Title: Two Hundred and Three
Author: Sorcieré (hack_heaven@usa.net)
Rating: PG, Rogue POV
Pairing: None, really.
Archive: Sure, go ahead.
Summary: Contemplations on the roles of life.
A/N: I’m not a cynic. I’m a realist.
To Nadja, for reasons too many to list, but
first and foremost for accepting the scarred and lonely girl beneath the
confident facade, and for responding to a cry for help that no one else
bothered to hear.
* * *
“This song is dedicated to every kid who ever got picked last in gym
class...
To every kid who never had a date to no school dance...
To everyone who's ever been called a freak...
...This is for you.”
Good Charlotte, ‘The Little Things’.
* * *
Two Hundred and Three
* * *
We all have our roles, even here at Mutant
High.
Kitty is the girl-next-door, with her pastel-colored
clothes and sweet smile. Not exceptionally beautiful, but certainly pretty
enough to get the boys’ attention.
Jubilee is the firecracker – the crazy,
fun-loving, ‘I’ll kick your ass’ chick with the bright yellow jacket and dark
sunglasses. The ever-flirting, thrill-seeking babe that has all the bad (and
not so bad) guys flocking her.
Bobby is the class clown. The fun, joking
prankster that always has a grin on his face. Endearing in a...childish way.
St. John is the cool guy – tattered jean or leather
pants, cigarettes in his pocket and has at least four lighters on his...just in
case.
Gambit...Gambit is, well, Gambit. He’s a
gambler – a womanizer, charming and confident. He has all the new girls (and
more than a few of the ‘old’) drooling over him and fighting for his attention.
He has a way with words – he can insult you and still make it sound like a
compliment.
Me? I’m the freak. The girl in the back with
the black clothes and black nail polish and her hair dyed in crazy colors. The
girl who is too weird to ignore, the girl that everybody can harass, because
nobody bothers to look beneath the surface and learn that she is in fact a
human being.
I guess that in a way, my mutation is to blame.
It’s kind of hard to look trendy when you’re forced to remain completely
covered at all times. And it’s impossible to be even remotely normal with
several people running around inside your mind. While mind-Logan usually won’t
bother me – in fact, I kinda like having him up there - I can’t control the mind-Erik
completely, no matter how hard I try. He will eventually rear his head and take
control of my mind for a short while. Southern drawl will change to a refined,
British-like accent. The sarcastic words will become coldly manipulative. The
defensive ‘I Don’t Give A Shit’ attitude will change to ‘Superior Ruler of
Mutantkind’.
No wonder people think of me as a freak.
And the worst part is...at the beginning, I
actually had some hope for this place.
When I first arrived, everything seemed so
great. People talked to me, spent time with me, showed me around. Then they
found out about my powers, and suddenly they seemed a lot more wary. The
natural curiosity about the new mutie quickly drew them back, though.
The first few days were great, even if Logan’s departure
had left a gaping hole in my heart. There were always people to talk with, to
have fun with...and then I ever so slowly found myself in the bottom of the
hierarchy of Mutant High. They – the students - have one of those, you know. An
unofficial hierarchy based on your coolness, your looks and your mutation.
Regarding coolness, I was bound to fail. Big
fucking F. I’d been on the road for eight months, just doing my damn best to
survive, and before that, I’d lived in a small Mississippi town. Not exactly
the fashion Mecca of the world, you know.
I came to the school ignorant of the new
movies, the new idols, the new fashion and the new music, and that didn’t
exactly go well with on the students here. Not good.
My looks...I guess I’m pretty ordinary. Not
particular beautiful, but not decidedly ugly, either. If you ignore the white
streaks, I look pretty much your ordinary teenage girl. That would put me
somewhere in the middle of the hierarchy.
Mutation...well, I have poisonous,
life-absorbing, lethal skin that is currently uncontrollable. Sure, it’s
dangerous – which is a plus among the kids here – but A) it’s uncontrollable
and B) it’s neither spectacular nor useful over long distances. Too bad, sugar,
go directly to jail, do not collect 200 dollars.
In normal school, popularity has something to
do with your clothes, your money, your home and the people you hang out with.
Here, you can add another big thing to the list – your mutation. The most
‘cool’ powers are the spectacular and dangerous ones – Jubilee, Gambit, Bobby,
St. John – and the otherwise useful ones – like Kitty or Kurt. At the bottom of
the list is the ‘normal’ mutations – those who has no real power, but just look
different, or those who has a power that is either useless or uncontrollable.
Sure, I can defend myself by using my skin – have done so a lot of times, in
fact – but that doesn’t count for anything here.
Most of the other students see this whole
power-thing as...a game, I guess. Of course they know about the X-Men and think
they’re pretty cool, but even though they want to join up, they still haven’t
realized the seriousness of things. They think that it’s all about suiting up
in leather uniforms and kick some ass. The fact that they might have to kill
someone – or that they might get wounded or killed themselves – is something
they have never considered.
I don’t suffer from those delusions. I’ve seen
the real world, and because of that I was forced to grow up way too fast. That
puts me in a difficult position now – the X-Men thinks I’m too young to be one
of them, and I feel too old to be one of the ‘kids’. Not child and not
adult...I’m just a freak.
