March Writing Challenge: 100 Stories. 1 Month.

[Lucy Serrano-Blaise]

10. Soulful.

Learning from failure was the most obvious lesson in the world. Doing something once should have been enough; the burn of a single slip up should have left a prominent enough mark to remind an individual never to do something like that again. Not adhering to it was stupid. Lucy Serrano was - by proxy - stupid.

"One thing." She said, aloud. The coupled words broke the silence between them.

It had been a comfortable silence; one that didn't need any kind of breach, but the ink manipulator offered it all the same. Perhaps because she was stupid. But settled in a newly acquired double bed with her counterpart, she stared at the blank ceiling, too. Fully clothed. Boots loosely kicked off and settled somewhere at the edge; one standing, one not. To the other side of the bed, a completely different set of shoes were neatly tucked to the side, settled under the bed just a touch.

"Just one?" Penny asked her, feeling the warmth of familiar fingers intertwining with hers. Not completely, just loosely in something that barely resembled a hold.

"Mmm." A musing sound past the ink manipulator's lips. That ceiling had been so for years, whereas they'd been there for days. Barely a touch up and a really noticeably uneven job from the time of its creation, "Can you see the lines?"

"Lines?"

"Brush strokes. From the edges, where they cut in." Lucy explained. Her free hand raised, and she pointed to the corner at her counterpart's side. Like they were the most obvious thing for someone as precise as she.

"No," She admitted, though she kept her tone light. That one, she could give the person who wanted to paint for a living.

"It's when you don't sand your prior coat back." She explained, as if the information was really that interesting. Her tone was alight enough with a spark of genuine interest; this was something she was good at. Something she knew. "I'm probably gonna fix it, just not right now."

Still, she twisted her lips to the side. It wasn't totally clear to the psychometrist through her peripheral vision, and she wasn't about to turn her gaze away from the blank, cool ceiling to catch it. Within silence, just as she heard the Australian take a breath to likely continue the explanation to painting the perfect wall, she cut in; "One thing."

"Hmm?"

"You were talking about the one thing." Penny reminded her.

"Oh, right. Yeah." Momentarily, Lucy nodded her head, her mouth twisting into a smile. "I was gonna say, I would've added more blue."

"Why?"

"I dunno," Lucy replied, idly squeezing the hand she barely held. Raising her knee with her foot pressed to the mattress, she rested their hands against her thigh, tapping against it a few times before finally settling, "You probably wouldn't've even noticed." She exhaled on a short laugh, then, "But it's meant to be perfect, because it's yours. And I reckon the sky's a bit more blue than just black."

Penny pressed her lips into a line momentarily, the action lost on Lucy given the trajectory of her gaze, "So you would add more blue. If you painted the galaxy again."

"I'd add more blue." Lucy denoted, nodding her head once more. "Or maybe I'll just paint another layer of white on it. Make it fresh enough to... Do it's own thing." Finally, she tilted her head to the side, glancing directly at the psychometrist who wouldn't tear her dark eyes away from the light ceiling. "What do you reckon?"

Lucy watched as Penny furrowed her eyebrows, confused by the provided notion. She'd seen a galaxy move to the beat of Lucy's heart before, while she was sleeping. She was sure she'd seen the vortexes spin much in the way she'd seen the tiger track from her arm to her shoulder blade to catch the morning sun through the window. "You can do that?" She asked anyway, because those instances were created from prior... Creations. Now Lucy was talking about something from nothing.

"I don't see why not." She rolled her shoulders to the idea. Slowly, Penny parted her lips with the intention - Lucy guessed - to say something imperative. Maybe to question the whole thing in its entirety. This was a new home. A new place. Their first place.

And so, the Brit sucked in a slow breath, her chest rising with the intake.

"I'd like to see that." She admitted in the lightest tone imaginable, as if to ask in her own way for it to be so.

[Lucy Serrano-Blaise]

89. Drought.

Lucy Serrano was never a patient individual. She'd grown to acquire a sliver of the sense in time, but it was still severely lacking when it came to everyone else she knew. In her particular instance, it wasn't a fair thing to have to find, but she didn't have a choice. Lucy was forced to find patience. To be patient.

The July break meant time home, but she'd already come back from that. Classes at Hammel started far sooner than college courses at the University of Vermont. So she was there, but she wasn't. It meant relying on technology, which had never been the Brit's strong suit, but she'd quickly learned how to cope over the last few weeks. And they still had so much time to go. Logging into Skype, Penny was quick to call Lucy practically instantly. She was equally quick to answer.

