AU. Plot twists. PURISTS BEWARE!

ALSO: SOME SWEARING.

I OWN NOTHING EXCEPT MJ AND ORGINAL HEAD CANONS.

'Nuff said.

Enjoy!

Prologue

In Which I Explain Myself

. . .

My name is Marilyn Jane Comett. Not Mary, not Jane, not Lynn, not Janie; don't even call me Marilyn.

Just call me MJ. Yeah, I know, but I don't like being called Marilyn, so there.

And my last name is pronounced Comm-et, like comet; not Come-it. I know, I know. Just, please get it right now that I've told you.

I am not a girly girl. I am not a cheerleader, part time model, or fashion major; I don't even shop at the mall. I don't paint my nails, don't get ninety dollar haircuts, and I don't say, 'OMFG' or, 'LMFAO' or even 'YOLO.' Frankly, I don't even know what any of those mean. And yes, that means that I don't really like hanging out with people my own age.

I have friends. I mean, girls from school that tag along after me when I go places, bugging me to call this guy because he likes me and he's 'like, soooo hot', or buy this thing, because it's 'soooo popular' right now.

In all honesty, if you tell me something is popular I will most likely walk the other way. The word is like gasoline on popcorn for me. Mushy, toxic, and just plain old repulsive.

Most seventeen year olds don't have the mental capacity for the kind of conversations I like to have. At least, not in my neighborhood. It's funny, sometimes. I can say stuff like, "Blonde girl with the pink streaks, I have noticed that your posterior is enlarging considerably after certain confectionary indulgences I have witnessed you consuming of late. For the sake of your self-entitled, 'sexy curves', please refrain from said confections in future, lest you fall into despair and begin inflicting semi deep wounds upon your wrists with a sharp lance," and they haven't the slightest idea what I just said. I could have been speaking Russian for all they care, and they couldn't understand me less...well, except maybe for Natasha. I like her; she doesn't talk as much.

And no. Cutting is not funny. Which is just my point.

But those girls keep following me, because (lucky me!) I'm the daughter of the richest guy in town. You know that guy who owns the huge mansion made of some kind of tan colored stone, and like a third of all Wall Street stock? Yeah, that's my house. That's my dad: Nathaniel Comett, investor extraordinaire.

And I'm the daughter he and my mother never wanted to have.

Oh yes, lucky me.

Sometimes, I'd just like to walk to my archery practice without being trailed by a bunch of teenage divas with lunatic fringe and overly dramatic eye makeup, ya know? We must be quite the sight: the dark, emo looking girl with a longbow and broadsword leading a pack of teenage girls texting their way to our destination; whereas I look like I'll kick the shit out of anyone who gets in my way.

Why?

Because by now you've guessed it: I'm a bit of a loner.

My parents don't like to be reminded I exist. They wanted to be the childless rich couple who host massive drunken orgies well into their eighties. Once upon a time, when I was little, complacent, and cute, they loved to show me off; a sort of coping mechanism I think, for the loss of that dream. But since I turned thirteen, and rebelled against the 'rich, uppity ways' of their lifestyle, they've shunned me like I was never born.

Only to insult, mock, or nag me do they even speak to me. I'm a straight A student, top of my class; but I am never satisfactory, because I live and breathe.

My response to this attitude? Oh, well pardon me for living.

With my mother, it's always about the clothes. "Why do you dress like that, it's pitiful," she says, stalking around in her Jimmy Choos and Vera Wang two piece suit, gems and metal hanging off every available extremity. "You look like a park ranger or something. And your hair is always in that skanky braid, with those annoying frayed bits falling into your eyes. Why do you always hide your eyes?"

My eyes. The one thing my parents really ever loved about me. I have these really weird, green eyes, like, bright green. Not electric like a crayon but like emerald green. They are pretty amazing. Yeah, that sounds full of myself, but they are. When people see them they stare, hard. It's really unnerving. Then I get the 'Oh my God, your eyes! Are they natural? Do you wear contacts?' So yeah, I like to hide them away. I dunno how to explain it; but knowing that my parents like them makes me want to deny them the privilege of seeing them on a daily basis. I know, petty, but still. It satisfies my craving for some sort of slight revenge.

As for her opinion of my skinny cargos, leather knee high boots, and dark blouses, well, I love them. They are comfortable, functional for what I do, and in my defense, even my 'friends' are 'totes jealous' of them, or something like that. My hair I always braid, because I hated my hair growing up and that hasn't really changed much. It's totally dense and annoying, really dark black and long. The 'frayed bits', as my mother so delicately put it, are angled bangs...not that she really cares, she just like to put emphasis on how I hide my eyes.

Also, when I'm at the shooting range I feel like Katniss Everdeen ...in fact, that is what the girls like to call me most often. 'Katniss' or Ms. Everdeen'. That, I don't mind, because Katniss is a total badass and although the Hunger Games sucked and she had to go through HELL and back, her life had the one thing mine doesn't: adventure.

Damn do I hate intercity life.

I love nature. My favorite place to go is the National Forest on the edge of the city; I think it's because of that my mom taunts me about the whole 'park ranger' thing. Both my parents hate the outdoors, and will pay any price, however exorbitant, to avoid it.

I, on the other hand, have been known to disappear into the wilderness with my pack, sword, bow and quiver, and not be seen or heard from for a week.

The first time I did that I was fifteen. My parents were fighting over some dumb summer home in Monte Carlo, and I got fed up. I took my gear and just booked it into the forest. I left my phone and iPod home.

When I came out of the forest six days later, happy, healthy and calm, the S.W.A.T team was waiting for me.

After that, my parents made me promise that if I wanted to ditch them, I would at least yell at them to let them know that before I left.

Not that they would hear me if I did. But they made me promise, so...

Nor would they give me permission to go. But that doesn't matter to me. They didn't give me permission to take archery lessons, or swordsmanship training, but I did it anyway. My father loves (oh my god, I just said loves) to tease me for being what he likes to call 'a medieval article', a 'weapon wielding sociopath', and a 'god damn weirdo'.

Thanks. Love you too dad. Love you too.

And for your information, I do NOT fit the clinical description of a sociopath. My dad did not take Psychology 151 and therefore does not know the definition of a sociopath, in its truest form. If anything, HE is a sociopath.

But we won't get into that.

As for 'god damn weirdo' and 'medieval article,' maybe I am. But my coaches don't think so, and neither did the rest of those in my fields when I took state for both archery and swordsmanship, against both male and female competitors twice my age. I may be a freak, but I'm a freak who can kill your ass in over a hundred different ways with either a bow or sword, take your pick.

Besides, what else can a girl do when she is emotionally frustrated from a life with two wealthy nitwits for parents?

Don't even say 'go shopping.'

So yes, maybe I was partially prepared for what happened to me that fall, skill wise. But it wasn't skill that I was going to have to worry about, where I was going.

Apparently my mental state would become my biggest problem. In a world where my skills would actually be useful outside of competition, the hardest thing I would have to fight would be myself.

And like much Katniss, the odds were definitely NOT in my favor.