Duncan’s flight home was quiet. The usual hum of the city below, the buzz of traffic and the distant glow of skyscrapers—it all blurred together as he drifted aimlessly through the night air. He wasn’t flying so much as floating, his plasma flickering faintly around his hands and feet, reflecting the dim lights of the streets below. When his apartment building came into view, he sighed and descended, landing softly on the balcony he rarely used.

Inside, the apartment felt smaller than usual. The walls seemed to press in around him as he locked the sliding glass door behind him. It wasn’t much of a place—just a one-bedroom apartment with beige carpeting, scuffed furniture, and a lingering smell of fried food from the diner down the block. But it was home. Or at least, it had been.

Duncan slipped off his boots, leaving them by the door. The first thing to go was the cowboy hat, which he placed carefully on the small table by the entryway. Then came the tie, which he yanked loose with a sharp tug, tossing it onto the couch. His shirt followed, revealing the faint scars that crossed his broad shoulders and chest—faint reminders of fights he hadn’t wanted but couldn’t avoid.

He slumped onto the couch, the cushions sagging under his weight as he stared blankly at the TV across the room. The remote sat on the coffee table in front of him, but he didn’t bother reaching for it. The screen was dark, reflecting his own tired, disheveled image back at him.

“What now?” The question rolled around in his mind, sharp and heavy. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as his hands hung limply between them.

“After so many years of tryin’ to hide this from ’em... this happens.” He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. His thoughts spiraled, chasing themselves in circles.

“Was it ’cause my parents told me not to fly…?” he muttered under his breath, the words almost absurd as they left his lips. “No, that’s ridiculous. Dang it.” He rubbed his temples, frustration building in his chest like a pressure valve about to burst. “My damn job, my damn family… fuck.”

The word came out louder, sharper, cutting through the quiet apartment like a knife. He leaned back against the couch, his head tilting up to stare at the ceiling.

For a long time, he just sat there, the silence wrapping around him like a heavy blanket. Then, with a groan, he pushed himself to his feet and headed to the bathroom.

The bathroom mirror wasn’t kind. The fluorescent light overhead cast harsh shadows across his face, highlighting every line of frustration etched into his features. His eyes—dark brown, intense—darted along his reflection, taking in the person he’d become.

He saw the long hours, the sleepless nights spent poring over textbooks in college. He didn’t need to sleep—his powers gave him stamina far beyond that of a normal man—but he remembered forcing himself to stay still, to act like everyone else. He hadn’t partied, hadn’t gamed, hadn’t even gone out much. While others had let loose, he’d buried himself in his studies.

It wasn’t just discipline—it was desperation. He wanted to be someone who didn’t have to rely on his powers, someone who could stand on his own merit, who could be respected for his work, not feared for what he was.

But here he was. The best shot he’d ever had to be that person—his career at America Bank—was gone.

His gaze lingered on his reflection, his jaw tightening. His hands gripped the edges of the sink, his knuckles white against the porcelain. “What was it all for?” he whispered, his voice raw.

The answer didn’t come immediately, but deep down, he knew. He’d been running. Running from who he was. Running from the truth.

He thought back to his parents’ house, to the chaos of that night. He remembered the Sentinels’ glowing eyes, the cold, mechanical voices declaring his family complicit. He remembered the fear in his parents’ faces, the wreckage left behind, the sense of helplessness that had gripped him as he realized that no matter how much he tried to hide, he would never be free of it.

But then he thought about the fight. About standing his ground, about protecting the people he loved. About the fire in his chest when he ripped that Sentinel apart, when he defied the men and machines that wanted to destroy him simply for existing.

“What if that’s the purpose?” The thought whispered to him, soft but insistent. He let go of the sink, standing up straighter as the idea took root.

He moved to the small desk in the corner of his bedroom, flipping open his personal laptop. His fingers flew across the keyboard, searching for the files he’d collected over the years. Some of them he shouldn’t have had—documents and reports from work, things he’d copied onto a flash drive just in case. Others were news articles, interviews, and financial records he’d dug up in his spare time, piecing together the tangled web of Carraro Industries and its shady dealings.

