Theresa Cain was not happy.
Actually, that was a bit of an understatement. Not happy implied that whoever had aroused her fury had a halfway decent chance of surviving it. Murderously enraged might be more accurate. Seriously pissed off could work. Whatever you called it, Theresa was ready to commit murder- though in all fairness, it would have been in self-defense.
And okay, maybe she should have stayed out of it. Her opponents, a couple of drunk, thick-waisted lumberjack types, dwarfed her petite frame, and her bouncy black curls, veined with surprisingly little silver for a woman whose fifty-seventh birthday had been three months ago, barely reached the chin of the shortest of the Friends of Humanity thugs- to say nothing of the tactical issues revolving around fighting in a pencil skirt and bare feet. (She had, of course, shed her high heels at the mouth of the alleyway.)
While she had taken various self-defense classes over the years, she was outnumbered by the three men (she could expect little help from the groaning heap of bruises and orange-striped hair behind her) and her pepper spray was at home. Her only weapon was her small, black leather purse, containing Chap Stick, a checkbook, her cell phone, a small hand mirror, roughly seventy-five dollars in cash, credit cards, and gum. The three men, while absurdly drunk for six o'clock in the morning, had still retained enough mental faculties to recognize a mutant, drag him to one of the more secluded alleyways of Richmond, Virginia, and gag him so no one would hear him yelling as they beat the tar out of him. That put paid to the theory that they would be too drunk to put up a decent fight.
Despite the gag, the unfortunate mutant had managed a few pathetic grunts that Theresa had followed with difficulty to their source. She knew the back alleyways of Richmond better than most, but she had gotten a bit turned around. As a result, their victim was in truly pathetic shape by the time she arrived. His muffled, whimpering wheezes had given Theresa the initial spurt of rage necessary to spur her to kick off her shoes, launch herself across the alley, and punch one of the men (the largest, with a mutton-chop beard grossly ill-suited to his flabby face) smack in his jeering mouth. She had been so enraged she had not considered the possible ramifications of her actions.
Now, however, with bleeding knuckles, glass-pricked feet, and a group of three large, not-quite-sober, and decidedly irritated men closing in on her and her defendant, she was starting to get a little antsy.
This is a great way to start my morning.
Actually, her morning had started out pretty decently. She had gotten up at five, (as was her wont) with her grey tabby Hector curled up on her face (as was his wont.) She had showered, dressed, blow-dried her hair, applied the bare minimum of make-up, and taken coffee and a bagel out on the terrace, along with her daily copy of The New York Times. Surrounded by carefully cultivated window boxes and ivy trellises, she had perused the articles. The sun had not been up quite yet, the sky was swollen with gray-bellied clouds, and the sweltering summer heat of Richmond had yet to make an appearance. Her coffee was black, treacly, and tar-like- one of the disadvantages of working as a government-employed psychologist was that you got used to their standard-issue caffeine-in-a-cup-with-a-dash-of-water. She had read her newspaper carefully (dwelling longest on the front-page story, MUTANT HENRY MCCOY APPOINTED TO CABINET! FRIENDS OF HUMANITY STAGE PROTEST IN WASHINGTON!) before shoving Hector off her lap and starting the long walk to the subway station. There were very few people outside this early in the morning, so she had been enjoying the peace and considering a stop at Starbucks for some coffee with actual flavor when she had overhead laughter and the aforementioned agonized grunts from the back of a dilapidated Chinese restaurant.
"'The hell you doin', lady?" one of the men slurred he had an enormous pimple on the side of his nose. "You don' look like no mutant."
'You don't look like no mutant?' Who the hell taught this imbecile to speak? Aloud, she said, "I'm not a mutant. I'm just not letting you beat one up for no reason." She forced her tone to remain calm, almost conversational, despite the waves of fear and fury running through her entire body. She clenched her fists to stop her hands from shaking.
"We got a reason, bitch," Mutton Chops snarled at her, wiping blood off his chin. "We's showin' him freaks like him ain't wanted 'round here."
"I think he's got the lesson. You should go now." Even as she said that, she knew the men wouldn't leave. God damn it, she berated herself, why hadn't she called the police before coming down here? Oh, right. Because I'm an idiot.
"We ain't goin' no where," snapped the man with the pimple. She couldn't keep her eyes off it. Seriously, if that thing got any bigger it would start developing its own gravitational pull.
"Yeah," said the third, swaying slightly, the drunkest of the lot. "Weesh doink our shivic duty by protecting hupa- humatity- people."
"And you've done a fine job," she soothed. She was too old for this, dammit. And she was going to miss her train. "However, you might get in trouble if you continue. There are limits to what the police are willing to ignore." Sadly, not enough of them. Richmond was famous for it's mutant hate crimes, and equally famous for the ratio of unsolved mutant hate crimes- far too many to be written off as simple incompetence. First African Americans, now mutants- Richmond, Virginia, supporting bigotry and discrimination since 1781.
