The Blackbird’s engines whined softly, heat still radiating from its sleek, black frame as it touched down on Florida dirt. The landing gear hissed as it locked into place, and the boarding ramp lowered slowly, allowing the night air to spill into the cabin.

Rogue exhaled through her nose, running a gloved hand through her hair before she unstrapped herself from her seat. The moment she did, she saw him.

Wolverine.

The stocky Canadian mutant stood at the bottom of the ramp, arms folded over his chest, a freshly lit cigar clamped between his teeth. His adamantium-laced skeleton made him look heavier than he was, his thick boots planted firmly as if he had been standing there the entire time, waiting for them.

His sharp, animal-like gaze scanned over them quickly—assessing for wounds, checking for signs of trouble. That was just Logan. The man didn’t need a damn report to know something was off.

He took a deep breath, then—

"Uncle Wolvie!"

Jubilee practically bounded down the ramp, arms spread wide before throwing them around his waist in a quick, forceful hug.

Wolverine huffed, letting her do it.

"Jubilee," he muttered, taking the cigar out of his mouth with two fingers. "How was it, kid?"

Jubilee pulled back, grinning wide.

"You wouldn’t guess who showed up—"

"Jubes." Rogue’s voice was firm, cutting through her excitement immediately.

Jubilee froze, turning toward her.

Rogue narrowed her eyes slightly, shaking her head. Not yet.

Wolverine’s eyes flicked up toward Rogue, then back to Jubilee.

"Go on, kid," he encouraged.

Rogue groaned.

"Logan. It ain’t the time."

Wolverine grunted.

"Alright, whatever. Cranky."

Behind them, Remy walked down the ramp, stepping into the humid night air.

Unlike Jubilee, he didn’t announce himself.

Instead, he stopped just beside Wolverine, leaned in slightly, and muttered under his breath.

"De Texan showed up."

Wolverine’s entire posture stiffened.

"What?"

"Apparently to badmouth us."

Wolverine scowled immediately, his grip on his cigar tightening slightly.

"That son of a—"

"REMY."

Rogue’s voice cracked through the air like a whip, sharp and unwavering.

Gambit winced, throwing his hands up.

"Ah said Ah’d handle it."

"I’m sorry, cher."

Jubilee, arms still crossed, let out a loud sigh.

"Dude, you’re so lame sometimes."

Inside the Blackbird’s cockpit, Storm was already seated, her regal posture relaxed but composed as she quietly discussed something with Jean and Scott.

The moment Rogue approached, however, the conversation halted.

Scott turned his sharp blue gaze toward her.

"Rogue."

Storm’s expression softened, a gentle smile forming as she reached out and gave Rogue’s arm a reassuring squeeze.

"So, how was it?"

Rogue exhaled, arms still folded tight against her chest.

"Ah reckon Ah handled it... but we had surprises."

Scott’s expression darkened slightly.

"We picked up Sentinel readings in the area. Was it handled?"

"Absolutely."

Jean and Storm both relaxed slightly at that.

But then Rogue added—

"But there’s somethin’ else."

Jean leaned forward.

"Please, Rogue—go on."

Rogue inhaled slowly.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

"The Alamo showed up."

The cockpit went silent.

A heavy silence.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Even Scott, who was normally quick to cut through the noise, seemed to take a second longer to process that.

"Why did he come?"

"He’s workin’ on Carraro too. Has his own investigation."

Rogue’s mind churned as she replayed his words in her head—

"Free men don’t buy promises of salvation."

"Did he help your team?" Storm asked, her voice level.

Rogue nodded.

"He did. As a matter of fact, he mowed down Sentinels fer us."

Scott’s jaw tightened slightly, but it was Jean who spoke first.

"Is that so?"

"Yup," Rogue confirmed, shifting slightly. "He also made sense of those ol’ documents we found."

Storm’s eyebrows raised slightly.

"Really?"

"Yup. He used to work fer a bank. Economist. Told us that Trask was payin’ Carraro to guard stuff that didn’t exist. Carraro folks were basically FoH, so Trask was indirectly payin’ the FoH to kill mutants."

Jean’s face fell slightly.

"Kill?"

Rogue reached into her jacket, pulling out a folded sheet of paper before handing it to Scott.

"Yup," she muttered. "Ah found a list of mutants they executed."

Scott took the paper.

His jaw clenched immediately.

His eyes scanned the names, his fingers gripping the sheet tighter the longer he looked.

"These are Marauders."

"Yep." Rogue nodded. "Same people Remy worked with couple years ago, when Sinister paid ‘em to massacre the Morlocks."

Jean’s eyes flickered with recognition, but her voice was softer.

"They’re dead."

Rogue nodded.

"Most of ‘em, yes."

Jean looked at Scott, then exhaled.

"They didn’t deserve to die."

Her voice was firm.

"Everyone deserves a second chance… like we gave Remy."

Scott said nothing.

But his fist clenched slightly on the armrest.

Finally, he exhaled.

"You did a good job, Anna Marie."

But then—

"I’m curious, though—what else did this Alamo tell your group?"

Before Rogue could speak—

"Heh." Jubilee let out a snicker, grinning wide.

"Oh, you won’t like it."

Scott tilted his head slightly, waiting.

Jubilee leaned forward, hands on her hips.

"He came in all plasma pew pew, like some AC-130 with a cowboy hat—he has one, by the way—and a chrome mask."

Scott sighed.

"Jubilation."

"No, no, listen!" she insisted. "It’s kinda edgy, but I guess it works, because he’s not that edgy... but boy, he’s preachy."

