A fifteen-year-old English girl learns she is a mutant, but the price of
that knowledge is set murderously high...
Disclaimer: Not making any money from this...
A/N: Dedicated to Icelynx, for asking me to write this one, cheers my friend! Oh and football = soccer to all you Americans out there. Reviews always appreciated, except flames, which can go to hell where no doubt they will be welcome.
01
In the middle distance, a school bell chimed discordantly, only to be stoically ignored by the small band of teenagers, chilling with a football by the bus stop. Unusually for the north of England, the sky above was clear and blue, the four pupils' black school blazers finding a new lease of life as makeshift goalposts. The grass had been recently cut on the small, scrappy piece of council-maintained lawn that passed for the local park. The grass clippings were slowly browning in the afternoon sunshine, like hay matting on top of the green, smelling sweet above the polluted, oppressive atmosphere. Traffic buzzed past indifferently, nobody rushing overly in the pleasant weather, no one interested in the truanting kids. Briefly a spluttering, orange-painted, diesel bus sprawled in advertising posters pulled into the lay-by, to let a little old woman with a shopping basket disembark. Its doors sluiced shut again as she scowled disapprovingly in the teenagers' direction, before tootling off to the old mill town's weekly open-air market.
The only girl in the group of teenagers laughed melodiously; not phased in the slightest by the old woman's obvious condemnation of her and her friends. A slight fifteen-year-old, she perched on a low red brick wall. Kicking back absently, her black shoe heels clipped the mortar, dislodging clumps of fluffy emerald moss. She wore her uniform's knee-length, grey pleated, cotton skirt rolled up at the waistband to a length at best described as mid-thigh, and at worst indecently short. Her white school shirt was untucked and unbuttoned at neck and waist, mottled with grass stains like army camouflage up her left arm. Her school tie was striped red and gold, tied in a chunky knot, and made her own with pin badges depicting her allegiances in football and music. Her red hair she wore in a scruffy, tangled, knot of curls at the base of her neck. But it was the girl's big brown eyes that could take your breath away. Deep and soulful, there was something intangible about how troubled and lost they seemed, set in stark contrast to her laughter in the sunshine. It was almost as if, even as one so young, she was carrying dark secrets she'd share with no one.
"Oh, nice shot Anderson!" She teased one of the boys sarcastically, as he sliced the ball into the branches of a nearby tree. "My Irish Grandma could do better than that, and she's been dead three years!"
"Oi, shut it Laura." Danny Anderson grinned, wagging a finger at his friend. "You're not big and you're not clever." She stuck her tongue out at him, folding her arms, as always defensive about her diminutive size.
"And you're the laziest goalie ever, too, Laura..." Mikey grumbled, poking the ball out of the tree with a long-ago broken branch. The final lad, Tom, caught the once-white football easily, beginning a sequence of flamboyant tricks and skills with the ball. Nobody paid any attention.
"Aww, I hate being in nets." Laura moaned, climbing down off the wall and going to the two piles of blazers, stretching and rolling back her skinny shoulders industriously.
"So go get yourself some girly mates, Williams, then you wont have to." Tom quipped, passing the ball with a smooth kick to Danny. "How come you never hang out with the girls anyway?"
"Cause I'm a bitch and they can't cope with it." The slim redhead smiled, bouncing slightly on her toes, ready for Danny's curling shot this time. She dived full length to save it, her fingertips barely brushing the ball around the imaginary goalpost. But she was to far gone by then in the motion to pull up from the dive, her own momentum sending her tumbling gracefully to the floor, adding grass stains on her right arm to match the ones on her left.
Out of the blue, as she tried to recover herself, a shadow fell across her that was cold and dark. Even before she looked up, Laura's stomach plummeted, and she tasted bile. Call it an instinctive guilty reaction, she was proved justified as she squinted up at the silhouette stood over her.
