Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Psychotic America ❯ Starving Admission ( Chapter 1 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

Alternate Universe, fusion, out of character charas, very disturbing information and scenes and Pairings: 1x4, 2x5 3(?)
Standard Disclaimers Apply: Don’t own Gundam Wing nor X-Men
Notes: Some stuff was changed around, here. I deleted some stuff, added some stuff, so it’s still the long winded, pompous bag that ya’ll are familiar with–just with some differences.
O0o0o0o0o0oO means scene change

Chapter One:
Starving Admission


He was starving. His gut clenched tightly, gurgling in pained anguish as the smells of the nearby diner wafted over him. The streets of New York were severely crowded; mid-afternoon drifted into night as multitudes of people walked to and from their points of work. It was dead of winter, having snowed recently, and his thin jacket barely provided him with just enough heat to keep functioning.
As it were, his hands were stiff and slightly purple with cold, his fingers numb. He worked them within his jacket pockets as he scanned the moving mass of people on the sidewalk, searching for the right victim. Every New Yorker carefully guarded their valuables with tense bodies, more on alert for people like him than anything else.
Shivering violently as a gust of cold air assaulted him, he heard a violent sound of tires screeching on pavement and emitted blasts of horns as a car collusion was barely prevented. He then found his perfect victim in a foreigner– much like him– walking along the sidewalk near the building of the diner. He moved in a casual stroll, foreign features screwed up with mutinous dislike as he bypassed a taxi cab driver and a civilian yelling at each other near the stop lights. The foreigner left his jacket wide open, the inside pocket flashing a thick bulge that could only signal a big wallet.
Licking his lips with nervous abandon, the bearded young man pushed away from the corner of the building he was leaning against, and slunk into the quick rush of bodies that covered the worn sidewalk. Eyeing the foreigner (he could never tell Asians from one culture to another), he worked his fingers quickly, warming and stretching them into capable movement as he strolled toward the meandering man.
The foreigner was dressed well in an expensive suit that could only belong to Hilfiger or Lauren, and he looked entirely casual, sloppily open for an attack. Dressed all in black, the usual attire for New Yorkers, the man had just emerged from a nearby electronics store and was carrying no purchases.
The young thief’s eyes flitted about, anywhere but the foreigner’s face, and he walked a straight line in the man’s path. No one would really pay attention to what the other was doing, anyway. They were all seasoned to not care about what happened to the person next to them, as long as they themselves were able to do what they needed. The foreigner looked miffed when a business woman bumped against him with nary an apology, so the thief took this chance to also slam into him, fingers moving quick to reveal, lift and remove before he could straighten himself to walk away.
It was done so effortlessly, so quickly, that it merely resembled a pair of bodies slamming together in accident. The thief pocketed the heavy wallet as the foreigner cursed at him, and he was moving away as the foreigner continued on his quest. Hurrying his step, stomach clenching fiercely as he neared the diner, he heard a stunned growl as the foreigner discovered what he’d done. He took a quick look over his shoulder to gauge reaction, and saw the foreigner moving in his direction, indignant fury littering his Asian features.
“Shit,” the thief muttered, tearing his hands from his pockets and moving into a run, running away from the diner. The foreigner shouted at him in English, running after him, but the thief had experience in the area, and knew how to ditch him best. He was a fast runner, desperation and natural quickness permitting his feet to fly over pavement. He slammed his way through the throng of people, keeping an eye out for any Good Samaritans that may bungle the entire thing.
He slipped into an alleyway, running through snowy puddles and leaping over various trash and homeless people. The foreigner kept up, but was a distance away. The thief turned a sharp corner, and found the fire escape that lined the back of one abandoned building. It was an easy leap from a nearby Dumpster, so he climbed it quickly, hoisting himself up like a nimble rat, gaining more distance and height as the foreigner hurried around the corner. The thief quickly flattened himself on the first level of the escape, the foreigner looking side to side, emitting a curse in frustration as he realized that he’d lost the pickpocket.
Growling in heavy annoyance, the Asian hit the corner of the building nearby, brick and plaster tearing away rather easily in the process, creating a half-moon shaped disturbance in the straight line of the corner. The thief bit his bottom lip, recognizing a mutant upon the action, and began to tremble. If that mutant caught him–!
He didn’t want to think about it, and kept still as the foreigner stalked off, minus wallet. The thief made sure that the Asian had disappeared, and waited at least twenty minutes before he was absolutely sure that he was gone.
Then, with a satisfied heave of breath, he pulled up onto his knees, withdrawing the wallet from his pocket. Opening the worn leather, he revealed five hundred and sixty dollars in twenties and a single hundred. There were also various ID’s, credit cards and a Social Security card for a Heero Yuy. Quickly rolling the money and tucking it into the waistband of the only pair of underwear that he possessed, he reached into his back jeans pocket to withdraw a badly worn Swiss Army knife. He released the worn scissors it contained, and quickly sliced up the valuable ATM card, social security card, ID, and various other credit cards so that no one could have access to them. It was the least he could do to the person he’d just stolen from. Even through he knew he could have used the social security card, he didn’t want to risk it with the guy being a mutant.
He tossed most pieces in various directions, and slid what remains he had into the leather wallet. He then quickly descended his way back to the alley floor. Jogging lightly, feeling the roll of money in the waistband of his sadly pathetic underwear, he made his way back to the diner that he’d abandoned earlier. He tossed the wallet into the gutter.
He walked into the warm diner and sat at the counter. Shivering violently, he blew into his hands with as much force as he could muster, and then self-consciously stroked the numb digits throughout the sparse beard and mustache that he wore. He was homeless, poor, and had no ideal way of keeping clean shaven. But the added hair gave him a bit of warmth and made him seem older than he actually was.
