Mystique
Hey everyone!
Man, I have WAAAY too many stories, you know that? This one I just came up with because I wanted a change, you know? This is based on the comic book Mystique, so don't get all freaked when Mystique's different then she is from the X-Men comics, cuz she IS different in MYSTIQUE then in X-Men...ok. That's enough confusing.
This fic is TOTALLY dependent on YOUR reviews, ok? The only reason I'll even consider continuing is if you ask me to in reviews. Deal? Ok.
Disclaimer: I don't own Mystique or anything related to her. The idea for this story is MINE though, so if ya wanna use it or any of the characters I made up, ASK. I'm pretty nice about it ;-).
Chapter 1
"Go on vacation," they said.
"Take a break! You deserve it!"
Man, I hate those two.
I inhale deeply from my cigarette and breathe out, watching curls of smoke dance from my lips and out over the sea, joining the steam from the sizzling hotdogs and the pollution of New York streets.
There are people everywhere—kids skating on the sidewalks, adults rushing past with their all-important briefcases, teens slouching by with walkmans banging and piercings flashing.
Most of the boys are doubling back to stare at me, their mouths hanging open in apparent shock and satisfication.
I take another drag, savor the smoke's bitter taste in my mouth, ad then let it all out as I mutter, "What? You boys never seen a mutant terrorist before or what?"
That gets 'em to either scoff or turn and walk quickly away.
Hey, I was telling the truth.
Maybe I should have changed from my disguise when I said it.
That would've got 'em good.
I can't help but to chuckle slightly at the thought—me, in my natural form, standing on the boardwalk having a smoke while everyone runs around me in sheer terror.
Just can't have a decent rest around here while being yourself.
I drop my cigarette to the ground and step on it with one high-heeled shoe, crushing it beneath my toe as I adjust the straps of my more-than-slightly revealing tank top.
I suppose I should be moving on from here; taking my so-called 'vacation'.
It's not like Xavier's giving me anything to do until I get my 'decent rest'.
Curse him.
I roll my eyes as I fumble around in my purse for a mirror so I can put some more lipstick on; it already feels like I've got on the whole tube, but whatever.
I like the shade.
Once my hands finally clasp a mirror, I slide it out and flip it open, admiring my reflection for a minute before I smooth the lipstick over my already too-scarlet lips.
The reflection staring at me through half-lowered eyelids is sickeningly pretty, that of some lady I saw at the bar last night. Her skin is somewhat pale, though still stunning, appearing perfect against her cascade of ebony waves. Her eyes are dark and fiery, alight with a 'come hither' attitude. She probably looks fine WITHOUT makeup, but she wore a ton when I saw her.
I suppose me smearing lipstick all over her is another way I'm getting payback; hey, it was her fault for calling my jacket 'last season'.
Nobody insults MY disguises, Babe.
I smirk slightly, mimicking her light and sarcastic tone, "Oh, no Officer! I swear, I don't KNOW what you saw, but it wasn't ME being shoved off that roof..."
I rub my lips together and kiss the air, mimicking her perfectly before I snap the mirror shut and toss it into my bag with the lipstick.
I see a little boy, maybe six or seven, sitting on a bench within a foot of me, staring at me openly while his mother buys him a hotdog across the way.
He looks like he's disgusted.
I raise my eyebrows at him, and then exclaim "Boo!" causing him to jump and run to his mother, gazing back at me only after he's hidden behind her skirt.
I smirk at him condescendingly and continue down the street before anyone can try to chew me out for scaring an 'innocent little angel'.
I'm so scared.
I've never felt so afraid in my life.
I'm standing by a big wall, one that has rain running down like a waterfall; it's getting me really wet.
There's a scary storm going on, and the sky's on fire and there's screaming everywhere.
I wish someone would come get me.
Someone nice, like a policeman.
Where'd all the nice people go?
All I see are bad people.
Bad people who want me.
They want me, so they can take me again and hurt me more.
