CHINK. The red bottlecap soared through the air and landed tinnily on the hard, sticky floor of the bar. The music was loud and decidedly campy as Mason handed the bottle of lemony-looking liquid to a young, blonde female. She thanked him and left, vanishing into the crowd of buff gay men and their entourages of liberal women. The crowd tonight was largely German - tourist season didn't properly kick off for another month or so, when the city held its annual "Internationale Filmfestspiele Berlin". The lights dimmed, interrupting his trail of thought. As the music trailed off, a spotlight illuminated the stage, and out tottered a tall, chunky lady to all the whooping and wolf whistles the inebriated crowd could muster at this late hour.

Of course, the word "lady" was used in the most metaphoric sense of the word; this lady had plastic breasts, a strong jaw and a mountain of neon green hair atop her aged but immaculately made-up face. Helga Holla, one of Berlin's finest drag queens and a regular fixture in the gay and art scenes here in the German capital. Mason grinned bemusedly as he watched his housemate work the stage and maintained it as he spotted Raja observing from the sidelines, just as she did every night; eyes wide in the admiration only a devoted lover can possess. Raja and Helga were each other's number one fans, and it was - quite frankly - adorable.

"E-excu, I mean uh... Entschuldigung?" came a male's voice, attracting Mason's attention from the glass he was absent-mindedly wiping. It was not common for customers to visit the bar whilst Helga or Raja were performing, but also not entirely unheard of. Mason chuckled at the man's poor attempt at the language, but it was always endearing when people tried to make the effort.

"Hallo," Mason began, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Was soll ich Ihnen bringen? Ein Cocktail, vielleicht? Ein Glas Wein?" He spun the words rapidly and with precision, as a spider spins her web. The young man's face was flooded with panic as he began to rummage around in his pocket for his smartphone. Mason laughed. "No need, my friend. Just joking with you." He smiled warmly at the man, who looked relieved. "What can I get you?"

The man chuckled; he was embarrassed but clearly saw the funny side, and Mason appreciated his smile as he ordered a vodka with Redbull. He was quite attractive, his light blonde curls pulled back with a traditional bandana, revealing his angular face and smooth complexion. He adjusted his glasses as Mason handed him the drink. "Are you here alone?" Mason asked. The man nodded apprehensively, taking a sip of his beverage. "May I ask why?", Mason pushed.

"I, uh... I actually just moved here. I don't have that many friend back home, you know..." the man mumbled. It wasn't hard to tell he had confidence issues, but he had a lot of accidental charm. He was endearing. "I kind of just wanted to--"

"To get a fresh start?" Mason interrupted, smiling as the man nodded once more.

"Yeah, exactly that." he replied.

Mason smiled in return. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Ben." he replied.

"Well, Ben. I know exactly what that's like. I just moved here a year and a half ago, actually." As he spoke, he scanned the crowd for people he knew. He eventually made eye contact with a friend of his, Monika. She was German but she spoke good English, and she was here with other people Mason knew. He shouted her over.

"Was geht, artfag?" she laughed, slightly drunk as she and her friends approached. Mason laughed too.

"Monika, this is Ben." he said, gesturing towards the new arrival. "He just got here from England. Doesn't really know anyone, if you get what I mean." He and Monika exchanged knowing looks, and the whole group smiled at Ben warmly.

"Do you like art, Ben?" Monika purred, wrapping her arm around the alarmed man's shoulders.

"Y-yeah, I... I love art. I just graduated from Central St. Martin's in London." he said, seeming a little overwhelmed by the warm welcome.

"Well, Ben. You're gonna love it here," he smiled, before winking platonically the man whom Monika was now draped over. "I'm Mason, by the way. That one's on the house."

Blasting music into his ears was a habit. No, it was required. Casper had often stated that without music, he can’t function. With the headset firmly planted on his head, the young man turned to the song ‘Masterpiece’ by Madonna just before his attention turned back to the shooter game on his Playstation Vita.

Lately he had been rather distracted, not getting enough sleep. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, because everything was going so well. His dad’s business was blossoming, no one had made life hard to live and every day passed without any notable casualty. Another shot was fired. Might as well keep going, one of them was bound to hit the spot. Maybe that was the problem though, the fact that everything was going so well. Maybe it had pulled the vigilance out of him.

“Casper!” A sudden voice brought the boy back to reality and after almost dropping from shock, he turned to meet the voice. It was Gregory, the café owner. Casper always used to sit in the corner of that café after a long day at school.

“Yes…?” The boy returned, pulling his headset down to his neck.

“Your dad’s been calling you.” He handed Casper a phone. Oh, this happened sometimes. Casper had his music blasting too loudly and his mind tended to wander off. It could leave his cellphone vibrating in his pocket without him noticing it. Luckily Kyle had the number to Casper’s favourite place, and knew the owner.

“Oh…” He returned, reaching for the phone. “Hello?”

“Habibi, why don’t you pick up?” Kyle was a good man, always calm and collected. He was also incredibly patient and into all the new age stuff Casper could barely understand.

“Sorry…” Casper replied, lowering his head slightly. Worrying his father wasn’t something he liked to do but…it just happened sometimes.

“I am on my way home. Do you want something to eat?” Given the fact that the two were complete opposites, it was safe to assume that their eating habits were as well. The social, fun loving and spiritual father was a vegetarian, but Casper barely even ate vegetables.

“A burger?” He spoke, hoping for something greasy and unhealthy. Funny, he never gained any weight and still looked like a skeleton, despite all the burgers he ate.

