Okay, first chapter here. I imagine there will eventually be some sort of romance, because that's how things always end up, even if I try to avoid it... I'm just not sure who Shiloh would end up with. I'm hoping that will become more apparent as I get the characters more fleshed out and such. Do leave reviews, as what you have to say does help me figure things out, gives me a bit of direction, you know. I'm aware of the awkward tenses, as well - I switched around a bit and didn't realize it until later on. I'll fix that sooner or later (hopefully by tomorrow, but who knows).
This is, uh, my first foray into any sort of X-Men fanfiction, so I'm hoping it isn't terrible, and Shiloh doesn't come off too... Mary-Sue. If she does, I trust that you guys'll let me know, tell me what to change about her to fix that. And though I'd rather not, starting next chapter, I'm going to ask for five reviews before the next update. Tell me what you like. Tell me what you hate. Tell me who you want to see Shiloh with. Tell me what could be improved. Give me some feedback, folks.
Run, run, run. Can't get caught, can't go down now. Warnings flashing behind the thin veil of her eyelids every time she blinks, Shiloh pushes herself on, forcing herself to ignore just how much it feels like acid is pumping through her veins. She can hear her heartbeat thundering, the blood pulsing fast in her ears, so loud that even the slapping of her grungy black All-Stars slapping against the pavement is drowned out. What she's done to deserve the chase (aside from having tits, she'd wager that's a good portion of the reason), but she certainly isn't grateful for the feeling as her lungs ache and the muscles in her legs continue to burn. For roughly ten minutes now, she's been running – that bit was, she supposed, vaguely her fault. It hadn't seemed like a bad idea when she'd agreed to meet her best friend Dawn in this part of town with some nameless faceless stranger because what was the worst that could happen? Maybe the man chasing her was who she'd been meant to meet when she found Dawn, which was possible since she hadn't ever made it that far before someone had started giving chase, offering no reassuring words or shouts to let her know that he was anything other than dangerous, but she didn't think so. Dawn was too fragile, frightened, human, to spend time with someone so gruff. Shiloh was the most dangerous the frail little blonde got with her friends, and she didn't even know that. Either way, this had all started because she'd agreed to meet in a shit part of town, and had thought to take a shortcut through and even shittier part of town, the area filled with burnt-out skeletons of factories and old, long abandoned warehouses.
She can hear heavy footsteps picking up the pace behind her, and only just fights the urge to just give up now and curl in on herself, sobbing and waiting for the worst to be over. She pushes herself until she finally can't go anymore, until her legs finally give out beneath her and she collapses in the hollow shell of what looks like an old textiles factory. The gritty cement flooring scrapes at her knees through her thrift store blue jeans, cuts up her palms, makes her winces and gasp. She swears loudly, hears a chuckle that sounds just this side of completely nonthreatening and the crunch of rocks and dirt beneath heavy feet.
"Go 'head, sweetheart. Keep on runnin'; I kinda like the chase."
Shiloh's head snaps up at that, jaw set, eyes narrowed now that her would-be captor is in sight. Tall, taller than her 5'6" frame by a half foot, at the least; broad shouldered and thickly muscled, though the muscles are clearly the product of much work that hasn't been done in a couple of months – flab is starting to take place of the muscle at the man's belly; the eyes are dark, would be warm if it weren't for the situation, she imagines. She decides she doesn't like him, then and there; he looks like a family man who lost too much and turned out wrong as a result. This single glance has told her that it's now or never, tells her that if she doesn't take the chance now, she's dead and gone and violated. The confidence and sick amusement are rolling off the bastard in waves, she can practically see them, as well as feel them. It's easy enough to tell that he's not expecting anything strange from the five foot six girl with the deep brown hair and intense green eyes. She can't say that she blames him for that. She doesn't really look like much: standing at just barely 5'6", her hair a deep, glossy chocolate that falls to her shoulder blades in waves and green eyes that are just big enough in her face to lend the illusion of innocence. On top of that, she's slim, modestly curved – nothing that suggests any muscle mass or mutations.
In this moment, she finds that she is immensely grateful for that fact. Nobody sees her and thinks 'freak'; nobody sees her and thinks 'threat'. If they knew what she was – an electrokinetic with an empathic ability that is underdeveloped to the point where she's not sure if she's actually an empath or just particularly skilled at reading how people feel and empathizing with them, because she's always tried not to use her gifts. If the people in this podunk little shithole of a town she lives in knew what she was, she'd be pushed out, mocked and hurt. It's hard enough having to deal with hiding something she wasn't ashamed of – all of the repercussions of people finding out, the fact that people she's grown up with would probably be trying to have her killed or locked up… That hurt.
