Cyanide Sweet Tooth Suicide [open]

[L.C. Milliner]

*//outfit

There were some days when L.C. should come with a sign around her neck that said ‘DANGER. DO NOT APPROACH.’ and flashed like construction signs on busy roads. Fortunately, most students got the picture- when she stomped through the halls, shoulders hunched, face down, shaking ever so slightly, it was assumed that she was borderline murderous rage and on the verge of exploding on the nearest object, be it human or not, that came in contact with her. The best that the student body could do was move aside and let her through like Moses parting the red sea. They were silent as she passed, the calm in the normally tumultuous hallways spreading like a wildfire. The other kids in the school had long since learned that, despite being enclosed inside her head, she could still hear everything they said, good and bad; and the bad almost seemed to be amplified. There were a few hallways dotted across the grounds that bore the slashing marks that defined L.C.s rage.

Some people were smart enough to run ahead and warn everyone else. Others ran to find teachers in case something went down, like power trainers or Dr. Neville, for example. Many of the kids changed course and took alternate routes to wherever they were going, leaving L.C. with nigh empty hallways the farther she got from her starting point, which had been her locker. No one bothered to speculate on what had set her off because in their minds it could’ve been anything: someone looking at her wrong, her reflection, her classes, her drama with Zachary LaRousse that was flaring up, or even the weather was looked upon with suspicion by the student body. In reality, L.C. was much less irritable then they thought, but she wasn’t about to tell them that, lest they start thinking she was actually nice to talk to and not ready to whip around and shred them. She liked being left alone, even if it meant perpetuating false myths to keep herself isolated.

L.C. finally reached her destination- the training rooms. She passed all the occupied areas and pushed her way into the nearest vacant chamber and found herself in a room with a fairly high ceiling that reminded her of a racquetball court. She supposed it was a room for the kids with mental powers, considering that she had never used it before in her stay at Hammel, and that in itself was a feat. L.C. had a room practically dedicated to her at this point, filled with Styrofoam blocks for destroying and other various objects picked up over the years. She hated it- the stuff they brought her was disgustingly easy to rend and tear. In five minutes, she could wreak enough havoc to tear the poor items down to the tiny building blocks they had started as. She kept telling the staff to just train her and Vincent together, but no, that was inhumane to watch.

Pansies.

She didn’t bother peering around her new surroundings for long. She sat in the middle of the white floor and took a loud, shuddering breath before closing her eyes. She sat like that in the middle of the floor for some time, swallowing deep gulps of air as she tried to picture herself somewhere else. For a school that seemed to have a lot of enemies (as far as she had been told, heard, and had picked up from eavesdropping Sean’s conversations) the trainers had been very strict on her containing herself and her powers. They wanted her to be ‘peaceful’ and ‘serene’. Fat chance. Meditation was considered her best outlet, in their eyes. She thought it was worthless. They couldn’t find another way to channel her powers, unlike other students. They were hoping she’d be useful somehow, but so far she was proving to be quite a disappointment. Some students were just built to be killing machines. What was hard to understand about that?

She sat still and tried to concentrate on being calm for a good ten minutes before finally giving up, opting out of the hippy plan A. She went straight to her plan B and pulled her headphones from her bag. She shoved the DJ headset over her ears and pulled her mp3 from her pocket, kicking up the volume to the highest it could go. It blasted her music through her ears as she pushed the bag aside and pushed the player into her front pocket. She rolled onto her stomach and took a deep breath before straightening her arms into a pushup position. She stared at the floor and gritted her teeth, mouthing the words from behind the gleaming white wall of incisors.

“Strychnine, cerebellum feeds the brain, hurricane in a violent rage.” She muttered in tandem with the song, doing pushups with the same skill as any self-respecting marine. It was obvious that she was used to this sort of training. “Fuck the silver, let’s go straight for the gold.” She paused for a moment, stared at the ground, blinked, and kept going, forgetting entirely that she should probably be keeping count of her exercise so she knew when to quit.

[John Thornton]

John Thornton was not a man to take tours. When he’d made the move to Pilot Ridge he had not spoken to any of his new, ah, colleges until he had walked the town enough to be able to navigate it with his eyes closed. The same would go for the school; he would not be led around by the hand like some child in the dark. He would find his own way.

