Fandom: X-Men First Class
A/N: I'm uploading this now over working on everything else I have because 1) I've had the first five chapters written and ready on my laptop since last summer 2) there are only eight chapters for this story and 3) I really want to get this out for someone to read.
Disclaimer: X-Men does not nor will it ever belong to me. This is an idea sprouted from a seed planted at the end of the movie (how come all the girls left the group? What's up with that?)
A/N2: I've decided to include another scene to this chapter that shows more of my OC's background and character. The same will be done for the second chapter which is why I'm going to take it down and upload it again at another time. I apologize for my flimsiness and hope that while the beginning of this story is taking a bit of a back step, you'll still give it a chance. Thanks for reading!
Dear Reader
Chapter One
When I was young, I used to dream of a life of freedom. Of going to school, having a job I loved, a place of my own, and just being happy. As I got older, that dream quickly became lost amongst the toils of work, the conformity of society, and the lie I lived each day.
It was early fall in 1962 and the heat in California was hitting one of its many highs. Youngsters in the San Francisco area flocked to air conditioned Soda Shoppes and Burger Shacks in the hopes of a soda pop or milk shake that could hit just the right satisfying spot after a long day in school. Hours would be spent sitting in clusters around tables talking and laughing about anything and yet nothing at the same time.
Filling two tall glasses to the top with blended chocolate ice cream, Rosie was not one of those youngsters. With sticky fingers, the young woman reached into a silver refrigerator and retrieved a slim can of whipped cream.
"Order up, Casey!" One of the cooks yelled from the kitchen behind her.
"I heard you the first five times, Joe!" One of the waitresses retorted from across the shop. Rosie's lips quirked. This place had a few similarities to home.
After spraying on the whipped cream, Rosie dipped her fingers into the bucket of cherries, plucked two fruit from the stems, and plopped them attractively atop each thick spiral of cream. Picking up both glasses, the young woman focused on getting back to her table, pausing only when her boss' voice carried over the clamor of a full house and a belting jukebox.
"Your sister is calling again." He informed with an edge that conveyed she was soon going to get into trouble for personal calls…again.
"Bit busy, Boss," Rosie answered instead, ignoring the exasperated sigh and roll of the eyes her reply enticed. Finally placing the shakes at her table, Rosie pulled two straws and silver spoons from her apron, placed them alongside the glasses, and then rested her hands on her hips with a smile. "There you go, gentlemen. Two handmade shakes from yours truly. Is there anything else I can do for you?"
One of the men, a figure seemingly carved from rugged stone, chuckled unexpectedly and addressed his companion in a low rumble; "This has to be a joke, Charles."
His companion smiled in amusement. "Manners, Erik." He then turned on her the biggest blue eyes Rosie had ever seen and broadened his smile in a friendly manner. "We would like to have a moment of your time, Rosie, if that's all right."
Glancing between the two, Rosie's smile soon dwindled in her uncertainty. "I'm only here to serve, gentlemen, nothing more."
The larger of the two, Erik, sat straighter in his seat. "Then we will cut to the chase." With a flick of his fingers, the silverware in Rosie's apron tugged forward and flew to his hand.
What frightened the woman, however, was the painful tug on the skin of her bellybutton that caused her to stumble forward nearly falling into the man's lap. Punching his shoulder reflexively, Rosie frantically stepped back and stared at him in wonder. Charles, who had stopped just before drinking his shake, eyed the two curiously.
Placing a hand on her abdomen, Rosie quickly checked the rest of the shop, making sure no one else had seen her stumble.
"You can control metal." She breathed shakily.
As his big blue eyes roamed over her body, Charles questioned conversationally, "Do you have any piercings, Rosie?"
"Just the one," The woman muttered grudgingly, her dark eyes roving Erik's figure. Charles at least had the decency to look somewhat apologetic while Erik shrugged and took a sip from his shake.
"So may we have a moment of your time?"
She stood outside the Shoppe, watching the cars as they lazily passed by. Sometimes she caught glimpses of drivers through the windows. With every wide yawn she'd glimpse, every lazy scratch of the chin, or movement towards the car stereo she would wonder. 'Are you like me?'
When an impatient hand would slam against a steering wheel, blaring the horn and disrupting her near hypnotic state, she would vaguely dismiss, 'You're one of them.'
Her feet ached in such pain, needing to be relieved of weight after the long shift she worked. But she knew, if she rested for only a moment, she would not be getting up again that night.
"You all right, Rosie?" She recognized the voice of one of the cooks and inclined her neck to nod in his direction.
"Just waiting for my ride." She could hear the monotone of her voice and the hesitation on the cook's part after she spoke.
He was a large man, older by a couple of years and already married with three children. The low heels of his worn brown shoes scuffed against the sidewalk pavement as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders (which, in his household, he most likely did).
"Good night, Rosie." He bid as he plopped his floppy brown cap atop his head, beginning his nightly walk home.
