The swamp air was thick with the remnants of battle, the scent of burnt circuitry, charred metal, and ozone still hanging in the air. The field around them was littered with the wreckage of destroyed Sentinels, their limbs scattered like broken statues, red optics now nothing more than dim, lifeless glass. The Florida night buzzed with life, the distant croaks of bullfrogs and the eerie whine of cicadas echoing over the battlefield, nature already reclaiming the land.

As Rogue and Alamo landed back on the ground, Jubilee was practically vibrating with excitement.

"MAN, THAT WAS INSANE! IT WAS LIKE SOME DOOM GUY LEVEL CRAZY SHIT!"

She threw her hands up, grinning wildly, still high off the adrenaline of the fight.

Alamo let out a soft chuckle, adjusting his gloves as he turned toward her.

"I'm glad ya liked it, Jubilee," he said, his tone light.

From the side, Gambit let out a low chuckle, flipping a playing card between his fingers before murmuring,

"Lagniappe, non?"

Alamo, however, didn’t acknowledge him, simply continuing his stride toward the flattened van, hands clasped neatly behind his back as he walked.

Gambit clicked his tongue, watching the Texan pass.

"So," Alamo asked, voice even, "What y’all are lookin’ fer here?"

Rogue, floating just behind him, gestured toward the ruined van, its entire body crushed under the weight of a fallen Sentinel. The frame was bent and warped, metal groaning slightly whenever the wind blew through the cracks.

"We were told there was info in that van, important stuff—documents, computers," she explained.

Alamo glanced toward the wreckage, the chrome of his mask glinting slightly under the moonlight.

"Computers are gone," he muttered, already scanning the damage, "but we can see if there's any paper left."

His feet lifted slightly off the ground, his black coat fluttering as he hovered toward the wreck, Rogue floating beside him.

Behind them, Jubilee was still buzzing, her arms swinging as she turned toward Gambit.

"He's cool, huh?" she asked, grinning wide.

Gambit, however, did not look impressed.

"Gambit don't think so," he muttered, "dat some Magneto merde right dere. Wit' dat black coat, like he's 'bout to gris-gris everyone."

Jubilee squinted.

"That means...?"

Gambit exhaled sharply through his nose, eyes narrowing at Alamo’s imposing silhouette.

"Dat means de Gambit don't like dis one."

Jubilee groaned.

"Remy. Stop bein’ like this."

Ahead, Alamo caught every word.

His lips curled slightly beneath his mask, but he said nothing.

Then, just as he reached the van, he paused slightly—as if considering something—before glancing back over his shoulder toward Gambit.

"By the way, Gambit," he said, voice smooth, "I like yer coat. Real good color."

Gambit blinked, clearly not expecting the compliment. His fingers twitched slightly on his deck of cards, his usual carefree smirk slipping for a brief second.

Then, in true Gambit fashion, he rolled with it.

"Merci beaucoup, cowboy," he said, lowering his voice slightly as he turned back to Jubilee.

"Gambit takes back what he said—maybe de cowboy ain't so bad."

Jubilee scoffed, arms crossed.

"Cap. You're just sayin' that because he stroked your fragile ego, Remy."

Gambit let out an exaggerated gasp, pressing a hand to his chest.

"Dat not true, petite."

The night breeze rolled through the clearing, stirring the tall grass around the wreckage as the four mutants finally reached the van.

The damaged vehicle groaned softly, the metal still settling under the weight of the damage, but surprisingly—it had not caught fire.

Which meant—

There was still a chance something inside had survived.

The distant croak of alligators echoed from the swamps beyond, a reminder of how deep into the wilderness they really were.

Rogue let out a slow breath, hands on her hips.

"Now what?"

She turned to Alamo, tilting her head slightly.

"Alamo, be a friend and help a lady out?"

Alamo folded his arms, watching her curiously.

"Go on."

Rogue gestured toward the van, her lips quirking up slightly.

"Let's try to open this van here."

Alamo tilted his head, considering the wreckage.

Then he nodded.

"Oh, I have it."

He reached for the edge of the metal, his hand glowing faintly, preparing to rip it open with brute strength when—

"Don't."

Rogue’s brow furrowed.

"Why?"

Alamo’s glowing hand hovered over the metal, but he didn’t move.

"Maybe somethin' there snaps and hits Gambit or Jubilee," he pointed out. "Or any of us."

Rogue blinked, then exhaled sharply.

"Good thinkin’."

Instead of brute force, Alamo raised his hand again—

And this time, the palm of his glove glowed blue, heat radiating off of it in soft, pulsing waves.

