Don’t bottle things up - bottles can break so easily.

Passive-aggressiveness, biting your tongue to avoid snarky retorts, saying nothing when you should say everything, quiet resentment at others’ criticisms…  being hidden behind a mask can only last so long… even the most peaceful and calm spirits among us have a breaking point.

So who is it that’s ready to blow? Push them over the edge, by either words or deeds. Have ‘em let it all out… rage, scream, bellow, yell accusations and obscenities until the windows rattle… or just break down into on-their-knees tears and sobs that rack the body as everything pent-up floods out into incoherent wails and howls of no single specific emotion. But no punching, slapping, or otherwise harming others.

Would prefer to leave Sara out of this challenge - that girl’s got enough deepseated psychological issues already without having her be ground-zero of a mental volcano going off.

(#00170)

[AN: Sara’s already had one meltdown, and that was a bit of a strain on me… so I will do something rare and tell a version of the truth. How I know why it is unwise to victimize.]

Society is, by and large, a reflection and an emphasis of the media surrounding it. The instant Television took over from Radio, appearances became more important than voice. The myth of the poor nobody becoming somebody because of their talent and skill became a lost cause forever.

Hierarchy, however, has lasting power. The only difference is what gets one to the top, and how others keep those at the bottom. But let’s just say 'fear’ and move on.

In an era just barely into adequate contraception, there are still unplanned children. Sometimes, they are happy accidents. Sometimes, they are unexpected burdens that turn a double-income household into a single-income family just barely scraping by. Fear becomes an atmosphere, then.

Keep the child healthy. Keep the child fed. Keep the child away from any threat, real or imaginary, because the instant you fail at one thing, the Government will come and take it. And the loss of a child instantly leads to the loss of a marriage. And won’t They just love it? The old gossips and crones who would laugh and sneer behind your back, call you 'poor dear’ to your face, and glory in the schadenfreude that you, too, are a failure. Just as they always said.

But that’s not the real story.

In that family, just scraping by, is the child. Living and breathing in fear and unaware of it. Just knowing that there are places not to go and things not to do. A clumsy little thing. Myopic and asthmatic. Dressed perpetually in hand-me-downs and homemade attempts of clothing from a mother who battles with anything that requires an 'on’ switch.

A child who encounters, at school, a society based on image and television in colour (We can’t afford that! The one we have is still working fine) and glossy magazines that cost too much, and especially, having good clothes.

In such a society, to be a true individual is to soon be a pariah.

The true friends are the friends who stay. The ones who may also be pariahs because of an accent, or a wonky eye, or because, just maybe, a kid their age with an imagination that spans a cosmos or three just might be more entertaining than Days of Our Lives.

Whatever the reason, those friendships last. Even in a time of utter desolation and loss. When the best Grandfather in the whole world, a friendly giant in blue overalls and magic… dies in a freak accident. The time of tears passes, but the time of mourning is not over.

And when the friends gather for aimless chatter, two of the shallow Others come skipping. They are a great distance away, confident that the weedy, asthmatic child can not catch up to them even if she tried. And they sing. A taunting little tune, usually used for 'nerny nerny ner ner’ and other such childish taunts. But these two have come up with new words that will make the weedy child cry.

It’s something of a daily pastime. Make that child cry.

These two, out of willful ignorance, sing, “Cathy’s grandfather’s de-ad! Cathy’s grandfather’s de-ad!”

A lifetime’s worth of bad feelings, formerly caged in propriety and rules, comes out as red-hot rage. There is a scream. The desire for blood.

And darkness.

When the child returns to herself, there is no sign of the ignorant boys. There is a weight on both her arms. Her feet still want to run. Claw, still, at the soil hardened by a thousand feet and cheap cooch grass.

When she looks back, she discovers that two friends, each, had grabbed an arm and held her back.

She had dragged them all an entire meter.

Four times her weight and then some. At least.

If her friends had not been there. If she had been a true pariah…

Those boys -or just one of them- would have died.

Ignorant, unthinking, most definitely unknowing children -possibly popular children- had had their lives saved that day.

