Summer's End

[Jim Lewinski]

NORTH WASHINGTON, COLORADO


It was 3am when the bus crawled into the station. Beside the long lonely road, it shone like a beacon, brilliant, and offensively white against the darkest, flattest, and most boring landscape Jim had ever seen. A hiss of brakes announced the end of their journey, and lights like sunbeams invaded the gloomy interior, prodding weary passengers awake. Slowly, they gathered their things; spluttering as they mined the depths of their seats or groaning at the great effort to retrieve luggage from the overhead rack. And then, an undead shuffle of feet down the narrow aisle, as they filed outside, wincing like newborns. A moment longer, Jim waited for the crowd to disperse before turning to his companion.

“Aimee?” he whispered, “Hey, Aimee. It's time to go.”

She looked like a small pile of clothes on the seat. He gave her a gentle nudge, and she moved barely an inch, just enough to lift her head off the window. Beneath the hood, Jim imagined she woke with more grace than their fellow travellers, maybe a soft yawn and a flutter of the eyes. Although, after having lived under the same roof with several of them, he'd become wise to the fact that girls weren't entirely the dainty creatures he'd been led to believe. That went double for Aimee. Triple for Polly. When she righted herself, and he caught a glimpse of her face, Jim felt a twinge of guilt. It was less than two hours ago, as they passed through the jagged valleys of Glenwood Springs, when she finally succumbed to exhaustion. And from one glance it was plain to see fatigue still clung to her like an old coat.

“The coast is clear. Come on.”

Together they stepped out into the glare of the station, and cautiously, yet hastily, found themselves somewhere to sit inside that was farthest removed from everyone else. The station was long, miraculously white, and populated with clusters of plastic chairs between automated ticket dispensers, vending machines, and toilets. Footsteps echoed from end to end, so when people spoke to each other, they muttered. And the over-sensitive automatic doors were open more than they were closed, providing no refuge from the crisp night air – it was, however, a preferable alternative to the stuffy innards of a bus. On an overhead screen flickered the timetable for the incoming and outgoing traffic. Jim visibly deflated.

“Looks like we got an hour to kill. Did you remember to bring the Travel Scrabble?”

Slumped as she was in her seat, chin against her chest, Aimee was difficult to read, particularly with that hood hiding her face. Nevertheless, Jim hoped his admittedly weak attempt at humour had been afforded at least a courtesy smile. She didn't speak much. Sixteen hours of budget coach trips sandwiched between three hours of waiting around and doing nothing; it had been a long day preceded by another long day. The funeral had taken its toll on each of them, and after the events of the week previous, it was one last bitter pill to swallow. There was no closure for any of them. A family had been fractured and scattered, friends had been lost, everything had changed. Aimee often said that those who didn't learn to bend with the wind would break. Jim usually chalked her particular brand of hard-knock wisdom down to a defence mechanism she'd developed growing up on the mean streets of New York, but now that they found themselves returning to those mean streets, he finally understood. Gone were the palm trees and the warm Californian nights, gone were familiar faces on familiar streets, gone was the ritual of the morning bathroom rush and the clamour of chaotic meals; Anna's cooking, Jake's music, Alex's lectures, basketball with Ronnie, Scott's practical jokes, Jamie's illusions, Jennifer's impressions...

What a difference a day makes, Jim thought, as he looked around at the station; cold surroundings and colder strangers. It was the chill wind of change, of the unknown, but they had each other, and they would face it together.

[Aimee Connors]

Jim's attempt at a joke fell flat. Aimee found it hard to muster the will to lift her head to even look at him, her confidence shattered as it was. In her hoodie she could be just another teenager on a bus - not a mutant refugee from the upheaval in California, headed for once familiar haunts in the hope that she could find her feet again.

After a moment she raised her head, the harsh fluorescent lights illuminating her purple skin on the lower part of her face. "No Scrabble, sorry." Aimee unzipped the outer pocket of her backpack and fished out a dilapidated pack of cards. "Got these though."

Being here with Jim would have felt weird just a few weeks ago. Now, though? He was the last bit of rope left for her to hold onto; a tether that had appeared at the last moment when she was slipping away. Always friendly, now they were friends, and she felt bad putting him through this horrifically long bus trip with such a depressing companion.

Aimee made an attempt to straighten up, and was overtaken with a yawn, covering her mouth with the hand holding the cards. "I need some caffeine."

[Jim Lewinski]

"I'll go."

He was on his feet before she could object. Around the nearest vending machine huddled a trio of travellers, they spoke in undertones over nursed drinks. Once Jim was upon them, all went quiet. It was a thick conspicuous sort of silence, the kind that accompanied an eerie mannequin-like stillness and then the burning feeling of so many furtive glances. The machine gave a click, and then made a painful grinding sound as it pissed instant coffee into the flimsy plastic cup. Jim stole a glance at his neighbours, eyeballs snapped downwards, suddenly transfixed by the contents of the steaming cups. His head gave a sharp twitch, as if to dislodge itself from his shoulders, and then he swept away immediately, coffee in hand.

"Here. It don't look so bad. Better than the sludge in Vegas, at least."

Considering his choice of words, thereafter, Jim took grim pleasure in his accidental efficiency. The sludge in Vegas, he mused, could apply to every facet of the hateful place. He imagined Aimee agreed, at least about the coffee, not that it had been discussed. In fact, over the course of the trip, they hadn't spoke much of anything - certainly of nothing that mattered. Jim knew better than to pry into open wounds, no matter how much it pained him to see his friend suffer, or to endure her silence. Outside, another bus pulled into the station, and disgorged passengers of every colour and variety. Almost every colour.

"We can spend the night in Chicago, if you want. Find someplace cheap. Get a wash, maybe. You know, there ain't no rush."

[Aimee Connors]

Aimee accepted the coffee gratefully, trading the deck of cards for it. Jim needed something to fidget with. He'd been remarkably still lately - for him, anyway. "I think I'd rather just get this trip over with."

She paused, sipping the hot drink. She wasn't sure it actually qualified as coffee. "You excited to see your family?" Aimee didn't really know the particulars about why Jim had trekked across the country to live in California in the first place, except that he had run away. All of them had been adrift, for one reason or another.

[Jim Lewinski]

"No," he answered, too quickly. There was a whiff of bullish indignation about his denial, unbecoming of him, and unworthy of Aimee's patience. His shoulders sagged, the fight gone from him.

"Honestly, it's the opposite. Who says I even got a home to back to, huh?"

It was a feeble complaint, given the company he kept, and he knew it. Still, whether it was justified or not, his insides squirmed not only at the thought of a family reunion, but also of what Aimee would think of him when it happened. Neither of them wasted time fretting over hypotheticals. There was another silence. Jim was shuffling cards before he knew it, and when he did, he was thankful for having a companion like Aimee - precious few were those who knew how to handle his condition.

Minutes passed like hours, and the teens remained obstinate in their ignorance of the comings and goings of crowds, until the seats opposite were occupied by a party of hikers. Rough and weather-beaten, with overburdened rucksacks and dirt-crusted boots; there was no good reason for them to be concerned with strangers, or indeed have the energy to do so. And yet, there was a murmur of disquiet which spread throughout the group like a disease. Soon, there was pointing, attracting the attention of curious bystanders. The swell in sound was like the steady and inexorable climb of an approaching tsunami. Jim found himself recalling every single newspaper headline he'd read that day, and every radio snippet and glimpse of television they had come across over the last twenty-four hours. Then he remembered the one solitary security guard posted in his booth at the other end of the station. He stood and wrapped his fingers around Aimee's wrist. His voice cracked like dry wood.

"We oughta wait outside."

[Aimee Connors]

She roused at his touch, bleary and stiff from nodding off curled up on the hard plastic seat. "Sure," she said, getting up. Aimee used her free hand to pull down on her hood to keep her face obscured, and then hooked the strap of her backpack. She would have worn gloves but it was still summertime and the hoody was hot enough.


Feeling comfortable in her own skin again was going to take a while. She followed Jim as he hurried through the bus terminal, feeling overly self-conscious. Then again, by the way people's heads were turning, perhaps it was just the right amount of self-consciousness.

[Jim Lewinski]

Aimee and Jim left the station at speed, pursued by a rumble of voices. From the turbulence surfaced strings of angry taunts on either side. It was indecipherable aggression, and it did not abate until a plastic cup sailed close to Aimee's head and splashed hot coffee over the tiles in front of them. Then there was laughter. By the time the mutants were expelled from the bus station, the atmosphere within was positively jovial. Strangers gathered in boisterous congregations, food was shared, and hot drinks passed around. So dramatic was the change that overcame their tormentors, that Jim half-expected to see them raise their little cups in a toast. Outside, he and Aimee found a bench, and waited for the next bus.


---

I-90, HAMMOND, INDIANA


The sun rose over Wolf Lake, chasing the night into the horizon. On one side of the bus, the sky was a rich pumpkin orange, on the other side, it was like sapphire velvet, and overhead hung every permutation in between. The lake itself was ablaze like liquid gold and the greenery was black. And towering pylons glistened like jewels in every direction. On the bus itself, the mood was placid, it was as if every passenger was sharing one big comforter. They had been travelling for twenty minutes and it was much too early in the morning to be anything but sedate. Jim stole a glance up the aisle, everywhere there were pairs of dark glassy eyes, shimmering with quiet contentment. Even Aimee was relaxed enough to snatch a moment free from her hood.

The journey to Chicago had been fraught with delay. When they pulled into the station at 10pm, they arrived only to discover that not only had they missed their bus, by two and a half hours, no less, but also that the next departure wouldn't be until first thing the following morning. Given the events of the night previous, the thought of spending the night at the station alone filled Aimee and Jim with apprehension. But, as fortune would have it, they weren't alone; they had Raymond and Ben. Raymond and Ben were a middle-aged couple from Des Moines who were travelling to Boston for a cousin's wedding. Both great mountains of men, between them they boasted seven championship titles in super heavyweight boxing circles, and, for the teens, it was a great comfort to spend the night flanked by each of them.

Presently, Raymond and Ben were taking turns in trying to conquer a particularly challenging level on Angry Birds. It started with Ben - the one with a salt-and-pepper short 'fro - who had over the course of the night hunkered intermittently over a tiny iPhone, and worked at it with his bulbous thumbs until, in a ground-quaking moment of weakness, he tossed the phone aside and bellowed the words: "God damn you, you useless candy corn bastard!" That was at 5am. Jim checked his watch with a smirk, it was 6:25, but to be fair to them both, they had wasted the first half hour on a hilarious argument about whether the yellow bird looked more like a piece of candy corn or a pizza slice. It was unsurprising then to find them labouring over the same treacherous level.

Beside him, Aimee shifted in her seat. She was gazing out of the window. Maybe it was just his relentless optimism, but she looked... not quite sad. But then again, as Aimee had learned the hardest way, appearances were about as real as that golden lake outside.

"We should do this properly one day," he said, she managed an inquisitive glance, "This. A real road trip. You, me, Alex, Ronnie, and Scott. Guess we could also squeeze Svetlana into the trunk."

[Aimee Connors]

She smiled, a lopsided twist of her lips before she could stop it. "That would be great. Maybe we could go see the Grand Canyon. Or the world's largest rubber band ball." Raymond and Ben were muttering about trajectories on the other side of the aisle, which threatened to widen her smile. Aimee had to admire Angry Birds from afar - her mutation made touch screens almost impossible to use. Something about the surface of her fingertips just didn't play nice with them.

She looked back out the window at the glistening lake, the sunrise turning the world into a beautiful place. Sunrises, new days... even the leaves would start changing in a few weeks. It had put her in a contemplative mood, and one that wasn't fixated on recent losses but on the future. Of course, now she was thinking about them again. Aimee sighed, fiddling with her hood as if to pull it over her messy ponytail and hide again.

[Jim Lewinski]

Jim grinned as Aimee listed potential attractions for their highly theoretical road trip, knowing full well, as also did she, which of the two he'd most like to see. Giant rubber band ball, everytime. If he were to consult his internal optimist, a road trip such as that was an inevitability - he would make it happen. The scientist considered the variables; finances, resources, windows of opportunity, friendship degredation probabilities - and things still looked good. Then there was another voice; it suggested that too much had changed, that he'd probably never see his friends again, and, even if he did, it would be too late. What concered Jim was that this voice - the third and smallest voice - it didn't call out through a rose-tinted haze of happiness or bury itself under a mountain of cold and calculated fact, it was the quietest voice because it was also the clearest. Grim pragmatism was the gift of Los Santos, and it buries itself deep below the surface, where it can take root.

Before he could further indulge in his fantasy road trip, he noticed Aimee appeared to be on the verge of retreating back into her hooded shell. Promptly, he turned to her in earnest.

"Ayo, Aimee. Look, I know that, with all the bad stuff that's gone down, we haven't had a chance to talk. Both of us, we just sorta took off, you know? And I was wonderin', once we get to New York, what exactly are your intentions?"

[Aimee Connors]

Disappear on the streets, hopefully forever. It was a morose thought, and Aimee knew it wasn't true. She'd tried that in LA, and, well. That had turned out great.

"Entirely honorable," she said instead, giving him a little dig with her elbow. "I was sort of hoping I could crash with you for a while. Just until I find a place. My old...home... has a lot of turnover. Might not be space for me right away."

[Jim Lewinski]

"No!" Jim blurted with excitement, "I mean yes. That's great! I wasn't sure if you were gonna, but if you are, then we will if we can. I was worried you'd decline- nothin' pervy, you know- and there's my parents- but it's like you're psychic!"

Words tumbled out faster than he could keep purchase on them. It was a deluge, like water from a fractured damn. In his head there were words, whole sentences in fact, leaping to bridge the chasms between each disjointed exclamation. But, outside the speedways of his mind, unspoken words were of no use at all. The flicker of confusion on Aimee's face melted into kindly practiced patience; a look Redención House residents had down to an art form, and it killed him. He slapped his cheek. Then again, harder. And bit down on his knuckle in frustration, muttering, "Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!"

[Aimee Connors]

Jim's quiet outburst was not exactly out of the ordinary, but it wasn't usual, either. She didn't really know what to do, so settled for leaning her head on his shoulder with yawn. "It's okay, Jim. I know what you mean. I'm glad it's ok, with you at least."