The waiter behind the counter looked at him in disgust, but took his order without further delay. The homeless thief, practically vibrating in his need to consume food, the first in nearly four days, held himself tightly to the stool he sat at. He knew what he looked like, but hell–he had money, and no one was going to complain much in this section of the city, so he could just ignore what the others thought when they looked at him.
Licking painfully dry and chapped lips, the thief rubbed his hands together, shoulders hunched and feet resting upon the thin, metal bar that was welded to the counter for that purpose. His left foot automatically pressed over the top of his right, and he found himself wiggling his knees in nervous energy as he waited for his food. He knew he must smell atrocious; people were taking seats far away from him, but that was okay. It wasn’t as if he were trying to impress anybody. He was homeless, and homeless couldn’t help it. The only thing that he could help was the fact that he took very good care of his teeth. He was the only homeless person he knew that carried a travel toothbrush and stolen travel sized toothpaste around in his jacket. There were more than enough water fountains to use so he could keep his teeth, and he wasn’t going to lose that sense of tidiness in an already fucked up life.
His food was brought to him in a timely manner, and he murmured a very heart meaning “Thank You” as the steaming plate of biscuits, gravy, sausage and eggs were set in front of him. An accompanying cup of cold milk was set nearby, but he ignored it as he used his utensils to hurriedly dig into the still hot food. Anxiously, he devoured all that was on his plate in a hurried, grossly appreciative manner. He burned his tongue from the first bite, and used his fingers when his fork wasn’t fast enough.
He was hungry!
He didn’t care what he looked like and he didn’t care what other people thought as he ate. The plate was large enough for two people to eat comfortably, which was why he liked this diner in the first place. But he finished every bite even as his poorly abused stomach protested violently.
Determined to keep his food down, the homeless thief then finished his cup of milk, feeling wholly full and warm once more. It had been so long since he’d felt this way!! Closing his eyes in appreciation, the thief settled in his stool, loving the way his stomach felt so full. His flat belly was distended due to the enormous heap of food, but he didn’t care what it looked like.
After a long while of making sure the good food was going to stay where it was placed, the thief reached into his pants, withdrawing the roll of money. He took out a twenty to pay for the nearly ten dollar meal. The waiter took it with a murmur and left to get his change. The thief eyed the rest of his money, immediately listing off what he needed most–jacket, clothes, shoes, fake ID (since someone robbed him of his nearly a month ago)–and rolled it back up, setting it back into the waistband of his underwear.
He looked up to see if the waiter was returning with his change, and allowed his eyes to flit around the diner. There was a teenaged couple bickering in the back booth; the waitress was flirting with a table full of college frats; an older couple discussed politics; a lone woman read the newspaper while she munched on a burger; a very pissed off Asian–
The thief blanched at the sight of the familiar Asian face, paralyzed in place as he recognized the man he’d just robbed. The man was sitting with another, of whom was looking at him in indifference. They weren’t very far away...they could catch him easily, especially with him on his full stomach.
The waiter returned with his change, but the thief didn’t care. He’d taken what wasn’t his, and the Asian was a mutie, and could murder him easily for taking his money–! He wasn’t doing as well as he thought he would be when he came to America nearly nine months ago, but this certainly wasn’t a warrant for death.
Immense guilt and depressing frustration filtered through him as he clutched the change in one shaking hand. He could get up and leave, but that guy was a mutie–his superstrength could overpower him easily once he caught up, and the thief knew that he would because he was in no condition to perform his best, and...well, he didn’t want to imagine the consequences.
With a reluctant set of his jaw, he withdrew the rest of the money from his waistband, and slid off from the stool. The two men were watching him, waiting for him to move. The thief, fearing badly given retribution because of his earlier crime, walked over with a nervous air. He tried telling himself that his belly was full for the night–at least he could be appreciative of that.
With his horribly chapped lips pressed tightly together, the thief held out the remaining amount to the surprised Asian, who took the money with a firm hand. The brush of his fingers sent a curious tingle throughout the thief’s body, igniting an uncomfortable hunger that was familiar to him. His face reddened with shame as he avoided the intense gaze he was subjected to.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I was hungry...I destroyed what was in your wallet...if you want, it’s lying right out there in the gutter, near the corner of the street...”
The Asian stared at him in confusion, the other man raising his eyebrow. The thief colored darkly with embarrassment, and repeated what he’d just said in stunted English.
The Asian’s forked eyebrows rose in surprise, and the thief took this moment to turn and hurry off, to keep from giving them time to exact their revenge. His stomach protested hurried movement. Holding his middle, the thief ducked his head and hurried off into the night, thankful for the meal but intensely disappointed that he was back where he’d started.

O0o0o0o0o0oO

Things weren’t going very well, tonight. The young homeless boy leaned back on his bony ass and stared up at the light polluted sky. People walked around him with various expressions set on everything but him, and the night grew colder with the promise of more snow. The homeless boy had a very warm trench coat that was fitted over three layers of clothes. His greasy hair was tucked under a warm wool cap; his beard was thick and warm– he could consider himself luckier than most homeless people.
All that he owned and possessed were contained in a canvas bookbag and a Nike duffle, and both of them were sitting at his sides, adding to his warmth. He watched various people walk around him, ignoring his handwritten sign for spare change, and grew tired. He was too thin, too tired, too worn, and much too young for this crap. He was twenty years old, but he felt like he was forty. He’d been homeless his entire life; his parents were practically non-existent since they’d given him up for adoption, and the orphanage from where he’d lived since he was nine had been burnt to the ground over seven years ago. He’d lived in New York City for as long as he could remember, and had no other ambition or dreams to leave.
He couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.
The boy rose from the hard surface of the sidewalk, brushing off the trench he’d found after an elderly couple had left it on a bus bench sometime two years ago. It was his most prized possession, the warmest he could find before the hard winter hit. He picked up his bags, whistling through dry lips. He was thirsty, but he had to make the bottle of water he had last for at least three more days, before he got enough change to buy another. He was grateful that the city provided water fountains and such, but the water was so nasty and gave one the runs if they drank too much, so he splurged on his own water supply.
He walked along the sidewalk, whistling a cheerful Christmas tune when he saw his rival, a boy around his age that prowled his corner, that picked his people, that took over his bench whenever he left it. Annoyed that the boy was once again his area, the homeless boy put his things down and shouted, “HEY! You!! Stay away from my shit!”
The boy looked up in surprise in his direction, then scowled.
“You don’t own place!” he shouted back in disgust.
The homeless boy smirked at the other’s bad English. Yup...damn foreigners. Thinking they had a chance here in grand ole America when its own inhabitants were incapable of saving their own...
“YES! I do! See! I put my name on everything!” the homeless boy yelled, gesturing at the spraypaint he’d left behind on the section of wall and sidewalk he frequented most because the heat from the nearby garage warmed it considerably during the coldest of nights. The spraypaint was barely visible, due to it being the very last of his supply, but it was still there. His name, which would be painted over in the next two days by city maintenance workers, claimed the spot the other boy tended to steal whenever the homeless boy was away.
The other boy looked at the things in disgust, shivering violently within his own threadbare jacket, and the homeless boy felt a little bad, because the other boy had less than he, and looked to be even colder...but no. People couldn’t have feelings in this city. Every man, woman and child for themselves.
“So don’t steal it! I’m just walking up the street!” the young man continued. “I’d better not see you walking around here when I come back!”
The other boy flipped him off, and stalked away. The homeless boy grinned, and picked his stuff up. He was heading up to the homeless shelter five blocks away, to pick up some grub. He was hungry, and he’d made only three dollars in the past two days, so the shelter was his only choice. Of course, the people running it would ask once more if he’d found a job, if he’d done this and that, but they would only get the same answer all the time.
He wouldn’t enter the system when he was younger because the system fucked him over. He didn’t want ‘foster families’, which were as reliable as nothing, and he certainly didn’t want the pity of those trying to ‘save’ him. He’d save himself, damn it, when he got the chance. And so far, he hadn’t had a chance to do so.
Once he reached the homeless shelter, which was full of those trying to escape the cold, he sighed in relief. The sounds were the same, the sights the same, and the comfortable smells of various things mixed together was just as bad as it was the last time. He greeted various workers and other homeless people with happy cheer, and deposited his things near the cafeteria, because he wanted his hands empty when he was given a dish.
“How are you today, sir?” a weary volunteer asked as he spooned clear soup into a plastic bowl and passed it over to him, along with a hard roll of bread, plastic spoon, and a clear dish of rubbery Jello.
“Mm, very good. What’s this?” the homeless boy asked as he peered at the soup. “It looks way excellent...”
“Mushroom.”
“Oh...um...if that’s so, then where’s the mushrooms?”
“Look, if you don’t want it, there’s at least ten other people–”
“Man, I’m just fuckin’ with ya. Chill out!” the boy chuckled, taking his share of food and walking over to his things. He began to eat, appreciating what he had as a harried worker walked in, spying him immediately.
“Hi!” she greeted him cheerfully. “How are you today? I can barely see you past that hair of yours...Are you ever going to shave?”
“Nope. My face will freeze if I do,” the boy replied, grinning at her. He still had all his teeth, but three of them were loose and one of them, his left canine, was rotting. He’d lost a couple of his molars, but even so, he had a nice smile and the woman had to grin right back.
“Well? Any changes since the last time we met?”
“Er...no.”
“Did you even try?”
“You know how it is in the winter, Hilde,” the boy sighed. “Everyone’s workin’ to save up for Christmas, and everything’s taken!”
“You didn’t even try, I’ll bet...”
“I would, but someone snagged my ID...I need another,” he said, lifting his eyes to hers as he sipped at the horribly watery stew.
The woman sighed, short, black hair seemingly wilting as she did. “I can get you another one, but you have to try this time...please?”
“I will...thanks for the meal. How’s it going around here?”
“Oh...you know the beggar woman that stayed mostly on Central? Old Fred found her dead the other morning...it was so sad. And then Jerry M found his old high school flame the other day, and she, like, tore him to bits because she thought that he was going to attack her when he was just trying to greet her, so he’s, like, in jail...”
As Hilde went on, describing all of the homeless men and women that frequented the shelter, the homeless boy listened in disinterested detail, trying not to feel so down about everything.
His beard had caught most of the crumbs from his roll of bread, so he began combing through the dark brown hairs with his fingers, wincing at the new taste in his mouth that was leftover from the soup he’d just consumed. After he was finished with his meager meal, he left the shelter and its warmth behind, and headed back to his spot near the garage. Snow was falling now, and he hunched his shoulders, gritting what teeth he had as he walked.
He saw his rival sitting nearby, curled up against the wall of a clothes shop, with a thin piece of cardboard propped over his head. He smiled in smug satisfaction. The boy had left his area alone, and when he returned, he would curl up for the night in the warmth of the heat and wake in the morning to streets peppered with snow. He liked snow, actually. It was fun. Plain white, cold, and yet provided the most needed substance that mankind depended on for survival.
