Captain America walked down the winding stone path of the X-Mansion gardens, his shield strapped tightly to his back. The moon above was bright, illuminating the greenery with a soft silver glow. The cold air bit at his skin, but he barely noticed it. His mind was too full.

  He found the Alamo in one of the more secluded corners of the garden, floating a good ten feet above the ground. His arms were crossed, his body still as a statue, save for the occasional shift of his fingers. He was staring up at the moon, the chrome mask on his face reflecting the celestial light, his red eyes glowing beneath the shadow of his hat.

  He looked like a specter.

  A ghost of something lost in time.

  Steve paused for a moment before speaking.

  “Duncan.”

  It was a simple greeting, nothing more. But the way Alamo twitched—just slightly, just enough for Steve to catch—told him that he had startled him. And that was rare.

  Alamo turned in the air, his body rotating smoothly, his arms still crossed against his chest. The mask made him unreadable, but Steve could feel the weight behind those glowing red eyes. And then there was the star—the bright, white star emblazoned on his chest, the same kind of symbol Steve himself wore. While for Steve it meant America, for Duncan it was evident it meant Texas.

  For just a second, Steve’s gaze flickered to it.

  A part of him had always wondered what it meant—to him. To Duncan. He had no doubt the star was a statement, but what kind? Was it a pledge? A reminder? A burden?

  Knowing him it probably meant pride, something philosophical, something vice-president John Nance Garner, Ol' Cactus Jack, would be proud of. Something that would warm Stephen F. Austin's heart.

  Or maybe it was something simpler, Steve made a mental note to remind him to ask Duncan about what the star meant to him.

  Duncan floated there, silent.

  Steve took a breath.

  "I'm sorry for what happened to Denti," he said, his voice low, even. "I understand you were the person he tried to kill. Twice."

  Alamo didn’t flinch.

  “Yup.”

  There was no hostility in his voice. No emotion at all, really. Just a simple acknowledgment.

  Steve let the silence hang for a second before continuing.

  “I wanted to hear your input on this development.”

  Alamo sighed.

  His arms slowly uncrossed, and for the first time since Steve had stepped into the garden, his posture shifted.

  “I ain’t Wolverine, Cap. I ain’t Rogue,” he said, his voice even, measured, but there was something just beneath the surface. Something restrained. “An’ right now, I wanna hear ya say what happened.”

  Steve glanced up at the moon behind Alamo. It hung heavy in the sky, the same way this conversation felt heavy between them.

  He inhaled through his nose.

  "When I arrived in D.C., I expected to interrogate Denti. Instead, he interrogated me."

  "Is that so? What did he ask?" Alamo pressed his tone was curious, his voice was coarse but not deep. There was always this guttural nature to his accent, like he was constantly chewing Tobacco, even though it was likely he never even tasted it. His vowels sounded like they leaned on each other, there was an almost whispery end to it. He sounded more western than your average West Texan at his age, whether this was on purpose or not, it was entirely unknown to Steve.

  "The war, he asked about the war. He told me if I had killed soldiers, conscripts in which had little personal stake in the war." Cap answered, his tone swifted from the usual steely commanding voice to a more approachable tone, but hidden below it a sense of grief, regret.

  "An' ya did?"

  "Yes"

  Alamo held silence for a while, the words hitting him in thought.

  "War is war, Cap." He justified himself, but Steve noticed it didn't come from experience, it came from an attempt at empathy.

  "He said that in war sometimes people die, even if they don't deserve to. We went to Europe to defend the principles of our nation, of the West. Democracy, Liberty, Justice."

  "Sacrifice" Alamo muttered thinking back to Chicago how he went to orbit, how for a quick moment he expected everything to end. A single final waltz to a short life, a light that had burned too brightly too quickly. The word sacrifice itself escaped his lips almost like a forbidden curse, a slur. Not tinged with disgust, but fear of what came after.