[Jim Lewinski]

"Sorry," he said, breathless with shock, "I-I-I- I'm tryin' to keep a lid on it."

He sighed a heavy, body-shuddering sigh, and swatted from his cheek a hot tear that had been squeezed out during his tantrum. The closeness of Aimee to him, the warmth of her physical touch, it was soothing. On the periphery of his vision he saw Raymond and Ben, they made no pretense of playing their game anymore, and they were watching. He braved a glance, and chased the concern from their faces with a stiff nod and a smile. But beneath the surface, his shame was eating him from the inside out. Just when he thought he had control, a single unpredictable spark of excitement set him off like a rocket. He slumped miserably into his seat, draping a heavy arm across Aimee's shoulders.

"That's what I wanted to ask you, and I was worried you'd be scared off because you wanted to be alone, or because you'd think I was being like a sleazeball or somethin'. I don't want you to be alone, Aimee. And if everything goes well with the family, I know you'll be welcome to stay for as long as you want."

After a moment of reflection, he added, "I also don't want you thinkin' I'm a sleazeball."

[Aimee Connors]

"I would never think you're a sleazeball," she said. "If you try anything, though, I am practiced in the art of kicking guys in the nuts. So, keep that in mind." Aimee twisted her head and peered up at him. "Joking. Well, I mean I would, but I am sure you will be a perfect gentleman."

She paused, considering Cameron and what she'd thought about him. Aimee sighed, pulling away and leaning her forehead against the window. "Anyway."

[Jim Lewinski]

"Anyway," Jim echoed, weakly.

It didn't take a psychic to interpret the sudden cold shoulder, or to see the turmoil rampant behind Aimee's eyes. A better person would've asserted themselves, first with a comforting hand to hold, and then with magic words to dispel the demons. Jim stared, dumbfounded, as if he would find the right words tangled in his friend's glossy black hair. She was dealing with problems beyond the scope of his own emotional education. If Alex was with them, he'd say she just needed time. Space too, probably. It only figured that when they had time in abundance, space was in such short supply. Maybe when they got home that would change.

Home, Jim repeated to himself. Is that what he called it?


---

LOWER MANHATTAN, NEW YORK


It had been twelve hours since their departure from Chicago. A whole three days since the tearful farewells in Los Santos. An hour ago, they said goodbye to Raymond and Ben; there had been mighty ham hock handshakes and bone-crunching bear hugs. And they were still on a bus. This time, however, it was smaller, a sardine tin by comparison, with hard plastic seats that stabbed like knifes under the shoulder blades, handrails that rattled ominously overhead in their loose fixtures, and a central aisle so narrow it even gave Aimee pause for thought. The bus was packed and hot. Outside, New York City, where buildings weren't buildings unless they were at least eight stories high, and the roads were murderous, and saturated with yellow cabs. The journey from the heart of the city was a taxing affair, exacerbated by the rush hour traffic, and they expected it would be at least forty minutes before they reached Staten Island, but at least Jim had plenty to keep him occupied. How he'd missed it, the bustle of the big city, with so much happening all at once. There was an argument breaking out at the front of the bus, unfortunately it was football related so much of what was said made precious little sense to him, but as the dispute grew heated, the combatants called in reinforcements from either side of the bus. The numbers seemed to be evenly-matched, and everyone had something to say, sounding off opinions like trumpets into battle. Jim smiled as the chaos unravelled around them. In New York, he was never bored.

In a single minute of congestion-free paradise, the rowdy rickety bus swung through Tribeca, onto West Street, then into the amber glow of the Hugh L. Carey Tunnel. They resurfaced in Brooklyn, and took the interstate through a grizzly urban landscape of half-dilapidated buildings with graffiti-plastered walls. It reminded him too much of downtown Los Santos, so instead he kept his eyes fixed on the road, awash as it was with warm reds and blazing whites. Aimee was quiet again, which was to be expected after spending twelve straight hours on a sweaty coach, and he imagined she was probably starting to hallucinate visions of bath tubs and soap bubbles. Halfway across the Verrazano Bridge, he broke his silence.

"So, where exactly do you call home around here?"

[Aimee Connors]

"There's a," she yawned, and then groaned. "I hate buses. I'm never getting on one again. But I'm from Brooklyn." Aimee waved vaguely. "Around. You know. There's an apartment on a Freeman Street that I used to crash at. My friend Ginny used to work up the way at Smith's Mini Mart. Sometimes I stayed with her, if things were ..."

She trailed off and shrugged. "I slept at the top of the Statue of Liberty once." Aimee grinned at the look on Jim's face and said, "Kidding, but I sort of have always wanted to climb her."

[Jim Lewinski]

"Ain't nothin' stoppin' you now. No, I'm serious! The shit we've been through... scaling Lady Liberty would be a snooze."

Once they had crossed the bridge and arrived at Staten Island, the nerves started to kick in. Aimee must have sensed it too, because she supplied him with the scruffy card deck at just the right moment. Everything beyond the window was intimately familiar, to the point that he could predict to the minute when they were going to reach their stop. And by the time he had finally shuffled off the last hateful bus of the trip, Jim was positively ashen. Above them, the sky was bleeding through its colours. It was just as it had been that morning over Wolf Lake, except less tranquil. Together they skulked the sidewalk in search of an unoccupied cab.

"Aimee, remind me. What do you know about my family?"

[Aimee Connors]

"Uh, that you've got one." Aimee stuck her fingers in her mouth and let out a piercing whistle, a cab pulling up to the curb in moments. She waved at the driver and she and Jim hurried to get into the back of it. Thankfully in New York the taxi drivers didn't care what you looked like as long as you paid your fare. Jim told the driver the address, and they settled in.

"Your dad's a businessman or something and your mom stayed at home." Aimee looked at Jim, who seemed a little paler than usual. "I don't think I even know if you have brothers or sisters."

[Jim Lewinski]

"No, I don't got any of those. Loads of cousins, though. Like you wouldn't believe."

It was dark inside the cab, and the floor was sticky. There was a Little Tree swinging from the rear-view mirror, poisoning the air with its sickly-sweet stench, and the driver himself, a burly, unshaven Italian with a weakness for eye-watering aftershave, was singing along with the Taylor Swift drone coming from his radio. The music, the smell, the stickiness; trifling complaints that, when combined, helped push Jim's immediate concerns to the back of his mind. And, rather than worry, he just tried to enjoy the closing chapter of a very long trip.

First, they passed through Sunnyside, a land of semi-detached homes, SUV's, and Star-Spangled Banners. It was charming in a throwback-Americana kind of way, with its immaculate streets, quaint local businesses, and sprinklings of maple and sycamore beside every road. Jim watched Aimee watching the houses as they ticked past, and then they disappeared entirely, replaced by thick nests of trees. Closer they got to their destination. The trees tumbled away to reveal a lake, its surface was still, like a mirror, reflecting the dark blue clouds overhead. On the other side, distant lights flickered like candles. Up ahead, there was a split in the road, and the cab vanished into a mouth of woodland. Closer and Closer.

"Look, Aimee, I don't want you to get the wrong idea..."

"One Delaware Place," said the cabbie, as they rolled to a stop.

"We're here."

[Aimee Connors]

Her amber eyes nearly popped out of her head. "This is... yours? Holy fuck, Lewinski." She slugged him in the shoulder. "Am I going to stay in your guest house?!"

[Jim Lewinski]

"Come on, Aimee! Sheesh!"

Jim paid the cabbie, and climbed out, still rubbing his shoulder with no shortage of melodrama. Aimee had a fist like a brick and had caught him just so; the bone would be throbbing for ages, he just knew it. His humble backpack was tossed over his uninjured shoulder, and he joined Aimee, who was peering through the gate. Beyond, there was a large house with an expansive drive; it had tall glowing windows, twin garage doors, and a picturesque balcony in the middle. Framed by looming maple trees, Jim's home (http://i727.photobucket.com/albums/ww277/droogydroo/rp/lewinskihome.jpg) smacked of every extravagance; even its steep sloping roof was needlessly propped up by creamy white columns, like a poor man's Acropolis. Jim looked deflated.

"Somewhere in California, right now, Alex Kaine has just puked his guts out. Help me over the gate, will you, Aimee?"

[Aimee Connors]

"Very boo-schwa-zee, Jim," she said as they stood at the large gate that enclosed the driveway, clearly marking where Yours and Mine were separated. However, she easily scaled the decorative iron, stopping to drop her backpack on the other side and give Jim and hand up. Their sneakers hit the driveway in unison, and she trailed behind him as he resolutely approached the mansion.

The mansion! Jim was a rich kid! Aimee tried not to goggle at the back of his head, or at the huge house, or the manicured lawn - actually there wasn't really anywhere to look. She squared her shoulders, feeling acutely aware of the travel stink she must have all over her, and jogged a bit to catch up to Jim.

[Jim Lewinski]

"Yeah, well, it's not really me," he said, dismissively, an impressive feat when in the shadow of such a house, "Actually, it ain't really my old man, neither. It's more..."

From inside the house, there came a scream which turned Jim's blood cold. It was joined, subsequently, by a chorus of piercing shrieks, giving the distinct impression that somewhere within his home there was a gaggle of geese being brutalised. He stood frozen, his key in the door, until the screaming subsided. Then he wilted with dismay.

"Shit! It's Tuesday," he elaborated for Aimee's sake, "Cribbage night."

There was a click, and the front door swung open without fuss. They were greeted by a wide open foyer with cream walls and a varnished mahogany floor. An ornate Iranian rug occupied the middle of the floorspace, to the right, a staircase curled up to the second floor, and on the left, there was another staircase which curved downwards into the basement, where the dying crackle of laughter could be heard. Jim advanced a step, whereupon he halted, and over his shoulder he tossed his companion a look full of regret.

"Shoes. Sorry," he said, as he tossed his own sneakers aside.

[Aimee Connors]

"I'm sorry too," she said quietly, "Your feet reek." Aimee shucked her shoes, and wrinkled her nose as she took off her socks too, stuffing them down into the toe of the warm and slightly damp sneakers. "Mine do too, you're in good company."

Jim's newfound backstory had temporarily shocked her out of the emotional funk that had clung to her the entire trip, and she curiously followed him toward the basement staircase. The rugs were plush, the wooden floor smooth as silk, and the staircase was carpeted in a light cream as they decended toward the sounds of laughter. Aimee trailed a hand along the dark wooden bannister. Everything was lit sumptuously, even the staircase to the basement. Jim seemed to be dreading the coming encounter, and she put her hand on his shoulder to reassure him.

Then a thought struck her. "Jim, they know we're coming, right?"

[Jim Lewinski]

"Uh, why would they know?"

Halfway down the stairs, Jim fired Aimee a look of such bewilderment that she might as well have suggested braiding his hair. When they reached the bottom, the carpet underfoot was replaced with hard slippery marble, and the walls on either side were panelled with wood. It was a long room, warmly lit, with a bar on one side and a large round table in the middle. There were three women at the table, sloshing cocktails and squawking at each other over handfuls of cards. Jim steeled his nerves, and just as he was about to make his advance, a fourth woman sprung up from behind the bar with a large bottle of gin. She spotted them, her lazy smile faltered, then she shrieked in fright. There was a crash as the gin bottle shattered at her feet. The rest of the women went rigid in their seats, heads swivelling, like a mob of alarmed meerkats. But there was only one that did not succumb to theatrics. Jim gave a sheepish grin.

"Hey, mom. I'm home!"

[Francine Lewinski]

"Jimmy?"

Slowly, Francine rose out of her seat. She clutched the edge of the table for support as she stared, in stunned silence, at the teen duo that had appeared at the other end of the room. The boy was unmistakeably her son, and the other thing that was with him - well, she had no idea what that was. The silence became tense, drawing out a nervous flutter of laughter from Jimmy, and the air around them was stifling. On the periphery of her vision, Francine spied her friends staring in ravenous curiosity. Suddenly, she melted, and closed the distance between her and her son at a swift trot. Arms at right angles, she took him in a stiff embrace, and held on until there were sniffles coming from the card table.

"Jimmy! I can't believe it! You're home!" she said, dreamily, and then with her gaze fixed upon her son, added: "Who's your little friend?"

[Jim Lewinski]

"Mom, this is Aimee. She's a friend from LA."

Jim retreated a step, partly to facilitate his introduction, mostly to evade his mother's potent breath. It was true what was said about the sense of smell being the strongest memory trigger. In an instant, it all came back to him; the parties, the strangers, the shameless gin-soaked caterwauling, the tears, and then the hangover. One of the women at the table, a skeletal redhead emblazoned in gold jewellery, was sniffing and flapping spindly hands at her face. The other woman he recognised as Vivian, his mother's longest-serving cribbage companion, a tall and formidable woman with broad shoulders, a proud tower of silver hair, and a chin like a dagger. He had no idea who the one behind the bar was, tiptoeing, as she was, over freshly-broken glass. Despite all the hoopla, he glanced back at his friend, and gave her a smile he hoped very much was reassuring.

"Aimee, this is my mom."

[Aimee Connors]

Aimee wanted to hide behind Jim, or better yet run away from the awkwardness. Jim shot her a cadaver's grin, spots of pink appearing on his pale cheeks from either embarrassment or the combined warmth of four alcoholics, and she gave his mother a little wave. "It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Lewinski."

She could feel the eyes on her, a familiar feeling that she had almost gotten used to, and bit her lip. "Sorry if we startled you."

[Francine Lewinski]

"Call me Francine. Mrs. Lewinski makes me sound like an old fuddy-duddy!"

Rattling machine gun laughter punctuated her words. Francine swiped a dismissive hand at the purple girl, manicured nails flashing like bloody talons, and quickly retracted it in case she expected a handshake. Thereafter, she started to fidget; thumbs twirling, fingers interlocked; the smile was cemented to her face. Another painful beat of silence before Francine remembered her manners. She gestured to the women around the table.

"Jimmy, this is Alice, my new doubles partner. Of course, you know Vivian. And the one who broke my last bottle of Hendrick's is Sylvia - she is engaged to media mogul Armand Levinson."

