In many places around the country, around the world, there were strange occurrences happening. People tripping down stairs discovered they could hover, children learned they could teleport from place to place and housewives communicated their shopping lists to late husbands working overtime through a simply directed thought. Mutants were springing up like a host of crocuses after a rainshower, and expanding the human race's rainbow of abilities.

Most of these abilities, of course, were utterly useless and not strong enough to do anyone much good. The Army wasn't interested in the potential for shopping lists, and hovering a pencil for a moment or two wasn't high on anyone's list, really.

So, for the most part, they were interesting quirks and additions to what basically was a whole and complete functioning mechanism. The human race didn't *need* modifications: it had become the master of planet Earth all by itself, thank you very much, hovering pencils or no.

But every so often, every so where, a blip occurred on the radar that spoke of real, raw, untrained talent of greater magnitude.

The shoes of the director were making a conspicuous amount of noise as they traveled down the cleanly buffed hallway of the county jail, the local sheriff at his side and his hand pressed tightly together behind his none- too-muscular back.

"Jesus, Hal, this is no place to keep a kid." The cells as they passed were dark and dim, like toothless mouths gaping to swallow them all whole. Chilled air, too, circulated and swirled around their ankles as the two law- enforcers moved towards the last cell in the block.

The sheriff, a gruff, grizzled man who tolerated no funny business, grunted. "This ain't no kid. Torched three o' m'men." Three of his best men simply by looking at them.

The director had the sense to look surprised, even though he believed that the aging sheriff simply needed a vacation. A child not yet out of his teens slaying three well-armed and trained policemen? Preposterous! He sniffed lightly to himself, prepared to order the lock removed and the prisoner released. Obviously, a mistake had been made somewhere along the line.

Squeak, squeak, the shoes stopped in unison on the other side of the bars from the shadowy shape that reclined in the furthest corner of the cell, well hidden from the light the bare light bulb in the corridor cast. Even the most basic of amenities that all prisoners got were missing here. A fold-out bed was metal and bare, no mattress, no blanket. The soap, the paper for the toilet, it was all removed, leaving the cell bleak and metallic. The figure shifted, rolling over onto its other side, away from the two men.

The director turned to the other man beside him, lips tight and white, barely believing what he was seeing, voice lowered into a furious whisper. "This *child* is barely seventeen! Where is his mattress, sheriff? Where are the amenities a *boy* deserves?!"

The sheriff was calm and placid in his answer, and casually slapped his veiny, wrinkled hand against the bars. "We gave 'em to 'im, Director. I think that bit of ash over there is them. He'd burn up the entire jail." Casual in the way he leaned over and spit on the floor by the polished leather shoe. "If we let 'im."

The mutant in the jail cell hunched further forward, and stared into the darkness, green eyes shining in the darkness. He spoke not a word, not while the director talked at his back from between the bars and not while the sheriff threatened him with a loss of his dinner if he continued to be silent.

Nothing can shake me. He thought, and wrapped the darkness around his shoulders like a blanket. The vocalizations of the two men faded to insignificance. I am a rock.



*



"You!" A rattling at the bars of the boy's cell and he roused himself from sleep slowly, langourously, taking his damn sweet time as his tanned hand pushed the locks of blonde hair away from his eyes that narrowed at his newest visitors.

At least they had smartened up a little this time.

Full protective environmental suits used specifically for especially hot environments.

"You're wearing vulcanologist suits." He noted aloud, leaning back against the bare cement wall on the bare metal slab for a bed. It didn't really matter. Ken was fairly certain that solid rock wouldn't stop him if he was serious enough. I'll have to test that one day. Blinked. "Pardon?"

The team leader looked and sounded impatient, muffled as he was in the thick white suit. "I said get up and come with us."

Ken pushed himself back against the wall. "Where are you taking me?" He had to know! I bet it's like those movies. They're gonna test me! Everyone knew what they did with dangerous mutants, or, at least, Kenneth had heard the stories about knocks on the door in the middle of the night and holding vats of strange green liquid. His shoes squeaked on the metal as he tried to burrow into the corner.

"Come with us." The white, marshmellow suits were moving into the cell now and grasping his arms with grips that couldn't be denied. He struggled only weakly as they peeled him away from the wall where his flesh had burned permanent marks into the stone and frog-marched him down the spotless hallway.

"No," he protested futilely. He was going to die, then. Just like that. He shrugged off the hand and walked proudly, alone down the hall and out through the main office, teeth nearly chattering from fright. Kenneth needed no hand to help him along. He'd done this, right? Killed helpless police officers. It doesn't matter that I didn't mean to, he repeated to himself. Mistakes are irrelevant. You fucked up. Accept it like a man.

Outside. A truck waited, a truck used for transportation. On the side was a logo, hastily emblazoned and created when the explosions of new mutants had arrived. Department of Genetic Variants. The clam-shell doors opened and Kenneth was thrust inside.

"Oof!" He landed on the floor and skid half a meter, pushed himself up onto his elbows. Obviously, they had been expecting him and his abiltities. Nothing flammable, nothing detachable, nothing that was soft. Everything was solid, metal and more metal. The truck started with a lurch, and the mutant began to panic.