  "Yes, but it was our own too. We could see that." Cap added. "We made the choice to go there, sacrifice ourselves to defend these principles, defend Europe from a great evil."

  Steve remembered of the lines of volunteers, young man who wanted to prove themselves to their loved ones, serve their nation. But also men who had no career prospect, men blinded by a promise of adventure, men who didn't know any better.

  "Choice."

  "Jean told me what bothered her in me offering a plea deal to Denti was the fact that they weren't consulted, not asked, not approached."

  "Ya stripped em' from their choice"

  Captain America swallowed dry.

  "Denti didn't want his fate to be decided by mutants, he said he didn't want the X-Men involved, he told us to decide immediately"

  "Hmm"

  There was a long silence as Alamo rubbed the chin of his chrome mask. He was deep in thiought. Duncan didn't know what to say, but he knew what to think. The X-Men wanted to do things Cap's way. They wanted the structural change, not his Ad Hoc solution. To Duncan he could have solved this by hunting Creed to the ends of earth and then Trask, breaking their bones, destroying their assets, make sure the incentives would be to low to even consider another crusade.

  But the X-Men wanted systemic change. They wanted to fix the machine. Cap was playing the long game, working within the system, trying to mold it into something that could function for mutants.

  Duncan wasn’t sure if he even believed in this plan.

  It had too many variables.

  Too many outsiders to trust.

  And yet, he was still here, listening to Captain America, contemplating the weight of his decisions instead of walking away entirely.

  Duncan thought for a minute, recalling past experiences of human history. The tales in the treadmill of he individual rights, it took forever. He knew it did, from the books he had read, from the classes on history and economics, high-school, college and beyond. He knew that these things wouldn't come from a single punch to the face of a so-called 'oppressor'.

  "Look, Cap," he finally said, lowering his hand from his mask. "Maybe this wasn’t done in the way I’d have wanted. But the X-Men? They chose this path. They asked for this—this whole ‘systemic change’ deal. I know the game you’re playin’."

  Steve’s eyes narrowed slightly. "And what game is that?"

  Duncan tilted his head. "The long game."

  There was something about the way he said it—like it was both an acknowledgment and a challenge.

  Cap exhaled, nodding once. "The long game."

  "Short-term costs for long-term benefits," Alamo continued. "Like a cash flow, really. Ya invest today, ya get the returns in the future."

  Steve studied him for a moment. Duncan could tell he was listening, really listening.

  Duncan’s voice dropped slightly, thoughtful. "The question is…" He let the words linger in the cold air between them. "Is it worth investin’?"

  Steve swallowed, the gears in his mind turning.

  Then he met Alamo’s gaze.

  "What do you think?" Captain America asked, almost like a challenge.

  "Well, fer starters, I ain't sure." Duncan exhaled, crossing his arms as he floated slightly lower, his body hovering just a few feet above the ground now. "But I know someone gotta try. I respect ya for that, Cap. I see ya’re tryin’—ya made the X-Men go to S.H.I.E.L.D., brought Stark in, heck, even Captain Marvel ain't freakin’ out. That’s good leadership, if ya ask me."

  Steve nodded once, his expression firm but appreciative. "Thank you."

  Duncan tapped a finger against his forearm, thoughtful. "I also think that maybe—just maybe—there’s a point to the civil rights approach. I’d believe in more direct action, but that ain't exactly a gold standard for long-term solutions."

  Steve glanced up at him, his gaze unreadable for a moment before he spoke. "No, it would be a band-aid," he admitted. "Maybe we’d arrest or even hurt Trask and Creed today. But they would still find a way to make them martyrs, to replace them with someone with more vitriol. Trust me, I have seen it happen."

  Duncan chuckled dryly, shaking his head. "Well, there’s a reason why ya are leadin’ and not me."

  Steve smirked slightly at that, his shoulders relaxing just the faintest bit. "Thank you for your trust, Duncan."

