Inside the Blackbird, the X-Men watched the scene unfold from above. The warehouse was in ruins, Sentinel parts scattered across the compound like discarded toys.
“Uncle Wolvie, did you see that?” Jubilee asked, her voice filled with excitement.
Logan, leaning against the cockpit door, squinted at the blue blur streaking away in the distance. “The hell was that, kid? What do you see, Slim?”
“As much as you, Logan,” Cyclops replied, his tone calm but curious.
“Damn, that was awesome!” Jubilee exclaimed, practically bouncing in her seat.
“It’s just another Tuesday, kiddo, settle down” Logan muttered, shaking his head.
Cyclops adjusted his visor. “Let’s get down there. Whoever that was, they’ve left us quite a scene to clean up.”
As the Blackbird descended, the team prepared to investigate. But in the back of their minds, one question lingered:
Who was the blue blur?
The Blackbird landed gracefully in the scorched field outside the smoldering remains of the Carraro Security warehouse, its sleek black frame gleaming under the dim moonlight. The ramp descended with a soft hiss, and the team stepped out—Storm, Cyclops, Jubilee, and Wolverine. The air was thick with the smell of burned metal and ozone, mingled with faint wisps of smoke that rose lazily from the ruins.
Wolverine’s sharp senses twitched, his nose wrinkling in distaste. “This whole place smells burned,” he growled, his gravelly voice cutting through the quiet.
“That’s ‘cause it is, Wolvie,” Jubilee chimed in, her tone filled with awe. “This place is just gone! Whoever did this? So badass!”
“Calm down, kid,” Wolverine said, shooting her a sidelong glance as he adjusted the gloves of his updated uniform—a dark orange and brown ensemble with muted blue accents. His clawed hands flexed instinctively, as if expecting trouble.
They hadn’t been the first to arrive. Already on the ground, standing near the wreckage with her arms crossed, was their escort: Rogue. She stood out sharply against the chaotic backdrop, her white-and-green suit glinting faintly under the lights of the Blackbird. The design echoed her classic yellow and green look, but the vibrant yellow was replaced with more dark green, complemented by her signature brown leather jacket with a red on black X-Badge.
Rogue glanced back at them with a smirk. “Took ya long ‘nuff, y’all,” she drawled, brushing a strand of her white streak out of her face.
Storm, stepping off the ramp with her usual regal grace, glanced around the area. Her updated uniform shimmered with black and silver tones, her long white hair braided intricately down her back. Her sharp eyes scanned the wreckage, already assessing the damage. “What do we have here, Rogue?”
Rogue uncrossed her arms, gesturing lazily toward the charred remains of the Sentinel. “Well, there’s a bunch of unlucky fellas over yonder,” she said, nodding toward a group of FoH guards, tied up and groaning softly. “But they’re alive.”
Cyclops, his updated visor gleaming under the faint moonlight, stepped forward with purpose, his blue-and-black uniform crisp and professional. “Any evidence of who did this?”
“A seriously badass guy… or gal,” Jubilee interjected, striding up beside Rogue. Her yellow tech-wear jacket fluttered slightly in the breeze, the bright tech-wear design contrasting sharply with the black-and-pink bodysuit she wore underneath. She pointed toward the mangled Sentinel. “Look at that thing. It’s all messed up!”
Wolverine grunted, his claws briefly extending with a soft snikt before retracting again. “Yeah, kid. Nothin’ new. We’ve been doin’ this since the 2000s.”
“You, do,” Jubilee said, rolling her eyes. “I’m still new, okay? Let me have this.”
Cyclops sighed, running a gloved hand down his visor. “Alright, Rogue. What’ve you got for us?”
Rogue smirked, crouching down and lifting a heavy piece of Sentinel plating. The faint blue hue of plasma energy still glowed faintly along its surface, the scorched edges telling the story of what had happened. She turned it around to reveal an inscription etched into the metal.
“The Alamo,” Rogue said, reading it aloud.
Jubilee’s face lit up, and before anyone could stop her, she whipped out her phone. “That is totally goin’ to TikTok.”
“Not now, Jubilation,” Cyclops said sharply, shooting her a look that was equal parts annoyance and amusement.
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“You kids and your damn social media, give me this shit” Wolverine grumbled, taking the phone from her hands in a single swoop.
“WOLVIE!,” Jubilee grumbled back, trying to reach for her phone, which wasn't exactly the problem with Wolverine's height, but taking it from his hand was another story. “Give my phone back, gramps!”
Cyclops turned back to the team, adjusting his visor. “What do we know about this ‘Alamo’?”
Rogue tilted her head, tossing the plate onto the ground with a loud clang. “Plasma. Ah reckon it’s somethin’ tied to Texas, y’know? Given the name, it’s about as subtle as a truck full o’ pigs.”
“Whoever this Alamo is,” Storm said, her voice calm but firm, “it seems he has intentions to help us.”
“Or to annoy,” Wolverine muttered, crossing his arms after finally giving Jubilee’s damned phone back. “I swear to God, if this is another Mystique job—”
“Logan,” Storm interrupted, her voice sharp. “This is clearly a man’s work.”
Jubilee laughed, hopping up onto a piece of fallen debris. “Or a Rogue job!”
Rogue shot her a playful glare. “Ah ain’t this… destructive.”
