Disclaimer: I do not own any of the following properties except Danny Coopers. All other properties belong to their respective owners. But one day, friends. One day (or maybe in a parallel Earth) it will all be mine.
Now seeking betas or someone who knows dafuq they doin'! Any and all criticism welcomed (I'm a masochist, so, please hit me with your best shot).
Origin Story
My normal life ended with a good deed-No, not a "good deed". I don't do "good deeds". The phrase makes me recall that old line, a cliche I heard tossed around a lot; about how good guys finished last. I'm not sure I'd consider myself good. I'm sure as Hell not evil, but I don't consider myself "good". "Decent" seems more accurate. I'm a "decent" person. I don't go out looking for bad guys to stomp out, but that didn't stop them from coming after me or the folks around me. That was how they normally became my problem, and of course I would stop that problem. If I didn't other people would have gotten hurt. What am I going to do? Just do nothing? That's just a dick move.
My normal life ended with a decent deed (There; that's better), just something any person with a conscience would do.
It started as part of an ordinary day, sometime in the afternoon. Walking to and from school everyday had always been such a drag. Twenty minutes to campus and twenty minutes home were a long ways for a 21st-century youth such as I. No matter how measured my pace was or how sparse my clothing was, I would always find myself baking in the sun's rays. My insides roasted from physical exertion. My legs felt made of lead by the walk's end. My shirt was always soaked in ripe, odorous sweat.
I sat at the back of the classroom, usually near the AC, because I was afraid of my B.O. (Not to say I was that rank!) grossing out my classmates. But I'm getting off-track.
It was summer - near the end of the season - when the incident happened. I was walking home from class that day. My MP3 Player was dead, so I had nothing to listen to but the repetitious agony of my size 12's scraping asphalt. I mentioned heavy feet before; well, let's just say my heels had a habit of being far more worn than the rest of my shoe combined. I wasn't the smoothest nor the most coordinated person.
I was standing at one of three crosswalks between me and my home when I see this kid - Maybe six or seven, kind of chubby - standing on the other side. Like me, he was waiting for the light to turn red and the cars to stop. The boy's mom stood beside him, chatting away on her phone while he wrestled with a piece of taffy firmly stuck in its wrapping. And, boy, did that kid seem like he wanted it. I saw him twist it, tear it, and even viciously chomp at the end with his teeth, trying to get the sweet and salty goodness.
Because his saliva had made it moist, the kid's candy seemed to leap from his prying fingers. He made good efforts to grab it, slapping it an inch or two higher in one attempt. Unfortunately, his reflexes were too slow, and the candy slipped right between his fingers. It bounced twice after hitting the ground, more like rubber than sugar, before coming to a stop in the street.
I remembered really loving sweets as a kid - Still do, in fact - but I always had common sense like "don't pick it up after five seconds" or "don't go after it into the middle of a busy street."
This child, however, lacked that basic common sense. I had developed a good feel for why. His mother was not even paying him a glance here and there. She chirped meaninglessly away on her phone, looking off to the side. The boy did not glance in either direction before romping into the street, crawling across the ground for his sugary treat. Poor, little fat-boy.
There was the screech of brakes, the grating of rubber against concrete, and a stupid high schooler throwing himself right in front of it.
It was strange; I didn't have time to think. In a way, it was impressive reaction time. I was normally such an indecisive person. Should I stand by safely, or should I throw myself in front of a moving car for some brat? If I did nothing, nobody could have blamed me, right? His mom was the one who should have been paying attention, right? Why should I risk dying? People sure as Hell wouldn't do the same for me!
...Fucking dammit. At the time, I didn't question it even once. I should by all means have, but I didn't. Self-preservation, common sense; both failed me for the sake of some arbitrary, passing moment of conscience. One second, I was standing by the crosswalk sign; the next, I was hurtling through the air trying to outpace a car. I distinctly remember screaming a streak of profanities aimed at either the kid or myself.