Thornton had been given a week to get himself used to the campus, the teachers, the students, before he was to start one on one training. His abilities meant he was perfectly suited to handle the more... physically unstable students, he knew that. And while he had no idea how he was going to begin talking to students about power control when his own power just... was, the woman he’d talked to over the phone had told him she had confidence he would learn what to do. In the mean time, the englishman was taking his time to map out the school grounds and, given where he would be spending his time around this place, he was focusing on the training rooms.

There were not supposed to be students in room 21B, Thornton had checked. He’d been observing a striking woman with dark hair stop a boy from breathing fire on her (dear god what kind of a school were they running here) when he noticed the supposedly empty room was not, in fact, empty. There was a girl in there, apparently self training. With pushups. Unprecedented and decidedly unhelpful for any ability John could think of, which was admittedly, not too many.

Still, it seemed off, and she was singing something that sounded unpleasant and possibly violent. That was what he was here for, was it not? To try and help people? To actually do some good with what he had? That, and whatever song she was singing was very very very unpleasant. But maybe it was some sort of technique. If so... it couldn’t do him any harm to ask what.

”Excuse me,” he pushed the door open and pulled it shut behind him, straightening his shirt cuffs as he looked down at her. Ah, wait. She had headphones on. He crossed to stand in front of her, his perfectly shined shoes in her eye line, hands behind his back as he peered down. ”Excuse me. What on earth are you trying to do?”

[L.C. Milliner]

As her song began to wind down, L.C. didn’t bother to stop her exercise and change it. The mp3 was set on a loop, which meant the song would be drilled into her brain until she couldn’t take it anymore. She suspected that her cooling down would take a good two hours, and that was being optimistic about it. She could sleep in this room if she had to- it wasn’t that bad of an area to get stuck in after all. She had slept in worse places, but she wasn’t ready to think about that right now. There were only so many elephants one could fit into a room and she wasn’t going for a world record anytime soon.

She saw a pair of shoes coming toward her out of her peripheral vision, but she did not bother acknowledging their presence until they were lined up in front on her. She contemplated ignoring them, but they were shiny and new and were accompanied by a pristine pair of pants, so she suspected that they belonged to someone important, maybe Sean. She yanked her headphones off as she sat up, catching the tail end of the question asked of her. “You know, I assume people would know what pushups are when they see them, but I guess I’m just asking too much of people and their brains.” She shot off, not even bothering with introductions as she looked up at the newcomer with narrowed eyes. She hadn’t seen this guy around, so he was probably some new guy, taking a tour around before getting sat down by the staff to go over the ground rules, one of which was probably ‘Do not bother L.C. Milliner while she is in a violent rage’. (If it wasn’t, it needed to go into effect. Now.)

He looked like a pansy. She suspected he was a teacher, and taught some crap subject like math or science. He probably got his rocks off watching ‘Bill Nye the Science Guy’, or whatever crap they had on TV nowadays. He probably had some weak mental power like the ability to dull scissors by looking at them or move chalk and collected rocks. He looked uptight, like someone had shoved a metal rod up his ass, and if he didn’t stop looming over her and leering, he would soon get a metal spike shove up there too. “What the fuck are you looking at? Don’t you have anything better to do? Like, I dunno, get out?”

Normally, L.C. wouldn’t curse at a teacher, even a new one with a rod up his ass, but she was in that sort of mood today and she really didn’t care. What would he do, write her up for detention? Oh, how scary. She practically lived and breathed Hammel already, an extra half hour after school wouldn’t destroy her, especially since she had to wait even longer for Sean to get off work so she could go home with him. But she didn’t want to think about that now. So, instead of continuing the conversation, she put her headphones back on and rolled back onto her stomach, taking a deep breath before starting in on her regimen once again. Johnny English could screw off and drink tea somewhere else, for all she cared. What was with all the Englishmen around here being nosy?

[John Thornton]

John Thornton did not have a lot of experience with teenagers. He’d experienced his sister going through them, and watched with disinterest at his three years in Switzerland but they were never exactly on his priority list. Still, he did have some expectations as to how students were supposed to talk to their teachers. And this girl was doing a very good job of shattering that entirely.

