The lights of Midland grew brighter on the horizon, soft pinpricks against the vast, dark expanse of the Texas night. Duncan could feel the dry wind tugging at what remained of his tattered suit as he descended toward the quiet, suburban neighborhood where his parents still lived. The familiar sight of their modest, white-paneled house came into view, the porch light casting a warm glow over the driveway. It was a sight he hadn’t seen in months, and one that always managed to ground him.

He landed softly on the wooden porch, the boards creaking beneath his heavy boots. The smell of cedar mulch from the flowerbeds mingled with the faint scent of chicken fried stake and chilli wafting through the slightly cracked kitchen window. He hesitated for a moment, glancing down at the scorched edges of his shirt and the bullet holes peppering his sleeves.

Before he could raise his hand to knock, the door swung open, and there stood Marcy Nenni, her short, blonde hair slightly disheveled as though she’d been pacing. Her sharp eyes, the same piercing brown as his own, widened as they scanned him from head to toe.

“Duncan! Jesus Christ, are ya hurt? What happened to yer clothes?” she exclaimed, her voice equal parts relief and alarm.

Duncan shrugged, brushing a hand over the singed fabric. “Oh, this? It’s my best suit, Mama, but I guess tonight wasn’t its lucky night. Nothin’ I can’t handle.”

From deeper inside the house, Robert Nenni appeared, his graying hair still damp from a recent shower. He wore an old Dallas Cowboys T-shirt and a pair of well-worn jeans. His brow furrowed as he stepped into the light of the doorway, a mix of concern and frustration etched into his face.

“Son? What in the hell’s goin’ on?”

“Daddy. Mama.” Duncan greeted them both with a faint smile, stepping into the familiar warmth of the house as Marcy ushered him in with a firm hand on his arm.

“Get in, son,” Robert said in a low, urgent tone, glancing briefly toward the street. “You’re on the TV.”

Duncan’s easy demeanor faltered for just a second, a flicker of unease crossing his face before he quickly masked it. “Course I am,” he replied casually. Still, there was a tension in his voice as he let his mother steer him toward the couch.

The living room was just as he remembered it—a snapshot of his childhood preserved in time. The walls were painted a soft beige, adorned with family photos. The faded plaid couch sagged slightly in the middle, a testament to years of family movie nights and arguments about who got the good spot.

Marcy didn’t waste a second, digging through a basket of laundry in the corner. She pulled out an old Captain America T-shirt and a pair of his oversized gym shorts, thrusting them toward Duncan with a look that brooked no argument.

“Here. Get outta those ruined clothes before you track soot all over my house.”

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Duncan took the clothes without protest and disappeared down the hall to change, the worn hardwood floor cool beneath his feet. When he returned, dressed in the mismatched outfit, he found his parents standing near the TV, their faces tight with worry.

On the screen, Trish Tilby’s perfectly coiffed hair didn’t move an inch as she delivered the breaking news. The footage cut between shaky cell phone videos of Duncan trading blows with the X-Cutioner and the smoldering remains of a Carraro warehouse in Arkansas. The clips were grainy, but there was no mistaking the figure in the burnt suit and cowboy boots.

“Oh, shit,” Duncan muttered under his breath, sinking onto the couch. “I hope they don’t say my name.”

“Son, this is dangerous,” Robert said, running a hand through his hair as he began pacing. “You’re in over your head.”

“Maybe, Daddy. But I handled it,” Duncan said, his smirk returning as he slouched into the cushions. “And now the X-Men’ll clean up what’s left. That’s teamwork, right?”

Marcy crossed her arms, her voice sharp. “What did you do, Duncan?”

Duncan leaned back, one arm draped over the back of the couch. “Well, remember the whole FoH thing? Decided to take direct action since the X-Cutioner came to my office tryin’ to coerce us into issuin’ bonds. Thought I’d send a message.”

“What?” Marcy’s voice rose an octave as she planted her hands on her hips. “You’re tellin’ me you fought him in your office?”

“He shot me first,” Duncan replied, his tone almost nonchalant as he pointed to the bullet holes in his tattered suit. “Nine millimeters don’t actually hurt me, Mama.”

Marcy’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. “Duncan!”

Robert stopped pacing, his expression grim. “What about the other people in the office? Anyone get hurt?”

“No, Dad,” Duncan said firmly. “I didn’t give ’em time to hurt anyone.”

Marcy rubbed her temples with a frustrated sigh. “One day, Duncan, you’re gonna bite off more than you can chew.”

Duncan stood, stretching his arms over his head. “Don’t worry, Mama. I’ve got this. It’s the Alamo way.”

“The Alamo?” Robert asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, yeah,” Duncan said with a grin. “That’s what I’m callin’ myself now.”

The kitchen light flickered as Duncan wandered toward the fridge. The hum of the appliance and the faint clinking of glass jars filled the quiet as he pulled out a Dr. Pepper and a Pepsi, holding one in each hand like a cowboy deciding which pistol to draw.

From the living room, his parents’ voices drifted toward him.

“The Alamo?” Marcy repeated, her tone thoughtful. “It’s… very Texan.”

“Not bad,” Robert admitted. “It’s got a nice ring to it.”

Duncan popped the tab on the Dr. Pepper, letting the fizz tickle his hand as he took a long sip. His reflection in the kitchen window grinned back at him.

“The Alamo,” he said softly, testing the name in his Texan drawl. “Yeah. I like it.”

“I just hope he doesn’t become an X-Man,” Robert added from the living room, his tone dipping slightly.

“Yeah, an Avenger would be much better,” Marcy said, her voice lighter but still holding a note of seriousness.

Duncan called out from the kitchen, loud enough for them to hear. “I can still hear y’all. The X-Men ain’t half bad, y’know. The X brand thing is on point, I reckon if people didn't hate our asses half of the time we could sell a shit ton of shirts and toys."

"X-Men Toys? Who would buy that? I don't want a doll of an old bald guy that can read minds starin' at my family from the shelf" Robert said, chuckling at his own joke.

"Maybe not Xavier, dad... maybe someone more appealin'." Duncan spoke from the kitchen, grabbing some chilli from the microwave. Before he floated back to the living room with the drinks. Grinning to both his parents.