"Listen, boys. I think you should leave right now, before the police get here." She was bluffing, of course, but they couldn't know that, could they?"
"Sorry, lady," said the Pimple. "We ain't going nowhere."
'We ain't going nowhere?' Oh, for the love of-
"I realize you're drunk, but could you at least make an effort to speak English?" Pimple exchanged a confused glance with Mutton Chops, and while he was distracted, she brought her foot up hard between his legs.
He doubled over with a groan and she kneed him in the face, taking a sort of grim satisfaction in the crunch of his breaking nose. Mutton Chops came at her from the right and she slammed her heel into his kneecap and hit him over the head with her purse. Pimple collapsed at her feet, presumably unconscious, as Mutton Chops staggered backwards, toppling into a dumpster. She turned to face the drunkest one in time to get backhanded in the mouth hard enough to make her see stars.
The slap knocked her off her feet. She ended up sprawled on the ground beside the orange-haired mutant, up against the filthy brick wall of the alleyway. He looked up at her. Though his left eye was swollen shut, his right was pupil-less black, hazy with pain and fear. Sharp green teeth peeked over a dirty gray strip of cloth.
Mutton Chops was flailing around in the dumpster, his erratic motions occasionally sending rotted Lo Mein over the side. Hopefully, his shouted expletives would attract the attentions of a police officer.
Theresa rolled to the side to avoid a kick from the drunk one, aimed at her ribs. The floor beneath her was truly disgusting.
Damn, she thought, strangely lucidly for her current situation. This was my favorite skirt.
She managed to scramble to her feet. The drunk one was hissing expletives, only a few of which she could understand. She replied with the kind of suggestion fifty-seven-year-old women were not expected to know, much less utter, before trying to kick him in the groin- hey, it worked once, right? Unfortunately, this one was quicker- he leapt back, staggering drunkenly. Sensing an opportunity, Theresa leaned down, seizing a handful of cold, greasy noodles to fling in his face. He retreated with a yelp. Theresa looked around, spotted a half-rotted two-by-four against the wall opposite the mutant, and scooped it up. The drunk one had barely finished clawing moldy Lo Mein out of his hair when she hit him with a strike that would have made Babe Ruth proud. He collapsed beside Pimple.
Theresa barely had time to savor a moment of triumph before a dirty hand entangled itself in her hair and yanked backwards. Crying out in pain, she once again found herself on the floor of the alleyway.
"Mutie-loving bitch!" shouted Mutton Chops, and he drew back his leg to kick her. A split second before he made contact, a flare of violet light slammed into him, knocking him into the side of the Chinese restaurant. Dust plumed around him.
Theresa turned her head to the side so fast she got a crick in her neck. The mutant she had tried to rescue had staggered to his knees. His hands stretched out in front of him like he was warding someone away, or pleading benediction from the gods, or throwing purple lightning. Theresa suspected it was the latter-which probably said something about the wierdness of her life right there.
All she could think to ask was "Why didn't you do that earlier?"
The orange-haired mutant laughed hollowly. Under the blood, he was younger-looking than she'd thought he was- though it was hard to tell, with mutants. The laugh chilled her- he sounded like a forty-year-old veteran with bullet wounds that ached whenever it rained, not a nineteen-year-old kid. "Because if I'd used my mutant powers, without a normal person around to vouch for me, I would end up in jail for attacking the helpless FoH members."
Theresa winced. He was right, of course.
"In fact," the kid continued dully, "I'll probably go to jail anyway. Everyone knows FoH lawyers are the best, and I hear they work free of charge against muties."
Theresa glared. "First off, 'mutie' is a derogatory slur you will not utilize in my presence or in reference to yourself ever again. Secondly, I know that, which is why-" she scrambled across the alleyway and pulled her cell phone out of her purse- "I recorded the whole thing. Thirdly-" she cancelled the recording and saved it carefully, going so far as to e-mail it to her computer at home. "How old are you, kid?"
"I'm not a kid."
"Compared to me, anyone younger than thirty's a kid. How old are you?"
"Twenty-seven'" he said sullenly.
"Then you're too young to be cynical. Act your age."
The kid gave her a one-eyed glare, which had exactly zero effect on her. Racquella's glares had never worked either.
"If I'm too young to be cynical, you're too old to be brawling in back alleys. Why should I listen to you?" He demanded as she dialed 911.
She gave him her patented look as she explained the situation and location to the operator. "-just off Forty-Fifth and Van Buren… nah, they're not waking up any time soon… five minutes… good." She hung up.
"How about the fact that I just saved your life, hmm? You're welcome, by the way."
He had the grace to look embarrassed.
"Thank you very much, Ms…"
"No Ms., kid, just Theresa."
