Imperial Heights, Midland, Texas.

In the quiet of his childhood bedroom, Duncan Nenni sat cross-legged on the floor, his gaming laptop humming faintly on the desk in front of him. His room was a chaotic mosaic of his life—both past and present. Faded posters of Captain America, their edges curling, clung to the walls alongside vintage Texan paraphernalia: an old Roxxon gas station sign, battered Texas license plates, and models of police cars and M1 Abrams tanks arranged haphazardly on shelves. A small stack of economic textbooks sat untouched on a dusty corner of his desk, remnants of his college years, alongside Lego sets that had long since lost their original shapes.

On his laptop, Duncan toggled between games, his fingers deftly dancing across the keyboard. His dark brown hair, slightly disheveled, fell into his eyes as he muttered under his breath. “Mother—” he cursed softly, his screen flickering with a defeat notification. The sharp contrast between the game’s noise and the oppressive quiet of Midland at night filled the room.

Between rounds, he leaned back in his chair, pulling out his cellphone to scroll through the latest headlines. His jaw tightened as he read an article about mutant incidents near the Rio Grande, but he said nothing. Instead, he tapped out a few terse notes in a file on his phone, a habit born of his analytical mind.

The silence was broken by a soft, melodic voice calling from downstairs.

“Duncan, son?”

He didn’t look away from his phone immediately. “Mama?”

“Are you really going to stay up here all night and not talk to your parents? You leave tomorrow, y’know.”

His lips twitched in annoyance, but he sighed and spun his chair around to face the door. “I don’t think there’s much to talk about.”

“Just come downstairs, son. Alright?”

He hesitated, considering going back to his game, but her tone left little room for argument. “Fine, fine… Will do.”

Duncan floated down the stairs rather than taking them step by step, his arms crossed as he descended. His family’s small but tidy living room was exactly as he’d left it months ago: worn leather couches, a crocheted throw over one armrest, and a modest entertainment center with a muted television playing an old Western. The warm scent of steak, green beans, and potatoes wafted from the kitchen.

At the dining table, his parents sat waiting. His father, Robert Nenni, was leaning back in his chair with an amused smirk. At 5’5”, Robert had a dad bod, his stocky frame softened by years of comfort in retirement a stark difference from his son's 6'1". His sun-kissed skin bore faint lines from decades under the Texas sun, and his short-cropped white hair was streaked with remnants of its darker youth. His dark hazel eyes, sharp and observant, flicked toward Duncan as he floated into the room. His observant eyes tired from years of service as a Warden.

“Good mornin’, son,” Robert said sarcastically, his voice deep but tinged with humor. “Finally got off that computer?”

“Yup,” Duncan replied flatly, letting himself land softly on the floor and pulling out a chair.

His mother, Marcy Nenni, gestured toward the spread of food with her small hands. At 5’3”, she was petite but carried herself with a calm authority, her dyed blonde hair pulled into a neat bun. Her lightly tanned skin seemed to glow in the kitchen’s soft light, her brown eyes kind but firm. Years of working as a high-ranking social worker for the Texas Department of Criminal Justice had given her a voice that could both comfort and command, a trait Duncan had never fully escaped.

“Here, sit,” she said, nodding toward the green beans, steak, and potatoes.

Duncan sat and reached for his plate, but his father cleared his throat meaningfully.

“Robert,” Marcy said, her tone exasperated. “Prayer.”

“Right, sorry,” Robert mumbled, folding his hands.

Duncan suppressed a sigh, clasping his hands loosely together. His parents bowed their heads, eyes closed, and Marcy began to pray. Her voice was soft and melodic, but Duncan’s mind wandered, his eyes open and fixed on the food.

When the prayer ended, Marcy and Robert began eating, their movements slow and deliberate as they savored their meal. Duncan, however, tore into his steak without hesitation, prompting a raised eyebrow from his father.

“So,” Robert said, his voice cutting through the silence, “you go back to Dallas tomorrow?”

“I’m goin’ tonight, actually,” Duncan replied, not looking up.

“Bus?”

“Flyin’.”

Robert set his fork down, narrowing his eyes. “What have I told you ’bout flyin’, son?”

Duncan sighed, finally meeting his father’s gaze. “It is dangerous. They might think I’m a bad mutant.”

“I ain’t sayin’ you’re a bad mutant, but you know how people think these days,” Robert said. “It’s risky.”

“I ain’t no bad mutant,” Duncan replied, his voice sharp. “I’m just a guy flyin’ around. When Captain Marvel does it, y’all don’t complain.”

“That’s different,” Marcy interjected gently. “It’s not complainin’, Duncan. We’re just takin’ care of you.”

