Duncan touched down softly on 23rd Street in New York City, his boots clicking against the pavement as he folded his arms and looked around. The street bustled with New York’s usual chaotic energy, but his eyes were drawn to the small, somewhat weathered storefront in front of him. Above the door hung a faded sign that read “Leo’s Tailoring” in elegant, old-fashioned script.
“Dang, that shop must be older than time itself,” he muttered to himself, adjusting his white straw cowboy hat as he approached. The wooden trim of the building showed signs of wear, the windows slightly clouded, but the shop carried a certain weight—a sense of history. “Little disheveled, but maybe it’s the old-time charm of it.”
He stepped inside, a small bell chiming above the door. The interior smelled faintly of leather, fabric, and something warm, like cedar. The lighting was soft, casting the room in a golden hue. Rolls of fabric lined the walls, and a workbench near the back was cluttered with tools of the trade—spools of thread, scissors, and measuring tapes. The centerpiece was a wooden mannequin, currently draped with the beginnings of what looked like an armored suit.
Behind the counter stood an old, wiry man, barely five feet tall, with sharp, intelligent eyes behind thick glasses. He had sparse white hair that barely clung to his head and wore a plain black vest over a white shirt, his sleeves rolled up. His hands, though aged, moved with precise confidence as he adjusted a piece of fabric on the counter.
The man looked up as Duncan entered, his gaze immediately scrutinizing him from head to toe. “You must be the Texan,” he said, his voice carrying a slight Eastern European accent.
Duncan tipped his hat politely. “Yessir.”
The old man nodded. “Duncan Nenni, is that right?”
“Yessir.”
“Come, follow me.” He motioned for Duncan to step further inside, his movements brisk despite his age.
Duncan glanced around as he followed, his eyes scanning the walls. Framed photographs hung everywhere, each one depicting a different superhero—or sometimes a villain—wearing suits that were undeniably Leo’s handiwork. There was Captain America, Captain Marvel, Spider-Man, and others, some of whom Duncan didn’t immediately recognize. Mixed among them were a few less-than-reputable figures, their faces and costumes just as prominently displayed.
“You have quite a clientele, Mr. Zelinsky,” Duncan remarked, nodding toward the photos.
Leo chuckled softly, not breaking stride. “I’ve been in this shop longer than most people have been alive. I’m proud of what I do, Mr. Nenni.”
Duncan nodded thoughtfully. “I understand that. Though I see ya also have less-than-heroic customers.”
Leo paused, glancing at a picture of what was unmistakably Doctor Doom in one of his more regal robes. “They impose their will on me sometimes, but think about it, Mr. Nenni—am I responsible for their actions?”
Duncan shook his head. “No, no, no… not at all. Sir, I sympathize with you. A business is never right or wrong—not if it works like it’s intended to. There’s a demand, and you’re supply. Ya create the best supply there is, so there’s demand… no?”
Leo smirked, his sharp eyes sparkling behind his glasses. “Simple economics, no?”
“Classical economics, timeless—even if it ain’t the most accurate. Ya do what ya must. Ya provide quality goods and services.”
“As any tailor should,” Leo agreed, his voice carrying a hint of pride.
“Yet ya ain’t an average tailor,” Duncan continued, his tone admiring. “Ya have differentiation… a niche. That’s somethin’ special.”
“My father was a tailor before me” Leo said, opening an old red drawer with precise and well maintained tools of his craft. “He serviced the Angel”
“Warren Worthington?” Duncan asked, surprised. His eyes with a curious glint.
“Thomas Halloway” Leo responded, straightening his glasses as he looked down at his pouch picking a tape measure.
“Oh, damn, the original… original Angel” Duncan responded even more surprised.
“He taught me the craft, since then… I had many customers.” There was a slightly proud smirk to Leo’s aged face.
Leo nodded toward a raised circular platform surrounded by mirrors. “Please, stand up here. Extend your arms.” He grabbed a tape measure from his workbench as Duncan stepped onto the platform.
