A/N: Annnnnd here it is again. Another rewrite of a rewrite because I've been having an ongoing existential crisis about my writing and ability to write. Here is the newest version of chapter 1 of 200 Hours, published in February 2021. I can't promise that this will be updated/rewritten with any sense of regularity because work and life have proved particularly exhausting in 2020, but I am trying to rediscover things I loved and regain the confidence in posting I used to have. It's not gonna be perfect, but hopefully it's good! Much love to everybody who has read this fic, those who have commented and encouraged me. I'm out here trying to do you (and myself) proud! 2021 goals: make that existential crisis a little less continual.


Disclaimer: I do not own Misfits. Any similarity in content and dialogue originated with the show and Howard Overman.

I was initially inspired to write this after reading the amazing fic 'Immaturity At Its Finest' by Persephone Price. You should definitely check it out.


Chapter 1 - Welcome Wagon


Why they called the building a 'community center' was far beyond her comprehension. As one was typically given to understand from such reliable sources as Wikipedia and after-school specials, community centers were charged with promoting such ideals as 'cooperation' and 'togetherness'. As abstract concepts, she had no idea what 'cooperation' and 'togetherness' were meant to look like. Probably brightly colored murals with sunflowers and children holding hands and shit. This place did have a mural, but the paint had streaked, replacing those cheerful kids with the manic grins of nightmare demon creatures and any sunflowers melted into a Salvador Dali-esque surrealist hellscape. No, the so-called 'community center' looked much like the rest of the Estate—a dirty, dingy sort of grey that no angle of sunlight could improve upon.

For those optimistic enough to think the interior would be any better, disappointment was in order. Laminate tiles peeled up at the corners, the 'mental institution white' walls were gouged and scuffed, and any furniture bore stains that could only belong to vomit, blood, or various other biohazard materials. Each light lining the hallways was just as likely to flicker ominously as it was to work, never mind the higher than average chance of getting stuck in a storage locker and left to mummify under the constant onslaught of a mildew-tainted draft. It wasn't like anyone else was around to hear the cries for help. Society had made a judgement call and abandoned ship. All in all, this building was dedicated to the community much in the same way that she was. Reluctantly and against its will.

Two hundred hours. Time to do the maths. That was twenty shifts of ten hours, twenty-five shifts of eight hours, forty shifts of five hours. No matter which way you sliced it, it all added up to a giant pile of shit. And she would rather shave off her own eyebrows than spend a minute, let alone six weeks, staring at this godforsaken building. Yet here she was, sun at her back, community center to her front, lined against a railing alongside six other disappointments to society, all basking in the shadow of their own poor life choices. A fucking buffet of petty crime.

Welcome to community service.

In her opinion, Isabelle McCallum did not belong on that railing in the first place. But in this, as in most things, society valued her opinion as jack shit. Was what she had done illegal? In the technical sense, yes. Yes, it was. But it bloody well had to be done, no? Her case was of the variety that built the term 'extenuating circumstances'. And had she turned on the waterworks, shown some cleavage, or simply, for a refreshing change of pace, opted to act like a moderately functional human being, she might have even gotten away with it. Sadly, this was not the case. Crying on command didn't rank among her mastered skills, her cleavage was not impressive enough to merit special treatment, and, surprising exactly nobody, when the cops picked her up her first instinct had been to run her mouth. Constable Reggie did not take kindly to being told to 'go home to his inflatable girlfriend'. Her social worker had always told her she had a problem with authority. Shockingly, this did not serve her well when interacting with the authorities.

Fuck it. There was no use dwelling on impulsive decisions and name-calling, whether or not it landed her in handcuffs. That concepts like 'justice' and 'right and wrong' had fuck all to do with the criminal justice system wasn't news to her. She wasn't that naive. And if the occasion called for it, she'd repeat every horribly misguided detail. But that didn't mean she had to be happy about the end result. And she certainly didn't have to put on a smile. Especially since her bright red hair, when set against that ghastly orange jumpsuit, made her look like a fucking carrot.

The sunglasses had been a good idea. As shadowy and overcast as the skies remained—a purplish sort of grey a few shades off from the color of her eyes—the light still hit her retinas with a harsh glare. On an average day the annoyance would rate as trivial, but this particular morning, what with last night's preparatory tequila shots, Izzy didn't find herself in the best position vis-a-vis light sensitivity and pounding headaches. Not to mention they gave the added benefit that the probation worker couldn't tell just how little attention was being paid behind the shades. He seemed the type to take her glazed eyes personally, and she lacked the patience to even pretend to listen to his speech.