Water man couldn’t do without, but food...well, he knew his usual haunts would help him out, and he had steady ‘income’ with the begging business, so...it wasn’t as if he were completely hopeless. Finding his spot, he set his things in comfortable distance around him, and curled up to sleep. The sidewalk was hard, the wall his back was propped against was cold, and snow continued to fall, but at least he was full. In the morning, things should be looking better.

O0o0o0o0o0oO

“He struck again,” Dr J reported, his robotic hand pulling the piece of paper that had spout from the nearby fax machine.
The old man, odd in appearance due to the gray goggles that seemed embedded within his eye orbits and the single robotic hand that consisted only of prongs, was standing next to the cranky contraption within the cramped office. This room had enough space to hold a small desk full of clutter and a large filing cabinet that sat forlornly in the corner. The floor was matted with a worn gray carpet, with a rather lank luster throw carpet thrown before the rickety desk.
All over the walls were pictures of various subjects ranging from thunderstorms to detailed body images of abnormal human brains (mutants), and other such images. The cramped office smelled of old cigarette smoke and cheap cologne, and the single window was covered with plastic to keep the cold from entering. The old, dusty fan that sat in one corner of the room was knotted with various, multi-colored streamers and the electrical cord was mangled dangerously.
But the office was well used by Dr J, who had been in the mutant hunting business for undeterminable years. The three boys in front of him– one perched on a three-legged stool near the desk, the two others standing side by side– were part of his small project. Dr J and his associates worked the underground of mutant threats, and had picked the boys to help thwart the various dangers imposed on humankind.
There were dangerously powerful mutants in the world, and while the world famous Professor Xavier and his school of ‘gifted youngsters’ worked on the more obvious ones, Dr J and company worked on eliminating the threat of the more smaller villains.
For example, the current mutant that was taking his or her sweet interest in killing random homeless mutants to feed off of...such examples were too small on the X-Men’s scale of interest, and thus, Dr J’s only conquest to vanquish such cruelty with his own ragtag group of mutants. This operation, most often nicknamed Operation: Gundam among him and his associates, was too small on a scale to be of any interest to the outside world. But his real desires in operating such a system were of his own secret, of which he wouldn’t divulge to the three boys that he had under his mechanical claw.
The mutant they were currently on the trail of was a ‘leech’–a mutant that purposely damaged others for their own benefit. The mutant attacked various homeless mutants within New York City, and drained them both of blood and life force. Damage done were maiming disfigurement of the corpse, sometimes rape, and the telltale presence of other mutant powers.
The disfigurement was caused by the point of leeching, which was an indication that the mutant used some sort of sucking orifice to absorb blood and life force. It was usually intensely bruised skin, broken skin, and opened wounds caused by sharp points that Dr J figured were the ‘teeth’ of the mutant leech. The ‘telltale’ presence of mutant powers consisted of the mutant then expressing his/her rage at the dead person by hacking them to pieces with some sort of sharp object (be it tooth, claw or metal), and ripping the body into grossly deformed bits and pieces. Humans of average strength were unable to perform such feats, and thus, the indication of other mutant powers.
Rape was always conducted with ultra precaution (lack of pubic hair indicated that the man either shaved, or the woman used a dildo of monstrous proportion to cause significant damage) and the victims of such case were usually younger men and women.
Preference had only been that they were at least a little attractive.
The young men, which he fondly referred to as ‘boys’, were former homeless children as well, noticed only because of their extraordinary talent. He and his associates had taken them under their instructive hands and trained them to use their genetic flaws in copious use against the scum of the Earth.
Heero Yuy, with his super strength and his unique form of self-healing, had been the first boy. Trowa Barton, known for his bewildering use of shape shifting into various animals, no matter the mass or flaw, was the second. Chang Wufei, with his super speed and pyrokinetic abilities, was the third. The group learned to hone their powers in advantageous use, and had succeeded in bringing down or to justice the more crueler forms of mutants that threatened the very fragile, paranoid humans of New York City. Of course, they weren’t recognized as public figures, simply because they were extremely low-key and their ‘villains’ weren’t as mass-dominating figures such as Magneto, Sinister, Phalanx...
Someone needed to clean the gutter, and thus, they were the ones to do so. Of course, Dr J never nor wanted to let them know the real story of their training...
“Four homeless people...all of them in the very same condition as the last. He’s getting more hungrier, and risking more to take more lives in one week...” Dr J commented on his findings. He looked up from the paper with a severe frown on his old face.
“No one would miss the homeless, anyway,” one boy muttered, his odd hairstyle shifting to reveal an indifferent expression.
All boys were wearing the familiar, fitting uniforms that Dr J’s associates had designed. The black fitted jacket, the fitted pants, the boots...they were all designed to adjust and move with the traveling body. They were also designed to keep them dry during intensive battles; to work with their powers; and to keep the attractive trio in fashion.
The fitted jacket had long sleeves, adjustable collars, and a faint zipper that was fashionably set to the far left of the body, aligning with the middle of the boys’ left clavicle. It kept them either warm or cool, whichever the weather deemed fit for whatever battle the boys were involved. The fitted waistband of these jackets were tucked into wide belts that were fitted with whatever electronic equipment they would need or what useful items they were comfortable with. The pants were created with stretch/Kevlar material, loose enough for their boyish comforts yet tight enough to keep the material from becoming cumbersome by movement. The boots were specially designed with added traction and sleek fashion, to come in handy during especially tricky maneuvers in footwork.