As Leo worked, his movements quick and methodical, he asked, “Have you decided on a name, Mr. Nenni?”
“A moniker?” Duncan asked.
“Yes. What will they call you?”
“The Alamo.”
Leo paused for just a moment, raising an eyebrow. “The Alamo? Oh, this is quite the name. I’ve never heard of someone naming themselves after a monument before. Or… is it the tree?”
Duncan smiled faintly. “No, it’s the Alamo in Texas, alright.”
“And what does it mean to you?” Leo asked, tilting his head as he adjusted the tape measure around Duncan’s chest.
Duncan’s voice grew steadier, more deliberate. “Freedom. In 1836, when Davy Crockett stood at the Alamo against Santa Anna and the Mexican Imperial troops, it meant defiance. It was about standin’ firm against centralized authority that tried to take Texan lands from the Texians. The Mexican government broke their deal with the empresarios in Texas, but those men stood their ground. It’s a defense of liberty and property, really.”
Leo straightened, looking at Duncan thoughtfully. “Quite heroic. But I’ve never heard such a perspective on a name before.”
Duncan shrugged. “It looks obvious at first glance, but it means much more.”
Leo nodded approvingly. “As any name should be. Simple, effective, and original.” He motioned for Duncan to turn slightly, adjusting the tape around his waist. “Alright, you can turn a bit here. Raise your chin.”
Duncan complied, falling into silence as Leo continued his work with quiet focus.
After a few moments, Leo gestured toward a chair near the platform. “Can you sit for a moment? I need to take your head measurements.”
Duncan sat down, removing his hat and setting it on his knee. Leo carefully wrapped the tape around his head, jotting down measurements as he worked.
“Yes, perfect. This will do nicely,” Leo said finally, stepping back with a satisfied nod.
Duncan glanced at the notes Leo had scribbled on a pad. “Well, Mr. Zelinsky, I can already tell I’ll be gettin’ my money’s worth.”
Leo smiled faintly, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I wouldn’t settle for anything less, Mr. Nenni. Now, let’s talk materials…”
Duncan adjusted his posture slightly as Leo Zelinsky paced around the platform, jotting notes in his well-worn leather notebook. The tailor, despite his age, moved with precision and purpose, his pen darting across the page with the speed of a craftsman who had seen it all. Around them, the shop was a blend of old-world charm and modern necessity—rolls of fabric stacked high, display cases with costume pieces, and photographs of heroes and villains alike hung proudly on the walls.
Leo tapped his pen against the notebook and looked up at Duncan. “Let’s start with the hat. Stetson, or do you have another preference?”
Duncan tipped his head slightly, his white straw cowboy hat catching the light. “Resistol, Mr. Zelinsky. It’s George Strait’s brand. Cattleman style. Black.”
Leo scribbled quickly, nodding. “Resistol. Excellent choice. And do you want any detailing on it? A little flair, perhaps?”
Duncan considered for a moment before replying. “A little star in the center.”
Leo paused mid-note, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “Like the one on your chest?”
“Yes, sir.”
The tailor tapped his pen against his chin, studying the idea before offering his perspective. “Might I suggest its removal? By adding a third star, that is asides from the chest and the belt buckle, in alignment with these two, it might cloud the design. Make it repetitive. It could detract from the simplicity you’re aiming for.”
Duncan raised an eyebrow, nodding slowly. “Good point, Mr. Zelinsky. Let’s keep it simple. No star on the hat. Just the black Cattleman.”
Leo smiled faintly, pleased with the decision, and continued his measurements, now moving to Duncan’s hands. “Let’s talk gloves. Material preferences?”
“White, definitely. Adds a little personality to the look, don’t ya think?”
Leo nodded. “White is an excellent choice. A bold contrast against the black. Adds elegance and distinction. Now, for materials, I’d suggest something flexible and heat-resistant—probably Kevlar-lined goatskin. Durable enough to handle the impacts you mentioned.”