From a pariah.

By pariahs.

There are no words for the terror of herself that settled into her stomach, that day. How every attempt by her contemporaries to goad her into an outburst, thereafter, were coloured by that fear. By the knowledge that, given enough rage, she could kill with her bare hands and not know it until she woke up with their blood in her mouth.

And the certainty that they were too stupid to know that they were throwing sticks at a wolf.

That’s a lot to heap onto a child.

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Challenge #00144: Discovery!

Embarrassing sibling fluff (Evoverse or Girl Genius, whichever you prefer): Sister meets long-lost brother. They have much catching up to do, and she just wants to embarrass him (in front of the girl he likes makes it even better)

“Just get those clothes off before the contamination gets to your skin!” Agatha, wearing heavily re-inforced gloves, both shoved Gil towards the hot rain engine and tore at his stained shirt.

“Oooh, let me help,” squealed Zeetha. She, too had the gloves on, and eagerly moved in to clutch at his trousers. Her hands stopped an inch away. She stalled. Startled. “Where did you get that mark?”

“…huh?” Gill fumbled with his own pants anyway. “That? That’s always been there. Father said it was some kind of birthmark… Why?”

Zeetha twisted and showed the same mark on her own skin. “This,” she announced, “is the traditional tattoo of the Skifandran heirs. It’s placed in infants just as they’re born.”

“Fabulous. You’re long-lost siblings,” Agatha literally tore the last scraps of cloth from Gil and shoved him under the hot rain. “Scrub thoroughly with the number five decontaminate.”

“I do know procedures, I have been in labs my whole life…”

“Not all of your life,” corrected Zeetha. “My mother never mentioned a son… But then… Skifandran Queens routinely… kill… firstborn sons…”

“Father said that all he did was keep me alive…”

“Help me find the biotainment suits! Nobody bothered to sort the storage place.”

“Must feel like home, then,” Gil jibed.

“Keep washing that hair!”

“But… If I’m an heir… that means that my father…”

“…and my mother,” Zeetha nodded knowingly and cha-cha-cha’d the rest of the arithmetic.

“That means I can be a Baron and King of Skifander,” Gil brightened. “Sorry you turned me down, now, Agatha?”

“There are no kings of Skifander,” said Zeetha. “Only temporary ones. Until a daughter is born. Then… um… he'sasacrifice.”

Gil paused in his scrubbing. “It’d be interesting to hear how father escaped from that…”

Agatha returned. “Fully decontaminated? Good. Here’s your biotainment suit.”

“It’s… chintz…”

“It’s chintz or nudity.”

“Nudity’s more fun,” leered Zeetha.

“He’s your brother,” Agatha made a face.

“He still has a nice butt…”

“HEY!” Gil grabbed the suit. “I’ll take the chintz.”

“Skifandara says that it takes a real man to wear flowers…”

Gil glared at his new sister. “Not. Helping.”

“And enjoying it,” Zeetha sang.

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Challenge #00143: Angst in Eyeliner

Why “poetry night” at the X-Mansion was canceled.

[AN: You have no idea how hard it was not to quote Vogon Poetry for this one…]

“…come for me. Come for my love. Come for my hate. Come for the tiredness I feel for breath. Death, come like a lover…”

_So,_ Jean thought to the Professor, _Three years of therapy and counting  for our dear little Rogue. How much for us?_

_Considering there’s fifteen pages of this?_ the Professor thought back. _I may as well install a revolving door in the psychotherapy studio._

“…wipe away the hate and tears. Wipe away the joy that was never mine…”

_Maybe,_ the Professor telepathically admitted, _poetry night was a bad idea…_

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Challenge #00142: One Fine Day in Transylvania Polygnostic….

’…y'know what, etching “YOU’RE WRONG!” into the surface of the moon with a giant laser, without specifying exactly who was wrong about what, could be freaking hilarious.’

“Settle down, Snapcase,”

“This is theoretical mechanica, not theoretical mass psychology. Save it for the right forum, Snapcase.”

“And don’t say anything in front of Fozdyke. He’s a plagiarist.”