One black brow arched, his eyes hardening. ”Excuse me?” He asked, managing to control his anger (L.C, take note). He didn’t look away; was a student honestly expecting to stare down a teacher? What kind of a place was this? He held her eyes firmly, even as he started to already form regrets about leaving england. Were all americans like this? Would he have to be faced with a classroom of loud mouthed, rude children? Not many things could scare or rattle Thornton. He might have found something that could. Dear lord, what had he been thinking?

America is the only country that went from barbarism to decadence without civilization in between.

It seemed to the new power trainer however that they were still a little lost in the barbarism stage.

And then she cursed. Thornton’s eyebrows lowered, his expression darkening. That was too much. ”Watch your language,” he said flatly, ”That’s not the way you address all members of staff, I hope.” He folded his arms and raised his eyebrows. Any thoughts he may have had on leaving this rude little creature to her own devices had been drop kicked out the window the moment she thought to swear at him. That, he would not let go of.

”Have some respect,” he said evenly, though his jaw was tight with anger, ”Even if you don’t seem to care to show it to adults, I will not be spoken to like that.” Maybe L.C was used to being left to her own devices when in a rage, but Thornton wasn’t to know that. Not was he to know why talking to an angry L.C could be dangerous to... most people’s health. It was likely he would find out. ”Who are you, and what gives you the right to speak to your elders with that much disrespect?”

There was a list, back at the office, that Thornton had not yet picked up. On it, was a list of students to take care with, and the reason why. Most of them were pretty self explanatory.
Vincent Vaerox: prone to indecent exposure
Zac LaRousse: prone to attention seeking behavior
Mia Keystone: prone to privacy invasion,
But right up the top, was Lyra Milliner, prone to violence towards students and staff.


They were both in for an interesting revelation then.

[L.C. Milliner]

L.C. rarely met a teacher that would stare her down, but rather would attempt to threaten her with detention and, after realizing threats didn’t work, would just dish it out and would move on. Fortunately for the faculty, she rarely went any further after her initial raging, and if she did she normally stomped out to go cool off. The problem was that she was used to that, and so, like a child, would keep repeating the negative behavior and would rarely get any backlash for it in return. Detention was like a slap on the wrist for her, and they couldn’t just kick her out, not with her spikes still popping out whenever she was angry.

At the moment, however, she was having that supposedly rare moment when her rage was still going strong. She narrowed her eyes when he asked his question and snorted. “I didn’t realize you are hard of hearing. I said, I ASSUME PEOPLE WOULD KNOW WHAT PUSH UPS ARE WHEN THEY SEE THEM!” Her walling reverberated off the high walls and echoed slightly around the room. A few people passing were looking into the doorway, including a couple teachers who looked a little worried for the man. She pulled her headphones off and shoved them into her bag, making it obvious that she was not going to tolerate his presence anymore. He wasn’t leaving, fine. She would go, and destroy something on the way out to prove a point, like she usually did. She did note that he was not yelling, and seemed rather civil, but that made her want to push his buttons even more. L.C. was a very rude child, made obvious by her current behavior.

As she stood up, he began shooting more comments at her, all of which were pissing her off. “Psh, or you’ll what?” She raised an eyebrow and shot him as smirk. “Throw me into a detention and make me write lines?” She was about to turn and go, but he asked her a question and, even though she was ticked off, she felt obliged to answer. She ran and hand through her hair out of habit before crossing her arms, giving him the best glare she could muster. She wasn’t going to be nice about this, because he had caught her in a very, very foul mood and was only amplifying it. “I’m L.C. Milliner, I’m nineteen, meaning that I am an adult, just like you, I ‘address that staff’ however the fuck I want, and I’m the school’s resident Iron Maiden. And you, sir, are a waste of my time. I’m out of here.”

On that cheerful note, L.C. uncrossed her arms and turned around to storm out, gritting her teeth in frustration. Now she had to find a new place to cool off all over again, and she was ready to rage at the next person who even looked at her the wrong way. If he tried to stop her, there would be spikes involved, consequences be damned. She wasn’t about to let some teacher treat her like she was fourteen again. She couldn’t wait to get out of this school and away from everyone inside it.

[John Thornton]

For a smallish girl, she had strong lungs. Thornton pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head, refusing to yell back. He would have liked to. He would have liked to a lot. Firstly, because she was really being a brat, and secondly because it was finally sinking in that he’d left a profitable job and his own bloody country to come and spend the next few years of his life teaching these people. He had given up a highly paying, (admittedly soul and spiritually unfulfilling) career to try and teach adolescents like this how to use special abilities?