There it was, in black and white: the connections, the contracts, the whispers of influence that tied Carraro to men like Graydon Creed and the Friends of Humanity. It had been right in front of him all along, but he’d ignored it, too afraid to get involved.

Not anymore.

Duncan leaned back in his chair, the glow of the screen illuminating his face as he stared at the data. If no one else was going to do something about this, he would. He didn’t have a badge or a title anymore, but he didn’t need one. He had his powers, his mind, and a clear purpose.

His parents had told him to avoid trouble, to stay safe. But trouble had found him anyway. He couldn’t avoid mutant politics any longer—not when it was people like Creed and Carraro pulling the strings, spreading hate and fear.

“Mutants have the right to be free to live, to work, to choose,” he thought, his hands balling into fists. “And I’ll be damned if I sit by and let anyone take that choice away.”

He started compiling a plan, digging deeper into the documents, cross-referencing the names and dates, building a case in his head. He didn’t just want to expose them—he wanted to bring them to justice. Creed, Carraro, anyone tied to their efforts to suppress mutants… they’d learn what it meant to mess with someone who refused to back down.

For the first time in days, Duncan felt a flicker of clarity. He didn’t know where this path would lead, but he knew one thing for sure: he wasn’t going to stop.

He closed the laptop, stood, and walked back to the mirror. His reflection stared back at him, and this time, he saw something different.

Not just a mutant. Not just a man.

A fighter for Liberty. A defender of Choice.

Where he didn't have a choice, he would give mutants their freedom to choose.

“They picked the wrong person to mess with.”

Duncan stared at his phone as it vibrated on the coffee table, the name "Dad" glowing on the screen. He let it buzz for a moment, debating whether he had the energy to talk, but there wasn’t much of a choice. If he ignored it, his dad would just call back.

He sighed and swiped to answer, bringing the phone to his ear. “Howdy, Daddy.”

“Duncan, son,” Robert's warm, familiar voice came through the line, laced with concern. “How ya goin’?”

Duncan leaned back into the couch, his free hand rubbing his temple. “Fine, I reckon,” he lied, his tone flat.

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“Ya ain’t fine,” his father said, his tone sharper now. “I can hear it in yer voice. What’s wrong?”

Duncan paused, his jaw tightening. He’d hoped to avoid this conversation, but there wasn’t much point now. His father could always see right through him, even over the phone. “I got fired.”

“What?” The word came out sharp, like a whip crack. “How? Why? What happened?”

Duncan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his voice bitter. “Well, they thought that after that Creed incident, I wasn’t worth keepin’ ’round anymore. Maybe Plasma’s too much for ’em.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line before his dad spoke again, his voice softer now. “I’m sorry, son. I really am. How are ya holdin’ up?”

“Good,” Duncan replied immediately, though the word felt hollow in his mouth.

“I don’t think ya are,” his dad said gently. “But I understand ya need time to think ’bout it. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.”

Duncan swallowed hard, his throat tight. He wasn’t ready to talk about how he felt, so he veered the conversation away, his voice forced and casual. “How’s Iowa?”

“Well, it’s plain and borin’,” his dad said with a chuckle, playing along with the change in topic.

“So it ain’t that different from Midland, huh?” Duncan quipped, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“I mean,” Robert replied, a teasing edge to his voice, “I don’t think our city’s that borin’. But I’ll give ya this—things are quieter here. We rented out the house back home. Damndest thing—the guy who came to look at it was an oil manager, came in with his daughter and… his ex-wife. Turns out, they’re back together now. Apparently, he’d been livin’ in a company house with his lawyer and engineer ’fore they kicked ’em out.”

Duncan blinked, sitting up straighter. “Jesus. Can they do that?”

“Well, it’s a boomtown, son. You hear the darnedest things in these parts. Feel bad fer the lawyer and the engineer, though—puttin’ up with that kinda bullshit can’t be easy. Anyway, me and your mama bought a house up here in Des Moines.”