“I understand, Mama. Daddy. But this is an ability I have. Why should I spend money on a bus ticket or plane ticket when I can fly faster than they ever could?”

“Because it might trigger a Sentinel,” Robert said firmly, his voice heavy with concern.

“I’m not scared of no Sentinel,” Duncan shot back, leaning back in his chair.

“Son,” Robert said, his voice lowering, “Sentinels are made to protect us. If you destroy one, we risk not bein' able to protect ourselves from the likes of Magneto”

Duncan’s fork froze mid-air, his jaw tightening. “Seriously? Y’all think Sentinels were made to protect y’all? They’re made to kill people like me.”

“There’s no people like you, Duncan,” Marcy said softly. “You’re human, just as we are.”

“I ain’t human,” Duncan muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not in the slightest.”

“You’re a child of God, flyin’ or no flyin’” Marcy said, her tone firm but calm.

Duncan nodded silently, though his eyes betrayed his disagreement. “Whatever y’all say.”

“Don’t patronize us or the Lord, Duncan” Marcy added, her voice laced with quiet pleading.

“I ain't patronizin’, I believe if there's a creator, he wouldn't mind a bit of that either.”

“Duncan,” Marcy said gently. “You forgot that we’re nothin’ without God.”

“Son,” Robert started, his tone softening, but Marcy raised a hand to stop him.

“Don’t say it, Robert,” she said firmly. “He knows what he has to do. Let the Lord touch his heart.”

Duncan’s eyes flicked toward his parents, his face carefully neutral. “We’ll see.”

The silence that followed was heavy but not hostile, the quiet acceptance of a family divided by beliefs but bound by love. For the Nennis, this was a familiar dance—one they’d been performing since Duncan’s powers first manifested. But for Duncan, every step felt heavier than the last.

Duncan Nenni leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his dark brown eyes narrowing as he studied his parents. The dining table was now cleared except for their glasses and a few scraps of green beans left on his father’s plate. The air in the small kitchen felt heavier now, filled with the residue of unspoken tension that always seemed to linger when the conversation drifted into certain territories.

He tapped his fingers on the table, breaking the silence. "Y’all know the Celestials, right?”

Across the table, Robert Nenni, his father, paused mid-bite of his steak, his hazel eyes snapping to Duncan with a mix of suspicion and disapproval. He had the look of a man who had heard this argument one too many times. "None of that atheist talk here, Duncan," Robert said, his voice stern but not quite hostile.

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Duncan sighed, his lips tightening as he rubbed his temple. "It ain’t atheist, it’s just empirical evidence. Evidence that suggests—"

Marcy Nenni, his mother, shook her head sharply. Her blonde bun swayed slightly as she raised a hand to cut him off. “I can’t believe you’ve started buyin’ into that celestial explanation fer yer powers. After all we taught you?”

Duncan leaned forward, his voice firm but restrained. “Mutants come from a race of Celestial-bred humans. It’s not some pie-in-the-sky theory. It’s based on study, on evidence."

"Not at the table, Duncan," Marcy interrupted, her voice rising slightly but still melodic, like she was trying to stay calm.

"Science can't explain everythin’, son," Robert added, leaning back in his chair, his expression guarded.

“That’s true,” Duncan agreed, his voice laced with sarcasm. “But I like to believe in what I see and what’s been proven."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Marcy’s face tightened, and Robert straightened in his chair, his eyes narrowing further.

“Alright, enough,” Robert barked, his tone sharp now, final. “Let’s go ahead and change the subject.”

He got up, grabbing his plate, and made his way to the living room, where his favorite recliner awaited him. His wife followed, shooting Duncan a warning glance as she passed.

Left alone at the table, Duncan pulled out his phone, his fingers already scrolling through his notifications. His thoughts swirled, half-formed arguments he hadn’t gotten to make still buzzing in his head.

“Let go of that damn thing fer a while and come sit with us, son,” Robert called from the couch, his voice slightly muffled by the hum of the television.

Duncan sighed, dropping his phone onto the table with a clatter. “Yeah, comin’,” he muttered, rising to his feet.

He settled into the smaller armchair across from his father, the leather creaking slightly under his weight. His plate had long since been emptied, but Marcy still glanced at him with mild concern.

“Son, you eat too fast,” she said, her voice tinged with maternal worry. “You’re gonna make yourself sick one of these days.”

Duncan waved her off. “Mama, I don’t even have to eat, really. Much less eat slow.”

Marcy frowned but didn’t push the point. She leaned back into the couch as Robert turned the volume up on the television. An ad was playing, brightly lit and cheerful, featuring couples walking hand-in-hand in sunny parks, laughing over coffee, and exchanging quick kisses. It was for Worthington Industries, the company Warren Worthington III, the former Angel, had thrown himself into after retiring from active heroism.