“Would you like some gasoline with that?” Kyle joked. While trying to get Casper to eat healthier, he wasn’t a tyrant about it. Sometimes it was hard to believe that Kyle even could lose his cool. “I’ll be home in thirty minutes, habibi. Love you.”

“Love you too, dad.” He hung up, handing the phone back to Gregory. Well, that was his queue to leave. Putting the headphones back, Casper finished his tea and slipped his bag on. It was a simple shoulder bag made out of cloth, by his father. The man owned a small new age store where he sold bracelets and other trinkets that he made. People seemed to really like those things and no matter Casper’s opinion on the whole religious aspect of it, he liked them too.

The way home was an eventless process with the occasional car passing by. Casper always did enjoy taking walks, though. They were refreshing to say the least and he could always escape into his own little world with every step he took. Upon reaching their apartment, Casper stepped into his room and dropped his bag on the bed. He hadn’t told his father of the sleeping issues, not yet. Should he, though? Things were going so well, he didn’t want to ruin it. Perhaps he could start seeing a therapist, they tended to help, didn’t they? Well, he knew one thing that was bothering him, his powers. What if he ever screwed up and NEST came to get him? He had enough control of his powers to never use it accidentally but you’d always hear about these perviously ‘normal’ people who’d go nuts and start killing everyone. What if one day that would happen to Casper? Not likely, Casper could barely hurt a fly if he tried. Was it this that was bothering him? Maybe, but it was too general, too broad. This couldn’t be it.

Hearing a key slide into the slot noted Kyle’s arrival. He could think about this later. Right now though, he didn’t want to spoil dinner.

“Your mother would not like this sort of behaviour.” A dainty male voice scolded in French, Monaco’s native language. Gene rolled her eyes dismissively at the notion her father trying to discipline her. She began to slice through a large, alabaster crystal mound that laid on top a silver tray. Gene was brazen with her drug addiction, she did not even attempt to hide the illicit substance or its use from her estranged father. The pythons began to dance upwards, glaring at her father as subtle hisses background their aggression. “Papa, mother would hardly approve of half of your actions as well. Defiance apparently must be hereditary”, she spoke smoothly, brushing the drug into thin lines with the use of a single razor blade, held loosely between two manicured fingers. “Genevieve! Control your pets! I can not tolerate such explicit behaviour in front of the younger children.”

“They see me more as servant than a sibling…Why worry? just hand me a maid uniform and the problem is solved.” she mumbled back, venomous yellow eyes matching her father’s glare. Her pythons slowly lowered, curling around her neck in a protective scarf. “—Plus my quarters are locked and their are more drugs at their private school than in my room.” She lied, minimizing the quantity of cocaine her chamber’s held.

“Genevieve Rose-Ore Simmone! Do you think I am stupid? You’re debit card reports almost 40,000 euros withdrawn in cash in the past four weeks and you want me to believe that, that measly pile is all you have?”

“No, papa of course I do not think you are stupid.” Gene replied, stressing each word with a sense of exhaustion as she had done so many times in the past. “You spend the same amount on tips in a month, that is petty change for this family. I would almost dare to say you should be proud of how conservative I am…” She trailed off, a blanche line disappearing up her nostril as she spoke.

“You are being blatantly disrespectful and I do not appreciate this tone. You are a part of this family and should act like it!”

Gene paused, raising her eyebrow in disbelief at his over familiar statement. She was far from angry, she was more of less just impressed by the sheer stupidity of the emotional manipulation he was trying to pull. Her lips curved into a smirk, she shook her head with a subtle chuckle. The notion that he was her father in any sense but biological was hilarious in her mind. “Show me one family photo with me in it.” Gene cynically challenged him, smiling at the stumped reaction of her frustrated father.

“Yeah, alright. You can leave now.”

Everyone had good days and bad days - Greg was no different in that respect. Of course, most people's bad days involved a bad work experience or a string of rotten luck, not laying in bed with your hands on your heads, listening to every problem anyone within half a mile of you ever had.

Greg was having a very, very bad day.

Black eye, beaten, bloody, hungry, hating, hated, tall things take from small things. The little boy down the street. Some of the other kids had taken his lunch money, and hit him when he tried to stop them.

Left me, left me, skinny bitch, scratched an itch, did I not do enough? The woman in the next house over. Her husband had left her for a younger woman. She thought it was her fault.

Bouncing baby boy, bloodshot, bare-faced, sick in the sink, it's coming closer coming closer it's not my son. Greg already knew that one.

Greg blinked his eyes and tried to focus them, becoming dimly aware that he was sitting in the corner of his room facing the door, wedged between his bed and the wall. His hands were on his temples, squeezing, trying to force the voices out of his head. It wasn't any use. He wanted to tell the woman that it wasn't her fault, tell the boy that he'd been very brave, tell the other one... so many things. But he couldn't, because they were out there, and he was in here, and it had to be that way for them.

There was a knocking at the door. "Greg? Is everything okay?" His sister's voice. Sarah's.

Weaker, bleaker, burning from the inside out. He's crying, dying, it's made of him and growing dim. Someone's father was dying of cancer.

He opened his mouth to respond, but his throat was dry. He heard her pushing the door open and reached frantically for his glasses, but they were on the other side of the room. He threw his hands over his eyes just as was about to enter.

"Don't come in!" he snapped. He could feel the field around him. On good days it was flickering and weak, when he was calm and content, and his sister could enter the room, and talk to him as long as she could ignore the goosebumps and the unease. But today, when he could hear everything in the neighborhood, when he was tear-stained and hurting, the field was as strong as it ever was. It was like a wall, unwavering, and he knew that if she or anyone else stepped foot in it, they would get sick, or panic, or scream.