Appearing. Finally. Lucy was in the dorm room Penny had grown to miss so intently, even moreso to see that she was there alone. It must have been difficult, but it would have been that much more taxing had the tables been turned.

And she had her hair up. It was such a rarity given how Lucy preferred to keep it down. To keep it so dishevelled and perfect in its own way. The break meant through the screen, the curve of her neck was so easily seen. Easy enough to drop her gaze to it. Through the available technology, it was impossible to really tell where Penny's eyes were going.

"Finally." Penny said, and the Australian immediately cracked into a grin.

"Hey, at least we're on the same country." Lucy reasoned. It would have been that much worse with an ocean between them.

"That barely makes this easy." Because the Brit was still staying in New York for over a week before she'd make it back to Vermont. To her counterpart.

"You should just come back sooner." The ink manipulator offered, shrugging her shoulders at the fact.

"Lucy."

"I mean, what's the worst that could happen?" Lucy asked, offering a delayed shrug of her shoulders as she continued; "Your parents'll what- have a go at you about it?"

It wasn't the easiest situation to handle. Penny sucked in a quick shot of air to the idea that Lucy wanted her back home. It was a dangerous topic to get anywhere near, and now that they were in it, she felt the need to deter them back out. "I know it's difficult." She tried, her tone slow, her hands pressed together in her lap "You have to be patient."

Lucy reeled back in her seat. She laughed.

"When've you ever known me to be patient?"

"Hardly ever."

"Hardly." Beat. "Ever."

Silence strung out for what felt like forever. In such moments, neither felt the need to fill the air with something less than worthy of the other. Lucy liked to keep conversations flowing as well as the next person, but in a spare moment, she gave herself the strength to stare. It meant that the way Lucy looked at her had changed, and the only one who could ever recognise the shift was Penny herself. Her gaze dropped to her the Australian's mouth as she parted her lips, and tried again.

"Come home, already."

"Lucy-"

"I'm dying."

"You're-" Confusion laced the Brit's eyes as she stalled; "-what?"

"Full out literally dying." And there was nothing Penny could say against a statement like that. Against everything it meant; how generous she was in her choice of wording. But she wasn't done. "I'll come get you."

"It's a six hour drive."

"I don't even care."

To discourage, or warn? What was the right protocol to take in such a situation? Was it wrong to be overtly tempted by the idea? Really, how ridiculous could they be when distance was in play.

"You'd have to properly meet my parents."

"Bring it on."

"You would really-"

"Too bloody right I would, and you know it."

Silence. Secondary, imperfect stagnancy. Lucy stared through the screen at the projection of the person still out of reach. The person she was far too willing to reach, ridiculous as it might have seemed. The proverbial ball was well and truly in her court, now. A day against a string of days, and Lucy was all too willing to bare the consequences if she was, too.

She opened her mouth to speak, finally. But from the grin on Lucy's lips, she was sure the ink manipulator knew her answer already.

[Penelope Serrano-Blaise]

79. Terrible

1890s London

She had no idea the time, but it was early. Too dark to catch the clock in the far corner of her large room; the sun had yet to rise and shine through the draped curtains of Penelope’s window. She could only guess just how much time she had left.

Sleep wasn’t an option, despite how it seemed to be for her counterpart. How she had drawn herself so close to the Brit’s form. As Penelope rested on her back, an arm had draped over her stomach, warmth of a now familiar body fitting next to her snuggly. So perfectly – as if they were the ones that should have been married instead.

Despite how long she had been awake, rest refused to bring down her eyelids as her gaze remained fixed on Lucy Serrano – now Lucy Blaise. Despite the shared name, it wasn’t hers to give, but rather her brother’s.

A heavy sigh passed her lips at the thought, fingertips trailing along the exposed line of her love’s arm. It was early, and she had to leave. Not just yet, however, as Penelope allowed her gaze to remain fixed on the Australian’s sleeping expression. How different she looked while sleeping. Neatened hair was disheveled, spilling across the pillow case like strokes of black on a blank canvas.

The trail her fingertips left behind as they moved up to Lucy’s shoulder dragged a crinkle in her innocent expression. Penelope paused briefly, watching as dark eyes remained shut, but more tightly so before she fell back into another round of comfort. Only then did she dare move her hand again, only this time more lightly. Precisely.

A simple movement. Back and forth. Like the slow moving rhythm of a sleeping pulse. Until finally, a palm offered light pressure to her counterpart’s shoulder. To her lips as her own pressed against them. And slowly, belayed as Lucy was dragged into consciousness, she felt reciprocation. Before the Australian could even open her eyes, she fell into the movement so willingly. The arm that had slowly been sliding away found its way back to Penelope’s waist.