Marcy’s face twisted slightly as she gestured toward the screen. “Look, great. Now they’re all on TV. Mutants everywhere.”

“Wokeism,” Robert grumbled, shaking his head. “It’s in everythin' now. Even Stark and the Avengers.”

Duncan rolled his eyes, sinking deeper into the chair. “There y’all go again,” he said flatly. “It’s just some couple mutants in an ad. Ain’t nobody gettin’ hurt. No rights bein’ pushed ’round.”

“We don't need this mutantkind fight nonsense bein' spewed to our faces. Look, we don't dislike mutants… but they want to be everywhere nowadays.”

Duncan’s patience was wearing thin. He rubbed his temple, muttering under his breath before speaking louder. “Y’all stress too much ’bout this. As long as the Avengers are focused on, I dunno, not lettin’ the world go haywire, it’s fine. Really.”

“Woke talk, that's what this is.” Robert retorted in a disappointed tone.

“Eugh,” Duncan groaned, throwing his hands up. “It’s just people, my god.”

Marcy chimed in. “It's people now, ads today. Tomorrow it's they agreein’ with Magneto's crusade against us…”

“Extremism,” Robert added darkly, the words carrying a heavy weight.

Duncan sat up straighter, his frustration boiling over. “Alright, look, y’all. What the hell am I, huh?”

Marcy’s voice softened, her tone almost pleading. “We love you, son, but that doesn’t mean they have to make everythin’ about mutants.”

“Yep,” Robert said, nodding. “Now they’re just givin’ Xavier a reason to swoop down and replace us.”

“We’re not against ‘em,” Marcy said, her tone defensive. “We completely support Mutants. It’s part of our blood. Part of what makes America great.”

“Absolutely, As long as they don't shove it up on our faces,” Robert added, his voice dripping with finality.

Duncan let out a frustrated laugh, standing abruptly. “Jesus,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Y’all done here?”

The room fell into an uncomfortable silence, the only sound coming from the television. Duncan stood there for a moment, looking between his parents. Their expressions were defensive but not hostile, their love for him undeniable but wrapped in a package he couldn’t always stomach.

The TV flickered in the dimly lit living room, casting soft blue and white hues over the worn furniture. The news channel was running a segment on the X-Men, the iconic mutant team that had been a cultural touchstone for decades. Clips of their latest mission played on the screen: Cyclops, his ruby-quartz visor glinting under harsh floodlights, leading the team through a chaotic battlefield. Behind him, Storm hovered gracefully, summoning lightning, while Wolverine leapt into the fray, claws gleaming under the moonlight.

The footage cut to a still image of Cyclops giving a press conference, his once-youthful face now etched with lines of experience. His broad shoulders were still proud, but his stance carried the weight of years in the spotlight. His voice, when it came through the speakers, was calm and measured, but there was a roughness to it, a subtle sign of age that even the most powerful mutants couldn’t escape.

Marcy, sitting on the couch with her arms crossed, squinted at the screen and sighed. “Look at that. The X-Men again,” she muttered, her tone a mixture of mild disapproval and reluctant intrigue.

Robert leaned forward in his recliner, his hazel eyes narrowing as he focused on Cyclops. “Jesus Christ, how Cyclops got old,” he said, shaking his head slightly.

Marcy nodded in agreement, her blonde bun bobbing faintly. “Yeah, he looks old.”

Duncan, sprawled in the armchair with his legs stretched out and his phone in hand, glanced up at the screen. “I don’t think he’s changed that much,” he said, his voice casual.

Marcy turned to him, one eyebrow arched. “’Cause you’re young, Duncan. We remember him back in the 2000s.”

Robert gestured at the screen with his fork, pointing out Cyclops’ face. “He looked like a boy back then.”

“He was a boy,” Marcy added, her voice carrying the weight of nostalgia.

Duncan snorted, setting his phone down on the armrest. “And so were y’all,” he quipped, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Now y’all got wrinkles and a beer gut.”

Robert gasped, her hand flying to her chest in mock offense. “Don’t say that! I don’t even drink.”

“Still has a beer gut,” Duncan muttered, just loud enough to ensure they both heard it.

Robert pointed his fork at him, his tone playfully stern. “You better watch it, boy. I can still whoop ya if I need to.”

Duncan grinned, leaning back in the chair. “Yeah, okay, old man. Just don’t pull your back tryin’.”

Marcy rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a smile. “He’s right, though, Robert. You’ve put on a little weight since you retired.”

Robert groaned, rubbing his belly exaggeratedly. “It ain’t a beer gut. It’s… wisdom weight.”

Duncan burst out laughing, doubling over in his chair. “Wisdom weight? That’s a good one, Dad. I’ll remember that.”