There was a diplomatic inflection in her voice when she said that, as if the act of name-dropping somehow negated the shortcomings of the butter-fingered bimbo. Alice beamed shamelessly through her tears. Vivian, who was perched hawk-like over her cards, unpursed her lips long enough to smile. And Sylvia wrestled with her shoes. That done with, Francine turned back to the teens, hands held aloft. All that was missing was a "Ta-dah!" In the renewed silence, she took another fleeting glance at the purple girl, then to her son she gave a manic, wide-eyed smile.

"Let's go upstairs! You must be exhausted, and hungry. Do you eat? Go! Go!"

[Jim Lewinski]

Inwardly, Jim winced his way through the entirety of his mom's stilted chatter, and was thankful in the end to be ushered swiftly away from the old birds and the whiff of gin that engulfed them. There were, however, ugly connotations to the urgency of their departure. He saw how she had looked at Aimee, or, more to the point, not looked at Aimee while they were downstairs. Perhaps it was only after years of experience that he was able to decipher the subtext in each of his mother's actions, while, to a layman like Aimee, it would all go unnoticed like phantom rays beyond the spectrum of her understanding. He could only hope.

First into the parlour, then the dining room, and then the kitchen, Jim lead the way while his mom plied him with tepid pleasantries and a running commentary on the recent renovations to each room. In the middle of the kitchen there was an island, above which hung a convoluted nest of pots and pans; Jim mounted a stool alongside it and kicked out a second in wordless invitation to Aimee. He watched his mom wander in, casting anxious glances about the room, hands still clasped firmly over her belly as if nursing a mortal wound. She met his gaze and stretched her smile another fraction, and he in turn did his best to reciprocate.

"How have you been?"

[Francine Lewinski]

"Me?" she asked in surprise, "I've been fine. Great, actually. Guess who finally got that seat on the country club committee?"

Index fingers flicked inwards, and then raised aloft in triumph, daintily poking the air. The reaction was disappointing. Jim's polite enthusiasm failed to reflect the stratospheric heights of her achievement, while his friend looked as clueless as she did misplaced. Francine gave a flick of her hair, and by the time her crispy curls had fallen back into place, she had skewered her son with a look of mischief. A solitary finger waggled in reprimand.

"But you, Mister Gone-Without-A-Trace, what have you been up to, I wonder. No calls. No emails. And now, after all this time, you're back. Out of the blue. Just like that - poof! There's a story there, Jimmy. Maybe your little friend can tell me..."

Whereupon, she had eyes only for Aimee:

"So... what brings you back to New York?"

[Aimee Connors]

Aimee blinked, surprised at being addressed. The pleasant smile she was attempting was getting stale, so she let it fade. "Um, well..." She looked at Jim and then back to his mom. "California is... The mutant registration, that is, and the rioting...

"Ah, I mean, the house were were staying in has been condemned. We're both from New York so it made sense to come home until things are sorted out." Aimee hesitated, then decided that was enough of an explanation. She closed her mouth and shrugged.

[Francine Lewinski]

"Until things are sorted out?" Francine repeated her words in disbelief, and gaped at both of them, "You were living in a condemned building! Why on earth would you go back?"

She slapped the worktop in amusement, and rocked forward, laughing like an asthmatic pig. What to her was a source of obvious amusement, had no such effect upon her son and his friend. Their blank and boring faces promptly sucked the pleasure out of the moment, and Francine's laughter evaporated with a sigh. Glossy nails tapped out her last dreg of patience.

"So then," she fired up, sniffily, "..."

"Aimee," said Jim.

"Yes, Aimee. Where exactly do you call home?"

[Aimee Connors]

"Brooklyn," she replied promptly, though she'd been tempted to say Hell's Kitchen just to see if she could coax another expression from Francine's botoxed face. "Born and raised. I lived with a bunch of different foster families before I ...left for the West coast."

Aimee found her hands trying to smooth out her messy ponytail, and forced herself to return them to her lap lest she start imitating Jim's mom's nervous tics. "Um, Jim was nice enough to travel with me. It was a very, very long bus trip." She felt like she was trying to smooth out something between Jim and his mom, but she didn't know what it was and if she was doing more harm than good.

[Francine Lewinski]

"And... now?"

There was apprehension in her voice, and her eyes ticked to her son.

[Jim Lewinski]

Over the course of the exchange, Jim had sensed this awkward moment barelling towards them with all the force of a freight train, and as his mother's gaze fell upon him, he became the proverbial damsel on the tracks. There was a beat of silence, in which even his own mile-a-minute thought process offered up no means of diverting the course of the conversation. In the end, he decided to tackle the matter like a stubborn bandaid: quickly, briefly, and with as little fuss as possible.

"Actually, ma, I was wonderin' if it would be cool for Aimee to stay a while. At least until she finds her own place."

[Francine Lewinski]

"Here?"

The word was expelled like something rotten; immediately, and with great distaste. And the stretched saccharine smile snapped like a rubber band. It was an instant that seemed to go on forever, in which the masquerade came undone, and Francine's plastered mask cracked into a weathered network of wrinkles. And just as suddenly, everything was sucked neatly back into place. She was wearing the same manic expression she wore in the basement, just before she chased them upstairs. A cellphone was wriggled free from her chinos.

"Your father!" she declared, prodding the tiny keys, "He doesn't yet know! I'll tell him the good news and join the girls while you get ready for dinner, young man!"

After retreating a couple of steps, Francine turned away with a practised flick of her hair, obstructing the purple girl from her sight and her thoughts. She paused at the fridge to retrieve a bottle of vermouth, and as she left, her voice could be heard:

"Joe, your son's home."

[Aimee Connors]

Aimee's heart plummeted at the reaction of Francine, and she hardly knew where to look in the awkward silence that followed her departure. "Um," she managed, "I don't think your mom likes me, Jim."

[Jim Lewinski]

"What?"

That was all that Jim could muster: a single squeak of disingenuous surprise. Denial, the last bastion of the foolish. His mouth fell open, ready to spew half-hearted reassurances until Aimee was buried up to her neck in them, but he found himself spent. It would have been an insult to lie, even to spare her feelings, and there was not a fragment of him left that was obligated to protect his mother. He gave a snort and shook his head.

"Mom doesn't like anyone."

He slid from the stool and wandered over to the fridge. The mighty doors gasped open, showering him in light, and squinting, like a startled mole, he burrowed inside. It took longer than he expected to find what he was after, tucked away amongst mountains of food, which was a shameful sight to see, following his time in Redención House. When he reappeared, he was holding a couple of beers. The bottles gave a hiss, and buckled caps tinkled on the worktop in front of them. Upon reclaiming his seat, he offered Aimee a beer, then drank deeply. It was a meager act of rebellion, like flipping the bird in Sunday school, with just enough edge to cut through the bullshit and wash it away. When he surfaced for air, he sighed. The tension seeped from his muscles like warm honey. And in his temporary state of bliss, he cast Aimee a sideways glance.

"Am I an asshole for keepin' this from you?"

[Aimee Connors]

"Nah," she said, sipping the beer. The carbonation tickled her nose a bit, making her wrinkle it to keep from sneezing. "I do know a drafty warehouse we can stay overnight in, if you like."

Aimee looked at Jim as seriously as she could, then a giggle bubbled up, and she was suddenly laughing. The laughter soon overwhelmed the megre joke she'd told, and she could feel her emotions slipping away from her, her yellow eyes getting bright with water. She swallowed hard, stifling everything and putting her hand over her mouth until she was under control again.

A deep breath, and she put the beer to her lips and drank until about half of it was gone. She hadn't cried about any ....any thing. Any of it. She wasn't about to break down in Jim's kitchen.

[Jim Lewinski]

Sad laughter: that was a new one. Tears of happiness was something with which Jim was familiar; hell, he'd laughed until he cried loads of times, but this was something different. While Aimee shook off the first tremors of a break down, Jim watched, frozen with fear, like one staring down the barrel of a gun. Etiquette dictated that a girl didn't want to talk about her feelings unless she talked about her feelings, because that's what they do, girls. But he couldn't just ignore what he saw. Over the previous week, Aimee hoarded her emotions, and was steadfast on the outside, like stone; it was only a matter of time until that reservoir of pain became too great a load to contain. What Jim saw was a crack in the dam, and a trickle of what was to come, and he'd be there when it did. Once she was settled, he spoke:

"There won't be another drafty warehouse, Aimee. Never again."

[Aimee Connors]

She opened her mouth, trying to think of a quip to deflect his seriousness with, and came up empty. Instead she just nodded, biting her lips.

A minute of silence stretched to two, punctuated only by high pitched voices in the basement. Aimee gave herself a little shake, as if she were breaking out of their momentary reverie. "So, I guess there's a spare room or three in this house, hmm?" She raised an eyebrow at Jim.

[Jim Lewinski]

"There's only one room you oughta be thinkin' about right now."

Jim finished his drink and disposed of the empty bottles. A nod of the head prompted Aimee to climb down from her stool and follow him out of the kitchen. They retraced their steps back to the foyer, where the cackles of cribbage-players sounded dangerously close, and ascended the stairs to the second floor, where it was so clean they could smell it. Jim had forgotten that smell, it was fresh bordering on sterile, and a welcome change. House-proud though she may have been, Anna had the significant disadvantage of sharing her home with a small army of funky teenagers, whereas Francine, on the other hand, had housemaids for company. Jim padded silently over the carpet to one of the many closed doors around them; it opened onto a spacious glistening bathroom.

"There are fresh towels in the closet. Don't come out until you no longer smell like a dung heap."

[Aimee Connors]

"You smell too," she retorted, letting her backpack dangle from her hand. Aimee stared at the enormous bathroom, and Jim nudged her through the door and closed it behind her. It was like being in a swanky hotel, complete with one of those giant rain showerheads. The backpack was dropped to the fluffy shower mat, and she fiddled with the controls until she got the water nice and warm.

After days on a bus it was amazing to luxuriate in the shower, though she tried not to linger too long. The mirror was completely fogged up when she finally emerged, wrapping a white towel around herself as she dug through her backpack for some clean clothes. Clean she had - unwrinkled, not so much.

Aimee rubbed a small section of the mirror clear, and dragged her brush through her long hair, hurriedly bringing order to the wet strands. After a moment of thought she plaited it into a braid, then she shook it out with irritation. Hair half in her face, Aimee stuffed her dirty clothes into her pack, and padded back to the door, opening it hesitantly and looking around.

"Jim?" Her voice sounded small in the hallway. How long of a shower had she taken?

[Jim Lewinski]

"Yeah?"

Jim's head popped out of a room sporting a bright orange beanie. He too had changed his clothes, and there was also a strong possibility he'd washed; the three days' worth of stubble was gone, and the baby face was back. His eyes swept over Aimee from top to bottom and he gave her a nod of approval.

"Much better! Come and check out your new room."

And he was gone again. Inside, the room was rather plain, except for the walls which sported pale patchwork patterns where posters used to be. The wardrobes and drawers were open, and there was a tall bookcase - all of which were conspicuously bare. The only thing of note was a single hardback book that was face-down on the bed. Jim snatched it up and clutched it sheepishly to his chest.

"Sorry, after I got rid of my old stuff, I decided to check out the new Iain M. Banks. I can tell ya, I did not see that ending coming! So," he glanced around his old room anxiously, "Whatcha think?"

[Aimee Connors]

"Looks great," she said, letting her backpack down onto the bed. "Are you sure no one minds?" Aimee looked around, and then back to Jim. Sometimes it was hard to remember that he didn't sleep at all. His room was wholly unnecessary, from a practical point of view.

[Jim Lewinski]

"You just met my mom, right?" he asked, incredulous, "Of course I ain't sure!"

Deflated by his own words, Jim wandered to the window, where he was afforded a view of the swimming pool, the guest house, and beyond, a brightly lit tennis court. It was staggering to think that, with all that space, the thought of accomodating a single person in need was a strain on his mother's generosity. He hated having to say it out loud and there was a tiny part of him that resented Aimee for asking such a stupid question. Then he resented himself for that. After all, it wasn't her fault his mom was no Anna Fernandez. When he turned to face her again, he looked defiant, and opened his arms as if to embrace the space around him.

"See this? This is my room, and it's mine to give to whoever I freakin' wish. Ya got that?"

[Aimee Connors]

"Okay," she said quietly, her face darkening as she blushed. "Sorry. I know - that was dumb. I'm sorry."

Aimee sat down on the edge of the bed, her bare toes contrasting with the cream colored carpet. She couldn't think of anything to say, so bit her lips as she looked at her feet, her hair falling into her face again.

[Jim Lewinski]

In an instant, Jim checked himself: his tone was harsh, his body language, stiff, and aggressive. Upon reflection, it should have came as no surprise to him that Aimee reacted as she did, shrinking onto the bed. There was a tightness in his chest that translated into the tension in his arms, and the edge in his voice. It was anger, and he was venting it on his friend. He cringed at his own terrible misjudgement and joined Aimee on the bed.

"Don't you apologise. You didn't deserve that. It's me who's sorry, okay? I thought that if I brought you here, I could get you away from all that shit, y'know? You don't need my mom's attitude, and you certainly don't need mine."

Finally, he tore his gaze from the empty bookcase in front of him, and looked to Aimee in earnest:

"I suppose what I'm tryin' to say is that this could be your home. We could be like family. And it ain't that bad, if you don't count the drunken snob we keep in the basement."

[Aimee Connors]

It took a moment for her to parse that he meant his mother, and Aimee cracked a grin. "Thanks. I ...this is going to sound super sappy but I think of you as family already Jim." She stared at him, bright eyed as bothersome emotions bubbled up. "Okay, enough of that though, all right? Can we get something to eat? My stomach is telling me it is time for dinner."

[Jim Lewinski]

"Uh, sure," Jim glanced at his watch, it was nearly 8 o'clock, "Yikes! That the time? Come on, ya big softie!"

He sprang up, unhampered by feelings of guilt or anger. Aimee's words had cheered him up considerably. There was a lot they had been through together and it was nice to know his feelings were reciprocated. And then, in typical Aimee fashion, just as there was a shimmer of emotion she snapped shut, guarding her feelings like a clam guards a pearl. Sometimes he thought she was more of a guy than he was.