The man stood between her fellow delinquents and the open maw of the community center, a welcome wagon inviting them to be gobbled whole. He cut a figure that managed to be simultaneously imposing and defeated—broad, squared shoulders that drooped, an intense gaze that barely hid his exasperation. The general vibe paired well with his speech—boilerplate encouragement inflected with disdain. The lips formed words like 'give back', 'make a difference', and assorted bullshit platitudes while the voice dripped with overtones of 'you're all a bunch of scum who should be euthanized'. Par for the course. She and the probation worker—Timmy? Tommy?—had shown up that morning for the same reason. Neither of them bloody well had a choice. And once their hours were up they would both disappear never to be seen again. Like a fart on the wind.

Ugh. Her hungover metaphors were rarely poetic, but equating herself to a bowel movement had to be a new level of bleak.

Izzy rested against the railing, arms crossed over her chest. It was a posture her court-appointed psychiatrist had referred to as 'defensive', 'hostile', and 'antisocial'—one carefully cultivated over the years. Her scowl earned her extra space on the tube and had frightened off more than one bus stop pervert. Unfortunately, her fellow young offenders weren't attentive enough to be intimidated. Their self absorption rendered them immune and, consequently, her personal space trespassed upon. The knobbly elbows of the one to her left had jabbed her enough times she was about ready to shove him over the barrier and into the festering channel waters behind them.

"...now you're all here for a reason. You've made mistakes, got on the wrong track. But you've got a chance to correct your course…"

Jesus, tuning in for three sentences already had her bored.

Izzy leaned forwards from her position second to the left and took in her associate bottom-dwellers. At the end of the line stood a twitchy-looking kid who by some unnatural feat of biology managed to be pastier than her. His complexion bordered on translucent, like plankton wrangled into human form by cling wrap. Paired with the bugged blue eyes, blank expression, and tense yet stooped posture, he marked off an alarming number of boxes on the serial killer checklist. Or maybe he was just a Gollum-esqe cavedweller who hadn't felt sun on his skin for many years. Or perhaps he studied accounting. Time had yet to tell.

After him came two girls. The first had light brown skin and frizzy, well coiffed hair. Her face was oddly sultry for the first day of community service, lips pursed to show off their sheen and hooded green eyes set off by a smokey look that belonged in a nightclub filled with cheap liquor and strong perfume. Quite pretty, and, based on cursory observation, aware of it. Not that Izzy took issue with accurate self-assessment. It was the ego that went with it that had a tendency to irk. Given the way she couldn't go more than a few moments without touching up her lip gloss in the reflective screen of the mobile, the ego was there. And given how that mobile chimed about a dozen times a minute, most people didn't mind. A popular girl, that one.

The other girl—the chav—looked more likely to fight than fuck. Her lips curled into a semi-permanent snarl which, when paired with her contemptuous glare, did not give off an air of approachability. Her sour expression was accentuated by her makeup. It looked left over from the night before—foundation slightly too orange to match the skin tone beneath it and mascara dark enough to have been the work of several days' layering. Her dirty blonde hair was scraped back into a combat-ready ponytail so tight it made Izzy's scalp itch. She looked damn near ready to take out those hoop earrings and batter someone then and there. Overall the look spelled 'not to be fucked with'. Nary a bus stop perv would dare try something with her.

The next contestant was a tall, lanky Irish kid on the less translucent side of pale. On top of his head sat a mess of brown curls that, if lacquered, could probably open a bottle of wine. Equally unruly and expressive were his eyebrows, sprouting from his forehead with a permanent sarcastic arch and thick enough to make up for the fact that he probably couldn't grow a mustache. Even slouching, he stood a few inches above the others. Hands in his pockets, he swayed in place with a mocking, clownish smile on his face. Izzy knew the type—smug, egotistical, never not taking the piss, and just attractive enough to fancy himself a lothario. A twat, essentially. And his smirk had a familiarity that made it more smackable than the average.

The spot to the Irish bloke's left was occupied by a wannabe gangster guy. Apart from the absurdly pointy elbows and inability to grasp the concept of 'personal space', his most distinguishing characteristic had to be the hat. It was comically large compared to the head it sat upon. Appearance-wise he had more in common with a bobble-head figurine than an actual human person. The face was equally cartoonish with its uneven splattering of freckles, razor nicks, and that mass-produced 'fuck the man' expression that usually came with an overconsumption of shitty SoundCloud hip hop. He glowered at the probation worker, a threatening stance his slight physique was woefully unprepared to follow up on.