“Perfect,” Duncan replied, watching as Leo wrapped the tape around his palm. “Needs to be able to withstand plasma burns too. Don’t want ’em fallin’ apart in the middle of a fight.”
Leo paused, his expression curious. “Ah, yes, your powers. Tell me, Mr. Nenni, what exactly am I working with here?”
Duncan leaned back slightly, his tone matter-of-fact. “My body’s got a plasmatic cellular structure, Mr. Zelinsky. Makes me tough—really tough. Super-strength, flight, and I can generate plasma energy. Heat vision too. Temperatures can get hot enough to melt steel, but I can dial it back. I can even use the plasma to fly faster. Supersonic, sometimes faster.”
Leo’s eyebrows raised slightly, clearly impressed. “Fascinating. And you can maintain control of this energy?”
“Yessir. It’s part of me. I can cast it like bolts, shape it, whatever. But it means my gear has to handle impacts, heat, and friction. Comfortable, but practical. I don’t need overt support—just somethin’ I can move in without it botherin’ me.”
Leo nodded, taking notes. “Understood. For the uniform, I’ll be pulling inspiration from what I designed for Sentry—sturdiness and heat resistance—with elements I used for Captain Marvel. Flexible, breathable, but incredibly durable.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Duncan said, impressed.
Leo continued. “Now, let’s talk about the mask. Chrome, yes?”
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Duncan nodded firmly. “Yup. Sleek. Somethin’ that looks futuristic, almost like a solid piece. Smooth lines. Needs to be durable enough to handle impacts, maybe the occasional plasma flare, but I don’t want it bulky.”
Leo scribbled furiously. “I’ll use a titanium alloy with a chrome finish. Lightweight but strong. A polymer lining inside for comfort and to prevent overheating. It’ll be seamless, almost like it’s part of the uniform.”
Duncan whistled softly. “That’ll do.”
Leo set the notebook down for a moment, stepping back to assess Duncan’s frame. “The long coat. Let me guess—black?”
“Yessir. Long enough to flow but not so long it gets in the way. Needs to move well, be fire-resistant. Maybe add some reinforced padding on the shoulders.”
Leo nodded. “Understood. I’ll use Nomex fibers for the coat—fire-resistant and lightweight. As for the belt?”
“White, like the gloves. Needs compartments—don’t know what I’ll carry yet, but it’s better to have options.”
“Of course. Modular design, with a sleek finish to match the rest of the uniform. And the boots?”
“Black, sturdy. Needs traction and protection for landin’ hard.”
“Kevlar-reinforced leather, Vibranium-toe caps for extra protection. They’ll last through anything.”
Leo straightened, closing his notebook. “Well, Mr. Nenni, I think we’ve covered every piece. Your suit will be fitted to handle extreme heat, plasma emissions, and impacts, while maintaining flexibility and style. But I won’t lie to you—it’ll be pricey. About $28,000.”
Duncan exhaled sharply, but nodded. “Figures. That’s fine. Quality don’t come cheap.”
Leo smiled, extending a hand. “That’s the attitude of a man who knows what he wants. I’ll have the first fitting ready in two weeks.”
Duncan shook his hand firmly. “Much obliged, Mr. Zelinsky. Lookin’ forward to it.”
Duncan lingered on the circular platform as Leo Zelinsky finished packing up his notebook and tools, the air between them settling into a calm, almost conversational rhythm. The faint hum of the shop’s fluorescent lights and the rustle of fabric in the background were the only sounds for a moment. Duncan adjusted his Resistol hat, tipping it slightly before glancing toward the wall where photos of the X-Men were displayed alongside other heroes.
“Hey, I was wonderin’… do ya do the uniforms fer the X-Folk?”
Leo paused, raising an eyebrow as he looked up from his tools. “Xavier’s Men?”
“Yup.”
The tailor let out a soft chuckle, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “Oh yes. I’ve done uniforms for them for quite a long time now—twenty years, by my count. Perhaps longer.” He showed Duncan an image with him and the X-Men, a framed picture by the side of the desk. Him, Angel. Cyclops, Jean Grey then Marvel Girl and Beast.
