The Runaway

"Find the X-Men. Get this to them. If you hold out any hope of saving the child, you must get this to them, Harper."

That was the last thing Harper's owner, Jack Roddy, told him before he'd died from a fast-moving malignant tumor. When the doctors had first given Roddy the news, he was already in Stage 4 pancreatic cancer. There wasn't much they could do. In the end, it had only taken six months for the cancer to claim his life. He had finally succumbed to it three weeks ago. Harper hadn't even waited for the body to get cold before sneaking out of the hospital in the small hours of the morning. He hadn't looked back, not once.

Still, Harper had barely escaped the fate that awaited him after Roddy's death: being sold yet again to a new owner that would undoubtedly abuse him just like the first two had. It had been a living hell for Harper. Roddy had been Harper's third owner, and he had been entirely different than the others, treating him kindly, gently. For the first time in his life, Harper had been treated as something other than a piece of property, subject to every sick whim of his human owners. He'd had four years with Roddy; the idea of returning to a life of slavery, of casual cruelty, filled Harper with gut-wrenching fear.

Harper had watched Roddy spend his last weeks alive racing the clock to complete the task he'd begun two years earlier, gathering together all the evidence he'd collected, evidence needed to stop the trafficking of people like Harper. Harper knew that not only had it cost Roddy every last dime he had, but his life, too. And he'd done it for Harper, and those like him. The very least Harper could do was fulfill Roddy's dying request, and the promise he himself had made to a child he'd never met.

Now, here he was, scared and alone in New Orleans, far from Corpus Christi, the place he'd called home since he was sixteen years old. Harper had walked, hitched the occasional ride, had even stowed away on a train once, but he'd had to forgo paid transportation. What money he had, he saved for food and water. He knew he had to start heading north, carefully following the map and compass that were among the few precious possessions he carried with him. Roddy had taught him how to use them, and without them, he would be lost, would have no hope of making it to New York.

Now, though, darkness had fallen, and Harper needed a place to shelter for the night. So far, he hadn't been able to find anywhere that was public enough to afford him some measure of safety from those who would prey on him, but private enough where he could sleep without attracting the attention of the local police. Before arriving in New Orleans, he'd bedded down in parks, bus stations and the like, but so far he'd had no luck finding something suitable. And homeless shelters were out; the risk was much too high that someone would discover what he really was. Despite his fatigue, the overwhelming bone-weariness he suffered, he kept walking.

Earlier, he'd encountered a group of gaudily-dressed women in the French Quarter, their faces done up in heavy makeup, hair teased high and seemingly impervious to the elements. They'd called merrily to him, commenting on his youth and stunning good-looks, offering him their companionship in terms that made him blush. They'd also confused him at first; despite their appearance, he knew that they were men. No amount of flowery perfume could disguise the telltale scent of testosterone that Harper's keen sense of smell had detected.

Still, they'd been sweet to him, had fussed over him, and for a while he'd even forgotten how lonely he was. One of them - she'd said her name was Evangeline - had taken a particular shine to him, had even offered him a bed for the night, no strings attached. Harper had been sorely tempted to accept. It had been a long time since someone had shown him any measure of kindness, and the chance for some companionship had almost overridden his innate fear and distrust of humans, even ones who were as marginalized as he was.

Harper was beginning to regret his decision not to take Evangeline up on her offer, especially considering that it was beginning to look like he wasn't going to find anywhere safe to sleep. He was sorely tempted to make his way back to the French Quarter and see if he could still beg a bed for the night from one of them, but had a hunch that they were long gone.

Suddenly, the realization that he'd missed an opportunity to spend a night free of fear and loneliness with some kindred spirits left Harper feeling particularly bereft. He shared a kind of kinship with the little group, had lived a life that wasn't that dissimilar from theirs: looked down upon by society, treated like a commodity, always at risk of casual violence from those who considered them disposable.

As Harper walked down the street, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window of a darkened restaurant. He was slender but well built, standing about five foot nine. His face was sharply angled, perfectly symmetrical. High arching brows framed a pair of emerald green eyes fringed with dark lashes. He had an old wool watch cap pulled down over a mop of wild chestnut hair, covering his large, sail-shaped ears. His long, thick tail was wrapped around his waist, hidden by the old pea-coat he wore. His jeans were split at the knees, dirty, tucked into a pair of clunky Doc Marten leather boots.

Despite his ragged appearance, people still stared at him. Harper was a mutant, designed to be beautiful, to be physically appealing, genetically altered and bred like some show animal to exacting specifications by a secretive group he knew only as the Society. It had been the only life he'd ever known. It was Roddy that had finally been the one to explain to Harper that what The Society had done to him and others like him was wrong. That they had to be stopped.

Harper felt the reassuring weight of the locket around his neck. Inside was a small thumb-drive containing all the information necessary to bring the Society down. But he couldn't do it, not on his own. He needed help. He needed to find the X-Men, and that was starting to look like an insurmountable task. Although Harper was quite intelligent, he was also quite naive. No one had ever bothered to teach him any real-life skills. He was like a babe in the woods, lacking the ability to function in the outside world. Especially in a world that simmered with hatred for mutants.

