Alright, new fanfic time! Although it probably won't be as long a the last one. Actually..I can't promise that...yeah...

Wasnt gonna post this until the new YJ episode came out, but...*shrug*

Hey, fan art people. Just cause Commando is over doesn't mean I don't wanna see your fanart for it:D

My name is Quinn Mallory. I was born with black hair and green eyes. I am thirteen years old.

Three months ago, there was a fire in my apartment building. A girl two doors down from us got some pretty bad burns on her face and arms, an elderly man broke his arm running down the steps. But both of them healed and last time I heard, they're doing fine.

That day, three people died in the fire. Both my parents and my older sister. I miss them, so, so much.

I wish I could grieve openly in the company of a good friend or family member, so I could find some kind of closure. Move on, as much as someone who lost their parents can. but given the circumstances if I so much as whimper I'd be beaten to a bloody pulp...

After I escaped the building, some cops started asking me questions. Apparently, some things I said didn't match up. I was prosecuted, and a trial was set. I never sat before the judge, however, someone had petitioned for me to be declared legally insane.

After all, how messed up does a kid have to be to set fire to their apartemt when they know their family is trapped inside?

I didn't know my family was home. I love them, I'd never do anything to hurt them.

But...I think I did start the fire. At least, accidently.

You see, I'm what people call a meta-human, that's what the doctors tell me. Not sure how I got my powers, one day they are just...there. Pollution, maybe? A bad bit of beef that my mom ate when she was pregnant with me? Although, I can tell you one thing: the day I got my powers is the day my family was killed in the fire.

I'd had a bad day at school. Nobody liked me, and I didn't like anyone right back. I'm not always shy and quiet, in fact when I was at home I couldn't shut up. But whenever I stepped through the double doors of that miserable building I shut my mouth and keep it shut until I was safely back inside my apartment.

I go, or used to go, to one of those progressive schools in New York. The students were supposed to think of themselves as 'partners in learning.' The teachers were called by their first names, and we all sat in beanbag chairs instead of desks. The teachers and principal encouraged peace and harmony, but we still had a serious bullying problem.

Anyway, a stereotypical mean girl names Lindsey and her band of blonde-headed bimbos cornered me in the girl's bathroom. They knocked my stuff to the floor and threw my poetry book in the trash. I remembered feeling something spark in the pit of my stomach, but at the time I'd ignored it.

I waited until the other girls got bored and with me and left the bathroom before I fished my book out of the trash, gathered up my stuff, and got the heck out of there before any more tormentors showed up. I passed my math teacher, Zack, who took one look at me and said. "Bad vibes, dude."

I was furious. Everyone says you're supposed to get an adult when you're bullied, but at my school all you get is a frown and a lecture on how I'm messing up the groovy learning aura. I couldn't trust a single adult at school.

When I got to my apartment building the new doorman thought I was a hood because of my ripped clothes and wouldn't let me in. I explained who I was about five hundred different times, he told me to beat it or he'd call the cops on me. Luckily, a lady going in knew who I was and convinced him that, yes, I did live there, and, no, I wasn't a delinquent.

I stomped to my apartment, opening the door and throwing my stuff on the floor. I called to my parents, to see if they were home. I didn't know if they had to work late or not, I just knew I wanted to talk to someone, anyone. At that point I was prepared to settle for my sister Rebecca, even though we're different as night and day.

I never got an answer.

I walked into the kitchen for a snack and accidentally kicked over a can of gasoline my dad left out for the car, which wasn't an unusual occurrence. Dad always left his tools lying around the apartment, something that always infuriated my mother. In retrospect, I probably should've been paying attention to where I was going. If I had, maybe things would've turned out differently. At the time, i wasnt think about consequences, I just balled my hands into fists. I knew that I'd have to spend hours scrubbing the floor to get rid of the smell, and then get a nine-hour-long lecture from mom and dad. 'We can't afford...blah blah blah...' 'why can't you be more like your sister? Yadda-yadda...'

A spark.

It was tiny, little more than static buildup, but it was enough. The electric shock caught the wooden floor on fire and spread, fueled by the gasoline and the ridiculous amount of wooden objects in our home. The flames danced in front of my eyes, licking at the wallpaper and devouring our furniture. Heat rolled off the fire in waves, pushing me out the door.

I panicked, screaming for my mother and father and racing down the hallway and taking the stairs to get out of the building. I remember tripping about four or five times in the way down, smashing my chin against the steps. A fleeing mother actually stepped on me on the way down in an effort to get her and her baby to safety.

Next thing I know I'm crying out my family's names, burns all over my hands and face, standing outside with the other occupants of the building, not knowing that soon I'd be handcuffed and in the back of a police cruiser.

My name is Quinn Mallory. I was born with black hair and green eyes. I am thirteen years old.

For the past three months, ten days, seven hours, thirteen minutes, and thirty-seven seconds, I have been institutionalized in Arkham Asylum.

And I think someone is planning to kill me.

First chapter completed! You know, I really should be focusing on a huge project due next month but somehow I can not make myself care. :P

Random (yeah, I'm still doing this:D) Harm narrates his life. Harm talks like Harm is writing a story about Harm's life. JadeDragon220 finds this very odd. Harm frightens her...