"And fantastic job on that debate tournament last night, Mr. Carter!"
"Uh…yeah, thank you…" The tournament was last weekend, Mr. Coen.
"You're really putting our institution on the map!"
"Thank you sir…" Our school's so small the other side of town doesn't know we exist.
"Well, I need to be going. Have a nice day!"
"You too…bye…" You're a loser. Go away. Have a nice day.
Okay, maybe that wasn't nice, but he gets on my nerves…
Greg jaywalked across the street to the unpaved student parking lot of his miniature highschool. Top of the senior class, sure to be valedictorian, 4.0 student, Greg Michael Carter was extremely bored with life. All it consisted of so far was taking notes in his classes, memorizing them that night, wasting the study hall periods that were allotted to the senior class, and trying to ignore all the girls while they were trading photos of him in the hallways between classes.
Suddenly Greg knocked into a frenzied sophomore who was running off the bus to retrieve something she had evidently forgotten in her locker before they left. "Sorry!" she shot over her shoulder, barely even looking back as the binders that wouldn't fit in Greg's backpack went flying out of his arms. Yeah, whatever, Greg thought sarcastically as he desperately grabbed for his scattered papers. One of them flew right out of his hand, landing in the middle of the street as a gust of wind brushed by Greg. Stupid paper, he thought, as he walked out to retrieve it.
There were three seconds of utter confusion, during which the blue sky turned black and his skin turned inside out as purple flecks danced across his eyes. Then the pain seared through him. There was no room for thought as he instinctively tried to sit up (why am I lying down?), but found himself unable to. What happened?
The sound came back more slowly. People were screaming and milling around him, shielding his body from the breeze. Strangely, though, it was still cold without the breeze. Too cold for an April afternoon. And suddenly, it was far too warm for July. The hell is going on?
Greg felt liquid leaking from his body. He opened his eyes and saw his uniform shirt stained crimson. But I was wearing a white shirt this morning…Oh, God, it's my blood…he turned his head as far as he could, and saw a car sitting a little ways away, and tire tracks on the asphalt that indicated that it had swerved to a stop. I always did hate Hummers. He heard Mr. Coen yelling over the crowd.
"It's going to be alright, folks, he'll be fine, the paramedics are on there way…Jean? Jean are you there? Jean, call Mr. and Mrs. Carter and tell them their son's been hit by a car, they're going to take him to the hospital…"
Greg's body convulsed involuntarily, the muscles contracting without his brain's consent. Greg managed to scream as his torn skin and broken bones scraped against each other. He felt sweat mingling with his blood. He opened his eyes again and saw Mr. Carter pressing on his shoulders while the History teacher got his legs, trying to straighten him back out so that he didn't damage anything that had already been hurt by the car. "It's alright son, it's going to be…" Mr. Carter stopped speaking, and was staring speechless at some spot on Greg's torso. Greg gasped as a wave of iced cold spread through his body. It felt like sheets of ice were forming all over him, cooling the burn of his wounds, but at the same time encasing him in an inescapable pain. Mr. Carter and the History teacher slowly got up and backed away. Greg looked at his torn shirt, but where blood had been before, there was only clear skin. A little red, yes, but unblemished and undamaged.
Silence fell. Only ambulance sirens could be heard, coming closer. Greg got to his feet. No one made a sound. Suddenly weakening, he stumbled, and fell against a parked car. Nobody moved.
Then someone screamed.
The crowd of students scattered, the teachers trying to direct them back into the school. Greg's mind grasped the paradox slowly. He had been hit by a car. Hard. He had been bleeding. He'd definitely broken bones. Now he was standing up, all on his own, watching a screaming mass of humanity stream back into the safety of a small building.
A screaming mass of humanity he was no longer a member of.
The ambulance rushed by Greg and turned into the school parking lot, not one person inside it suspecting the boy that had been in need of their help was now standing on the sidewalk, fully and completely healed.
The realization that he was a mutant hurt more than when he had been hit by that car.
Well, you know how the story goes…I felt guilty about not updating, so I wrote this in…let me check the clock here…oh, seven minutes, give or take two. >laughs This is GREG'S story, if you hadn't got that already. And, again, if anyone has any ideas for names, drop me a review. Or should I just keep him Greg, like Jean Grey? Oh, gosh, doesn't that sound funny…Greg Grey… >laughs
Let me explain his mutation, though…it's not healing. It looks like that from this story, but it is quite a bit different. Greg controls molecules, atoms, matter, whatever it can be called. He can move them around and switch them up and do all sorts of things…like create methane… >giggles sorry, a bit gross (wouldn't it be weird to live on Venus?)…but yeah. I know it would be a bit complicated to do that, because the substances that make up whatever he's creating or changing would have to be present in the first place, but it was a fun idea for a mutation (at least I think so!). I'm also looking into the e equals mc2 thing, where energy and matter are interchangeable – because then that would make Greg a REALLY fun person to be around. :-)
There also might be a part two to this bit, cause it doesn't really cover how he deals with his mutation, does it? It just kinda happens. And if I think of anything better, I'll post it. Also, I might do something with the 'frenzied sophomore…'
morough