He was a good man. Rosie shoved the guilt of giving him a cold shoulder back to the recesses of her mind. She had bigger things to worry about.
'How would you like to work with others like yourself?'
Like the insane proposition she'd been given during her shift earlier in the day by two men with such powers that both excited and terrified her.
The flash of headlights caught her attention as her brother's muddy pick-up turned the corner. But from the shadow in the cab cast by the headlights of the vehicle behind it, she could already tell the driver was not her brother.
Or this.
The truck slowed to a stop by the curb. The sound of shifting gears creaked over the running motor. Steeling herself, Rosie stepped off the sidewalk and opened the passenger door. A woman's face, pinched in barely contained anger, greeted her from behind the steering wheel. She figured after the four calls her sister had made to the Shoppe that day, she would be the one driving out to pick her up. Her siblings had all taken their turns, finding her place of work, surprising her at the end of her shift, trying to convince her to come back home. She guessed it was now time for the eldest of the six to give it a try.
Without a word, Rosie climbed inside. The frame of the pick-up groaned in protest of her added weight. The door slammed noisily shut and the woman began shifting gears again as Rosie reached for her seat belt.
Not a word was spoken between them for the first few blocks. Every bump, every creak, every shift in gears, pronounced the tension in the cab.
Sneaking glances at the driver, Rosie accounted each physical feature the woman had that differed from her own.
Long hair the color of honey combed back into a knot at the back of her head. Brown freckles caked across high cheek bones from long hours spent in the sun. A tightness in the corners of hazel brown eyes as they dutifully focused on the street. Veins visible along firm hands as long fingers curled around the stick shift like talons.
A large work coat covered the woman's small frame and strong shoulders, the stiff collar coming up just below a strong jaw. Pink lips cracked from slight dehydration-too much time focused on the children to sufficiently hydrate. A slim nose that had a narrow end.
So much of their father was in this woman, Celeste, her eldest sister.
If there was one sibling that she didn't want the company of that evening, it was Celeste.
"Who told you where I was?" Rosie broached, her gaze cast out the passenger window; her voice low and braced for the inevitable. Each time a sibling had found her, she'd gone through the trouble of switching jobs. It was beginning to grow tiresome.
"You think I can't find out where you're staying and working? Just because you think you're smart doesn't make everyone else stupid."
"Why are you here?" Rosie bit through the venom in her sister's voice.
"I'm taking you home."
Her blood ran cold and her hand clutched at the passenger door. "Mom and Dad haven't changed their minds."
"No. I'm taking you home and you're dropping this whole matter of living on your own. You've caused enough suffering as far as I'm concerned."
"If there's suffering, it's only because our family does not know how to break free from tradition. Our family doesn't know what it means to be free."
"They understand perfectly well what it means. It is you who does not know what it means to be caged."
"I have no intention of finding out." Rosie finished coldly.
Celeste stopped at a street light and stared long and hard at her younger sister.
She'd lost weight, she could tell. Living on minimum wage alone and in the city meant she must not be eating as much as she used to. Dark crescents under her eyes meant she wasn't getting much rest from stress, a poor place of living, or both. Her beautiful dark hair, which their mother used to comb and braid with pride, was oily from several nights without a wash and slicked back into a tight ponytail. Even in the dim lighting from the red light she could see the split ends draped over her shoulder. She didn't understand.
"All Mama ever wanted from you was assurance you would be there when she needed you."
Rosie scraped her fingers back along her scalp and groaned in exasperation.
"What she wants is for me to stay by her side forever! No job, no friends, no boyfriends or a future of any kind that doesn't involve waiting on her hand and foot. Celeste we all know what she wants. We all know the culture she was raised with." Exhaustion caught up with her as she slumped back into her seat, her eyes, glistening with tears of frustration, were wide in desperate need for Celeste to understand. "The youngest daughter lives for nothing more than to take care of her parents to their dying day. And as the youngest daughter, I refuse to accept that."
"But you had everything you needed, a roof over your head, food on your plate, a descent place to sleep, and you yourself said there was never a boy who caught your interest long enough for anything to happen."
Rosie shook her head, her hands grasped at air as if grasping for something to whack her sister upside the head with.
"I was empty inside. Living a life someone else wanted me to live. I wasn't happy!"
"Are you happy now?" Celeste's eyes became cold as she shrewdly assessed her sister's response. She'd reached the end of her rope in patience and trying to understand. And already she could see Rosie retreating into herself at the question. "Dios mío, Rosalinda, what is it going to take for you to just accept this?"
A horn blared behind them. The light had been green for awhile.
Muttering under her breath, Celeste began to work the stick shift, her arms jerking back and forth in her aggravation.
"Don't come for me again." Rosie uttered before quickly opening her door and jumping out of the truck.
Celeste called out to her, her voice stricken, then angry. But Rosie didn't want to talk anymore.
She ran.
Down an alleyway, back up a block, through another alleyway, then down a different street. Then she did what she'd been focusing all year on not doing.
She disappeared.