By Mockery Author's note: Okay, this one's been percolating in my head for a while, basically since Alara announced the power-swap challenge. Sorry I took so long to actually turn something out. I never got around to actually doing this, though, because I am, on the whole, a lazy, procrastinating type. Anyways, I've taken a few liberties with Jubilee's age (I'm not de-aging her, and I'm figuring she's aged at least a year since her introduction...) And Cannonball ain't an external. His powers are different so I figure he ain't living through what happens here. Please forgive me for what I've done. This was written in one sitting at approximately 2:00 in the morning, and I'm immediately shipping the rough draft out to you folks to be examined, parodied, insulted, praised, ignored, deleted, MST'd, WHATEVER. All I'm saying is that I'm not in my right mind as I write this and ship it out, and this is the first bit of fic of my own creation I'm posting up here. Keep that in mind, and don't flame me too harshly. Disclaimer: Everyone is Marvel's. No money is being made from the creation of this fanfic. Ask if you want to post this up. ************************ When I was little, I used to want to be like my brother Sam. He was everything I wanted to be. Detonator was his Code Name. He made things go boom, I remember. When he came home for the fourth of July he'd make a glowing ball in his hands. Then he'd toss it up in the air and it'd fly up, up, and then blast apart, as pretty as any fireworks, and momma didn't have to worry about not having enough money for fireworks this year. I wanted to be just like him back then. A mutant, I mean. I wanted to be able to make everyone happy, I wanted to be able to light up the sky. I wanted to stand out, not just one among many little Guthries. But what I wanted most never came, and no dreams or wishes made by me came true. No flying, no things that went boom, no mind-reading or changing into an animal or anything. It was looking like I was just going to be another pretty face. But I ended up getting what I wanted, and made Sam go boom. It wasn't even five years ago; I was only twelve. I remember, Sam came home for thanksgiving, and momma had put a turkey in the oven to roast. I remember, Sam came home and I ran out to hug him. And then I remember... I went boom. There was a flash of light and a burst of pain, and then screams all around me. And when I managed to peer through the haze of pain, Sam was roasted, just like the turkey in the oven. We never did get around to eating that turkey. I wanted to scream. I was scared and hurting so bad and there was Sam in front of me, my hero and brother scorched blacker than the night sky, dead on the spot. I wanted to scream, but I couldn't; my lungs and mouth were burned clean away. Momma sent me to Mr. Xavier after that. She said she knew it wasn't my fault. But I knew better, and I still know better. She's scared of me, still flinches when she looks at me when I come to visit, and as much as she doesn't want to see it, she hates me for taking her Sam away from her. That's okay. I hate me too. Professor Xavier isn't a mutant, but he has connections. He's rich, the one who trained Sam and his friend and gave them their uniforms and made them into superheroes. He tries. I'll give him credit for that, he tries. But he doesn't understand, can't understand. He looks at us as the stuff of legends, heroes in the making to save the world from whatever may come. Not humans. Of course, when I can bear to look in the mirror, I can see how that bit of logic works. Professor Xavier thinks he's done a lot of work on me, that I've improved a lot. I don't stay at his place in New York anymore; I'm staying with a bunch of mutant kids my age somewhere else in New England. They call me crematory now, like one of those places where they turn a dead person into so many ashes. Just like I did to Sam. Funny, isn't it? It's supposed to help me socialize or something. I'd laugh if I could. Mind you, I'm not the only local freak. Monet is another. She was pretty, too, once. I've seen pictures, ones she's made herself and photographs from her childhood. Perfect bronze skin, a flawless face framed by gorgeous black waterfalls of hair. Not anymore. That hair fell out by the time she was thirteen, and the rest of her face looks like a wad of bubble gum someone stuck two giant white plates into. I hear she tried to kill herself twice before she came here. Another thing we have in common. Nobody found out about me, though, because when you don't have any blood, slashing your wrists doesn't do much more than hurt. She's called Cinema, like a movie theatre. She makes illusions, but you can see through them and see they aren't real, which is too bad or else I know she'd use them to cover up the giant blisters on her scalp and her cartoony, cotton-candy face. I know I'd do the same thing. Professor X thinks that we'll feel better, knowing that we're not alone in the world with our suffering. Of course, we aren't supposed to know about it, just like I'm not supposed to know how sick mom feels when she looks at her daughter and sees the fireball with half a face that killed her son. It's supposed to be a coincidence that these two monsters are here, to be friends, to find common ground in their rejection and help each other be strong. I've found something more pleasant to look at than her, though. His name's Jonothon Starsmore. He's called "Chrysalis," because he changes into different things by breaking out of his current skin, like a caterpillar turning into a cocoon turning into a butterfly, except that it's more like a butterfly turning into another butterfly turning into yet another butterfly. I've counted two-hundred and forty-three faces of his since I came here, each more handsome than the last. He can sing, and can play guitar, a little. He's sweet, and funny, and so nice. But...I know he'll never be mine. He's only got eyes for her. Jubilee. The one for whom life is just one big party. Of course, if I were invincible, drop-dead gorgeous, and could fly, I think I might take life a little less seriously, too. No telling, though. I'm stuck earthbound, ugly as sin, courtesy of the fires that burn in my gut day in and day out, and, like most everyone else, one-hundred-percent NOT bulletproof. Well, maybe I wouldn't die from a gun to the heard or the head, but I'm already hideous; I don't want to risk any more to find out. I mean, if I'm lucky, I die. If not, I lose a little more of what face I have left. You know, I heard someone sing that "Some of God's greatest gifts are unanswered prayers." How right he was. I guess God got sick and tired of not answering my prayers and me being unthankful for it, and let me have it. I got the dark flipside: "Be careful what you wish for, because you just might get it." I spent hours and hours praying and wishing, and I got it. So here I am. Paige Guthrie. Crematory. Engine of destruction extraordinaire. Fratricide. Lucky me.