Slowly—deliberately—he dragged his fingers across the metal, and beneath his touch, the hull began to melt, hot liquid steel dripping away in smooth, glowing streams.

The hiss of burning metal filled the air, hot steam rising as he sliced through the roof with ease.

Within seconds—

The van was open.

Inside, a piles of files.

The computers were beyond saving, their screens shattered, circuitry fried beyond recognition—but the paper documents, by some miracle, had survived.

Rogue immediately reached in, grabbing one of the intact boxes and hauling it out, setting it down on the dirt beside her.

Alamo followed, grabbing another.

They turned, handing them off to Jubilee and Gambit, who immediately began flipping through them.

"I'll ask Scott to let us pick this up," Rogue said, flipping open one of the files.

Alamo tilted his head slightly, his optics flickering.

"Let me see ‘em."

Rogue pulled the files closer, her green eyes narrowing slightly.

"Why should we trust you, sugah?"

Alamo was quiet for a second, his posture relaxed but unreadable.

Then, beneath the chrome of his mask, his brows furrowed slightly.

"‘Cause I helped y’all."

His voice was calm, measured, but something in it carried a weight that hadn’t been there before.

"And I’m directly impacted by the FoH’s dreadful crusade against all mutants… y’know, I have skin in the game."

Rogue’s lips pressed together.

She studied him for a long moment—weighing his words, reading everything unspoken between the lines.

"Fine. But we bring these to Westchester."

Alamo nodded once.

"I'll just take pictures, ma'am."

Rogue exhaled.

"Good."

The night air felt thicker as they sifted through the stacks of documents, the only sounds in the clearing being the distant hum of cicadas, the occasional croak of an alligator, and the soft rustling of papers being flipped through. The scent of burnt metal and plasma residue still clung to the wind, mixing uncomfortably with the damp musk of the swamp.

They had spread the documents across the hood of what remained of the flattened van, using the dim glow of Jubilee’s plasmoids to read under the dark sky.

Rogue’s brow furrowed as she skimmed through the files—cash flows, financial statements, invoices—nothing that immediately made sense to her, but when she looked at Alamo, he was completely locked in, his red optics scanning line after line with a focused intensity she hadn’t seen before.

"These don't make a lick o’ sense to us, but you look like ya understand ‘em just fine," she muttered, crossing her arms.

Alamo didn’t look up.

"They’re financial statements," he murmured, flipping to another page. "Money trails. Paperwork meant to look clean but ain't."

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Jubilee let out a groan, leaning against the van, looking bored out of her mind.

"This is some nerd shit, man," she whined.

But Rogue’s attention was suddenly drawn elsewhere, her green eyes narrowing as she pulled another folder out from the stack, flipping it open. The names listed inside immediately made her stomach twist.

She turned the page toward Gambit, her voice steady but laced with something cold.

"Know these, Gambit?"

Gambit had been idly flipping a playing card between his fingers, but the moment he saw the names, his entire posture shifted. The card stilled between his fingers, his normally relaxed demeanor tightening into something almost guarded.

His red-on-black eyes skimmed over the list, and for the first time tonight, his signature smirk was nowhere to be seen.

"Mon Dieu..." he muttered under his breath. His voice had a heavy weight to it, something close to guilt.

"These people..." His jaw clenched. "Marauders... not good people, but—"

Rogue’s arms tightened over her chest, her expression hard.

She knew.

She knew about his past—his involvement with Sinister, his leadership of the Marauders before the Mutant Massacre, before everything went to hell.

And she didn’t like thinking about it.

Not one bit.

Gambit hesitated, then tapped his fingers against one of the names, exhaling slowly.

"Dat's Robbie... Prism... and Kim Il-Sung."

Jubilee’s head snapped up.

"The North Korean dictator?"

Gambit sighed, shaking his head.

"Non. Different guy—Scrambler. Arclight... dey're all..." His voice trailed off. "Dead."

Rogue’s expression remained unmoved, her green eyes piercing into him.

"Ya worked with ‘em?"

Gambit let out a slow, tired exhale, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Yeah." His voice was quieter now. "Led de Marauders… back den."

Rogue didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

"The guys who killed a bunch o’ Morlocks?"

The question hung in the air, heavier than the Florida humidity.

Jubilee, sensing the shift in tension, glanced between them but didn’t say anything.

Gambit’s jaw tightened, his fingers pressing harder against the van’s surface.

"Look, I'm not proud of everythin' I done, alright?" His voice was low, almost rough. "I done it 'cause it had to be done... got my problems, homme. Ya’d understand if ya were dere."

"Well, Ah don’t understand, Remy," Rogue shot back, voice steady but sharp.