  Alamo waved a hand lazily through the air. "No, thank you…" He let the words hang for a moment, as if trying to find the right way to phrase what he wanted to say. His red eyes flickered in the dim light. "I wasn’t expectin’ the Avengers to get involved at all. Ya brought ‘em here. For that, I’m very thankful, sir. Thanks fer playin’ the long game."

  He sighed, his posture shifting slightly as he finally let his feet touch the ground. "I’m sorry that Rogue sees it like betrayal," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "But I see it like a man tryin’ his best."

  "Rogue has suffered a lot…" Captain America said, his voice dipping into something quieter, something softer. He glanced down at his gloved hands, the deep red muted under the moonlight, as if he could still feel the weight of every battle, every difficult choice. "She has been through a lot. She tries a lot. She’s a good woman, Duncan. Deep down, I always knew it."

  Duncan remained silent, watching him carefully. There was something introspective in Cap’s tone, something heavy.

  "She’s hurt," Steve continued. "Because she believes there wasn’t justice for the people who died."

  He sighed, tilting his head slightly, eyes distant as he spoke again. "I still remember when we first fought her, back when she walked with the Brotherhood."

  Duncan raised an eyebrow behind his mask, finally lowering himself fully to the ground. "Really, ya remember that?"

  "Yes." Steve nodded. "You could see it in her eyes—she didn’t want to be there. She didn’t want to hurt people." His gaze grew distant, caught in a memory. "She was just a girl back then. Couldn’t have been older than Kate Pryde."

  Alamo frowned slightly, folding his arms as he considered that. It was strange to picture Rogue that way. Vulnerable. Caught in a cause she didn't quite believe in.

  "She didn’t want to be there," Steve repeated, his tone thoughtful, reflective. "But she always committed. Even when she didn’t believe in Magneto. Or Mystique. Or Destiny." He let the names hang in the air, heavy with history. "She was there because they were the only ones who took her in at the time."

  Duncan looked down, shaking his head. "She could've left earlier. Stood up fer herself, individuals have agency."

  Steve’s expression didn’t change. "She was a child, she didn’t have a choice," he said simply. "She had nowhere else to go. And when you have no choices, even the wrong path looks like the only way forward."

  Duncan was quiet for a moment, letting that sink in.

  "But the way she got Carol’s powers," Duncan finally said, his voice lower.

  Steve exhaled through his nose. "She didn’t want to hurt Carol, but she still committed. She believed in the cause—the intentions behind it. But she couldn’t always stomach the costs."

  Duncan let out a slow breath. That made sense. More sense than he wanted it to.

  "That’s why she came to the X-Men," he said.

  Steve gave a small nod. "I’d like to believe that. I’m sure of it." His voice was firmer now, more certain. "She didn’t want to be manipulated into being a villain anymore."

  Alamo sighed, tipping his head back slightly to look at the sky. The moon was high, bright, cold. His mind wandered, unbidden, back to his own childhood. It wasn’t perfect—no childhood was—but it hadn’t been like that. He had never been abandoned. Never been stripped of choice. He had loving parents, people who despite their mistakes and flaws, loved him, truly and deeply and tried their best.

  For him, standing for choice, for reason, had always been easy. Because he had the luxury of agency.

  She never did.

  "She didn’t deserve that," he muttered.

  Steve’s jaw tightened slightly. "No child does," he agreed, his voice tinged with something just short of anger. "It’s terrible to not have anyone to support you. To be alone because everyone around you is afraid. And when you finally do find people who aren’t, they mold you into something you’re not."

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Alamo exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Dang it, Cap."

  For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The night stretched around them, vast and quiet, the weight of the conversation settling in their bones.

  And for the first time in a long time, Duncan wasn’t sure how to argue against that.

  Instead, he didn't want to argue. He had nothing to argue, Captain America was right.

  Duncan exhaled, crossing his arms as he shifted his weight slightly. His gaze flickered from the stars back to Captain America, his tone thoughtful but steady.