This isn't fair! He railed mentally, pacing back and forth unsteadily as the truck wound it's way through traffic he couldn't see. It had been an accident, a horrible accident! He hadn't meant to hurt anyone! His life was over!

Bitterly, he sat down on the edge of the metal protrusion on the wall that he supposed was intended to work as a chair. Damn uncomfortable, though, as was everything in his life. "I couldn't have a blanket, though. I'd just wreck it." Like he had wrecked everything else with his talent.

"Ungh!" He cried in frustration and struck his fist against the wall. Finished. With a strangled sob that he had never heard himself make before, the blonde sank down against the bench and held his head in his hands and shook.

Sixteen and a menace to society.

Sixteen and so freakish that even other mutants avoided him. That psychic girl they had brought in the night before, what had happened to her? Fire! she screamed after she tried to probe his mind. Fire! Nothing but fire!

He bit his lip, worried.

Tears edged at the corner of Ken's vision, tears that wanted to overflow and express exactly what he was feeling, but angrily he swiped the moisture out of his eyes, watched the drops touch his skin and evaporate into less than nothing in a heart's beat.

"Stop your whimpering!"

Father. Yes, Father, I'm sorry, Father.

"Crying doesn't solve anything, boy. Shut up!"

I'm sorry, Father, my heavy-handed father. Always so heavy-handed, Father.

"Shut up!" He whispered viciously to himself. Grabbed his own skin and twisted, hard. "Shut up!" Had to stop the crying! Worthless, weak, pathetic, blubbering, useless crying! Shut up, shut up. . . His lips recited the mantra as he pinched, and the pain brought clarity. He had to escape.

And all of a sudden, opportunity didn't just knock at the lanky youth's door, it stepped right through as if it weren't even there and offered him a whiter-than-white smile with a black-and-yellow body. "Need a hand?"

Kenneth blinked, and gaped like a fish as Shadowcat appeared through the wall.



*



Shadowcat dusted her leotard off primly and glanced brown, rich eyes up at the boy. Hardly older than she was, and difficult to imagine his floppy hair and gently sloping hazel eyes ever narrowing with enough anger to kill someone. Was he going to speak, or just sit there on that bizarre metal bench and gape?

She repeated the offer.

"Y-Yeah," he stuttered, pushing himself up.

Cute, in his own way. He looked half-Asian, maybe, which would explain the eyes and those distinct cheekbones. His entire body structure, she noted as he shakily stood up, every action trying to radiate confidence but only piquing his fear, was not quite Caucasian and not quite Asian.

Stop messing around, Kitty. Jean Gray in her mind, giving her a mental nudge forward. Move now, the truck is almost at the containment facility.

She nodded once and extended the hand. "I'll take you through the wall. Kenneth, right?" He nodded silently. "Take my hand, it'll be okay." The latest addition to Professor Xavier's band of mutants, a young firestarter named Ken. But he shook his head and took a step back, heels bumping against the wall of the truck.

"No," She insisted, taking a step forward at him, extending the hand once more. Didn't she understand? If she knew his name, surely she was supposed to know something about him? "Don't touch me! You can't! Ah-Ah'll burn you." And he gestured to the wall where he had been sitting. Already, even through his shirt, wherever his flesh had touched the metal it had scalded a deep, rich black. Imagine what it would do to her hand!

Jean! She called, trying to contact the psychic. What do I do?

The answer was quick in coming, though the older mutant gave no other sign. With an abrupt shudder, the truck rolled to a stop. Through the front wall both mutants could hear the men in the suits yelling, shouting. A flash of red light and the back of the truck opened. Cyclops grinned at her, and gestured for them both to hurry up.

She hopped down out of the truck and glanced back over her shoulder. Kenneth, the strange, quiet boy, was right behind her, mouth set in a determined line and eyes narrowed chillingly. Ah. She thought to herself, just as Nightcrawler bamfed into existence a mere three feet away and encouraged them on.

His tail lashed anxiously from side to side, and his ears were almost flat against his head. "Come on, vill you? Ah, Gott in himmel, schnell!" [1]

Ken shook his head disbelievingly, and dropped down from the empty truck onto the hard pavement. Downtown, they were downtown and heading for the military base. It seemed so utterly, perfetly normal that vertigo swept his senses for a moment. People were going to work today, people were going to school and doing everything. The sky was still blue and the sun still shone and the world still functioned, no matter what. Even if he were restrained for the rest of his life or used for a guinea pig. He blinked again, setting his jaw, and began to follow the others as they led him down and away from his premature prison.

Fuck being a guinea pig, then. Kenneth the firestarter didn't dig on eating or being, swine.















-_- So there you have it. Chapter one of Copping a Feeling.

Argh, I know it's not that great, but.you know? *sigh* Anyways, if you liked it, review and I'll write more. If you hate my original character and want me to die. eh. That makes two of us. (Only I like Kenneth. *hugz him* :D )

Yeah!

Boku wa ichiban no furiiku desu yo.









[1] God in heaven! Hurry!