Last up was the bloke on Izzy's other side. He stood a bit taller than Irish, despite the few extra centimeters that curly hair provided. He seemed to be engaged in a sad attempt to escape them all, leaning as far from her as physically possible while remaining upright, jumpsuit tied off at the waist instead of zipped up like the rest of theirs. Too dignified to fully swath himself in patchy, faded orange. The sigh he released as they lined themselves up had been one of irritation with a soupcon of contempt. Like he was so above it all. Which, to be fair, he kind of was. His face was more than familiar—chiseled jaw, dark brown skin, eyes that held an intense, laser focus—it had been splashed across the paper for weeks. Olympic Track Hopeful Banned From Competition After Drugs Charge. Still, she didn't appreciate the sneer.

From behind her shades, Izzy observed her fellow delinquents. Silent, creepy stares, compulsive gum chewing, loud scoffs, obnoxious snickering, hyper-masculine posturing, and beleaguered, self-righteous sighs... This would be the soundtrack to her next few weeks. Max would tell her to calm down and make the best of it, but where was the fun in that? Frustration always had a more cathartic feel than acceptance.

The curly-haired one seemed to notice her gaze. He broke ranks with the others and leaned forward as well, catching her eye and blowing a theatrical kiss. She flipped him off. He grinned, cheeky and knowing and borderline lewd. Again, the look was familiar. It was now that one particular memory saw fit to shuffle up and slap her across the face with recognition. It hit with the thwack of a slimy, cold, dead fish—surprising and gross. Regardless how shit that particularly Saturday had ended for her, she wasn't likely to forget the twat who faked a seizure on the floor of a bowling alley at the beginning of it. Shit. The bar for company rested somewhere near the earth's molten core. This was her personal hell.

Rolling her eyes, Izzy dropped back against the railing. Irish continued to leer. Her lips twitched, but her 'fuck off' sneer did little to spook him. God help her, Izzy turned back to the probation worker for distraction.

"This is it," Thomas blathered on. "This is your chance to do something positive. Give something back. You can help people. You can really make a difference to people's lives. That's what community service is all about. There are people out there who think you're scum."

Hadn't they covered this bit already? Apparently Todd wasn't above repetition to drive his point home. He looked each one of them in the eyes, all stoic-like. Trying to 'connect'. Good luck, mate.

"You can be better. You have an opportunity to show them they're wrong."

"Yeah, but what if they're right."

Izzy's eyes squeezed shut behind her sunglasses. Grateful though she was for the sudden shift in Irish's attention, that he sounded like Galway's most lecherous chipmunk did not bode well for her irritation levels moving forward. Particularly given his apparent inability to shut the fuck up. "No offense," he proclaimed, all offense intended as he jabbed a finger at Wannabe, "but I'm thinking some people are just born criminals."

Wannabe squared up, for him a move better in theory than in practice. "You looking to get stabbed?"

"See my point there?" Irish grinned, delighted in the reaction. Any reaction would do, most likely. Never mind that it was a death threat.

The probation worker looked between them and sucked in a deep breath to continue. He didn't even get to his 'anyway…' before Diva's mobile went off. She answered it immediately and with a twirl of her hair. "Hey."

Toby persisted. "Doesn't matter what you've done in the past—"

"I can't," Diva announced, gum smacking into the phone's receiver. "I'm doing my community service."

A vein pulsed in the probation worker's forehead. "Hey!"

"Boring as fuck."

The vein continued to throb like it was trying to keep time with shitty techno music. "Excuse me. Hello, I'm still talking here."

Diva pulled the phone from her ear and spared him a sneer. "Wha—I thought you'd finished."

"You see my lips moving? That means I'm still talking."

Too much fucking talking. Izzy reached into the pocket of her jumpsuit and pulled out the shitty mp3 player Max re-gifted her after buying a new iPod. Runner-guy shot her a sullen look as she untangled the earbuds. In response, Izzy pushed her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose, maintaining direct eye contact while she shoved them in both ears. He looked away first. Not that the earbuds did much good, anyways. The mp3 player's shittiness was, in fact, profound. And even a pair of those bloody expensive noise-canceling shits couldn't drown out the standoff between Irish and Wannabe at her left. Irish blew a kiss. Wannabe flexed under his jumpsuit. She'd call it hyper-masculine, but that either of them could bench press a large cat was doubtful.

Plus, while trying to will himself taller, the hat-wearing fucker elbowed her in the side. Again. "I'll rip out your throat and shit down your neck," he threatened.

Izzy pulled out one of her earphones and grimaced. "Please wait till I've left the premises for that." But Wannabe's hands had already curled themselves into Irish's collar, so violent flatulence seemed the order of the day.