"I ain't sure what the plan is. Mom don't cook on a cribbage night. I saw a pizza in the fridge..."

While Jim weighed up their options, they left the room and headed downstairs. Gone was the ruckus from below, leaving the house conspicuously silent. In his head, Jim imagined the four of them sprawled out upon the table in an inebriated stupor, with playing cards stuck to their faces. He led the way into the parlour when there was a familiar clicking sound from the hall. Jim couldn't move - it felt like an anvil had plunged through his stomach and anchored him to the spot. The front door opened.

[Joe Lewinski]

Joe Lewinski shuffled awkwardly into the house. He was carrying four large bags and had a cellphone clamped between his shoulder and ear. Once he was fully inside, he righted himself and crossed the foyer; the person on the other end of the line was getting an earful about a report and a meeting. Behind him a woman appeared, she wore an immaculate white dress suit and carried a briefcase. She closed the door behind her and followed Joe into parlour, where he stopped dead at the sight of the teenagers in the room.

"Mike, I'll call ya back."

The bags crumpled to the floor, and the phone was pocketed as Joe swept across the room and threw his arms around Jim. He held fast, lost in the moment with nothing but the warmth of the embrace and the sudden flood of memories conjured by the smell of his son's hair. His eyes closed and he gave Jim another squeeze.

"My boy! Back home!" he relinquished his grip and beamed, clapping his son's face in his hands, "Finally! How you doin', kiddo?"

[Jim Lewinski]

There had been a moment, the barest flicker of doubt, when Jim considered retreat. In the few strides that had closed the space between them, he'd never seen his father looking so serious and it was too his credit that he didn't flinch. There was something very reassuring about the strength of his embrace, as if it were an unspoken oath being made from father to son. When at last he was released, Jim mirrored his father, smiling broadly.

"I'm good, dad. It's good to see you again."

Then he cleared his throat, and stiffened, making a gesture to Aimee.

"I brought a friend. Dad, this is Aimee. She's, uh... she's gonna be stayin' with us a while."

[Joe Lewinski]

While the girl had not gone unnoticed, in the beginning, Joe had eyes only for his son. Now that they were in the thick of introductions, he could see quite plainly that his son had befriended another mutant. That in itself was unsurprising. What did surprise him though was Aimee's purple skin and her bright yellow eyes which, while striking, appeared rather soft. He smiled, and extended a hand in greeting.

"Aimee, it's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Joe."

[Aimee Connors]

She'd unconsciously held her breath as soon as Jim's dad had entered the house, and now she released it with a smile, reaching for his hand to shake. "It's nice to meet you, Joe."

He hadn't hesitated to greet her, and the was none of the unspoken tension she'd felt from Francine. Aimee relaxed a bit, shoulders loosening. "Jim generously offered me his old room, for ...the time being."

[Joe Lewinski]

"You're welcome to stay as long as you want. It's not like we're short on space, right?"

He gave a devilish grin and clapped Jim on the arm. Already his mind was galloping ahead with insinuations, as he considered the girl, and her relationship with his son. She was pretty in her own way, not his type, but then she reminded him of those girls who go to music festivals in little else but hotpants and body paint. His first impression of Aimee suggested she wasn't quite the hotpants sort, though, which was a shame for Jim.

Beside him, he noticed his briefcase had been left on the coffee table, and the bags were gone. Mrs. Smith, tactful as ever, had taken the innitiative and excused herself as he was reunited with his son. From the dining room there came a heavy-handed clatter of plates, and his gaze dashed to the door. It sounded like Francine had climbed out of her dungeon then. He looked back to Aimee.

"I hope you like Chinese, because we got enough noodles to sink a ship."

[Aimee Connors]

"Love it," she said, grinning. "I think we're hungry enough to take care of that, don't you, Jim?" Aimee nudged him, and they followed Joe into the dining room. Francine was setting the table... for three. Belatedly the obviously tipsy woman produced another plate, and Aimee felt her smile begin to freeze on her face.

[Jim Lewinski]

Jim was feeling rather pleased with himself, having seen the friendly interplay between Aimee and his dad, who hadn't even for a moment questioned his stance on Aimee's accommodation. Of course, his mom could manhandle the china to her heart's content. It didn't change anything: once his dad was on his side, the matter was closed. Still, that wouldn't stop her from trying to make their new lodger feel unwelcome at every opportunity, he knew that much. In time, however, she'd learn Aimee was much tougher than she looked.

They took their seats at the end of the table, Jim sat next to Aimee, opposite his parents. His dad unloaded the bags of takeout, laying out a monstrous feast: there was wan tun soup, and spring rolls, sesame king prawns, shredded chilli beef, chicken with cashew nuts, and crispy duck and pancakes, rice, boiled and fried, sauces of every kind, and indeed, enough noodles to sink a ship. One by one, each dish was unveiled with a small mushroom cloud of steam, until they were sat amongst a veritable fog and enough food to feed a small nation. Jim frowned at the disgusting excess.

"Uh, mom, won't your friends be joining us?"

[Francine Lewinski]

"No, sweetie, they're gone," she said, with a sad droop in her tone, "I'm afraid they lost their appetite."

She heard Joe give a low snort, which distracted her from the unsavoury glance she'd just fired Aimee's way. Swatting aside thick curtains of steam, Francine hovered hawkishly over the cartons before helping herself to some chicken and spring rolls. Mrs. Smith, Joe's raven-haired little gofer, appeared from the kitchen. She sauntered past, and wished them a good evening as she left. Once the sound of clicking heels faded, Francine reached for her wine glass, and gave an amused hmph.

"I'm surprised your secretary didn't invite herself to dinner this time."

[Joe Lewinski]

"That was a business lunch, Francine. Mrs. Smith is my personal assistant."

"Of course, she is."

Joe ignored his wife's lazy retort and instead focused on loading his plate with as much food as standards of decorum allowed. Inwardly, he was doing cartwheels for being spared the company of Francine's cribbage trolls; even if it meant good food going to waste, it was a worthy sacrifice. Perhaps when Francine excused herself for another soak, Jim would do his party piece. He saw his son tearing into the duck with gusto. His friend, on the other hand, appeared a little apprehensive.

"Aimee, try the beef. It'll knock your socks off," he said, as he offered her the carton of chilli beef, "So, how'd you two meet?"

[Aimee Connors]

"Um," she said, around a mouthful of cashew chicken, then gave it another chew and a hard swallow. "We lived at the same house in Los Santos. Redenćion House - it's a, ah, non-profit shelter for ...kids like us," she ended lamely, quickly stuffing more food in her mouth so Jim could field whatever follow up question Joe might have.

[Joe Lewinski]

"For mutants," he said, reading between the lines.

Beside him, Francine almost choked on a wonton, and quickly washed it down with wine. Jim popped up like a rabbit from a hat and stared, his face full of alarm, and his mouth full of rice. There was one thing about his son with which Joe could say with absolutely certainty: he'd make a terrible poker player. For a moment he held his gaze, and then dropped the facade with a wink.

"I'm glad. I betcha met some interesting characters there, eh, kiddo?"

[Francine Lewinski]

"Jimmy," Francine gave her son a look full of deepest concern, "When are you gonna cut your hair?"

All pretense of trying to eat had been abandoned. Francine sensed her own appetite waning; the conversation was taking an unpleasant turn and it was time for an intervention. Her hands were clapped together, and she peered over them at Jim, as if in prayer for the future of his follicles.

"You look like you could give..."

"Aimee."

"Yeah, you look like you could give Aimee a run for her money. And take your hat off at the dinner table," she chuckled in amusement, and addressed Aimee, "You'd think we were primitives!"

[Jim Lewinski]

"There ain't nothin' wrong with my hair, ma!"

Jim pulled his beanie off and his ears sprang back into place. Across from him, his dad tried to disguise his amusement behind an oversized prawn cracker. The revelation of his long unkempt locks had his mom sadly shaking her head. In a last ditch attempt to salvage some pride, he turned to Aimee for support.

"Tell them, Aimee, it's all the rage in LA, right?"

[Aimee Connors]

Aimee stared at Francine, deciding she really didn't like the woman, no offense Jim. She looked at Jim, and sighed. "I'm afraid our efforts to take that bird's nest have been for naught, Mrs. Lewinski."

She deftly scooped up another generous mouthful of noodles with her chopsticks, and then thought better of it, letting half of the portion drop back into her bowl. Aimee stirred it all around for a moment before trying again with a smaller amount. She waggled her eyebrows at Jim as she chewed.

[Jim Lewinski]

Jim weathered another salvo of criticism from his mom, her words were lost on him, however, for he was too busy gaping at Aimee. The treacherous overgrown eggplant. How pleased with herself she looked. His eyes narrowed just enough to let her know that this, what she'd begun, was far from over. His mom was eating again which meant her crusade against his do had been abandoned, temporarily at least. So he took advantage of the reprieve with a deliberate attempt to change the subject.

"So, dad, how's business?"

[Joe Lewinski]

Surfacing from his second helping of chilli beef, Joe took a moment to chew, and consider the question. In the past, the only time Jim asked him about business was when it went hand-in-hand with a request for something like a new microscope or cutting torch. This time, he suspected his son's interest had little to do with his curiosity about the shipping industry and a lot to do with wishing to evade another one of his mother's onslaughts. For the sake of appearances, he humoured him.

"Business is good. Last quarter, the fleet gained another six ships. And we've closed a few exciting new contracts this year. Got a big one coming up, too."

Then, he couldn't help himself, "You thinkin' of joinin' the family business?"

[Jim Lewinski]

"No!" Jim squeaked, his dad arched an eyebrow and went back to his chilli beef, "Hell, no."

Once the thought of staring at pie charts, in a boardroom, in a suit, and all the residual horror that accompanied such imagery, had subsided, he elaborated to Aimee:

"Dad runs a shippin' company that operates out of Newark and Brooklyn. Founded by my great grandfather just after the war. It's kind of a big deal, but it just ain't for me."

He fell quiet then, and skewered a prawn with his chopstick.

[Francine Lewinski]

"Jimmy's gonna be an astronaut one day."

While Francine had leaned forward and raised a hand to obscure her lips from the boys, her attempt at a hushed tone would've informed the neighbours. And that was the point, really. She swept up her wine glass, bracelets jangling like sleigh bells, and used it to gesture at the purple girl.

"Whatchoo wanna do with your life, sweetie?"

[Aimee Connors]

Aimee twirled a (clean) chopstick around her fingers without thinking about it, the extra grip of her skin making it easy. "Me? Oh, uh, graduate from high school, hopefully, I guess. I haven't... that is..." She looked at Jim, but he seemed determined to make her pay for the crack at his hair, and was just nodding encouragingly at her. She plunged on, recklessly.

"I haven't really been able to work much - I had a job over the summer but it ended badly. Um, because I'm, like, purple, I'm sure you noticed, so while it wasn't legally discrimination it was pretty obvious my boss had a fucking problem, uh, a problem, sorry," she struggled on, "with mutants."

Aimee bit her lip, and shrugged again. "So, I'm officially exploring my options? I think Jim could be an astronaut for sure though, he's the smartest guy I've ever met."

[Jim Lewinski]

"Alright, Connors, you're off the hook," Jim muttered, with a ghost of a grin.

Thereafter, he couldn't help but smile. And despite his best efforts, he could feel his face morph into what felt like the most disgustingly self-satisfied expression possible. When his dad caught his eye, Jim's eyebrows gave a victorious leap, that said in no uncertain terms: "I told you so!"

Once the effects of the compliment wore off, he couldn't help but notice the shadow of Aimee's previous statement hanging over his parents like a guilty shroud. Especially his mother, who practically recoiled when she dared draw attention to the fact that her skin was purple. His dad, who was good with people, was also lost for words. Even Jim wasn't entirely sure how to address the matter without sounding insincere; he was doing his best of late to keep his genetic eccentricities in check, and with some success, whereas Aimee had no such option.

"Aimee, this ain't Los Angeles, where everyone is obsessed with appearances. New Yorkers, they're like salt of the earth, y'know? I bet there's a whole bunch of people out there who don't give a damn whatcha look like, as long as you ain't afraid to work hard."

[Joe Lewinski]

"I can vouch for that. There's a dozen of 'em on my payroll."

Joe gave Aimee a nod, full of confidence. It was no mystery what had recently transpired in California: the registration act, the rioting, and the consequent extreme measures taken by the authorities. The images appeared on every news channel daily for the last week, and if the reports were to be believed, the scandal was only in its infancy. Mutant rights was once again the hot topic, and there was anger on either side of the fence, coming from people who cared more about being heard than the well-being of those caught in the crossfire. Kids like Aimee, and Jim, who by virtue of his gift was worth ten men in his estimation, no matter the job. He considered Aimee with curiosity.

"So... purple," he said, making circles in the air with his chopsticks as he chose his words, "Is that your thing? Your mutation?"

[Francine Lewinski]

"Joe, for god's sake! Enough with the m-word!"

Done with her meal, Francine cast aside her chopsticks with a clatter and snatched up a napkin. She could feel the colour flushing her cheeks like fire. If Vivian had stayed for dinner, she would've crawled into a hole and died of shame. There were a trio of faces staring stupidly, monstrously ignorant of their inappropriate behaviour. Rigid with irritation, she started to gesture wildly with her napkin at the savages at the table.

"This is not acceptable conversation for the dinner table! Can't you see the poor thing is embarrassed enough as it is!?"

[Aimee Connors]

Well, she hadn't been embarrassed before, but Aimee could feel the hot flush starting at Francine's words, her skin darkening on her cheeks. "It's okay, I don't mind," she said, wishing for the millionth time that her mutation was not physical. Being the purple elephant in the room was reminding her of why she lived on the street to begin with.

Aimee looked uncertainly at Joe, wondering if she should answer his question or not, and then decided an oblique answer might do. The chopstick in her hand remained stuck there as she opened her fingers, facing toward Jim's dad and away from his drunken mother.

[Jim Lewinski]

"Mutation is not a bad word, ma!"

Jim threw his hands up in exasperation, but his mother was undeterred. She spat words like bullets, squawking about manners and morality. More than once she brought Aimee into the debate, with whom she suddenly sympathised as a fellow woman with her own insecurities; Jim and Joe were then accused of being insensitive about her feelings. It was bigotry dressed up as female solidarity and it was more than Jim could stand. His hands met the table with a clatter of plates.

