Disclaimer: They're not mine; I only have words to give. I'm just taking these wonderful characters and playing with them, wishing they were real.

Prologue

It's funny how a lot of things in life turn out the opposite of what you expect. Like your career or the person you end up falling in love with, or the color of your hair ten years from now. These, however, are relatively small matters in life. For some people.

I think I had just a few weeks before I would turn 18 when Logan fell into my life. Literally, unfortunately. I lived in what I now know was a world parallel to his, one where mutants and heroes were the stuff of comic books. And some of my favorite movies. And cartoons. It was a sad and inadequate way to cope with my daily stresses of life, but it was all I had. My parents had died in a car accident when I was 13, a horrible age to lose the only family I had, but that was not the worst of it, as I learned very quickly. See, my parents, God bless their souls, in their misguided attempt to ensure I would be well provided for, had willed my custody to a couple who were long time family friends. My parent's friends. I did not really know them, as their friendship had begun in the business world and most of their association continued to be over dinners spent discussing whatever kind of business it was they were in. I was not yet old enough to be curious about what my parents did when they died, and after that my custodians no longer had to work in exchange for providing me with house and home.

I got ripped.

Sure, I had a place to sleep and food and clothes, but my home shattered when my parents' car did.

The Custory's had no children for a reason: they did not like them. Imagine their surprise when they learned not only that their friends were dead, but on top of that they had a life-changing decision to make, and not the kind you can take a few months to decide, either. The Custorys had the choice to take custody of a child they hardly knew and live a fairly elegant lifestyle, the one I had been brought up in, or pass it up and let the child be fought over by anyone else willing to do so. It would be unfair to hold their choice against them, as I would probably do the same, but there is no excuse in the world that can justify they way they treated me for the next five years.

No fucking reason on God's green fucking earth.

We moved to a new house, as they were advised by my psychologist, but into a larger home. True, they got a pretty good deal, as they told their friends gloatingly every chance they got, but 6 bedrooms was not necessary for three people. At first, I was so out of it I could have cared less what kind of house I lived in, but as the years stretched on and I turned 16, I realized that my whole life had been changed by the people I had for some time referred to as "the wardens". After six months of intensive therapy, it suddenly became too expensive and too much a burden on the family budget, and I lost the only person who had truly listened to the confusing mess of feelings that had taken the place of my parents in my heart. All of the very few attempts I made to talk to my wardens about my feelings were met with ridicule and some pretty choice colored words. The kids at school were too young to give me the peace of mind that I was searching for, and everyone knows how overworked guidance counselors are. They tried their best, but I had needed some dedicated therapy that they were just unqualified to give. So, as the teenage years hit me and my hormones kicked in with a freakin' vengeance, apparently I was too unstable at home and within 10 months of moving into our new house I moved again. To the basement, the unfinished basement. Surrounded by concrete walls, the grey color of depression itself, I learned that I was alone in the world. When I changed into womanhood, I learned everything I needed from TV and books. The more time I spent hiding from the wardens in my basement, the more they seemed to resent the small amount of time I spent in the house, the entire rest of the house. Slowly my freedoms were restricted, or revised, or exceptioned until I felt like a squatter. The fact that all the money they spent on their cars and Armani suits and God knows what was actually my money made no impact on their consciousness'. Apparantly the inconvenience of my existence in their lives was very expensive. Reality, and the bleeding spot in my heart, was just too hard to face when I went home from school every day to a place that felt as cold as a funeral home. So, I escaped. Any way I could. I read, I watched TV, I did my best to make sure every second of every day was filled with as much fantasy as it took to keep from having to deal with the total sense of entrappment I felt inside my own life.

They did not hit me until I was 17.

Silly me, I thought asking for money for my graduation gowns was pretty reasonable, as I had never been given an allowance. I could not have a job, as they would not buy a car, and the bus routes did not run through the affluent area we lived in. So, as much as I had dreaded the confrontation, if I wanted to receive my diploma with everyone else, I needed my gown. I had expected words, shouting, perhaps a few mild threats before they had time to think and realize my diploma was one step closer to getting me out of their lives. I never expected to end up on the expensive, solid mahogany wood floor, the left side of my face burning. I was so shocked I did not move, probably looking a little moronic, but I had never known violence on a personal level before. If only I had gotten off the floor.

The last thing I remember was being yanked off the floor and dragged to the basement door, the words hissed in my ear not reaching my racing brain. When I woke up I was on the basement floor in front of the stairs, every part of my body was screaming in pain.

I missed the next few days of school.

My life may very well have ended before I turned 18 if not for Logan. That and being very unlucky in life.