A/N: Hello there, reader! Welcome to Oblivion 2.0. I say 2.0 as I had already posted five chapters of this fic but decided to rewrite it, for any new readers who may be unaware of this. So, when I first wrote this, Misfits was just starting its fifth and final series. But now it's all over and now rewriting this, it feels like I'm writing about a show from years ago. But yeah. Sadness. I hope you enjoy this fic, with my OC Lottie Ainsworth. Happy reading!

SOUNDTRACK FOR CHAPTER 1 CAN BE FOUND IN THE LAST CHAPTER

LOTTIE'S OUTFIT FOR CHAPTER 1 CAN BE FOUND ON POLYVORE, THE LINK IS ON MY PROFILE PAGE

Thanks to Solarian Sunbeam and To die upon a kiss for beta reading.

Chapter 1: We Should Be Dead

Warning: Contains anorexia, violence, swearing and drugs. But then again - this is Misfits.

My vision is blurred, mind delusional and clouded by vodka and pills. I don't understand what's going on, I realise there's a knife in my hand but I'm unaware as to how it got there. But my mind is unable to question that right now. I blink. I notice the sudden burst of colour greeting my eyes. Red. There's so much red; on my hands and streaked down my clothes. Then comes a second realisation, much worse than the first. The knife is gone. Lodged into something - no, someone! Someone's abdomen, around which there's all the red. The figure before me crumples to the ground, eyes shrouded in a mixture of shock, confusion and pain in an unblinking stare. They're dead. I killed them.

My body jerks into consciousness, eyes snapping open to the comforting sight of my bedroom. It's almost completely dark apart from a small area illuminated by the sun beaming in through the gap in the curtains, telling me that it's morning. I bury my head in a pillow for a few moments to recover from the dream that's left me in a cold sweat.

I get the same dream almost every night, a dream which shows one of the possibilities of what took place on that night. But the thing is, I can't remember. So my mind likes to compensate for that in the form of fuzzy nightmares.

After my undignified sob into my pillow, I roll over and tug the sheet off me, letting out a groan at the prospect of today. Today is my first day of community service. I've got two-hundred hours of picking up litter ahead of me, plus an ASBO and ankle tag for a crime I don't even remember committing: smashing up someone's windows. That's something that I would never even dream of doing whilst sober, I assure you.

Now - you're probably wondering why I'm dreaming of murder when all I committed was an act of vandalism. But it's a long story which I do not wish to recall right now, I need to go through today with a clear head.

I take a quick wash under the bipolar shower this crappy flat came with, its sorry excuse for a stream of water (more like a dribble, in my opinion) alternating between freezing cold and scalding hot without even a moment's notice. My neighbours must wonder why there's an abundance of cursing to be heard from my flat every morning. Well, I use the term cursing very loosely in comparison to the type of cursing you hear in these parts. I'm more of a fiddlesticks or ruddy heck kind of girl, but that's private school education for you.

Before I get dressed, I put on some underwear and sit down on the empty space of carpet in the centre of the living room to begin the five minute ritual which has somehow slipped itself into my morning routine. Each morning, I do a few exercises to keep myself in shape. Nothing too exhausting, just enough to help me shift some of this fat that shrouds my bones.

I like to do each exercise in a group of ten, each exercise has to be done the same amount of times as all the other exercises. But I don't always do ten of each exercise, I can do any number so long as it's a multiple of ten. It makes sense to me.

So I begin with ten sit-ups, followed by ten push-ups, ten squats, ten lunges (on each leg), ten jumping jacks and a plank for ten seconds. There, now I'm ready to start the day.

I spray on some deodorant, pin my hair out of my face and put on some basic make-up with a touch of eyeliner, elegantly flicked. Catching sight of myself in the mirror, I sigh. The reflection is far from what I'd like to see. The skin all over my body is pale, contrasting dramatically with my loosely curled, mahogany-dyed hair. My eyes cast over my chest, or lack thereof. If only I could afford some sort of procedure to have my thigh fat sucked out and placed on my chest.

I quit my navel-gazing and open up my wardrobe to pick out an outfit, soon settling on a lacy, white skirt, a red and white striped blouse and a simple pair of white ballet flats. With one parting look in the mirror, I leave the apartment, stomach churning partly out of fear, partly out of hunger from lack of breakfast. I try to convince myself I didn't have breakfast because I didn't have time.