"Lying down on the job, Laura? Not finding skiving off too taxing are we?" The sardonic twang of her IT teacher, Mr Greenwood. Slowly she got to her knees, stood, and brushed down the back of her skirt. Unbidden, the lads came and stood besides her, mates united against their common foe. The teacher sneered coldly at his errant pupils, not unlike an alligator greeting his prey.
"Doesn't you're being here mean you're skiving too?" Laura replied audaciously, making the teacher scowl. His dour reaction made Laura wish briefly she had better control of her tongue, but she always had been too good at the whole 'open-mouth, insert-foot' scenario. True to form, her teacher reacted with a starburst of needy authority, voice strict and eyes angry.
"It would do you good to keep a civil tongue in that pretty head of yours, Laura Williams. And I think you'll find you're all late for a very serious appointment with the Headmaster, so if you don't mind..." Mark Greenwood indicated that the teenagers precede him back to the school building.
"Mutey." Mikey muttered, as Danny almost shoulder-barged the teacher out of his way. Mark Greenwood turned an angry shade of purple, knowing full well that to be called a 'mutey' by these kids was currently the lowest form of insult. There was no truth in it; he was as human as any of them. In fact there were no mutants at this school, or any other in the district. Nationally, the very idea of mutants even existing was still contestable, more than one cynical Brit saying as usual it was just the Yanks blaming everything that was wrong with their country on something they couldn't control. Mark had no opinion on the matter, but the kids had taken it to heart, establishing an insult that meant you were lower than low, cursed, diseased, a mutant...
Laura followed the lads and their teacher at a short distance, though she did not hang back consciously, or out of cowardice. Her palms were tingling with anxious anticipation, her stomach churning and hot. Somewhere inside of her, a small voice was urging her to keep calm, keep control, though of what was not apparent. She kept her beautiful eyes firmly on the pale paving flags of the path, trying not to be aware of the rustling dry leaves on the few scattered young saplings. She wondered if she'd looked at the sun too long when squinting up at Mr Greenwood, as her vision speckled and tinted orange. Absently, she coughed dryly, wondering as she did why all she could taste was steam; all she could smell was ash...
Disclaimer: Not making any money from this...
A/N: Dedicated to Icelynx, for asking me to write this one, cheers my friend! Oh and football = soccer to all you Americans out there. Reviews always appreciated, except flames, which can go to hell where no doubt they will be welcome.
01
In the middle distance, a school bell chimed discordantly, only to be stoically ignored by the small band of teenagers, chilling with a football by the bus stop. Unusually for the north of England, the sky above was clear and blue, the four pupils' black school blazers finding a new lease of life as makeshift goalposts. The grass had been recently cut on the small, scrappy piece of council-maintained lawn that passed for the local park. The grass clippings were slowly browning in the afternoon sunshine, like hay matting on top of the green, smelling sweet above the polluted, oppressive atmosphere. Traffic buzzed past indifferently, nobody rushing overly in the pleasant weather, no one interested in the truanting kids. Briefly a spluttering, orange-painted, diesel bus sprawled in advertising posters pulled into the lay-by, to let a little old woman with a shopping basket disembark. Its doors sluiced shut again as she scowled disapprovingly in the teenagers' direction, before tootling off to the old mill town's weekly open-air market.
The only girl in the group of teenagers laughed melodiously; not phased in the slightest by the old woman's obvious condemnation of her and her friends. A slight fifteen-year-old, she perched on a low red brick wall. Kicking back absently, her black shoe heels clipped the mortar, dislodging clumps of fluffy emerald moss. She wore her uniform's knee-length, grey pleated, cotton skirt rolled up at the waistband to a length at best described as mid-thigh, and at worst indecently short. Her white school shirt was untucked and unbuttoned at neck and waist, mottled with grass stains like army camouflage up her left arm. Her school tie was striped red and gold, tied in a chunky knot, and made her own with pin badges depicting her allegiances in football and music. Her red hair she wore in a scruffy, tangled, knot of curls at the base of her neck. But it was the girl's big brown eyes that could take your breath away. Deep and soulful, there was something intangible about how troubled and lost they seemed, set in stark contrast to her laughter in the sunshine. It was almost as if, even as one so young, she was carrying dark secrets she'd share with no one.