She hardly wanted to be the one to say it, but as her lips finally broke from those she loved, she let out a slow breath against them. “We must get you ready.” To leave. To return to a bed that wasn’t this one. In a room that wasn’t hers.

Agreement came short lived as Lucy kissed her again, light as the contact was, it still felt electrifying enough to add an extra beat to her pulse. Slow to move, she couldn’t let go just yet.

And when they finally did manage to find their way out from under her sheets, it was all that much more painful. A discarded wedding dress was offered, wrapped in the Australian’s arms, only the first and most minimal of many layers covered her form. Enough to get through a hallway, hopefully unnoticed.

The door of her bedroom opened, and Penelope met her with a daring kiss. The hallways were empty, but it was a chance all the same to make up for the inability to talk, as voices carried easily in the large, manor so early in the morning. Pained expressions offered more than words could.

I love you.

Both felt it, and parted lips wished to offer the sentiment without the ability to. Rather, a final look and Lucy headed down the hallway to an unfamiliar room.

Penelope watched as she walked. Stared, even. White didn’t quite suit the Australian, but she was beautiful in any shade. It was only until she was out of sight did Penelope reach for the handle of her door to draw it closed.

But without a perfect being to hold her attention, the poorly trained psychometrist had nothing to prevent every memory from filtering through it. From every contaminated surface she just spent with the person she loved – the one who was forced to walk away. She withdrew her hand from the metal sharply, her pulse beating with a sense of nerves her counterpart had felt that evening when she first found her way to the psychometrist’s room.

It was going to be an impossibly long morning.

[Percival Quinn]

43. Memorial.

Glasgow, 1998

It wasn't supposed to be this way.

In his life, Percival had one member in his family. One person for the entirety of his life that really, honestly, truly mattered. Living so far away forced their connection to dissipate slightly, but there was always something there. He spoke to her often enough. But standing where he was now, he regretted every spare moment of his life.

He was thirty-nine. He was supposed to be much older before he had to face something like this.

At this point, Percival had yet to feel the sting of death. He would later in his life, but as it stood, he had no idea what it felt like. Nor did he understand the rapid decline in which his mother's health had taken. Too focused on the life he carried out in Switzerland to write as often as he should have. He worked his best to maintain the lives of so many misguided, scared teenagers. Too busy looking to the future of the many to glance back to the person he'd left behind.

Fingers curled a small set of flowers. Subtle blue petals for the smallest of heads in their abundance. Forget-me-nots; it felt fitting given the life he led. The ability he had. How he felt her presence in every step he took in their now-empty house. The property had been handed down to him. He wondered what to do with it.

He had no idea, but he didn't want to go back.

Kneeling down, he ran his free hand across his chin, the shortest prickle of hair he'd yet to shave causing a relevant itch.

He wondered who she was, in the final days. He hadn't heard from her. Were it not for the regulated visits she had with a very old friend, he might never have known. At least she found peace, they'd all said. Her memory was fading in her later years. Rapidly. Painfully. Because there he stood, living every second because he could.

And he could've given, too, had she the ability. The skills. The necessary function.

Gone. Faded like the edges of every picture she'd likely kept. From the time he was the height of her knees to the moment he stepped away.

"Here she lies." He read, but there was a slight edge to his tone. As if the words were wondrous in their sentiment, but provided little to no warmth at all. There was nothing pressing beneath the standing stone, but at least he'd come to leave flowers.

[Dominique Chevalier]

46. Disaster


It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Famously unoriginal last words, Dom thought to himself as he looked down into the crystal champagne flute he held between finger and thumb. He could come up with something better than that.

Because why not. Because he had wanted to. Because.

There. Sweet and simple. His famous last word would be: Because.

“Are you going to do something?” someone whispered at his elbow, and the young knight frowned ever so slightly at the interruption. The glove was still at his feet, and despite the obvious outcome, people were still milling around to gawk.

“I wouldn’t,” he said, finally looking up at his would be challenger. The green and black livery of the Viper house hurt his eyes. “It will end badly.” The stupid man (oldest son, or was he one of the cousins?) was even wearing a matching green hat, perched on his rapidly purpling face. He had heard the islanders were barbarians, without any social grace to speak of, but it did not make the spectacle any less ridiculous.

“You /defiled/ our brother! Do you deny it?” His voice had risen to an unholy screeching. Dom winced delicately, even as a matching head of blond hair quietly moved through the throng to stand beside him.

