Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own. I was thinking anyway, if Mystique has so many sons and sort-of daughters anyway, what does more hurt? Hehehe.
-------o(O)o-------
That bitter yet delicious coffee smell awoke me from the depths of my slumber, in which I had been dreaming of a strange, kindly-faced bald-headed man talking at me in a language full of strange unknown words. It was a dream I had many times as a child, although by this point they were fading.
I forced myself to sit up in the bed-and-breakfast bed and reached across to the little bedside table and slid my glasses on. The room focused and I could see my mother across the mildly filthy room with two steaming cups of hot coffee, one in each slender hand. With a smile, I reached out and took one of them.
"Two sugars," she announced, nodding towards my cup. My smile continued. A small silence followed and a heavy feeling weighted the pit of my stomach as I watched the expression on her pale-skinned, freckly face so similar to my own turn from her usual small frown and smile to a concerned pout. I tilted my head slightly, taking a sip of the deliciously sweet beverage, and waited for her to speak. I didn't have to wait long. "Salla, I have to tell you something."
"What?" I asked, feeling the dread increase threefold at her tone. I shuffled up further, flattening the overstuffed quilts with my free hand.
"I promised myself I would tell you this when you reached thirteen, but I lost my nerve," she said, her hands twisting in knots in her lap. She had certainly waited long enough, it was three days until my sixteenth birthday. "When you were young, you... Well, you didn't live with me. You lived with Siannagh, your mother, and her friends."
"So you're not my mother?" I exclaimed, spilling a splatter of coffee in surprise. I rubbed the stain absently with one hand while I waited for a response.
"I am..." she took a deep breath. "I'm not what you see me as. Siannagh's dead now, at the hands of someone I knew. The day she died, I was the one to find her body and I took you before her friends could catch up with me."
"I thought you said you were my mother," I said, my face contorting in confusion. "But then, I thought you said Siannagh was my mother too. I can't have two mothers. Who is my father?"
"Technically, I am."
I glanced down. She seemed to have all the necessary parts to be qualified as a woman, so I frowned again and looked up at her. "You're not..."
"I was."
I watched her doubtfully as she stood, apparently deciding that words would get her nowhere further than they had already got her. Before I could even register a movement, the shape of the mother I knew, a short, skinny pale woman with pale brown hair and freckles, plain faced but in my eyes beautiful, suddenly disappear with only the smallest of noises and in her place a strange, red-haired woman, tall and athletic, with dark blue skin and no details in her strange, absent looking eyes. I gasped and leapt out of my bed.
"You told me you weren't a mutant," I said, my voice cold and bitter. My hand raised to my cheeks, where I knew two thick black lines ran, then up to my brow where a large silver horn about three inches long, twisted like a unicorn's, protruded unceremoniously. My mind wouldn't let me register this revelation - I had been so sure I was the only freak in the very compact family. Of course, my mum had never made me feel that way, but she had kept me away from prying eyes for reasons I completely understood. I couldn't fathom the surprise she had just thrown upon me. I reached behind me for my bag, still semi-packed as we had only been at this particular bed-and-breakfast for about a week. We once had a small flat on the suburbs of London, but we had been evicted through complaints from the neighbours of unknown specifications so we were forced to move about, staying in bed-and-breakfasts where the council chose to put us until they could find us a proper home.
I pulled out my favourite outfit - a long denim skirt with a frayed bottom, a pale baby pink strappy top and plain black sandals, then threw on my long, deep red coat with black fake fur edges. Throughout this, the blue woman who had been my mother a second before didn't move. Her features were like ice, full of frosty hard coldness. Such a change had occurred that I was almost frightened.
"Where are you going?" she asked as I lugged my bag behind me on my way to the door. Her English accent had obviously been faked, as it changed to an American one. As I replied, my own accent sounded stupid and unreal because of it.
"I'm leaving," I said.
"You can't leave," she replied, and it took me a moment to notice the look of panic that spread over her. "You've got a horn. They'll take you and lock you up without a second thought."
I wished so hard that moment, so incredibly hard that my horn would disappear that my head actually hurt from the effort. I imagined myself, tall and willowy as I was with my long pale ginger hair to my shoulders, curling, the fringe free to grow without obstruction from my ugly horn. I imagined my skin free of blemish; most teenagers only had to put up with spots that could be treated eventually with creams and medicine but I was forced to live with a visible mutation that there was no cure for.
I heard a sharp intake of breath and opened my eyes, unaware that I had closed them in the first place. Her expressionless eyes were focussed upon my forehead, so getting a deep feeling of trepidation I made my way to the little mirror above the off-white sink. What I saw nearly caused me to topple over.
"It's gone!" I cried. Where my horn had been was a small birthmark-like spot, pale pink and barely noticeable. I leaned in closer to the mirror as if getting closer would reveal that it was a trick, that I hadn't lost the most annoying feature of my body. When my tilted head touched the cold surface of the mirror without obstruction, my eyes filled with tears and I turned around. "What did you do?"
