athousandtinysouls - Tumblr blog

[athousandtinysouls]

Apparently, what Aren was asking for was a tall order. Though, repeated back to him in Lloyd’s velvety voice, it really didn’t seem like that much. Perhaps it was because Aren’s view was skewed, or because he never thought things were too much. Never too much work to be done to help someone in need of help. Aren would jump over the grand canyon if it were to save someone’s life; he’d simply find a way to do it. Build a machine out of straw and paper and rubber bands. It’d be done somehow, and he wouldn’t gripe about it along the way. Reasonably, Aren knew that others didn’t react to things the same way as he did. There were risks to consider, resources (so valuable apparently) that might be expended and could have been used for more ‘important’ causes. He could never blame others for not wanting to go above and beyond the call if it put them in any sort of tight position. Apparently, humans were all claustrophobic and didn’t seem keen on being put between that rock and hard place and Aren wasn’t about to push others. Though, given the opportunity, he might ry and nudge just a little. 

“Essentially,” Aren repeated, with an air of teasing in his voice (hardly there, but he was sure that Lloyd would be able to notice it), “that is exactly what I am asking for.” He watched as Lloyd reclined in his chair, picking up the article he had passed along, sharp eyes darting across in that jerky way they did when they were reading, slim fingers doing a dance across the paper. “Oh, I’ve been to the advocacy groups,” Aren replied, leaning back in his own chair, perhaps a subtle attempt to mimic the other man, hand grasping his ankle as it laid over his knee, the other running through his hair in a nervous habit. Nothing about Lloyd made Aren particularly nervous, but it was the first time in a long time he felt a bit hot under the collar. Maybe it was the man’s cool way of speaking, or how every action, every little movement seemed so deliberately careful and thought through. As though no expense of energy by Lloyd was wasted, every little thing he did had to have an outcome or reaction. Aren didn’t understand people like that, but he certainly didn’t begrudge them either. “They simply have ‘better things’ to deal with.”

What better things than helping a young man who was being labeled a terrorist simply for doing what any human wishes they could do, Aren wasn’t sure. But he had certainly visited them before even considering Lloyd and his department. He had been to numerous ones, before he realized they would do no good and perhaps, maybe even harm the cause even more. A few of the advocacy groups seemed a little radical for Aren’s taste. A ‘no humans’ sign painted on the wall of one of their home made offices, people buzzing around looking like they were always in a hurry and always angry. Aren would have loved some help from a group so organized, but he also didn’t want to picket the trial, or make signs or yell at humans from the curb. That seemed to get nothing done other than cause a fuss and Aren didn’t want to make things harder for Robert Greir than it already was.

Things did seem to be going Aren’s way, if not just slightly. Lloyd had yet to throw him out of his office and tell him he had a hundred better things to do, which is what Aren had been expecting by the time they reached his desk, especially with the way he rattled off Aren’s expectations like a shopping list that would never get fulfilled. Aren’s chin dipped toward his chest, eyes fluttering close as he chuckled, a hearty sound before he resumed his gaze on Lloyd. He was quiet for a moment before uncrossing his leg, planting both feet on the ground as firmly as he could and leaning forward to look at Lloyd as directly as he could, hands lacing together and elbows finding his knees. “Did you know that scientists only recently discovered that birds, and I don’t mean penguins, love to play in snow?” He grinned, his lion like face looking much younger than forty three for just a moment.

“It’s surprising to me that they only just recently learned this,” he continued, unlacing his fingers and waving a hand. “Of course, inherently, I know more about birds than any one person should, considering my connection with the little things.” Rising, slowly, he adjusted his jacket, patting around his pockets to make sure he hadn’t dropped things. “But it also seems so obvious, don’t you think? That our children would love to play in the snow on the playground is a given, expected even. Build a snow fort, play with snowballs, get drenched in melted snow and come home with bright red noses. Isn’t it so curious how scientists needed to be convinced first that birds enjoyed rolling around in it and they weren’t doing it for some strange migratory, nesting, feeding, what have you reason?” Aren smiled, wide and open as he fixed the collar of his shirt again. “We all have this dire need to be sure of everything.” 

And Aren truly meant we. He wasn’t singling Lloyd, or humans, out. The world was a strange place when someone could look at a bird rolling down a hill of snow and come up with a hundred different reasons as to why it would be doing something so strange rather than just assuming it was for play. It was an even stranger world where Aren couldn’t get a mutant advocacy group to help him with his poor mutant teenage terrorist, and a strange world where he might need to convince another man to help him as well.

“But, bagels,” Aren said, pointing with more enthusiasm than he meant to. “I would love to discuss Robert with you more over bagels, especially if you’re going to be paying,” he added with a wink. 

The never ending rambling of a helpful mind

For just a second, Lloyd pondered how easy it would be to simply make this whole thing… go away. To speak lowly, melodically to Aren, voice pitched to carry across the desk even as his expression never changed, and explain to him that the Department of Mutant Affairs simply wasn’t able to be of assistance, in this case. That he, himself, was terribly sorry, but there was nothing to be done. That Aren had come and done his best and exhausted every avenue the division had to offer, but to no avail. Alternately, that Rob Grier was a figure undeserving of the leonine man’s help, but he had a sneaking suspicion that a suggestion such as that would stick with far less tenacity in a mind like Aren’s. If he was so invested in Grier’s affairs that he would take it upon himself to advocate thusly for the flying mutant, he was unlikely to be so easily persuaded to believe - and act - otherwise.

But Christ, it was tempting. Lloyd blinked. That was all the time it took for him to slip loose of his own self-control and better judgment, to reach down into the part of himself that had no name and stroke a finger down the spine of the power that resided there, like some kind of tightly-coiled animal that was encoded in the very genes of him, in the base building blocks of every part of him. Just a few sentences. That was all. Aren would believe it, as everyone always did; that was the power of suggestion multiplied and magnified and mutated by, well, his mutation. Propositions that ingrained themselves so deeply in a person’s mind that it was nearly an impossible thing to assume that they were anything else but an original idea. It would be so easy.

But Lloyd wasn’t a villain, as much as he had the absolute potential to become one with his restraint stripped away. Self-preservation, rather than total domination, was his motivation at any given time, and while his ability to compel was a simple way to cut corners and get to Point B from Point A with as much alacrity and little delay as possible, it didn’t add something to him that hadn’t been there before. It enhanced his persuasive nature, turned it into something that couldn’t be ignored, needed to be obeyed, believed. He had just too much of a conscience to be cast entirely in the role of Bad Guy, and professor Ned Brainard reborn over here made him chuckle, at least inwardly. And villains didn’t chuckle, except when they had their nemesis dangling over a shark tank with nothing in reach to use to free themselves. (He had no intention of stringing the man up like that, or if he found himself in that position, of making the usual long-winded speeches that invariably followed, giving the prisoner time to escape.)

“Essentially,” he summarized placidly, “you want my department to begin writing a case in his defense - or for leniency, should his verdict swing badly - before Mr. Grier’s trial begins.” Perhaps calling it my department was a bit of an exaggeration, as it boosted him to a leader’s seat he had no right to occupy, but if it affected the point he didn’t know how, and so moved on. “You want us to get the public to back, to let him know that he’s not in this struggle alone, and to publicly support him when the paper’s already taken to calling him a terrorist. Is that, more or less, correct?” Such a small motion, to blink, but was its own punctuation at the end of the list. Probably more like a percontation point than anything else, but that still counted.