Gambit met her gaze, holding it for a moment before his eyes flicked downward.

"Not de time, cher."

A long, tense silence followed.

Then—

"Doesn’t matter," Alamo said abruptly, his voice cutting through the weight of the moment.

They both turned to him.

He hadn’t paused in his reading, his gloved fingers flipping through pages at a near-inhuman speed, his red optics faintly glowing as he absorbed the information.

"Let me analyze these statements."

Gambit arched a brow.

"Mon ami, dat’s some accountant ting, ya won't—"

But Alamo ignored him completely, still working his way through the financial records, flipping pages faster than anyone else could even process.

He finally stopped on one particular sheet, his fingers tapping the page as he spoke out loud.

"There are invoices fer payments," he muttered. "Cash flows from Trask, all perfectly covered by the regulations on statements and laundered properly."

He flipped another page, his optics narrowing slightly.

"This ain't an all hat, no cattle operation. Trask was sendin’ people to guard their facilities."

Rogue frowned.

"Here? There ain’t no facility here."

Alamo nodded.

"Precisely."

He tapped his finger against a line item, his tone certain.

"It means he was indirectly and legally payin' the FoH through Carraro. Folks got hired as security guards—but instead of guardin’, they were out there killin’."

Jubilee’s nose scrunched. "What would Trask do that for?"

Alamo paused, then shrugged. "Because he's a son of a bitch?" Jubilee supplied.

Alamo let out a low chuckle. "And," he added, "he even could get some deductions too."

Jubilee blinked. "Wait. What?"

Rogue arched a brow, arms still folded. "So, ya're an accountant?"

Jubilee snapped her head toward her, elbowing her hard in the ribs.

"Like he would have a borin' job," she muttered.

Rogue smirked slightly.

"Don’t ya remember the office, Jubes? Where he—"

Before she could finish, Alamo cut in.

"I'm an economist."

The words were simple, but they carried weight.

Rogue blinked.

"Least, I was," he corrected. "Worked fer America Bank."

The moment of silence that followed was palpable.

Jubilee just stared at him. "WHAT?!"

She pointed an accusatory finger at him.

"You were an economist?!"

Alamo barely looked up.

"Yeah."

Gambit let out a low whistle, shaking his head.

"Borin’ desk jockey, non?"

Jubilee, still processing, just muttered,

"That’s so weird, dude."

Alamo finally looked up, crossing his arms.

"It ain't that weird."

Rogue smirked slightly. "Y’all done grillin’ the poor boy?"

Jubilee grinned. "Nope. Not even close."

The night hung heavy over the ruined clearing, the scent of burnt metal and ozone still thick in the air, mixing with the damp, earthy musk of the Florida wetlands. The sky stretched wide and endless above them, a deep midnight blue, the stars barely visible through the low-hanging mist that clung to the swamps beyond.

The only sounds left were the buzzing of cicadas, the occasional croak of an alligator, and the soft rustle of papers as the X-Men and Alamo sifted through the remaining documents, taking pictures as he did, under the dim glow of Jubilee’s plasmoids. The once-active battlefield was nothing more than a graveyard of broken Sentinels, their hollowed-out chassis reflecting the moonlight, their shattered optics staring blankly into the night.

Then Rogue’s voice cut through the relative stillness.

"So when are ya joinin’ us, cowboy?"

Alamo stilled, then slowly turned his head toward her, something in his stance shifting slightly.

"What?"

She smirked slightly, arms crossed, her green eyes sharp with challenge.

"When are ya joinin’ the X-Men, sugah?"

There was a beat of silence, his red optics narrowing just a little, before he let out a slow exhale.

"I ain’t."

Jubilee, who had been idly flipping through a file, suddenly perked up.

"What? Dude, why? You would be awesome in the team!"

Alamo shook his head.

"Well, I won’t join the X-Men ‘cause I don’t see myself agreein’ with y’all."

Gambit, who had been watching silently, leaned forward slightly, tapping his fingers against a bent Sentinel plate.

"What, survivin’... protectin’—"

Alamo’s red optics glowed faintly, his voice steady.

"Coexistin’..."

Gambit arched a brow.

"Ya don’t agree wit’ coexistence, mon ami?"

Alamo exhaled slowly, adjusting the glove on his left hand before responding.

"I think it’s a terribly misguided goal," he said evenly. "It’s too optimistic. Xavier wants humans to accept mutants."

Rogue’s smirk faded immediately, her eyes sharpening with a familiar heat.

"So what? Ya’d rather see us as superior?" she snarled, stepping forward slightly.

Alamo’s optics dimmed slightly, his voice firm but not unkind.