  "Bein' a kid is thinkin' Captain America is cool," he said, tilting his head slightly. "Bein' an adult is knowin' he's right."

  Steve blinked at that, his lips twitching into a small smile. It wasn’t a cocky or smug grin—it was one of quiet understanding, of appreciation. He knew Duncan wasn’t the type to throw out compliments lightly.

  "I’m only a man, Duncan," Cap said, shaking his head slightly. "A man with too much history. I make mistakes too."

  Duncan let out a low chuckle. "Everyone does, Cap," he said simply. "But ya ain't a victim of yer mistakes. Fer that, I admire ya." He inhaled slowly before continuing, his voice quieter but firm. "I always did. It's an honor servin’ with ya, sir."

  Something shifted in Cap’s expression then. A brief flicker of something deep—gratitude, respect, maybe even something close to pride.

  "Honor is mutual, Alamo."

  Steve extended his hand.

  Duncan looked at it for half a second, then clasped it eagerly, shaking firmly. There was no hesitation, no doubt—just mutual recognition, two men who had come to understand each other in a way few could.

  The handshake was solid, a quiet reaffirmation of their beliefs, their trust in each other. This? This felt real.

  Then—

  "Ahem."

  A soft but pointed clearing of the throat cut through the quiet night.

  Duncan’s spine straightened slightly, the sound familiar in a way that sent something twisting in his gut before he even turned around.

  Captain America turned as well, his gaze landing on the approaching figure.

  There, standing at the edge of the gravel path, arms crossed, emerald-green eyes sharp beneath the dim moonlight—

  Rogue.

  She was still upset. It wasn’t loud, wasn’t explosive, but it was there, simmering beneath the surface. Her lips were pressed together, her posture stiff, her body language restrained but tense.

  Duncan swallowed, shifting slightly.

  She locked eyes with Cap, her expression unreadable for a long moment.

  "May Ah talk with him, Rogers?"

  Her voice was steady, but there was an edge to it. A weight.

  Duncan felt something tighten in his chest.

  Cap studied her for a second longer, then gave a slow nod.

  "Of course," he said simply.

  He cast one last glance at Duncan before stepping away, his boots crunching lightly against the gravel as he took his leave, disappearing back toward the mansion.

  Duncan let out a slow exhale.

  Rogue remained standing there, unmoving, watching him.

  Duncan shifted, his arms uncrossing as he let out a slow breath, his gaze locked onto Rogue’s. There was something in her stance—anger, disappointment, but also something else, something she wasn’t saying outright.

  "Rogue," he said, and his voice was soft. Soft in a way that felt unfamiliar even to himself. It was restrained, controlled—but there was a depth to it. Something genuine. Something real.

  Rogue blinked at that, as if she hadn’t expected it. Maybe she thought he’d be defensive, maybe she thought he’d match her fire with fire. But he didn’t—not yet.

  Her arms stayed crossed tight against her chest, her weight shifting slightly.

  "Alamo," she said, her voice taut with frustration, but laced—just barely—with an undertone of something else. Affection.

  Duncan stiffened slightly.

  He heard it. She probably didn’t even mean for it to slip out, didn’t mean to let it color the edges of her anger, but it was there. It sat between them, unspoken, undeniable.

  And then, she went for the kill.

  "Ya know," Rogue said, tilting her head slightly, her emerald eyes burning into him, "once, a real smart boy told me that free men don’t believe promises of salvation."

  Duncan’s stomach twisted.

  He knew exactly where she was going with this.

  "Rogue—" he started, but she didn’t let him finish.

  "Now Ah see him, all in on America’s savior."

  Her voice dripped with something bitter, something hurt. Still smooth, the Mississippi belle accent was the opposite to his West Texan, her accent was smooth, gallant. Like molasses to a dry tumbleweed.

  Duncan’s jaw clenched behind his mask.

  "Rogue, let me—"

  But she wasn’t done. Not yet.