A hefty list, when put like that. Lloyd might have exaggerated things to make his point, had certainly picked his language and words carefully to make the greatest impact, but at the heart of it, he was right. It was a lot to ask of the department (although it was well within their ability to check those boxes off one after the other, right down the list) when they walked such a fine line in general. While it could be considered a requirement by decency, it was also certainly a two-handed push hefty enough to risk upsetting the detailed balancing act they’d all practiced to near perfection. It put Lloyd himself in a possibly risky position, as well, and while it was one he could evade by simply opening his mouth and speaking, he preferred to not be there in the first place.

But - and there was always that but - while the practical side of his brain loudly and vehemently declared that no, assisting Aren (and therefore Rob Grier) was not a thing they were doing for the following reasons, there was an all too human part of him that wanted to give his aid to this project. Whether he viewed it as a challenge to keep his balance and his secret while taking on what seemed almost an impossible task or if it was something in the other man’s nature that drew sympathy from him like blood from an opened vein or a third option he couldn’t put words to (because sympathy for the vast, nebulous mutant rights cause wasn’t near the table even as a joke, let alone on it), he’d no idea. He just needed to convince that practical side to go along with it.

Lloyd leaned back in his chair, taking the article with him and skimming it briefly as he spoke again, long fingers idly flicking at the bottom of the clipped newsprint. “I might suggest you try one of the mutant advocacy groups; they’re in the representation business where we, admittedly, spin, and they make a habit of advocating for the already-condemned.” Official recommendation or not, he set the article back on the desktop and slid it across the surface, back to his visitor. “So let me make you a counteroffer: convince me.”

It wasn’t as simple as two words, of course. “Tell me about Rob Grier; something more than ‘he’s a good student’; anything and everything you can. Why him? Why is his case, specifically, something on which I ought to be focusing the department’s not inconsiderable resources?” A lesson. He was asking for a lesson. Rob Grier 101, with professor Aren Smith. Anything that would not only settle his own mind and let him justify risking his current safety, but would also let him properly prepare a pitch for those who ranked above him on the departmental totem pole. Even if he eventually agreed, they were the ones who would still need to approve the allocation of manpower and supplies, both physical and immaterial.

“If you’d still like to like to do it over those bagels you mentioned,” Lloyd added, corners of his mouth twitching outward and upward just slightly at his abrupt change in tone from businesslike to far more casual, “consider this my offer to pay. I hope to more than make it back in information.” Debatably, what he would be receiving was more valuable (knowledge was power, and all that), but it seemed, in the moment, to be a good test. He could see how set Aren was on defending the young man, could learn more about the case than had been in the orderly, sterile report on his desk, could prepare to deal further with said case, and on top of all of that, he’d get a bagel out of what was apparently the greatest bagel shop in all of Boston, if you believed Aren’s description. He’d no reason to doubt it (not yet, anyway).

[athousandtinysouls]

There was nothing particularly new about the environment that Sid and Gemma had found themselves in. Nothing out of the ordinary for the two thieves who spent their nights divided between partying in this scene or stealing from the sort of people that were mingling about in it. The club they had gotten their way into with fake ID’s and good bodies was filled with the sort of rich money people that Sid actually hated. Swore to never be like. Growing up poor and abandoned in an orphanage with no one to love her but the girl beside her had taught Sid more about the world than anyone would have ever thought--and she was so determined to never lose that grittiness and become another cog, another sheep in the mindless fray of dancing idiots with their money flaunted. So easy to steal from people who didn’t think they even needed to pay attention to where their wallet was or how easy their diamond bracelet came unclasped in the ever frantic movement of a dancing crowd. Sid didn’t have a plan in mind when she had suggested the club they had gone to more than once. Returning to hunting grounds was always dangerous, so likely to run into a man they had scorned before.

But that was half the fun. Nothing was enjoyable if there wasn’t some layer of danger hidden beneath it. And Sid wanted the fun. She wanted the high energy and the adrenaline and the danger. She wanted to run her hands up Gemma’s sides while they danced and made men want them and women jealous, all the while wondering if someone would catch onto their game. Part of Sid wanted to let loose and have fun. Maybe drink and party and find a guy they would either fuck and steal from, or just plain steal from. She wasn’t picky. And with a shot already in her system and her arm loosely wrapped around Gemma’ torso as they moved together to the beat of some obnoxious house music produced in the 90’s and remixed in the 2000’s, she really wasn’t planning on deciding their evening plans for the night. Until her eyes wandered to the bar, like they always did and she began to pick at the men lounging there. Nice shoes, good hair, fancy watch, playing on an expensive smart phone. The one with the fancy watch was, at least, good looking.

Brushing Gemma’s hair behind her ear and still moving, she looked her in the eyes before glancing subtly toward the bar. “Guy on the fourth stool. Nice watch. Doesn’t look old enough to be our father,” she grinned, moving almost as if she was just an extension of the girl in front of her. Sid’s hips swayed easily and effortlessly. There was a powerful tense string that ran through her entire body that buzzed to do something more erratic and frantic and furious. To lash out and throw herself around, a constant need to do something extreme. She noticed her subject staring and wondered if maybe they were too late--maybe he’d picked his own prey and they shouldn’t waste their time. Go for the guy with nice shoes and hope he had something even nicer in his pockets. Until she noticed the fury on his face was directed toward the crowd.

Tilting her head a little, Sid noticed he was staring at an unfortunate little fawn getting viciously gyrated on by some man. “And he seems like a gentleman,” Sid snorted, looking back to the man with the nice watch. “They’re always easy,” she mumbled, looking to Gemma for approval. There was no decision made until they both knew what they wanted.

Three thieves, one officer | Jack + Sid + Gemma

This weren’t the sort of place that Jack usually went to. Nicer than he was used to, with a button up shirt requirement just to get in. Alcohol with fancier names than he was used to. Women with outfits that looked more expensive than anything he’d ever owned in his life. The nice, shiny rolex on his wrist was really the only thing that made him appear like he might have belonged. A gift from his father when he graduated the police academy, it was the most valuable thing in owned in terms of money and it still probably didn’t touch the wealth of everyone else in the night club. The only reason Jack had shown was because a beautiful woman named Tamara had told him she worked there. Whether that was true or not, Jack had no real clue, but he was hoping to catch her. She was up around twenty-nine or so and being with a twenty year old like Jack was bound to make her feel younger and more important; which was what Jack usually went for. While his last girlfriend was only a year older than him, the last woman he’d hooked up with (which had been about four nights ago) was thirty-three or somewhere around there. Jack found women got easier with age and he didn’t mind that at all.

Saddling up on a stool near a neon lit bar, he patted the glass top to get the bartenders attention. “Just a coke for now,” he told the man, who was wearing the tightest black shirt he’d ever seen in his life. The red and yellow and blue lights that pulsated from every part of the bar made him look ridiculously clownish and his face looked contorted and confused at Jack’s order. But he went about making it anyway as Jack fumbled for his wallet and slipped him a five dollar bill. Once the drink was in his hand, he turned in the stool to watch the crowd dancing. He was always fascinated by that. Large sums of people grinding against each other, the sea of bodies that looked almost like one. To a police officer (if he could even claim to be one yet), it was almost frightening. He had been trained to find crowds dangerous, in every situation, even something as light hearted as dancing. The potential for mass hysteria was greater inside a club with no real lighting and so much alcohol. Only made worse by the money he saw laying around everywhere inside everyones pockets.