"Miss Theresa, then. Why exactly did you save me? You said earlier you're not a mutant…
"You think all humans are scum like these slime sacks?" Uh-oh. I need to nip this in the bud right now. "Be careful, kid. That way of thinking leads to a very long, slippery slope ending with genocide and a gay-looking purple cape."
That managed to startle a laugh from him- a real laugh, one that sounded happy as opposed to mocking.
"You're talking about Magneto, right? I heard they captured him. I also heard he was behind that mental thing last month- first all the mutants, then all the humans?"
Theresa nodded. "I heard that too- why mutants first, though?"
He shrugged. "No idea. Maybe it wasn't his idea? There are plenty of people who'd love to hurt mutants." He nodded at the three limp FoH members.
Theresa chewed her lip, considering. That sounded fairly likely- "I'd kill for a conversation with that guy, you know."
"Magneto? You'd kill for a conversation with Magneto? Exactly how hard did that guy hit you?"
"Ha ha ha. I'm a criminal psychologist. Talking to people who want to kill me is kind of my job. What's your name, kid?"
"Jason. Jason Fitzpatrick." He extended his hand to shake, offering her an impish grin. "Pleased to meet you, ma'am."
"Theresa."
"Yes ma'am."
She glared, but did not respond. There was a moment of silence, during which Theresa texted her boss that she was going to be late, and pulled out her mirror to take a look at her rapidly swelling bottom lip, before Jason asked "so where were you?"
"Care to get a little more specific, kid?"
"During that mental spike, last month," he clarified. "What were you doing?"
"Having hot chocolate with my niece, just before bed. Racquella's a mutant, so she went down first- one moment we were talking about her college and the next thing I knew she was on the ground, hot chocolate everywhere, screaming her head off…
Theresa shuddered at the memory. It had been the most terrifying moment of her life- even worse than being mentally assaulted herself. "It stopped in a minute, but I barely had time to feel relieved before…
"It hit you?"
"Yeah. Where were you?"
"In a coffee shop. There's one on Arbor Street that's friendly to mutants- when the manager's not working, anyway. One moment I'm getting my donut and half-caf, and next thing you know I'm flailing around on the ground. Not fun."
"Understatement of the century, kid."
Jason nodded emphatically. "What does your niece do?"
"She's a telepath. Completely involuntary, can't do a whole lot with it other than know what you're thinking and talk in your head, if she knows you well enough. I basically raised her- her parents kicked her out when she… ah…
"Came out?" Jason offered with a snigger.
"Yes, came out, when she was ten. Of course, she did it by revealing my brother's long-standing affair with his secretary over Mother's Day brunch, in front of her mother, my parents, and my brother Tommy's brother-in-law, who punched him in the face and flung him into the pool."
"Wow. Mine showed up when I was throwing a football. Dad was pretty understanding about the shed."
Theresa laughed. "In any case, she showed up on my doorstep three weeks later, and-"
The conversation was interrupted by the (late) arrival of the cops. Theresa gave her statement and offered the recording, submitted to a cursory medical examination, and made an appointment to talk with the sergeant on Tuesday. The police, while polite, were nonetheless obvious in their disapproval for her actions- though whether it was saving a mutant or interfering at all without calling them, it was difficult to say. As she scooped up her heels at the mouth of the alleyway, Jason caught up with her.
"Listen, ma'am," he said awkwardly, hands shoved in pockets, "I, uh, I need to thank you again. If you hadn't showed up…"
"Don't mention it, kid," Theresa said, grinning at his obvious discomfort. It was kind of cute, in a puppy-that-just-peed-on-the-carpet kind of way. "I'm always happy to help."
"Yeah, um, great. Thanks. Listen, um… if there's any way I can make it up to you…
"Really, kid. It wasn't any trouble."
He looked at her for a moment, then ran disbelieving eyes over her body. She followed his look, taking in her scratched and bruised legs, her torn skirt, encrusted with something she really hoped was dirt, and her wrinkled shirt, the collar covered in blood from her bleeding lip. She couldn't see her face, which was probably a good thing, but her hair hung in scraggly lumps around her head, and her lip had started to throb.
"Okay, maybe it was a little trouble."
"Ya think? Listen, at least let me buy you a coffee."
"Aren't I a little old for you, kid?"
He sputtered hilariously for several seconds. Theresa grinned. "I'd love a coffee, kid, but I've gotta clean up and get to work."
Jason finally stopped sputtering. "Saturday, then. Ten o'clock. Meet me outside the history museum- that's where I work."
"Racquella's in town this Saturday- d'you mind if I bring her?"
"Sure. I'd love to meet someone who could put up with you for eight years, if only to offer my condolences."
Theresa laughed, ruffled his orange hair, and began the long walk back to her apartment. She seriously needed a shower.