"I shouldn't be here, man," Runner-guy complained.

"Look, we need to work as a team here," Teddy interjected, snapping his fingers at the tussling pair. "That's enough!"

"Can I move to a different group?" Mr. Olympic Hopeful demanded, lip curled in contempt. "This isn't gonna work for me."

Izzy's scoff shook the whole of her body. "Right," she drawled. "Because criminal rehabilitation is all about what's supposed to work for you."

Runner-guy's scowl, now directed towards her, deepened. Until….

"Erm, wot make ya fink tha your betta than os?"

All heads turned to face the chav. Wannabe even loosened his grip on Irish's collar. Izzy would have welcomed the dead quiet that followed had she not anticipated the imminent dipshittery. Spluttering came within moments of the silence. "What is that accent?" Irish cackled.

"Is that for real?" Runner-guy piled on, fully boarding the 'above it all' derision train.

Chav glared back with a hostility that would have Izzy crapping her pants had it been directed at her. "You tryin' to say somefin' than, ya?"

Irish gave another mocking laugh. "It's a—are you—that's just a noise! Are we supposed to be able to understand her?"

Chav unfolded one of the arms cinched around her waist to flip him off. "Do ya underdan' tha'?"

Irish grinned, turning back to Wannabe. He wrapped an arm around the bloke's shoulders, pulling him tight to his side. "I think she likes me!"

Wannabe's hands went straight back to Irish's collar, shaking him in a way that was likely meant to be intimidating. All it inspired was a few comical screeches and proclamations of 'where's the love, man!'. It was enough, though, for the probation worker to hurl himself at the pair. And close enough to Izzy to get hip checked, an irritating experience whether or not the person doing the checking possessed the density of an empty roll of paper towels.

"For fuck's sake." As her fellow young offenders laughed and jeered, Izzy shoved the dangling earbud back in place and pushed herself from the railing. She retreated to a pile of paint cans sitting near the community center doors. From that vantage point she had a better view of the action. 'Action' being the most generous of terms. Even if the probation worker hadn't been holding Wannabe back, the likelihood of either of them landing a punch was minimal at best. In Izzy's personal experience, this particular brand of bravado had the substance of month old cheez whiz.

Wannabe continued his advance, apparently attempting to phase through the probation worker rather than dodge around him. He spat angrily over the man's shoulder when he couldn't. On Tim's other side Irish bounced back and forth, swinging uselessly at the air like he learned to fight watching 19th century fisticuffs. This had to be the shittest round of Mortal Kombat ever witnessed. Or a particularly loud and uncoordinated form of interpretive dance.

"Alright, that's IT!" Toby shouted. He planted a hand on Wannabe's chest and pushed. The bloke staggered backwards, nearly keeling over on the community center steps. He popped back up like a whack-a-mole, ready to thrash anew, but stopped upon seeing the probation worker's expression. The frustration mounting in his face had hit critical mass. He pointed at Wannabe with a finger that held more strength than the boy's entire form. "I said pack it in," he growled.

Wannabe settled back, but the round of snickering that followed continued to prod at the probation worker's anger. Behind his eyes a metronome ticked back and forth, faster and faster until it bordered on frantic. He scanned the delinquents along the railing, twisting around until his gaze fell on Izzy by the door. Tick, tick, tick, tick. Could turn out to be a problem, that. He jabbed his still pointed finger at her. "You there—take out those headphones." Izzy wrapped the headphones around the player and stowed it in her pocket. His finger was still pointed at her. "Where exactly do you think you're going?"

Izzy looked pointedly down at the paint cans and back up at him. "Sorry, are we not painting today?"

The man scowled. The frown settled on his face with a practiced, well established feel. 'Just stay on their good side,' Max had told her. 'Unlikely', had been her silent response. Through no fault of her own this time. The man didn't seem to have a 'good side'. Just a disgruntled one. His eyes swept the group once more, cold and irritated. "All you lot, with me."

Tucker marched up to her, seized a paint can and brush, and shoved them into her hands. He cast a glare over his shoulder at the rest of the group, still standing against the railing among echoes of soft laughter. "What did I say? MOVE!"

They filed past him one by one, heels dragging in a bored shuffle and each their own flavor of unbothered. With the exception of the creeper—he appeared bothered by most anything. Once fully armed with brushes and paint, the probation worker herded them around the side of the building. The pavilion could have been nice. Maybe. Once. If it hadn't been littered with discarded bottles, empty bags of chips, and probably a few used needles. And if the lake it looked onto didn't stink of sulfur and rot. But alas. She couldn't blame the benches lining the water's edge for being empty. Like the rest of the Estate, their view was bleak.