Duncan nodded thoughtfully. “So y’know ’em relatively well, then.”
Leo straightened, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he crossed his arms. “Well, I remember like it was yesterday. September 98’.”
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September 1998 – Zelinsky’s Tailoring Shop
The fall morning was crisp, with a chill that bit lightly at the skin but carried the unmistakable warmth of sunlight on its shoulders. The golden rays filtered through the slightly smudged windows of Leo Zelinsky’s tailoring shop, catching dust motes that swirled lazily in the air. Inside, the shop carried its usual scent: leather, fabric, and the faint tang of cedar wood polish. Rolls of fabric lined the walls, some rich and vibrant, others muted and practical. A cluttered workbench in the back bore signs of a project in progress—a Captain America suit, recently damaged in action, lay draped across the table.
Leo Zelinsky, wiry and sharp-eyed despite his age, was bent over the suit with intense focus, his hands steady as he stitched a tear along the shoulder. He wore his usual attire: a black vest over a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His glasses sat low on his nose, and his expression was one of utter concentration.
The familiar clink-clink of the shop’s bell broke his focus. He straightened slightly, glancing toward the entrance. A chilly breeze swept through the room, brushing against his skin and carrying a hint of dried leaves and city air.
“Excuse me,” a voice called from the doorway.
Leo set his tools down carefully, smoothing the fabric before stepping out from behind the workbench. As he approached the counter, his sharp gaze fell on the man entering his shop. The stranger wore a tailored suit, his features dignified and calm. But what caught Leo’s attention most wasn’t the suit or the polite, disarming smile—it was the wheelchair.
The man removed his hat with a practiced elegance, placing it carefully on a nearby hat stand. Then, as he wheeled closer, he extended a hand.
“I’m Charles Xavier,” the man said, his tone warm but deliberate.
Leo hesitated for only a moment before taking the hand and shaking it. “Hello, Charles. I’m Leo Zelinsky. How can I help you?”
“Well,” Charles said, his voice calm, almost serene, “I’m looking for suits.”
“American style, British, Italian?” Leo asked, already running through mental notes on cuts and fabrics.
“I meant superhero suits, Mr. Zelinsky.”
The tailor’s brows furrowed, his expression twisting slightly as he straightened, folding his arms. “Forgive me, sir,” he said, his voice laced with skepticism. “I might be too busy for humor, but you’re in a wheelchair.”
Charles didn’t respond immediately. Instead, his calm smile remained as he placed his hands lightly on the armrests of his wheelchair. Then, without moving his lips, another voice spoke—but this one wasn’t coming from his mouth.
“The suits aren’t for me.”
Leo jerked back slightly, his eyes widening as he looked around the shop, his gaze darting to the corners as if searching for the source of the voice. Then his eyes snapped back to Xavier.
“Hey… I’m sorry, Mr. Xavier. What is that?”
Xavier tilted his head slightly, his expression remaining calm. “I’m a mutant, Mr. Zelinsky.”
Leo’s face hardened, and he took an unconscious step back, his voice dripping with sarcasm but also concern. “Well, I’m sorry to tell you, today is not the day I service the Brotherhood. Come back on a Saturday night.”
Xavier didn’t flinch, his tone remaining steady. “I’m not in the Brotherhood.”
Leo raised an eyebrow. “You’re not?”
“No,” Xavier said simply. “I am not.”
“So…” Leo hesitated, folding his arms again. “What exactly do you want?”
“I’m building a team,” Xavier explained, his voice steady but with a spark of passion behind his words. “An elite task force composed of the best mutantkind has to offer. A group designed to bridge the gap between mutants and humans, to ease the tensions between our kinds.”
Leo stared at him for a moment, his sharp eyes studying Xavier’s calm expression. Then, suddenly, he burst into laughter, a deep, hearty sound that echoed through the small shop.