She turned toward Beast.

"He told us that we’re a bunch of collectivists… somethin’ about bein’ on the same coin as the Brotherhood. Liberty, Choice, Individuality and what not"

Beast, who had been quietly reading a thick genetics tome, adjusted his glasses slightly before muttering—

"Ah. Hayekian Individualism or Sartrean Existentialism, the first most likely"

All heads turned toward him.

"What." Jubilee blinked.

Scott sighed deeply.

"What else did he say?"

Rogue finally spoke up.

"He said free men don’t buy promises of salvation."

Beast nodded approvingly.

"Oh, that all sounds very similar to The Road to Serfdom, though it strikes a lot like Sartre's bad faith"

Jubilee groaned loudly, throwing her hands up.

"Okay, cut the nerd talk! I’m hungry, and the brain talk makes me even hungrier and worse… bored."

Scott sighed.

"Understood, Jubilee."

Beast smirked.

"There’s no bad time for learning, young Jubilation. Expand your horizons."

Jubilee deadpanned.

"How about you expand your horizons, Blue. Preferably away from me."

The hum of the Blackbird’s engines was steady, a low mechanical rhythm that filled the cabin as the team settled in for the flight back home. The tension from their mission still hung in the air, but Rogue felt something else lingering—a weight she hadn’t quite been able to shake since the moment Alamo left.

His words echoed in her head.

"Free men don’t buy promises of salvation."

"Maybe some mutants don’t wanna be heroes."

She didn’t like how much it stuck with her. How much it bothered her.

She exhaled sharply, rolling her shoulders before speaking.

"He said Xavier’s dream is too idealistic," Rogue murmured, her voice quiet but firm. "Said it can’t work. That we focus too much on mutantkind…"

She hesitated.

She didn’t want to say the next part.

But it was there, stuck in her throat.

"He said…" She paused again, then shook her head. "Doesn’t matter now."

But it did.

Because she knew exactly what he called them.

Cops

And maybe he wasn’t wrong.

Not entirely.

Scott’s sharp gaze flicked toward her, jaw tightening.

"It doesn’t matter," he said, firmly. "Because he’s not right. He’s full of himself. We’re a family—if he’s scared of having someone’s back, that’s on him. He’s just egotistical."

Rogue’s fingers twitched slightly in her gloves.

"Maybe he’s learning, Scott," Jean interjected, her voice gentle but firm.

"Doesn’t matter to me, Jean," Scott countered. "I won’t allow anyone to lambast our family, our mission… our duty. Not even if it’s a mutant."

Jubilee, who had sprawled out in her seat, let out a dramatic sigh.

"Meh, he’s just a nerd, Fearless Leader." She paused, then added with a smirk, "Well, a hot nerd. But a nerd nonetheless…"

Then she slumped back, pulling her jacket tighter around her.

Storm, who had been silent, finally turned to Rogue.

Her warm, patient voice cut through the cabin.

"And what do you make of it, Rogue?"

Rogue hesitated for just a second.

"Maybe he’s lost…" she admitted. "Maybe he sees the world differently."

She stood in silence, as if she had finished speaking—

But her own thoughts wouldn’t let her stop.

Because deep down, she knew there was more to it than that.

And finally, she thought—

"Or maybe he does have a point."

A silence stretched in the air.

Then, Beast adjusted his glasses, his expression thoughtful.

"Well, it’s not entirely negative to have different perspectives in the struggle for our kind," he said. "While I do not look at his views entirely favorably, it is certainly less disruptive than Erik’s stance on mutant superiority."

Rogue tilted her head slightly.

"Maybe he just wants people to be left alone, Doc."

Beast hummed, nodding slightly.

"Perhaps. But unfortunately, the world has chosen that mutants can’t be left alone. Even if we wish so, he should know that."

Rogue sighed.

"Maybe he’s fightin’ fer that."

Beast tapped his fingers against his knee.

"Then it’s not a different fight from ours," he mused. "And if he were to reconsider his views, he would fit well among us."

Scott let out a sharp exhale, his fingers tightening slightly against the armrest of his seat.

"I’d rather not have some self-obsessed moralist in our team."

Jean sighed, rubbing her temples.

"Scott."

"Maybe he can change, maybe he won’t," Scott continued, shaking his head. "It doesn’t matter. What matters is that we have enough information to follow the money trail."

Rogue nodded, crossing her arms.

"What y’all got in Detroit?" she asked, shifting the subject.

Storm leaned forward slightly.

"We got a name—Thomas Thompson," she said. "In Arkansas."

Rogue’s brows furrowed slightly.

"Didn’t the Alamo blow up the place and send half the people there to the hospital?"

"Yes," Storm admitted. "But our hope is that Thompson has stayed in Arkansas, so we can find him and what he knows."

Rogue glanced toward Scott.

"So… we goin’ to Arkansas?"

Scott nodded once.

"Tomorrow."

He leaned back slightly in his seat.

"Today, we did our jobs. We need to rest and recharge."

"Bit o’ R&R don’t hurt," Wolverine’s voice suddenly grumbled from the corner, stepping further into the cabin. His arms crossed, his stubbled jaw tight, but there was something more relaxed in his expression.

Then—

"Though I’m itchin’ to cut somethin’, bub," he added, cracking his knuckles.

Jubilee groaned, grinning anyway.

"Ugh. You always say that."

Wolverine smirked slightly, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a fresh cigar, rolling it between his fingers.

"Y’know, there was this time in Australia, durin’ the Vietnam War…"

Rogue and Jubilee groaned at the same time, leaning back in their seats.

"There he goes again."