The probation worker stopped short, casting his scowl their way. "See those benches?" he asked, gesturing down the stairs that led to the edge of the water.

Izzy shrugged. Because, obviously, yes she did.

"Yeah? Paint 'em." When they didn't immediately move, he flashed an angry glare. "Does that need more explaining?" Irish opened his mouth, but Todd cut him off. "Good. Get to it, then."

Brooking no further interruption, Tom turned his back to them and stalked back toward the community center. The delinquents looked to each other. Izzy couldn't quite decipher the shared expression. Boredom, probably. The distilled essence of not giving a fuck. To this, at least, she could relate.

Twitchy moved first, opting for the bench furthest from everybody. Runner-guy peeled off next, choosing the last bench in the opposite direction. Diva swayed after him. Irish gave a loud, theatrical stretch, showing no signs of moving at all, while Chav and Wannabe settled grumpily in the middle. Which spot to chose? What the fuck did it matter? Izzy unrolled the headphones from around her mp3 player, tucking it in her bra and shoving the earbuds firmly in place.

The paint slopped messily onto the benches, thin and runny. It dripped easily from the brush and from the bench itself, dribbling onto the concrete below. They'd likely get an earful from the probation worker about that. Because it was their fault city planning cheaped out on their materials. Max would tell her to stay positive. This didn't fit neatly into her skillset. The day didn't help all that much either. The grey sky left the Estate looking washed out, like a polaroid left out too long in the sun. But the sun still beat down harshly on the back of her neck. Sweat slid down her collar and skin prickled with the sting of inevitable sunburn. Fantastic.

Izzy dipped her brush back in the paint and quickly dragged it over to the bench, slathering over some creatively worded profanity. The white, painted bit was already speckled grey with dust and who knows what else the wind kicked up. Why did they even bother painting these benches white? Everything on the Estate ended up dirty anyway. Save the money and expectations and paint them that color.

Stay positive, Izzy. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe paint smudges on her aviators and the occasional sunburn would be all she had to contend with. Her expectations came pre-managed. 'Tolerable' was fine. As was 'vaguely irritating'. She could ignore most bullshit. Max's voice echoed in her head again. Disappointment is still better than being numb. Debatable. She slapped the brush over a few more expletives.

"Argh, man! There's paint on my cap!"

Izzy startled, tipping over from her crouching position to land squarely on her arse. As she looked up Wannabe had already jumped to his feet, brandishing his hat like a loaded gun. Less than a centimeter of white marked the brim. "Calm your tits, man," she grumbled, righting herself. "Nail polish'll take it straight out."

Wannabe didn't appear to care for stain removal advice. Or reason.

"This is bullshit!"

He opted for the dramatic exit, kicking paint buckets and the like. Though the attempted swagger diminished somewhat when he tripped over the shopping cart upon which he attempted additional violence. His face and neck reddened as he stumbled, but he only stomped harder on the metal, not content to fully lose a fight with an inanimate object. Izzy watched, eyebrows raised sardonically as he marched out of sight.

Izzy rolled her eyes and returned to painting, but not before scanning the others. The laughter following Wannabe's exit died down. Twitchy continued to paint silently on the opposite side of her bench. On the far end Diva flirted with Runner-guy via some expertly angled cleavage. Meanwhile, the curly-haired Irish twat leered at the blonde whilst apparently conducting a survey. "So what are you in for?" he asked. "I'm guessing shoplifting."

The chav frowned, tense and a bit sad. "Don' act like ya know me 'coz ya don't."

Irish released a quiet scoff, placing a hand over his heart as if she had deeply offended his honor. A twofold deception as far as Izzy was concerned: firstly, acting as if he cared about her reaction, and secondly, suggesting he possessed any honor to begin with. "I'm just making conversation!" he protested. "This is a chance to network with other young offenders! We should be swappin' tips. Brainstormin'. Come on, what did you do?"

Her frown deepened and she looked down. "This girl called me a slag so I jus' go' into a fight," she muttered quickly.

Izzy's eyes widened behind her sunglasses. Community service over some name-calling. That took commitment. Irish listened with a pensive face and pressed on with his interview. "Was this on the Jeremy Kyle Show?"

Izzy's lungs spasmed. Half the air rushed from her nose while the rest pushed out her mouth in a wet bubble. The breath left her with a noise like an asthmatic bullfrog. It couldn't be definitively identified as a laugh. The chav glared at her anyway. "Naw," she growled. "It woz at Argos."