I shiver and hug myself as I watch some mean men looking for me.
They're calling my name, and it sounds bad the way they say it.
I hate them.
I hate them for taking me away from the House, even if it was kind of dirty and smelly and small.
I hate them for making me stay with them and for locking me up in the dark, cold closet.
They're so bad.
Especially when they hurt me.
That's when they're really bad.
When they make me cry and scream and 'beg' them.
That's the word Miss Reagan seems to like.
'Beg'.
"Beg me," she says.
And she won't stop hurting me until I do.
She's the boss.
In most movies I saw in the House, the men were the boss, but she's a lady and she's a boss.
Everybody listens to her.
Everybody but me.
I never listen to her.
Except when she says, "Beg me."
I listen then, because it hurts too much.
She hurts me too much, and I HAVE to listen then.
The men are staring to get really angry now, and they're pushing things down and yelling for me to 'come out'.
That's why I'm crying now.
They're shouting really loud, and if they shout too loud, Miss Reagan will hear and get mad, and if she gets mad...
I shiver when I think about it, so I stop.
I can hear them getting closer to me, so I quietly run down the street, the rain sinking through my clothes and making me feel so cold...
Another bolt of lightning slices through the sky, followed by a roll of thunder that shatters the silence around me.
I wake up instantly, sitting up suddenly on the cheap couch in the cheap room I rented from this cheap hotel.
My head throbs and I lean back, closing my eyes and sighing; oh, what I'd do for an aspirin.
It's been raining like this for hours; the only reason I pulled off the road is because of this crap.
Otherwise, I'd probably be in Las Vegas, gambling my money away on absolute nothingness.
I groan as I glance at the clock; it's dead, like the rest of the power.
"I can't believe this!"
I kick the thick blanket from my legs and stand, stretching as I sit on the edge of the lumpy mattress this place calls a bed and pick up my watch: 3:36.
I moan and lie back, closing my eyes against another flash of lightning.
I haven't had this bad of a headache in years.
The pain is like a hot blade prying my skull open and chopping my brains to mush.
Thinking that makes it hurt more.
I get up slowly and stumble into the bathroom, feeling dizzy as I run cold water over a worn out washcloth.
In a few minutes, I'm lying in bed, the washcloth over my eyes as I try (fruitlessly) to get back to sleep.
About then, the power comes back on and the TV (which I'd mistakenly forgotten to turn off earlier) begins to blare the story of some kidnapping.
I jump from the sudden noise and feel my head scream in agony from the sudden bright lights.
Swearing angrily, nausea bubbling in my throat, I reach over and switch the lamp off, grabbing the remote and starting to turn the television off as well when I pause for a moment.
"—last, when young Meghan Anne Carnelle was seen. She is said to be wearing blue jean-shorts, a light-colored blouse, and a bright yellow jacket. If you have any information concerning her whereabouts, please call-"
I press the power button and lean back into the pillows, lifting the phone to my ear and pressing the button for room service.
As soon as voice comes on the other line, I ask for aspirin, and hang up.
I'm getting sleep tonight, even if I have to drug myself to do it.
I can hear them behind me, yelling at me to stop.
They must think I'm stupid or something.
If I stop, they'll grab me and take me back THERE.
I'm not going back.
NEVER.
I keep running, sliding in the puddles and breathing really hard, like there's something stuck in my throat.
They're starting to shoot those weird, sharp needles that put me to sleep, and I have to duck every time one comes close; I'm screaming for help and praying they'll keep missing me until someone sees me.
It seems like everyone but me and the chasers are sleeping; no one's saving me.
Whatever happened to superheroes?
I'm crying still, and I keep telling myself to stop, cuz it makes it harder to see, but I just can't; I'm too scared.
I don't want to go back.
I'm so cold and scared and tired, I just want to stop and fall on the ground and curl up and cry, but if I do they'll grab me.
Reagan would be SO mad.