Depending on the boy, they also wore gloves of whichever design, whatever made them happy. Stylish, held in comfort and certainly useful in battle, the uniforms indicated to the world that they were either an ass-kicking group of some kind, or just intensely copying in boyband style. No matter, they served their purpose.
“They have families...” another muttered, cold blue eyes rising with defiance to the first.
“Why aren’t they with their families?” the other retaliated.
“Boys, boys...our nightly blood-sucker’s getting entirely desperate...” Dr J trailed off, watching as the two ‘boys’ began to punch each other on the arm. He cleared his throat, frowning as the third boy, with a disapproving frown at the two, shifted in his stool.
The ‘boy’ with the dark brown, messy hair, began hitting his partner hard enough to send the other boy stumbling. With a low growl of annoyance, the recipient turned from his stumble, his limbs shooting outward and re-forming with an abrupt quickness until a seven foot silverback stood in the boy’s place, roaring with dissatisfaction.
“As much as I enjoy watching the both of you pounding each other’s lights out, this entire exercise is wholly unnecessary, and frankly, very rude and disruptive...” Dr J sighed in annoyance as the silverback snarled in bloody murder, shuffling forward to wrap his arms around the other boy.
The one staying out of trouble looked back at Dr J while the other two wrestled.
“Considering the deaths, do you think he’s getting desperate enough to attack humans?” he asked, wincing at the sudden scream of a lion, of which had abruptly replaced the silverback.
“No. All of these homeless people possess the genetic mutation that’s so fondly held in respect by our planet,” Dr J replied. “They were all mutants. He cannot live off of normal humans...he can kill them, but they cannot provide the sustenance that he needs to survive...Therefore, our patrols must be upgraded and–Heero, please release Mr. Barton–I’m sure that’s terribly uncomfortable for a cat that size....”
Heero frowned as Trowa quickly shifted into a shape of a mouse, squirming out of his hands and reverting back to human form, an annoyed expression on his face. Wufei rolled his eyes as he leaned back in his stool against the desk.
“Don’t you two ever get tired of fucking around like that?” he asked.
“Are there any particular traits the killer looks for in his victims?” Heero asked, ignoring Wufei’s question.
“No, just that they have to be mutants. And in this city, there is plenty of them to go around. No particular pattern, but he’s posted somewhere in the eastern section of the city...there’s no particular taste that he’s going for...doesn’t matter if they’re black or white...woman or man...young or old...just that they have to be mutants.”
“This doesn’t help us any,” Wufei muttered. His Chinese features screwed with distaste, one spindly hand reaching up to fiddle with the tight ponytail at the base of his neck. “How are we to know when to prevent another death when he doesn’t even leave us a pattern? We can’t exactly go around and ask each homeless person if they’re a mutant or not and then linger around them...”
“That, my dear child, is your problem. Not mine. I have recruited the lot of you to do my physical work–I work in the background,” Dr J sniffed. “My associates and I are getting quite tired of this little game...while I, like the lot of you, want this terrible monster stopped, we are just as in the dark as to when and where he’d strike...It would really help if we had some sort of telepath among our ranks...”
“Why don’t we look for one, and recruit them?” Wufei asked on a tired sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his index and middle finger.
“We cannot tell what or who possesses that particular trait, Chang. Unless, like I suggested earlier, you all would like to go out and document every mutant you can find on the sidewalks?”
“Ugh...no thanks,” Trowa muttered, reaching up to shift his fingers through his auburn hair.
Heero grunted, looking at him in annoyance. “Of course, when it comes to work, Barton’s the first one to slink out of it...”
“Want to back that up, chink-boy?”
“BOYS.” Wufei was suddenly in between them, his ‘gift’ of superhuman speed taking him from his stool to the center of them within a blink of an eye.
Fully irritated, he shoved them both away from each other, but looked in annoyance at Heero, whose given strength prevented him from moving if he didn’t want to. Trowa stumbled backward, growled, and shifted into the snarling picture of a large wolf, teeth bared in menacing display.
Dr J kicked him, sending the wolf squealing in surprise and shifting back to normal human form, where Trowa was rubbing his side with a murderous expression directed in the doctor’s direction.
“Settle down. I can’t take any more of this bickering and fighting for dominance between you two,” Dr J muttered, rubbing his wrinkled, sun-spot forehead in aching annoyance. “If it weren’t for you, Wufei, I would have sent them both to Genosha...”
“Thank God for you, Wufei,” Trowa said sarcastically, dropping his hand from his ribs.
“Gee whiz,” Heero muttered in monotone, crossing his arms over his chest.
In reply, Wufei puffed up his chest and looked down his nose at the both of them.
Sighing heavily, Dr J began walking for the door. “I’ll go and meet with the others...surely they’ll have a plan...maybe we’ll recruit a telepath to aid us in our quest, or take up on Xavier’s earlier offer on meeting with him and his members of his...er, school.”
“We don’t need them,” Heero muttered with a scowl.
“Yes, yes...you don’t. Just...keep from killing each other, all right? It shouldn’t take that long. Creative geniuses such as mine and our associates don’t take quite that long to come up with a solution to an abhorrent problem...”
After Dr J left, Trowa looked at the others, scowling. “I’ll bet you both they’ll be at Denny’s for the rest of the night, talking about everything else but the case.”
“I’ll bet you they’ll end up at Sparky’s, instead, drinking the night away.”
“I’ll–”
“For the love of Buddha!” Wufei roared as their voices began to rise. “For one moment, can you BOTH just drop the fucking attitudes?! Do you think I like listening to you both argue and whine and cry about what the other’s doing best or better? Do you think I like listening to you both fight and bicker over whose strongest? Over who has the coolest power?!”