His eyes were still covered, but he heard her footsteps stop at the door. "Okay, Greg. I won't come in." Silence for a moment. Then, concerned, "Greg, did you do this?"

Greg peeked over his hands for a moment and scanned the room quickly. It was a disaster area. His chair was upended, books and papers were strewn all over the place, the sheets on the bed had been torn half to ribbons. Someone had clearly been punching the wall, and it wasn't hard to guess who judging from the blood on his knuckles.

He didn't respond, just sat with his eyes covered. They were silent, for a moment, and finally his little sister spoke up again. "Look, we're about to have dinner. Do you want me to bring you up something?"

Kissed me, said she'd miss me. Wished me. Gone now, dawn now. Always was. Someone had been skipped out on. He wasn't happy about it.

Greg nodded. "I... yes. Yes, please, that would be good. Thank you."

She turned, and he heard the door closing again. "I'll leave it outside your door," she said, and was gone. Greg was alone again, with the voices.

((Also, Storm.))

"Phoebe Kate Rios! You open this damned door right now! Don't you mess up that sink!"

The peeling, white door rattled, brass door-knob simply refusing to turn, and Phoebe felt a grimace (or perhaps a smile) form on her lips. Her hands reached to pull the sink's handles further, the stream of steaming water soon loudly gushing from the faucet without delay. Phoebe listened as her mother grunted, whispers drowned out by intense flow of water, and after a second of silence from both parties she continued on applying bleach to her hair. Her kinky, uncontrollable, black hair. Just running her fingers though the afro mess above her head made her feel uncomfortable. She was craving something... Unnatural. Lighter. Something that would completely ruin her hair. Bleach seemed like the best option.

"C'mon, P.K! Your hair is beautiful ya don't gotta change it!"

Her hands clenched, nose turning up at the pleading of her mother. That very attitude was what spurred her wish to change. Contrary to popular belief, Phoebe liked to do the opposite of whatever is said to her. Making her feel unable to change and be herself just seemed to strive to rebel. And so, here she was, a fifteen year old child with hair coated in a chemical that gave her headaches and hands massaging the white goo deeper into her roots. They would get over it, maybe even like it in the end, and that single thought is what gave Phoebe the force to continue. Eventually, after smoothing over some stray curls, her hair was entirely coated, and she covered the mess with a spare plastic bag before sitting cross-legged on the toilet seat. The small bathroom was now deadly quiet, save for the brewing summer storm outside and the rushing water from the small, porcelain sink, and Phoebe let her eyes wander across the green-tiled space. Each shadow, each moldy corner, each sliver of peeling paint was familiar to her, it was the family's only bathroom after all, and as the steam stained the messy mirror and the storm continued to wail against the white-painted window a feeling of uncertainty spurred in her chest.

what if it doesnt look good? what if my parents really do hate it? what if the kids at school make fun of me? what if wha

A crack of thunder caught her off guard, and a small cry of fear escaped her mouth before the lights flickered and vanished all together. If not for her glowing skin the bathroom would have been swallowed by darkness, and after a moment of catching her breath she rose, fixing the bag on her head before reach forward slightly to turn the sink off. She listened as rain slapped the window and her mother shrieked with fear and/or excitement and her father thumbed around the house loudly, probably heading out to check the breaker. Her head had begun to burn from the bleach, but the silence of the bathroom and the smell of chemicals and the life that continued all around seemed to calm her nerves, just enough for her to smile and begin to laugh at the thought of having blonde hair once more.

After twenty minutes of sitting still and glowing, she rose, sticking her head under the stained faucet and turning the hot water back on with a flick of the wrist. The bleach melted from her curls, filling the white sink with thick, white liquid, and the harsh smell of the chemicals and the steam filled her nostrils and throat, forcing Phoebe to hold her breath and simply scrub. Eventually, the bathroom flickered to life again and the bangs on the door began once more.

"Hang on, ma, I'm awlmost done..." Phoebe muttered, straightening, examining her newly-discolored hair in the smoky mirror. A smile parted her dark lips, and after a second of preparing herself she turned towards the door, unlocking and pulling the door open. Outside, her broad-shouldered mother stood, a look of disapproval clear on her face. Her dark eyes scanned the smaller body before her, up down, and then with a half-hearted sigh she held forward a towel. Phoebe took it with a smirk, throwing it over her soaking mob before tilting her head and asking,

"Does it look bad?"

My probation officer said to take a nice respectful picture of myself for your files so here ya go. You're not going to accept me so why the hell bother. I know how this works, not getting my hopes up again. School sucks but I hear you guys have a pretty dope cafeteria so I guess it's a mixed blessing or whatever that phrase is. Uh description. I'm like 5'2 or something, I don't remember the last time I checked. Shit, when was the last time I was in a doctor's office? People make short jokes about me sometimes but generally if you kick those people in the nuts really hard you wind up standing taller than them so hey funny how that works. I'm like a hundred pounds or so. I think it's supposed to be higher. Fuck it. I've got a couple tattooes. Big-ass phoenix going down my back and left arm. It's pretty badass I'm not gonna lie. Got a sleeve of the four horsemen on my right arm. That's pretty boss. Nothing on my stomach. Should probably get something to cover up the ribs. Uh clothes are normally whatever. I...found...some pretty cool shoes. Got a pair of jeans with holes and stuff in them, but they're comfy as all hell. Big-ass red sweatshirt. It's baggy. People give you less shit when you have baggy clothes on because they think maybe you're packing. Which my probation officer has told me I am also not supposed to do. I got a little chip on one of my teeth from that time I pissed off those Mexicans. Or maybe they were Puerto Ricans. I don't know, I was pre-occupied kicking their asses to find out for sure. Yeah how's that for a school application. can I apply for security or some shit instead of being a student? Okay what else. Uh, hair, normally back in a ponytail. Also the hair and the eyes change color sometime. It's a thing, just roll with it. I got a bunch of scars. Not those sideways "I'm really sad" kind but like the real ones you get from out and doing shit. One on forearm from a barbed wire fence, a few on my legs from whatever. Got one on my knee from trying to jump out of a car. Didn't work out so well. Uh I also got a scar over my nose, going all horizontel. Touches both cheeks. You want more identifying features go ask the Chicago PD.