“Defiled is a strong word,” Dom replied, finally handing his glass to the nearest pair of helpful hands. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the smirk on Carter’s face and had to work not to mirror it. “I prefer enlightened.”

The Viper’s eyes bulged with fury, and his hand scrabbled at his hip for the hilt of his sword. The amusement fell from the twins faces fast as stone falling through water.

“Is it common practice to draw steel on your guests in the North?” Carter asked, his voice loud enough to carry as both he and Dom gripped the whip-thin rapiers that rested at their waists. “It seems very rude.”

“Extremely,” Dom agreed, all levity gone from his voice as twin sets of ice blue eyes watched the enraged nobleman. “Leave, my friend. You have embarrassed yourself enough already.”

The Viper’s face drained of blood so quickly Dominique almost expected him to faint. “I will kill-”

“Cousin! Stop!”

A smaller man, also in Viper green, had dashed through the milling nobles and knights. A cousin then; Dom sighed. He should have just run him through and been done with it. The noble’s neck twisted as he turned, pale eyes still bulging and twitching.

“I will defend your honour!” he cried, and Dom almost felt sorry for the poor man as the little Viper shot him a look of utter contempt.

“I did warn him,” Dom felt the need to say, as the cousin turned to find the needle sharp points of two rapiers pointing at his heart and gut respectively. “Why is he carrying on like I raped you?”

“Because he’s’n idiot,” the little lord replied, his freckled face coloring slightly as his cousin stared at the two blades that were inches from skewering him. The more fortunate Viper made his way to Dom’s side, and raised a hand to rest it on the knight’s outstretched arm. Dominique just knew he would be faced with serious puppy eyes if he let himself look. “Don’t kill him, Dom.”

Carter raised an eyebrow at his brother, and for a moment their aim stayed true before Dom sighed and dropped his sword point to the ground. His brother followed suit.

“Better go,” Carter suggested gently to the now totally confused noble, who stared at him until two men carefully started to lead him away. Chuckling, the blond man turned to his twin. “That was a rather exciting disaster,” he said dryly. “It would have taken hours to get the blood stains out of the floor.”

“It would have been worth it,” Dom confessed, slinging an arm around the shoulders of the little Viper and looking down at him with a serious expression. “Erik, I just spared your cousin’s life.”

Rolling his blue eyes, Carter peeled away from the pair to find amusements of his own, as Erik caught on and smiled coyly. “Thank you, sir knight,” he murmured as Dom untangled his arm in order to sheath his sword. “How can I ever repay you?”

Dom chuckled, a hand on the lordling’s waist as he guided them away from the main hall. “Allow me to enlighten you.”

[Michael Blaise]

24. Bewitching

Few people had ever managed to get close to Penelope Blaise, but one was born into it – before she was even created. There were times he was certain he would be the only one to pick his sister up in the worst of times. When he could. When she'd allow him to get that close, too. Because even blood couldn't create a strong enough connection on the worst of days. He knew that. She knew that. There wasn't anything wrong with it, either. A fact between them that could never quite be helped, but that never changed the fact that Michael wished the best for his sister. That something would change so that she could be happy. Truly happy.

And it did.

It started with the worst. Just after a holiday break where they were both returning to Vermont, she showed up at the door of his apartment. It was terrible. Heartbreaking. Seeing Penelope in any kind of emotional state was surprising, but he never thought it'd be so devastating to see his little sister actually feel something.

It was the first real sign of anything. That something was changing that he could be aware of. And somehow it progressed to this now.

Engaged. Something nobody in the Blaise family expected to hear, which only made it that much better. He couldn't believe it still, and she announced it months ago.

Michael stepped into the usual coffee shop; a wall of warm air hitting his features with a content sigh. Spring was supposedly on its way, but the weather would certainly disagree. Abnormally cold temperatures did not agree with the Brit, a warm beverage was needed. Yet something caught his eye before he even made his way to the counter.

Two very different people staring at one another from across a table. A heavily inked Australian and and all too proper Brit. They stood out. Who would expect such a pair to hold hands? The only connection that brought them together over the table.

He made his way to the counter, offering a friendly smile to the barista. “May I have a caramel cap, extra hot, please?” He asked politely. “For here.” There wasn't any harm in swinging by their table, was there?

Yet another glance in their direction and Michael quickly found himself distracted. A look to his sister's usually stonewall expression showed something else entirely. A smile he'd only witnessed once before; at her graduation. More importantly, the way she stared at the Australian she sat across from. Genuinely looked rather than looked through.

“I'm sorry.” He turned back to the barista. “Could I actually have that to take away?”