Oh dear god. Thornton usually only said his prayers on Sunday but he would make a quick one tonight that this girl was an exception, not a rule, as to the behavior of Hammel students.

What was her problem? Thornton’s eyebrows lowered as he met the student’s smirk. Clearly, detention wouldn’t work. Was he supposed to send her to the school councilor? From what he’d heard, Doctor Sean Neville was a telepath. Thornton tried to avoid telepaths whenever possible. Besides, he was not about to shirk his responsibilities and pass off this problem to someone else. Still, as she went on, he was having to work very hard at not letting himself start shouting.

”L.C is not a name,” he said flatly, choosing to ignore her blatant lack of worry about detention, ”And I’m not sure what the policy the rest of the staff take but you most certainly can not speak to me like that.". If there was one thing Thornton could do, it was wear someone down. And he had no intention of letting this one flounce off (or storm off) until he had an apology and a real name. Because L.C was a nick name and John Thornton did not do nicknames. And children (her, an adult? bah) did not just walk away from him after swearing to his face. He slammed the door shut with one hand, and it was his turn to raise an eyebrow. ”And don’t walk off when I’m talking to you, Miss Milliner!”

Just as Thornton had perhaps caught L.C at a non ideal time, the iron spiked girl had not exactly chosen a day where the englishman was likely to let a little disrespect slide. This country was very very cold, everyone drove on the wrong side of the road, the cars were all stupidly big, and you couldn’t find a strong cup of tea anywhere. In short, within a week he had thought he just might regret his decision, having met L.C, he was wishing himself home whole heartedly.

But Thornton never left anything he started. Not a job, not an exploration trip, and not a conversation with an eighteen year old girl.

The iron maiden and the bulldog in a mexican standoff.

[L.C. Milliner]

Why couldn't he just let it go?

"L.C. is the name I chose when I left my Mother"s jurisdiction, and I refuse to be called by my real name, so deal with it!" She gritted her teeth and tried to calm herself, but the stress just kept piling on. She had a rough day already and he was only adding to her mounting frustrations. Perhaps if he had approached her even a few minutes later, she might have been a little less rude to him, if only slightly. If it had been a different time, or even a different place, she could have possibly been nice to him. She already had a general opinion that the British teachers in the school were nosy enough already (thanks for that, Dalton) and she didn't want anyone else rubbing their noses in her business when they didn't belong there. Enough people knew about her past and the issues she was going through, thanks to the rumors floating around. Why couldn't they just leave her be? Was her intimidation factor wearing off, after all these years?

As far as she knew no one had ever been forgiven for slapping another student's face off.

She had just grabbed the handle when she saw his hand flatten against the door and the cold metal was ripped from her hand. It hurt her fingers and they throbbed as she stumbled back for a moment. She had stunned look on her face, and she felt like the floor had just rocked beneath her for a second before she regained her composure and looked over to the man, then to the door he was holding. It was one of those moments when anyone else would have taken off running, because they knew what was coming. Anyone else would have been scared stiff. But this guy was obviously not like anyone at Hammel, and as her anger grew, part of her, far away in the back of her mind, had to nod at his courage. She would have grown to admire that, had they started on the right foot.

As it was, it put her in a rage. If she could have, she would've exploded. As it was, however, she moved to push his shoulder, her anger finally boiling over. "WHO DO YOU THINK YOU A-" L.C.'s anger, however, was short-lived. As she pulled her hand back, she moved her fingers to close her hand into a fist, and discovered her palm was covered in spikes. She stared in horror at her hand, than him, her face growing pale almost instantly as she realized that, once again, her anger had gotten the best of her and she had, once again, lived up to her reputation. She gaped for a moment before words began to fall from her mouth.

"I didn't mean it ,I swear I didn't mean it, I'm so sorry, I swear I didn't but you did that and then I got mad and this always happens when I'm mad and I really didn't mean to do that and I'm sorry but I tried to warn you but you wouldn't leave me alone and I got a card in the mail and I needed to cool down so I came here and then you came and then this happened and you just... JUST LEAVE ME ALONE." If L.C. had never been on the brink of crying before, this was about as close as she was going to get. She hit the wall and felt her spikes go through it, but she didn't care. She rocked back and let herself connect with the floor, opting to sit down and let him go and bleed somewhere else rather than blocking his exit anymore. She had yet to notice if she had even connected with him at all, all she knew was that her spikes had come out of her hand when she hadn't told them to, and that was not acceptable.