"Ah, Argos," Irish mused, nodding sagely. "You know what you should've done? You should've gotten one of those little pins they have and jabbed it in her eye." He waited for a reaction. That seemed to be how he spent most of his time—fucking around and reveling in the fallout. When Chav didn't pay enough attention, he shifted on his feet, waving his still-dry paint brush at Izzy's bench. "What about you, weird kid?" he shouted at the boy opposite her. "Don't take this the wrong way, but you look like a panty-sniffer."

This point was emphasized by the sniffing of a mimed pair of pants sizable enough to fit the Jolly Green Giant. Because why not?

"I'm not a panty-sniffer," the creeper replied in a tremulous voice. "I'm not a pervert."

He went back to painting his side of the bench with exacting precision, eyes squinted, careful strokes. A pervert? Maybe not. To call him 'well-adjusted' would probably be a leap. He looked the type that didn't get out much, subsisting primarily off of personal pizzas and the dim glow of his laptop screen. Probably in danger of contracting rickets. Plus the way he stared… Though more or less unwilling to maintain eye contact for any length of time, those few seconds he did felt voyeuristic. Izzy peered over the rims of her sunglasses for further assessment, but was put on hold as Irish began wanking off his paintbrush. Peak comedy it was not, but the grunting proved hard to ignore. Like a toddler flinging legos about for attention. A crude tactic, but apparently effective given the proclamation that followed.

"I tried to burn someone's house down!"

The words rang clear and true, like a freshly polished bell. The ambient noises of the Estate, from car horns to garbage collection to the errant pigeon, quieted a moment to give them space to echo. Hell, even the tinny music from her earbuds stopped—a hell of a time to switch between songs. Luckily the lenses of Izzy's shades were large enough to conceal her raised eyebrows and wide eyes from the bloke's murderous gaze. His jaw clicked furiously. If it was a nervous habit he'd need orthodontic care in a matter of months. Izzy pushed the glasses further up the bridge of her nose to mask her alarm. Mental note: next time don't pair up with the pyromaniac.

Unlike Izzy, Irish appeared unfazed. He smirked at the pyro and ambled back to his bench. His bloody paint brush was still dry. Chav glowered at him upon approach. "Wha' did you do?" she demanded.

"Who, me?" Irish asked innocently. "I was done for...uh...eatin' some pick ' mix."

Izzy could keep a straight face through Creeper's rather disturbed display, but her body always had a physical reaction to the ridiculous. Her snort was full enough to make her rock on her feet as she crouched. Naturally, Irish heard it. He rounded on her, an air of manufactured indignation at the ready. "What's that now?" he declared, gesturing at her with the brush. "You there—what's your problem?"

Izzy stopped painting and pulled out her headphones for the first time since they left the center. She raised the sunglasses to the top of her head, putting her skeptical expression on display. "Nothing," she shrugged. "I just think you're full of shit."

The paintbrush began to wave with a frantic energy. "Well excusez-fuckin'-moi, ginger!" Irish exclaimed. "I do believe I was in the middle of the stirrin' tale of my most dramatic incarceration—what the hell would you know about it?"

The arch of Izzy's eyebrow quirked a degree higher. "So you're telling me you're not the shithead at the bowling alley who ruined a seven-year-old's birthday by faking a seizure and trying to escape the fuzz by crawling into the sodding pinsetter?"

Recognition dawned on Irish's face and he whirled around wildly, searching for a witness. "Have I got a stalker—are you stalking me?! Now why would you go and do that, love? You're a fit enough bird, even with the sour face. And I'm a bloke—all you gotta do is say the word an'—"

Twat, as Izzy now decided to refer to him, proceeded to bite his lip. It paired with an unfortunate hip thrust. Izzy couldn't stop her eyes from rolling if she tried. "I have better things to do with my time than stalk a dickhead like you."

He planted his hands on his hips and raised his eyebrows in challenge. "Well, then what were you doin' at the bowlin' alley then, hm? Checkmate."

Izzy stared back, her face impassive. "Bowling," she deadpanned. "It breaks the brain, I know, but believe it or not I was bowling at the bowling alley."

He pursed his lips, surveying here with careful consideration. "I don't know," he drawled. "The story seems a bit funny to me. Though I can see why you'd remember a—" he gestured up and down his form "—a body like this one."

Izzy looked him up and down. Coldly. Scientifically. Unimpressed. "Not all that memorable," she mused. "I wasn't displayed to that great an advantage, spasming on the ground and all. I thought you were going to piss yourself. It was kind of like watching a fish die on the deck of a boat. Sad, but not enough to make you care."