"I didn't do anything," she promised, and I could hear the sincerity in her strange new voice. Of course, I couldn't trust her, as she had lied to me for my whole life as far as I knew, but I couldn't deny that this was the truth.
"Then what happened?" I asked her, though I already knew the answer. She understood that question was more for myself than her, so she declined to reply. My eyes lowered. "I thought my power had already shown itself."
Ever since I could remember, I had been a perfect mimic for anything. My mother explained how it is unusual for such a power to appear at the young age I was, but stressful circumstances had drawn them out. Now, under another pile of panic, the hidden aspect of my mutation appeared to be itself. It made me wonder what else was to come, but at the same time I knew nothing would.
"That is strange," the woman I once knew commented. "Your power is not unlike mine."
"Is that unusual?"
"My son's power was completely unrelated from mine, apart from the blue skin," she admitted. She seemed to know she'd dropped yet another bombshell and swore unceremoniously.
"You're kidding me. I have a brother?!" I cried. She nodded, averting eye contact. My eyes narrowed. "Who are you? I mean, really. Don't spill that rubbish about being Jenny Darkholme, who are you really?"
"I am Darkholme, but my first name is Raven," she said. "Before I moved here with you to England, most people knew me as Mystique."
"What, were you in some sort of cult or something?" I spat, feeling angry that I had been so deceived. She gave me a serious look, and her glare was so intense I had to look away. "It's a reasonable question," I continued.
"No, it isn't reasonable, and I wasn't in a cult. It is my mutant name. I worked for a mutant called Magneto for a while. Your other mother... Well, she wasn't on the same side as me. It was one of the boys who were in the Brotherhood, which at one point I ran, who killed her."
"You told me my father died in a plane crash."
"You know, its more likely to die from a cork hitting you on the head than in a plane crash."
"What's that got to do with anything?"
"Nothing..." she said. "Only, perhaps you should think about being a bit less trusting."
I narrowed my eyes again. "How do I even know that you are my mother? Do you have any proof?"
"You'll just have to trust me."
"Yeah, like that's gonna happen," I scoffed. With a fluid motion, I swung my bag over my shoulder and began to unlock the door. "Have a nice life."
"Don't you want to know your past?"
"No, thanks, I'd like to be able to eat for the next year," I said, putting as much venom into it as possible. My head wasn't clear - if I had thought about it, I woud have stayed to listen before leaving. As it was, I left without another word and to my surprise the woman 'Mystique' didn't follow me.
Of course, upon reaching the cold autumn air outside, I saw my mistake.
-------o(O)o-------
That bitter yet delicious coffee smell awoke me from the depths of my slumber, in which I had been dreaming of a strange, kindly-faced bald-headed man talking at me in a language full of strange unknown words. It was a dream I had many times as a child, although by this point they were fading.
I forced myself to sit up in the bed-and-breakfast bed and reached across to the little bedside table and slid my glasses on. The room focused and I could see my mother across the mildly filthy room with two steaming cups of hot coffee, one in each slender hand. With a smile, I reached out and took one of them.
"Two sugars," she announced, nodding towards my cup. My smile continued. A small silence followed and a heavy feeling weighted the pit of my stomach as I watched the expression on her pale-skinned, freckly face so similar to my own turn from her usual small frown and smile to a concerned pout. I tilted my head slightly, taking a sip of the deliciously sweet beverage, and waited for her to speak. I didn't have to wait long. "Salla, I have to tell you something."
"What?" I asked, feeling the dread increase threefold at her tone. I shuffled up further, flattening the overstuffed quilts with my free hand.
"I promised myself I would tell you this when you reached thirteen, but I lost my nerve," she said, her hands twisting in knots in her lap. She had certainly waited long enough, it was three days until my sixteenth birthday. "When you were young, you... Well, you didn't live with me. You lived with Siannagh, your mother, and her friends."
"So you're not my mother?" I exclaimed, spilling a splatter of coffee in surprise. I rubbed the stain absently with one hand while I waited for a response.
"I am..." she took a deep breath. "I'm not what you see me as. Siannagh's dead now, at the hands of someone I knew. The day she died, I was the one to find her body and I took you before her friends could catch up with me."
"I thought you said you were my mother," I said, my face contorting in confusion. "But then, I thought you said Siannagh was my mother too. I can't have two mothers. Who is my father?"
"Technically, I am."
I glanced down. She seemed to have all the necessary parts to be qualified as a woman, so I frowned again and looked up at her. "You're not..."
"I was."
I watched her doubtfully as she stood, apparently deciding that words would get her nowhere further than they had already got her. Before I could even register a movement, the shape of the mother I knew, a short, skinny pale woman with pale brown hair and freckles, plain faced but in my eyes beautiful, suddenly disappear with only the smallest of noises and in her place a strange, red-haired woman, tall and athletic, with dark blue skin and no details in her strange, absent looking eyes. I gasped and leapt out of my bed.