  She took a step closer, her glare unwavering, her voice dropping just slightly, the weight of her words cutting deep.

  "Ah'm startin’ ta think ya’re all hat an’ no cattle 'bout this liberty business of yers."

  Duncan felt the words hit.

  Hard.

  His fingers twitched slightly at his sides, his body going rigid, his eyebrows furrowing behind the cold chrome of his mask.

  That one? That one got to him.

  Because it wasn’t just an insult—it was a challenge. A wound. She was calling him a hypocrite. Calling into question everything he stood for, everything he believed.

  And Alamo?

  He wasn’t happy about it. At all.

  Duncan’s eyes flickered in the moonlight, the weight of Rogue’s challenge settling between them like a pressure drop before a storm. His fingers curled slightly at his sides, but he didn’t lash out. Not immediately.

  Instead, his voice came smooth, dripping with aggressive sarcasm, but with an edge that was barely restrained.

  "Ya ain't gonna find Mississippi alligators in a West Texan plain, Bayou princess."

  Rogue’s lips parted slightly, her expression shifting from anger to mild confusion.

  She blinked. "What does that even mean?"

  Duncan exhaled sharply through his nose, his tone still laced with the lingering frustration from their argument—but he held back.

  Because of Cap.

  Because of the conversation they just had.

  Because, deep down, he wasn’t trying to hurt her.

  He lifted his chin slightly, voice lower now, but still firm.

  "It means ya’re lookin’ fer the wrong thing in the wrong place."

  Rogue didn’t hesitate.

  Her weight shifted, her hands still resting on her hips, her green eyes sharp under the glow of the garden lanterns.

  "Then tell me, sugah," she challenged, her voice softer but no less intense, "what should Ah be lookin’ fer?"

  She took a step closer, her gaze locking onto his.

  "Help me understand what Ah'm missin' here, mistuh."

  Duncan was ready to answer.

  He had his words loaded—had the response ready to fire back.

  But Rogue?

  She cut him off before he could even draw.

  "Ya don’t have to hide behind The Alamo ta talk with me, Duncan."

  Her voice softened slightly at the end, but the impact was undeniable.

  It wasn’t just a sentence—it was another challenge.

  And then, she pointed her dark olive gloves right at the mask.

  At the thing that had become part of him.

  The chrome shield he never took off in a fight.

  His practical acessory to hide his emotions, hide any sign of vulnerability.

  Duncan felt a flash of something—hesitation, resistance, instinctive denial—but Rogue?

  She didn’t let him dodge.

  She didn’t let him retreat.

  And somehow, somehow, he listened.

  With a measured slowness, Duncan removed his mask.

  The air was cooler against his skin, the weight of metal lifted as he let out a quiet exhale, his sharp features finally revealed under the moonlight.

  His eyes—dark like Texan oil—met hers.

  Green meeting dark brown. His irises seemed black under his hat and the faint moonlight..

  His gaze was intense.

  But then, Duncan spoke.

  And this time, there was no mask to hide behind.

  "Ya don’t have ta hide behind Rogue either, Anna Marie."

  His voice was lower now, steady.

  Unapologetically real.

  "I know ya’re hurt."

  And that?

  That landed harder than any punch.

  Rogue faltered. Just for a second.

  Her lips parted slightly, as if a rebuttal had been forming, but instead of words, there was only hesitation.

  She looked down, crossing her arms tightly over her chest, her weight shifting slightly as if she suddenly felt exposed. Vulnerable.

  Her gaze averted.

  "Ah—" she started, then sighed, her voice dipping lower.

  "Ah thought Cap would keep his promise," she admitted, shaking her head lightly. "Ah'm lookin’ mighty foolish fer believin’ in him."

  Duncan frowned, his own arms still loosely crossed, his fingers lightly tapping against his bicep.

  "First of all, ya ain't foolish," he said, his tone firm but gentler than before.

  Rogue huffed, still refusing to look at him.