Duncan frowned, his brows knitting together. “Y’all need help with those payments?”

“What payments?” his dad replied with a scoff. “I just bought the house. No mortgage.”

Duncan’s eyes widened. “What? How the hell’d y’all manage that?”

“It’s from that money we got from sellin’ the family land,” his dad explained, his tone casual.

Duncan’s stomach sank at the memory. “Oh…” he murmured. “That one time y’all killed my cowboy dreams of havin’ lil’ horses runnin’ ’round and those Indian miniature cows.”

“You don’t need no damn horses, Duncan,” Robert said with a laugh. “You can fly, son.”

“Maybe not as a means of transportation,” Duncan muttered, rolling his eyes.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched between them, not awkward but heavy, filled with unspoken thoughts. Duncan stared at the floor of his living room, his fingers twitching slightly against the edge of the couch.

Finally, Duncan broke the silence. “Dad,” he said, his voice quieter now, “let me ask—how’s the investigation goin’ into those guys who assaulted y’all? The ones who brought the Sentinels?”

There was a pause, and Duncan could hear Robert sigh on the other end of the line. “I spoke with the Sheriff,” his dad began, his voice measured. “He said they’re facin’ charges for attempted murder, battery, assault, property damage…”

Duncan’s brows shot up. “What? No terrorism? No WMD possession? That’s what Sentinels are, right?”

“Well, they took the case to the state,” his dad replied. “It’s off the local prosecution now. The Sheriff and the Police Chief handed it over to the DPS and the CID.”

Duncan froze, his grip on the phone tightening. “CID? What the hell does the army have to do with this?”

“They classified the Sentinels as reported Department of Defense property.”

Duncan shot to his feet, pacing the room now. His boots thudded against the floor as he ran a hand through his hair. “What?!” he barked, his voice rising. “They’re clearly FoH! Those machines weren’t from the federal government—unless…” His thoughts trailed off, and a sick feeling churned in his gut.

“Son,” his dad said, his voice quieter now, almost apologetic. “They’re buryin’ the investigation. Clear as day.”

Duncan’s pacing became more erratic, his boots scuffing against the floor as he turned sharply, his free hand gesturing wildly as he spoke. “They’re coverin’ for ’em, Dad! These bastards attacked our home—your home—with freakin’ Sentinels! And the DPS and CID are just sweepin’ it under the rug?!”

“I know, son,” his dad said, his voice calm but heavy. “I don’t like it either. But they’re sayin’ those Sentinels were government property, and that puts it outta the Sheriff’s hands.”

“Government property, my ass!” Duncan snapped, his plasma flaring faintly at his fingertips as he paced faster. “They’re lettin’ ’em off easy, Dad! Creed and those bastards had goddamn war machines—they don’t care who gets hurt! If they’re not charged with terrorism, it just gives ’em a free pass to do it all over again!”

“Son,” his dad said gently, “calm down.”

“Calm down?” Duncan barked, spinning on his heel to face the empty room, his chest heaving. “I can’t calm down, Dad! They’re coverin’ for people who wanted to kill us! How am I supposed to just sit here and let that slide?”

“You ain’t gotta sit and do nothin’, Duncan,” his dad said firmly. “But you need to think. Don’t rush into somethin’ reckless.”

Duncan stopped pacing, his shoulders rising and falling with each heavy breath. He stared out the window, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. “I can’t let ’em get away with this, Dad,” he said quietly, his voice trembling with anger. “I can’t.”

“I know,” his dad replied softly. “Just… be careful, son.”

Duncan didn’t respond. He stood there for a long moment, staring out at the city lights, his mind racing.

“They’re buryin’ it,” he thought, his jaw tightening. “Fine. Let ’em try. I’ll dig it back up myself.”

The words spilled out of Duncan like a flood, anger laced into every syllable, his pacing growing faster with each turn across the living room.

“Well, our goddamn mutant dollars are great when the IRS fuckin’ comes fer the income taxes,” he snarled, “but when the government’s supposed to do somethin’, it doesn’t give a shit!”

