I don't own X-Men, yeah, etc...

I was unsure if I should do this chapter or not... but now that it's finished I'm really very pleased with it.

Enjoy,

--P

The band onstage, a fiddle and acoustic guitar duo, starts to pack up their things. They've played their allotted time.

Alison takes one last sip from her tall iced mocha before placing it back down on the table. "I'll be up next." She says to the man across from her. Alison's voice is clearly nervous, but her eyes portray excitement. She has jitters, but there's no way they'll hinder her now.

The man reaches across the table to take her hand. He holds it, but it's not a comforting grip. He's keeping her at the table. "Ali."

"Let go, David."

"Ali, don't."

She meets his eyes. "I have to."

"Why?"

Alison pulls her hand away from his grip. She doesn't have to fight. The man hasn't the fortitude to truly stop her. She uses her newfound freedom to pull the blue scrunchie from her wrist and wind it in her mess of sandy hair. Once that's done, she looks back to David. "Look good?"

"You always look good."

"Thank you." Alison checks her blouse, white with pretty blue and gold stars embroidered along the sleeves. It's eye-catching, flatters her figure, but is not-at-all overdone. She answers the man's earlier question. "I really don't know why, David. I just have to. The song came to me. It won't let me sleep. It won't let me be until I perform it. It's just something I have to do."

"It's just going to cause trouble."

"It very well may. Do these jeans go with my top?"

"They're fine." David says with a sigh. "Are you listening to me at all?"

"Are you listening to me? I have to sing this song."

"These people don't care. They don't care about politics, they don't care about anything like that. They just want to sit, drink their coffee, and listen to some nice music. That's all."

Alison shakes her head. "Art--music--is expression, babe. If they weren't prepared for my expression, they should have stayed home."

"See there you go." His voice is clearly annoyed now. "You have to throw it in everyone's faces, don't you? We couldn't even go home for one visit without you telling my whole family at the dinner table."

Alison manages to stay cool despite David's annoyance with her. "We were announcing our engagement. Do you think I want to be a part of your family without them knowing who I am?"

"Why can't you just be Alison? Why do you have to be Alison the Mutant? You throw it in everyone's faces like you're trying to get a rise, like you want attention."

"Why should I have to hide?" Alison stands, pushing in her chair. They haven't called her yet but she doesn't want to sit with David anymore. She doesn't want to upset herself further before her turn on stage. "There is nothing wrong with me. I am not a pariah; I am not freak. I am happy with who I am, and thusly, want people to know."

"But that's not what people want to know--"

She cuts him off. "Don't. I'm going to sing this song and that's that."

He's looking up at her. "Sit down, please, just sit down."

Her composure starts to fray. "What are you so damned afraid of, David? Afraid that this whole coffee shop, this big important coffee shop is going to judge you for dating a mutant, for being engaged to a mutant? Are you ashamed to be seen with me?"

"Don't be ridiculous, I love you Alison."

A man walks on stage and takes the microphone from its stand. "Show some love to Ginger Peach Tea, they're regulars here for Open Mic Night at the Java Lounge." The audience of fifteen or so applauds, some giving unobtrusive whistles.

"You love me?" Alison asks.

"Yes." David says, clearly exasperated .

The man on the mic continues. "Alright, now we've got the lovely folk stylings of Alison Blaire. She's making a name for herself, and she's sure to dazzle you if you let her. Come on up, Ali." The man nods in Alison's direction

"You love Alison, but do you love Alison the Mutant?" With a quick and precise motion, She removes the engagement ring from her finger. "I'm going to sing this song. If you're still here when I come off stage… well then, I'll put this back on." Alison bends down so as to hand the ring to David. She kisses him once, touches his face, and then backs away. She picks up her acoustic guitar. "Otherwise consider yourself off the hook, babe. Find you a girl who hates herself." She walks towards the tiny stage at the front of the room.

A few of the patrons clap when Alison sits down on a stool and strums her guitar, checking the tuning. The songstress regards them with a smile and a quick finger wave. Once she's satisfied with the guitar, Alison pulls the microphone down to her level. "Check? Check? Ok, super, we're green. Super green?"

Someone in the front row catches the joke, replying with a high-pitched. "Super green!"

"Alright, some of you know me, some of you don't. I am Alison Blaire. I live right here in scenic San Francisco, and I love Java Lounge." She pauses; looks around; grins. "There, now that I'm sure that I've pleased at least one person in the house…"

The audience laughs at this.

"…let me start by saying this is probably the most personal song I've ever done. Came to me in a dream, took me forever to nail, but I hope you like it."