I was running, but the red Chevrolet was speeding at 40 MPH. Basic math decided who was faster between man and car. There was no way I could reach the kid in time, no time to get away without going splat. He was right there, stupid eyes wide, right at the edge of my fingertips. Blood rushed to my deafened ears. Wind dried my horrified eyes.
That was when time slowed down.
My body started shaking uncontrollably. I felt like I was breathing through syrup, something heavy choking me in the depths of my throat. Space started bending around me, narrowing into a blurry tunnel. I felt my feet leave the ground, weightless. I practically flew through the tunnel, vaguely recognizing something hitting me in the stomach. I wrapped my arms around it tightly, curling into a defensive, little ball around it as I carried it through the tunnel. Light twisted and drilled into my eyes, it hurt so much-
I was brought back when my head hit the lamp post. Time sped back up. A (surprisingly) dull ache still rang through my skull, however, making my body tremble and my teeth rattle before all my senses returned. I choked and gagged for several minutes, not even considering the screaming or projectile vomit staining the front of my polo shirt. The Chevrolet braked to a stop a few feet away.
The world spun. For a good, long minute, my vision was chaos. I barely noticed the boy squeeze himself free of my limp arms, crying and screaming into the arms of his mother. She dropped her phone, having witnessed the spectacle, and knelt down to shield her child. It was a moment before her revolted gaze clarified it was from me.
"It was that Mutant freak," What? What did she say? "He tried kidnapping my baby! He-He teleported or something!"
Teleporting? I gave the idea some thought, but it didn't sound quite right. It wasn't the right word for what I just experienced. That wasn't some magical shortcut through space. I could feel wind against my face, and I definitely felt the metal pole I almost brained myself on.
Sharp nails dug into my shoulder. I screamed as those fingers burrowed deep and pulled me to my feet. "Get away from them, Mutant!" He dragged me and shoved me into the pole again. I clung to the pole, trying to come out of my daze.
I realized that was the least of my concerns when I noticed the mob gathering. Shop-owners, streetwalkers, random citizens, and plenty of bigots (their grumblings were loudest among the mob) started to approach, some carrying weapons like big sticks or small tasers. I only had that briefest moment to gather my wits and understand I had no congratulations coming.
I scrambled to my feet and broke out into a sprint.
I still felt like retching, but the mob had snapped out of their initial confusion, and several gave chase. There was time to call Earl later. I simply kept swallowing lumps down my throat. I tried to calm my breathing, still erratic from my...exertion. I had no idea what it was, but I knew it wasn't natural, and that was the only justification my pursuers needed to hunt me down, dissect me, and mount my head like a prized beast on their walls. I had to get away. I had to get away or I'd die!
The mob was gaining. I didn't dare to look back, but the sound of their footsteps became heavier and much louder as they closed the gap. I wanted to run faster - I started crying - but no matter how much I urged my body, it only continued to tire and slow with use. Inevitably, my hunters would catch up to me.
My lungs were burning. White-hot fire seared them, tearing them at the seams. Every breath fans the flames, and worsened my pain. Sweat seeped into my clothes. My muscles became sore with lactic acid. I considered that I was actually going to die because of old-school xenophobia.
My life flashed before my eyes. It was just a shame that it was unbearably boring to sit through a second time. I was nobody special; I never won any special awards or thrived in some club. I was nobody. In a way, I had always been proud of that. Nobody cared about nobodies, nobody bothered nobodies. I never bothered connecting to others, to build memories in the romanticized way people expected. Those experiences came with unreasonable trials and drama that really were none of my concern. Time would be spent in a way that would only end in more pain and frustration. Those experiences demanded steep prices I simply didn't want to pay.
I had always thought the secret to living a good life had come down to moderation, low expectations, and no aspirations. It wasn't as if I simply hated people; I just never saw them as worth the effort. In my mind, I never reached for the stars. I just wanted to graduate high school, get some mediocre job even a monkey could do, and live in peace without bothering anybody. Now, here I was, in the exact position I never wanted to be in. Why? Fuck if I knew.