She'd NEVER forgive me.
She told me never to run away.
She said that if I did, that would make me a bad girl.
She showed me what she does to bad girls.
It's even worse than what she does to little girls who don't listen.
That's me; I'm a little girl who doesn't listen.
I'm naughty.
Not bad; just naughty.
But that can be beaten out of me, Reagan says.
Now that I ran away, though, I'm bad.
And THAT can't be beaten out of me.
That makes me feel so scared I almost stop where I am and just die right there.
Can that happen?
Can you just make yourself die?
I'm on a really long and dark road now, and nobody's out.
There are a lot of old buildings here, and they have those colored lights that make the buzzing sound, like they're gonna break soon.
There are a few cars parked along the road, and all of them are empty.
That gives me an idea.
Before any of the men can see me, I drop down to the ground and crawl under a pretty red car.
It makes me get even more wet and cold and it scrapes my knees up, but when I lie still and hold my breath, the men pass right by me.
I kind of thought they would.
They aren't very smart.
I'm too scared to get out from under the car, though; I'm too afraid that they'll come back and see me.
So I just lie there for a while, getting more wet and shivering, my legs stinging from the scrapes I got.
After a long time, I get out and look down the street; when I see no one, I sit down by the car and cry.
It feels good to cry, because it's like flushing out all the bad stuff that's happened so I can try to be happy again.
I like being happy.
It's better than being sad.
And crying just makes me feel better.
But it makes me tired.
When I've cried all I can, I feel so sleepy I can barely move.
I know I can't fall asleep out here in the rain; I'll catch my 'death of cold', whatever that means.
I don't know where I got the idea, but after a second, I reach up and try the back door to the red car; it's unlocked, and after I swing it open, I climb inside.
The seats are really smooth and kind of chilly; I think they're leather.
This car must be SO expensive!
I think the owner would be mad to have me in here.
I get down at the space between the front and back seats and cover myself up with a jacket I find; I'll just wake up early before anyone gets in here.
It'll all be fine.
I feel a lot better now, warm and safe from the bad people and done crying.
I'm asleep before I know it.
Morning dawns bright and sunny, showing no signs of the previous rain or of my bad mood.
My headache lingers still, gripping the foggy edges of my mind with clawed fingers, scraping every last fragment of pain into my skull it can.
Man, I hate this.
I'm showered and in disguise by six, checked out and in the car by a quarter 'til seven.
I pop a few more aspirin into my mouth, knowing I've probably already maxed the limit and I'll drop down dead on the road.
Oh well.
I've driven about an hour when I finally morph into a humanistic version of myself: same hair, same figure, just green eyes and tanned skin.
I would go all the way with the indigo skin and yellow eyes, but I really am NOT in the mood to cause a ten-car pile-up on the expressway.
I have the radio on, but I'm not exactly listening to what song might be on; it's background noise.
"Some vacation this is turning out to be," I mutter irritably.
That's when I hear the half-stifled little sob from behind me and almost crash into the poor guy in front of me.
Glancing into the rearview mirror, my heart palpitating against my chest like some crazed bird trying to escape a cage, my eyes catch sight of a tousle-haired head lying on the back seat.
"Holy-!"
I swerve onto the side of the road immediately, receiving none-too-kind gestures from my fellow drivers as I kick my door open and reach into the glove box for my gun.
"Some loser homeless dude breakin' into MY car on THIS day when my head STILL hurts and I'm THIS irked?" I feel my lips curl into a fetal snarl as I wrench the back door open and thrust my gun forward, "Oh no you d-"
It's weird how I can actually sense my heart stop at this moment.
There's a little girl in my car, staring at me with the biggest eyes I've ever seen, and she's got tears streaming down her cheeks, and she's thrown herself away from me and is begging, "PLEASE! DON' HURT ME! I'M SOWWY I GOT IN DA CAR! I DIDN'T MEAN TA MAKE YOU MAD! DON' HURT ME!!"