  "Secondly," Duncan continued, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping an octave, "he didn’t break his promise."

  Her head snapped up, green eyes narrowed, her face twisting in disbelief.

  "He did, Duncan. He broke his promise to me, ta ya… ta us!."

  And there it was.

  That last word.

  Us.

  Duncan caught it immediately, and despite the tension hanging in the air, despite the heated frustration still lingering between them, a small, knowing smile crept onto his face.

  Rogue blushed.

  It was subtle—barely there—but Duncan caught it anyway.

  She rolled her eyes, turning her head slightly, her voice coming out flustered but sharp.

  "Don’t be silly now," she muttered, her usual sass flickering back, a shield for the warmth creeping into her chest. "This is serious."

  Duncan chuckled, his expression softening just a bit.

  "I know," he assured her. "Listen, Anna Marie—"

  She exhaled heavily through her nose at the sound of her full name. He always said it differently than the others. He didn’t sugarcoat it. Didn’t make it soft.

  He said it like he meant it.

  Like it was something strong.

  "He's tryin’ his best," Duncan continued, more serious now. "He really is. He hasn’t abandoned mutantkind, he brought the Avengers at the cost of their reputation ta be here, he even got y’all inside S.H.I.E.L.D—"

  "Duncan," Rogue interrupted sharply, her voice cracking slightly, "the X-Cutioner killed a bunch of mutants, fer years! Ya saw it happen in Houston!"

  Her eyes flared with anger, pain, passion.

  "We can’t jus’ offer him a plea bargain like he deserves it."

  Duncan’s expression didn’t change.

  His gaze remained steady, dark eyes locked onto hers, unwavering.

  "It’s a game."

  Rogue blinked.

  Then she scoffed, the frustration mounting again.

  "Ya gotta be kiddin’ me."

  Duncan shook his head.

  "No," he said simply. "Listen ta me, please."

  Rogue stared at him for a moment, her lips pressing into a thin line.

  Then, finally—reluctantly—she sighed.

  "Fine."

  Duncan nodded, his arms unfolding, his fingers gesturing lightly as he spoke.

  "If ya don’t give him a good reason ta talk, he won’t," he explained, his tone measured. "After all, why would he? Anna Marie, he’d rot in prison anyway."

  She held still, watching him carefully.

  "He’d only make things easier on us an’ harder on him," Duncan continued, voice steady.

  "But it’s the right thing ta do," Rogue pressed, her voice quieter now, but no less determined. "Ya can see right from wrong, Duncan. Ah know Ah did… maybe too late, but Ah did."

  Her expression wavered, the anger shifting into something else.

  Something guilt-ridden.

  Something buried.

  Duncan didn’t hesitate.

  "I know," he said softly.

  His eyes held hers—dark and firm, but filled with something real, something soft.

  "And ya’re great fer thinkin’ like that," he added.

  His words weren’t empty.

  They weren’t the kind people threw out just to make someone feel better.

  "Ya really gave all ya could… ya still do."

  His voice softened, the Texan drawl pulling at the edges, making the words heavier.

  "Ya’re a good person," he said.

  Rogue blinked.

  "Better than most people I’ve ever met," he admitted.

  Rogue felt her breath catch.

  Her lips parted slightly, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice.

  "Ya saw the wrong an’ took action ta change," Duncan continued, his expression unwavering. "Seein’ yer mistakes an’ changin’—that’s good."

  His voice dropped lower.

  "Ya’re good."

  The words settled in the space between them.

  Rogue smiled.

  It was small—soft—but it was real.

  She could see it in his eyes—the truth behind his words.

  And it felt… good.

  So much better when he wasn’t hiding.

  No mask. No deflections. Just Duncan. Just them.

  Rogue exhaled a slow breath, her expression shifting from anger to something more contemplative. The frustration still lingered in her eyes, but Duncan could see the gears turning, the way she chewed on his words, processing them.

