The first chapter is an introduction to my character, but I promise the next one will feature the mansion and all the characters you know and love. This is rated M for mature themes in the chapters to come, especially the unhealthy nature of the relationship between Danielle and Pyro, as well as coarse language and violence. It would hardly be a Pyro fic without them. Pyro will not be a mushy lovesick dope, so no worries. I believe in Pyro in his full badass, snarky glory. I hope you enjoy it!

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Danielle studied her reflection in the mirror. Her long white sheath dress was simple, but elegant. She marveled at the job the stylist had done on her dark curly hair, now hanging pin-straight to her collar bone. She moved to the dresser and took long white gloves from their box and carefully drew them up her arms. Her hands were shaking.

This was it--the cotillion, or debutantes' ball to the proletariat. This was her night to parade around in a beautiful dress on the arm of William Connell, her beautiful, on-again beau who was home from West Point. Things couldn't be better. Then why did she have this gnawing feeling that something awful was about to happen?

"Dear? Can I come in?" Her mother was knocking on the door. Danielle opened it to see her mother looking extremely elegant in a new burgundy Chanel number, holding a small white box in her hand. Danielle felt relieved. She looked sober.

The second her mother stepped into her room, Danielle knew otherwise. Her mother's steps were uneven. On the rare occasion that she was sober, her stride was measured. Danielle had thought that perhaps her mother might want remember tonight, or at least that she'd spare Danielle one night's embarrassment, but apparently not.

Danielle's mother was Lydia Osbourne, and she was what Danielle liked to think of as an occasional drunk. As in whenever there was an occasion—a birthday, a garden party, even a charity auction—she got sauced. Lydia Osbourne had once been Lydia Clark, a free spirited activist who fell in love with the heir of a New York fortune. She gave up who she was for love and became who she thought a rich man's wife should be. She donned the costume of a wealthy housewife, playing hostess and philanthropist with the wives of other wealthy men in the suburbs of New York. But somewhere along the line, Lydia snapped. For some reason, she couldn't do it anymore. So now when she had to play the part, she drank herself silly.

Danielle had pieced this together from old photographs and some stories from her father. Some of the story was her own imagination; a hope that her mother had a reason for what she was doing to her family. Danielle sighed and looked into her mother's beautiful face. Oh well, things could have been worse.

"You look stunning. William won't be able to keep his hands off you." Danielle felt herself flush as she wondered if normal mothers said things like that.

"I have a present for you. Your grandmother gave it to me on my cotillion. And now I'm giving it to you!" Her eyes gleamed with amusement and her hands were unsteady as she opened the small white bow. Inside was a diamond brooch in the shape of a flower.

"Thank you, Mother. It's lovely." She smiled tightly and tried not to think that a better present would have been sobriety. It really was a beautiful brooch.

"Let me pin it on you."

"No, that's alright. I can do it myself," Danielle said, keeping her voice calm. Her mother was in no condition to be wielding sharp objects.

"No, let me!"

"No, really, I can-"

"Please, I want to. Now hold still." Danielle swallowed hard and obediently stood still. Her mother's fingers fumbled with the clasp. Her hand shook suddenly and the needle pierced Danielle's pale skin. Danielle bit her lip hard and made no cry, but the mirror behind her suddenly shattered. She whipped around to see the tiny shards of it all over the white carpet. She turned back to her mother who was looking from Danielle to the mirror with large frightened eyes. A drunken hiccup broke the silence.

"Oh, my," her mother squeaked.

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The mall was packed a week before Christmas and Danielle was one of hundreds doing last-minute shopping. There were beautiful displays out for the holidays in every store—trees, snowflakes, gold everything—but she passed them all by. She had finally tracked down the perfect gift for her father and she was like a woman possessed.

She has located a rare edition of his favorite book, The Great Gatsby. He would love it. She and her father were very close and she had spent ages trying to come up with the perfect gift for him. She had just bought her mother some perfume. If she didn't like it, it wouldn't matter. Danielle's paternal grandparents would be there on Christmas ,meaning her mother would be too drunk to notice presents.

Perhaps this gift could bridge the gap that seemed to have formed between her and her father since her cotillion six months ago. Six months ago when the mirror incident had occurred. Six months ago when her mother had told her father Danielle was a mutant.

He hadn't been entirely convinced, but he was still scared.

That was the only incident he knew about. Danielle didn't tell him about the times at school when her pencil would burst in her hand or the times late at night when she went for a glass of water and the glass would shatter all over the kitchen floor. She would just clean it up, try not to cry, and empty the contents of her stomach into the nearest toilet.

Danielle didn't like crowds. She'd ordered most of her gifts online just to avoid them. Sometimes she could barely stand the parties her parents threw. She hated it when everyone was so close together. It made her feel like she couldn't breathe. She hated not having any room to move.

She was getting jostled on all sides. She was trying to make her way through the crowd in front of the toy store, parents trying to snag one of the store's limited supply of some new, hot toy, to the bookstore on the other side. The more she pushed, the more they pushed back. She was starting to panic. She hated small spaces. She tried to take deep breaths, but all she took in was the smell of sweat. People just kept getting closer and she could feel herself beginning to hyperventilate. She had to get out. She made one last desperate charge, but ran straight into a large, middle-aged man.

"Hey, my kid deserves this toy as much as yours, jerk." Danielle tried to say that she was sorry, but she felt like she couldn't breathe. She turned away from the man, now trying to get out any way she could.

"Hey, I'm talking to you. Hey!" He grabbed Danielle's shoulder hard and tried to whip her around. But the instant he made contact, her anxiety peaked. All of a sudden, Danielle felt a splatter of something warm and wet on her face and neck and all over her clothes. She looked down at her white button-up to find herself covered in blood. The man was holding his wrist, now just a bloody stump, and screaming. The crowd had stopped jostling. She took a look around her. Blood was everywhere. Everyone was staring at her.

Danielle considered herself a sensible girl, and in this situation, she saw only one sensible option: run like hell.