Hey everyone!
Man, I have WAAAY too many stories, you know that? This one I just came up with because I wanted a change, you know? This is based on the comic book Mystique, so don't get all freaked when Mystique's different then she is from the X-Men comics, cuz she IS different in MYSTIQUE then in X-Men...ok. That's enough confusing.
This fic is TOTALLY dependent on YOUR reviews, ok? The only reason I'll even consider continuing is if you ask me to in reviews. Deal? Ok.
Disclaimer: I don't own Mystique or anything related to her. The idea for this story is MINE though, so if ya wanna use it or any of the characters I made up, ASK. I'm pretty nice about it ;-).
Chapter 1
"Go on vacation," they said.
"Take a break! You deserve it!"
Man, I hate those two.
I inhale deeply from my cigarette and breathe out, watching curls of smoke dance from my lips and out over the sea, joining the steam from the sizzling hotdogs and the pollution of New York streets.
There are people everywhere—kids skating on the sidewalks, adults rushing past with their all-important briefcases, teens slouching by with walkmans banging and piercings flashing.
Most of the boys are doubling back to stare at me, their mouths hanging open in apparent shock and satisfication.
I take another drag, savor the smoke's bitter taste in my mouth, ad then let it all out as I mutter, "What? You boys never seen a mutant terrorist before or what?"
That gets 'em to either scoff or turn and walk quickly away.
Hey, I was telling the truth.
Maybe I should have changed from my disguise when I said it.
That would've got 'em good.
I can't help but to chuckle slightly at the thought—me, in my natural form, standing on the boardwalk having a smoke while everyone runs around me in sheer terror.
Just can't have a decent rest around here while being yourself.
I drop my cigarette to the ground and step on it with one high-heeled shoe, crushing it beneath my toe as I adjust the straps of my more-than-slightly revealing tank top.
I suppose I should be moving on from here; taking my so-called 'vacation'.
It's not like Xavier's giving me anything to do until I get my 'decent rest'.
Curse him.
I roll my eyes as I fumble around in my purse for a mirror so I can put some more lipstick on; it already feels like I've got on the whole tube, but whatever.
I like the shade.
Once my hands finally clasp a mirror, I slide it out and flip it open, admiring my reflection for a minute before I smooth the lipstick over my already too-scarlet lips.
The reflection staring at me through half-lowered eyelids is sickeningly pretty, that of some lady I saw at the bar last night. Her skin is somewhat pale, though still stunning, appearing perfect against her cascade of ebony waves. Her eyes are dark and fiery, alight with a 'come hither' attitude. She probably looks fine WITHOUT makeup, but she wore a ton when I saw her.
I suppose me smearing lipstick all over her is another way I'm getting payback; hey, it was her fault for calling my jacket 'last season'.
Nobody insults MY disguises, Babe.
I smirk slightly, mimicking her light and sarcastic tone, "Oh, no Officer! I swear, I don't KNOW what you saw, but it wasn't ME being shoved off that roof..."
I rub my lips together and kiss the air, mimicking her perfectly before I snap the mirror shut and toss it into my bag with the lipstick.
I see a little boy, maybe six or seven, sitting on a bench within a foot of me, staring at me openly while his mother buys him a hotdog across the way.
He looks like he's disgusted.
I raise my eyebrows at him, and then exclaim "Boo!" causing him to jump and run to his mother, gazing back at me only after he's hidden behind her skirt.
I smirk at him condescendingly and continue down the street before anyone can try to chew me out for scaring an 'innocent little angel'.
I'm so scared.
I've never felt so afraid in my life.
I'm standing by a big wall, one that has rain running down like a waterfall; it's getting me really wet.
There's a scary storm going on, and the sky's on fire and there's screaming everywhere.
I wish someone would come get me.
Someone nice, like a policeman.
Where'd all the nice people go?
All I see are bad people.
Bad people who want me.
They want me, so they can take me again and hurt me more.