"Will you stop pretendin' it don't exist? Aimee's a mutant, ma. And so am I. Deal with it!"

[Joe Lewinski]

"Jim, watch your attitude."

Joe fixed his son with a raised finger and a look of steel. Whether he had a valid point or not was irrelevant, there was no way he was going to address his mother like that and get away with it. Certainly not in his presence, and he should've known better. Francine laughed off his claims and accused him of having picked up some LA sass, something which, incredibly, she found pleasing. And then she was on her feet to resume her sermon, holding aloft a wine glass and a soggy wonton like holy symbols. Things were taking a turn for the worse. Joe took a long breath and with a calm and objective tone of voice, he joined the fray.

"Francine, if Aimee is goin' to be stayin' with us a while, you will have to get used to this kind of talk. And that's all there is to it. Oh, excuse me."

His words were punctuated by a faint buzzing sound. He stood and pulled a phone from his trouser pocket, before disappearing into the kitchen.

"Yeah. When did this happen?"

[Francine Lewinski]

"Oh! That's great! Yeah, just leave while we're in the middle of a discussion, Joe!"

Francine barked after him, leaning forward on her hands like a hound preparing to pounce. And then, in the sudden crashing silence, all the fight was gone from her. The tension seeped out of her muscles, and she felt ready to wilt. Behind the curtain of curls, she gave a sniff, and the sniff gave way to a string of anaemic sobs. Then, just as suddenly, she became erect with defiance, and flicked her hair back with one final whimper.

"I can see now my opinion no longer has any value in this family."

She swept past the teens as Jim tried to protest, "Ma, don't be like-"

"No, it's alright. I'll get out of your way. Jimmy, clear up this mess, would you? There's a good boy."

And with one last theatrical sob, Francine departed.

[Aimee Connors]

Aimee had felt her eyes widening as the argument had progressed, until she was sure they might pop out of her head. As the adults left the room she looked toward Jim, her mouth opening but nothing coming out.

Wow. No wonder Jim had left. She gave him an uncertain smile, and started picking up food containers, stacking the emptier ones inside each other for throwing in the garbage.

[Jim Lewinski]

"And that is the official way to end a meal in the Lewinski household!"

The resignation in his voice was unmistakeable as Jim rose from his chair. Aimee was already clearing away the remnants of their epic feast; a trifling task for anyone who'd ever had to deal with the aftermath of dinner time at Redencion House. But she was a guest in his home, and he had the power to make dirty dishes vanish, and, in a flash, they were gone. He reappeared looking rather sheepish, and offered Aimee an apologetic smile.

"Look, I'm sorry you had to see that."

[Joe Lewinski]

"I'm sorry, too."

Joe returned from the kitchen with speed in his stride. He saw the empty table, which, coupled with his wife's conspicuous absence, meant only one thing: Francine had made a dramatic exit. How unsurprising. No doubt there had been tears with a generous helping of self-pity, followed by a side order of Bombay Sapphire. It was surely an interesting night to follow and in that moment he'd never been more grateful for the good work of Mrs. Smith, and her perfect timing. He spoke first to Aimee:

"I hope that little thing hasn't put you off staying with us. It's not always that interesting around here."

Then to Jim, he gave a look full of regret.

"I'm sorry, kiddo. Something has come up. We can catch up tomorrow, alright?"

He pulled Jim into another embrace, and said, "I'm glad you're home, son."

A moment later, he was gone.

[Aimee Connors]

Aimee leaned against the back of a chair, draping her arms over it. "Maybe I should start introducing myself as a circus performer. I just never take off my body paint."

It was a lame attempt to diffuse the situation, and she knew it.

[Jim Lewinski]

"Look, don't go thinkin' that was about you. That... mess."

Jim held up an open hand as if he could somehow stop cold the advancing undertones of self-pity and guilt, and push them back to where they came from. Normally he was the first to give Aimee a little friendly ribbing over her appearance, but in this case, he couldn't help but feel her words came from a place of truth. In reality, the only thing she was guilty of was being present, and being purple. And even if it had been a simple joke, well, Jim wasn't feeling particularly jocular anyway.

Instead he was rigid with anger; with frustration; with what felt like an army of ants crawling up his spine, biting his neck. It lingered in the air, the residual heat from the exchange, and he wanted nothing more than to put some space between himself and its epicenter. They left the dining room, and beyond the kitchen they found themselves in the much cooler family room, which boasted sofas fit for sultans.

"My mom has issues. You might've noticed."

[Aimee Connors]

Aimee gaped at him in mock incredulity. "What? No!" She bumped his shoulder with hers, a sympathetic nudge. "It's all right. We wouldn't have been at Redenćion House if we didn't all have family issues, right? I mean, even Jen -"

She stopped herself in mid sentence, and the silence, which only lasted a moment or so, felt like an eternity of agony. "Anyway. Family stuff. We's all gots it." And apparently a host of other issues, too!

[Jim Lewinski]

Once again, Jim was reminded of Aimee's astonishing resilience. And somehow, it never stopped surprising him, the way in which she could weather so much negativity and just shrug it off like an old kit bag. In that way, Aimee, who had more right than anyone to be bitter about the world, was something of a contradiction. And no more was this obvious than in the comfort of his own overprivileged home. While life had indeed calloused her spirit, a life of prejudice and misfortune, it had in no way robbed it of its sweetness. Even though the embarrassing truth about his family lingered in the air like a bad smell, she managed to put him at ease.

"You know, for a purple midget, I gotta admit you're pretty fuckin' cool, Connors."

He crashed onto the sofa, sinking deeply into its marshmallow cushions. There was a remote control perched on the arm, which he snatched up and tossed to Aimee, deferring command of the television to her good judgement. In truth, he didn't care much for TV: most shows were a sluggish bore and the commercials in between were positively agonising. Regardless of his personal objections, watching television was the normal thing to do, and following their nightmare week, a little normal went a long way. And while the channel surfing was underway, Jim stared blankly at the screen, labouring over his words.

"Aimee?" he said at last, "Don't think I'm avoidin' things. When you're ready to talk... about anythin'... I'm here, okay?"

[Aimee Connors]

"Yeah, I know, Jim." She didn't feel like watching anything serialized, and ended up on some new show called Pawn Stars, which looked like it would suffice for a brain distraction and little else. Aimee pulled her feet up underneath her on the impossibly soft sofa, almost feeling like she was going to disappear into the cushions.

"Remember the couch in the living room at Redenćion? With the springs that would catch you in the ass if you weren't careful? And of course the hide-a-bed couches in the family room. Like sitting on padded rocks." She sank in deeper into the sofa, and flailed a bit as she lost her balance, tipping over slowly into a new position that was somehow still comfortable, even if she couldn't see the TV anymore.

[Jim Lewinski]

"Good to see you've nailed that whole sittin' down thing. Dork."

Jim twisted on the seat and leaned back, resting his head on the arm of the sofa. Aimee, who presently resembled an upended turtle, got a face full of feet. The television show she'd chosen was a reality series set in Las Vegas; it was like she didn't know him at all; that, or she was an evil genius. As the whole garish thing played out, his mind wandered: he thought of the days to come and how he and Aimee would adapt to their new life on the east coast. They said New York was a place where it was possible to be anything you wanted to be, but, for the first time in a long while, Jim wasn't sure what that was anymore.

"So, Aimee, you got the Big Apple on your doorstep. What's the plan?"

[Aimee Connors]

She wriggled around until she was right side up again, batting away Jim's feet which felt like heat seeking ice cubes. "Well. Ack!" Aimee scrunched up in the corner of the sofa, giving him plenty of room. "I was going to look up some of my old friends. Friends," she amended after a moment.

She chewed her lip, staring at the TV as the light played over her face. "Gotta see how everyone is doing."

***

Domino threw the basketball at the hoop and was rewarded with the clink of the chains that hung from it as the ball swished through. He idly corralled the ball, dribbling a few times, and then popping up for a jump shot over the head of his shorter friend.

"C'mon, Dom, I'm hungry." Floss pouted from the sidelines where she was leaning against the chain link fence.

"In a minute," he called, swatting down an opposing shot, and sending the basketball careening down the court. A girl with dark hair stepped in front of the runaway ball, catching it with one hand. He blinked. Being able to accurately predict a string of events so he could plot a favorable outcome for himself was a useful ability, but he never could have predicted this reunion. "Creep?"

The short purple girl walked up, ball stuck to her palm, a grin on her face. "Hey Dom. Long time no - oof!" She squeaked as Floss darted over from the fence and wrapped her up in a fierce hug. Domino still felt a little confused and off balance at her sudden reappearance. He rubbed a hand over his shaved head, and took a couple steps closer and then stopped.

"What's going on girl!" Floss had Creep at arms length, chattering on about her hair of all things. Floss was a great girlfriend, but she pretty much only worried about her appearance. Everything else was Domino's to concern himself with. Now that he was eighteen he was almost the oldest of their little group of strays, and he did do a lot of worrying. The wheels in his head were turning.

[Troy Dempsey]

Dutch rolled up his window and lit the tip of a modest joint. When he smoked, he kept his windows closed as a matter of economic principle. The upholstery stunk of freshly-cut grass so that, on hot days, it was like being trapped inside a Chevy-shaped bong. There was lazy hip hop being drummed out of his speakers, some obscure up-and-coming group fresh out of the projects, as was his wont. Dutch fancied himself the vicarious producer of all the latest local hip hop acts, championing their beats to anyone within hearing range, as if he had a musical bone in his body. One hand on the wheel, he indulged himself a long slow drag of the joint; as he inhaled, there was a goitrous swell of neck fat that gave him the appearance of a giant chocolate frog.

"So, let me get this straight," he said, blowing jets of thick white cloud into orbit around his head, "It's a weather station that fires death rays?"

"Death beams!" Shifty surfaced from the back of the car to claim the stub from Dutch's fingers. He was a squat, square-shaped Mexican with a pitiful paint brush moustache and a Yankees' cap. Elbows planted on the flanking seats, he yapped directly into his comrades' ears: "The Death Beam, as in the one invented by Nikola Tesla."

"Him again."

Troy's quiet observation invited a knowing glance from Dutch, whose evident amusement invited, in turn, another torrent of irritable protest from the back seat.

"And it ain't no weather station either, smart ass. It's a research facility to conduct, and I quote: 'Pioneering experiments in ionospheric phenomena.'"

"Gesundheit!"

"A mother-fuckin' Death Beam!" snapped Shifty, who, despite his best efforts to ignore Troy's pithy contributions, was forever incensed by them. It was, as usual, down to their designated driver to humour the resurgent tide of conspiracy theories.

"Invented by the guy who allegedly solved all our energy problems?"

"There ain't no allegedly about it, Dutch! Nikola Tesla-"

"Makes you hard in the pants!" said Dutch, having reached the limit of his diplomatic grace, "What is it between you two?"

"Okay, tell me this," Troy stepped in, "If he solved our energy problems, then why we still stressin' over fossil fuels?"

"The god-damn oil companies, man! They stole his papers so they could bleed the rest of us dry. And while the fat cats line their pockets, the rest of the world faces an energy crisis!"

As he brought the car to a stop, Dutch glanced at Troy, he had that huge self-satisfied grin which telegraphed his every punchline: "If only we could somehow harness the infinite wind power of wet-backs who never learn to shut the fuck up."

"Hey, fuck you, man!"

Dutch spilled out of the car, spluttering his last vestiges of amusement; Shifty followed, sucking the final ember of life from his joint. And Troy, who had spent most of the journey thumbing texts, finally pocketed his phone. He crossed the street, with Shifty and Dutch falling into rank on either side of him. Grizzly red buildings rose up all around them like ancient monoliths, festooned with drying laundry, and alive with the buzz of televisions, radios, and invisible heated exchanges. Laughter from the basketball court ricocheted off the walls before evaporating like vapour into the stifling air. There was Domino, looming over a small congregation at the centre of the court, along with Floss, and- Troy's fingers interlaced with the fence as he peered inside at the small purple girl who appeared to be the focus of everyone's attention.

"You gotta be shittin' me..."

When he approached the group, he first greeted Domino with a clap of hands and a half hug, since it was the respectable thing to do. And after a throwaway remark about him bumming around the courts to hustle kids of their pocket money, he turned to Aimee, and gave her a curt lift of the head.

"Sup, lil' purp."

[Aimee Connors]

Floss finally released her, tucking herself under Dom's arm. Aimee tried not to raise her eyebrows at that new development, turning to look at Troy. She returned the nod, crossing her arms across her chest like a wannabe gangster. "S'up, yourself?"

She hadn't really been prepared to talk to Troy, not yet. She'd spent a long time working for his approval, and then had skipped town with the barest of good-byes. Was he proud of her? Mad? He didn't look mad. Aimee smiled hesitantly. "Been a while, I guess."

"Oh yeah," blurted Tinker, the shorter black kid that Dom has been playing basketball with. "Been a while. You could say that." Dom shot him a look, and Tinker sighed. "Good to see you though."

"Heard things out West are getting tough for mutants," said Dom. "The postcard you sent said you were in California..?"

Aimee nodded. "Yep. Yeah. California. It was good...most of the time. The riots were rough. Me and a friend hopped a Greyhound and came back to New York. I thought I'd look up the old neighborhood." She looked at Troy. "See if there's still room for me around here."

[Troy Dempsey]

"What's all this noise?"

Brow furrowed, Troy cast his inquisitive gaze from face to face. The gossip subsided; the only sounds that remained were the basketball thumps and the squeaking sneakers of Dutch and Shifty as they battled for supremacy at the other end of the court. Somewhere under the folds of clothing, all of which appeared to be at least a size too large, Troy gave a shrug. He regarded Aimee with disbelief.

"Did you grow up so much while you were away?"

The shrug became a pair of open palms, raised a fraction from his waist in invitation.

"Come here, shorty. Show me some love."

[Aimee Connors]

She grinned and jumped forward, throwing herself at Troy and hugging him tightly. He smelled like weed and bodyspray, a familiar combination that brought back memories. "I missed you," she mumbled into his shoulder.