Since my reluctant move into this neighbourhood full of concrete and chavs, I've noticed that I stick out like a sore thumb. The people you see frequenting the pavements around here wear Adidas tracksuits and are regulars on the Jeremy Kyle show, so unlike the small girl that I am; a virgin who likes to wear pretty skirts.

Don't think I moved here out of choice. I'm not a snob or anything, it's just I feel so out of place here. When my mother heard of my window smashing incident, she kicked me out (unsurprisingly). I have money in my bank but not enough to pay the rent for a nice flat and buy all the necessities, so this crappy estate on the other side of London was the best I could get. I can't wait for the day that I get a job somewhere nice when I finish my community service, though I doubt any employers will want the girl with the criminal record. The only advantage of living here is that the walk to community service is a mere five minutes.

The community centre overlooks a lake which in turn overlooks blocks of apartments, one of which I live in. I haven't seen the lake and the apartments from this angle before, looking at them all neatly lined up in the distance almost looks quite lovely, in an urban, bleak sort of way.

Too caught up in the scenery, I don't even notice the boy in an orange boiler suit leaning against the outside of the community centre, and I walk straight into him.

"The fuck you playin' at, man?" he demands, joint in hand.

Of all the people I walk into, it has to be the druggie gangster who looks like the most stereotypical miscreant you can imagine. He fits the part with a shaved head, snapback, bargain-basement "gold" jewellery and a face that looks like it's been chiselled into angry juts and sharp angles.

"N-nothing, sorry." I mumble.

"Do it again and I'll fuckin' snap you in half." the gangster adds, flecks of spit propelling from his mouth.

Fear strikes into my stomach and I feel the burn of sick at the back of my throat. Seeing this guy has only reaffirmed all my fears. These are the type of people I'm going to be spending two-hundred hours of my life with; unnecessarily threatening, cursing, spitting gangsters. I want to turn back, to run home and just lie in my bed forever. But I can't.

I meander my way around the boy and through the double doors, behind which a dark-skinned man with a stocky build is standing, clutching a clipboard.

The man furrows his brows. "Uh - can I help you?" he grunts. Is there some kind of law around here which prevents people from being polite? "If you want to use the community centre, it's not available right now. We've got some youth offenders doing their community service here until four."

Hold on - he doesn't think I'm here for community service. I don't know whether to be pleased I don't look like a thug or offended that I don't look tough enough to be capable of committing a crime.

"I'm Lottie Ainsworth, I am here for community service." I explain.

One of the man's eyebrows raises sardonically and I can see the hints of a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You?" he questions, eyeing me up and down disbelievingly before flipping through a few of the pages on his clipboard. "Ah, Lottie - of course. Here on account of vandalism."

All I do is nod with pursed lips, unsure of what else to do. I'm not really familiar with this whole procedure, whereas I can imagine that guy outside is.

The faint smirk on his lips vanishes, all traces of sarcasm and bemusement replaced with solemnity. "I'm Tony, your probation worker. The locker room is over there, find yourself a locker and an orange jumpsuit and be outside the front doors in ten minutes."

I do as he instructs, heading along the corridor and into a room with white-painted breeze block walls and a tiled floor with rows of tall, metal lockers in the centre. A bright burst of colour appears in my vision - a hideous orange. One of the lockers is half open, haphazardly stuffed with orange jumpsuits. I sift through the pile, pulling out one of the orange fashion disasters in a medium size.

As informed, I find myself a locker too. I notice there are five other kids wearing identical jumpsuits loitering around the room, my fellow criminals, I assume. I survey the room, taking a look around at the rather uncommunicative (for now) people I'll be involuntarily sharing the next few weeks with.

The gangster I spotted on the way in is adjusting the angle of his cap and shooting scowls of malice at everyone between narrowed eyes.

A gorgeous girl with skin the colour of milky coffee is admiring herself in the mirror, making sure everyone is getting a good view of her boobs while she plumps up her frizzy hair.

There's one more girl with so much make-up encircling her eyes that she looks like a cartoon – an unmistakable chav – who's scraping her limp, mousey hair back into a tight ponytail. Her hair is scraped back so tightly that I'm worried she's going to tear the skin clean off her scalp.