The law enforcement part of him saw the potential danger…but the kleptomaniac inside him just saw potential. His fingers were itchy to slip into pockets, to steal wallets and cellphones and cash. Jack didn’t even want any of it, really. He had no interest in money. He didn’t yearn for the more expensive things. He couldn’t think of something he didn’t already own and wanted—except maybe an iPad but he’d been staring hard at one at the precinct not too long ago he thought he could take. But there was something inside Jack that loved to steal. That loved nothing else like it loved to take things that didn’t belong to him in a sneaky little way. As his eyes scanned the crowd of dancing bodies and he sipped his coke, he landed on a man, dancing awkwardly (and maybe a little too vigorously) against a woman. Jack didn’t like to steal from the opposite gender. For one, they rarely had things he wanted to liked, but if they caught him they were more likely to report than to just fight him over it. The man humping away at some poor doe eyed girl made Jack furious inside and he could see the wallet in his back pocket.

All he had to do was keep his eyes on the man, finish his drink, steal from him and maybe find Tamara to take to some nice hotel.

[athousandtinysouls]

Feeling Spencer’s long, thin fingers slipping between his made his entire chest ache in the worst possible ways. Desire so strong that he could almost taste it on his tongue, a wicked sort of desire that was anything but wholesome. She was so delicate, every single thing about her was like a flower petal that could so easily be crushed and torn it was almost scary. Especially when Jason’s hands were so much more used to destroying than healing, like she probably thought. For once in his life, Jason wanted to warn the little girl sitting next to him that the world was full of shit instead of taking advantage of her blatant naivety. That was how Jason operated. While Jax seemed to use his good looks, sleazy charm and blatant sexual prowess as a means to get cute nineteen year olds with great chests like Rory into his bedroom, Jason took a sneakier approach. Spencer was so obviously oblivious to the horrible world they lived in that it would be easy for Jason to pluck her from the flowerbed and covet all that sweet innocence to himself. A part of him wanted nothing more than that, the warmth of her hand against his own making him want to feel so much more of that warmth. Another part wanting to tell her blatantly the world was going to crush her one day if she didn’t wake up.

But Jason didn’t have the time, nor did he have the good will inside him or the conscious necessary to save Spencer from a heart break he knew he would probably be responsible. Not when his own desires were always put above everyone’s. Instead, he sat there with his almond shaped sad eyes, paying attention to every single detail down to the way she seemed to battle with herself and thrust her words out of her mouth at the same time. Her descriptions were so vivid Jason could almost imagine himself in the room with her. Eerily similar to how he’d come to find about his own mutation, but he figured that wasn’t rare, considering theirs was so much alike. Only instead of healing, Spencer did a great deal of eliminating. Taking unto herself. Instead of stitching wounds back together by reversing time in a small bubble like Jason did, all Spencer seemed capable of (at the moment, because Jason knew very well mutations could always evolve) was taking away the pain people felt. 

He wanted to sit there and ponder on how incredibly Spencer like it was, maybe even laugh about it and tell her how fitting it seemed to be, but her story was so serious he couldn’t muster anything other than a (seemingly) sympathetic, soft smile. Ever since knowing her, he’d known her to be nothing except for an unselfish little thing. She didn’t even seem able to tell disgusting surgeons to stop inspecting her lower half while she picked things up off the ground, that was how unable to disturb others she was. Of course Jason had no issue with shoving them and claiming it was an accident, but that was what they got for looking at something he had very blatantly claimed as his own. He wanted to pry and ask more, about how much pain she could take, how long it stayed with her for, how long it left them for, who all she had told. But they had to wait, she wouldn’t be able to bear a barrage of questions thrown at her and with Spencer perched on his couch like a frightened doe he didn’t want to scare her running for the woods.

“My sister has Aspergers,” Jason said. “Or something similar. My parents don’t exactly believe in medical diagnosis,” he continued, a bit more bitterly than he’d meant to. “She has a weird thing for bugs. When she was younger, she used to try and catch all sorts of insects. One day, she found a wasps nest somehow. And she stuck her hand in it. I was the only one home with her at the time.” Jason could very vividly remember hearing Carole screaming. She was the only one of his sisters he’d actually given a shit about when he was younger and maybe it was because she was like him, almost. An outcast in the family. But where she’d been sheltered and taken care of, he’d been thrown aside. Either way, Jason had cared for her as much as he could, as much as he’d allowed himself. “Anyway, I dragged her inside. And I killed all the wasps that managed to get in when I did. Only one managed to sting me,” he laughed, rubbing his free hand through his hair.

She had been covered in little red welts. Already swelling, her tears had stopped and she had stared at him with her giant blue eyes. “I knew she had to get to a hospital, or something. But I wanted to calm her down a little, so I hugged her. And when I did, I felt this weird thing in me.” Jason gestured to his chest and looked up at Spencer, wondering if she could feel the same magnetic pull to pain he could. “I can’t really...describe what happened or how I figured out how to do it. I just know that one moment she was covered in those wasp stings. And then the next she wasn’t. I had done something to her. And she was fixed. Just like that, she was fine. And I passed out,” he said, laughing and leaning back in the couch, pulling her hand into his lap with him, hardly noticing he had done so. It occurred to him that he’d never told anyone that story other than Jax, and he’d barely used any detail other than ‘I healed my sister after she was attacked by wasps’. 

“I think that,” Jason looked over at Spencer. “That guy probably thought you were an angel.” He stared at her harder and the desire to kiss her was so strong he had to bite the inside of his lip to ignore it. 

Birds of a Feather || Jason & Spencer

[athousandtinysouls]

[athousandtinysouls]

[athousandtinysouls]

When Ren was younger, she wasn't particularly good at controlling her mutation. As a result when she was sad, it would rain or storm. She once accidentally hit a car with lightning when she was upset. It's lead her to be more afraid of her mutation than anything else.

[athousandtinysouls]

Basics

Name: Noah Tonkin

Age: 27

Height: 6’3''

Weight: 230lbs

Sexuality: Homosexual

Occupation: Night Guard

Registry: Registered

Mutation: Organic Steel Shell

Navigation

Noah

Drabbles

Headcanon

Photos

Threads [by character]

Rapid fire [by character]

[athousandtinysouls]

Basics

Name: Jamie Costello

Age: 34

Height: 6'2''

Weight: 228lbs

Sexuality: Homosexual

Occupation: Florist

Registry: Unregistered

Mutation: Remote teleportation of inanimate objects only

Navigation

Jamie

Drabbles

Headcanon

Photos

Threads [by character]

Rapid fire [by character]

[athousandtinysouls]

Basics

Name: Ren Flores

Age: 19

Height: 5’3''

Weight: 121lbs

Sexuality: Heterosexual

Occupation: Baker

Registry: Registered

Mutation: Weather manipulation

Navigation

Ren

Drabbles

Headcanon

Photos

Threads [by character]

Rapid fire [by character]

[athousandtinysouls]

Character additions (being worked on)

Ren Flores

Jamie Costello

Unnamed villain

Possible character additions

Noah Tonkin

Oliver LeBlanc

Bradley Booker

[athousandtinysouls]

It was a tragedy, but Aren Smith thought nothing but the best of people and saw the best in every situation. He sympathized with the lowest of the low criminals and couldn’t begrudge the teenager who had broken his nose and mugged him only a few months ago. The glass was always half full and never half empty. A rainy day was a blessing and he didn’t mind the wet shoulders or droplets in his hair, or that he resembled a sad, wet lion. Somewhere, a child was being born, someone was falling in love, the next great masterpiece of art was being made. He laughed at cynical questions that pondered existence and the like and never took anything more serious than it needed to be taken. He never debated religion, politics or anything similar only if it was on an even playing ground where neither parties could get offended by the other and afterward everyone could have a drink and laugh it all off. And it was a tragedy because it lead to Aren being more gullible than he’d ever believe. He was an intelligent man, a scholar one could say, who could hold his own in almost any conversation (even if he was more than a little scatterbrained) but Aren’s goodness only lead him into situations where he could easily be manipulated.