[Troy Dempsey]

"I bet ya did."

Troy rocked from the impact, surprised that a package so small could pack such a punch. More surprising still was the display of emotion: that wasn't like the Aimee he knew. When he first took to the streets, she trailed him like a shadow, and watched from the dark. When a new face came along, she was smart enough to let him do the talking, and all the while she listened. It wasn't long before she was walking the walk and talking the talk herself, like a kid born on the streets, which wasn't altogether far from the truth. The others thought him strange, rolling with a thirteen year old girl, but they soon stopped their sneering when she put them down with words to make sailors blush. He was so proud back then.

Now, she was squeezing him like he was going somewhere, which was weird because he wasn't the one who bailed in the first place. This was no hardy hug or slap on the back, this was a full-on girl thing, and Troy wasn't quite sure how to act. It was not the Aimee he knew. California had either made her soft, or had cut her so deep, she no longer had the strength to maintain those old walls. The latter thought prompted him to briefly reciprocate the squeeze, before breaking it up. He didn't release her completely though: his hands rested upon her shoulders long enough to give her a full inspection, head to toe.

"I was afraid you were gonna come back varnished like antique furniture. Where's the blonde hair and comedy tits, Purp? Ain't you one of those Cali girls, now?"

[Aimee Connors]

Aimee mock-scowled at him, flipping her black hair back like she was in a shampoo commercial. "You don't mess with fucking perfection." She gestured, taking in their surroundings. "Nothing changed here, either. Did it?" There was a faint note of uncertainty in her voice.

Floss, superficially oblivious as always, giggled, "Well, Dom finally asked me out. Only took months of hinting!" Aimee liked to joke that Floss' mutant ability was big hair, when actually the girl could use fine telekinesis to manipulate light objects. Domino chuckled, allowing her to pull his head down for a sloppy kiss.

Aimee put her hands on her hips. "Get a room!"

"Feeling left out?" Tinker puckered up and held out his arms. "Come here then!" He laughed as she hit him, fending her off and then turtling behind his arms as she slapped at his head. "Ow! Jesus!"

"Moron," Aimee grinned, giving him one more playful punch. "I gotta place to stay for now. I just - left abruptly last year? Wanted to say I'm sorry."

[Troy Dempsey]

"You had your reasons."

Honestly, Troy had his doubts: about Aimee, about her reasons for leaving - if she had any to begin with - and, more importantly, her reasons for returning. Not that he let it show, of course. That was a sure-fire way to bury any hope of a happy reunion; if he had doubts, then the rest would have doubts, and he figured the least he owed his purple ex-partner-in-crime was a fighting chance. Besides, the old camaraderie was there in an instant, triggered like a muscle memory. It was nice to see, even if it meant folks acting like fools. The lame jokes and horseplay were just an ambient noise, and while they dicked around with each other, he signalled Dutch and Shifty with a whistle. Their play brought to a premature end, they skulked back towards the group, exchanging taunts.

Troy folded his arms in a show of patience, and it was just that: a show. It wasn’t in his nature to humour the eccentricities of his friends for too long. On the other hand, he wasn’t given to fits of temper or overbearing pushiness either, because that was uncool. Instead, he folded his arms, and that meant he’d had enough of the antics, and they were given the illusion of choice. No-one looked bad, and everyone shut the fuck up. When the chatter subsided, he still had eyes only for Aimee.

“While you were AWOL, we moved up in the world, lil’ purp,” he said, with a nod to the apartment building behind her, “I’m talkin’ penthouse suites here. You wanna see?”

[Aimee Connors]

When Troy folded his arms she had fallen silent, old habits ingrained so deeply into her that she figured he'd have this power over her when they were both in their sixties. But when he mentioned a penthouse, her eyes lit up. "For reals? You have got to be shitting me. Yeah, let's see it!"

[Troy Dempsey]

"Well, it's on the top floor at least."

Troy tossed Dom a knowing grin and the others laughed. Perhaps he'd oversold it a bit. It was a shame to pop Aimee's wide-eyed enthusiasm so suddenly, but he considered it an act of mercy, like putting a wounded puppy out of its misery. A glance at his crestfallen old friend, he shook his head in amusement then led the way towards one of the six-tiered housing projects that framed the basketball court.

Once through the heavy double doors, they found themselves in a gloomy passage that smelled of boiled vegetables and piss. The floor underfoot was hard and cold and laminated with cheap plastic. There was a notice board plastered in faded adverts for job vacancies and apartments, tattered fliers for the local take-out joints and cab services, a picture of a long lost cat, and, on one scrap of paper, a phone number written in lipstick. Up the stairs, the foul stench waned, replaced instead by the sharp tang of disinfectant. One of the doors opened: a little boy was ushered into the corridor by pink-faced woman, who, despite her hurry, made way for the approaching teens.

“Hello, boys,” she managed a thin smile.

“Afternoon, Mrs. O,” Troy replied. Floss was less receptive to the greeting, however, remarking to Aimee, with no degree of subtlety, about how they must be invisible.

Atop the last flight of stairs was stationed a stringy young man who sported a mohawk and a generous helping of chin-fur. He was sat on a chair, with his feet propped upon the handrail to obstruct the way, but for Troy et al. he promptly moved aside. There was a radio on the floor, sputtering hair rock, along with a car magazine, and a baseball bat.

“Slug, any visitors?”

“All’s quiet on the western front and all,” he replied in a lazy southern drawl, and when an old familiar purple face walked by, he gave a low whistle, “Look what the cat dragged in.”

[Aimee Connors]

"Hey Sluggo," Aimee smiled a little shyly. "Long time no see, eh?" It was weird to come home and find that home was completely different. Everyone seemed the same as when she'd left...but they were different too. Certainly she was different than she had been, even if she hadn't grown an inch or changed at all on the outside.

Slug's hair was a bit longer and dyed a different color, his terrible goatee had filled in more but was still generally terrible. Dom put his arm around Aimee's shoulders, drawing her down the hallway. "We got all the apartments up here," he explained, pulling open the first door. Inside a simply enormous plasma TV was mounted on the wall, game consoles piled on the floor in front of it attached by a myriad of cords. The floor was decorated with beanbags and controllers, the walls mostly blank except for a few posters and a neon Coors Light sign. Aimee poked the black leather couch that held up one wall, a bookcase covered in knicknacks beside it.

"Well," she hesitated. "You should fire your decorator, Dom. But at least you have heat for the winter, right?"

[Troy Dempsey]

"We have everything we need. And there's nothing we can't have."

Troy gave Aimee a wink and retreated to the back of the room where a mini fridge sat on the floor. Inside, it was mostly beer, except for some bottled water which belonged to him. He retrieved a bottle and surfaced, swigging deeply from it. Already, Tinker and Shifty had claimed their spots before the television, each armed with a control pad. Aimee was inspecting the room and its contents; it wouldn't take her long.

"Make yourself at home. There ain't much food, though, we usually eat out."

Tinker gave an amused snort, and resumed hammering buttons. Troy, as he passed, pushed the back of his beanbag down with his foot; Tinker first floundered, then rolled helplessly onto his back - to his credit, he continued to play from the floor and went on to beat Shifty at what Troy assumed was the 198th incarnation of Street Fighter. Meanwhile, Dutch had hooked his iPod up to a monstrous stereo system so that the very floor beneath their feet thumped with the sound of another one of his obscure hip-hop groups. Dom and Floss were lounging on couch, curled up like kittens, and Aimee had taken an interest in something on the bookcase: it was a framed picture of the whole gang, taken a couple of years ago at Brooklyn Bridge Park. Troy and Aimee were both there, as always, front and center.

"That's some vintage shit, right there. Do you remember that day?"

[Aimee Connors]

She snorted, "Yeah, that's the day Floss tried her hand at busking in the subway, and got thrown out because she can't play guitar worth a damn."

"I can now!" Floss piped up from the couch, and a guitar string plinked from across the room as she used her power on it. Aimee looked sideways at the older girl with a smile, then regarded the picture again.

"I was what, fourteen?" Little Aimee was nearly totally concealed in a too-big sweatshirt and bangs that desperately needed trimming, even in a picture she seemed to be trying to disappear.

[Troy Dempsey]

"Yeah. I liked you back then: you did what you were told."

His gaze crept sideways, loaded with accusation. Any of the others would crumble under that look, and retreat to a flimsy line of defence armed with denials and half-baked excuses; Aimee, on the other hand, popped his ego with an incredulous arch of the eyebrow and an expression that told him where he could go, and what he could do to himself. He smiled despite himself. It was cool, though: no-one could see their faces where they stood. He considered the picture once more.

"It don't feel like two years. Seems longer, somehow. We've been through a lot of shit since then."

Although he knew only half of Aimee's story from the previous two years, he could tell from the way she spoke about it, and didn't speak about it, that her California dream had come with its fair share of nightmares. She was a mutant, after all, and the west was no place for her kind anymore. Before that, they were as thick as thieves, which was understandable, given that they were a couple of thieving little bastards. They were rootless back then, and roamed the city like it belonged to them, where home was someplace dry and dinner was served in unmarked dinted tins. They were happy, but clueless; because they thought they were free; because they thought they owned the streets, when it was in fact the streets that owned them.

"You said you got a place to stay?"

[Aimee Connors]

"Yes." Aimee hesitated, then elaborated a little. "A friend from California - well, from here. I'm staying with him and his family for now."

She turned to face Troy. "To be honest, I'm trying to decide what I want to do. Do I move back here? Do I want to go somewhere else?" She looked back at the rest of the room where the gang was goodnaturedly sniping at each other. "I feel... different. I'm not Creep anymore, I don't think. Just Aimee."

[Troy Dempsey]

"Good. I hated that name," Troy considered the others with a glance, then added, "Come with me."

No-one commented on their departure, each wise enough to know what business was their business. Instead, the nonsense and chatter continued, fading along with Dutch's music as they walked the length of the corridor. Compared to the rest of the building, the narrow passageway was spotless and well-kept, to the point that it even smelled clean. When they arrived at the final door, Troy produced a key and lead the way. Inside was a room lifted straight from the pages of a catalogue; it was bright and deceptively spacious, given that it was barely larger than the room they'd just left. The furniture was understated, even the television was within acceptable parameters, while the kitchen area boasted an impressive arsenal of cooking implements. It was all impossibly neat, most of it looked brand new, with that unmistakeable Swedish flat pack vibe about it.

First, Troy wandered into the kitchenette, and gestured at an empty coffee pot.

"You want some coffee?"

[Aimee Connors]

"Yeah, sounds -" she started, then realized the pot was empty. "Oh, well, not if you have to make it. I don't want to be any trouble."

[Troy Dempsey]

"I won't be making it. Still haven't figured out how the stupid thing works."

The coffee machine dwarfed every other object on the counter top; a monster of chrome and black, covered in myriad buttons and dials, it had pipes and handles protuding from it in unfathomable ways, and several guages that made absolutely no sense at all. It belonged in the engine room of a cruise ship, not a kitchen. Retreating into the apartment proper, he gave the machine a parting scowl, then thumbed at it over his shoulder.

"Knock yourself out."

When he came to the centre of the room, he stopped. Something was bothering him: the place looked great, and Aimee hadn't said a word. When they last saw each other, they'd shared a single matress on a floor peppered with rat droppings, and now he slept in a queen-sized bed and had a coffee machine from NASA. It was impossible not to feel disappointed, and it bled out into his voice. He gave an impatient shrug.

"Well, whatcha think?"

[Aimee Connors]

She looked at him a little blankly and then her mouth popped open. "You mean this is your place?!" Aimee looked around again, taking in what she'd barely noticed upon entering. "Holy shit. I just didn't - I mean. Fuck."

She tugged on the couch, and discovered it had a couch cover on it. "Here I was worried about how I'd changed, and here you are, IKEA-ing it up in your own apartment! Do you have a rug in the -" Aimee darted down the nearby hall "-bathroom? YOU DO."

She staggered back into the main room, eyes glazed over as if she'd been turned into a zombie by shock.

[Troy Dempsey]

"Now that's more like it."

Troy smiled a thin smile, carefully controlled to disguise the extent of his satisfaction. It had been exactly the kind of response he'd hoped for, and as Aimee drifted through the apartment in a state of wonder, he was left feeling kind of sheepish. There was something indecent about revealing this part of himself: on the surface, it was a window into the yuppie life of the city, complete with brunches and cocktail parties. He dug into the deep pockets of his baggy sweatpants and stooped, suddenly at odds with his surroundings as he watched Aimee explore them.

"I wanted you to see this place because it's normal. You wanna be Aimee? Just Aimee? Here, with us, you can. I mean we're family."

[Aimee Connors]

"Your second bedroom is an office." Aimee put her hands on her hips, her tone slightly accusatory. "It looks really nice, too."

She stuffed her hands into her pockets. "I love it. It's like everything we always wanted." Her shoulders hunched a little, her brain going back to crying in the locked closet back in foster care with him talking to her quietly through the door. Then she mentally shut the door on that picture, straightening up.

"I think... I'd have to think about it." His face fell a little, and she burst into a wide grin. "Just kidding! Of course!" Aimee jumped at him, wrapping her brother in a hug. California seemed almost like a dream, a bad dream.

[Troy Dempsey]

Troy did his best to reciprocate Aimee's giddy enthusiasm, which was to say he wrapped an arm around her shoulders for all of three seconds, and then he broke it up. His daily hugging quota was spent. Still, he was relieved, and pleasantly surprised. It looked like Aimee hadn't outgrown him after all.

"That was the right answer."

A smile cut short a nervous laugh as he retreated a step. He'd been more anxious than he realised, and there was still one more troubling question to tackle. He planted himself onto the couch and waved Aimee over. Once she was seated, he said:

"There's just one thing I got to know: why did you run away?"

[Aimee Connors]

"I didn't mean to," she said after a moment. "I meant to just be gone for a little bit, maybe find myself on the road, that sort of nonsense. After the stuff with Ginny, and getting the attention of the Brotherhood, I just... felt like I needed to figure out who I was." He was her brother, but Ginny was just as much her sister, a mutant who Aimee had glommed onto as a young girl.

