! You're in violation of—"
Yelena cut him off immediately. "John. Your shield looks like taco. No one takes you serious with taco shield."
"It's tactical!" Walker barked, lifting it proudly.
"No, it is Taco Bell menu item. Crunch Supreme. You are Captain Taco now."
Even in the chaos of the fight, some gang members actually laughed.
Walker's face went red. "It's battle-tested design! Sentry said—"
Red Guardian slapped his thigh, roaring with laughter. "HA! Captain Taco! Is perfect name! You even come with bad aftertaste of American patriotism."
"SHUT UP!" Walker snarled, charging forward to smash a thug into the wall with the taco-shield, sending chunks of plaster flying.
Finally—metal clicked against asphalt. A quieter presence stepped out of the shadows: Bucky Barnes. His vibranium arm gleamed under the city lights, his expression flat, detached.
The gang quieted—not out of fear, but because something about him demanded silence.
"Enough," he growled, stepping between the fighters. "Drop your weapons. Now."
The gang hesitated. Then one lunged anyway. Bucky disarmed him with a single flick, then sent him sprawling with a knee to the gut. He didn't even blink.
Alex froze as Bucky's eyes flicked toward him. Recognition? No. Just suspicion.
Deadpool, however, waved enthusiastically. "BUCKY! My man! Looking good! Did you condition the murder hair today, or is that just 'brooding ex-assassin chic'? Because lemme tell you—it works."
Bucky ignored him, turning back to the fight. He wasn't here for banter.
Red Guardian, meanwhile, hoisted two gang members by their collars and smashed their heads together with a crack like coconuts. Yelena sighed, baton-whipping three more thugs in clean arcs. Ghost phased through a charging thug, then uppercut him so hard his feet left the ground.
Within minutes, the tide flipped. The gang that had nearly overwhelmed Butcher's fury was now being dismantled by a team so chaotic it felt more like a circus than Avengers.
Alex stared, adrenaline rushing. This wasn't the Avengers he remembered—this was something new. Something stranger.
And Bucky? He noticed them. Deadpool, Alex, even Butcher, who still stood soaked in blood like a rabid wolf. But Bucky didn't step toward them. Not yet.
Not until the fight was over.