[Lucy Serrano-Blaise]

45. Zeal.

"Why do you always want to go here?" Lucy asked the younger of the two Chevaliar twins. She'd always wondered, but the question had never passed her lips. Ever since they'd started hanging out, he seemed to have a soft stop for the Velvet-Tone. He liked to sit outside for the most obvious reason; the flick of ash to the cigarette he perched between his fingers.

"Because," Dom started, smoke billowing from his lips, "It's the best in town."

"You look like you're drinking bloody poison."

"I didn't say it was good."

She laughed, then. And rightly, so did he. Dominique knew his quick wit was something of a hit with his Australian friend. And really, it was why they matched so well together. She turned her attention to her cup, dragging it to her mouth in the same motion he took another drag. Her jacket was going to smell like smoke. Her hair too, probably. Oh to take in the look of the psychometrist when she caught it.

"How'd it go?" Lucy started up, like her thoughts projected into her mouth well enough for him to understand her.

"How did what go?"

What. Like they'd ever had such a meaningful conversation before. Like he forgot the interaction they had in the shower; "We're not talking about it now?"

"Not talking about what?" He wore a grin.

So did she; "Oh, you're so fucking clever."

"I know." Dom mused aloud, shrugging his shoulders as the smug undertones overwhelmed his lips completely, "Such a shame it took you so long to realise."

But that was it. Like he could laugh off the conversation so easily and she would leave it alone. Truth be told, she considered it. Another hit of that double shot, and for her, she didn't mind the taste. But when he took a sip he couldn't control the crinkle of his expression.

"The fella you're a bit keen on." Lucy said, in a moment where his mouth was full.

He raised his hand then - cigarette in tow and foiling his brow to slow the slightest edge of disarray to his cool expression. "Lucy, please."

"What?"

"You know what." But she stared back at him with obvious confusion, and so he lowered his cup finally and exhaled on a sigh. Fingers ran along the side of his hair, except he knew it was perfect. It just felt nice beneath his fingertips. "We've established that your country has some of the worst dialogue in the world. Let's not diminish my presence with its use."

Lucy pushed an excess amount of air passed her lips on a glorious, audible exhale. Fingers pressed to the corner of her mouth and she turned them, like she could lock the uneducated notions out of her unnaturally sweet voice. It never suited her, but she wore it all the same.

This time, it was his turn to start. It was his ground to serve from.

"Are you curious?"

"Course." An unlock for a fabled lock, and she threw away the key; "Why wouldn't I be?"

"I was just curious."

"Curious about if I was curious?"

"Exactly."

"That's a bit stupid."

"Why are you curious?" He reasoned, his tone filled with amusement as he raised his eyebrow to a defined, glorious arch, "Why do you care?"

After a moment of thought, Lucy pressed both hands to the table. She didn't spare a look to them in the slightest; it was desperation talking. Sarcasm from her lips to his ears. "Cause I'm point blank bloody dying to be with you," Obviously; look at the smirk she wore, "And I'm really hoping one of you fucked it up by now."

But Dom was never one to miss a volley, and her proverbial play left just the opening he needed.

"I doubt it, given the new piece you can't stop fiddling with." A nod to his head, and he indicated to the ink manipulator's hand. She hadn't owned an engagement ring for long, and it took a lot of getting used to. Silver to the band and red in the centre. Clearer stones to either side; "It's... Nice." Sarcasm. He wore it so well, "A little pedestrian, and I would have applied something far greater, but you know what? Sometimes, it's nice to be humble."

"Sometimes you're such a fuck."

"You had your chance, mon chaton." Dom offered, a sly type of smile cracking the corner of his mouth. Because Lucy crinkled her nose at it. Jesus, did she ever hate that phrase.

"But-" Beat. A stall. A spare second to breathe. Dominique Chevalier so rarely took the time to compose himself when he seemed fine already, "It's going..." The word. The right word. "Well." A moment of sentiment from the usually refined, untouchable twin. He smiled as his eyes searched the contents of his cup. Despite how they joked so frequently - so brightly - this wasn't a time to; "Thank you for asking."

"Not a problem." She replied, her eyebrows raising a touch. A softer tone to the boy who seemed genuinely happy for the first time in... She couldn't say how long.

But at the raise of his attention, she caught a brief smile. And as such, she wore one all the same; "Fag."

He scoffed at her, a genuine chuckle follow it.

"You're one to talk." Dom started again, "I love your flannel today. I'll call my tailor; we can have it made into a wedding dress."

And just like that, they were back on track.