Ginny was on the right side of the tracks, Troy the ...other side. Aimee had felt torn between a life of petty crime and a life free from that stuff. "I didn't mean to hurt you, but after it had been so many weeks without calling it just got harder and harder to pick up the phone." She looked down at her hands.

[Troy Dempsey]

Troy gave a nod. He knew how that felt.

"You're here now, ain't ya? That's what counts."

It came back to him so easily, the brotherly thing, even after all that time. When it came to feelings, and, more specifically, talking about feelings, he was no Shakespeare. But when Aimee was sad, he knew what to say. Nothing else was as simple. He shuffled across the couch and knocked her sideways with a gentle nudge. There was a flutter of a smile behind a curtain of black hair.

"So lemme see if I got this. Creep went off to find herself, and along the way she found Aimee, the Cali girl with dark hair and real breasts. And a year later, she comes home, not as Creep, but Aimee."

His tone was a little incredulous. After an inquisitive pause, he suddenly offered her a hand in greeting.

"Hey, Aimee. I'm Troy. I like basketball and pie. Why don't you tell me about yourself?"

[Aimee Connors]

She giggled, and shook his hand. "Well, Troy, I love In-N-Out and walking on a warm beach, none of this frigid Atlantic nonsense we have over here. And I actually worked at a real job, at least for a while. School too, believe it or not."

Aimee leaned back on the couch, stopping herself from mentioning having had a boyfriend. Troy wouldn't react well to that. Hell, she hadn't reacted well to how Cameron had ended it. "Um, and I found friends and a family over there too. But... things got all messed up." She frowned lightly.

[Troy Dempsey]

"Things do that sometimes."

Troy considered Aimee, a question taking shape on his lips, when he thought better of it. If Aimee wanted to tell him more, she would. Seventeen was a tender age for girls, when they were entitled to privacy, and agonised over things like make-up and boys (Dutch watched Oprah). Prying would only push her away, but, on the other hand, Troy was haunted with thoughts of his little sister and all the preening Cali boys. He started to wring his hands in silent agitation.

"You went to school, huh? It's like I don't know you at all."

Then, after a beat of silence, he could no longer help himself:

"Anything else I need to know?"

[Aimee Connors]

She brushed her hair out of her eyes, and shrugged. "I dunno. Got my heart stomped on by a stupid guy, got kidnapped by an anti-mutant gang, got my roommate killed." Aimee blinked, her eyes wet, staring hard at the carpet by her feet. "The riots-" Her voice broke, and she just bit her lips together, willing herself not to give into tears again.

[Troy Dempsey]

"Hey, come here."

He draped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her in close. To hell with the hugging quota. She felt smaller than he remembered, and fragile. His chin rested atop her head, he could feel her warm breath through the fabric of his shirt. There were no theatrics, she was quiet and in control, and that was about the extent of her vulnerable side he was allowed to see. Though her armour was thick, it was also battle-worn, and Aimee had seen her share of combat: a stupid guy, a kidnapping, a dead roomie, and riots. Troy considered the list with a sigh, then softly said:

"First thing's first: who's the guy? Want me to break his legs?"

[Aimee Connors]

"Yes," Aimee said, and then shook her head against Troy's shoulder. "He's not worth the trouble." She squeezed her brother, and sat up. "But thanks. It's the thought that counts."

She tried out a tremulous smile. "I guess I'm sort of running away again, from California this time."

[Troy Dempsey]

"You came home," he corrected, "That's all."

It was a bittersweet confession for him to hear. On the one hand, Aimee had basically admitted that the only reason she came back was because the other place was so bad. If that had bruised his pride, Troy consoled himself with the fact that she had chosen to return to him, which meant he was her safety net. That was what it meant to be family. He huddled forward, perched on the edge of the couch, as if he were bracing himself for a quick getaway. Instead though, he was considering how to broach an awkward topic, his fingers steepled in thought.

"While you were gone, I've been working. I took odd jobs with all the right people, and I got to know them, I became reliable. Now I'm climbing the ladder. It's a genuine career opportunity, as good as any other. The pay is good and I'm moving up in the world. Shit, if I can whip that circus act into shape, I'm gonna take them with me."

He could see that, attentive though she was, Aimee wasn't quite able to divine the implication of his words. And he was rambling and he hated that.

"Look, what I'm sayin' is things are different now. You can see that, right?" he said, sweeping a hand at the room around them, "And I promised I'd look after you. That ain't changed. You and me, we're a team, and I always got your back."

[Aimee Connors]

Aimee's smile grew into a grin, but she resisted the urge to hug Troy again, knowing he got uncomfortable around too much mushy stuff. Really, she used to, too.

"The more things change, the more they stay the same, huh? You look like you're doing great. I'm really proud of you, Troy." She put out a fist, and he bumped it. "Always a team. Just let me know how I can help out."

[Troy Dempsey]

"You'll be sorry you said that," he said, rising from the couch, "In a couple of days you can move in. I just gotta sweet-talk the guys into another Ikea trip first."

There was a feeble chime from the kitchen. Troy's gaze zeroed in on a cheap white clock mounted above the fridge: it was five o'clock. He winced, and promptly fished his phone from his pocket. Three missed calls and a text message. Stupid volume buttons. When he returned his attention to Aimee, his shoulders drooped in apology, and defeat.

"Aimee, I'm sorry. I gotta shoot. There's a thing that I... what?"

In her silence, Aimee said a thousand words, with just a single raised eyebrow and a couple of folded arms. Troy shook his head, and advanced towards the door.

"Her name's Chantelle, alright? I was supposed to pick her up like half an hour ago, and no, you don't know who she is!"

[Aimee Connors]

"Someone important to do, hmm?" Aimee rolled her eyes. "Okay, okay, I'll stop by tomorrow if that's all right? Or..." She paused, thinking of Jim. "Well, I'll call anyway. See whats up?"

"Sounds good!" Troy was in an awful hurry, and she dragged her feet a bit to drive him crazy as he ushered her out of the apartment. She popped her head into the apartment down the hall to say good bye to the others, and a few awkward hugs later she was walking down the sidewalk outside the building, heading to the bus stop.

She felt strangely light, as if a weight had been lifted off of her and she might just float away. Aimee looked back over her shoulder and smiled at her new home. Jim would be pleased - well, Jim's MOM would be pleased.

[Mrs. Smith]

Shortly after Aimee arrived at a crowded bus stop, a black stretched Bentley rolled up to the sidewalk. The door swung open, affording Aimee a clear view of the passenger on the back seat: it was Mrs. Smith, the woman who had arrived at the Lewinski household with Jim's father only the night previous. She gave the mutant girl a warm smile.

"Hello, Aimee. Care for a lift?"

[Aimee Connors]

Aimee was making a brave show of it, leaning nonchalantly against the wall of a building while a nearby mother held her children closer after catching sight of the mutant. But when the limo drove up and the door opened, it only took her a moment (after gawking with surprise) to decide to accept the ride.

"Sure, thanks." Aimee jogged over and ducked inside the car, sliding onto the soft leather seat. It was blissfully air conditioned. "You're going by the Lewinski's?"

[Mrs. Smith]

"I am now."

Her gaze lifted, meeting the eyes of the driver reflected in the rear-view mirror, and with a nod they were on their way. Though it was a dramatic substitute for any city bus, the Bentley itself wasn't overly ostentatious; stretched just enough to accomodate two pairs of seats with plenty of leg room. Perfect for meetings on the move.

"We haven't been properly introduced. I'm Mrs. Smith, Mr. Lewinski's personal assistant."

She had skin like milk and stone, with blood-red lips and a crown of sleek chocolate coils. She sat like a statue, in an immaculate ivory sheath dress, and studied the girl opposite with feline curiosity. She smiled again.

"And you're Aimee, Jim's friend from California. How do you do?"

[Aimee Connors]

The woman was gorgeous, and Aimee felt bad that her first thought was that Jim's dad was probably banging his secretary. Just look at her! Of course, Aimee was feeling biased against Jim's mom, who made it through the day with the help of a bottle of wine and with barely veiled contempt for mutants. Well, not her precious Jim, of course, who was just gifted.

She smiled. "I'm doing great, actually. Thanks for the ride."

[Mrs. Smith]

"Yes, you look well," she said, with a nod of agreement, "Glad to be home, I expect."

She regarded the young teenager in a playful sort of way, like a cat with a spool of string: head canted, eyes heavily-lidded, and a sing-song quality to her voice. It then occured to her that there was a chance her latest remark could be misconstrued, and her sculpted eyebrows gave a leap as she said:

"Here, in New York, of course," and the smile returned, "Is it just like the good old days?"

[Aimee Connors]

She was mostly staring out the window, but she glanced at Mrs. Smith. "Yes, and no. Kind of 'the more things change, the more they stay the same.'" Aimee felt happy, and didn't really notice how the other woman was looking at her. "Sort of a relief, to be honest."

[Mrs. Smith]

"I'm not surprised at all. Not after your ordeal."

Mrs. Smith's expression softened, and she watched Aimee with concern as she once again became distracted by the view beyond the window. She then rolled her eyes at the teenager's absolute failure to be even remotely engaging. A change of approach was in order. Reflecting the girl's sight-seeing reverie, Mrs. Smith stared absently out of her own window at the passing city. The bleak panorama of projects had been left behind, and in their place sprouted towering office buildings and shopping centres with glass faces. Lightly, she drummed her fingernails on the seat leather as she mused aloud.

"It must be nice to get away from all that. No more gangs. No more riots. No more Cameron."

[Aimee Connors]

Aimee nodded absently, and then went still. Her heart thumped loudly in her ears and she felt her extremities get shaky before she consciously processed what the woman had said. She'd said Cameron.

She looked at Mrs. Smith, her eyes wide. "Wh-what did you say?"

[Mrs. Smith]

"I can see I now have your undivided attention," she said with great satisfaction.

Back to business, then. Mrs. Smith crossed her legs, clasped her hands over a knee, and resumed her attentive appraisal of the quiet purple girl. When she next addressed Aimee, there was a slight flavour of the school teacher in her tone:

"Aimee. What is it you think I do?"

[Aimee Connors]

"I don't know. You work for Jim's dad." Aimee made an effort to not look like a wide eyed kid, taking a deep breath. "Secretary?"

[Mrs. Smith]

"Joe Lewinski deals with new people everday. These people are moderately smart, invariably wealthy, and each of them, without exception, have secrets. I am Mr. Lewinski's keeper of secrets."

The revelation, vague though it was, came accompanied with a devilish grin. Mrs. Smith's eyes were bright with mischief. It was fun to be forward when one's ways were so often cloaked in false smiles and empty laughter. She could see, however, that her cryptic words were making the girl feel uncomfortable. Perhaps she was enjoying herself too much. Suddenly, the smile evaporated, she leaned forward a fraction and spoke candidly.

"My business is information. My business is Mr. Lewinski's business. It is not a stretch then to imagine that a son's business is also his father's," she paused to assess Aimee's reaction, "You do see what I'm getting at?"

[Aimee Connors]

She nodded, slowly. "So you've investigated me." Aimee could feel the sweat starting to prickle on her back despite the air conditioning in the car. "Um." Her stomach felt like it was dropping to her feet.

[Mrs. Smith]

"Oh, don't be like that," she pouted, "I was merely looking after Mr. Lewinski's interests. You didn't think a man with his kind of money and power would allow his only son to go galivanting across the country without some form of insurance? Of course not."

Mrs. Smith gave a sweeping gesture, punctuated with a huff of disbelief, as if spying on strangers was a perfectly acceptable way to behave. She gave Aimee a concerned frown. The deer-in-headlights look was becoming as tedious as the conversation.

"There's really no need to be afraid, Aimee. I know you. You're a good person. It's why I wanted to talk to you."

[Aimee Connors]

"Okay," Aimee smiled hesitantly, still not feeling it. "And you want to talk about... my ex?" The Cameron name drop was dominating her imagination, and she was having trouble figuring out what exactly was going on.

[Mrs. Smith]

"No. And I don't imagine you want to talk about him, either."

Aimee's question had taken her by surprise, and it took a beat of silence to shake it off thereafter. A finger traced the smooth walnut veneer until it found a small control panel; with the push of a button, the driver's compartment was segregated by a pane of tinted glass. Their privacy renewed, Mrs. Smith straightened in her seat, and lifted a briefcase onto her lap. It opened with a click.

"Last night, a shipment of pharmaceuticals was stolen from our port to the value of two million dollars, and I would like you to help us get it back."

[Aimee Connors]

Aimee didn't want to embarrass herself by asking any more dumb questions, but after Mrs. Smith dropped her next bombshell she couldn't help herself.

"Me?" she squeaked. "Don't you have insurance and private investigators and ...the police?"

[Mrs. Smith]

"Yes, yes, and thrice yes, but do you not think it would be lax of me if I did not explore every avenue of investigation?"

While she spoke, she removed papers from the briefcase, and clutched them to her chest. These she offered to Aimee. They were stills taken from the security feed at the docks, in which the thieves appeared to be scarcely more than pixelated phantoms as they loaded the crates into a plain white van. A feat, according to the timestamps, that was accomplished within two minutes. Mrs. Smith remained silent as the purple teen cycled through the photographs, and once she was done, it was evident she had questions.

"The security footage has been reviewed by both the police and our own security division. The loss itself is covered by our insurance, but the money is of no concern to Mr. Lewinski. This is the second such robbery in a month and, as you can see, these people know what they are doing. If they strike again, the company's reputation will be stake."

She accepted the photographs and sealed them away inside the briefcase.

"You have questions."

[Aimee Connors]

"Yeah. I don't see how I have any...skills that are going to help you with this," she said, then added, "No offense."

Were they near Jim's neighborhood yet? Could she just jump out of the car? Aimee shrugged at Mrs. Smith, the nearly useless photos in her hand. "I mean, I'm not really in the bad guy catching business."

[Mrs. Smith]

"It is not your skills I am interested in," she said, easing back into the soft supple leather.

"Merely your connections."

[Aimee Connors]

Her brain quickly hopped from that comment to Troy's change in fortunes, and while she didn't want to believe it her stomach flip-flopped. "My friends. You think they're involved in... a heist?"