The chav let out a bark of laughter. Izzy glanced over at her. The amusement seemed real, so she gave a hesitant smile. It probably looked like a grimace. She turned back to the bench to resume painting, but Twat swaggered over to her. He crouched down. His sly, shit-eating grin covered a face that ended up far too close to her own. "How would you like me to display it?" he asked, waggling his eyebrows. "I can think of a few ways, but I'm willing to consider options. You wouldn't happen to have any suggestions, would you, love?"

Izzy returned the smile but hers remained icy. "In the middle of the road during peak traffic hours?"

Twat gasped dramatically, again clasping a hand over his heart. "Hey!" he croaked. "Words hurt!"

Izzy flipped her shades back over her stony glare. "Piss off."

His grin had already returned, but seemed to crack open wider. Izzy realized, to her horror, that this meant he was likely to speak again. But before another obnoxious comment escaped, a boom of thunder echoed above their heads. The two of them looked up. Twat clambered to his feet, neck twisting to observe his surroundings. Billowing, dark clouds rolled in across the sky. They hadn't been there the moment before. Angry shadows hit the pavement, painting out shapes like a Rorschach ink blot. Izzy frowned. Not normal.

"What's goin' on with this weather?" Twat demanded, voicing her own thoughts.

Another crack of thunder rang out. Izzy twitched with surprise. Her eyes swept back towards the sky, but stilled at the sight of the probation worker approaching. He gave the thunder no notice, instead scowling at their feet. "How'd that happen?" he asked, nodding to the splattered paint of Wannabe's outburst. The fog of disdain surrounding him was as dense as the clouds stretching out above. "I mean, you've been here five minutes. It's painting benches. How do you manage to screw that up? You tell me, because I've got no idea."

Izzy opened her mouth, probably to make room for a stupid comment that would get her more trouble. Twat, no doubt, was trying to beat her to it. They both found themselves thwarted by a sudden crash. Not thunder. Heavy. Metal. Close. Either from the shock or the ground shaking beneath her, Izzy teetered off balance. "What the fuck?!"

She grabbed for the bench, hand slipping on the still-slick paint, and toppled over. On her back there was no distraction from the sky. The clouds had gone black, like ink spilled on cotton balls. A car alarm blared. She shook her head and pushed herself up, wiping her paint-covered hand on the leg of her jumpsuit. It didn't take long to identify the car in question. Its roof was crushed in. Izzy took a few steps up the stairs towards it, neck craned. Among the splintered metal and shattered glass was what looked to be a chunk of ice the size of a beach ball. Her eyes swiveled back to the clouds, somehow even darker now and extending outwards like long, grasping fingers. Definitely not normal. In her chest, her heart sped from a bracing jog to a dead sprint.

"That's my car," the probation worker wheezed, his voice sad and small.

Twat cackled. "Classic!"

Izzy looked down from the steps. Apart from Twat's glee, their faces wore a naked fear that reflected her own. Twitchy hid his behind his mobile, filming the lot of them. Some fucked up priorities on that one—who would've figured?

BOOM! Another crash sounded just behind her. Izzy curled in on herself instinctively, eyes squeezing shut. Bits of ice skittered across the concrete. Some made it into her socks. The fabric would be soaked through by the time it melted.

SPLASH! This time the water came from above, a single sheet of water dropping down on her head. It smelled foul. One must have landed in the lake.

"Okay, so I'm a little freaked out!" Twat announced.

Izzy cracked an eye and looked over at him. He was hunched like the rest of them, his curls soggy with fetid lake water. His face swapped its smugness for their now matching uniform of terror. He finally caught up to the rest of them.

"What is that?!" Diva demanded.

The clouds' fingers had turned to arms, reaching, enveloping, all-consuming. And so unnaturally black. Across the lake bits of white dropped from the shadows. At this distance they looked like snowballs almost. Up close they could crush her like a bug. Her heart began to pound like hooves in a stampede—quick, violent, and unsteady.

CLANG!

The next one near them hit metal. The inside of a dumpster. It catapulted trash at Twitchy, who had been filming its descent. He dodged the rotting shrapnel, stumbling towards the rest of them. Didn't stop filming, though. Even trying to keep himself upright, he held that phone aloft and steady. There was more to film, after all. Spheres of ice dropped from the sky like cannon balls. On the pavement they burst to pieces on impact. The ripples they formed in the lake joined together to make proper waves. More car alarms joined in with the probation worker's Saab, screeching out a cacophony of chaos. Blood thudded in Izzy's ears. Why were they still standing here?

"Alright, everyone, let's get inside."

It took a few moments for the words to penetrate that steady rush of blood. Teddy did his best to remain calm and collected. It didn't last long. The next chunk of ice hit a meter or so from him, and he screamed with the rest of them. "MOVE!"