“Son,” Robert said, his voice sharp but steady, trying to cut through the rising anger.

But Duncan wasn’t done. He spun on his heel, his finger jabbing at the empty space in front of him like he was speaking to every bureaucrat in Austin and Washington. “I’m done with this bullshit, Daddy,” he declared, his voice low and fierce. “I’m optin’ out of the goddamn Social Contract.”

“What?” Robert's voice pitched higher, his tone baffled. “What does that even mean, Duncan? Ya can’t—”

“It means,” Duncan interrupted, his voice rising, “I’m sayin’ fuck ya to those bureaucrats in Austin and D.C. and goin’ after Creed and the FoH myself. I’m gonna rip—”

“Ya won’t do such a thing, Duncan Nenni,” his dad barked, his tone suddenly commanding. “I won’t have my son goin’ ’round murderin’ people!”

Duncan froze mid-step, his hands clenching at his sides. He turned toward the phone, his jaw tightening. “The hell, Dad? Just one week ago, ya said ya’d—and I quote—‘put ’em on the ground’ when ya pulled yer gun.”

“Well,” his dad countered, his tone softening just slightly, “I spoke with yer mother ’bout it, and she told me it might not be a good way. And you were the one talkin’ all ’bout incentives and not killin’ people.”

Duncan let out a sharp breath, running a hand through his hair. “Well, these people need some killin’, Daddy.”

“No, son,” Robert said, his voice stern but steady. “Listen to me. Where’s this gonna go, huh? Do ya think they’re gonna see my son—the person—when ya fly away and rip people to shreds? Or are they just gonna see a superpowered freak with a vendetta, someone they can point at and say, ‘See? He’s dangerous. He’s exactly what we’ve been warnin’ ya about.’ Is that what ya want?”

Duncan stopped pacing, his breath catching in his throat. His father’s words hit like a hammer, but it wasn’t just the logic that got to him—it was the memory.

“Kill me!” the X-Cutioner’s voice screamed in his mind. “SHOW THEM WHO YOU ARE! MUTANT!” The scene from Dallas replayed in his head, the raw hatred in the man’s voice, the taunt designed to push him over the edge. He could still feel the weight of it, the pull toward giving in, the temptation to prove him right.

He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly as the tension began to drain from his shoulders. “Ya’re right, Daddy,” he said, his voice quieter now. “This ain’t the way to make a point. I won’t stoop to their level.”

There was a pause, and when his father spoke again, his voice was softer, almost relieved. “Good, son. Don’t have blood on yer hands.”

Duncan allowed himself a wry smile. “Well, I can’t speak fer a body count… but blood…”

“Duncan,” his father said, his voice stern again.

“I hear ya, Daddy,” Duncan replied, a faint chuckle escaping him despite the heaviness of the moment. “I’ll do my best.”

“So,” Robert said after a moment, “what’s next?”

Duncan turned toward the painting hanging on his wall—a lone cowboy standing under a full moon, his shadow stretching long across the desert floor. He stared at it for a long moment, the figure almost speaking to him.

“The Alamo is what’s next, Dad,” he said finally, his voice firm, resolute.

Robert was quiet for a moment, then let out a soft chuckle. “Well, I’ll let ya do yer thing then. Just… be smart, alright? And remember—me and yer mom love ya.”

Duncan’s voice softened. “I love y’all too, Daddy.”

The line clicked, leaving Duncan alone again in the quiet apartment. He stood there for a moment, his hands hanging loosely at his sides as he stared at the phone.

A soft chime pulled his attention to the screen—a notification. It was from Leo’s Tailor.

The message was short but direct: “We're ready to take your custom request. Please come to the shop for measurements. 23rd Street, New York City.”

Duncan let out a slow breath, setting the phone down on the counter. His gaze drifted back to the cowboy in the painting, the figure standing defiant, unmoving in the face of whatever was coming.

“Alright,” he thought to himself. “Let’s see what this tailor’s got for me.”