A fairly cute guy catches my eye. He has a full head of dark curls and large brown eyes to match. A spliff rests between his lips as he zips up his jumpsuit. Now, he doesn't seem too bad.

Another boy stands, tight-lipped, at the back of the locker room, almost unnoticeable, smoothing down his hair. His movements are rigid and uptight but somehow timid and small at the same time, and his eyes are fixed in a persistent stare which I have to admit sends a chill down my spine. I imagined that I'd be the more withdrawn member of the group but looking at this boy, I think I've been pipped to the post for that title.

I recognise the remaining boy from my frequent newspaper reading; Curtis Donovan, an Olympic destined athlete who ended up with a community service sentence for something involving drugs.

Once I finish analysing my fellow offenders, I quickly slip out of clothes and stab my limbs into the jumpsuit, zipping it up to just below my neck. The sleeves and legs of the suit drape way past my hands and feet and the whole outfit hangs loosely on my figure. I head back to the clothing locker and exchange my medium for a small, the next size down. I can't help but rejoice when it fits me perfectly.

"Hurry up! I want you all outside now!" the probation worker orders.

There's a collective sigh and a plethora of eye rolling as we all make a grudging beeline towards the front doors. The metal railings out here act as a barricade, skirting along the edge of the lake which is sparkling in the sunlight, this type of weather being a rarity for London.

The five ahead of me prop themselves up on the railings, an equally blank and bored expression on each of their faces. I promptly make my way over to the end of the huddle and stand next to the gorgeous girl with the frizzy hair. The quiet boy tags on the end of the line, next to me.

"This is it. This is your chance to do something positive," the probationer worker begins. I bet he regurgitates the same lame speech each time he gets a new bunch of offenders. As if any of these lot are paying a scrap of attention, they'll just do their community service, go back to their lives, then re-offend and end up back in community service again. "That's what community service is all about. There are people out there who think you're scum. You have the opportunity to prove them wrong."

The pretty boy with the curls chimes in with an Irish accent that virtually screams cheeky, "Yeah, but what if they're right?" he says, placing a hand on the shoulder of the gangster, who doesn't look too appreciative to say the least. "I mean, no offence, but I'm thinkin' some people are just born criminals." he finishes, gesturing towards the boy who seems to be getting more riled by the minute.

"You lookin' to get stabbed?" The gangster juts his chin out aggressively.

"You see my point there!"

There's the sound of a phone ringing and the frizzy-haired girl immediately fishes her phone out her pocket and answers the call with a nonchalant, "Hey."

"It doesn't matter what you've done in the past," the probation worker continues in an attempt to resume his speech, all the while being disturbed by this girl's phone call. "Hey! Excuse me! Hello! I'm still talking here!"

"What? I thought you'd finished!" she replies, still making no effort to end the conversation.

"Do you see my lips still moving? That means I'm still talking!"

"Yeah, but you could've been yawnin'... or chewing," the boy with the curls drawls with a smug smirk plastered across his face.

"End the call! Hang up!" Tony barks.

The frizzy haired girl rolls her eyes and concludes her conversation, casually playing with a strand of light brown hair between her fingers, not in the least fazed.

"Y'alright there, weird kid?" the Irish boy taunts, addressing the quiet boy to my left, who looks quite wounded by that comment. "How about you...?" he pauses, struggling to find me a nickname. "Are you sure you're even supposed to be here?" he flashes me a sickly grin. "The book club doesn't start until five, y'know." I withdraw my earlier comments about finding him attractive. I admit, he is cute, so long as he doesn't open his smug mouth. Why does everybody think I look incapable of committing a crime?

I opt to keep my mouth firmly shut until the Irish boy turns his attention back to the gangster, mockingly blowing him a kiss. The only response he receives is some sort of threat involving ripping and shitting. Bloody charming.

"I shouldn't be here, man." Curtis mutters below all the hubbub.

"Look, we need to work as a team here!" the probation worker declares. Nonetheless, the gangster and the Irish boy don't seem to be paying much attention, they both look more focused on throwing punches. "Hey! That's enough!"