“I’m sorry,” he said, wiping his eye, “but that was a good joke, Mr. Xavier.”
“It was no joke,” Xavier replied, his tone unwavering. “I’m here precisely because I need to sort out the uniforms for this group.”
Leo shook his head, his laughter fading as he leaned on the counter. “This… this is very bold. Why are you doing’ this? You do know how mutants—”
“I’m well aware,” Xavier interrupted gently, his tone soft but firm. “The Brotherhood has done great damage to our image. Magneto’s crimes against humanity have long stained the perception of mutantkind. I aim to mend that image—to create a new one. One in which mutants are seen as allies, as people who can coexist with humanity.”
Xavier’s voice grew steadier, his passion shining through. “I’m a university professor, Mr. Zelinsky. My goal is to create an academy that doesn’t marginalize mutants, but instead integrates them into a life of service. A life of purpose. I want to avoid the path the Brotherhood has taken.”
Leo’s face darkened at the mention of Magneto. He turned slightly, his eyes falling on the Captain America suit on his workbench before turning back to Xavier. “Magneto killed many great heroes, Mr. Xavier. Many of them were clients of my father. Angel, Citizen V, Destroyer, Golden Girl, Fiery Mask… Do I have to name others?”
Xavier’s expression grew somber. “No, Mr. Zelinsky,” he said quietly. “I’m well aware of the heroes Magneto and his Brotherhood have killed. That is exactly why our mission is so important.”
Leo’s hand twitched slightly as his gaze grew distant, his voice quieter now. “I saw Angel die on TV. I still remember the day… Magneto gutted him like a pig, with the Statue of Freedom herself. He bled out on the floor of the Capitol. That was a terrible summer.”
Xavier’s voice softened. “I’m sorry you had to see that so young.”
“Yeah…” Leo muttered, shaking his head slightly as he straightened. “Beats me.” He sighed, looking Xavier in the eye. “Look, I’ll do this. But I don’t think this’ll work out, Professor.”
“I trust in the capacity of my students, Mr. Zelinsky,” Xavier replied, his tone firm but kind.
Leo scoffed lightly. “Really? And what’s an aging man in a wheelchair gonna teach children? How to save mutantkind? How to fight?”
Xavier’s calm smile didn’t waver. “I have help. Someone I know… someone you know has allowed me to dive into his mind, to see how to lead men into battle, to know how to fight.”
Leo’s brow furrowed. “And who’s that, exactly?”
Xavier’s smile grew slightly as pointed to the uniform in the back. “Steve Rogers.”
Leo froze. For the first time in their conversation, his sharp, confident demeanor faltered. His hand gripped the edge of the counter as his eyes widened. “Steve Rogers? You’re telling me… Captain America himself… gave you his strategies?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Xavier said, his tone calm but tinged with a hint of pride. “I’ve studied his mind, his tactics, his principles. I’ve learned from the best, Mr. Zelinsky. My students will do the same.”
Leo stared at him for a long moment, the weight of Xavier’s words settling over him like a heavy blanket. Finally, he nodded slowly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Well,” he said, his voice quieter now, “Come with me then.”
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Back to 2025
“So ya’re tellin’ me Captain America trained the X-Men?”
“In a way, Xavier learned a bit from what Captain America agreed to share about leadership and military strategy, passed down to Cyclops”
“So ya really know ‘em.” Duncan’s voice even raised a pitch in genuine surprise, his eyes wide.
“Of course, Captain America has been a regular since he got unfrozen back in the Reagan Era, and I already told you the story with Xavier’s Men”
Duncan smirked, leaning slightly against the mirror. “Fair ’nuff. I was fixin’ to ask, really… what are they like? The X-Men, I mean.”
Leo rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing slightly as if considering his answer. “Ah, that depends, my boy. Each of them is unique in their own way. As a group? They’re less polished than, say, the Avengers. The Avengers—men like Captain America, God bless him—they have a sort of… polish. A sheen. They’re public figures through and through. The X-Men? They’re different. They don’t come to me with a curated image. They’re raw. Genuine. There’s something… endearing about that.”