Cordelia was a pretty recognizable figure-not that she was famous, but she generally stuck to the same ensemble. A backpack held together by electrical tape, blue jeans held together by duct tape, and a face that appeared to be held together by a permanent scowl. A crier on the street turned to offer her an advertisement and not-so-subtly withdrew. He may have a suspicion that Lynn was not entirely interested in Chicago's opera house.

If you were to watch Lynn as she walked-well, you'd have to do so from a distance, and very subtly, or else you would have a hundred pounds of fury with nothing better to do coming to ask you a few questions. I digress. You'd notice she walked quickly, the seasoned walk of a city native. Her eyes flickered back and forth as she darted in and out of slower people on the sidewalk, just keeping a good sense for where she was. Lynn didn't really stick to the nicer parts of town-a pinch of paranoia carried you a pretty long way. Occasionally she'd shudder, miss a step. Clutch her chest or rub at her stomach. A wide and weary yawn. Her neck twisted to unhealthy angles as she walked past food vendors. Occasionally she'd pass the sorts who linger outside the tourist traps, panhandling or sleazing. Lynn's reaction was varied-to a few, she'd roll her eyes, call them by name, give them a jovial "Fuck off!". A few she ignored, keeping her eyes straight ahed and moving on through. A handful brought a quieter reaction-Lynn would let her eyes roll over them and grimace a bit before she recovered. That wasn't her. She wouldn't be that. No. Of course not. She was different.

Stop to smoke. Supposedly, those things were pretty bad for you. Lynn figured even if she did live long enough for that to matter, the fact her body spontaneously burst into flame kinda offset any health risks. She was gonna be breathing in smoke (or breathing it out) one way or another. Might as well get a little chemical tranquility in the process. She leaned back against a corner, backpack cushioning her frame (underneath that sweatshirt, Miss Holmes, just how skinny how are you?) as she took long draws. Her eyes stared off across the street, not really focusing on anything. Occasionally a noise would break her reverie, making her flinch and jump up, right hand falling to her back pocket, her other clenching around the lit cigarette (which would flare up with hunger). These little smoke breaks never lasted long-she burned through the whole cigarette in maybe two, three minutes. She was pretty environmentally conscious-there was never any butt to leave lying on the ground.

The hours would pass. These got spent in a myriad of ways-Lynn had a few usual haunts, and was somewhat in-between posses. There was a sizable number of mutants in Chicago's underground, and it...complicated things. Gang wars had a tendency for escalation whenever the superhuman were around. Between arrests or deaths, Chicago's gangs were a revolving door since mutants went public. Lynn watched the morning news every day. Read the numbers and tried to see if she recognized the faces. Not much else she could do. She did little jobs-pickpocketed a bit, occasionally did some running across town. Guns or drugs. These were riskier, and she didn't get too many offers. Fine by her.

Around once a week there'd be a run-in with the law-Lynn, for her trash talk and put-on bravado, was pretty Machiavellan about what she did. The girl stayed clear of anything violent, and the serious stuff was few and far between. A mutant girl was enough of a target-one without the money for legal fees or any real allies? Lynn played it pretty smart. Relatively speaking-the girl was still not in the best of situations, and whenever she put her head down at night (wherever it wound up being) she'd get that low feeling in her gut. Tick. Tock. Not many people ran in her circles past the age of twenty five. Sooner or later she'd get her ticket.

Lynn walked slowly, one arm clinging to the pack slung over her shoulder and the other hanging at her waist, fingers dancing about. Immediately, she got that electric-wire fear of stepping between a mother bear and her cub. The alleyway was pretty narrow, and a casual glance over her shoulder confirmed Lynn's suspicions. Blocked in. Shit. Ahead there were two of them-Lynn didn't recognize them. Didn't see any noticeable marks, no lightning bolts from the brotherhood, not any colors she picked up on. Might've just been loners like her. Lynn kept walking steadily, but began to prepare herself. In most fights, Lynn was generally outgunned. She fought holding nothing back out of necessity-a hundred pounds and a few hairs over five foot? Not exactly the top contender in street fights.

"You lost?" one of them asked, sizing her up as she had done to them. Within about three seconds, both parties had full situational awareness of the other. Lynn was walking alone and, judging from her dress, not going to be going to the cops about this. These thugs were not tough enough or smart enough to roll with any real group so they were hanging here, in the middle of nowhere.

Lynn sighed, more resigned than really frightened. The girl may not have been able to make above a C, but she was far from foolish. She stayed cold and collected in situations like these-it would be later, when she was lying in bed? That's when the panic sets in. "Fuck off."

There was a brief pause-the thugs weren't really used to that kind of brevity.