It was so goddamned absurd.
"Get out of our city, Gene-Hazard," Someone screamed. A second later, a thrown brick smacked me in the back of my head. I felt my eyeballs jostle. I thought they'd pop clean out on my jarring descent to the ground.
Painful tears rolled down from the corners of my eyes. I tried to get back on my feet, but a jerk on my collar crushed my throat. Three other pairs of hands grabbed me where they could before throwing me to the ground on my back. A boot slammed onto my chest, knocking the wind clean out of me. Another stabbed the sharp prongs of a taser into my skin. My body arced with nerve-splitting pain, my exposed arms and ankles scraping against uneven, cracked concrete. Blood oozed from slivers in my skin, and still they continued.
"Lay right there, Mutie," One asked, busting his fist down hard on my left eye, "we'll fix you right up! Don't ever mess with New York, you monster!"
They wasted no time beating me down. Their bats bounced off my head again and again, the splitting ache widening with every creak and croak of my bones. The paralyzing shock from the taser left me with just enough sensation to feel every new bruise and potential fracture. My vision blurred again, but still I wasn't blessed with the gift of unconsciousness. Every waking moment was torment I couldn't escape.
They held me down, refusing to stop. They claimed they only wanted to scare me, but I knew humans lacked that kind of restraint. If I didn't get away, they were definitely going to cross a line. The only question was how the fuck I do that? I couldn't even have…
It clicked in my head - Or maybe that was my jaw starting to dislocate. I was amazed I wasn't already dead. I felt the full force of bats, bricks, and knuckles beating against my skull, but I had yet to feel the sharp explosion I had always expected with shattered bones.
Priorities, I reminded myself. Instead, I thought back to the cause of all my current problems.
That moment in the tunnel was suffocating, and hot. It felt as if someone shoved iron down my throat. In a single second, I went from one side of the street to the other. It was the problem, but as I lied paralyzed, brutalized, and weeping quietly, I realized it had simultaneously become my salvation. I wasn't strong, so if God or whichever genetic prick was responsible for my strange power, there should have been no reason I couldn't use it to save myself.
I shut my eyes tight, made painful by the swelling of my left one. I tried remembering what I felt then. I focused on the rush of blood past my ears, the screech of metal and tires, and the banshee shriek that ripped from my mouth. I clawed at the ground, tearing and cracking my nails.
My body started trembling, and I felt my invigorated lungs inflate. My vision started to elongate, everything twisting together around a blindingly-white light in the far distance. I felt the ground give way under my stomach. My attackers noticed and started pushing me down harder.
"Where do you think you're going," Away from you assholes, "We ain't done with you, yet!"
But my body continued moving forward. The tunnel stretched further. My body quaked even harder, practically its own fault line. I slid a little further. It was working! I was breaking free!
I felt my cartilage expand between my bones. Sharp knives stabbed into them. I refused to stop, though. I pushed, and clawed, and held as fiercely as possible onto that feeling which threatened to tear me apart from within. A few men seemed to understand something wasn't right and let go. One of them wasn't quite so smart.
He gathered mucous from the back of his throat into his mouth, "Don't be pussies. He's just one circus freak! He can't-"
Time slowed down. The man's words turned to drawn-out wails in my ears. The trembling stopped. I shot forward like a lightning bolt, a cinderblock of weight pressing down on my shoulders. My body was still scraping against the ground, shredding my shirt in-between, peeling away layers of skin against gritty ground.
That time, I wasn't afraid of the tunnel. I sped straight through it without fear, but only because what laid behind me was far scarier.
Today, I still don't know how long I was moving for. I couldn't think, I couldn't breathe, and I only stopped when the fire spreading across my front became too much. My hitchhiker was not so lucky, being thrown up to twenty feet forward by momentum alone. I myself flopped and rolled like a pathetic rag doll, enduring new gashes cut across my body as I came to a gradual stop.