I shiver and hug myself as I watch some mean men looking for me.
They're calling my name, and it sounds bad the way they say it.
I hate them.
I hate them for taking me away from the House, even if it was kind of dirty and smelly and small.
I hate them for making me stay with them and for locking me up in the dark, cold closet.
They're so bad.
Especially when they hurt me.
That's when they're really bad.
When they make me cry and scream and 'beg' them.
That's the word Miss Reagan seems to like.
'Beg'.
"Beg me," she says.
And she won't stop hurting me until I do.
She's the boss.
In most movies I saw in the House, the men were the boss, but she's a lady and she's a boss.
Everybody listens to her.
Everybody but me.
I never listen to her.
Except when she says, "Beg me."
I listen then, because it hurts too much.
She hurts me too much, and I HAVE to listen then.
The men are staring to get really angry now, and they're pushing things down and yelling for me to 'come out'.
That's why I'm crying now.
They're shouting really loud, and if they shout too loud, Miss Reagan will hear and get mad, and if she gets mad...
I shiver when I think about it, so I stop.
I can hear them getting closer to me, so I quietly run down the street, the rain sinking through my clothes and making me feel so cold...
Another bolt of lightning slices through the sky, followed by a roll of thunder that shatters the silence around me.
I wake up instantly, sitting up suddenly on the cheap couch in the cheap room I rented from this cheap hotel.
My head throbs and I lean back, closing my eyes and sighing; oh, what I'd do for an aspirin.
It's been raining like this for hours; the only reason I pulled off the road is because of this crap.
Otherwise, I'd probably be in Las Vegas, gambling my money away on absolute nothingness.
I groan as I glance at the clock; it's dead, like the rest of the power.
"I can't believe this!"
I kick the thick blanket from my legs and stand, stretching as I sit on the edge of the lumpy mattress this place calls a bed and pick up my watch: 3:36.
I moan and lie back, closing my eyes against another flash of lightning.
I haven't had this bad of a headache in years.
The pain is like a hot blade prying my skull open and chopping my brains to mush.
Thinking that makes it hurt more.
I get up slowly and stumble into the bathroom, feeling dizzy as I run cold water over a worn out washcloth.
In a few minutes, I'm lying in bed, the washcloth over my eyes as I try (fruitlessly) to get back to sleep.
About then, the power comes back on and the TV (which I'd mistakenly forgotten to turn off earlier) begins to blare the story of some kidnapping.
I jump from the sudden noise and feel my head scream in agony from the sudden bright lights.
Swearing angrily, nausea bubbling in my throat, I reach over and switch the lamp off, grabbing the remote and starting to turn the television off as well when I pause for a moment.
"—last, when young Meghan Anne Carnelle was seen. She is said to be wearing blue jean-shorts, a light-colored blouse, and a bright yellow jacket. If you have any information concerning her whereabouts, please call-"
I press the power button and lean back into the pillows, lifting the phone to my ear and pressing the button for room service.
As soon as voice comes on the other line, I ask for aspirin, and hang up.
I'm getting sleep tonight, even if I have to drug myself to do it.
I can hear them behind me, yelling at me to stop.
They must think I'm stupid or something.
If I stop, they'll grab me and take me back THERE.
I'm not going back.
NEVER.
I keep running, sliding in the puddles and breathing really hard, like there's something stuck in my throat.
They're starting to shoot those weird, sharp needles that put me to sleep, and I have to duck every time one comes close; I'm screaming for help and praying they'll keep missing me until someone sees me.
It seems like everyone but me and the chasers are sleeping; no one's saving me.
Whatever happened to superheroes?
I'm crying still, and I keep telling myself to stop, cuz it makes it harder to see, but I just can't; I'm too scared.
I don't want to go back.
I'm so cold and scared and tired, I just want to stop and fall on the ground and curl up and cry, but if I do they'll grab me.
Reagan would be SO mad.
She'd NEVER forgive me.