“Hey!”

“Well, you are…”

“Copy one set of notes from one lab, and the whole world has to hear about it.”

“Though we could formulate a clank that could do that…”

“…with the right kind of optics…”

*

The three of them, Fozdyke, Snapcase and Graal, sweated subtly in front of Baron Wolfenbach himself.

“Never before have I seen such a magnificent display of spontaneous civil upset,” said the Baron. “Had I a great and pressing need to conquer the world, I would have found it useful. But you three… gentlemen… evidently performed a global social experiment for… fun…” Fun, pronounced, mind-bogglingly stupid stunt that each one of you will pay for on a daily basis until long past your initial time of death.

“…i… thought it would be funny…?”

“I’m not laughing,” iced Wolfenbach.

…and that was how the Wolfenbach Empire put three men on the moon.

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FicWar Prompt

Building a superhighway with good intentions.

(#00140)

[AN: Shoutout to Sir Tim Berners-Lee and the monster he created]

“See, with quantum entanglement, we might not be able to transmit objects, but we can transmit data. That’s still a breakthrough,” she argued. “You can send data to a 3D printer on mars, or in orbit of Jupiter, and instructions to go with it. Without the comms delay of conventional radio.”

“And what about temporally-joined entanglements? Can we risk a paradox of sending a solution before there’s a problem?”

“I’ve come up with a way to avoid that.” She bought up another slide in her presentation. What she was also avoiding was the fact that a working prototype was already on the colony in Tsiolkovskiy crater on the far side of the moon. Paired with her ‘dummy’ unit in the middle of the conference room.

The look on everyone’s faces when they had a real-time chat with folks in the Hawking Observatory was priceless.

“Quantum internet,” one of her investors muttered. “The interstellar superhighway.”

“Almost,” she apologized. “I’m still trying to work out how to get the signal to go through wormholes…”

Twenty Years Later…

Someone had sent her another monographed dildo. It read, 360 BPS? U sux!

She didn’t bother to correct them, any more. Didn’t bother with browsing her adulterated creation, eventually named the Hypernet. She had become a recluse.

Because, somehow, the blame for Hypernet services lackluster performances got attached to her invention. And, therefore, herself.

Sometimes, she wished she’d never thought of the damned thing.

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Challenge #00136: Just Like Her Father

“No one ever tells you that the true taste of victory is not sweet; it lies like bitter ashes upon the tongue.”

Da had always said that.

Young Cordelia had never understood her father’s caution. Victory had to be good. Otherwise it wouldn’t make sense. And it really, really had to make sense now, with Da taken hostage and herself in disguise behind enemy lines with a pack of mercenaries as the only hope of getting him to his medical necessities.

She had the spare seizure stimulator taped to her undergarments, doing the job of male anatomy to fill out her pants. She had her hair cropped short and a passport in the name of one of her brothers. As far as she knew, she passed.

But that didn’t matter here. In the drains and forgotten maintenance tunnels in enemy territory. With only a voice in her ear-bug for company.

“Left,” said Admiral Quinn. It had been sheer luck that Young Cordelia had found her in a cafeteria on Beta Colony. And possibly the product of some bizarre synchronicity that the Admiral took Cordelia’s contract for nothing more than a Betan Dollar.

All it had taken was hearing her father’s name.

She’d have to ask Da about that when she found him.

Five more lefts and three rights, she finally had an ‘up’. Which was where the tools strapped around her chest came in. Nice little grav-lifters. Cutters, spreaders… anything anyone could need to break into unseen turf, and medkits to boot.

Da was looking grey. Synergine. Pain meds. A torturously slow scoop to drag out the vital machine that cheerfully told her she was a day late.

“Cord–?”

“Hsh! I’m currently Ez, here.”

“What t’ hell?” His eyes came into focus. “You cut your hair… Why’d you cut your hair.”

“Because you wouldn’t let me go to Beta Colony without an escort so I pretended to be Lord Ezar. Come on. We can’t stay long. They’ll–”

Too late. They’d heard. The guard unlocked the door and burst in.

“Hey!”