However, that goodness was the reason he couldn’t take any offense to Lloyd’s pause--a natural freeze that most seemed to have when hearing something that was slowly becoming taboo in the society they lived in. In fact, that small discomfort lead Aren to believe, or naturally assume, that the man beside him was in fact not a mutant, which meant working for The Department of Mutant Affairs despite seemingly having no ties to mutants proved there was that goodness that Aren looked for in everyone inside of Lloyd. Although, that lead Aren to wonder if he had a significant other who was a mutant, or perhaps a family member that would make him so privy to such a job, but it was gone in a flash from his mind when he laughed. “Never seen a bird as big as Robert, wouldn’t know what to do with one if I did manage to call him. Let’s hope the world never has to see that happen. I appreciate your appreciation of my honesty, it is among one of my best qualities. That and the ability to make a creme brulee,” Aren said as he stepped into the man’s office, unbuttoning his coat as he went, presuming to make himself comfortable within the other mans given sanctuary of sorts.

Once inside the office, Aren relaxed. Not to say he wasn’t before--he lived his life in a permanent state of relaxed, even when he was flustered. Not able to find papers or things or that damn coffee mug he was pretty sure he had left on the subway again. Aren was fully capable of the wide array of human (or homo superior?) emotions, but he always defaulted back to a relaxed state of being, because he didn’t enjoy anything tense. His doctor commended him often on his excellent blood pressure and Aren had nothing to chalk up to it other than being able to be at ease in any moment, anywhere. He gave the office a look around, wondering what it could reveal of Lloyd as a person before his eyes were drawn back to the handsome, well spoken man who was joining him in the office. So far, Lloyd had been nothing but polite. Almost clinical, like a doctor who was forced to listen to a patients rambling. He didn’t seem angry or annoyed that Aren was disrupting his everyday schedule to babble on about a poor mutant he felt sorry for, but he certainly didn’t seem excited by the idea.

But alas, not all people could be as Aren was and so far, he could feel nothing toward the man but a genuine like. No reason to dislike, anyway, and Aren found himself easily enjoying another’s personality and presence, giving Lloyd a large smile as with a long legged stride, Lloyd made his way around to his desk (that looked neat, organized and professional as far as Aren could see, which could only confirm that Lloyd himself was a neat, organized and professional man) and sat down. The chairs in front of his desk looked used often, worn grooves of bodies having already been marked there. Aren settled himself down slowly, folding his leg over, ankle at the knee, one hand on his lap while the other laid itself on the arm of the chair, never letting go of that smile as he looked toward Lloyd, who now appeared to be in some sort of powerful position, behind his desk and looking out across to Aren. “Oh, no, call me, Aren, please,” he interrupted before falling silent to listen again.

“Ah,” Aren scratched his chin, pondering if his facial hair made him look untamed and unkempt and possibly less professional than the cut and dry man before him. For a split moment, Aren completely forgot what he was going to say, or even what he had come for. The thought in mind to ask Lloyd if he wanted to get a cup of coffee was there because he definitely could go for something caffeine filled to fuel him into surviving the rest of the day before he remembered the unfortunate mutant that had almost flown into a plane. “Well you see,” Aren started, smiling again. “I was hoping your department could shed a positive light on our dear friend, Mr. Grier. After all, public opinion of mutants depends on what is put out there for them to consume. Humans are consumers,” he winced at that, wondering if Lloyd would find it insulting. “What I mean to say is, they are consumers of media. And--well, media helps court cases. And I was hoping you and your department would be able to--using the things I’ve found--put out an article perhaps on the young man, painting him in a more...positive light.”

Aren opened the folder again, finding a newspaper article he had cut out. Standing for a brief moment, he placed it down and slid it across to Lloyd.

“After all, he was called a terrorist recently in the newspaper. Already slandering his name before the case even reaches judge and jury. Perhaps one of those, oh what do you call them,” Aren went about scratching his chin again, eyes glazing. “Uh, press conferences. Have the boys back! After all, I think it would mean a great deal for him and also to the other mutants within this great city.” Aren smoothed his chest down, a natural habit to appear more put together before folding his hands in his lap. “And then, well, if you’d like, I could gladly take you to the greatest bagel shop in all of Boston since I so rudely took your time. I am starving,” he said, hoping if all else failed, perhaps bribery could get him in good graces.

The never ending rambling of a helpful mind

A hand on his arm again and he didn’t have the time to draw away; didn’t need to, as his visitor was the one to let go in a timely manner. “And you’re not on the side of ‘never too early to begin making a fuss?” Lloyd mused, careful intonation of his words matching time with his steps down the hall. “Kind of you.” He didn’t slow his pace, as would probably have been perfectly polite when dealing with someone whose piloting of the populated passage wasn’t an everyday challenge with which the regulars became well acquainted. It wasn’t a matter of spurning the other man; it was just habit, too deeply ingrained to be rid of and coming too naturally to do away with.

There was something wonderfully entertaining about watching Aren navigate the halls of the office. It was the way he split his attention between the sheaf of papers in his hand and the people passing around him with no small amount of skill, affable tone and words never stopping for long. He didn’t belong there; Lloyd didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes reborn to see that much. Too warm to be a part of the cool décor and the cooler people, too alive and human to be a part of the faintly robotic crowd of which the assistant counted himself part. The discrepancy earned him the odd quizzical look, although those could just as easily come from the one or two narrowly-evaded collisions that were truly impressive feats of maneuverability.

The manila folder and its assumed contents (no doubt dealing with Robert Grier and Mr. Smith’s advocating on his behalf) became the half-focus of attention, if not yet conversation. The other part of his attention went to Aren himself, a study taken, thankfully, in a far less pugnacious manner than a boxer looking over his opponent before the start of a first round. They might not stand on the same side of the given issue, at least in the public eye, but that didn’t put them across some metaphorical ring from one another. There was an appealing sort of common man look about him that matched the easy way he spoke, the way it was easy to listen to the words roll out of his throat. He seemed like the kind of person you couldn’t help but like (and Lloyd could vouch for that simply by the way he hadn’t yet been motivated to brush the man off), and knew it, considering the way he addressed someone who was all but a stranger as though they’d been friends for eons.