[/size]

[Sorry it's full of suck. I wrote it at school. :D]

[John Thornton]

She honestly expected him to back down. That was what had Thornton curious. This 18 year old girl expected him to move out of her way. Which usually meant she was used to getting her own way; she had that same outraged expression his sister Molly always had when he had to explain why she couldn’t have the dress she wanted for her second wedding, because it was far too expensive. But this L.C girl was not his sister (heaven forbid) and he really saw no reason why he should let her continue on her merry way.

And then, she pushed him. Thornton didn’t budge; it had been a decent shove but she hadn’t followed through, and also, she was a teenage girl. Instead, she suddenly acted like she’d been burnt or something. The annoyance and frustration slipped from his face as the new powers trainer looked at L.C in mild concern. ”Are you hurt? Look...” Her words weren’t making any sense, until he looked at his shoulder, where he had felt her hand connect. There was a collection of ragged holes in his shirt, and he stuck his finger through one curiously. I liked this shirt...

Thornton was still angry, of course he was (he’d just lost a shirt,) but that was being outweighed by seeing a young (yes young) girl in such obvious distress. She thought she’d hurt him; of course. No doubt if he wasn’t, well, him, the muscles in his shoulder would have been torn to ribbons. Luckily, for both L.C and him, Mr Thornton was his usual, bullet and iron spike proof self. ”Miss Milliner,” he started, letting go of the door and leaning down to the level of the seated student. ”Clam down. I’m not hurt. My shirt is ripped, but apart from that, and my sensibilities, I'm fine.” The man sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose again. The situation had just changed rather drastically, but it made a little more sense. If she could do that, without meaning to, no wonder most people would move out of her way.

”Iron maiden,” he mused, mostly to himself. ”I get it now. That’s quite clever, actually.” Leaning over however was going to do a number on his back so he straightened and looked around the white room, at a bit of a loss as to what to do. ”So... a card?” he asked, and then, because she did seem very distressed. ”Did you hurt yourself?”

[L.C. Milliner]

L.C. sat on the floor, preparing herself for the eventual misery and yelling that would come her way any second now. But when nothing came, she looked up quizzically to find him inspecting a hole in his shirt. Apparently, she hadn’t connected with his skin somehow. But how did that happen? She had felt her hand hit him, however slightly. Was he wearing a bulletproof vest? A thought cross her mind a shiver went down her spine. ‘Dear god if you love me please, please, PLEASE don’t let him be a cop.’ She thought, her hair bristling at the mere thought of hitting an officer. Her spikes did not go though some metals, no matter how sharp they were. Iron could only do so much. It couldn’t cut through anything, despite her boasting and showing off.

“You aren’t hurt. You’re fine” She muttered to herself in disbelief, rubbing her heel of her hand against her forehead. Blood was rushing to her face and she felt hot. If she hadn’t been sitting already, she probably would have had to. The relief that poured over her was practically drowning her. She had never been in this situation, where she hadn’t hurt someone when she had hit them with her spikes, intentional or not. She always ended up hurting a person, it was common knowledge. (Or not so common, considering he didn’t know.) She flexed her fingers and a couple hundred spikes shot out of her palm, varying from an inch to half an inch in length. Their diameter was no more than a dime around the base. “Came up with it myself.” She muttered, forcing the spikes back in. Her hand tingled like it had fallen asleep, so she shook it. “They call it Iron Spike Protrusion. It’s freaking retarded, I like my definition better.”

“Yes, a card. It’s none of your damn business.” She wasn’t sure how she had let that slip, but she wasn’t ready to go into that with anyone right now. She recovered quickly after that was mentioned, since it reminded her of why she was angry at the world and everything in it in the first place. “No, I’m not hurt. I didn’t stick myself.” She glared up at him from her spot on the floor and looked him over again, finally taking the time to size him up properly. Maybe she was wrong about him being a science teacher. He seemed fairly built. She scrutinized him and deducted that yes, he was most certainly a new addition, one that didn’t read the packet in the office displayed prominently on the rack. She had never laid eyes on him before in her life.

This begged questioning. “So just who in hell’s half acre are you, anyway? Superman, or what?”