"Oh, you like the chase, huh? Like to feel like the predator to someone's prey? Make you feel like a man, a real one, huh?" she mocked, rolling her eyes as she pushed herself up to stand on somewhat shaky legs, pushing her lips into a pout. "Well, newsflash, sweetheart, you ain't the predator here. I was hoping to avoid this, but…" Using the more 'extreme' of her abilities was always a last resort – she was hoping that a bit of a show would make this guy chicken out, bail. She snaps, grins crookedly at the bright spark and crackle of electricity starting in her palm and racing out over her fingers, at the somewhat frightened look on the man's face. He clearly thinks this is a fluke or something, because he doesn't back away or run. Damn it. She snaps again, and this time, there's a brighter flash of light, a sharper crack accompanying the electricity as it arcs just above her fingers when she lifts her hand up to wriggle those fingers in a wave.
"Go on, sweetheart, I know you wanna run," she purrs, smirking. The snapping isn't the most intimidating way of showing off, but it is the simplest, no clapping or grand hand gestures, no extreme loss of temper, no overflow of emotions. None of those things are really necessary anyhow – she can just think about it and it's done. The hand motions she sometimes makes are fun, though, and she feels like it's much easier to direct the electricity if she can visualize it, watch it follow her arm. Electricity isn't really something that's easily controlled, she thinks, especially when you have only a vague control over it because you try to avoid the use of your powers. She doesn't want to be stuck in this town if people find out about her abilities, because then she'd be stuck somewhere where at least fifty percent of the population hated you, something like thirty-five percent wanted you dead, and the last fifteen had no problem with you, but no plans to speak up. So far, only her family knows about the abilities, and even then, they only know about the electricity, because she's convinced that the less they know, they safer they'll be.
"What, are you scared? Scared you're gonna get your ass zapped, by a little girl?" Okay, so she's just cleared nineteen at her last birthday, roughly two months ago, but she's still little in comparison, right? The brunette resists the urge to let out a sharp bark of laughter brought on by this strange bought of confidence. "It's okay if you are, you know. I totally understand, sweetheart." Her thought is punctuated by a loud crack of electricity as it dances at her fingertips. Really, she'd prefer not to use her 'powers', as her big brother Tristan called them, but since this guy has yet to turn tail and run, she figures she can assume there's no other way.
It's then that Shiloh hears a voice ringing clear in her mind, unfamiliar, male and vaguely European. (You don't have to do this, Miss Venturi). She freezes, resists the urge to spin around and search for the source of the voice, knows he must be close – or very powerful, if he's managed to get into her head from a large distance.
(Hate to break it to you, fella,), she thinks back at the voice, resisting the urge to roll her eyes, (but this if a bit of intimidation hasn't scared this guy off, pretty sure that I do have to do this). She feels stupid, thinking at a voice in her head, but she's always assumed that if there's someone like her, who can control electricity and feel what other people do, there'd have to be telepaths, or whatever it is that they're called. (Unless you've got a different plan, in which case, by all means, brainiac, take over). It's rude, she knows that, but she's a little bit on edge, cornered and forced into using her powers, and talking to a voice in her head all combined.
(Then do take a step back, please, Miss Venturi, and I'll be all too glad to step in).
Brow furrowed, unsure if the 'take a step back' was a literal thing or not, she does as told, looking confused as she does so. The electricity is still sparking at her fingertips, but now, even slightly calmer than before, she can hear more footsteps behind her now, feel vague bits of amusement and something like irritation as two new people step into her sight, one staying to her left and the other approaching the man who'd chased her down, speaking softly. He doesn't sound or look particularly threatening, so she can only assume he's using his telepathy to convince that goon to leave – thank fuck, honestly. When the newcomer returns, she gets a good look at him: about her height, give or take an inch, dark hair and brilliantly blue eyes. His counterpart is something like half a foot taller than the both of them, with short brown hair and eyes that she can't quite determine the colour of – he's definitely the one who's less than pleased to be here.
"Uh, thanks for getting rid of that asshole, but, uh… Who the hell are you two, exactly?"
The taller of the two looks amused, though he has the decency to hide his small smile when the other one turns to glare at him. "I am Charles Xavier; this is Erik Lensherr. We are… Like you, in a sense."