  She smiled softly, a quiet, hesitant thing. Not quite surrender, but not outright defiance either.

  "Ah neveh believed this would work fer us, Duncan."

  Alamo raised an eyebrow, curiosity flickering in his dark eyes.

  "What wouldn’t work?"

  She hesitated, her lips pressing together for a moment. Then, she exhaled, shaking her head.

  "The system," she finally admitted.

  He breathed out a quiet sigh of relief.

  "Wait," she said, narrowing her eyes slightly. "What were ya thinkin’ ‘bout?"

  He waved a gloved hand dismissively. "Don’t matter now..." His voice trailed off, and he cleared his throat. "Erm, ‘bout the system… No, yeah… I agree with ya. The government has never been a real friend of mutants. Or anyone else if ya ask me."

  Duncan nodded slowly. That, at least, was something they both knew to be true.

  "So why ya agree with this?" she asked, tilting her head slightly, watching him carefully.

  He sighed, rubbing his gloved fingers together, considering his words.

  "If I had my way, Rogue," he said, voice low and even, "I’d find Creed, break his shit, and put him in a coma. Same with Trask. Make sure they live but never forget it. An’ then I’d destroy every single Sentinel, every damn factory…"

  Rogue didn’t even flinch. Instead, her eyes brightened—a fire lighting in them as she nodded firmly.

  "An’ that’s great, Duncan. Ah agree with it 100%, maybe that’s what we should do. Do things our way."

  But Duncan shook his head.

  "But our way is wrong, Anna Marie."

  Rogue’s brows furrowed, her expression twisting in confusion.

  "Wrong? But ain’t this what ya'd do?"

  "It is," Duncan admitted. "But my way ain’t always the best way. It lacked foresight. Cap told—"

  "Here ya go again," she interrupted, crossing her arms.

  "Listen ta me, Anna Marie."

  Her posture stiffened at the way he said her name—firm, deliberate, not pleading but demanding.

  She sighed, rolling her shoulders.

  "Naw, yeah. Sorry."

  Duncan nodded before continuing.

  "As I was sayin’… What if we do this, huh? Then they become martyrs—like Thomas Thompson. People will have their names on protest signs. More will show up, it’ll only radicalize people."

  She blinked, the weight of that sinking in.

  "Ya think so?"

  "I know so," he said, his voice steady. "I’ve been there, in Houston. People sometimes need just a nudge to do bad things. An’ there I saw how easily people will twist yer symbols ta become whatever they want it ta be."

  Rogue exhaled through her nose, tension settling in her shoulders.

  "So they would become symbols?"

  "Idols, stripped from their humanity. Highlighted in their virtues, forgotten in their vices. It’s happened before, Rogue. People get elevated to martyrs, an’ sometimes? The cause ain’t even good ta start with."

  She stayed silent, lips pursed, absorbing his words like a sponge soaking up hard truths.

  "Ah see," she said at last.

  She looked at him carefully now, like she was seeing him differently.

  "But then, what’s the game here, Duncan?"

  He didn’t hesitate.

  "Systemic change." His voice was firm. "That’s what y’all X-Men wanted, right?"

  Rogue exhaled sharply, shaking her head.

  "Well, Cyclops an’ Professor Xavier led us ta it. Ah didn’t really get that much of a sayin’…"

  "But that’s what you signed up fer," he reminded her. "The X-Men. A team. That’s exactly why I do things without a team. Ya either are part of the team, or ya ain’t. Ya signed up ta be an X-Man, ya oughta follow these decisions."

  Rogue’s lips parted slightly, as if to argue, but then she closed her mouth.

  For now, he wasn't wrong.

  Instead, she studied him carefully—measuring his resolve.

  "And ya?" she asked finally, tilting her head. "Why are ya followin’?"

  Duncan sighed, rubbing his chin.

  "Because I proposed myself to," he said.

  Rogue blinked.

  "We’re workin’ with teams, Anna Marie," he explained. "I can’t superimpose my views an’ decisions on y’all. Ain’t that exactly what I fight against?"