“Laugh all you want,” Robert said, jabbing his fork toward Duncan again. “You’ll get there one day. Give it a couple decades, and you’ll see.”

Marcy chuckled softly, patting her husband’s arm. “Don’t listen to him, Robert. You’re still my handsome man.”

Robert leaned back in his chair, his chest puffing out slightly. “Damn right I am.”

The room fell into a comfortable silence as they turned their attention back to the TV. The segment shifted to a reporter interviewing Storm, who stood tall and composed, her silver hair catching the light. Marcy tilted her head, studying the screen. “Now she doesn’t look like she’s aged a day.”

Robert nodded in agreement. “That’s true. What’s her secret? Some mutant anti-aging power or somethin’?”

“Maybe it’s just good genes,” Duncan offered.

“Good genes my foot,” Robert grumbled. “If I had genes like that, I’d be on TV too.”

Marcy smirked. “If you had genes like that, you wouldn’t be sittin’ here in Midland with a ‘wisdom weight’ gut, I’ll tell you that much.”

Robert shot her a mock glare. “Marcy! You’re supposed to be on my side.”

Marcy laughed, leaning back into the couch. “I am on your side, but I’m not blind.”

Duncan shook his head, chuckling softly. “Y’all are somethin’ else.”

The segment on the X-Men ended, and the channel transitioned to commercials. The room grew quieter, the glow of the TV casting soft shadows on their faces. Robert leaned back in his recliner, hands resting on his stomach, his expression thoughtful.

“Y’know,” he said after a moment, “I used to think those X-Men were just a bunch of kids playin’ dress-up. But they’ve been at this a long time now. Gotta respect that.”

Marcy nodded, her tone softer now. “Yeah. They’ve done a lot of good. Even if I don’t always agree with how they do it.”

Duncan shrugged, his voice quieter now. “It’s not an easy job. People hate ’em no matter what they do.”

Robert glanced at him, his expression serious. “It ain't hate… it's skepticism, they keep doin’ it anyway. It means we're gettin’ somewhere, I reckon”

Duncan didn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the flickering TV. “Yeah,” he said finally, his voice low. “Maybe, maybe we're gettin' somewhere.”

The silence settled again, comfortable but reflective. The faint hum of the TV and the distant chirping of crickets outside filled the room. For a moment, the generational gap between them seemed to shrink, their shared respect for the struggles of others bridging the divide.

“Alright,” Robert said, breaking the quiet as he reached for the remote. “Let’s see what else is on. Maybe somethin’ less woke, huh?”

Duncan groaned, leaning his head back. “And there it is. Couldn’t go five minutes without sayin’ it.”

Marcy laughed softly, shaking her head. “You two never stop.”

The TV hummed softly in the background, broadcasting a news segment with dramatic urgency. Footage of Avengers descending on a clandestine AIM laboratory filled the screen, their iconic silhouettes illuminated against the chaos of explosions and smoke. The anchor’s voice cut through the noise:

“There it is! Avengers uncover an illegal AIM laboratory testing bioweapons on mutates. Early reports suggest this facility was experimenting with a new compound codenamed ‘Compost K,’ believed to be a potential anti-superhuman weapon.”

Robert Nenni, reclining in his favorite chair, nodded toward the screen. “Good news, I guess,” he muttered, his voice heavy with cautious approval.

Marcy leaned forward, squinting at the words scrolling across the bottom of the screen. “What is that… hmmm, Compost K?” she asked, tilting her head.

Duncan, sprawled on the smaller couch with his legs kicked up on the armrest, glanced up from his phone. “Weapon of war?”

“Most likely,” Robert said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Maybe somethin’ AIM cooked up to keep the Avengers off their backs. A deterrent, y’know? Somethin’ to stop ‘em meddlin’ with illegal weapons.”

Marcy sighed, shaking her head. “The world’s gettin’ crazier by the day.” She glanced at Duncan. “See, son, one day, maybe you can be an Avenger.”

Duncan snorted softly, lowering his phone. “I’m a mutant, Mama. I don’t think the Avengers are really takin’ applications from my kind.”

Robert waved a hand dismissively. “The X-Men are not the same anymore. It’s all wokeness and mutant snowflakes these days, always whinin’ ‘bout equality.”

“I wasn’t even talkin’ about bein’ an X-Man,” Duncan said, sitting up straighter. “I was fixin’ to say I’m fine with my financial career.”

“Good fer you, son,” Marcy said, nodding approvingly. “But you gotta consider other options... Think 'bout what I'm goin' to say now, just listen to me, son."

Duncan knew exactly what his father meant and he buckled up to the lecture that was about to commence. His fingers instinctively finding their way to pinch the bridge of his nose as sighed heavily.