Both boys looked at each other, then shrugged, truce set up at the silent movement. Wufei grunted in satisfaction, resuming his position on the stool he’d abandoned. As silence reigned between the three, Wufei looked at the faded clock set up behind the desk and sniffed. Heero was busy examining the scarred fingers of his hands while Trowa was busily cleaning the grit from underneath his fingernails.
Both wore half finger gloves, but varied in design. Heero’s was designed with a single bar across the backs of his hands, to add force in his punches, while Trowa’s was sleek and fitting, flexible enough to move without restriction. Wufei’s own consisted of full fingered cover, and their own design was equipped to aid his control in his pyrokinetic ability.
“...I’ll bet you both they’ll be shacked up at O’s with pizza and Budweiser, watching some Sophia Lauren movies...” Wufei challenged, lifting both regal eyebrows as he studied each boy. Heero and Trowa looked at each other, then all three boys began reaching for various wallets from their belts.
“You’re on, Justice Boy...” Trowa muttered, then looked up from his wallet as Heero gave a disgusted growl. Then, remembering what had happened earlier today, Trowa snorted and pointed at the Japanese to Wufei, who was busily counting out twenties. “His wallet was stolen, today.”
Wufei’s eyebrows rose in surprise as Heero glared in murderous decision at a smirking Trowa. “What? Yuy? Someone took your wallet?”
“The thief returned the money, but fucked up all my cards,” Heero muttered, withdrawing some twenties to put in the betting pool. “I’ve got to reapply for everything...”
“Hmf...honest thieves, huh? What is this world coming to?” Wufei chuckled.

O0o0o0o0o0oO

Teeth chattering loudly, Duo Maxwell hurried through the slick sidewalks, carrying his only possessions in both hands as he tried to outrun the falling snow. Grumbling underneath his breath, he crossed a pedestrian bridge and began making his way to the homeless shelter, looking to shack up for the night. It had snowed all day, and there didn’t look to be respite from it all. Desperate for shelter, he was going to chance this night in the ugly structure for some warmth.
The night had dropped to temperatures below 0, and he pitied the poor saps that were trying to take refuge from the cold in various areas throughout the streets. There were plenty of abandoned buildings for the picking, but those were to be avoided. People hiding in buildings were just begging to get what they get by those hiding within...
He’d heard enough of gang-bangs and beatings to last him a lifetime by those who chanced hiding within a building for shelter. Usually the higher beings of power, mutants, dominated what warmth and availability for various comforts that was hiding within those buildings.
It was bad enough they were flawed in the eyes of society; why did they also have to be gifted?
Duo didn’t consider his ‘gifts’ to be flaws...they were cool. His abilities, discovered once he’d hit puberty, were his coolest feature. Able to teleport through the shadows of any darkness or light, he was lucky enough to have a power that benefitted him in such ways. He could get to one place to another without having to walk very far, and while he appreciated his gift, he could see why people would be bothered by it. He could virtually pass through walls with his gift–but he could never bring himself to venture past his conscience and take real advantage of his powers.
As such, the only reason why he used his talents were to pass quicker throughout the streets to his destination.
Which is why he chose to do so, stepping into the shadow of a light post (it didn’t matter how big or awkward a shadow seemed against his form–any shadow of any sort would do just fine) and appearing within the shape of another just outside the shelter. He had no idea how he did it–he just thought of his destination, stepped into a shadow, and there he was. There wasn’t a pull in his body, nor a tug in his conscious–he was just there in the blink of an eye.
People on the sidewalk looked at him in surprise, but did nothing to verbally express their shock at seeing him appear through mid-air. With a relieved sigh, he walked into the shelter, seeing that many other people had the same idea. Seeing that all the cots and most of the floor space was taken, Duo had to sigh. He didn’t like it when there were so many other homeless about...many gave them a bad name, and he didn’t feel like losing anything else while he slept. He turned and walked right back out, and figured he’d head back to his familiar hauntings. Stepping into the shadows nearby, he emerged near the area he’d spent the night in last night and grunted with annoyance upon seeing his rival taking up the spot he’d abandoned.
“Dude, what did I tell you?” he growled as he stomped toward the other bearded boy, who didn’t move. “I don’t want you in my spot!”
“Your name isn’t here!” the boy replied in stunted English, gesturing and refusing to move from his warmth.
“Get out, or I’ll kick your ass!” Duo growled as he came to a stop just before the boy’s feet, which were encased in rather pathetic Nike shoes that had holes at the bottom, the rubber peeling from the toes of his left foot. The boy stubbornly pulled his legs to his chest and glared up at him, shivering violently.
Duo felt bad that the boy was obviously freezing, but he couldn’t show any sympathy towards others. They’d up and use that weakness against him. One had to be tough to survive on the streets of New York. Clutching his things, he stomped his foot, then lightly kicked the bottom sole of the boy’s left foot.
“Get up and get out of here! This is my spot!”
“Your name isn’t here!” the boy insisted, gesturing at the painted over areas were the maintenance workers had obviously gotten to work on his name.
“Well, it was, and you know this is my spot, so get up and get out!”
“I’m cold!”
“Tell it to Oprah! Go away!”
“No!”
“Ooh,” Duo muttered. He dropped his things, wiggling his fingerless gloves in menacing appearance at the other boy. “I’m a mutant, sucker. I can kill you. I can maim you very easily...I have powers that can rip you apart and put you back together again, and–!”