"You know who you're talkin-"

"I don't give a shit who I'm talking to," Lynn said with a genuinely bored tone of voice. "You're either gonna try and jump me or let me by. Let's just get this over with, one way or ano-"

Lynn had a code of honor-it was warped, perhaps, but it was there. She stuck to her word, tried to avoid messing with anybody who was, you know, actually a good person. Her cynicism made the threshold for "good person" pretty damned high, but she wasn't evil. Just lost. Regardless, she didn't really like to take chances, especially when she was outnumbered three-to-one. So, halfway through her sentence, as she continued walking forward, Lynn drove her knee into the groin of the first unlucky, would-be mugger. He yelped, pained and surprised, and staggered back. His partner was caught off guard but had begun to recover, reaching for something. Lynn didn't really want to find out what-not hesitating, she shifted her weight and threw all she had at the second guy, forcing him to stagger to the side a step or two and delaying whatever nasty trick he had up his sleeve for a moment or two more.

The third one-from behind-kicked the back of Lynn's bag and knocked her to the ground pretty easily. She caught it in a roll and bounced up, making up for muscle mass with quickness and coldness. Lynn didn't half-ass her punches, and unlike a surprising amount of the people she'd been forced to fight, she fought to win. She didn't care if she played dirty. Lynn grunted and felt her sweatshirt becoming uncomfortably warm-sweat started to course down her arms and torso, and as she breathed out (through closed teeth-if you open them, it's a lot easier to get knocked out, and Lynn preferred to not be unconscious in Chicago's streets at night) a wisp of smoke darted between her not-so-pearly whites.

Her hair and eyes began to shift in color-ever so slightly, and Lynn darted forward, letting the bag fall from her shoulder. It landed behind her, provoking another startled grunt-one of the other two had tripped on it. Lynn didn't want to try and focus on any one of the three and wind up getting suckerpunched from behind as a result.

Unfortunately, the other one had recovered faster than she thought, and she wound up getting suckerpunched from behind as a result. For the second time in about ten seconds, Lynn fell to the concrete, starting to bounce up before another kick knocked her back down.

"'Fuck off'? You know, manners go a long way wit-" Lynn didn't really care to hear the rest of his speech, especially with his dirty-ass shoe pressing down on her neck. Her right hand snaked up-(the sweatshirt's sleeve, too bag, fell back and her tattooes bared to the night air) and her fingers laced around his ankle as she pushed up as hard as she could. It wasn't going to budge his leg-not with brute force. The stench of burning denim followed shortly by burning flesh, however, did make the man fall back. Lynn's form glowed softly, her hair beginning to well and truly ignite-the ponytail burst free from its bands and fell to her shoulders as Lynn scrambled back up, pressing her back to the wall and crouching, offering as little vulnerable space to them as she could afford. Her eyes began to smolder, matching her hair as they climbed to a furious red.

The other three, who, in all fairness, had probably not been able to anticipate this as an outcome to their evening, stared in varying degrees of shock.

"Whenever," Lynn panted, "I force-feed you your own dicks, do you want them cooked medium, or well-done?"

There was a moment of silence in which the thugs considered a great many things. The rising air temperature around the scrawny girl, a long series of unfortunate life choices that had led them to this point, and the rather nauseating proposition Lynn offered.

About twenty seconds later, Lynn picked up her bag and began walking out of the alleyway, cursing her stupidity for walking down it to begin with. Her body shook with adrenaline. Christ, they hit hard. Lynn rolled her neck around a bit and massaged the spot where she'd hit the concrete that second time. Her shaking fingers fumbled with her backpack's outer pocket for-oh, those bastards. They'd taken her cigarettes. "Well, this is shaping up to be a pretty good night," Lynn muttered, taking out her fury on a nearby trashcan. It smashed against the wall and fell with considerable noise. Shit. Also probably not a good idea. She emerged from the alley, hair tussled, skin slimy with sweat, and the faint odor of singed clothing lingering about her, and walked straight into her parole officer.

"Aw, damnit. That trashcan was like that when I got here."

He stopped and sniffed the air for a moment, glancing at her clothes, and then back at her eyes. He could've sworn they were a different color last time he saw her. "Looking for you. Skipped out on your hearing this morning."

"Wait, shit, what day is it?"

"Tuesday."

"Tuesday? It's Monday!"

"No, it's Tuesday."

Lynn frowned, making the scar on her face stretch down to mirror her lips. Tuesday. Shit. That...would probably not look good in court. "Uh, I'm, like, 1/8th Cherokee, and, uh, it was a holy day..."

"Not in the mood.Get in the car. Assuming I can talk you out of skipping your meeting, they've been throwing around something else instead of juvy."

Lynn was helped into the back of the car, something that was not at all unfamiliar. She took the opportunity to lay down across the back of the seats. Her parole officer hadn't handcuffed her-while she would never show otherwise publicly, she did hold a degree of respect for the guy. He was a cop, which made him by default a douchebag, but he was always pretty decent to her. Lynn figured it wasn't cool to be a dick to people that helped you out where they could. "Something else? What, like, picking up trash or..."

"Nah. School."

"Oh, Christ, just kill me now." She paused. There was a moment of silent understanding between the two-her pride would never let her say thanks, but...going back to juvy would not be ideal. He picked up on it, and didn't need to press. "...well, I guess I'll, uh, check that out." she closed her eyes before the post-adrenal hunger kicked in. "Is there gonna be a lot of paperwork or whatever? Because last time you made me do that, it really sucked. Like, a lot."