It was a hop, a skip, and a jump past the way most business relationships formed and functioned, but wasn’t objectionable. Which was odd. Not secondary mutation-odd, but interesting quirk of personality-odd. A low hum of what might have been agreement but was probably just semi-verbal filler provided follow-up for the flying spiel. To be fair, the ability to fly provided what was no doubt an incredibly tempting opportunity for escape - quite literally as well as figuratively, and he was hard pressed to keep in mind the careful balance the department maintained.

If Aren gave his mutant explanation carefully, Lloyd’s actions were the same. He went very still for perhaps a second, hand gripping the knob of his office door without turning it, face returning to cautiously composed once more. He’d found that reacting in such a manner was acceptable; where he knew it to be a momentary freeze at dealing with someone like himself and risking that they would somehow know, the rest of the world seemed to read it either as surprise or discomfort at the idea of dealing with a mutant. It suited him just fine, although the risk of being accused of prejudice needed to be one he was willing to take.

"If this isn’t a roundabout way of telling me that you mistook Mr. Grier for a bird and… summoned him," he replied, something that might have been a note of deadpanned humor coloring his words, “I feel that I’m going to be disappointed in the end.” The card received a cursory inspection, its dubious importance in the context of their current conversation apparently brushed aside at least for the moment. “I appreciate your honesty."  It certainly contributed, in some small part, to a justification for the mutant’s interest in the case. General loyalty to his kind and the same but more specific for a young man who had the ability to so resemble that which he could call to him. It made sense, and a slightly more cynical man might have sarcastically labeled it touching.

The exchange of card for page was easily achieved and Lloyd scanned the dark text quickly, one eyebrow arching towards his hairline. Robert had been- was, he silently corrected himself, was an intelligent young man, at least on paper. Flying so close to a plane (and, perhaps, flying at all when it was forbidden) spoke against that assumption, but the numbers and letters in flat black ink looked good. “It’s rather impressive,” he admitted warily, tapping a finger against the paper before reaching again for the doorknob and gesturing into the office. “Please.” He’d mentioned already that discussing the issue (so vague, but easier to swallow than most things more specific) in the open hallway wasn’t preferable.

The Department of Mutant Affairs, and specifically the small subsection that dealt with public and media relations, walked a terrifyingly fine line in terms of the images they needed to balance in their projection to the public. On the one hand, there was the idea of mutants are a threat! which suggested that people needed to trust and believe in the government of Boston for protection of their lives, their businesses, their very way of life. On the other, there was the mutant threat is contained! which suggested that there was no need to worry, that going about one’s daily routine without considering the DMA was perfectly acceptable.

Every incident involving a mutant - whether it was a fire-hurler purposefully sending a building up in flames or an exploratory teenager accidentally giving a woman a heart attack in mid-air - needed to be spun and presented in such a way that balanced both ideas. Yes, the mutants presented a danger to the people of the city and beyond, but they were being taken care of, and the populace was protected. The latter was often more difficult than the former, and required reaction to events like Robert Grier’s joyride. Reaction that might seem like belated reaction, like overreaction, but set people’s minds at ease. And possibly warned against similar actions, but that was a different point.

A few naturally long strides had him into the room and moving around a desk one could only assume was organized in some fashion. The chairs on either side of the desk appeared well-used, as though meetings in here were commonplace enough to leave evidence of those who had passed through before this morning, all with similar purpose. “Aren.” A beat. “Mr. Smith.” Lloyd had no idea which way the other man preferred to be addressed, and while his demonstrated familiarity seemed to encourage the former, propriety demanded the latter.

“I’d be happy to listen to what I can only assume is your pitch on Mr. Grier’s behalf. I rather look forward to it, in fact. Before you begin, however, I’m hoping that somewhere in there is…” How to phrase this? “…some idea of what you’re expecting from me?” It was all well and good if the man had come here to say that Robert was a very nice boy who probably hadn’t meant to cause the woman’s untimely expiration and (God help them both) orphan her yappy dogs, but a reason for the advocate’s visit beyond humanizing an airborne mutant would be downright lovely.

[athousandtinysouls]

To say he was just pleased with her reaction would be a lie. Or rather an understatement. To hear the urgency in her voice, pitch raised and posture changed; all of it made his heart beat faster and his chest swell with self importance. It was satisfying. Jason felt fulfilled knowing that she wanted to continue seeing him, to hear her so passionate about it, enough to make her raise that soft, angel like voice. It made him feel powerful, which was all this was really about. Jason wanted to lay her down and hike her legs over his shoulders and do to her what he was sure no idiotic teenage boy had gotten to do to her yet, but even that was all about power. Not sex. Jason saw in himself the evil and vile nature of his relationship with the girl beside him and he recognized it for what it was--but he didn’t stifle it or even spare it a concern. Not when it was too much to give up. His hand was still on her knee, not moving from the position she seemed to allow it to rest. Had she flinched or shied away, he would have removed it with pressed annoyance, but that she wasn’t concerned with it almost made him want to dip his hand slowly up further and let it rest on her thin little thigh.

“A gift that would that would put them all out of their jobs,” Jason reasoned. A fabricated concern for the hospital workers he had once regarded as colleagues and now regarded as traitors. They had put him there. In his pathetic apartment, searching for anything that would give him a rush. Drugs, alcohol, the fights Jax drug himself too. Spencer. They were the real evil. They had taken away what made Jason feel important and left him to struggle like a blind animal in search for something that would fill that hole left in his chest and what would fill it was Spencer. “Imagine the obsoleteness that would be doctors if you could get four or more people just like me in a hospital. The sheer panic alone. The FDA wouldn’t be able to sell their precious drugs and no one would need to shell out all their money to buy them anymore. They’d be useless. Ineffective.” Humans were like that. He was almost worried (in a way that was more about him than her) that he was offending her before he backtracked and thought on her we. 

We have a gift. She had been saying that before she peddled back and rethought her words and said you have a gift. Jason’s mind went reeling for a second. But it wasn’t possible. There wasn’t any possible way that Spencer (tiny fragile, soft spoken, shy little Spencer) was a mutant. He couldn’t accept that. Because if she was...things changed. Drastically. Because Jason already felt some sort of possession over her. Ownership in the worst way. This is mine, his voice echoed in his head when he was near her. That is mine, it shrieked when others with intents just the same as his own stepped toward her. And knowing she was in such a delicate position as being a mutant made him want to wrap steel cage arms around her and not let her leave. It changed things because Jason was forced to look at Spencer as more than just someone he wanted to sleep with, someone to boost his own ego. It made him look at her differently. It made him worry about her. 

Genuine feelings. He wanted to run away.

Jason’s tongue flicked across his lips to wet them as she inched closer, his hand removing itself as she unfolded her legs and then resting next to her instead. Suddenly his heart had picked up pace and it wasn’t because of dirty, disgusting thoughts he was having about pulling off her cute, feminine clothes and kissing her until tiny red marks appeared that let anyone know who looked at her that she was claimed. When she spoke, Jason watched her lips, shiny and pink, moving and the words fell on deaf ears for a moment before he let out a breath he wasn’t even aware he was holding in. “You’re a mutant,” Jason said quietly, eyes falling and then raising back to her. 