[Lucy Serrano-Blaise]

20. Breeze.

April, 2013

English was a boring series of classes. There was so little in it, really. Lucy would always argue that she spoke pretty good English as it was, so she didn't understand why it was called that if it wasn't really about that.

Surely, there were some people who would argue that the Australian did not, in fact, speak eloquent English on any given occasion. From her slurred speech in her surprisingly, naturally light voice to the ample amount of swears she could shoot off in a room, to the jargon she often offered that still didn't make sense to those she was closest to.

Lucy sat in the very back row with Rowan Booker confidently by her side in the neighbouring desk. Confidence lined the ink manipulator's lips, fewer tattoos on her at this point, but she was steadily working on the increase.

They were supposed to be reading something, right? Some British book - Lucy guessed - about prides and prejudices. With her boots pressed to the edge of the desk, she was swinging back in her chair, arms dangling aimlessly at either side. A lazy turn of her head and she was looking at the aerokinetic she'd known for so long; he offered a small tilt of his head. This class was like clockwork, she remembered. Or he reminded her with that little move.

A hand pressed to the open book on her own desk, and slowly - quietly - she did her best to peel a page out. It was a lengthy process to keep it so quiet, but she did her best. It was even slower to ball the page between her hands; to smooth its now crumpled nature out enough to make it aerodynamic.

But for this segment, it was in the hands of Lucy Serrano. Periodic as it were, the teacher turned their back to the students in favour of writing on the board. She watched for a few rounds, wondering how it was that the time between them was so jarring. So unpredictable. Perhaps that was what made it far more fun. Feet of her chair hit the ground silently. Softly. And she reeled her feet away from the desk she pressed them to.

The second that back was turned, her arm was high in the air over her shoulder, and she threw the tightly wound ball of paper at the back of her head - the pretentious British one who was probably loving whatever they were talking about in class today. Because they shared classes. Because she sat right at the front. Right in the middle of the class. Two interactions under her belt, and she was well and truly labelled an uptight, Redcoat bitch in the books of the Australian.

Direct hit, and Lucy could practically feel the way she tensed up at it. Never one to be quiet, her amused laughter was at a low tone, but it still pierced the moment entirely. Lucky for her, there was a boy by her side who could manipulate the air in the room. He whipped up enough drag it back to her hand before anyone could see. Just a few remnants of rustling pages from the desks adjacent to the path it took.

"Mister Booker." Their teacher warned, and he immediately perked his head back up.

"Wasn't me." But the grin he wore said otherwise.

It was a repetitive cycle. A few more perfectly timed executions and they were practically dying of poorly muted laughter fits in the back row. So much so that Rowan was moved to another seat so he could be less of a distraction for on-par to failure that was Lucy Serrano. That hardly mattered, given the mechanics of their tediously perfect operation. Why do it?

Why not?

This time when she threw it, it veered a little too left for comfort. A slight raise and twist of Rowan's hand pushed the little thing into a harsh right. But instead of hitting her in any capacity, it landed on her desk.

"God fuckin-"

"I'll advice you - again - not to swear in this class, Miss Serrano."

Pressing her lips together, she allowed the rest of it to the best of her ability; "The rest of it was totally clean, sir," She pointed out anyway, "Just so you know."

Besides, the game was over now anyway. She had to find some way to amuse herself and being sarcastic by way of a few stray comments could only dent an ego that wasn't her own. She forgot about her lost cause.

But at the front of the class, a set of hands were slowly peeling back the paper itself. It wouldn't surprise Penelope to know the Australian she well and truly hated had written some kind of string of repulsive words. Were she right, she could bring it forward and get her in even more trouble. But as she drew it flat, she saw that the contents of the page Lucy had absently selected was of an entirely different nature. Dark eyes that never really looked collided with an intricate set of details on a page. Lines and structures and shapes all swirling into one glorious detailed craft.

Her first sliver of a drawn galaxy - of a pocket of space - perfect in its depiction despite the evident space craft in the distance. She was almost curious enough to wonder what the SFV Panthera Leo was supposed to mean.

Penelope threw a glance back. Just once. Just for a second, to catch the girl in the last row looking at her. Lucy Serrano, who pressed her tongue between her lips and poked it out at her before she promptly grinned as she glanced away.

As Penelope turned around, she realised she was vapid.

As vapid and likely as empty as the very thing she'd unknowingly given her.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

#64 - Least

The first half of medical school involved traditional classrooms, exams, and having one’s own personal cadaver. The second half of medical school involved rounds through each specialty of medicine, exposure so that every rising doctor had enough familiarity to handle all tasks, pending graduation and completing the medical boards with a passing score.