"No. Magneto is even worse—he’s a megalomaniacal tyrant tryin’ to pose as a liberator."

Jubilee and Gambit exchanged glances as Alamo continued.

"He’s exactly what Lenin and Mao were. He’s pretendin’ to give a shit… or maybe he even does. But his solution ends up bein’ worse than the problem itself."

Rogue’s expression hardened further, her fists subtly clenching.

"He had good intentions, Alamo."

Alamo let out a sharp breath, shaking his head.

"To hell with good intentions," he shot back. "Results is what matters, and in his crusade, he killed thousands of people… heroes included. Y’all know that."

Gambit’s smirk had fully faded now, his voice low.

"But we ain’t de Brotherhood, mon ami."

There was a pause.

Then, quietly, Rogue muttered—

"At least not anymore."

The words hung in the air for a moment, the implication unspoken but heavy.

Alamo didn’t react immediately, but something about his stance shifted, like he was absorbing the weight of her words.

"It doesn’t matter," he finally said, shaking his head. "It’s both sides o’ the same coin. Collectivism."

Rogue narrowed her eyes.

"Y’all see only mutants. It’s all ‘bout mutants this and mutants that—it should be ‘bout principles, not idealistic goals." The cowboy added.

Gambit leaned forward again, arms crossed.

"And what principles?"

Alamo met his gaze evenly.

"Liberty. Individuality. Choice. Independence."

Jubilee blinked, looking between them.

"Okay, Captain America… what does that even mean?"

Alamo’s mask glinted as he turned slightly toward her.

"It means that maybe some mutants don’t want to be heroes, to be upstandin’ beacons of Xavier’s cause. Maybe they just wanna be left alone."

Rogue’s jaw tightened, but her voice was steady.

"That’s what we believe, too, Alamo."

His head tilted slightly.

"Well, sure heck is a weird way o’ showin’ it when y’all play mutant police."

The words landed hard, and Rogue’s stomach twisted slightly.

Gambit and Jubilee both looked toward her—because they all knew.

She knew exactly what he meant.

The badges. The quasi-uniforms.

The sense of duty that wasn’t always chosen.

Alamo’s voice lowered slightly, his tone calm but pointed.

"We are tryin’, dude. We are helpin’. What do you want us to do, huh? Fight for ourselves?" Jubilee said her tone harder now.

Alamo didn’t hesitate.

"YES." His eyes flared slightly. "I reckon it’s better than bleedin’ an’ dyin’ for a cult of personality."

Gambit suddenly stood up, his voice sharper now.

"Look here, mon ami," he muttered, stepping closer. "Did ya come here to insult the X-Men?"

Alamo didn’t move, didn’t flinch.

"I didn’t," he said calmly. "These are my thoughts as a mutant who’s neither sacrificin’ myself to ol’ buff Lenin or bald mind-readin’ Jesus wannabe."

Rogue’s eyes narrowed.

"Ah think ya’re wrong, Alamo." Her voice was firm. "We chose to be here. Ah know, ‘cause Ah left the Brotherhood fer ‘em."

For the first time, Alamo’s gaze softened slightly, the red glow dimming just a bit.

Then Gambit exhaled, shaking his head.

"Bold words comin’ from a man who’s also fightin’."

Rogue took a small step closer.

"Why are ya even fightin’, sugah?"

Alamo hesitated.

Then, softly he said. "A coll—a friend told me it was okay to help, so I wanna help."

A pause.

"But I don’t wanna sacrifice people fer the greater good. Many atrocities were committed in the name of greater goods, in the name of revolutions and great patriotic wars. I’m not a soldier."

Rogue watched him carefully.

Then she nodded.

"Well, we thank ya fer yer help."

Alamo exhaled.

"Look, all I’m sayin’ is… free men don’t buy promises of salvation."

A small smirk returned to Rogue’s lips.

"It’s fine, sugah. Ya helped us. Thanks fer that."

Alamo took a step back.

"I have what I need. It was a pleasure meetin’ y’all."

His gaze landed on Rogue one last time.

"‘Specially you, Rogue. Ya ain’t nearly as scary as people make ya. Also y'all are free to call me Duncan, if y'all please."

Rogue chuckled.

"Ah’ll see ya ‘round, Duncan."

Alamo smirked behind his mask.

"Ya will, Rogue. Ya will."

Then, in a flash of blue plasma, he took to the skies, disappearing into the night

The night air was still heavy, clinging to them like the last remnants of a storm. The swamp hummed with life—cicadas buzzing in the trees, distant alligators breaking the water’s surface with low, guttural rumbles. The battlefield they left behind was eerily silent, the wreckage of Sentinels still smoldering, the once-menacing machines now just scattered heaps of ruined metal.