How did he play this? How was he supposed to react? Jason’s entire repertoire of emotions were based off ones he’d already seen people use. Carefully crafted smiles that he had practiced and knew when to wheel out by cues in other peoples postures and facial expressions. But suddenly he was lost and he had to act quickly. How did she need him to react? Was he supposed to lend her a shoulder? Jason’s thoughts ran a mile a minute as he looked at her before his hand found hers and he was giving her a soft grin. One he had used too many times before, one he worried wouldn’t look fake. Was Spencer underneath his charm deep enough? He couldn’t be sure anymore, this stick thrown into the well oiled cog machine that he was.

“So you heal people, then?” Jason questioned her. “My mutation is like...time. I’m reversing time, but in a small bubble. On the wounds itself. I’ve tried to do it on inanimate objects, but it didn’t work. Only organic matter. And it wont work if the injury is older than a few hours and I’ve found out I can’t cure diseases.” Suddenly Jason was spilling more than he ever meant to spill. Talking to Spencer more than he’d ever meant to talk. In ways he hadn’t talked in...forever. Ever, probably. His mutation wasn’t something he shared with people. Spencer had opened a door he desperately wanted to slam shut because it was unraveling the careful composed image of himself he was using to seduce her. Talking wasn’t part of that. 

She was a mutant and that meant things changed. Jason was nervous.

Birds of a Feather || Jason & Spencer

[athousandtinysouls]

It seemed like their exorcise had only just begun and yet Luke looked like he had enough. He was breathing heavier, eyes dilated, face red. Pip could have been imagining the shaking in his hands, but he couldn’t help but notice Nika was watching more intently than she was before. But it wasn’t just physical cues that made Pip wonder if they should stop while they were ahead. It was the feeling of embarrassment and nervousness that was creeping up his spine like sweat rolling in reverse. It wasn’t second hand embarrassment for Luke’s easy entrapment against Pip’s body, it wasn’t nervousness that he wasn’t handling his little orphan correctly. It wasn’t his emotions at all--they were all Luke’s.

When Pip had first discovered, or rather, been shown, Luke’s empathy mutation, he’d been fascinated by it. Wondering at first how it could serve him and then secondly how it would affect all of them. Luke, he came to realize, was a shut off person. Whatever had happened to him in his past (and Pip knew, with an ache in his chest, that it was something bad) left him unable to speak properly. Not literally, but he couldn’t get it out what he was really feeling. Apologizing when he didn’t have to instead of stepping forward and telling Pip maybe he was too nervous for this, maybe Pip should take it easier. A hundred different things he could have said and he didn’t say a thing--but he did inadvertently make Pip feel like he was standing in his shoes. Luke didn’t talk, but he accidentally had his own way of showing.

The young thief watched with a small sense of pride as Luke managed to square his shoulders and meet his gaze full on, eyes locked. The feelings, the emotions Luke was feeling instead of Pip, were reeled back from him like someone was washing them away. Pip felt an immediate sense of relief, like there was less fog in the way. He could have relaxed, but he kept his body tight and focused on the teenager in front of him. At the fist being shown to him, Pip took Luke’s wrist, gently and kindly, enclosing his hand around it and smiling at it. “That’s good,” he said, a small and yet kind compliment. Approval went a long way. Pip knew that. After all he had done crazy things to get his fathers before. Pip dropped Luke’s fist and made his own. His knuckles were scarred and his fingers seemed to curl so easily it was like a closed fist was his default.

“It’s because of what I just did. It’s easier to dodge a punch and retaliate if the arm is coming straight at you. Not to mention, I’m sure you felt a little awkward and off balance just thrusting your fist out. A jab is useful, but not for someone--pardon--lacking so utterly in any fighting knowledge.” Pip shrugged and uncurled his fingers. “Punch my hand. As hard as you can. I mean it!” He said laughing, already anticipating how Luke would feel about hurting him. “As hard as you can, I want you to hit my hand. I want to see how strong you are, after all. And then maybe I’ll let you punch Nika in the face, wipe her smug smirk off.”

Training Day | Pip + Luke

[athousandtinysouls]

If there was one thing Asri hated, it was being told what to do. In any situation that wasn’t inside his bedroom (or theirs, or a bathroom stall, or really anywhere because he wasn’t picky in the least), the moment someone raised their voice at him, the moment they presumed to have some sort of control over him--Asri felt like snapping. It raised his blood pressure and made his chest tighten. In that moment, with blood covering his hands and the floor of his church, the front of his shirt, some of it even seemed to have gotten on his lips somehow, what Asri really wanted to do was end this pathetic police officer’s life. Shuffle him the mortal coil. Leave him in a ditch somewhere for homeless people to pick at him like carrion and then wait for his body to rot before throwing it in a landfill. Piss on him for good measure. Him and his bitch, who did as she was told and stepped toward the loyal dead Joshua on the ground, who had suffered so much and didn’t need some whore defiling his dead body. Asri didn’t have time to mourn his follower, though, careful to keep his face terrified. 

His body was shaking, but the police officer’s didn’t need to know that it was from anger rather than horror. He sunk slowly to his knees, hands lacing behind his head, smearing blood into thick, curly black hair. Yet again, his mind was filled with Silas. The lithe blond that was either clinging to his side or avoiding him like the plague--and sometimes Asri could never figure out which. His mutation (invisibility) was useful, but it lead to Asri never knowing if Silas was actually in the room or not. And if he was, he could only imagine the sort of reckless thing he might do with two police officers aiming a gun at him. Silas had already killed for him once and ever since then, he could never be sure when the street rat would snap again. Such a fragile mind that Asri toyed with and he suffered the consequences more than once. His heart thundered in his chest so loudly, he almost drowned the officer’s words out, like a roaring ocean was cascading through his church.

“Please, I think we should call an ambulance,” Asri barely managed to choke through sobs he was working hard to keep believable. He had to tilt his head down so they wouldn’t see his eyes, for he knew they would betray him. Furious, pale green eyes that he could use to manipulate, but could never seem to control when in the face of such fury. He watched the female police officer check Joshua’s dead body, knees numb on the tile floor of his church. He was fucked if the officer knew anything about him. Three years in Boston and there was no way to stop the rumors, no way to keep everyone in line, everyone from tattling off to the police for money, food or a lighter jail sentence. Not once had the police been able to sniff him out. Never able to find any drugs on him, or within the church. Every time they checked, they were met with Asri’s false outrage and the Priest’s utter horror they would trample through his church. The congregation cried and donated and Asri was met with hug after hug of support. But he knew, like any false prophet knew, that his days would come to an end. It was only a matter of time before he fucked up and he dared to look up to the police officer with fake tears on his cheeks.

In a way he felt like Jesus Christ. Doomed to fail from the moment he was put on Earth, always waiting for his slaughter. Hopefully it was a crucifixion too. Asri could feel the blood in his hair from having to lock his hands behind his head, his knees beginning to become sore. He had to chalk it up that Silas wasn’t actually there and even if he was, he had to pretend so his heart would stop beating so hard and his body would stop vibrating so badly. “He c-came in all bloody and told me someone had stabbed him. I was going to call you, someone else must have, I didn’t know what to d-do. Is he dead?” Asri asked in a stream of babbling words as stared at the officer, brows turned up and lip trembling. He could not stop the hard and cold way his eyes regarded the man however. It would be his downfall, but he couldn’t prevent it. 