Shit. Shit, shit, sh- "Shit!"

"Watch your language," chided a lighter skinned Asian, with deep black straight hair. In comparison, Jinkee's light brown curls looked like a mess- a sweaty, frizzy mess. But hair was of no importance, not now. Not when there were far more important things to be worrying about.

The younger of the two clenched her fist and fought the shock in her legs, finally running towards her sister. It was so slow, so unbearably slow, and she wished she could run faster- Lia was holding back tears. "Ate, Ate Lia," whimpered Jinkee as she knelt over her sister, shaking. Her hands hovered in the air, unsure. What should she do? What was she supposed- Fuck, why did this, Shit, Shit, Shit-

"Yanna."

Hearing her given name focused Jinkee, and though her sister's voice was shaking and small, it was still firm. That gave Jinkee a bit of hope- at least one of them here had their head on straight. "Yanna, listen to me," started Lia who interjected her sentence with a wince. Instinctively, Jinkee reached for her arm, only to reach air, and panic set in her body.

"You can heal this, Yanna."

She couldn't.

"Take a deep breath, come on. Over my arm."

Hands shaking, Jinkee reached over her sister's missing limb, trying to call up her power. It wasn't working. It wasn't working, why did she think it would work fuck-
"Ate we need, a hospital- quick-"
But before she could pull away to reach for her phone, Lia's working hand grabbed at her wrist. Tight.

"Yanna. You can do this. You can fix me."

Whispering, Lia added, "Just take deep breaths. Like we practiced." Jinkee could barely hear her over the buzzing in her hair, tears stinging at her eyes. Her hands held Lia's arm, and she shook with how much force she was trying to force out. And when that didn't work, she did what she hadn't done in a while-

Dear Lord if You're out there somewhere fix this fix her I promise I'll never practice this around her ever again please save her You can do anything right You work miracles aren't I a miracle help me Lord do something anything do something do something fix this fix it dear Lord I will pray every night I will use the rosary every night I will go to church every Sunday Lord I know You're out there please, please-

And when she felt a tugging, her eyes opened and found herself in a green world- looking out was like looking through green glass. Her hair floated around her, the coolness of the mucus acting with fluidity, like water. Looking down, Jinkee noticed what had been tugging at her- Lia, with her arm almost fully healed.

The shock and joy was so surprising that the bubble popped and disappeared, leaving the two of them in the grass, covered in green mucus. Looking at her sister's arm, Jinkee felt a pang of guilt stab at her stomach, the dark spots covering it a mark of her failure. She reached for Lia's arm once more, ready to bargain with God and try a second time, only for Lia to reach out for her first.

"That was awesome!" she cheered, resting her darkened hand on Jinkee's shoulder- "I've never seen that one before, that was really cool!" Jinkee couldn't help but giggle at the absurdity of the situation. Her sister, who practically'd almost lost an arm was there patting her wet curls and complimenting her. Meanwhile she, who hadn't done much but have a panic attack, was still having one despite the problem having mostly passed.

Feeling herself being pulled, Jinkee let herself fall against Lia's shoulder, taking a deep breath. Under all the smell of singed skin and hair, Jinkee could still smell the shampoo she used earlier that morning. Lia's hand rose to pet down at her mucus covered hair, and it was only then did the two share tears. Jinkee didn't know where the mucus end and the tears begun as they fell on her cheek, but she didn't care.

"You did good, Yanna. You did amazing."

(hehe storm)

For once in once in his god forsaken life, the house was quiet. It was usually so loud that the police no longer bothered to come over when the neighbors reported them. Usually the TV was blasting, dad was yelling, Unique had even louder with friends over, and mom was arguing with dad. If he wasn't down stairs yelling right back at dad, then he was studying upstairs in his room. Unfortunately, that was not longer an option for him, school was over, he graduated. Unfortunately, that day was not a day for celebration, at least for Kane, it just meant he had lost another possible escape root from this home. Fortunately, in celebration of his graduation, his grandmother came over. The only person his father would never disrespect, was his own mother.

Grandmama was a weird woman, to say the least. She had money, their was no doubt about that, her husband was a successful entrepreneur. But, she had lived her life deeply entrenched in the mythical New Orleans voodoo and gris-gris. "Vivre la vie comme à l'entendent." His mother always said, it was not a common saying in the  New Orleans lingo, but french was still a big part of this city. It all translated to: "Live life the way you, see fit." She could live her life, and him his, but that did not stop him from being suspicious about her ways.

"Grandma wants you." A voice said from his doorway. Kane didn't bother to look back anyway, he knew who it was, her usual contempt could be heard in her voice, Unique.

"I'll be down in a few seconds." Kane mumbled despondently, slightly angered for the interruption of his quiet.

Kane sighed as his sister sneered at him and slammed the door, causing some of his old figurines to fall to the floor. He wondered if she gained some kind of enlightenment when she did things like that. Kane left his desk, and was about reopen the door when a shiver went down his spine, he felt this anytime he was about to make a descion. He could here footsteps on the other side, suddenly, scenarios randomly started playing in his head, one was of his grandma at the door, in anger because he made her wait so long. Another was that he would find no one, and would walk down the stairs to meet his grandma on her way out the door, another was that he would simply change his mind and go back to his seat, and his grandma would walk in anyway.

He opened his bedroom door and strolled down the stairs. About half way down he meant his Grandmama, she seemed to be furious, which was a big problem.

""Boy, I called you an hour ago, were was you." she spit at him, anger etched into her features.