I opened my mouth, and stomach acid painted the ground in front of me. It pooled and splashed against my arms and legs. I probably would have commented on how gross it was, but the shock wore off right after the nausea. My torn, red stomach elicited a deafening shriek from my mouth.
I gawked, tears streaming. I raised myself on my knees, only able to look in idle revulsion at the searing-red streaks across my front. Looking at it probably made it worse, what with the exposed, raw meat beneath my skin and all. I forced my eyes to point directly straight in front of me so I wouldn't be tempted to vomit again.
Behind me, about three blocks back, a group of confused pedestrians huddled together around an empty sidewalk space. I still wasn't sure how I had done what I did at the time, but I was so damned happy I could do it (I think). Then, I looked ahead to my unwanted passenger. He lied prone on the ground, not even twitching. I didn't exactly want to stick around for when he got up.
The balls of my knees squished under my weight, hissing in protest, but I wasn't in the mood to listen. As long as I remained out in the open, nothing had changed. I was still in danger of going through this all over again.
Thus, on worn legs and sore muscles, I carried myself all the way back home - The normal way, of course.
XXX
As I sidled up the stone steps of my apartment building, I had never been happier to inhale the pungent stench produced when low-rent housing was offered to potheads; friendly, hilarious-as-fuck potheads. It stank like a skunk, but at least everyone was too stoned to bother their neighbors too much. Quite the blessing for a shirtless boy who looked like he had been mauled by a tiger.
I dashed inside. My mind raced with every step. There was a lot information to sift through and process. Every step sent a splinter of pain into my bones. The adrenaline had long worn-off. On the plus side, I was at least able to think more clearly again. Made for a good skill to have when you're trying to avoid being noticed.
My jacket thankfully survived the fracas. I was able to zip it up and pull my hood down, but there was nothing I could do about my sweat, heavy breathing, or limp. Forget Mutants - I was more afraid of being mistaken for a flasher.
By the way, Danny Coopers doesn't show anything for free.
Our apartment building was a little run-down, but we at least had a freight elevator. Its clicks and steely groans kept some residents awake at night. I had a dream about it once, actually. I was inside, falling to my death in the shaft, but was saved at the less second by Keanu Reeves. He said I was his best friend. He may have been joking. It was hard to tell with all of his one facial expression.
Despite this elevator being a screaming, metal death trap, residents - Americans that they are - still preferred it to the stairs. That left me a path completely clear. The walk upstairs was no cake...walk, but the privacy was worth it. I was free to drag myself without any fear of judgment all the way to the third floor.
From the stairway, my family's apartment was the second one on the right. On its door in faded tape read, 3C.
A thought stopped me as my hand wrapped around the knob; what if my Mom was home? She worked at a nursing home thirty minutes from us. I was normally home before she was, but I had lost a lot of time. I had no explanation for my appearance.
My wounds were positively throbbing, and it was only a matter of time before they got infected (assuming they hadn't been already). I had to clean them out, stat. At the same time, I couldn't afford to go to a hospital either. If I knew predictable asswipes the way I thought I did, they would have already called the cops. Hospitals would be on-alert for any teen from fifteen to eighteen matching my description.
I took my chances with Mom. A smack to the face seemed better than prison or, worse, a dissection table. I threw the door open and prepared for a mad dash to the bathroom. As long as Mom wasn't in the living room, I could get away without being noticed; make an excuse up later. That settled, I unlocked the door and walked inside.
All my worries were rendered moot points, however, because I had opened the door to still-silence.
"Mom," I called, voice no louder than a whimper. More confidently, in my normal volume, I asked, "Mom?"
No answer. I was in the clear. I let myself in and bolted all three locks Mom kept on the door. I searched around for the TV remote. I turned the TV on and raised the volume all the way to 50. The TV speakers drowned out the other, more disruptive background noises. For the first time since the incident, I let out the breath I had long been holding. I felt in that moment that I truly was safe.