"Oh, nice shot Anderson!" She teased one of the boys sarcastically, as he sliced the ball into the branches of a nearby tree. "My Irish Grandma could do better than that, and she's been dead three years!"
"Oi, shut it Laura." Danny Anderson grinned, wagging a finger at his friend. "You're not big and you're not clever." She stuck her tongue out at him, folding her arms, as always defensive about her diminutive size.
"And you're the laziest goalie ever, too, Laura..." Mikey grumbled, poking the ball out of the tree with a long-ago broken branch. The final lad, Tom, caught the once-white football easily, beginning a sequence of flamboyant tricks and skills with the ball. Nobody paid any attention.
"Aww, I hate being in nets." Laura moaned, climbing down off the wall and going to the two piles of blazers, stretching and rolling back her skinny shoulders industriously.
"So go get yourself some girly mates, Williams, then you wont have to." Tom quipped, passing the ball with a smooth kick to Danny. "How come you never hang out with the girls anyway?"
"Cause I'm a bitch and they can't cope with it." The slim redhead smiled, bouncing slightly on her toes, ready for Danny's curling shot this time. She dived full length to save it, her fingertips barely brushing the ball around the imaginary goalpost. But she was to far gone by then in the motion to pull up from the dive, her own momentum sending her tumbling gracefully to the floor, adding grass stains on her right arm to match the ones on her left.
Out of the blue, as she tried to recover herself, a shadow fell across her that was cold and dark. Even before she looked up, Laura's stomach plummeted, and she tasted bile. Call it an instinctive guilty reaction, she was proved justified as she squinted up at the silhouette stood over her.
"Lying down on the job, Laura? Not finding skiving off too taxing are we?" The sardonic twang of her IT teacher, Mr Greenwood. Slowly she got to her knees, stood, and brushed down the back of her skirt. Unbidden, the lads came and stood besides her, mates united against their common foe. The teacher sneered coldly at his errant pupils, not unlike an alligator greeting his prey.
"Doesn't you're being here mean you're skiving too?" Laura replied audaciously, making the teacher scowl. His dour reaction made Laura wish briefly she had better control of her tongue, but she always had been too good at the whole 'open-mouth, insert-foot' scenario. True to form, her teacher reacted with a starburst of needy authority, voice strict and eyes angry.
"It would do you good to keep a civil tongue in that pretty head of yours, Laura Williams. And I think you'll find you're all late for a very serious appointment with the Headmaster, so if you don't mind..." Mark Greenwood indicated that the teenagers precede him back to the school building.
"Mutey." Mikey muttered, as Danny almost shoulder-barged the teacher out of his way. Mark Greenwood turned an angry shade of purple, knowing full well that to be called a 'mutey' by these kids was currently the lowest form of insult. There was no truth in it; he was as human as any of them. In fact there were no mutants at this school, or any other in the district. Nationally, the very idea of mutants even existing was still contestable, more than one cynical Brit saying as usual it was just the Yanks blaming everything that was wrong with their country on something they couldn't control. Mark had no opinion on the matter, but the kids had taken it to heart, establishing an insult that meant you were lower than low, cursed, diseased, a mutant...
Laura followed the lads and their teacher at a short distance, though she did not hang back consciously, or out of cowardice. Her palms were tingling with anxious anticipation, her stomach churning and hot. Somewhere inside of her, a small voice was urging her to keep calm, keep control, though of what was not apparent. She kept her beautiful eyes firmly on the pale paving flags of the path, trying not to be aware of the rustling dry leaves on the few scattered young saplings. She wondered if she'd looked at the sun too long when squinting up at Mr Greenwood, as her vision speckled and tinted orange. Absently, she coughed dryly, wondering as she did why all she could taste was steam; all she could smell was ash...