Not every round was equally interesting, even if each was important in its own way. Sean Neville knew that he wanted to specialize in psychiatry, which made his physical medicine rounds (which were nearly all of them) secondary. Still, he was studious, hard-working, and attentive to both the professors as well as the patients he treated.

His OBGYN rotation was one of the most joyful; delivering healthy babies and seeing smiling families was often the highlight of his day. Not every baby was healthy, and not every labor was easy or successful. However, at his particular teaching hospital, the positive outcomes far outnumbered the negative ones.

His surgical rotation had brought pride to his father; the elder Neville never hid the fact that he would like for his son to follow in his footsteps. While Sean had been fine with the blood and the pressure, it simply didn’t interest him. He far preferred speaking to the patients for pre-surgical and post-surgical consultations.

The Emergency Room rotation was unlike the other rounds, primarily because the late-night shift at a New York City E.R. was fodder for movies and television shows alike.

There were drug overdoses. There were victims of vehicle accidents. There were the occasional crime victims: those who had been shot or stabbed or assaulted, by strangers or by loved ones. There were heart attacks and strokes and aneurisms.

Then there were the other cases, some of which were more noteworthy than others.

“...I was stepping out of the shower, and the tiles must have been wet and slippery. Then I fell, and...uh...here I am.”

Cheryl Moore was trying very hard not to laugh. Sean, after more than a decade of telepathy, had far greater control of his facial expressions, divorcing them from his thoughts.

Of course, his thoughts agreed with hers. The man in front of them was lying.

Even without telepathy to confirm this, the fact was self-evident. Too many holes existed in the cover story. Why was there a flashlight on the bathroom floor? Why was it standing upright? How did it remain upright long enough to propel itself through the man’s anal cavity without any lubrication if there was nothing to steady it?

Not that it mattered. All that mattered was that he was here now, and he required assistance.

“We’ll get it out,” the telepath promised, reaching for a pair of latex gloves. “We’ll need you to lie down on your stomach, and Doctor Moore will give you something to help you relax.”

Of course, Sean’s fingers were far thicker and longer than Cheryl’s, but he wouldn’t make her do the physical component of this treatment.

****************************

The next patient had food poisoning, and Cheryl took the lead on treatment. Sean helped take vital signs but his attention was diverted by the next person to enter the E.R.; the other teams were engaged with their own patients.

Homeless and dehydrated – he complained of feeling faint. Others in the waiting area gave the man a wide berth; Sean walked right over and placed his hand on the old man’s shoulder. “I need to take your blood pressure and temperature,” he explained, as that was standard procedure. “Then I’ll get you some ginger ale and crackers; we can see how you feel after that.”

Sean also slipped the man some meal vouchers. Hospital food wasn’t very good, but it was better than starving.

The telepath only had a few minutes for a break, during which he had a few sips of coffee and availed himself of a chair.

However, he was interrupted by an alert from the supervising E.R. doctor. “We have a GRID case. Gather the rest of the interns, and for God’s sake, put on some gloves, make sure you don’t touch any fluids.”

GRID.

The acronym was well-known and sent Sean into action. He had to wash up and don a pair of gloves. He had to gather the other interns, and he had to make sure he got there before anyone else did.

The telepath had particular empathy for the GRID patients.

After all, they were his people.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

#68 – Harm

Sean Neville had graduated from Hammel two months after the Fall of Saigon and the end of the Vietnam War. He had turned eighteen two months after the end of the Vietnam War. The country had immediately scaled down the military, and he had never had to consider what war must be like. Not for himself.

The United States would never reinstate the Draft in his lifetime.

He had a greater chance of dying due to a nuclear meltdown at Vermont Yankee Unit 1 than from dying in war as a draftee.

Despite stereotypes trotted out every Father’s Day, Sean found war topics about as interesting as he found golf. He didn’t enjoy studying war tactics; he didn’t obsess about the Civil War or the precise movements throughout World War II. He had always been far more interested in the sociological and psychological causes and results, in an effort to never repeat the experience.

He knew little about battle tactics and strategy. He knew nothing about hand-to-hand combat. He had never even touched a firearm in over five decades of life.

As a result, he had never given a moment’s thought to what it would be like to fight for his life. To fight for the lives of others.

He had never envisioned himself leading a ragtag band of friends and colleagues to fight meta-human supremacists for the sake of Hammel, of Pilot Ridge, of Vermont, and of the nation and eventually the world.