[John Thornton]

”Yes, I’m fine,” John repeated, turning around and resting a hand on the opposite wall. This was a scenario he’d seen before, more times then he could count. But he hit you pretty hard, but you hit that pavement pretty hard, but your car hit that tree pretty hard. It was unpleasant, and awkward, and always made John wish he could at least pretend to bruise or something. Still, she was just a student. And by the look of it, she had an ability that had its stand out moments as well. Those things looked... very very sharp.

He looked back over his shoulder and gave a half smile. She wanted to compare herself to a medieval torture device. Looking at her palm, it made sense. Looking at his shirt, it made sense. Turning and leaning back against the wall with clasped hands, Thornton raised his eyebrows. ”You brought it up,” he reasoned, a little surprised by the lack of logic. Was this another teenage thing? Did they have their own logic? Did they just defy sense? But it was, obviously, causing her distress. And apparently, Americans felt that feelings and emotions were public property...

Again, as he was sized up by an 18 year old girl (that did not seem right) he met her eyes with faint resignation. The anger was still there, and by looking at ‘L.C’ (and he really needed to find out her real name because that nickname was idiotic) she wasn’t over her fury either. It just no longer seemed directed towards the new power trainer. Frowning slightly at her rather... abrupt phrasing Thornton straightened up and, wincing a little at the superman reference, shook his head. ”God no. I’m an accountant.” he pulled himself up short, realizing his mistake. ”Well, was. I’m Mr Thornton. The new power trainer. I have," with a sigh he rubbed the back of his neck, "what’s defined as physical invulnerability.”

Thornton sounded about as unthrilled as possible.

Without the slightest hesitation he reached out and pressed his hand onto one of the iron spikes still protruding from L.C’s hand. Nothing. Of course. He might as well have been pressing his hand against a mattress. The nerves in his palm weren’t even recognizing the slight pressure. The british man raised a disapproving eyebrow.”I will take a guess and say most people run away when you start showing the spikes.”

[L.C. Milliner]

“I was flustered.” L.C. snapped, glaring up at the guy without bothering to move her head from where it was angled. It was a difficult feat, glaring at someone when they were higher up than you. Since L.C. was on the short side, it wasn’t terribly difficult for her; she was already accustomed to it. But he had smiled at her, and she could not hold the dreaded glare when people actually smiled in her general direction. She got so few smiles pointed toward her that she felt the need to keep them in place as long as possible. She ruffled her hair and looked down, breaking eye contact. “Yeah. I did bring it up. But... It’s a bad subject. Not something I talk about with just anyone.” She didn’t apologize for bringing it up, but she wasn’t snapping either. Who was this girl?

“Thornton?” The girl’s eyebrows knitted together and she gave him a ‘are you serious that is the worst name ever’ look. Yeah, she was going to call him superman. It was official. When he mentioned his power reluctantly, her eyebrows shot up into her bangs and she almost fell over. That would explain why her spikes didn’t penetrate- the man was walking diamond. Jesus Christ. (No, not Jesus. He probably couldn’t walk on water or make her a glass of wine.) She would have killed to have his power- a common misconception many people had was that she was invulnerable to her own spikes. That was a definite lie, hands down. She had the scars, both on her body and her psyche, to prove that point. A lot of them were deep.

She watched him touch her spike and she flinched, even though she knew he was invulnerable. She was so used to people bleeding on her that it was alarming to see him lacking even a basic scratch. Vincent at least bled. She frowned and her spikes corkscrewed themselves back into her body where they belong. “Yeah.” She muttered, pulling her knees up to rest her chin on them. “But I pretty spread the rumor that if you brush against me I will kill you, so generally people stay out of my way. Except Vincent, but he’s an idiot. And can regenerate.” That in itself was the sole determining factor of their relationship; he did not get hurt by her, and he was her punching bag. All in all, it worked out pretty well for the two of them. It was a very positive experience for the pair.

[John Thornton]

Had John Thronton just dodged the proverbial bullet? Yes, it seemed he had. The angry girl did not want to discuss her feelings and if it wouldn’t have been rude John would have sighed with relief. The card was, therefore, not going to be mentioned again. If there was one thing the englishman knew he was ill equipped to handle, it was the emotional state of a teenage girl. Razor sharp iron spikes? No problem. Even real bullets, no problem. Crying? No thank you, ma’am. ”I wont mention it again,” he promised, and didn’t even let the relief show in his voice. He sighed and, a great deal less firm then before, still felt the need to suggest; ”But it’s still inappropriate to swear at a staff member, Miss Milliner.”