Shiloh snorts. "In a sense, alright." She turns her eyes to the taller one – Erik, she reminds herself – and quirks a brow. "So, he's telepathic, what can you do?" Normally, she'd probably be a little less rude, but tensions are still high – for her, at least – and dammit, 'saviours' or not, she knows nothing about these two but their names. She gets no verbal answer from him; she does, however, get a smirk and a darting of eyes towards a metal beam that goes from straight to crumpled and twisted in a matter of seconds. Half nodding, she grins. "Alright, alright. Neat trick there, buddy." A heavy sigh falls from her lips then, and she turns serious, pushing a hand through her hair nervously. "So, what exactly do you want from me? I figure it's safe to assume you want something, if you came all the way out here to save me."
Charles cracks a smile, one that she finds contagious enough that she actually has to fight the urge to smile herself. "Ah, yes, well… We are recruiting, I suppose you could say. There's a steadily growing group of those like us – currently, they're waiting on us to return, at our… Base. We'd be delighted if you would come with us."
It really is a difficult decision, she finds – much as she'd rather get the hell out of this town and away from everyone in it, there's her family to worry about, and schooling… Hell, she wasn't planning on going to college anyways. "We'll need to stop by my house, get some things, tell my parents I'm going."
Three hours later and she's packed everything she deemed necessary and anything with serious sentimental value, managing to fit it all into two duffel bags and small backpack that she has thrown over her shoulder. She's said her teary goodbyes, promised that she'll keep in touch, call when she has time, write if she can get the chance. Charles is nothing but charming – Shiloh's pretty sure he's the only reason her mother didn't make a big deal about her leaving, because if it had been Erik doing most of the talking, she'd probably have ended up chained to the beams on the back porch until those two were out of town.
"I've never been away from home," she admits quietly, once they're tucked away in the car Charles had clearly driven there, and have been in said car for a couple of hours. The car isn't even a rental – he's driven it all the way to California from wherever the hell this base of theirs is (apparently, it's CIA, lent to them, more or less, which she thinks is weird but doesn't bother to comment on). "At least not far. I went to summer camp in year seven, but that was only a couple of hours away."
From the driver's seat, Charles offers a somewhat comforting, "It isn't so bad, really. Most of the other mutants there, they're your age or thereabouts. You'll make friends – with Raven at the very least. She'll be thrilled there's another girl."
"Raven?"
"My… Sister." There's something about his tone that says they aren't really related, but it's easier to explain it that way. She nods, knowing he can see her in the rearview. "With you, that little group will finally be equal – girls have been outnumbered the whole time, and I've gotten a right earful about it every time Erik and I have left to go find more of us."
Chuckling, Shiloh pulls her knees up so she can sit cross-legged in her seat. "Ah, she's younger then." It's just a guess that she's hazarding, but she remembers giving Tristan hell when she was ten and he was sixteen, because all his friends were boys, and she just wanted to be able to talk to some of themso could he please get some female friends please, it's not like girls have cooties. "I was the same way with my brother," she explained with a grin, and she resisted the urge to let that grin widen when Erik grew irritated with her speaking. Clearly, he was a man of few words and wished that others were as well.
"You would be correct in those assumptions, my dear." For a moment, she's surprised, but then she remembers what Charles can do and simply shakes her head. It doesn't bother her, not yet, and she doesn't know if it ever actually will, because, truth be told, Charles kind of reminds her of Tristan – warm and caring and intelligent, though Tristan tried to pretend that he was nothing like that, tried to pretend he was hard and uncaring. It never worked.
She woke who knows how many hours later, the sun in her face through the window. She had no clue where they were, or how long they'd been driving now, but she did know that Charles was currently dozing in the passenger seat, leaving Erik to drive. After opening her mouth to speak, ask where they were, and only emitting a string of strange noises, she rubbed at her eyes, yawned widely, and tried again.
"Where are we? How much further?"
Erik didn't answer her at first, and she thought he was going to ignore her – wouldn't have been surprised by it, really. When he finally did answer, it startled her. "Another eight hours or so."
She assumed they'd been driving all night – Erik looks like he may have napped until Charles was too tired to continue driving himself, but had refused to wake anyone so he can sleep again. She rubbed at her eyes one more time, nodded to herself. "You tired? I can drive, if you want." When she got a gruff 'no' and a distrustful look in the rearview, she shrugged and settled more comfortably into her seat. "Whatever, your prerogative. Don't bother me any." It didn't really matter to her either way, now did it? She didn't even know where they were going – she'd just get them lost, add another four hours to their journey, or maybe more. Any snappy comebacks she'd made every time Erik made a comment about how long it had taken her to prepare to leave would have seemed far, far away if she did something to make him legitimately angry – she didn't want to see him anything more than irritated, not if she was on the receiving end of his wrath.