The boy merely lifted his eyebrow, and Duo heard a very faint hum before finding himself up in the air, held by a very strong grip of nothingness. He was turned upside down, braid escaping his precious wool cap, and thrown forcefully into a nearby parked car. With a grunt, he smashed against the side door and fell hard against the pavement. Several people walking by hurried on without seeing if he was okay, muttering about mutants.
Duo rose from the sidewalk, rather awkwardly with his thick layers, and brushed himself off. His ribs ached painfully, and he found it hard to straighten. With a grim expression, Duo frowned in the boy’s direction, noting the appearance of shadows around him.
“Fine. You’re equipped, too, so this fight is fair,” he muttered before stepping into a shadow. He appeared behind the boy and gripped his threadbare jacket. He lifted the startled boy from his spot and forcefully tossed him aside with a manly grunt. It took a lot of effort to do so. He wasn’t exactly muscular and didn’t lift weights on a timely basis.
The other boy landed against the sidewalk with a pained yelp, then turned onto his side, hand thrusting outward. Duo found himself smashed backward against the wall, wind knocked out from him as the faint hum alerted him of the second attack. Quickly, he melted into the shadows, out of the boy’s path, and emerged from a shadow near the boy’s right. The boy turned, grimacing as Duo found himself flying once more into the air, crying out in surprise.
He grunted as he hit the pavement, rolling twice before coming to a stop. Licking his lips in angered fury, he rose from the sidewalk, and merged into nearby shadow once more. When he emerged, he was behind the boy that lay on the pavement. He gripped the strands of greasy blonde hair within both hands, and slammed the boy’s face into the pavement. The boy’s head made a sickening thud against the cold pavement, but he didn’t move again.
Panting, hating that he’d resorted to such tactics to defend himself and his spot, Duo straightened and brushed his hands off. He saw that some people were watching them, whispering and muttering amongst each other. He roared in their direction, hands raised in effect. They scampered off in various ways. Duo left the unconscious boy to his fate as he picked up his things and began moving, fearing revenge if the boy awoke and he was still there, posted in his warm spot.
With a cautious glance over his shoulder, Duo crossed the street and melted into the shadows of the stop lights, remembering that there was a warm space for him in a Dumpster three blocks away. No one really frequented that area because of the amount of crackheads and random shootings that the area possessed. He wasn’t afraid of other human or mutant actions–he’d grown used to seeing and experiencing violence, and felt mere indifference to it. Shrugging, Duo looked forward to his warm spot for the night and gripped his things tighter within both fists.

O0o0o0o0o0oO

When Quatre R. Winner awoke an indeterminable amount of time later, he was covered in snow. His head ached painfully, and he could feel frozen blood on his face, from where his skin had broken upon impact against the pavement. With a grimace, he shifted his face into his hands, then slowly rose onto his knees. He was immediately dizzy, growing nauseous at the movement, and he felt so entirely cold that his very bones hurt. Struggling to stand, he glanced over his shoulder to see if that stupid American was there in the spot they’d fought over, and found it completely empty. It was warm and inviting, protected by the nearby park entrance awning, so it was clear of snow. Though he found it completely capable of keeping him warm for the night, he didn’t want to take it. That American might come back, and he didn’t want to fight again. He felt that violence was unnecessary and completely worthless.
Shakily, aware that nothing stood still and he was seeing double, he brushed snow off his extremely wet clothes and began walking. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and tried to think of a better place to hide from the cold. His breath was visible with each exhale he gave, and his lungs seemed to clench with each breath he took. Dazedly, he crossed the street toward the nearby alley that he’d spent the night in earlier, staggering with the effects of his injury. In a foggy daze, he found the spot he’d used the night before, along with the cardboard he’d used to cover himself with.
With a slow, shaky movement, he lowered himself onto the spot, stiff hands feeling out the trash that littered it. Clearing it as best as he could, he settled against the wall and the niche of the nearby recycle bin, and pulled the same piece of cardboard over his head. Shivering violently, teeth clattering together, Quatre stared at nothing until his eyelids grew too heavy to hold open, and he fell into a very uncomfortable sleep.
When he awoke an undeterminable time later, he woke because there was a strange sound off to his right. Almost...almost like a cat screech. It woke him because cats tasted good once roasted over open flame, and he sat up quickly, stomach leaping into his throat and head pounding unmercifully. He clenched his temples with a slight moan of pain, blood rushing to his head, everything fading into a pinpoint of sound and light. When he calmed himself, he heard the shuffle of movement nearby, and removed his hands to look through the dim darkness of the alleyway. There was a man moving about, reaching out to allow the wall of the adjoining building guide him in his step.
Frowning, Quatre figured he’d find the cat later, and slowly turned to press his back against the building wall. He felt so nauseated and pained, most of which were coming from his head, but at the same time, the need for food caused his abdomen to stiffen with pain.
The man was moving out from the alley, and Quatre squinted in his direction, frowning at the well-dressed figure. Those clothes alone were worth more than he’d ever stolen since he’d arrived in Staten Island, and it was just strange for that type of person to be wandering the back alleys of this area...unless he was here for drugs or was looking for a kick in beating up the various homeless that were around. He ran into his fair share of such people, and wasn’t feeling the need to have a run-in with this one, especially in his current pained state.
The man ducked his head suddenly, a waft of smoke suggesting that he lit a cigarette.
Quatre stumbled to his feet and moved to walk away, eyelids heavy and head exploding with pain upon movement. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, and heard the shuffle of footsteps behind him. Wearily, he looked over his shoulder to see that the man had turned, his face hidden in shadow, and was watching him leave.