Kane stepped back about, trying to avoid the spit that was flung from her lips. "I wasn't told to come down till Sis told me a few minutes ago." He said quietly, he hated speaking this way, but he had to show respect to her, he did not want to become a frog.

"Mo chagren, cher" she said sadly, "I did not know, please forgive me boo." She placed her hands on his shoulder. "Boy, it's time we talked." She said carefully. He noticed his mother at the bottom of the stairs with a concerned look on her face. Kane frowned, what the hell was going on. Crap, she had told her about the incident.

Erica looks up from her notepad and the strange application she was filling out, flinching at the loud crash of thunder that was way too close for comfort. She took a peek out of the small crack in the door to her tent, immediately regretting the decision when her face was pelted by the cold shards of hail mixed with the large raindrops of the storm around her. She took a towel and wiped her face off, turning on her small battery-powered radio.

The signal was bad, but from what she could make out, Erica figured that the storm wouldn't last long past sunrise, and began preparing to sleep. She packed everything up in her large, waterproof camping bag. Everything except for the letter and application to PITY, which she carefully folded and put in her pocket along with the one picture of her parents that didn't make her want to cry when she looked at it and her cell phone, which she always kept off so that she couldn't be tracked.

Finally hunkered down for the night, Erica drifted off into an uneasy sleep, only interrupted once by an extremely loud crash of thunder near dawn, and hopefully near the end of the storm. Once the storm finally was over, she cleaned up her camp and set off for the nearest town, to finally send the strange application and figure out what to do while she would wait for a response. Just before she decided to send it in, she made a few changes to the last section, adding in her worries for the future and a bit more personal information than she had originally planed to before forcing herself to actually put it in the mailbox to send.

Once it was no longer in her possession, Erica relaxed a bit, which was a mistake. She noticed in her reflection in a nearby shop window that her eyes were now two different colors, her shirt was a bit too girly of a style for a man the age that she looked, and her socks were now severely mismatched. Erica ducked into an alley as quickly as possible, changing into an easier form to hold. She was now a middle aged business woman wearing a simple blue dress, accenting the decidedly smaller curves of this form. She left the alley and went to the only hotel in town, booking a room indefinitely and locking all the doors and windows before settling in to live for a while.

There was no better feeling than delivering a soliloquy on stage. The warm spotlight, the raw emotion, the fact that no one dared to take their eyes away from him. What kept the nostalgia away however was perhaps the second best feeling, the after-party. It was easy enough to pick out the actors from the crew and the guests. Most of the stage-folk had come straight from closing, so remnants of costumes made up a good portion of the goers.

An hour in and Chess had shaken probably twenty hands, downed at most three free-drinks (he’d be driving home after-all) and gotten a number from both sides of a cute little relationship. The girl wasn’t theatre, he ditched her number as soon as she turned around, the boy he’d seen at a few sets though, cute, big-type, might call him over one night.

“Abbey!”

He nearly dropped his cup when he heard that voice. Turning he saw his sister Nora meandering through the crowd towards him. She looked so out of place, long dark sweater, baggy pants and comfy shoes. Her wide eyes were curious as anything, her figure hunched away from the noise around her but she kept a smile at him. She held a red cup in her hands, Chess felt his stomach churn.

“Nora, how’d you get here?” he snatched the cup from her and took a quick sip, brow furrowing. “Who gave this to you? I swear to god they’ll be cleaning props forever, you’re too young to drink, you know you’re too young to drink.”

“So’re you,” she mumbled.

Chess’s lips pursed, and he dumped the drink away. Nora had that look on her face that came around whenever he got “too frantic” as she put it. “You’re right,” he said with a sigh. “But really, you shouldn’t be here, I thought you went home with mum and dad?”

“I told’em you said I could hang around.”

“Oh god, they don’t know you’re at a party, do they? Nora you don’t live in the dorms, if you go home smelling like alcohol they’ll kill you.”

She rolled her eyes. “I said we were gonna go get coffee and hang out with your playwright buddies. I just kinda wanted to hang out tonight. Missed you since you moved in here, y’know?”

Chess couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips. It had been at least a week since their last sit-down together, and he’d been feeling a bit of a void too. The parties were entertaining, the attention more so, but he got both from Nora without having to put on a fake smile for the people he didn’t care about. Around her he actually got to relax, and maybe that was the better feeling.

“Yeah, same,” he said, and gave her a hug. “Let’s dodge this place, though, I know a top café in the area. I want to hear about your year so far.”

The constant buzzing of Devin's alarm clock woke him with the same relentless efficiency he had come to expect for its kind. Groaning over his inability to catch up on sleep he reached over to slam a hand on the snooze button. In a flash light that exposed his clean, almost pristine, room came through his eyes as his eyes fired a short burst of dark matter. When it made contact with the alarm clock a white light exploded and the clock was blown up into several dozen pieces.

It was several moments before Devin was able to relax. He swore at himself over the broken pieces of the alarm clock could be felt around his feet. When he got up from bed he had to slide his feet across the carpet so he didn't step on any sharp pieces of plastic. Nyx, his seeing eye dog, was already up and off the bed. She had a habit of sitting next to him while he dressed for the day. His shirts were mostly organized by his mother, but for the most part a white shirt and jeans was the look Devin sported during the weekends.

After putting his shoes on Devin clicked his fingers and Nyx moved next to him. He put her harness on with little difficulty. With everything locked and loaded the two made their way towards the back door of the house. When he opened the door he could tell it was going to be a beautiful day from the warm feeling he got as he was bathed in the morning sun. The two left the house just as he heard his sister starting the shower.