Not that M.S.A.D. had become that powerful yet, but had Gabriel Underwood survived, had M.S.A.D. achieved their goals, world domination would have been sure to follow. Slowly but surely. Not like in the disaster-based action movies or superhero comics that Ryan enjoyed so much, but through careful political maneuvering. Gabriel had already set so much into motion by the time he had returned to Pilot Ridge, and Hammel had a number of contacts as well as some influence. Had he taken control of the school, he would have taken control of current and future meta-human youth, filling the minds of future generations with supremacist poison, training them in sadistic violence.

He had needed to be stopped.

Sean had realized that back when Gabriel had been a student at Hammel. He had kept an eye on the teenager throughout his time at the school, and he had clipped newspaper articles when he thought that Gabriel might have been involved, longer after he had graduated and left to make his mark upon the world.

When Gabriel returned to Pilot Ridge, rich and powerful, he had abused his powers to mentally assault James Campbell and break into Hammel. He had kidnapped several students, stealthily recruited others, and stolen a great amount of classified information: about students, about staff members, about the Board of Trustees, about Hammel’s contacts and its inner-workings.

He had bribed the police to turn a blind eye. He and his cohorts had assaulted various people around the town.

The Degreas Twins had assaulted Josh and nearly left him for dead. But for Sean’s intervention, he might have died.

Even now, the telepath regretted not having found his friend sooner. Regretted not having prevented the assault in the first place.

He had so many regrets now.

Sean had gotten off easy after the battle at the M.S.A.D. compound. His side had won, as they needed to have done. They had suffered no deaths, although they had suffered casualties.

Morgan was blind now, from pushing his powers beyond their comfortable limits.

Anya had been shot, and now she required physical therapy and assistance devices in order to walk. She might never recover fully.

James Campbell and his foster son Niko had been traumatized from their kidnapping, and they each required therapy to cope with the events. On top of the trauma that James had suffered when Gabriel had taken possession of his mind several months earlier, when breaking into Hammel in the first place.

Chase had been unable to join them in battle, due to the injuries he had suffered the month prior at the M.S.A.D. compound. When the Degreas Twins had thrown him out a window after he had fought with (and killed) Gabriel Underwood. It would take months more, perhaps a year, to recover from those injuries, and he had to be grateful that he could recover at all.

Sean had merely suffered a minor and temporary head injury. A little bit of pain and a couple of hours of unconsciousness put him far ahead most of the others involved.

So much pain. So much suffering. So much violence. So much death.

M.S.A.D. had been disbanded. The federal government had sent in agents to take the remaining members into custody. The ones who had not managed to escape underground. The Degreas Twins had been sent to Guantanamo Bay. Other members had been given federal trials, for terrorism, for treason and sedition.

Hammel no longer had to keep the students under lockdown conditions.

Yet the aftermath remained heavy.

Every day, Sean saw his coworkers, struggling with the trauma from the battle or the pain of their injuries, their limitations now that they had acquired disabilities.

He regretted each and every one of them.

He regretted that there had been no other choice.

[Dr. James Campbell]

100. Exit

"Jay, you have to stop this." The recruiter perched on the edge of her desk and crossed her arms. It was the third time she had sent someone after the young man and the fourth time he'd been brought in to Hammel.

James sat in one of the office chairs, refusing to look at her. Instead, he focused on picking at his threadbare jacket. There was a spot near his wrist that was well-worn and the seam was starting to fray. It bothered him.

"I get it. I really do. You more than any of the kids I've recruited have a reason to want to escape." She was trying to be nice. But the man was 22 years old, he should really understand why he had to stay at Hammel. If not for any other reason than that training could help him manage the side-effects of his power.

Finally, he looked up at her. "You "get it"? You get to go home to your husband every night. My wife and daughter are six hours away. My life is six hours away."

Well, he did have a point there. There had even been some discussion among the other recruiters that maybe James Campbell should have been allowed to remain outside the system. But even though his power wasn't violent, it side effects definitely had a negative impact on his life. "You have to learn how to control your ability."

"I know."

Aristea was surprised. This was the first time she'd heard James acknowledge that he needed training. Usually he wouldn't say anything other than that he had his wife and daughter back home and he had to be with them. (Which was a compelling reason enough.) "Then why did you try to run again?"

He kept picking at the fray in his jacket. "Lucy...she's so mad at me for leaving. I think she's thinking about asking for a divorce. Because of this. Because I can't be normal."

The recruiter leaned over and put her hand on his shoulder. "Maybe you should go talk to Dr. Neville. He might be able to help you with this."

He shrugged her off and stood. When he wasn't perched on a chair, he stood a full head taller than her. "I don't need a shrink. I need to go home."

Then he stormed out of her office.