Aimee looked at the photos again, as if it would make them less pixelated. "We never did anything like this before." She already knows this, doesn't she. "We were just trying to survive."

[Mrs. Smith]

Mrs. Smith, despite her best efforts, smiled with amusement, "No, Aimee. I don't think your friends are a highly-organised fraternity of criminals."

But how quickly she had been to make that connection. In all likelihood it had been nothing more than a knee-jerk display of loyalty, but something had sparked the girl's suspicion in the first place. Regardless of her brewing thoughts, Mrs. Smith maintained appearances, and her warmth. Then, with one finger raised in emphasis, she added:

"But they would provide me with an ear-to-the-ground, which is something I am sorely lacking."

[Aimee Connors]

"An ear to the ground," Aimee repeated. "Why don't you just tell me what you want me to do, and I'll tell you if I will or not." She handed the photos back over to Mrs. Smith, and folded her arms, hunched over a little in the corner of the Bentley.

[Mrs. Smith]

"I want you to listen. That is all."

In a show of friendliness and sincerity, Mrs. Smith glided into the neighbouring seat, and took Aimee's hands in her own. Still, the girl harboured doubts, it was there in the steel behind her eyes and the slight resistance to her touch. A glance outside, a timed flicker of fear, and then, with a sigh full of concern, the attack was renewed.

"Aimee, you can be my eyes and ears with people in places I cannot reach. There is a very real chance these drugs will be dispersed through illegal channels and, within a matter of days, they will become untraceable. If you hear mention of any such trafficking or see anything that might rouse suspicion, please inform me."

When she relinquished her grip, there was a business card in the palm of Aimee's hand. Mrs. Smith gave a shrug.

"That is all I ask."

[Aimee Connors]

"Okay," Aimee said, tucking the card into her back pocket. "Sure. Sorry, you just... never mind. Yes, I can do that." She smiled a little too brightly.

Helping her would be helping Jim in a round about way, and she wasn't asking anything that would put Aimee in a difficult spot with Troy or the others. She relaxed shoulders she hadn't realized had gotten so tight, and looked out the window again. Jim's neighborhood was beginning to take shape around them as the car drove on.

[Mrs. Smith]

"I knew I could trust you, Aimee. Thank you."

While she maintained her poise, the gleam in her eyes betrayed the kind of happiness that would have another person wrapping the mutant teenager in her arms. Instead, she settled for a broad glossy smile before finally deflating once again into the luxurious cream leather. Then, with a lazy stretch, the section between the back seats unfolded to reveal a hidden cooler cabinet which housed two champagne bottles.

"I do apologise if our little conversation left you a little shaken. I do prefer the direct approach."

While she spoke, Mrs. Smith retrieved a bottle and a couple of champagne flutes, which were then handed off to Aimee. A cloth was produced and with a magician's flourish, the bottle was uncorked with a deep pop. Promptly, Mrs. Smith started to pour.

"Here," she said, with a wink, "What's the point in riding around in one of these things if you don't enjoy yourself?"

[Aimee Connors]

Aimee opened her mouth, and then closed it with a shrug. "Sounds good to me." She took a big gulp of the champagne, the bubbles tickling her nose and the flavor causing her mouth to twist. People drank this stuff...on purpose? Her second attempt was a much smaller sip. Ms. Smith was probably silently laughing at her reaction, but Aimee looked out the window again.

The mention of Cam had really shaken her. She'd been surviving the break up by simply avoiding thinking about him, and to have it all dredged up unexpectedly had thrown her for a loop. She'd even thought the woman was accusing her friends of stealing from Jim 's dad. How absurd. She looked at the delicate glass in her hand, and downed the rest of the drink before the flavor could hit her tongue.

[Mrs. Smith]

"It's not for everyone," Mrs. Smith took a sip, and considered the bubbling glass, "Honestly? I prefer scotch."

Silence, again. Though her smile remained, inwardly, she despaired of this poor hopeless girl. Such a young beauty gone to waste with such an empty head. Of course, the only thing about their conversation that had sparked any sort of genuine enthusiasm was the mention of the boy, Cameron. Behind her glass, Mrs. Smith smiled. Perhaps it was time to fill that pretty head with something. She was studying Aimee deliberately.

"I can see why he likes you," when Aimee glanced her way, she elaborated, "Jim."

[Aimee Connors]

Jim?! "He's a good friend," Aimee said, her eyes straying out the window looking for anything familiar. Mrs. Smith seemed to be waiting for her to say more, so she added, "I'm grateful that he offered me a place to stay...?"

The woman's expressions didn't change, but Aimee could almost feel an air of disappointment wafting off of her.

[Mrs. Smith]

"I'm sure you are."

She offered Aimee a courteous smile that vanished behind the rim of her champagne flute. It seemed that she was immune to her insinuations, but Mrs. Smith was not one given so quickly to defeat. There was another avenue of attack at her disposal, but it would have to wait, as would her entertainment. Before long, they had turned onto Delaware Place, where there stood proud ranks of maple and sycamore trees, blooded red by the turning of the season. And nested amongst the trees was ostentatious family home of the Lewinskis.

"Aimee, it's been a pleasure meeting you," she placed a gentle hand on her arm, "Please, remember what we spoke about. If you hear anything - anything at all - don't hesitate to call. I do hope we speak again soon."

[Aimee Connors]

"Of course," said Aimee, still a little bewildered by the entire turn of events. What did she mean, Jim likes her? Mrs. Smith's little smile had caused her suspicion to increase, but... well, that was just silly. "Yeah, I have your card."


She smiled a getting-the-hell-out-of-here-please-don't-stop-me smile, and popped the car door open as soon as it stopped. Aimee waved, and then ran up the rest of the driveway toward the house.

[Jim Lewinski]

The door flew open before she could reach it. Jim was holding aloft his phone and spearing Aimee with a look full of wrath.


"Don't you know how to charge your phone?" Suddenly, he was alongside her, finishing the walk to the house, pleading, "Aimee, where the heck have you been? I've been worried sick!"

[Aimee Connors]

"My phone isn't -" she fished it out of her jeans and tsked. "Okay, yeah. It's dead. Sorry." Aimee looked at Jim as he jittered beside her, and said, "I went to visit some old friends. I told you that."

Her time with Troy and the others came flooding back to the front of her brain, the weird ride with Mrs. Smith starting to fade. She grinned. "It was great. I don't know why I was worried."

[Jim Lewinski]

"See? I told you it would be fine."

Despite his words, Jim didn't exactly exude confidence. The thirteen voicemails awaiting Aimee on her phone betrayed as much. In her absence, what little he knew of Aimee's old friends had been enough to send his hyperactive imagination into overdrive. She had painted them as a band of colourful misfits, frayed around the edges, not unlike her old family back in California. But, as always, Jim knew better: he'd seen first had the sort of reception their own colourful band of misfits received on the night of the riots. What if Aimee's friends had similarly outstayed their welcome in New York? When his calls went unanswered, he really started to panic and went out to search on foot - to no avail. Next time he'd have the address. This, he conveyed with a tremulous smile.

"So..." he said, with some apprehension, as they entered the house, "You wanna tell me about it?"

[Aimee Connors]

"Well, they've been doing great. Even got a permanent place to live, all on the up and up." Aimee smiled, stopping short of telling Jim about her intention of moving in with Troy. She didn't know why, but her lips couldn't quite say the words. She kicked off her shoes, wiggling her toes in the plush carpet.

"How was your day?"

[Jim Lewinski]

"Meh," Jim gave a shrug, "I re-wired the circuits in my new room and installed, like, ten new sockets. Then I decided to paint the walls because I hate peach. Afterwards, I re-organised my workshop and built my first prototype tokamak. It's awesome! Now I just need to get my hands on some fresh deuterium and tritium and find an efficient way of heating it to 100 million degrees."

Of course, first he'd have to construct a cooling system, and probably get some sort of permission - he could worry about that later. The house was deathly quiet. His dad was working late and his mom was attending a fundraiser for the Horticultural Society of New York. Once free of his shoes, Jim zipped into the parlour and crashed onto a small mountain of cushions on the floor. There were DVD cases everywhere. He leaned back onto his elbows as Aimee entered the room.

"I figured we could have a movie night like we used to back home. Just you and me and more pizza than we can eat," he gestured at the assortment of movies, "Lady's choice!"

[Aimee Connors]

"Did you reverse the polarity of the deflector as well?" teased Aimee. She flopped onto the pillows and started sorting through the DVDs. "Do you have the Princess Bride?"

Jim blurred for a moment, and then the movie was in his hand. She grinned. "And I hope you found some decent barbecue chicken pizza." Aimee pulled her hair up into a messy ponytail and secured it with a hair band.

[Jim Lewinski]

"Like I could forget!" he smiled, and then just as suddenly, the smugness morphed into surprise, "Oh, I almost forgot!"

Discarding the DVD, Jim wriggled to free something from the pocket of his jeans. A faded and flimsy pamphlet, which he planted into Aimee's hands. He watched expectantly as she glanced at the cover.

"I found that going through my old stuff and thought that, you know, maybe it might be something for you. I mean... you wanna finish school, right? This is the place I wanted to go to when I- before I went to California. So... whatcha think?"

[Aimee Connors]

She took the pamphlet and turned it over. "Cullen's Institute for the Gifted? What is it, a school for brainiacs?" Aimee flipped it open and scanned the text. Nothing in what was written seemed to contradict her initial assessment, but the wording seemed to lean more toward send your special snowflake to our exclusive school.

"Ah, genetically gifted," she said, tapping her finger on the words. "It's a school for mutants?"

[Jim Lewinski]

"You got it."

Suddenly, Jim was by her side, poring over the contents of the pamphlet. A year stashed away in a box had drained the pictures of their colour but robbed none of the beaming faces of their evident happiness. He remembered every detail.

"Ten acres of unbroken greenery," he said, dreamily, "Woodland, gardens, a boathouse, a swimming pool, a basketball court - you name it, they got it. And just look at that place: the school's a mansion! A mansion, Aimee!"

[Aimee Connors]

"Your house is a mansion," she said dryly. "How come you didn't go?"

Aimee plucked the Princess Bride case from the pillows and cracked it open. She couldn't go to a fancy boarding school... could she? Get her GED and a job, that was her current plan. And Troy and the gang...even Jim. Where would they all fit if she moved upstate?

[Jim Lewinski]

When Aimee called his home a mansion, Jim grimaced. It wasn't the same: his house was big, but the Cullen's institute was very big. The hours, or perhaps minutes, he spent staring longingly at those pictures, imagining what life would be like living with other mutants. In the end, he got his wish and had an experience at Redención House that was richer than all the mansions and all the acres and all the basketball courts in America. By virtue of his genetic advantage, Jim squeezed two school years into one and received his diploma a year early, but Aimee was yet to graduate. He didn't want her to go, but typically, what was best for someone else was scarcely best for him. And he wanted Aimee to have the best.

"My dad wouldn't allow it," he confessed, uncomfortable, "He didn't want me isolated from the rest of society because I was different. He said it would make me soft and that I'd thank him for it one day. So I was enrolled in an excellent, totally normal, high school. But I didn't want to be normal. I wanted to be... exceptional. So I ran away."

There was a hint of red in his face when he looked up at Aimee, in whose purple company even his shame was inadequate, "Now you know. Spoilt rich kid runs away from home because he wanted to be special. What would Alex say to that?"

[Aimee Connors]

Aimee's expression softened. "He'd say you don't have to run away to be special. We were born special." Impulsively she reached out and squeezed Jim's hand before releasing it.

[Jim Lewinski]

"Yeah."

It was a bashful, non-committal, response. Jim wasn't sure whether or not he believed that: sure, mutation was awesome and fascinating, but it didn't make someone exceptional, that was down to personal achievement. So strongly he'd believed that the Cullen's Institute was the key to his success - a place where he could truly thrive and flourish and allow his imagination and intellect to take flight. Now he wasn't sure such a place existed. How could he relate that to someone without sounding like the world's worst egomaniac? He sighed, and then gave the pamphlet a tap.

"So, what do you think?"

[Aimee Connors]

"Honestly? I could never afford a place like this." Aimee had already dismissed it as a possibility, and was back to moving furniture around in Troy's apartment in her mind. "I sort of... well my friends have room. And I don't want to be a bother around here..."


She hesitated, and then the moment extended a little too long and she made a face.

[Jim Lewinski]

Jim wasn't silent because he was having difficulty understanding. In truth, no sooner had the words tumbled from her lips than he'd considered three different responses to them, each as pointless as the last. No, he was silent because he was hoping he hadn't understood, that, perhaps, Aimee had not made herself clear. And then she made that face.

"Wh- You're moving out?" he asked, incredulous, "Aimee, you haven't even moved in yet. How can you move out if you haven't moved in? It makes no sense!"

[Aimee Connors]

"Uh," said Aimee, caught off guard. "That's a... good point. But!" she added, not willing to concede defeat, "Troy is the closest thing to family I have. I can't just - I mean, I said I would... oh fuck it all, I have no idea what I'm doing."

She threw up her hands and flopped back into the pillows. On top of it all the weird conversation with Mrs. Smith continued to percolate in her brain, and she pulled a pillow on top of her face. "Can we just watch the movie?" she said, muffled by the cushion.

[Jim Lewinski]

"I guess so."

Jim studied the pillow with concern, trying to imagine the face underneath. He wondered if Aimee was as confused as she made out or if she was just too tired to debate. A niggling doubt scratched at the back of his mind that made him feel suddenly foolish surrounded by pillows and DVD cases and that stupid school pamphlet. It stank of desperation. No wonder she wanted to leave. And what was with this Troy guy?

"Sure," he decided, feeding the disc into the player, "No big decisions."

He found a spot on the floor next to Aimee and crossed his legs. When she finally abandoned the safety of the pillow, he smiled, "There's always tomorrow."

[Aimee Connors]

Aimee smiled with relief as she emerged from her temporary shelter. "It's only a day away." She settled back as the huge TV lit up with the DVD menu, and took a deep breath.

She'd make her decisions tomorrow.

Maybe.

The movie started, and she couldn't help but think that summer was truly over. No matter what she ended up doing, she was never going to be able to go back to the way things were, back at the House. The trick was remembering that wasn't necessarily a bad thing.