It was more of a placebo, honestly. I knew that. Any S.W.A.T. or S.H.I.E.L.D. or whatever bullshit acronym could just drop a bomb on me and call it "collateral damage" regardless of whether I had all noise drowned out At the same time, there was relief to be found in the walls closed around me. I didn't feel any eyes probing me. I didn't hear any whispers scandalizing me. There was no prying, no cheap smiles, no solicitors; I felt secure.
The dam holding back my panicked thoughts finally let loose. As I made my way to the bathroom down the hall, I started thinking about everything I had been too preoccupied to let clutter my thoughts. It wasn't a lot, but it still felt like boiling salt in my brain.
What was going on, was the most prevalent question. It played on loop in my head. The answer was obvious, of course. I was a Mutant? No shit. That still explained nothing.
The real question was how I had done what I had done. I knew I could do it, obviously, but I couldn't figure out what "it" was.
Was I scared? No shame in admitting it. Why shouldn't I be? I was a Mutant in a country that found far more arbitrary reasons to hang, burn, and eviscerate their fellow man. Hell, they had already fired the first shot. The government funded millions towards building massive, Mutant-killing machines, Sentinels. Over a hundred had died in the attempted Mutant genocide before the Sentinel Initiative was called off. That was only four months ago, and the Sentinel Initiative was constantly among the rumbling chatter of Congress.
The U.S. government was shady as fuck. Who knew what the real story was? There could very well have been a black-ops task force locking me in their scopes. They could have already been orchestrating some Mutant-terrorist incident in which I was an instigator or perhaps a victim. It wouldn't have been the first time the U.S. covered-up sanctioned murders by blaming the other side. Plenty of governments did it. Nobody would ever know the truth. I would be dead, and that would have been the end of it. The simple thought made me start trembling again.
It was nothing to say of the people. No, the way I saw it, people were even worse. Militaries, governments, machines, they all adhered to at least some form of guideline. Even if their intent was to butcher you like humanoid cattle, there was some method or procedure. They stuck you in cells while they rhetorically debated philosophies of humanism and evolution for the cameras just to throw the kill-switch anyway. They stuck to patterns is my point.
"People"? They were the unpredictable ones. You never knew the depths of depravity they could reach in their efforts to torture you. They had always intimidated me the most. They still do.
Overall, I looked like someone had gotten crazy with a cheese grater. I stared at my reflection in the mirror's silvery surface and saw all I could see.
I could see that the skin above my left eye was completely scraped off. I could see my nose was bent rather unpleasantly. I could see that the swelling in my right eye had grown to resemble a small kumquat. I could see blood oozing from my ear canal. I could see the knicks and bruises that coated my entire body. And I could see my stomach, which started to remind me of red mold left to bake in the sun for a few days. Most of all, I could see how confused and terrified I was.
I was really fucking terrified. I had no real idea what it was I was going to do. The only course I could decide from my thoughts was that I had to clean-up, make myself look less conspicuous.
I threw the tattered rag hanging from my shoulders into the trash bin beside the toilet. I pulled the mirror back to open the medicine cabinet behind it. I grabbed the peroxide and bandages, and a towel hanging over the shower curtain. My backside found a relatively stable seat on the rim of the tub. I popped the cap off the peroxide, taking a deep breath.
Hence came the really sucky part.
I tipped the lip of the opening just below my neck. My body twitched as the fluid flowed down my front, tickling the areas between my chest hairs. I shut my eyes, swallowing deeply as the tongue of the liquid's flow snaked its way to my stomach. It tingled at first, sizzling and foaming as it first came in contact with my wound - more accurately, the bacteria already infesting it.
That tingle became a pinch; and that pinch, a faint burn. And from that faint burn erupted an excruciating pain so deep that it burrowed all the way to the nerves in my spine. I dropped the peroxide and gripped the bathtub for dear life as my body spasmed back and forward. I bit down hard on my white knuckles to avoid screaming. I didn't want my neighbors to hear. Potheads were private, but they would sic a noise complaint on your sorry ass.