Alison strums her guitar once, plays the opening chord, plays the intro. The song itself is slow and mournful, but the chords register strong, defiant in despite their melancholy. She completes the intro, inhales, and begins tenderly singing into the microphone.

How can you pretend
That you are now my friend
That everything you do is understanding?

How can you pretend
Without standing in my skin
That I am afflicted with a kind of cancer?

I am not your broken dream
I am not your mistaken code
I am not the one you need to fear

How can you call, friend?
And how can you pretend
That you don't want to see me cured?

Alison looks out over the audience, past them, to the table where she and David talked before her song. He's gone. Alison closes her eyes. She knew he wouldn't be there. Damn, she thinks wistfully. He's going to miss my finale.

Alison takes an instrumental break, exploring the variations on the theme of her song, feeling the delicious tones her guitar flow into her. Her skin tingles. She feels the notes, the sound itself, sink in and energize her muscles. She takes in as much of her guitar's resonance as possible without muting it completely. The act of taking in so much energy like this always makes her feel giddy: euphoric.

But it's nothing compared to the release.

Why is it a cure
And how are you so sure
There's something wrong with what's inside of me?

I am not your fault
I am not your future
I am not the one you need to fear

Alison knows she's glowing. When she takes in sound, when she stores it like she's doing now, she always glows. She concentrates, she changes the shade. She lets her emotions guide her gift. She lets the song dictate the way her illumination manifests.

She let's the stored sound energy out, her body converting it into bioluminescence.

Opening her eyes, Alison's view of the audience is obscured by the tiny floating masses of blue and purple light that slowly orbit her.

Some move in unison, some move alone, but they all follow the gentle command of her guitar. Alison continues her song.

How can you pretend
That this cure is my godsend
When you're the only one who seems to care?

I am your little girl
I am your daughter
I am your wife
I am not the one you need to fear
I am not the one you need to fear

The song ends. Alison pulls one last chord from her guitar, there's a brilliant flash, a snap and crackle, and the lights fade away. Alison glows for a few more seconds before her skin slowly darkens back to its normal color, devoid of luminescence.

"Thank you." She says cautiously into the microphone.

A few minutes later, Alison sits on the curb a few blocks down from the coffee shop. She'd been completely aware of what could happen when she took to the stage, and she wasn't shocked when the first of the boos came.

At least I got to finish, Alison thinks to herself, running her fingers over the top of her guitar case. They heard the whole thing. That's something.

She's not mad. She knows that acceptance takes time; takes effort. It's a choice between morals and the desire to be loved. There is no in-between. Alison could very easily write songs that pleased every person. She could perform them, ignore the feeling of bliss that comes when she releases her lights. Alison could make a nice living performing locally, never revealing the fact that she is a mutant. She could marry David. She could be plain, simple, Alison.

But Alison is Alison The Mutant. Her morals will not allow her to remain quiet. Her spirit will not allow her to live without glowing.

She's not wrathful, she's not vindictive. Alison does not demand reparations and she does not hate human beings. She just wants to be seen. She just wants to be noticed, accepted, and then, if there is time, Alison wants to be loved.

Footsteps register in Alison's ears. She turns in time to see a young woman walking up the hilly sidewalk towards her. "Miss Blaire?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry, I don't want to bother you. I saw you perform in the Java Lounge."

"You're not bothering me." Alison says with a polite smile.

The woman starts to speak, but her voice cuts out and she starts to cry mutedly into her hand. "I'm sorry." She mumbles. "Oh this looks so stupid."

Alison stands. "What's wrong? Was I that bad?"

"No! No not at all!" The woman protests, trying to dry her eyes. "You were wonderful. I cried all through the second half of your song. I must seem like such a tit."

"Oh don't say that. I cry all them time when something moves me. I'm just… well… a little surprised I moved someone to do something other than boo."

The woman shakes her head. "You're so brave. I could never have done something like that."

"Are you…?"

"Yes." The woman says. "I'm a mutant."

Alison opens her mouth to say something to the woman, but a tremor passes beneath her feet. A rumble issues somewhere up and over the hill. She looks around.

The other woman speaks first, visibly shaken. "What was that? Earthquake?"

"No." Alison says, feeling the sounds of a hundred footfalls slowly wash over her skin. She can hear them before they even come over the hill. Alison can sense the army's voices, their cheers and shouts, before the other woman can audibly pick them out. "We need to go."

Alison snatches up her guitar; she and the woman run back down the hill towards the Java Lounge as the first wave of mutants crest the hill.