Cordelia got between him and her Da, whipping out the weapon she’d covertly replaced her stunner with. An evil-looking needler gun.

“Not a noise, not a step,” she warned. “I will shoot!”

He got that cocky grin that bullies always got before they found out that she - or any of her sibs - had been trained in combat by Drou Koudelka and then ImpSec. “Like that thing’s even loaded.”

He took his last step.

Just like in drills, Cordelia fired, aiming at the midsection. He didn’t drop like the sims had. He looked down at the spreading red stain on his belly, and then back at her. So confused. So afraid. Pink foam bubbled up and out of his mouth.

And then he fell.

“A needler,” said Da, full scold-mode. “The only thing filthier is a nerve disruptor. You know. I told you.”

Of Sergeant Bothari and Kou’s scars, yes. Cordelia swallowed bile. “I know, Da. I just… couldn’ afford t’ lose at stunner tag.” Deep breaths. Clear thoughts. Vomit later, when they were both safe. Yeah. “C'mon Da. We gotta get gone.”

Now she understood, as her stomach clenched and her hands shook, getting him into the safety harness. She understood exactly what Da had meant, all her life.

Da kissed her forehead. “I just wanted to keep you out of it. One Vorkosigan to survive without scars…”

Too late, Da. Too late. I’m sorry.

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Challenge #00135: Offerings of Embarassment

Cherry pie.

JOATs, by and large, are nocturnal. Either by accident or design, they largely manage to find themselves awake at 3AM when sleep is impossible and the ideas flow like a madman’s flood and nothing, NOTHING is impossible.

Rael, designed to be useful during most hours of the day, only needed a few hours’ rest in his heated fish tank before being functional once more. He rather liked the, for JOATS, earlier hours of 7AM to 10AM when everyone else was asleep and the JOAT quarter of the Elemeno was relatively quiet.

He should have noted the singing. He should have heard it instead of dismissing it as background noise. He should definitely paid attention to the words. Or the fact that it was coming closer. Or who was singing. With what accent.

He could easily have pretended he was not home. Or tried to. Finding out that Shadow Elementals could home in on people like some banned gene-tracking weapon… well, that had been painful in interesting new ways. He could have easily hunkered under his tank stand and pretended he was resting.

But no. In a fit of absent-minded inattention, he answered the door. And, having answered the door, he’d let her in.

And now it was too late.

Shayde was in his public area, setting up a table and talking about her experiment.

“…cherry pie. Well, it started off as a cherry pie, but then I got tae thinkin’ how all that sugar doesnae have any stayin’ power ye ken. So it turned intae a grunt. Kinda.”

“…grunt…”

“That’s a pie wi’ cake on top. Only I figured tha’ it’s no’ real fair how all the flavour’s under t’ cake so I thought about what went well with cherries, and bingo! Low GI dark chocolate an’ cherry grunt.”

Still relatively hot from the oven. Coated in ganache and decorated with real cream and yet more cherries.

He was really going to have to stop mentioning favoured foods in her presence. Every single time, it resulted in some home cooking taken directly to his door.

“Shayde… we have discussed this,” he admonished.

“Aye, but… None o’ yer reasons make a lick o’ sense to the way I’m goin’. An’ a gel’s got th’ right to try an’ convince the fella, at least.”

“I told you I’m uncomfortable with romance.”

“Aye and I listened. Note the lack o’ heavin’ bosoms thrust in yer direction.” She laid out plates for two. “I also stopped a lot o’ grabbin’ ye. An’… that other thing ye’ dinnae like.”

The kiss. He didn’t want to talk about it and… she didn’t. Barely mentioned, save in discussions like this. “Why do you even like me?” he asked. He couldn’t fathom it, himself. People, especially humans, insisted on being his friend when he did almost everything to isolate himself from the more… overt aspects of society. Like touching.

“Ev'ry time I look at ye, I see someone wonderful,” she said. “An’ I never want half a chance o’ anyone like that slippin’ away. So I’m doin’ everything I can tae… keep on yer guid side.”