Feeling a shiver of fear waft through him, Quatre sped up his steps, staggering when he grew dizzy and disoriented. The next time he saw that other homeless boy, he was going to make sure to finish the fight. He didn’t like fighting, but he had to defend himself against others, and it was really unfair how that other boy had–
He looked over his shoulder to see that the man was catching up to him. Suddenly in utter fear that the man was looking to do harm, he turned, and ‘pushed’ the fancy suit away from him. The man grunted as he found himself slammed hard into the pavement, thirty feet away. Quatre took this opportunity to run, knowing that the man wasn’t there for good intentions. As much as he hated where he was, he certainly didn’t want to die.
Though every step was agony in his condition, he was desperate enough to move quick once he heard the man’s answering footsteps behind him.
His power, discovered when he hit puberty, were honed through sporadic use. Sporadic, simply because he found no real use to possess them.
He rounded a corner of the alley, bursting onto an empty sidewalk, and began moving into a careful jog, head whirling painfully. He turned at a stoplight to see if the man had followed, but saw no one. The street was unusually empty, and the only real sounds he heard was his own harsh breathing and the sounds of faraway traffic.
He gulped in a large breath, hunched his shoulders, and stuffed his hands into his pockets. That man had terrified him–he had felt a flicker of cruelty in him, of which prompted him to react in natural flight defense. The man was looking for more than a kick in beating up homeless people–he was looking to hurt.
Such dangers were common on the streets. He didn’t take too much time to think about what he’d just experienced. That short jolt of movement had warmed his limbs considerably, and he guessed it to be nearly around three in the morning. Sighing heavily, he figured he was awake enough to pickpocket someone walking around at the unGodly hour and find himself breakfast.
Because he was a foreigner, and barely spoke English– ‘Land of Opportunity’ his ass–he didn’t know about the homeless shelters, or the jobs that paid under the table. When he found out that he needed a home and a social security number to work, he’d been very unlucky, and had resulted to stealing and burglarizing what he could find just to make enough for food.
He couldn’t make friends–he didn’t understand them and they didn’t understand him, and what English he’d learned on his own were the meager things he’d heard on the sidewalk. He hated this life. But as much as he did, he’d never return home...never.
He passed by a few cars that were parked under running meters, and took his time to examine each one, looking for the best deal. There was a Mazda that had the remains of a expensive music player, but the driver was smart enough to remove the system and dismantle the vehicle, making it incapable of use. The other car had nothing of interest, and the next was a brand-new Dodge–it looked quite promising. He fiddled with the inside of his jacket pocket and withdrew a lockpicking set, tongue set between his lips. He picked the door’s lock, wincing at the alarm, and quickly fiddled with the wires underneath the dash, silencing it just as quickly as it had sounded. With a low breath of relief, he began his work quickly. He dismantled the stereo system, stuffing various wires into his jacket, and fumbled in the middle console for whatever he could find.
Spare change, gum, fingernail polish...he took the change and pocketed that, then straightened as he fiddled with the stereo panel, figuring that he should hurry before the owner realized that his vehicle had been damaged. He turned to shut the door and gasped in surprise at the sight of the man standing behind him, smiling in a grim way.
Quatre dropped the stereo and used his power to knock the man aside. Abandoning what he’d just spent minutes dismantling, he turned and began running as fast as he could down the sidewalk. The man picked himself up from the street and began running after him.
Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that the man had to have been some descendent of Mike Johnson, because he was gaining on him quickly. In fearful reaction, Quatre picked up his pace and darted into a nearby alley, remembering that there was a fire escape on the building to his left. He saw the raised ladder, and used his power to push himself upward on to the ladder. He climbed it quickly, inhaling sharply as he looked over the railing of the first level to see if the man was still there. He blinked as he saw nothing, yet two of everything as his vision swarmed. Nearly collapsing from the sudden dizziness and the rush of blood to his brain, he clung to the railing with a slight moan, feeling every one of his limbs grow cold and his stomach clench.
He found himself slightly better a minute later, and straightened from the railing, exhaling slowly as he scanned the area below him for any sign of the man.
He saw nothing, and felt shivers of fear filter through him. With a wince at the unnatural cruelty that he had felt, he turned to see if he could somehow escape the presence when he stilled at the sight of the man standing just a foot from him, grinning.
“GET AWAY!” he screamed, using his power to push at the man. But he didn’t move–! He stood in one place, removing a leather glove from one hand.
Fear making him panic, Quatre fell to the metal grating floor of the fire escape, the railing pressed against his back. The man advanced, his warm fingers wiggling with menacing intent as he reached for the trembling homeless thief. He tried using his powers again, and found that nothing worked as the man crouched and wrapped his fingers around his throat. Air was cut off, as well as any sound that he tried to utter, and he found himself unable to look away from the burning intensity of the man’s wide blue eyes.
Then the man’s face disappeared, and he registered a clench of teeth on his skin, followed by a burning, intensely sharp pain that raced through his body. He realized the man was biting him–his teeth were sinking through his skin, causing him to bleed–the pain was agonizing, but he couldn’t move to do anything about it..
Something that wasn’t quite air, wasn’t quite solid began to leave his body. It caused every muscle to slack, for his panic-riddled thoughts to cease, for his entire being to relax. Whatever the man was doing was certainly very draining, and he found that he was no longer panicked. His arms dropped pathetically to his sides, and his eyelids grew too heavy to keep open.
The man chuckled slightly, whispering at how good it felt to be fed, his fingers tightening around his delicate throat. Quatre found his eyes rolling upward into his head and his entire body going limp, held only by the man’s fingers on his throat. The man was whispering things he couldn’t understand, and he suddenly wasn’t aware of anything else as blackness fell into place.