"Can I move to a different group? This isn't gonna work for me." Curtis announces to Tony, as good as looking down his nose at all of us. I don't want to be hypocritical, since I'm feeling almost exactly the same, but the way Curtis says it is in an I-was-an-Olympic-athlete-so-I'm-above-all-of-this manner, whereas my unwillingness to be here is in more of an I'm-absolutely-petrified-of-all-of-you-especially-that-guy-in-the-snapback manner.

"Erm, wot makes ya fink that ya better than os?" the chav says in an accent so thick and hard to understand that I can't help a snigger escaping my lips. She turns to me and glares, "Oi, wot d'ya fink ya laughin' at?" I raise my hands up defensively in response.

"Yeah, what is that accent?" the Irish boy jeers, dodging the gangster's fist which narrowly misses his face.

"Is that for real?" questions Curtis.

"Erm, ya tryin' to say somefin' then, ya?" the chav snaps back at us, although I have absolutely no idea if what she just came out her mouth were words or unidentifiable sounds.

"That's just a noise! Are we supposed to be able to understand her?" the Irish boy continues, having the same language barrier problem as me.

"Do ya understand that?" And with that, the chav makes an obscene gesture with her finger before folding her arms across her chest with a pout.

The Irish boy doesn't cease to mock though, "I think she likes me!" he grins, an arm around the gangster's shoulder. The gangster proceeds to grab the Irish boy by the collar of his overalls before he has to be wrenched away by the probation worker, still shouting abuse while Irish takes the piss. I can't help but wonder if the rest of community service will be this eventful.

We all dawdle down the river bank, cans of paint in hand, having just been forced to do one of those meaningless introduction exercises where you say your name and one fact about yourself. You can probably guess that it didn't go to plan. (The gangster, or Gary as we now know him as, stated another threat rather than a fact.)

Eventually, we reach a row of four benches, all lined up a few feet from the river. I stake my claim on the bench at the very end of the row, the quiet boy - Simon - and Gary take the bench next to mine, the Irish boy - Nathan - and the chav - Kelly - take the next bench and the remaining bench is taken by Curtis and the frizzy-haired girl - Alisha.

This task doesn't seem so hard for me, in fact, as I begin to ever so carefully stroke white paint onto the wood, I find myself enjoying it. It's quite soothing, each brushstroke almost mesmeric, surfacing memories of art projects many summers ago.

That is, until Gary growls, "Man, there's paint on my cap! This is bullshit!" followed by a clatter as he kicks over a can of paint into the lake, white splattering across the pavement. He stalks off - to go back to the community centre for a sulk, no doubt - giving a stray shopping trolley a feeble push that sets off sniggers. I can't believe I thought he was so tough at first, looks like he's all bark and no bite.

Everyone falls into conversation, Alisha evidently flirting with Curtis, leaning over the bench at just the right angle so half her breasts are visible should Curtis' eyes be wandering where they shouldn't.

I glimpse over at Simon, knees tucked in close to his chest, one arm wrapped around them while the other gingerly paints.

"Mind if I join you?" I ask now there's a vacancy at his bench.

Simon's mouth opens slightly, as if shocked to have someone address him with respect for the first time today.

"Yes - I mean no. No, I don't mind." he sputters after a lengthy pause. I thought I was a little under-confident, but Simon is painfully shy.

I pick up my can of paint and reposition myself at the front of Simon's bench, with my back facing the lake. I feel like I should break the ice, make some small talk, since everyone else is, but I'm no conversationalist and getting a full sentence out of him would be like trying to get blood from a stone.

I decide it's worth at least a try. "What did you get done for?"

One of the corners of his mouth twitches and he blinks a few times, staring intensely into the bench despite having halted his painting. "I-"

"What about you, weird kid?" Nathan breaks in just as Simon had begun to form a word. "Don't take this the wrong way or anythin', but you look like a panty sniffer." he says, proceeding to mime sniffing a pair of pants, in case we're unaware of what a panty sniffer is.

"I'm not a panty sniffer." Simon mumbles, in a tone which isn't all that convincing. "I'm not a pervert." he insists, trying to return to his painting.

Nathan continues this parade of stupidity, holding a paintbrush at crotch level and jerking it back and forth in a wanking motion and gyrating, grunting all the while. He keeps at it for another few seconds, jerking getting faster and grunting growing louder, Simon becoming increasingly uncomfortable and desperately trying to ignore the crude mime. He needs to grow a backbone, it's arrogant twats like Nathan who are in their prime when meeting guys like Simon.

