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I, Mutant	By : Nemain Category: X-Men - Animated Series (all) > FemSlash - Female/Female Views: 6936 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own X-Men Evolution, or any of the characters from it. I make no money from from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-I, Mutant
- 2-2
- 3-3
- 4-4
- 5-5
- 6-6
- 7-7
- 8-8
- 9-9
- 10-10
- 11-11
- 12-12
- 13-13
- 14-14
- 15-15
- 16-16
- 17-17
- 18-18
- 19-19
- 2
- 3
- 4
I, Mutant Chapter Three
Disclaimers Apply

A/N Goddess Foxfeather, Queen
of Mad Plotbunnies, BUSIEST WOMAN ALIVE �, Prophetic Muse, Hamster Witch and
Uberbeta� Feeling better? InterNutter,
TC, Maxwell Pink, Dracena and Greywolf are loverly and wondermous for
archiving/hosting. J ProPhile: Well, you won�t see this for a while so tra
la la� Morgan: *gloke *
Readers/Reviewers: Towards the end of this week I�ll have out of town company
so updates might be sporadic again� Thank you so much for reading/reviewing as
you can!

�Stop that!�
�Sorry,� the young girl replied, not really sorry at all. She tucked her hands under her knees and
stared solemnly at the shiny toes of her patent leather Mary Janes. It was
boring, she thought, being an adult. All
they did was walk around and say these stupid big words that really didn�t mean
anything. She managed to sit still for a
moment before her feet began moving out of their own free will. Her heels drummed idly against the heavy sofa
and she hummed tunelessly as one of the old people wandered by, a glass of
champagne shimmering in his hand. A flash of dark ink on his wrist caught her
eye and she slid to her feet, trailing him at a distance. No one ever noticed her and that, she smiled,
was good sometimes. Like in school, when
she wanted to be super sneaky and do something fun. She had never been caught, not once. It was almost like magic, how she could slip
out of the classrooms or nurse�s office.
The man with the inky wrist stopped by the long table with all the food
that was, in her father�s words Off Limits To Little Girls. She stopped as he
did, rocking back onto her heels and hearing the creak of her stiff leather
shoes. The man selected some of the icky
mushrooms she thought tasted like feet smelled and turned, pausing when he saw
her. �Hi,� she said before he could ask
her why she was not in bed yet or why she was not playing with the other
children in the den. �Why you got
writing on your arm?� she asked, pointing one pudgy finger to the now clearly
visible ink on his wrist.
His face tightened briefly before relaxing into a small, sad
smile. He placed his plate on the table
and knelt before her, still towering over her but much closer to her level than
before. �Sometimes, we have to tell a
story so no one forgets��

�You don�t look eighteen.�
�And you don�t look evolved,� she snapped, resting her chin on
the thick plastic back of the chair. The
buzz of tattoo guns was like angry bees to her ears but she ignored them,
focusing instead on her intent. �If you�re
gonna dick around and not do this, gimme my money back.�
The guy shrugged�she could see him in the grimy mirror hung over
the counter�and took up his position on the stool behind her. At the first
touch of the needle to her skin, she couldn�t help it. She twitched. That earned her a sharp, wordless rebuke from
the inker. Biting down so hard on her
lip she tasted blood, she stared straight ahead, visualizing the design taking
form. She felt the needle on and in her
skin, felt the ink taking the form of her desire. She did not look at her own face in the mirror,
she could not stand to. She hated the
thin planes and lines of her cheeks and jaw, hated the pale tone of her
skin. She hated her blonde hair, making
a mental note to finally use that bottle of indigo dye when she got home that
night. The only thing she did like, she
thought as her mind drifted, the dull heat of the tattoo taking form oddly
relaxing, was her fingers. They were
long and delicate, like a real lady, she thought. She closed her eyes and saw, for one moment,
the swirl of a long pink skirt, heard the rustle of stiff petticoats and the
click of expensive shoes on parquet flooring.
Never was her mother, she thought bitterly. Her mother was barefoot, poor. Her mother was gone. The buzzing of the tattoo gun stopped and
her eyes flew open. She felt bereft
without the vibration of the gun at her back and wanted more. �That all?�
�Yeah. Just blackwork,
right? No biggie.� He was turning away from her, doing the
required maintenance and clean up to keep the shop legal. �That�s it.�
�Not yet,� she smiled thinly. She stood, the stiffness of her
back proclaiming the new artwork, the story she longed to tell. �Pierce �em,[1]� she
declared, lifting her shirt.
The guy stared openly, her small, firm breasts mere inches from
his face. The pale pink nipples were
already hardening despite the stuffy atmosphere in the shop. He swallowed hard, his eyes fixated on a
freckle between the two small orbs. �Uh,
inkin� is one thing but I ain�t gonna pierce ya if you�re still�you know�developin�.�
She stood that way for a moment longer, her shirt lifted to her
shoulders, her fingers shaking slightly.
Finally, she lowered her garments and sniffed haughtily. �Whatever.
Probably can�t pierce for shit anyway.�
She tossed her shoulder-length hair back and winced inwardly as the
motion made the large but simple design on her back pull, the skin healing as
quickly as it could. She adjusted the
straps of her tank top indifferently and turned on her heel, marching�stomping�from
the shop. The cool night air hit her
like a fist, a sharp change from the humid air of the shop. She gasped, then swallowed a curse as a
mother and her kid walked by carrying fast food bags. She saw the look the mother gave her, full of
disgust and pity. No one, she thought
clearly, will ever look at me like that again.
In the city so far from her family, from the last tendrils of blood
relations, she could start over. She did
not have to be the poor little rich girl, crazy and confused. She was free from it all, unless they found
her again. No, she ordered herself,
tugging her hair back into a ponytail as carefully as she could manage. They won�t find me again. Not unless I want
them to. Not unless the pain comes
back. She could manage. She could deal with the voices, the dark needs,
but she could not deal with the pain.

�How many is that now?� the red head with the rosebud lips asked
her.
�Ten,� Wanda grunted. �Now leave me alone.�
�When I get out, I want to get a pretty unicorn with a heard on
my ankle,� her bunkmate whispered. �I
love unicorns.�
Wanda bit back a retort and instead forced herself to sit
up. �Don�t get something unless you got
a story.�
�Huh?�
�Sometimes, we need to tell a story,� she said quietly, holding
out her arms. �This one is for my mother, who died when I was a baby��

A/N the next one will be MUCH
happier, I Promise.

[1]
Back when I got my first tattoo, I went to this one shop where a girl did
that. Just lifted her top and said �pierce
�em!�
- 2
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I, Mutant