I took deep breaths, in and out. I drummed my feet against the tiled floor. I did literally everything I could to focus on anything besides the burning. It did pass, eventually. My eyes were watering, but the foaming peroxide turned red and brown as bacteria cells died by the thousands.
After that, I stripped down and showered. I washed off all of the dirt and blood coating my features. I tried to let the tension slip away with the hot water down the drain, but I was never good with any kind of pain. Every movement exacerbated some gash or bruise. My thick, red bangs fell damp around my forehead, stinging my exposed scrape with lathered shampoo.
Drying afterwards proved even more of a hassle. I couldn't bend over without contorting my stomach. I wound up just leaving the lower half of my body wet. Let the water make my underwear damp. Who gives a shit? It wasn't like anyone would ever see them, I told myself.
I took the roll of gauze and started unwinding it. I shifted the roll around my back to my other hand, wrapping band after band around my torso. From my armpits to my waist, I was almost completely wrapped in (chafing) white gauze. I slapped on a large band-aid onto the scrape on my forehead.
I threw on a pair of jeans, a black-and-white striped polo, and my blue windbreaker before realizing I had exactly no ideas about what to do next. I ended up just sitting on the couch in front the TV. I wasn't all that interested in what was playing. I just needed a place to sit and really think, take stock of the situation.
No extra (or fewer) fingers. No weird scales or change in skin pigmentation. I looked like I went ten rounds with Chuck Norris, but still completely normal. I wasn't shooting optic beams or growing extra body hair. I was still me. Now, don't think I'm a racist or anything (I'm a Mutant after all; I can't be racist), but I expected Mutation to be more…"pronounced." Aside from my weird trick earlier, nobody would have been able to tell me apart from a normal person.
Except Sentinels, my melancholic mentality pointed out.
That really was what it all came down to, wasn't it? It didn't matter how well I hid; I'd been exposed by my own genes. Somewhere, somehow, somebody had already put an invisible tracker on me. Even if there were no ten-ton giant robots crashing through my ceiling, that didn't mean I was safe. This was only a momentary calm before the storm. I assured myself of it.
I was a bit paranoid. Nobody has ever given me reason not to be. I could have run away, but what did it matter? I would always be Mutant. I doubted that target was leaving my back anytime soon.
I buried my face in my hands, nails pulling through my bangs. "Christ," I said, exhaling deeply, "what am I going to do?"
That was when the TV announcer got my attention:
In Breaking News: Police are currently investigating an attempted kidnapping.
Attempted kidnapping?
My eyes shot wide open and glued to the screen. The sexy news woman in a low-cut dress gestured to a photo of a familiar, chubby boy displayed in the corner of the screen. My hand fumbled across the upholstery for the remote. I jammed my thumb into the Volume Up button and listened as my nightmare blared on the speakers.
Just earlier today, young Jimmy Palmer was almost carried off by an unknown assailant, but the kidnapping was prevented by the heroics of local neighborhood watch members. We go now to Tracy Morgan for live interview with one hero, Mr. Andrew Scott.
The scene cut to an on-site reporter, waving his microphone back and forth between himself and a nicely-dressed man in a suit. I recognized him as the guy who had been clinging onto me. He sported a large gash across his cheek from the landing of his brief flight.
"It wasn't anything special," He said, flashing a glowing, white smile. "It's just, I see this guy on the other side of the road, staring a this kid. I think he looks like a creep. Then, he starts running, and the boy didn't even notice what was happening. He just got yanked and snatched up!"
Tracy Morgan made an audible gasp for the camera. "It must have been horrifying to watch!"
"I did more than watch; I did what any self-respecting American should do and went after that crook! Lucky for me I wasn't alone, or he might've gotten away with lil' Jimmy."
The camera panned to the side where stood the chubby boy I saved in the comforting eyes of his mom. Tears ran mascara down her cheeks, but I distinctly noticed the vibrating brick she was hiding in her right hand. She sniffles and sobbed, choking to get the words out.