Jubilee grinned, hopping back down. “Ha! Gal, you’re worse. Come to think of it, Stormy, you’re also pretty destructive…”
“Kid’s got a point, ‘Ro,” Wolverine said with a smirk, turning to Storm. “This ain’t exactly a gender thing, darlin’.”
Storm raised an eyebrow, her regal composure unwavering. “That is not what I meant, Logan. I simply meant this whole thing smells like—”
“Testosterone and pride,” Cyclops cut in, his tone dry.
Wolverine snorted. “Yeah, you’d know a thing or two about that, wouldn’t ya, Slim?”. He elbowed Jubilee lightly on the shoulder.
“Not now, Logan,” Cyclops said, shaking his head.
The team fell silent for a moment, the faint crackling of burnt metal filling the void. Jubilee, still buzzing with excitement, looked out toward the horizon, where the faint blue blur of Duncan’s retreating plasma trail was barely visible against the afternoon sky.
“Whoever this Alamo guy is,” she said, breaking the silence, “or Girl, they're kinda awesome.”
“Jubilee, this ain't no gal. What lady calls herself ‘The Alamo'.” Rogue chuckled, her eyes still lingered on the jagged metal canvas The Alamo had left them.
“Yeah, not very delicate handiwork, kinda like your kind of handiwork, Roguey. Blow shit up, ask questions later… Maybe you have a long lost Texas sister or somethin’.” Jubilee snorted.
“Ah ain’t got no Texas sister, Jubes. One Rogue is ‘nuff fer this world.” Rogue's head snapped to her, eyes narrowing. The amusement in her face and the biting sarcasm betrayed any attempts at seriousness
“Roguey, one of you might be too much for this world already” Jubilee retorted in a grin ear to ear as she took random pictures of Rogue and the other X-Men on the scene.
“Ain’t ya just a laugh riot, Jubilation.” Rogue said, covering her face from the gratuitous attention from the fireworks girl.
“Also, if it's a guy… I wonder if he's like… hot or somethin’.” Jubilee said, almost to herself, the cellphone back in her hands as she took a selfie.
Cyclops glanced at her, his tone softening slightly. “You two, ease on the chatter. For now, let’s clean this up and figure out what we’re dealing with.”
"Got ya, bub" Wolverine followed Cyclops.
Storm nodded, her gaze lingering on the horizon. “Whoever he is, he’s clearly made his mark.”
Wolverine sniffed the air, his sharp senses still on edge. “Yeah, well, if this Alamo kid is out there, we’ll run into him eventually. No one just tears through a place like this without gettin’ noticed.”
The team began to move, their boots crunching against the scorched ground as they spread out to gather evidence. Above them, the sun hung high, casting its light over the remnants of a battle that had left more questions than answers. And somewhere, far away, Duncan Nenni—the Alamo—flew into the distance, a smirk on his face as he thought about what lay ahead.
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Halfway from Little Rock, Arkansas to Midland, Texas.
Duncan Nenni soared through the afternoon sky, the vehciles, small and distant glinting faintly as the wind whipped past him. His blue plasma trail lit up the horizon as he headed back to Midland, the events of the last few hours replaying in his mind. The adrenaline still buzzed faintly in his veins, and he couldn’t help but grin to himself.
“Wow! That was…” he began, his voice rising in excitement before he coughed, trying to contain himself. “Ahem… great. Now let’s go check on my folks.”
As he flew, he pulled out his phone, balancing it carefully in one hand while the other maintained his flight path. He opened a browser tab and began scrolling through options. “Alright, if I’m gonna be a superhero, I need a costume. Let me see what’s out there…”
Page after page of designs and concepts passed by as Duncan muttered to himself, his fingers idly scrolling through images of superhero costumes. Finally, inspiration struck, and his smile widened as he pieced it together in his mind: a black Cattleman hat, a long black coat that would flare dramatically in the wind, and a sleek black uniform with a giant white star emblazoned across the chest. White cavalry gloves, a white utility belt, and a chrome mask that would shimmer like liquid metal would complete the look.
“This,” he said, his voice rising in approval. “Yeah… this could work.”
Excitedly, he clicked through the suggestion box online, tweaking and refining his vision, until he reached the checkout page. His enthusiasm froze as his eyes landed on the price of some options the tailors offered. “Twenty thousand dollars?!” he exclaimed, leaning back in his chair. “That’s… well, dang… Jesus Christ on a hoverboard, no wonder why ya need Worthington or Stark money to bankroll these operations”
Rubbing his chin, Duncan leaned forward again, his thoughts racing. “I need someone who knows what they’re doing. Someone who’s worked with heroes before.” A quick search led him to two intriguing names.
The first was Luke Jacobson, a modern stylist known for designing high-end costumes with flair and functionality, most famously She-Hulk’s sleek wardrobe. His work was bold, cutting-edge, and screamed designer chic. But scrolling further, Duncan’s eyes landed on someone else: Leo Zelinsky, a legendary tailor for heroes and villains alike. His designs were steeped in tradition, with a practicality and timeless quality that appealed to Duncan’s no-nonsense mindset.
“Luke’s… well, too much. This ain’t Mardi Gras,” Duncan muttered, his eyes lingering on Jacobson’s gallery. “Leo… he’s got history.” He leaned back, crossing his arms. “And history’s more my speed.”
A few forms later, Duncan grinned as he pocketed the phone. “Leo’s shop next week. Perfect.” He tipped his imaginary hat to no one in particular, already imagining the outfit coming to life. “I’ll show ’em that more than just villains wear metallic masks.”