The point is that if you’ve treated like that
for long enough, it doesn’t matter how confident you once were. Eventually, the
comments you get, people’s attitude towards you, your loneliness...it’ll eat
away that confidence until you hit the rock bottom and have to make a choice.
On one hand, you can continue as before, a pale, silent, frightened shadow who
just tries to blend into the background.
Or, you can do the exact opposite – decide that
if they treat you like a freak, you might as well become one.
Great options, huh?
I’m too stubborn to just give up, though. I
mean, I’ve survived Magneto and eight months on the road. I’m not gonna let
some ignorant, snobbish, spiteful mutie kids break me. No way.
‘Sides...white streaks are perfect for
hair-dye.
Within a week, my style took a U-turn.
Ordinary, blend-in-the-background blouses and jeans were replaced by leather,
denim and various see-through fabrics. White, green, pale violet and blue were
replaced by dark green, blood red, amethyst and lots of black. Belts with metal
spikes emphasized the ‘Bitch’ and ‘I Hate People’ messages on my T-shirts. A
black leather collar joined Logan’s dogtags around my neck. My white streaks
changed color on a weekly basis – electric blue, tropical green, frost purple,
blood red, metallic azure. Large rings, chains, spikes and heavy, provocative
necklaces along with high heel black boots completed the image.
All hail the Queen of Freaks.
Things didn’t get any easier, of course. I
still got lots of comments – the only difference was that now, unlike before,
the comments were kind of justified. By now, my emotional shield was running
full-time, creating the image of a girl who didn’t let anything get to her. As
time went by, the comments still hurt, but considerable less than before. If
the price for that shield was that I became cynical and distrustful...it was a
price I was willing to pay.
Scott and Jean pulled me aside once and said
something about me ‘having problems adapting to the school’. *I* had problems
adapting? Excuse me, but *I’m* the one who’s adapted to the half a dozen people
I’ve touched over the months. Without any help, I might add. I’m not the one
with a problem. They are.
Of course, I didn’t say that. They wouldn’t
have believed me anyway, so what’s the point? I mean, who would you say was
most trustworthy? The perfect, smart, powerful X-Men wannabes or the freaky new
student, huh? That’s what I thought. ‘Sides, if I *had* told them, they would
probably just have said that I didn’t try hard enough to make friends.
Just the epitome of support, aren’t they?
So I steeled my heart and watched from the
sidelines as life on Mutant High continued. I ignored the comments, continued
with my freaky outfits and behavior...and watched.
That’s one thing that most people don’t know
about freaks – we’re actually very insightful. Guess it comes from the fact
that we’re pretty much non-existent on the social world-map. That gives us
plenty of time for ourselves and plenty of options to observe our fellow
teenagers.
And let me tell you – if *they* are the future
of this world...we’re screwed.
They’re false, superficial and air-headed. Trust
me on this, I have been watching them for months. Let me give you an example –
two girls who are seemingly best friends. They always hang out together, make
homework together and party together. Then the next day, they are suddenly
archenemies and spends the day gossiping about the other, for the sole reason
that they’ve set their eyes on the same guy. The day after that, everything is
forgotten and they’re best friends again.
They don’t choose their friends based on
honestly or personality, but on popularity.
Pathetic, huh?
It’s one of the few good things about being an
outcast – if people wants to hang out with us, we can be pretty sure that it’s
because they honestly like us. Or maybe it’s because they have ulterior
motives, but as long as you are careful what you’re saying, you won’t give them
any more ammunition to use against you.
I might sound a bit paranoid, but better safe
than sorry, you know?
When I read in my diary, I can see that I’ve
changed a lot since I got here. I’m not optimistic, although shy, girl anymore.
I’m a sarcastic, cynical freak. No, wait – not cynical. Realistic. There *is* a
difference.
And amidst all the changes, there’s one thing
that have remained constant: the calendar in the back of the diary. The
calendar that shows how many days there are left until my eighteenth birthday.
When I came here, there was five hundred and twenty-one days left. Now there’s
just two hundred and three.
Any High School outsider will be able to tell
you the importance of that countdown – usually, it’s the days left until
graduation, but in my case, it’s the time left until I’m legal. The countdown
is what keeps us freaks from giving up when everything looks hopeless. It’s
proof that your own, personal hell *will* end someday.
To me, eighteen means legal. Legal means that
the X-Men no longer have any authority over me. Legal mean that I can leave
this place.
One of the times Logan called me, he promised
that he would be back before my eighteenth birthday. When he *does* get back, I
intent to ask him to take me with him next time he leaves.
I know him, and I know that he’ll agree. If he
doesn’t...I’ll just head out on my own. It’s not like things can get much worse
anyway.
As I said, we all have our roles. I never
wanted this role, but wasn’t given a choice. But between spiteful comments and
malicious whispers about me, there *is* one thing that gives me strength:
There is only two hundred and three days
between me and freedom.
* * *
The End
* * *
Join the Madness!
Sorcieré’s Madhouse –
www.wolverineandrogue.com/sorciere