Sinner's Web

[athousandtinysouls]

Spencer looked so small on his couch where normally either Jax or Tim sat. Both huge men and not little, fragile looking girls. She looked timid and careful, seating herself on the very edge of the couch with one leg folded over the other and her hands placed carefully on her lap. She looked poised but afraid, tense and unobtrusive. Like Spencer was trying her hardest to not appear as though she were there at all. Meanwhile, Jason leaned against the couch, legs thrown in front of him, drink between his thighs and his arm thrown over the side of the couch. His relaxed posture would either make her feel more uncomfortable or allow her to relax as well, Jason wasn’t sure which, but he didn’t have the energy to try and mimic her behavior at the moment. She sat there, dismissing his acknowledgment of his trashy room, bringing up her brother. Probably a safety net. A subconscious need to bring a protector into the room, even just by name, or not even a name, but a mention. Jason forgot that Spencer had a brother, had only seen him once when the boy, clad in a police uniform and a dopey looking smile picked her up from the hospital. That she was a younger sister to someone in the police force should have spurned Jason’s advances. 

It only seemed to make the challenge more exciting to him. In the brief moment he had seen Spencer’s brother, he had sized him up like some sort of opponent. Jax could easily take him and Jason could usually be found hiding behind his best friend, but Jason had seen the boys lanky frame and friendly face and decided, if it really came down to it, he could fight him. Probably. But before Jason could continue the train of thought that lead to him punching some police officer in the face (hopefully breaking his nose along the way), Spencer’s voice was jerking him back into the reality that was his dingy apartment and dingy couch and gorgeous girl. She was staring at the can in her hands instead of him, which only made his eyes bore into her harder. When she wasn’t looking, Jason was allowed to stare in any way he wanted. When they had worked together, Spencer’s back would be turned and he would stare without shame, imaging trailing fingers along the curve of her back and her thighs.

Sitting there, a strand of her light blond hair had fallen from behind her ears. Her lips were slightly moist and shiny and pink and her chest seemed to rise and fall as she spoke, a collarbone exposed. Her skin was pale and soft looking and he could only imagine the texture against the rough pads of his fingertips and the way she would shiver at the touch. Jason liked it better when Spencer didn’t look at him, when she couldn’t see the ravenous way he stared at her. He felt like when she did, when her eyes finally found his, even if they weren’t looking into them directly, he felt like Spencer was exposing his secrets and his soul and he didn’t like it. “They’re alright,” Jason replied, laughing a little as he took a sip from the can between his thighs and shrugged a little. Jason wasn’t a modest man. He knew what he could do was beyond the scope of human understanding. He had taken the life that was about to be lost on that emergency room cot and stitched it back together better than any staples or thread ever could. To them, Jason was frightening because he put them out of work.

And that had been why they had fired him in the first place. Jason made an entire hospital obsolete with his mutation. He could walk into any new patients (as his powers could only work on injuries or illnesses that were fresh) and cure them without expelling hardly any energy. Hundreds of doctors feared for their jobs, a multitude of nurses wondering if they’d be replaced by Jason or others like him. In the end, they got rid of what scared them. Jason wasn’t like those mutants who could walk through walls and rob banks without breaking a sweat. He couldn’t throw a car and he wasn’t like Jax, with the ability to shatter the ground beneath him. What he threatened was their job security and that was even more frightening than a physical danger.

“I’m surprised you still want to speak with me,” Jason said, inching closer, his hand finding her knee. It was small. His hand was like a paw, covering her. She felt warm and inviting, like a quilt blanket during winter time or a shot of alcohol after a long day. “I know that a lot of people are afraid of people like me. I thought,” Jason faked a tight throat, shrugging and moving a little closer as he did, hand never leaving her knee. “I was really worried that you wouldn’t want to even see me again. Humans and mutants don’t mix. I’m really glad you came, though,” Jason said, eyes wide and on her, trying not to trail over her body when he needed to maintain eye contact.

Birds of a Feather || Jason & Spencer

[athousandtinysouls]

Aren liked to think he never forgot a face. Everything else was easy to forget. Papers, coffee mugs, breakfast. When to eat, when to sleep, when to be at his next class. It was not rare (and how he’d never been fired for it before, he wasn’t exactly sure, though possible it had to do with his incredibly well liked personality) for Aren to walk into one of his classes twenty minutes late, wondering with delight why all the students were so early. But, Aren liked to think, he never forgot a face. And he was positive he’d seen Lloyd’s before, just not where he had seen it. He was a handsome man, tall like Aren was, but much thinner. Not in a way that distracted from his pleasing aesthetics and the professor couldn’t help but notice how well dressed he was. If Aren were a self conscious man, he would have worried standing next to him in his modest coat and jeans. Appearances had never meant much to Aren, who kept himself as best looking as he could for a job where if one didn’t shave for a month, one could reasonably lose his job. Aren trimmed his facial hair and sometimes had the audacity to pull his hair back into a pony tail and really resemble what an English professor should look like, but over all, he couldn’t be bothered to find nice clothes like the ones Lloyd seemed to be clad in.

Where he’d met Lloyd was soon fading from his thoughts as the man began to speak and Aren paid close attention to keep up. He found his thoughts often were louder than speakers and if he weren’t trying to keep up with a conversation, very nearly always he found himself having a conversation in his head instead, with himself about things that probably mattered more to him. Like Robert Grier and his unfortunate status as a terrorist. Luckily, Lloyd seemed to be on the same page as him about the poor boy and Aren didn’t have to go running into his own thoughts to satisfy himself with a topic he was itching to speak about. The way Lloyd said his name made Aren grin widely, straighten his shoulders. Like a dog being acknowledged almost, he felt the need to go yes that’s me! I am he, that is me. Reigning it in, he merely nodded, gave the other man’s bicep a squeeze and then dropped his hand. “Wouldn’t want an audience, not right now at least. Save that for a trial perhaps, he might need it whether they be on his side or not,” Aren said, looking around at the busy bees inside the offices, wondering how they managed to stay awake and alive in such a dreary place.

Aren followed the man down the hall, to wherever exactly it was he was going to be lead before he managed to step up next to him. Instead of a follower or a leader, Aren wanted instead to be his equal, opening the manilla folder full of things about Robert Grier and attempting to walk and talk and read at the same time. “I’ve been compiling things on him as much as I can for the last week or so. Poor boy. S’awful thing, being labeled a terrorist just for flying, don’t you think? Why if I could fly, I certainly wouldn’t stay on the ground either,” Aren said, sighing heavily as he shuffled the pages, parting with Lloyd only momentarily to turn to his side and allow a busy looking woman pass by with more coffee’s in her arms than she looked fit to be able to handle. 

Perhaps the case was important to him because Robert reminded him of one of his beloved birds. He had a soft spot in his soul (not that many parts of him were very hard) for things that could fly, a connection to them since he was a child, a link to them he’d never be able to explain. 

“I feel perhaps it is pertinent to mention that I am also a mutant,” Aren said, almost carefully. For the first time since he’d stepped out of his house, he found it necessary to be careful. He had never been, nor would he ever be, ashamed of being a mutant. He would not hide behind it. And part of getting a teaching job and also living in America meant getting registered. Aren rummaged through his coat pocket while holding the folder open in the other hand, almost amazed at himself he was able to do both at the same time. When he found the old, leather aging thing, he flipped it open. “Although, I suppose that isn’t rare here, is it? Mutant relations office, must be some mutants.” He pulled the identification card from his wallet and passed it to Lloyd. Whether the man wanted to see it or not, he had no idea, but it felt right, as though he had to prove himself in a world of lies.