  Rogue looked at him for a long moment, her sharp mind working through his words, fitting the pieces together.

  She rubbed her chin in thought.

  "So we follow the end goal ‘cause we decided we’d do it."

  "Exactly."

  He leaned slightly closer, voice dropping to a low, certain tone.

  "We’re not even halfway there yet, Anna Marie. Steady as she goes."

  She exhaled deeply, processing it all.

  Then, she nodded.

  "Alright," she murmured. "So what’s the play here?"

  Duncan’s eyes gleamed with certainty.

  "The long game."

  Rogue frowned slightly, waiting for him to elaborate.

  "We expose their manipulations, their corruption," Duncan explained. "Their capture of state power. We showcase the crimes of every dirty anti-mutant bureaucrat an’ private backer we can find. Then they’ll understand."

  "Understand what?"

  Duncan’s lips curled slightly—not a smirk, not arrogance, but certainty.

  "They’re not martyrs, Anna Marie," he said. "They’re humans makin’ mistakes, hateful mistakes."

  Rogue inhaled, her breath steady, but her thoughts racing.

  She thought about everything—the way mutants had been treated, the way they had fought back, the endless cycle of violence, betrayal, and mistrust.

  She thought about Chicago.

  About how she thought Duncan died.

  How she had kissed him, at least tried to.

  How it still lingered in the back of her mind, every second they were together.

  She bit her lip, then slowly, finally, nodded.

  "Alright, Duncan," she said, her voice softer now. "Ah can live with that."

  She tilted her head, smiling slightly.

  "We had worse plans 'fore."

  Duncan smirked, a genuine one this time.

  "That’s the game," he confirmed.

  A comfortable silence settled between them.

  Then, after a moment, Rogue exhaled.

  "Let’s get back inside now."

  Duncan gave her a lazy salute, his smirk still playing at the edge of his lips.

  "Let’s."

  The night air was crisp as they walked side by side, gravel crunching under their boots. The mansion loomed ahead, its windows aglow with the warm light of the War Room, where the X-Men and possibly the Avengers were waiting.

  Rogue let out a low chuckle, shaking her head.

  "Y'know, Duncan," she drawled, tilting her head to the side as she looked at him, "Maybe ya're not so bad at this team business. Ah reckon ya'd make a mighty fine X-Man."

  Duncan let out an immediate snort of protest.

  "Absolutely not."

  Rogue smirked at his instant rejection, nudging him slightly with her elbow.

  "Oh yeah, Ah forgot," she teased, her accent getting thicker as she mocked him playfully, "Ya are tryin’ to get Cap to pass the shield down to ya."

  Alamo let out a dramatic scoff, crossing his arms as he shook his head.

  "Ya think he’d do it?" he fired back, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

  Rogue raised a brow, mischief twinkling in her green eyes.

  "Come on now, Duncan Nenni: Captain America?"

  He exaggerated the name, stretching out each syllable as if it were a title.

  Rogue let out a soft melodic laugh.

  "Sugah, ain't anyone askin' fer a white-collar, smartass, Texan Captain America..."

  Duncan gasped in mock offense, clutching his chest as if he’d been mortally wounded.

  "Wow, Anna. Just go ahead an’ eviscerate me right here, why don’t ya?"

  She laughed, rolling her eyes.

  Rogue tapped her chin, pretending to think. Then, with a deliberate pause, she let a slow smirk cross her lips.

  "Ya’re just fine as Alamo," she finally said, wrapping one arm around his, pulling him close. Her voice was softer now, warmer.

  "Just fine."

  Duncan stilled slightly at the contact, at her closeness, before he let out a quiet chuckle.

  "Well, I suppose I’ll settle fer that," he muttered.

  They walked together, neither rushing, neither pulling away.

  And with that, they headed back toward the mansion—toward the team, toward the fight ahead.

  Toward whatever came next.