Once again, he squashed the rising temptation to tell her he would be at his happiest with her chasing someone else wonderful. It wasn’t that he was scared of her, or what she’d do if he did say it… A worrying and increasingly large portion of himself did not want her to come to harm.

He sighed. “All right. Let’s try this thing.”

She grinned and handed him a knife. “Admit it, I’m growin’ on yer.”

“Never in a hundred years.”

“Oooh, is that a time scale or a bribery amount?” she teased.

“Time scale.”

“Awreet… Standard, B'Dauss or Terran?”

Rael took delight in delaying with a treacherously delicious mouthful. “I refuse to answer on the grounds that it may cause you to cheat.”

“Spoilsport.”

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Challenge #00134: Wrong Call

End with: “Only as the full measure of events came to bear did he realize that she was WAY out of his league.”

The envelope was fancy. Paul checked it five times to make sure that the embellished envelope had actually made it to the right destination. But there weren’t that many Paul Pleskins in Southwark County. And only one in the trailer park where he eked out an existence doing day work and temp jobs.

The return address was unfamiliar to him. Somewhere so socially and economically distant from the Roach Ranch that it may as well have been on Mars.

According to the invite, someone was going to pick him up a week in advance to help him ‘dress and appear appropriately’ for his date with Charlize Dayton.

Who the fuck was Charlize Dayton?

He asked around and eventually found a fanboy who described her as ONLY the singular most fantastic example of womanhood ever to breathe air. She was in a whole shitton of movies and TV playing awesome femme fatales and strong women roles without showing off as a sexualized object.

Translated to Paulspeak - she played a lot of frigid bitches.

But the face… the face bought back memories.

No.

It couldn’t be…

Chubby Charlie. The fat little nerd bitch who wouldn’t give it up to him when he was on a hog hunt back in high school. No wonder she was playing frigid bitches, she had so much practice.

Still, it was hard to turn down a limo and free food.

He put on his best job interview outfit on the day. Hell, he even shaved. And waited by the gates for the appointed limo.

It came with a personal assistant. Mark. So gay he farted rainbows and talked musicals. And every time Paul told him to keep his distance, he would say, “Oh. I’m sorry. Did coming on to you in an unwelcome way make you feel uncomfortable? Am I making poor heterosexual you nervous? News flash, boot’s on the other foot and kicking your ass, baby.”

What in the flying hell?

The hotel was fabulous. Luxurious. They spent an entire day just making him clean and relaxed. The food was top-end foreign muck that almost made him retch. But free food was free food and he wasn’t about to refuse just because of wasabi.

Damn stuff nearly burned his whole tongue to a cinder.

And then he met Chubby Charlie again.

She’d grown UP.

Tall, sculpted… almost the perfect ideal of womanhood. Except for the muscles. Damn girl was beefier than he was. And she still fit into Coco Chanel like she’d been poured into it.

“Damn. What happened to you?”

“Ten years of an absence of Hog Hunts, and the assholes who instigate them,” said Charlie. Her voice was like silk with a knife under it. All soft and smooth, but with a dangerous, hidden edge.

There was a security good between him and her on the ride to the shindig they were going to. Paul could feel the bitchiness.

“What’s the big idea of inviting me along if we can’t fuck? I mean, you gotta be regretting missing out on all this,” a gesture towards his loins, “all them years ago to invite me along, right?”

She laughed. The most indulgent laugh he’d heard since grammy caught him stealing cookies and he’d lied about space aliens. “Poor deluded Paul… This isn’t for you. It’d for me to show you what you missed out on.”

The limo stopped. Someone helped her out of the car. Paul trailed behind the security goon to watch the Paparazzi follow her every twitch. She met up with some chippendale-esque hunk on a dias and kissed him.

The hunk also had a lost and confused-looking date. Even the best of dresses and makeup couldn’t hide the lingering marks of drug abuse and low-living. He saw those same marks on the monitor when the cameras focussed on him.

Paul Pleskin, the subtitle read. Charlize Dayton’s charity case.

Charity case? He was a charity case now? For Chubby Charlie?

Only as the full measure of events came to bear did he realize that she was WAY out of his league.