Izzy took off as quick as she could. So did the rest of them. They moved in a staggering pack of orange, careening up the stairs, down the sidewalk, and towards the community center doors. Breaths came out in gulps and gasps, uncertain whether to feed her muscles or sort out her panic. Her shoes felt traitorous on her feet, thin soles and loose laces. Not made for running. She felt as if she was about to tip, the ground moving beneath her like the deck of a ship on unsteady water. Even on the verge of toppling, she forced herself forward. Eyes on the horizon and you can find your bearings.

She looked over her shoulder. Why the fuck did she have to look over her shoulder?

Twitchy had fallen behind the rest of them. That phone, still clutched in his hand, swung wildly as he tried to catch the whole thing on film. He looked over his own shoulder as well, which was why he didn't notice that bit of protruding brick. His foot caught and he collapsed on the ground, phone skittering away from him. Izzy felt her feet slow beneath her, torn between safety and the moron crawling on his hands and knees. The bastard was still after his goddamn phone.

"Fuck!"

Teeth gritted, Izzy turned back and closed the few long strides between them. She seized the collar of his jumpsuit and forcefully yanked him to his feet. He'd managed to get his hands on the phone. Swearing, she shoved him forwards. "Sort out your fucking priorities, mate!"

Moments later, ice hit the asphalt where he had fallen. It broke like the crust on a freshly baked baguette. As they ran to catch up with the others she circled her arms above her head, like that would be any help. Twitchy went right back to filming. Imbecile.

The others were banging on the doors when Izzy skidded to a stop at the community center entrance. Twitchy arrived just after her, slamming into her back. She stumbled into Irish. He grabbed hold of her elbow, keeping both of them upright. His hair was full of ice. All of theirs was. His eyes were scared. So were hers. "What's going on?" she demanded.

Each of them screeched their own reply. Different words that added up to the same thing. They were locked out. The universe couldn't give her a single fucking break. The probation worker ran through his ring of keys with shaking hands. He'd probably been the one to lock it to begin with, afraid one of his delinquents would get into something troublesome or untoward. Fuck him. Fuck this. She didn't deserve this. Screaming, yelling, panicked breaths—they swirled around with her at the center of them. Circled until she was dizzy. Terror rose, clawing its way from her gut to her chest, then all the way into her throat. Talons closed around her neck. She choked.

BOOM!

A bright flash cracked in the periphery. It stretched out from one point till she was blind, all colors and edges struck from her vision. A force hit her from behind, catapulting her into the air. Electricity pulsed, starting in her chest and pushing out to her fingertips. It burned through her. It hurt at first, her nerves and veins searing. The fire moved along them, like her skin was made of tracing paper and the pain a pen that had stabbed through it in an attempt to sketch them out. Instead of backing off, it continued to rip. By the time it reached the end she was too aware and not aware enough of the sensation to call it pain. It struck her, filled her, and vanished. And then it left her there, suspended, uncertain. Everything and nothing. Blackness and light.

Then, just black.


END CHAPTER

Opening scene. Meet the ASBO shitheads.

-~-~-~"Flush (feat. Karen O)" - Daniele Luppi & Parquet Courts

VISUAL: Establishing shot of all the ASBO shitheads getting the speech from the probation worker.

Plays in Izzy's headphones while she's painting the benches.

-~-~-~"I'll Come Running (To Tie Your Shoes)" - Brian Eno

The crew gets struck by lightning. End chapter.

-~-~-~"My Mind" - Sherwyn

VISUAL: An overhead shot of everyone splayed out on the ground, having just been electrocuted, that then pans out to reveal more chaos/ice/cracked asphalt on the Estate. 'End credits'.

MUSIC NOTE: All my 'end chapter' songs are basically 'end of episode' needle drops. Like if this was TV it would start playing a bit before the last shot and carry on over the credits.


A huge thank you to BBulma, shinelikegold, ZoeThe1st, Fan, AlfieTimewolf, TheSpottedDog, Alice, Guest, marina2351, evil-pink-robot, ShineX, Guest, Done1938, Alternate Mind, TheGoodTheBadTheGoodAgain, Wolf That Howls, Hazel Drizzle, Lead and Ink, onthepageoftears (your reviews after The Umbrella Academy came out seriously prompted me picking this up again - thank you!), and anon for reviewing chapter 1! Much love to you all.


Anyways, hope you all enjoyed the re-write/it might be vaguely worth the delays/repeats/etc. Thank you for reading! Doubly so if this is your second time through. HUGS ABOUND!