Above them, the sky stretched vast and dark, the deep blues and blacks almost swallowing the horizon, only broken by the faint, glowing blue trail that the Alamo had left in his wake. His flight path flickered once, then twice, before vanishing entirely, leaving nothing behind but the question Rogue couldn’t shake from her mind.

Who the hell was he?

"So, what ya think now, petite?"

Gambit’s voice broke the quiet, and Rogue turned just in time to see him lean against the crumpled van, arms crossed, an easy smirk tugging at his lips. His red-on-black eyes flickered with mischief, but there was an edge of curiosity beneath the teasing.

Jubilee, who had been watching the sky with a look somewhere between awe and mild irritation, let out a loud sigh, shoving her hands in the pockets of her yellow techwear jacket. "Well... I mean, he’s cool..." she admitted, rocking back on her heels.

Gambit arched a brow. "But...?"

Jubilee made a vague, exasperated gesture.

"But he’s also a preachy, overpowered nerd... like, so preachy."

She threw her arms up.

"I get it, freedom, individuality, whatever—bro, just say you don’t like teamwork and move on."

Rogue snorted at that, shaking her head, but Jubilee wasn’t done.

She crossed her arms, tapping her fingers against her bicep thoughtfully before giving a dramatic sigh.

"I guess he’s hot after all."

Gambit stared at her, completely deadpan.

"Petite," he muttered, "ya never learn."

Jubilee just grinned, unfazed.

"Learnin’ is for nerds, Remy. I have fun."

Rogue rolled her eyes at their back and forth, her focus still on the horizon, on that vanishing blue trail. Her arms crossed a little tighter over her chest as she stood there, the humid air pressing against her skin, her mind turning over and over what just happened.

The fight. The conversation.

The arguments about freedom, individualism, principles.

His words stuck with her in a way she didn’t expect— "Free men don’t buy promises of salvation."

She let out a slow breath.

"Who the hell are ya, Duncan?" she murmured, half to herself.

Gambit had been watching her carefully from the side, and after a moment, he closed the distance between them.

"Ya good, cher?" he asked, voice lower now, less teasing, more genuine concern.

Rogue’s fingers twitched slightly against her bicep, but she didn’t turn toward him.

Instead, she just kept watching the sky.

"Ah ain't sure, Remy," she admitted. Her voice was quieter than usual, thoughtful. "But Ah reckon Ah might be." Her green eyes still hadn’t left the horizon.

Gambit let out a low chuckle, shaking his head.

"Well, cher," he murmured, soft but certain, "it’s goin’ to be alright."

There was a long pause, the night stretching quietly between them.

"Yeah, sure."

"Alright, can we go home now?" Jubilee suddenly whined, stretching her arms over her head. "I’m hungry!"

Before Rogue could respond, Cyclops’ voice crackled through her earpiece, cutting through the quiet with its usual sharp professionalism.

"Cyclops here. Rogue, do you copy?"

Rogue clicked the communicator, sighing slightly.

"Yup."

"SITREP."

Rogue glanced toward Gambit and Jubilee before responding.

"We raided de FoH, we got documents waitin’ for retrieval."

There was a brief pause on the other end, before Cyclops spoke again.

"I detected an anomalous energy signal in your area. Are you alright?"

Rogue smirked slightly, shaking her head.

"Yep, we’re peachy."

Another pause.

"What was it?"

Rogue exhaled, rolling her shoulders.

"It’s a long story. Ah’ll tell y’all durin’ debrief."

"Understood. We are descending."

"Got it."

"Cyclops out."

As the comms clicked off, Rogue looked back toward her team.

"Alright, y’all," she said, clapping her hands together, "let’s move these boxes to the LZ."

Jubilee groaned but grabbed a stack of files. Gambit stretched lazily, tossing a card in his hand before picking up another box.

But as they moved toward the landing zone, Rogue’s thoughts weren’t on the documents anymore.

Her eyes lingered a little longer on the horizon— On that empty, starless stretch of sky where Alamo had disappeared.

She didn’t understand him. Not fully.

He wore gloves like her. He absorbed like her. He had that same urge to be free— But he wasn’t like her. Not in the slightest.

His arguments, his skepticism, his criticism of Xavier’s dream—they unsettled her in a way she didn’t expect.

Not because he was right.

Because deep down... she wasn’t sure if he was entirely wrong either.

It was more than curiosity now.

It was something else.

Something she couldn’t quite name yet.

But she knew one thing for sure.

This wasn’t the last time she’d see him.