“Aves summoning is a very fancy way of saying that I am able to summon birds,” he said laughing as he found the paper he was looking for that showed Robert’s academic success in high school and his first semester of college. “So you can see why a little flying bird boy might be high on my priority list,” Aren said, passing along the piece of paper in exchange for his ID back.

The never ending rambling of a helpful mind

It’ll be an interesting day, Lloyd’s boss had all but crowed through a white-toothed grin when the tall mutant had reached the department office this morning. He’d always thought that the expression made the man look like a crocodile prepared to snap long jaws closed around some innocent plover bird, but there never seemed to be a good time to bring that resemblance up in casual conversation. Even if there had been, a pinch of common sense and a hint of silvertongued flattery and a just enough apparently proper respect for authority were the main ingredients for remaining on the good side of the Media Relations Manager - and therefore in a good position within the department itself.

And it had indeed been interesting. Rob Gier’s story wasn’t the newest of events. It had come very briefly across Lloyd’s desk first in the form of a police investigation write-up as a fraction of his briefing, then as a newspaper article in another day’s morning game of catch-up, and now in another briefing, this time within a half dozen requests from various media outlets for a follow-up comment regarding the department’s decision to slap the ‘terrorist’ label on the airborne mutant.

It was the sort of day Lloyd rather enjoyed, truth be told. The looming possibility of a shitstorm, in layman’s terms, if things were handled badly woke him up better than any shot of espresso in his coffee, wrung a perkiness out of his demeanor that was close to terrifying when it was the first thing to greet you in the morning, embodied by the six foot one beanpole wreathed in a predatory-pointed grin and the look of a man whose personal Christmas had come early. Someone wrapping the newspaper and files on his desk in seasonally appropriate paper and topping them with a bow would have completed the image.

Unfortunately, no one had seen fit to do so, and the man who set a hand on his arm as though they were on terms close enough to warrant casual contact was no Santa Claus. He was also far too tall for an elf (and lacked one of those pointed hats with bells on the end, as entertaining a vision as he could he presented, dressed like that). No, the visitor was too leonine to be a resident of the fairy tale-presented North Pole out of so many holiday movies, couldn’t hope to pass for a reindeer, red nose or not. The lanky man’s fierce smile faded to something less likely to be associated with a hungry coyote and just for that second there was something reminiscent of his family in the way he pulled himself back until his skin, all easy control and careful presentation.

Appearance was important. Lloyd had learned that lesson twice. Once had been around the family dinner table with his mother tearing into the defense council and how they’d brought their client to court looking like a panicked, unkempt terrier about to soil himself with a bad case of nerves, while his father had them all cackling with a brief story of another aide who had the whole office convinced he was incapable of handling his assigned workload because of the way he seemed about to collapse or cry with each new addition. The other had been the emergence of a genetic mutation that allowed him to drop poison words in an ear and smile as they turned to gold, turned to something weighty and tempting and important and, eventually, dangerous to himself.

He could have had any career he wanted, quite literally. Walk into a job interview, flip the power switch on his mutation, and a few persuasive sentences could have landed an offer of employment in his lap. Gaining and holding political office would have been a breeze. Public relations had given him a challenge, though, and an easy out - anything he couldn’t solve with words alone could be solved with words. The stress made all the difference and he’d no idea which one would be required for dealing with this latest addition to the day.

“Aren Smith,” Lloyd repeated, rolling the name slowly off his tongue as though the taste of the syllables would bring some distinct memory of the man to mind. It wasn’t, as it turned out, at all the case, aside from a few vague possibilities of faces in passing in the halls of the Department or at the occasional media circus. Neither option was surprising, given the reason for the man’s visit. The flying boy. “You’ve the right person and certainly the right day for it.” His voice was as disciplined as his expression and posture, polite and inviting but with a note of careful caution he either couldn’t quite hide or didn’t care to.

A vague gesture in the direction of down the hall not only gave Aren a way in which to head, but also disengaged the assistant from his hand. “If I didn’t have the time before, I can make it now; please, this way. I’d rather not discuss the… flying boy in the hall, if it’s all the same to you.” A few sidesteps to both keep an eye on the visitor and walk as he continued, “We’ve found it gives some of the more hotheaded petitioners an audience when they lose their tempers and swear at me, and I’d prefer that both of us be able to keep our pride intact, should it come to that.”

Despite what was probably sincerity in his air, there was also something that might have been amusement; possibly at the memory of epithets hurled at him in crowded places (which reflected badly on the shouter, rather than the target) and possibly at the idea of Aren following in those footsteps, friendly demeanor gone rough and red and ugly in the way that only anger could twist someone. 

[athousandtinysouls]

The sound of what had to be a dozen pairs of feet came rushing into the kitchen, sounding like a miniature stampede in the tiny house Shannon had once spent an entire afternoon painting with other volunteers. Despite the number of them, Shannon knew each of their names by heart; some of them, he even knew more than just their names. He knew ages and mutations and what their dreams were and their favorite colors and meals and who their parents were and who they idolized most. Shannon spent time with them, sitting at a table, helping them do homework while Victor spent the night at the strip club. He helped them train, not for a fight and not for survival like his school had done, but for every day life where sometimes a mutation helped or hindered. Shannon did all he could with the kids, not just cooked them basic macaroni and cheese (that he was still blushing over Teddy’s compliment for). As he turned, he watched Teddy wave a hand over the cheese and he tapped the spoon he’d been stirring the pasta with against his chest.

“Why thank you,” Shannon replied with a giant grin that took up most of his face. Nothing felt better than volunteering. There was nothing more genuine than the thankfulness of these mutants and there was nothing that made him happier than when they were happy. Except maybe a warm bed, a good book, a glass of wine and his boyfriend’s arms around his waist while he relaxed. The idea called to him and Shannon pulled the apron off his body and danced around children to get to the hook where he could hang it up. After their meal, he’d head over to the office to do the minimal amount of paperwork he’d been avoiding and head home where what really made him the happiest would probably still be waiting for him on the couch, watching bad television when he should be sleeping.

As he ran hands through his curly hair, the volunteer watched as the kids swarmed in front of the food. “Guys, c’mon, what do I always say? Single file line. There is so enough for all of you and then some,” Shannon said, clapping his hands together and watching as they reorganized themselves. A month or two ago, none of them would have even spared him a glance or cared to listen to him at all. It had been hard work getting into each and every kids heart enough to not only make them trust him but listen to him. He’d found that most were hostile and angry at the world, angry at any sort of authority figure, even ones just like them because everyone was out to hurt mutants these days. Like cornered animals, they all bit before they barked. 

Shannon wrapped an arm around Teddy’s waist and pulled him into his hip and smiled at him. “You should take whatever is left over home with you,” he said quietly, eying him softly. “I don’t mind and there is sandwich fixings in the fridge for anyone else who gets hungry.” There was no denying that Shannon worried about Teddy, or really, any of the other older kids. Teenagers were scary. They had more opportunities to fall through the cracks then a twelve year old did. And Teddy was nineteen going on where will he end up?

Volunteer House || Teddy and Shannon