“I see, what ‘bout em… personally?” Duncan asked leaning a bit more against the mirror.
“Watch the Mirror, Mr. Nenni…. Wolverine doesn’t talk much. Neither does Cyclops, for that matter—they’re… very resolute. Focused men. Marvel Girl, now she’s usually the more talkative of the group. Polite, kind, and thoughtful. But I’ve met others, too. The southern girl—talks like you, actually.”
“Rogue?” Duncan asked, arching an eyebrow. “And I’m sorry, Mr. Zelinsky, but I don’t talk like no Mississippi girl.”
Leo laughed softly, shaking his head. “Well, there are differences, of course. After so many years, you start to catch onto the nuances—the difference between a bayou belle and a Texan cowboy. But to New York ears, my boy, it’s closer than you might think. New York is a vast jungle of accents, no?”
Duncan’s expression softened, his curiosity evident. “Ya think they’d have me? The X-Men?”
Leo’s eyes twinkled with a knowing look as he chuckled softly. “Oh, no doubt. You seem quite fitting for their cause. Defiance. Resilience. A streak of independence. You’d fit right in with Xavier’s dream. Do you plan to join them, Mr. Nenni?”
Duncan’s reply was immediate and blunt. “No.”
But his lips curled slightly at the corners, betraying a smirk that didn’t escape Leo’s sharp gaze. The tailor smiled knowingly, saying nothing about it for a moment before offering, “Oh, give time to time, Mr. Nenni. Many who walk through my door start with the same resolve. Time and circumstances have a way of bending even the firmest of plans.”
Duncan shrugged, brushing the thought aside. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
Leo adjusted his glasses again, his movements precise. “Well, regardless of where you stand now, Mr. Nenni, I have no doubt you’ll make your mark. And if you ever do change your mind, I’m sure the X-Men will be ready to welcome you with open arms.”
Duncan straightened his hat and adjusted his gloves. “Anything else I can help you with, Mr. Zelinsky?”
The older man shook his head, his thin smile returning. “No, my boy. I think we’ve covered everything. Your suit will be a work of art, as it should be. And if you ever need anything in the future, you know where to find me.”
Duncan extended a hand, his grip firm and steady as he said, “Much obliged. Pleasure doin’ business with you, Mr. Zelinsky.”
Leo returned the handshake, his eyes twinkling with genuine respect. “The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Nenni. Travel safe. And remember… your name will carry weight, so wear it proudly.”
Duncan tipped his hat in farewell, stepping out of the shop and into the bustling streets of New York. The hum of the city greeted him as he glanced back at the small, unassuming storefront.
Duncan stepped out of Leo Zelinsky’s shop, the cool Manhattan air brushing against his face. The sky above was a mix of fading sunlight and encroaching twilight, the perfect backdrop to the towering skyline. His thoughts churned as he adjusted his hat, the brim shading his eyes from the last rays of the sun.
“The Alamo, huh?” he muttered under his breath. The name had weight, tied to the legacy of men like Sam Houston, men who stood firm for freedom and independence. He thought of what those men, those founders of the Texas Republic, would think of him now. Would they approve? Would they see him as carrying the torch of their values? And then his mind wandered further: What would Washington, Jefferson, or Franklin think of Captain America? Could he ever be that kind of symbol—a Texan parallel to the Star-Spangled Avenger?
His lips curled into a faint smirk. “Maybe I ain’t supposed to be Texas’ symbol. Maybe I’m just… freedom’s.... Or maybe I'm just overthinkin'."
Texas, he realized, wasn’t the whole of him—it was his motif, his aesthetic, his heart. But his mind? His mind was Liberty. Real freedom. He wasn’t a man driven by emotion, nor one to act purely from the heart. He was a man of reason, logic, and purpose. The legacy he aimed to create wasn’t about regional pride but about something far greater: individual liberty