His smile faded slightly and he raised his eyebrows at the disapproving look she gave him. John was quite proud of his last name. It was classic, easy to spell, hard to mispronounce. And compared to his middle name it was so very... not pouncey (Fitzgerald, really? Like he needed any more reminders that he was so. very. british). ”Could you tell me your first name now, Miss Milliner?” he asked with mild amusement. If she was going to pass judgment, (and he hadn’t even mentioned that her name meant hat maker, because he was a gentleman) he would at least like to even the playing field a little. ”And it’s Mister Thornton, thank you.”

He held up his hand when she flinched, to reassure her that nothing was wrong. Still, he couldn’t help the look of resignation he expressed at the reaction. John was used to it, because it was, as his mother had put it, so against the natural order of things. Tucking the offending hand back behind his back, he straightened, not quite able to bring himself to sit on the floor like a child in a classroom. Still, a chuckle escaped him at her rumor, though he checked himself quickly. ”I have no idea who Vincent is,” he commented, ”I’ve only been here,” a pause as he thought on counting from arriving in the country or arriving in Pilot Ridge, ”Ah, eight days. I don’t expect I’ll be assigned a student with an ability like that. Not really my area of expertise.”

There was another point that this delightful girl was driving home; he really had no idea how he was supposed to train anyone, other then be someone they couldn’t hurt if they lost control. There had to be a manual or something, surely? ”Miss Milliner, if you’re often in a temper like this, I doubt the rumor was necessary.”

Well, here was a change to start learning how to be a trainer. Looking thoughtful for a moment, Thornton contemplated the girl before him and crouched down again (his pants were going to be very very creased. And with the ruined shirt as well...) and, inwardly bracing himself, he asked calmly, ”I can assume then you still loose control of yourself. Is it always triggered by anger?” Because anger management was something that maybe he could do something about.

[L.C. Milliner]

“Thanks.” L.C. should not have sounded so relieved about him not bringing up a card, but she was. She didn’t want to talk about her life or the carnival with anyone, a stranger or a friend. Thornton wasn’t quite friend yet, but he wasn’t a stranger anymore. He had made a stormy but safe passage into ‘acquaintance’ category. She had a feeling she had better get used to him, he’d likely be her trainer. He chastised her for swearing and she gave him a snort and a roll of her eyes, signifying she had gone through that song and dance before with tons of other people.

L.C. honestly would have been surprised to know that her name was a synonym for a hat maker. She honestly didn’t know that and probably would not have been bothered by him pointing that out. As it was, she would not know that random fact for a while. When he asked her for her first name, L.C. shook her head at him and frowned. “I don’t go by my first name. L.C. is fine.” If he wanted to find out, he’d have to find out through someone else. “Mr. Thornton.” She corrected her supposed problem with as much sarcasm she could fit in the two word sentence as possible.

“Eight days.” Lyra parroted him, a useless gesture. Usually it took teachers a bit longer than that to find her. But then again, most of them were avoiding her. “Well, Vincent is an idiot. It’s really best to avoid him. He does more damage than I do, and the worst part is he won’t just die.” So far, she was viewing John as a glorified Vincent, which could be taken as an insult or a compliment. On one hand, Vincent was an idiot and generally not someone a person wanted to be compared to. On the other hand, he was also her friend, one of her best friends. “I think Jackeroe trains him. I don’t know.” L.C. scratched her head and looked at a hole in her sneakers, picking at it absently. “I can’t really get trained because no one’s health insurance covers ‘spike impalement’.” She gave a slight smirk at her morbid joke.

“Well, it keeps the optimistic friendly people away.” L.C. smiled in response and looked at him before glancing down at her fingernails. She noticed one was a bit long and, in a display of disgusting behavior only L.C. could achieve, she bit it off and spit it away without even batting an eye. She didn’t see it land, and when she looked back to the trainer he was moving to crouch next to her. She looked at him dead in the eyes, noting they were blue, and tried not to blink.