Lost in thought, Harper almost didn't notice that he was being followed. It wasn't that he'd heard them, or that he possessed some otherworldly second sight. Rather, it was because he was an empath; he could sense and interpret emotions - especially when they were broadcast directly at him - and project his own as well. He could even manipulate others' emotions to a lesser degree, a skill that had helped him survive over the years. This had been especially true in regards to his second owner, Mr. Carver, who'd had a violent and often unpredictable temper. Harper had used his empathy many times to calm the man down when he'd turned that dangerous temper on him.

And then there were his pheromones. Controlling them was a bit trickier. If he could stay calm and focused, he was able to produce specific pheromones that, like his empathy, could alter or enhance a person's mood. Unfortunately, because he was tired and stressed, he was unable to harness this power and use it to calm whoever it was who now stalked him.

Harper adjusted the straps on his backpack and picked up his pace. He could sense two, maybe three people behind him. Their emotions were frightening. He felt their cold, calculated hate, their cruel joy. They knew he was afraid, and they were enjoying it.

One of them whistled. "Hey. Hey hey hey!"

Harper took a deep breath and focused. Slowly, he turned to face them. He found himself confronting three young men, street thugs, murder in their eyes. He did his best to send out calming emotions, hoped his pheromones matched.

"Hey, pretty boy! You looking to party?" The biggest of the trio took a step toward Harper. There was an odd gleam in his eyes. Harper knew that look all too well, for he'd seen it many times before. It was lust, primal and ugly, and Harper's response to it was purely visceral, terror mingled with despair. He began to shake uncontrollably.

"Leave me alone," Harper whispered. He struggled not to succumb to his fear. "I don't have anything you want. I don't have anything at all."

The leader of the pack grinned. He looked Harper up and down, and actually licked his lips. "Oh, you got exactly what we want, pretty boy."

Harper felt a cold chill dance up his spine, and knew without a doubt that he was in real danger. He turned and ran. Usually, he was quite fast and agile, but tonight he was exhausted, panicked, and absolutely terrified by the intense emotions directed at him by his pursuers. They weren't just some random criminals seeking to rob him of his meagre belongings; they wanted to hurt him in every sick way possible.

For a moment, Harper thought he might actually get away, but he stumbled and fell. He'd almost made it back to his feet when he felt a hand on his collar, pulling him down. One of them tore his backpack off, while the other two began their merciless assault on his body. Everything became a blur after that as he was punched and kicked. Harper fought back as best he could, but he had never been taught how to defend himself. He had been bred to be passive, trained to submit to the will of humans, to cater to their every whim, no matter how capricious or cruel. That he struggled at all was unusual for someone like him. Resistance of any kind meant punishment, a lesson that Harper had never quite learned, and he'd suffered for it, time and time again.

Harper finally stopped fighting and curled up in the fetal position, his fingers laced over his head, hoping that by some act of grace his attackers would be satisfied with the beating they'd inflicted on him. But then he felt them start to pull at his jeans, and everything changed. Harper bared his sharp teeth at them and hissed. Impulsively, he yanked the cap from his head, exposing his large furry ears. The men stepped back away from him, stunned.

"Mutie!" one of them spat. "Dirty fucking mutant!"

Harper managed to get on all fours. He was bleeding from his nose, and more blood from a cut on his brow blinded his left eye. He swiped at it, trying to clear his vision. His ribs ached; it was difficult to take a deep breath. Slowly, painfully, he got to his feet.

"Go away," Harper growled. His tail whipped back and forth, and he advanced on his attackers, hands raised, sharp claws out and prominently displayed. "GO AWAY!" Something inside Harper, something long buried, bubbled to the surface: rage. He hit them with the full force of it.

It was enough. Harper's attackers turned and ran, shouting insults over their shoulders as they disappeared into the darkness. Harper took a deep breath and willed himself to stop shaking. He picked up his coat and watchcap and put them back on and, looking around, was surprised to find they hadn't taken his backpack. Harper would have hated losing it, although the few items in it were personal, worth nothing except to him: An old stuffed mouse, given to him by his mother. His sketchbook and cigar-box full of pencils. A tarnished penny that he'd found years before. A battered copy of To Kill A Mockingbird that Roddy had read to him and whose author he shared a name with. The scarf that a kindly woman had insisted he take when she'd found him shivering and soaked to the bone during a fierce downpour. A photograph of him and Roddy, taken on his 16th birthday, shortly after Roddy had bought him. The ticket stub from a midnight showing of Singin' in the Rain, the one and only movie he'd ever seen in an actual theater. A bag of marbles that he'd never played with, but whose varied colors and sizes fascinated him. His entire life, squirrelled away in a battered nylon backpack.

Sighing, Harper crossed the street and began walking again, heading north.