"I am so grateful to Andrew for saving my baby. It's nice to have a good man like him around. Please, just let me know how I can ever repay you." Her eyelashes fluttered, her tearful smile heating with a hint of passion.
The camera panned back to Andrew Scott, who smiled even wider. "Just doing my civic duty; something our so-called law enforcement seemed to have forgotten." the smile faded from his face, devolving into an angry scowl.
"What do you mean, Mr. Scott?"
The man threw his arms into the air. His voice boomed into the mic as it rose. "They're so busy cozying up to the politicians they refuse to address the real threat to our neighborhoods!"
"And what threat would that be?"
Andrew Scott hesitated. He gave a theatric pause, glancing back and forth between the ground and Tracy Morgan. He licked his lips, finally saying, "Now, I'm not sure if I should be saying this - I don't want to scare anyone - but when that creep was kidnapping Jamie Palmer, he teleported."
"Teleported, you said?"
"That's right. He came right out of nowhere. Just poof! Out of thin-air."
It wasn't teleportation, you ass.
"Are you saying you think this is a Mutant crime we're dealing with?"
"No if's, and's, or but's about it. Those genetic freaks are lurking in our neighborhood, wreaking havoc, but I don't plan to let them take it. These are our streets, after all. We don't pay taxes for the President to twiddle his secretary. We paid for action. Bring on the Sentinels!"
My hand squeezed down on the remote.
"This is a problem that's only going to get worse until someone grows the pair needed to do what they have to. At least when the machines were around, we didn't have to live in fear of these Muties corrupting the welfare of honest New Yorkers. They aren't even human, so why should we suffer them?"
My chest tightened. For a moment, I wasn't even in my living room anymore; I was in the middle of the street, looking up at my doom. I could see glowing, red eyes in a cold, metallic dome. He was stomping through the streets, carving print after print into the street pavement. It searched, scanned, and I could feel heat from its exhaust as it passed me by. I had shut my eyes, but I remembered the sound all too well.
A sticky slap and metal grating against stone. The iron boot lifts to reveal a paste of gore, bones, and fabric stretching between ground and sole. It looked like chewed watermelon bubblegum, but it reeked an invasive, suffocating odor. Like rotten eggs and shit had an ugly baby.
The news continued playing indifferently. The scene shifted back to the news anchor desk.
And I got my first piece of good news all-day.
Unfortunately, the Mutant kidnapper evaded arrest, and his whereabouts are unknown at this time.
My heart stopped in my chest. I couldn't even breathe, I couldn't believe it. Could this actually be happening? I tried to get my breathing under control, pacing with large, drawn-out inhalations and exhalations. I felt my head go foggy, and my body began shaking excitedly.
Police Captain John Stacy of the NYPD states that there are no suspects at this time. Nonetheless, he promises that measures will be taken to bring the kidnapper to justice and ensure the safety of New York citizens. For the time being, it is recommended that parents keep their child supervised at all times until such a time when the perpetrator is apprehended.
I was safe. As unbelievable as it was, I was safe.
Sure the anchorwoman put up a police sketch of me in my hoodie, but it could have easily been the Unabomber for all anyone else knew. All I had to do was replace my dirty jacket and I was scott-free. For once, the world was coming up Danny's way. I mean, yeah, people now think that hooded-me is a creep who kidnaps children, but I was fucking home-free!
"Yeah, baby!" I decided it was a worthy occasion for my patented "Happy Danny Dance."
The remote turned into a blur through the air on the first swing of my arms. It wasn't that it was "thrown." My hands weren't sweaty, and I was holding it tight. That remote "flew." It shattered into pieces against the wall. The TV muted. I stopped celebrating. There was still another problem to worry about, it seemed. I had to get that under control before I unwittingly outed myself (again).
I stared at the plastic pieces spread across the floor. Then, I turned to the hand that had held it. I flexed my fingers. I've never even deliberately broke something that badly.