Until he asked her that. She frowned and looked away. “Mostly it’s anger, but sometimes I’ll be surprised and they’ll shoot out defensively. It’s been better lately, but...” She paused and thought back over the course of the month, over her nightmares, staying with Sean, Zac, her frustration over her lack of a job or money. “I’ve been stressed lately.”

That was a severe understatement.

[John Thornton]

She was going to be stubborn about the name, clearly. Well, that was what files were for and he’d be damned if he was going to get stuck calling a student Miss Milliner for the rest of her schooling life. Knowing there was little point asking a question that he would not received an answer to, he merely raised an eyebrow and let the matter drop.

”Yes, eight. Don’t tell me you have a hearing problem as well,” he said, eyebrows still raised as he looked down his beak of a nose at her. And while he filed away the information on this so called Vincent for future reference, he did not grace such hear-say with a response. It was somewhat interesting there may be another student with similar abilities to his, but by the sound of it, it was not someone he’d have to handle.

”Fortunately for you, being impaled is not something I live in fear of,” he said dryly, ”though my clothes are not so lucky. I would appreciate it if you could make an effort not to tear any more shirts to shreds, at least until I have had ample opportunity to buy some more here.” His travel allowance, weight wise, had been generous but if she was going to be constantly transforming into a bad tempered hedgehog he would need to set some ground rules. He doubted the cost would be covered by insurance after all.

With a grimace at her very unladylike gesture, Thornton made sure not to step on the fragment of nail now lying on the floor. He did not remark but did scowl at L.C in clear disapproval. She was antisocial then. No doubt for the best, until she had some control.

Luckily, again, the topic switched into something he could at least claim was professional. ”If it is an emotional trigger,” he said slowly, browns furrowed in thought as he tried to recall his own time at school (not too long ago as he would have liked) ”You will need to find a more successful way of controlling your temper. At least until you can activate your particular skill at will, rather then at the beck and call of your emotions.”

There was, well, there was some necessity in at least asking about her stress levels. He could only pray to God that she would not expect a therapist. ”Emotions are , of course, always more volatile during times of stress. It is usually best to isolate the sources, and act on them one by one. I will say though, that none of them will be solved by impalement.”

As unpleasant as the girl’s behavior was, Thornton knew that people were more likely to, as the saying goes, be attracted to honey not vinegar, and made an effort to at least soften his scowl. ”Have you learnt any techniques for anger? Apart from listening to ungodly music and insolence to staff?”

Well, he was new to interacting with anyone under the age of 30.

[L.C. Milliner]

L.C. gritted her teeth and ignored Mr. Thornton’s comment, no matter how insulting it was. This was a man who obviously thought highly of himself, and she didn’t like it. The way he looked down on her made her want to hit him again, just out of spite. She was not a child, he didn’t have to treat her as such. The idea of him being invincible made it all the worse. She couldn’t prick him and watch him run off- that was very annoying in itself. Her defense system had never countered opposition like this before. She all but ignored what he was saying as she attempted to find a way to counter invincibility. Were his eyes just as hard to hurt? Maybe she could poke them out.

Ew, no. That sounded disgusting.

His scowl as her fingernail hit the floor put a smile on her face. Her un ladylike behavior was perfected from years of living in a carnival, and the disgusted looks never got old. When she was younger, she would bite off her toenails just to freak out her dorm mates. She still managed to bite at them when it was an emergency, but she had learned doing it in front of people was a good way to get oneself evicted from a dorm, especially when they were left in the living room carpet. But that was a different time and place and didn’t pertain to the current moment at all, so she pushed it out of her mind to get back to later.


“It’s not always emotional. I can will them out fine.” She demonstrated, flicking her hand as it covered with spikes, watching them grow and shrink before the prickled up her arm, disappearing at her elbow. “It’s just that sometimes I make them come out when I don’t really want them to.” She didn’t say anything about his comment on stress- she had heard the same song and dance from Sean enough times that she didn’t want to hear any more of it.

However, when Thornton mentioned outlets, she had some input on that. “I distress.” She said, gesturing to the room. “When I get mad, I hurt people. So I go off somewhere that doesn’t have people and work off the adrenaline and such. But when people interrupt-” She shot him a look, “It doesn’t really solve much. Other times I channel into artwork, but I left my sketchpad in the art room.” She tried to think of anything else she had tired that had worked. The meditation had been a fail, and so had the deep thinking, or whatever. “That’s basically it.”