As Devin walked down the sidewalk he heard all the familiar sounds of his street welcoming the morning. HE could hear Jane and her friend Michelle going about their morning jog. They said hello as the passed and Devin nodding back with a smile. The sound of doors opening as those with jobs downtown headed out early to beat the traffic.A school bus also made its way down carrying the chaos that was 30 plus kids between the ages of terror and spaz. All of these were a part of the picture Devin had for his street and he loved every one of them. Turning the next block he decided it was time to head back. The sound of a light rumble could be heard and Devin wasn't interested in racing a storm home.

These moments before the actual fight were always the hardest. That's what loads of people said anyway. But for me, it's just a time to relax. To find comfort in the complete lack of control you have in this situation. You're gonna fight, you can't not now, it's gonna happen whether you're ready or not. Some boxers, you know, they'll jump up and down on the spot like fucking kangaroos, punching air that doesn't punch back. Others, they go all quiet, staring into space preparing themselves for the oncoming shit storm that's gonna smack 'em square in the face any minute now. My coach, Nix, he always used to tell me to breathe. Just breathe. Think of nothing else, and just take in just that little bit more chi energy with every breath.
What bullshit. You don't have to do any of that before the fight. All you need to do is kick back, relax, and sit there with a big fucking grin on your face. Then when your coach tells you it's time to rock, you walk out with a big grin on your face then, too. And before you get in the ring, you keep grinning at everyone in the audience, at your coach, at any friends our family you have in the audience. You just keep grinning.
Then, when you get in the ring, and that big ugly bastard you're about to trade numbers with waddles up to you with the rage of a thousand damned souls behind his eyes, you stop smiling. 'Cause now, you're not before the fight anymore. You no longer lack control, and therefore, you have to concentrate real hard on not getting the shit kicked out of you. In fact, now you have complete control, 'cause you know that when he steps over there, you'll get in with that hook, or when he throws that jab you can roll and get his ribs, whatever. 'Cause you know you've got control over the situation.
That's the scary part for me. 'Cause, when I'm in control, if I mess up, that's it. It's my fault, no one else's. But here, in this shitty little changing room, where I can hear the angry dads in the audience yelling, and Nix is trying to teach me how to inhale oxygen, I can relax, knowing that i don't have to worry about anything, 'cause I can't fail in here.

That's how I see it, anyway.

"Excited?" Keagan asked.

Zach turned his head, lowering the volume on his phone. "'Hat?" He replied.

"I asked if you're excited."

Zach leaned back in his seat and sighed. "A'out as 'uch as any'ne else 'ould 'e." He turned his head to stare out the window as the car drove along the highway leading out of the city. He wasn't depressed though, he wasn't leaving much behind. He didn't have any pals here, mainly due to his appearance. That and he didn't get out much until now. So this whole experience just... wasn't bringing up much of a reaction out of him.

Honestly, he was expecting some weird things to go down once he got there. A thought most likely bred by all the online stories he'd been reading, and the movies he'd been watching. People with super powers in any situation eventually stirred shit up. It was unavoidable. It was expected. And God knew if anyone would share his mindset once he got there.

"You'll do fine." Keagan replied, "This'll be good for you."

"'Hatever you say." Zach said, raising the volume once more.

Celso quickly glanced back over his shoulder, back at the park and the group playing soccer on the open field. He gave a quick wave goodbye. He and Cesar had spent the morning and better part of their Saturday afternoon at the park, involved in a few pickup games. The walk back to their home would take a while though and the sun had started to set earlier as winter approached. He and his siblings were going out to celebrate his last weekend before leaving and they were going to need a nap. His brother walked on his right, whistling a song that had been playing nonstop on the radio. Celso carried the bag containing their cleats and soccer ball slung about his shoulder. As the sun began to dip behind the tall buildings, it momentarily reflected off one of the puddles in the street left by the previous night's storm.

"So Cecilia says you won't leave Monica alone."

Celso turned to his brother, feigning a look of confusion. "What did she tell you?"

"Something about Monica talking about you, always looking your direction. She doesn't think it's an accident."

A grin spread across Celso's face. "Just like I told her, I'm not doing it. It must be my natural charm and good looks."

His older brother merely rolled his eyes. "Sure. Just listen to me when I say to stay away from her friends." He smiled, "Or at least, make sure Ceci doesn't know."

The two burst into laughter as they remembered the way their sister blew up years ago when she discovered her twin brother was dating her friend, and they'd somehow managed to hide it from her.

"Chamuyero," Cesar chided playfully. "You better behave yourself while you're gone. Who knows if those American girls will put up with your shit." Celso could feel his brother's eyes on him as they walked. "Be careful," the older brother continued. "I'm thrilled for your opportunity. But some mutants can be dangerous. Their tantrums will have much worse consequences than yours." He laughed again. "I'm a little bit jealous. You're going to get to know so many special people in person. You'll learn so much."

Celso merely nodded, not wanting to think about it. Despite what he'd written in his application, he still wasn't quite sure how to feel about this. Sure, it was going to be fun. But did he really want to just take this dive into a world like this? He didn't need the help controlling his ability. Even after his accidents, few people even suspected him. Now here he was about to publicly label himself a mutant. Still, nothing said he had to stick to the plan of doing something. The Institute's stated purpose was to simply allow them to live normal lives anyway wasn't it? He had his doubts, considering the government's involvement. And yet even with those doubts, he couldn't deny his curiosity. He shrugged and looked forward. Ice cream sounded good.

"Call up Ceci, see if she want meet us for some ice cream."