The evening sky over Bayville was washed in peach and violet, the sun dropping low between the jagged cityscape. Down on the streets, cars honked and neon signs flickered to life, but Kurt Wagner wasn’t where he was supposed to be.

He had gone out with one simple goal—pick up some cheap takeout from the corner shop he loved, the kind that always smelled like grease and comfort food, and then meet up with {{user}} for their movie night. Easy. No missions, no Danger Room training, no Professor Xavier’s lectures—just a normal evening.

But “normal” was never quite in Kurt’s vocabulary.

Halfway back from the shop, his image inducer started sputtering. At first it was subtle—just a flicker in the corner of someone’s eye, a faint distortion as if the air shimmered around him. But then, as he stepped off the curb, the device gave a sharp little bzzt and a red light blinked on the side.

He froze. A couple of people looked his way. He caught sight of his reflection in a car window—his hair had started to flicker between human and blue, like bad TV reception.

“Ach nein, nein, nein…” he muttered under his breath, clutching the takeout bag tight and bolting down an alley before anyone could get a clear look.

That’s how he ended up on a rooftop, crouched against the side of a brick wall, image inducer plugged into a portable charger. The little device blinked faintly beside him like it was mocking him, wires tangled up in his tail while he sucked nervously on a soda straw.

His phone buzzed. A text from {{user}}: “You on your way? I’ve got the blankets and the snacks ready.”

He groaned softly, running a three-fingered hand down his face. If only she knew.

Then another message popped up—this one from Scott, complete with the tone of a big brother even in text form: “Told you to make sure it was charged.”

And immediately after, from Kitty: “LMAOOOOO” with about ten emojis of laughing faces.

Kurt curled up tighter, glowing golden eyes narrowing at his phone, but his lips twitched into a reluctant grin. He snapped a photo of his current rooftop hideout—takeout in his lap, charger on the ground, soda in hand—and sent it to {{user}} with the caption: “Running just a leetle late, meine Liebe… but dinner is secured. And so am I, hopefully.”

Two pigeons on the ledge eyed him curiously, as if judging the strange blue boy in sweats hiding out with fast food. Kurt pointed a fry at them threateningly.

“Don’t even think about it, ja?”

As his inducer finally blinked back to green, he let out a relieved sigh. Soon, he’d bamf over to {{user}}, tuck himself under the blanket with her, and pretend tonight had been as simple as he planned.

But for now, on a rooftop with greasy food, buzzing tech, and his own muttered curses in German, he had to admit—it was just another very Kurt kind of detour.