Disclaimer: X-men © Stan Lee
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Peel
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The grandmother knows war and illusion.
She lost her husband in the WWII. She received an impersonal letter (it matched the neighbor's) explaining he'd died heroically for the fatherland. Two months later a soldier sought her out, explaining he'd accidentally shot her husband in the ass. The enemy did not kill him; an infection did. This is something she never told her children. She understands the need to wrap things into paper, or steel, or words. To conceal things to avoid pain.
Her granddaughter Maria is visiting. She's a butterball of a girl, even larger now. She talks about the sketchy boyfriend with the fine arts degree. The grandmother will say "I told you so" if the relationship expires.
The kitchen is from the 30s; checkered floor, walls in pale mint, counters stocked with equipment and supplies. There is grime in the crevices. The house reeks old, and of onions. The grandmother is peeling them, slowly. She removes the brown bits.
Peel. Peel.
She cooks them, using an electric single burner after the oven ceased to work. She does not fuss or flip them in the air. No superfluous motions. She tastes them, never burning herself or cursing, before adding a pound of chopped meat. The house creaks in the terrible wind. Still, it is midday and hot, and the grandmother is sweating. She has a wig, and is coated makeup—powder so thick if you scraped your nails over it, it'd stain your hands—and perfume.
The TV's volume is dimmed, but Maria's eyes drift over there anyway. Images flash over the screens. Dead bodies. Soldiers. Uprising in the streets. Dumb hippies. As if demonstration every got anyone anywhere. The grandmother shuts the TV off. She must obtain the illusion. The two generations know that there is a war going on, but it is quiet, smothered like a pillow over a child's face, ensuring its discontinued existence.
Right after, an alarm goes off, so loud it echoes through the streets. Sentinels are nearby.
Maria stirs.
"It will not affect us, child," the grandmother soothes. She continues mixing sizzling meat and onions. "Now what were you saying you were going to tell m—"
A hole is blasted into the wall.
In comes a Sentinel.
(War bursts into their living room. War affects everyone, eventually.)
The grandmother thinks of Satan and crosses herself. But it isn't looking at her. Its focus remains on Maria, scanning her. "I'm not a mutant," she whispers. She clutches her bulging belly. "I'm not I'm not I'm not…"
Is she a—?
No.
The grandmother knows. Even makeup cannot hide her flaccid skin, stretching in horror and despair—nor will perfume mask the smell.
For an old soul such as her, it was a bit obvious. Maria's sudden talk of family life. She's pregnant. Five months, at least. And Maria isn't the mutant.
She's carrying one.
The grandmother knows what the Sentinel will do, to get to the Truth.
Peel.