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Challenge #00133: One Fine Day in a Play Park

Shayde and Nanny have a semi-civilized chat while watching the artist take a LOOOOONG overdue day off in the park to recharge. Vendors notice the juxtaposition with mild curiosity.

Julie was on the swings. Laughing. She’d been on them for half an hour and, without any other instruction, was likely to stay on them for the rest of the day.

“Be careful,” Nanny barked for the fifth time since Julie had sat in the swing.

“Aw, rest yerself, love. They got all sorts of features in this pace. We’ll watch Julie together, eh?”

Nanny made a very dog-like noise in the back of her throat, halfway between a whine and a growl.

“She’s safe,” soothed Shayde, “I guarantee it.”

Nanny settled at last to the spread in front of her. A dog-friendly menu that included, amongst the many options, blue steak in peanut sauce. Nanny chose the fish and select steamed vegetables.

“I never saw a dog eat wi’ a knife and fork,” said Shayde. “D'ye remember learnin’? Training with Julie?”

“Julie is good girl,” said Nanny. “Happy memories. She teach, she learns. Nanny helps. Nanny good dog.”

“Aye, good dog.”

Nanny’s tail whisked the ground behind their bench seats as it wagged. “You are good girl,” said Nanny.

Shayde, knowing better, bit her tongue to stop the mischief coming out. “She doin’ better after I made the bad man go away?”

“Julie sleep soundly,” said Nanny. “No more nightmares. No more stress screams. She has all good days, since bad man gone.”

“Glad I could help.”

And just in time, Rael came back with the ninety-nines. Of course, part of the delay was explaining what a ninety-nine was. Their monetary value had changed since her last time on Earth.

“Lunch time,” Nanny panicked. “Lunch time for Julie!”

“Watch this,” Shayde grinned. “ICE CREAM!”

Julie almost jumped off the swing and landed running, heading like an arrow to the table.

“Ev'ry time,” Shayde grinned.

“Ice cream is sometimes food,” complained Nanny.

“Today is a sometimes day,” said Shayde. “We start with desert an’ work our way back to starters.” She handed the Augmented dog a special version of the ninety-nine over. One made to be good for dogs.

“Good Nanny,” said Julie, taking her own ice cream from Rael. “This is a really fun day. I like fun days.”

Nanny sized Shayde up with a special Look. It said, I know you’re not all-the-way good, but you are good today. And you are good for Julie. Those matter to me. But set a foot wrong with either of us and you’re in for some very real trouble.

Shayde nodded. She’d understood that from the moment they’d met. Besides, in her eyes, Julie was a child. She would never do anything to harm a child.

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Challenge #00132: Monster in My House

Mr. Winters and how he ruined Scott Summers. Xavier makes an appearance.

Scott Summers devoted as much time as he could to extracurricular activities. If they were free ones, all the better. Money was a problem for Scott.

Mister Winters did not like Scott wasting money.

The ones that earned money were better, and funded the ones that didn’t. And sometimes contributed to his dinner.

But he had to be home by seven. Or Mister Winters would get angry.

Mister Winters got… unpredictable… when he was angry.

Scott didn’t want to make him angry. He did everything he could, every day, to make absolutely, positively certain that Mister Winters was as happy as he could be. Every morning, he got up the instant he heard the alarm clock in the neighbours’ house. Cleaned himself carefully with a washcloth and soap and as little water as he could get away with. He re-bound his eyes and cooked Mister Winters’ favourite breakfast by smell and feel.

Eggs. Sunny side up. Bacon. Toast. Golden brown and fried in the bacon grease. A one-inch thick slice of steak tomato, also fried. Sausage, pork. Lightly salted and peppered. Cooked to a T. Set up in Mister Winters’ place in front of his best chair and a hot coffee and an ice-cold beer. Knife, fork, cup and glass all just so on the tray.

And all the mess cleaned away before he could see it.

Only when Mister Winters slumped in his chair would Scott find and clean a bowl and spoon before helping himself to whatever cereal had the least bugs in it.

There was no milk. Milk was for pussies.