She told me never to run away.
She said that if I did, that would make me a bad girl.
She showed me what she does to bad girls.
It's even worse than what she does to little girls who don't listen.
That's me; I'm a little girl who doesn't listen.
I'm naughty.
Not bad; just naughty.
But that can be beaten out of me, Reagan says.
Now that I ran away, though, I'm bad.
And THAT can't be beaten out of me.
That makes me feel so scared I almost stop where I am and just die right there.
Can that happen?
Can you just make yourself die?
I'm on a really long and dark road now, and nobody's out.
There are a lot of old buildings here, and they have those colored lights that make the buzzing sound, like they're gonna break soon.
There are a few cars parked along the road, and all of them are empty.
That gives me an idea.
Before any of the men can see me, I drop down to the ground and crawl under a pretty red car.
It makes me get even more wet and cold and it scrapes my knees up, but when I lie still and hold my breath, the men pass right by me.
I kind of thought they would.
They aren't very smart.
I'm too scared to get out from under the car, though; I'm too afraid that they'll come back and see me.
So I just lie there for a while, getting more wet and shivering, my legs stinging from the scrapes I got.
After a long time, I get out and look down the street; when I see no one, I sit down by the car and cry.
It feels good to cry, because it's like flushing out all the bad stuff that's happened so I can try to be happy again.
I like being happy.
It's better than being sad.
And crying just makes me feel better.
But it makes me tired.
When I've cried all I can, I feel so sleepy I can barely move.
I know I can't fall asleep out here in the rain; I'll catch my 'death of cold', whatever that means.
I don't know where I got the idea, but after a second, I reach up and try the back door to the red car; it's unlocked, and after I swing it open, I climb inside.
The seats are really smooth and kind of chilly; I think they're leather.
This car must be SO expensive!
I think the owner would be mad to have me in here.
I get down at the space between the front and back seats and cover myself up with a jacket I find; I'll just wake up early before anyone gets in here.
It'll all be fine.
I feel a lot better now, warm and safe from the bad people and done crying.
I'm asleep before I know it.
Morning dawns bright and sunny, showing no signs of the previous rain or of my bad mood.
My headache lingers still, gripping the foggy edges of my mind with clawed fingers, scraping every last fragment of pain into my skull it can.
Man, I hate this.
I'm showered and in disguise by six, checked out and in the car by a quarter 'til seven.
I pop a few more aspirin into my mouth, knowing I've probably already maxed the limit and I'll drop down dead on the road.
Oh well.
I've driven about an hour when I finally morph into a humanistic version of myself: same hair, same figure, just green eyes and tanned skin.
I would go all the way with the indigo skin and yellow eyes, but I really am NOT in the mood to cause a ten-car pile-up on the expressway.
I have the radio on, but I'm not exactly listening to what song might be on; it's background noise.
"Some vacation this is turning out to be," I mutter irritably.
That's when I hear the half-stifled little sob from behind me and almost crash into the poor guy in front of me.
Glancing into the rearview mirror, my heart palpitating against my chest like some crazed bird trying to escape a cage, my eyes catch sight of a tousle-haired head lying on the back seat.
"Holy-!"
I swerve onto the side of the road immediately, receiving none-too-kind gestures from my fellow drivers as I kick my door open and reach into the glove box for my gun.
"Some loser homeless dude breakin' into MY car on THIS day when my head STILL hurts and I'm THIS irked?" I feel my lips curl into a fetal snarl as I wrench the back door open and thrust my gun forward, "Oh no you d-"
It's weird how I can actually sense my heart stop at this moment.
There's a little girl in my car, staring at me with the biggest eyes I've ever seen, and she's got tears streaming down her cheeks, and she's thrown herself away from me and is begging, "PLEASE! DON' HURT ME! I'M SOWWY I GOT IN DA CAR! I DIDN'T MEAN TA MAKE YOU MAD! DON' HURT ME!!"