"Shut up!" I yell as Nathan is mid-wank.

He lowers the paintbrush and falls silent, in fact, so does everyone else.

"Alright, calm down, I'll leave your boyfriend alone," he smirks. I'm just about to retaliate with the fact that Simon is in no way my boyfriend, when Nathan decides to interrogate me instead. "So, what did you get done for? Let me guess, you didn't return your library book on time? Or did ya steal a Shakespeare novel from Waterstone's?"

I want to point out that Shakespeare wrote plays, not novels, but that would only reinforce the idea of me being unable to break the law. Instead, I tell him the truth. "I got high and smashed in someone's windows."

The way I delivered that made it sound like recreational drug use and vandalism are my hobbies, which they're most certainly not, but it's worth it to see the taken aback look on Nathan's face.

"Really?" he challenges, a skeptical eyebrow raised. "I like your style."

I throw him a dirty look and return to the task at hand.

It's a few moments until someone - or rather, something - breaks the silence. A loud grumble sounds out from the sky, I crane my neck around to see that a vast, black cloud has appeared, replacing the sunny, blue sky that was present only moments ago. That's the unpredictability of British weather for you, although I've never seen the sky make such a quick transition from duck egg blue to slate grey.

"What is going on with this weather?" Nathan questions.

Before any of us have time to string together a reply, the probation worker comes storming (no pun intended) across the pavement, face in the screwed-up expression it always seems to be stuck in. "How'd that happen?" he asks, nodding towards the puddle of white paint. "I mean, you've been here five minutes. It's painting benches. You tell me, because I've got no idea."

And that's when it all started.

Without warning, a chunk of ice like a gigantic hailstone plummets seemingly out of nowhere, and obliterates most of the car behind Tony. Either the huge impact the ice created when pulverising the car or the sheer shock of the collision causes me to stumble over onto my back with a shriek.

Around me there are screeches and cries of "Jesus!" and "What the hell was that?" and "What's going on?", while Simon skitters backwards on his knees, dropping his paintbrush.

"That's my car," the probation worker mumbles over the blaring of the car alarm, like a child whose sandcastle has just been kicked over.

"Classic!" Nathan snickers. I have no idea what is 'classic' about someone's car being destroyed by a freakishly large hailstone, but then again, this is Nathan we're talking about, the same Nathan who finds acts of vandalism and drug abuse impressive. The smirk is soon wiped clean off his face when a second slab of ice plunges into the lake with an almighty splash. No sooner have I just stood up on my feet when I'm knocked off them again, unprepared for the second blow. "Okay, so I'm a little bit freaked out!" he admits.

"What is that?" Alisha cries, pointing to the swelling black cloud, descending upon us. I've never seen anything like it, this kind of weather is the stuff of apocalypses - now only the thought of the world nearing its demise is crossing my mind.

A third hailstone lands in a dumpster, sending it tumbling to the ground only inches from Simon and I. I back away as fast as my legs will allow, but Simon fumbles around in his pocket to retrieve his phone.

"Right, everyone inside – move, move!" Tony urges.

We all do as he says without hesitation, and as we career off towards the community centre which seems so far away, lumps of ice are showering down all around us. I briefly look back to see that the place where we were standing only moments ago has been almost completely obliterated by the huge hailstones propelling themselves from the sky. Simon seems more intent on recording all this, clutching onto his phone like he values it more dearly than his life. In the words of Ron Weasley, he needs to sort out his priorities. If he trips over because of that damn phone, I'm not going back to save him.

My throat is raw from all the screaming and rapid breaths I've been taking to stop my lungs from burning so much. My heart is beating so hard I can feel each separate beat pulsating throughout my entire body, my legs ache so much but I refuse to stop - a moment's pause is all it takes for one of these hailstones to crush me into the pavement.

I bound up the steps to the community centre, bringing up the rear. Curtis immediately lunges for the door, tugging at the handles but they won't open. The probation worker scrabbles around with his keys, trying to find the right one whilst the black cloud continues to swell, glass smashes and paving slabs snap in half like twigs.

"Open the door!" Nathan presses.

"What is 'appenin'?" Kelly demands, shielding her head with her hands. "What is 'appenin'?"

"Open the door!" Curtis repeats, more loudly.

"OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!" Alisha screeches at him.

Tony stops scrambling with the keys and turns on his heel, advancing on her, "Don't speak to me like that!" he shouts, teeth bared and fists balled in frustration.

Before Tony even has a chance to try to open the door again, everything is eclipsed in complete darkness and my body is propelled off of the step and hurled backwards into the air. A bolt of lightning strikes me in the core of my stomach, the flash of it so bright I wince and screw up my eyes. As the bolt strikes, I feel a strong tingling sensation spread from my stomach, throughout my whole body and seep into the very marrow of my bones.

My back smacks into the pavement, I open my eyes and the darkness has lifted. My body is throbbing with electricity. It takes my pulsing head a few seconds to realise what just happened. I just got struck in the stomach by lightning. Why aren't I dead?

"I feel really weird." Kelly says.

"That'll be the lightning." Curtis replies, I see his sarcasm is still in tact.

"We should be dead." Simon murmurs. He's right. I remember we had a whole Physics lesson covering this topic, the fact that on average, a lightning bolt carries 300kV of energy - a figure not even the human body can handle. And if I'm not dead, then why haven't my blood vessels burst? Why am I not in cardiac arrest? Where are the third degree burns?

I slowly sat up and saw that the other six - probation worker included - were also relatively unscathed. There was something too strange beyond belief about that storm, something unexplainable.

"Hey there!" Nathan snaps his fingers to grab the probation worker's attention. "A little reassurance might be nice, 'You're fine!' 'Lookin' good!'"

Tony doesn't look the picture of health either, to be frank.

"Wa-wanker." he moans out of the side of his lopsided mouth, looking more like he's suffered a stroke of some sort with his head lolling around as if there's not a bone in his neck. I frown and raise a hand to my aching forehead.

"Did he just call me a wanker?" Nathan questions, astonished. "Hey! Hello?"

"Is everyone alright?" the probation worker asks through drawn out pants, in the most unconcerned voice.

"We could have died, you dick." Alisha spits.

"Are you alright? Ya actin' like a freak." Kelly asks, obviously noticing the strange, uncontrollable grunting noises he's making.

"Maybe we should call it a day." he declares with another twitch of his head.

Simon pulls himself up and shakily wipes his palms on the front of his overalls, shuffling his feet a few times. He offers me a slightly clammy hand to help me up, to which I gratefully accept.

We all trudge back to the locker room and as we get dressed, the silence is somehow even quieter than when we came in.

"Can we just go then? Where's the probation worker?" Curtis asks. I shrug in response. How should I know?

"I think there's something wrong with him," Simon frowns, glancing over his shoulder. "It's like he was having a spasm."

"He was probably just fakin' it," Nathan scoffs, lazily leaning up against the vending machine. "Tryin' to get some compensation, cheap bastard." In all honesty, that sounds more like a stunt that Nathan would try to pull.

"I don't think he was faking it." Simon persists, only giving Nathan bait.

He leans in close to Simon so their faces are just a few uncomfortable inches away from each other. "You'd know all about bein' mental." he pronounces that word in such a way that he makes it sound like the most disgusting thing a person is capable of being. "W-w-wanker!" Nathan shouts as he jerks his head about in an uncanny impersonation of the probation worker. I have to stuff my hands into the pockets of my skirt just to stop myself from slapping him.

"We waiting for something?" Alisha strolls out the locker room and asks.

"Probation worker." Curtis replies.

"I'm not hanging around for that dickhead." Alisha states, before wheeling around and leaving.

The feeling's mutual. All I want to do now is retreat to my bed with a good book and shake off the peculiar tingling still present from the lightning. So, I turn on my heel and follow suit.

A/N: Hello. Me again. This is the part where I say a few things about the chapter and basically tell people not to do the silly things that Lottie does. I know for some people, such as myself, this can be very triggering and can encourage anorexic behaviours which is not something I want to encourage.

The only thing I have to say for this chapter really is that you should always eat breakfast, in fact, eating breakfast can aid weight loss as it speeds your metabolism and stops you from snacking on loads during the day. Breakfast is necessary to wake you up and keep you alert, without breakfast it can be harder to concentrate at work or at school and you can be more grouchy and irritable. And no one likes a grumpy sod, do they?

Thanks for reading, stay safe and happy,

Jennie x