As an experiment, I picked up a couch cushion. I shook it around, making sure there weren't bricks or boulders in it. Once I was satisfied it was an ordinary cushion, I turned toward the now-chipped wall. I threw the cushion as hard as I could, and it glided two inches before bouncing against the floor. Even the cushion sagged lower as if to say, "Is that it?"
Maybe if I tried again…
I grabbed another cushion. I measured my breaths more carefully and let my mind settle. I clenched my innards, clenched my fists, clenched everything. Onlookers would have seen me and thought my tight-knit face was constipated. I tried feeling that trembling again, urging those vibrations that rocked my body.
It started first as a twitch in my back, a reaction to static cling. It spread from the small point outward. A small vibration became smaller and more frequent. Rippling waves of energy ran beneath my skin from head to toe to the tips of my fingers. It traveled even into the cushion, vibrating it as violently as the rest of my body.
Clutching the velvet-red case, I pulled my arm back. A dull pop snapped through the room as the pillow split the air. There was no explosion. There was just a faint thud when it hit and another as it plopped to the ground. Long, paper-thin cracks sprouted in the center where the cushion struck the wall. If I squinted my eyes, I could see a faint indentation in the plaster.
My fingertips continued to tingle from the residual energy. They were still warm. They shook readily to repeat the gesture. If not for this enclosed space which, most importantly, did not belong to me, I would have dared to try it again. Instead, I started cleaning up. I put the cushions back on the couch, and I swept up the remote pieces.
It would probably be fine for Mom to think it just went missing. No harm done. Easy to blame it on Markus. Maybe-No, yeah, it's fine.
The news went on with other reports. It blared about an explosion involving Osborn-something-or-other. The guy was on the news as often as Tony Stark, so I didn't pay attention. I spent the evening dwelling on all that I had learned about my new powers, coping with the sudden changes in my life, and, most importantly, thinking up a decent story (re: believable lie) to tell my mother regarding my many, many grievous injuries.
As if on cue, a series of loud knocks pounded against the door.
"Danny, I'm home," Mom said, "Come open the door and help with the groceries!" Speak of the Devil.
I couldn't put it off any longer. A scared part of me wanted to just run away, to crawl out a window and vanish into parts unknown. Instead, I walked over to the door and undid all three locks.
I threw open the door, revealing a brunette in a red nurse's uniform. Holding her hand was a little, curly-haired boy in a blue jacket, nonchalantly suckling on his own sticky fingers.
Mom sighed, rushing in and placing several bags on the floor beside the entrance. "Thank God," She whined, "I had to pee. Between Markus and groceries and all that driving, I-" She trailed off.
The moment she raised her face to look at me, it froze. Her mouth twitched, stuck half-open. I enjoyed the peace while it lasted, because I believe this point was the rim of the storm's eye.
"It's not as bad as it looks," I lied.
"What happened to you?" Mom cradled my face in her hands, carefully caressing me, tracing her fingers around my cuts and bruises. I winced when she examined my nose. She drew away, breathless. "My baby…" She wrapped her arms around me and hugged me even more closely. "Oh, my poor baby. What happened?"
I didn't answer. I lowered my head against her shoulder and said nothing. All my excuses and lies evaporated with my confidence. I just couldn't think of anything to say.
Her smothering made me feel embarrassed, but, after the long day I had, it was surprisingly comforting. It would have been better if I didn't think so much. I always hated my habit of over-thinking. If I hadn't, I wouldn't have had that one thought that ruined everything.
I could never tell Mom what happened. I could probably never tell her what I was.
I sank into my mother's arms, more cold than before, and said nothing else.
Wowie-zowie! My first ever Marvel story! Christ, you have no idea how hard it was trying to find the right adjective that started with "R"!
I had to go to-like-THREE different websites to find the right one! Y'all better appreciate and recognize!
And enjoy, because, ultimately, I write this because I have only ever wanted people to enjoy it.
Bask in the glory of RiversAndStorms!
...Or don't, coz, serious time, I could use some help. Does anyone know a beta or someone with experience who can give me pointers? I've literally never published anything like this before!