He ate quick. He had to finish before Mister Winters or he would notice. Things went bad when he noticed. He swallowed his last mouthful and got to washing up before the telltale creak that meant Mister Winters had got up again.

“What in hell do you call this?”

Scott offered his hand for it. It was only sometimes that Mister Winters remembered that Scott was effectively blind.

“Ah, shit,” gnarled hands put cold glass in his.

His fingers traced the label. “Feels like… your beer?”

“Stupid-ass shit,” growled Winters. “Can’t see it, can ya, cloth-eyes?”

Crap. He was angry. No matter what he did, things were going to go bad. People asked dangerous questions when he came to school with bruises. Questions that got Mister Winters mad. Questions that caused more pain.

And sometimes the inspectors came, and made sure the house was clean and that Scott had access to food and water and hygiene. Made certain he had clean clothes.

And did exactly nothing about anything that was happening beyond that. Because if he told the truth, nothing legal was done, and Winters would be vicious for months afterwards. If he told the right lies, there was a passing chance Winters would only use his belt for one night, and forget about his fists for at least a week. Figuring out which was the best thing to do was a no-brainer.

Somehow, during today’s beating, his bandages came off. They were cheaper than sunglasses, which some of the rich mean kids stole for laughs and then mocked his scars. And he could make them out of any old rag Winters let him have. What happened next… was confusing.

He saw…. the table, the floor, the pile of porn that the inspectors ignored because Scott was blind. The opposite wall. All tearing away in the force of a bright red light. He felt lifted up. Tossed like a rag doll against the other wall. And then all feeling was gone.

Consciousness. After what he’d just seen, Scott did not want to open his eyes again. He used all his senses to figure out what was going on.

Old pleather. The back seat of Mister Winters’ car, replete with the stink of old sex from when the old man could rent a woman for some fun. And the miasma of rotten take-out. Moving. Just a hair on the side of legal. Rush Limbaugh on the radio. Soft cussing from the drivers’ seat.

He started to sit up.

“Stay down, asshat. I tole everyone you were in hospital.”

Scott huddled in place. Breathing shallowly so he didn’t have to choke on the stink of the back-seat cushions. He tried to count the turns and measure the distance, but he had no starting point, and no idea where he was.

At last, they stopped.

Winters got out. Opened a back door. “Out.” And then dragged him out anyway. Roughly pushed him in conflicting directions. Manhandled his head.

“Sumbitches think they goin’ steal money off'n me… sumbitches got another think comin’…” Winters mumbled.

It was cold, and he was still in his singlet and shorts. What passed for pajamas. It was quiet. “Is it night time?”

“Shaddup an’ open your eyes, idjit.”

“I don’t wanna hurt anyone or anything,” risked Scott. It was the first time he objected to anything Winters told him to do.

Fist to the kidneys. Rough hands wrenching him up by the hair. Alcohol-infused breath in his face. “When I say open your eyes, scumnuts, you open them right up! Now OPEN! THEM! EYES!”

He was right in front of Scott.

The last thing Scott saw was Winter’s face as he realized this. Seconds before his head both blew apart, and off.

Scott shut his eyes just as the red light hit the ATM and shattered the money-box. He tore off Winter’s weather-worn sleeve and desperately wrapped his eyes with it. And then, because something warm, wet and sticky was touching his leg, Scott got up and walked, carefully, until he found a reference point.

Good wall. Nice wall. Warm wall. It mustn’t have been far into the night because it retained the heat of the day. Therefore, west wall. He followed it away from the scene. Tried to sop up as much heat as he could before he had to go in other directions.

Car. blocking his escape. Pulling up just as he ran out of wall.

“Hello, Scott.”

“Who are you?” he asked. “Not a friend of Mister Winters?”

“No. I never had the misfortune of meeting him. My name is Professor Charles Xavier. And I would like to help you.”

Someone wrapped him up in something warm. Someone who smelled like spices and hot, lazy days. “My name’s Ororo. Would you like to come with us?”

There was take-out chicken in the car. Fresh. There were no other answers but, “Yes, please?”

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