"You told me you weren't a mutant," I said, my voice cold and bitter. My hand raised to my cheeks, where I knew two thick black lines ran, then up to my brow where a large silver horn about three inches long, twisted like a unicorn's, protruded unceremoniously. My mind wouldn't let me register this revelation - I had been so sure I was the only freak in the very compact family. Of course, my mum had never made me feel that way, but she had kept me away from prying eyes for reasons I completely understood. I couldn't fathom the surprise she had just thrown upon me. I reached behind me for my bag, still semi-packed as we had only been at this particular bed-and-breakfast for about a week. We once had a small flat on the suburbs of London, but we had been evicted through complaints from the neighbours of unknown specifications so we were forced to move about, staying in bed-and-breakfasts where the council chose to put us until they could find us a proper home.
I pulled out my favourite outfit - a long denim skirt with a frayed bottom, a pale baby pink strappy top and plain black sandals, then threw on my long, deep red coat with black fake fur edges. Throughout this, the blue woman who had been my mother a second before didn't move. Her features were like ice, full of frosty hard coldness. Such a change had occurred that I was almost frightened.
"Where are you going?" she asked as I lugged my bag behind me on my way to the door. Her English accent had obviously been faked, as it changed to an American one. As I replied, my own accent sounded stupid and unreal because of it.
"I'm leaving," I said.
"You can't leave," she replied, and it took me a moment to notice the look of panic that spread over her. "You've got a horn. They'll take you and lock you up without a second thought."
I wished so hard that moment, so incredibly hard that my horn would disappear that my head actually hurt from the effort. I imagined myself, tall and willowy as I was with my long pale ginger hair to my shoulders, curling, the fringe free to grow without obstruction from my ugly horn. I imagined my skin free of blemish; most teenagers only had to put up with spots that could be treated eventually with creams and medicine but I was forced to live with a visible mutation that there was no cure for.
I heard a sharp intake of breath and opened my eyes, unaware that I had closed them in the first place. Her expressionless eyes were focussed upon my forehead, so getting a deep feeling of trepidation I made my way to the little mirror above the off-white sink. What I saw nearly caused me to topple over.
"It's gone!" I cried. Where my horn had been was a small birthmark-like spot, pale pink and barely noticeable. I leaned in closer to the mirror as if getting closer would reveal that it was a trick, that I hadn't lost the most annoying feature of my body. When my tilted head touched the cold surface of the mirror without obstruction, my eyes filled with tears and I turned around. "What did you do?"
"I didn't do anything," she promised, and I could hear the sincerity in her strange new voice. Of course, I couldn't trust her, as she had lied to me for my whole life as far as I knew, but I couldn't deny that this was the truth.
"Then what happened?" I asked her, though I already knew the answer. She understood that question was more for myself than her, so she declined to reply. My eyes lowered. "I thought my power had already shown itself."
Ever since I could remember, I had been a perfect mimic for anything. My mother explained how it is unusual for such a power to appear at the young age I was, but stressful circumstances had drawn them out. Now, under another pile of panic, the hidden aspect of my mutation appeared to be itself. It made me wonder what else was to come, but at the same time I knew nothing would.
"That is strange," the woman I once knew commented. "Your power is not unlike mine."
"Is that unusual?"
"My son's power was completely unrelated from mine, apart from the blue skin," she admitted. She seemed to know she'd dropped yet another bombshell and swore unceremoniously.
"You're kidding me. I have a brother?!" I cried. She nodded, averting eye contact. My eyes narrowed. "Who are you? I mean, really. Don't spill that rubbish about being Jenny Darkholme, who are you really?"
"I am Darkholme, but my first name is Raven," she said. "Before I moved here with you to England, most people knew me as Mystique."
"What, were you in some sort of cult or something?" I spat, feeling angry that I had been so deceived. She gave me a serious look, and her glare was so intense I had to look away. "It's a reasonable question," I continued.
"No, it isn't reasonable, and I wasn't in a cult. It is my mutant name. I worked for a mutant called Magneto for a while. Your other mother... Well, she wasn't on the same side as me. It was one of the boys who were in the Brotherhood, which at one point I ran, who killed her."
"You told me my father died in a plane crash."
"You know, its more likely to die from a cork hitting you on the head than in a plane crash."
"What's that got to do with anything?"
"Nothing..." she said. "Only, perhaps you should think about being a bit less trusting."
I narrowed my eyes again. "How do I even know that you are my mother? Do you have any proof?"
"You'll just have to trust me."
"Yeah, like that's gonna happen," I scoffed. With a fluid motion, I swung my bag over my shoulder and began to unlock the door. "Have a nice life."
"Don't you want to know your past?"
"No, thanks, I'd like to be able to eat for the next year," I said, putting as much venom into it as possible. My head wasn't clear - if I had thought about it, I woud have stayed to listen before leaving. As it was, I left without another word and to my surprise the woman 'Mystique' didn't follow me.
Of course, upon reaching the cold autumn air outside, I saw my mistake.