*** Author’s note.   This started out as a Whateley Fanfic, but I decided that there’s just too much baggage there.   So this is going to be a new superhero setting that I make up as I need. ***

So, this is how it all started.   Beth made me promise to put this all down.   Here it is.   When I push deep into my memories like this, it becomes really immersive.   At least I won’t miss anything.   Now here we go.   

How I became…   me.

***

“Pap, can we pull over?”   The nausea was really bad today.   My stomach wouldn’t calm down.   The interstates tend not to have the rolling hills, but this long in a car makes it really hard to keep breakfast down.   Temodar is a wonderful drug, but I hate it.   I hate how it makes me feel.   

“Hold on, son.   We’re almost to the Rest Area.”   Pap reached over and patted me on the back.   I had my head at the edge of the window of the van.   Just in case.

Pap got off at the rest area and pulled into a handicapped spot.   I got out and almost made it to the trashcan.   It was bad.   

You’d think after already having cancer twice before, you’d get used to things like chemo.   

You never get used to chemo.   

I’m sixteen years old and this is my third and last fight with cancer.   Yeah.   This is my last go around.   I give up.   Pap doesn’t know, and he sure as hell hasn’t.   Two weeks ago, the docs told me I have about anywhere from three to six months to live.   Most likely.   If I live a year it would literally be a miracle.   This time it’s brain cancer, and I’m tired of being sick.   I’m tired of hurting.   I’m just really tired of everything.   I only keep taking the meds for Pap.   He’d notice if I stopped.

The increased blood flow to my head triggers another Headache (yeah, with a capital H), and I just drop to my knees in my mess.   The jackhammer metronome in my head is going off again and all I can do is just sob.   I roll onto my side and hold my head as the pain fills my world.   I dimly hear some voices, but nothing makes it through the pain.

***

The room is dark, Pap must have told them that I get light sensitive after an episode.   Just from that disinfectant smell I can tell I’m in a hospital again.   I really hate hospitals.   I’ve been in too many of them.

I don’t try to sit up.   Not yet.   “Pap?”

“About time, Archie.   How do you feel?”   I heard the concern and relief in his voice as he patted my hand.   Good old Pap.   He and I are all we have left since my parents died years ago.   

My parents were superheroes.   

They died trying to save people.   

They were mutants.   

Which is why I’m the way I am.   My genes come from two different mutants.   

Yeah, I know, that’s all kinds of screwed up.   I got my first round of cancer after Mommy died.   I was eight.   They thought it was pre-adolescent testicular cancer.   What really happened is that the genes in the cells down there just started spontaneously changing on their own.   The doctors from my parents’ superteam came to the conclusion that the only reason I had survived to be born or even get to eight years old, was Mom’s probability powers.   She could alter the chance of something happening.   Make One-in-a-Billion things a guarantee.   Her powers kept me alive in the womb, kept my genes from coming apart as I grew.    They even came to the conclusion that it was all done subconsciously on her part.  

The only reason I’m alive today is a hail-mary whacky gene therapy that stabilized my crazy pants DNA.

There are times I’m grateful for that.   Some times I’m not.

“Blarg.”   One of my favorite words.   It just says it all at moments like this.

“Heh.   You’re gonna be fine, son.”   

Sigh.   Son.   Augustus Archibald Kell the Fourth.   Ain’t that a mouthful.   Pap calls me Archie.   Most people call me Kell.

It’s a mixture of warmth because I know he means it out of love, with the sting of that not being who I really am.   I’ve known for years I’m not a boy.   Not in my head or heart.   Pap doesn’t get it.   I asked him what he thought when Isis King was on America’s Next Top Model during season 11.   I love my grandfather.   Given what he said back then, “That’s just not right.”   Sigh.   I know he loves me, but I can’t risk losing all the family I have left.

I smile back at Pap.   “Yeah.”   I slowly sit up, “How long was I out this time?”   Okay, the room didn’t spin.   That’s good.   I hate it when it does that.   Is it bad that I can’t remember the last time I felt good?

Pap’s smile disappeared, “Almost a full day.”

That made sense to me.   Pap’s eyes were bloodshot and the bags under his eyes were darker than ever, not to mention the white stubble on his face.   Pap’s a stickler for being clean shaven.   He was… No, he is still a Marine.   Pap fought in Vietnam.   His mother, my great-grandmother, was a super during WWII.   I never asked about her.   Not after mom and dad were gone.   I’ve no use for supers.   Which makes this trip all the weirder for me.

I still remember Pap and I sitting on the back porch back in Indiana.   It was the anniversary of mom and dad passing away.   Pap sat there with me, and we watched the sunset.   I still remember him saying that no one should outlive their children.   Dad was an only child.   My grandmother died in a car accident before I was born.   Pap and I only have each other.   I won’t risk that.

“Archie, it’s okay.   I called ahead.   They know that we’re running behind.”

“I’m still weirded out that you finally took their offer.   I’d rather be back in the garage.”   

He patted my hand again, “It’s got nothing to do with their offer, boy.   But maybe they can help you.”

I just stared at him.

“I know.   Anything else under the sun and I’d be thinking the same thing.   But they’re supers.   You’re the child of two supers.   Maybe they can help.   Maybe they can fix your genes.”   Tears started running down his leathery worn cheeks.   “I just can’t lose you, boy.”

He moved from the chair next to the bed and hugged me.   I wanted to cry.   Pap felt so frail.   All my life, he’s been this bedrock of strength.   I can’t tell him that I just want all of this to be over.   I’m doing this for him.

“It’s not like I’m wasting away here, Pap.”   I gestured down at my 400 pound frame.   The second round of cancer hadn’t been kind.   Thyroid.   Over a year and a half, I gained over 250 pounds.   I got rid of every mirror I could in our house.   Pap never said anything.   I avoid mirrors.   Every time I see my full self in a mirror, it hits me in the heart like a sledgehammer.   I was over 300 pounds when I was 13.   Funny part is this.   I eat a happy meal and I’m stuffed for hours.   I’m pretty sure that giant snails do the hundred faster than my metabolism runs.

It just hurts when I see myself.   It hurts so bad.   And the best part is that my screwed up genes keep me from losing any of the weight.   Yay.

Pap sighs, “I know it’s been rough, son. “

Ouch.

He hugs me tighter, “It’s not your fault that you’re this size.   The doctors said..”

I cut him off, “Pap.   I know.   Between my screwy genes and everything else, this is just how I am.”  

But I hate it.   I hate what I am.   I hate that I’ll never be Me.   I’m this bloated thing.   A cross between a fuzzy pear and the Hindenburg.   And it’s why I go to sleep every night praying I won’t wake up.

  “Hey.”   Pap pulled back to look me in the eye.   “Seneschal is one of the smartest people in the world.   I’m hoping she can fix you.”

I can’t hold the tears back now.   I nod.   That’s what Pap wants.   I don’t want to go.   I just want this all to stop.   I know Pap feels the same way about supers that I do.   He loves me more than that.   “That’s the real reason we’re going to DC. “   I stop crying.   “We’ve got no use for them, Pap.”   

“I know, kiddo.   I know.” He sat back.   “They’ve been wanting me to come to DC and help them renovate for the last year.   Archie, I grew up in that building.   I know it better than anyone.”

I nod.   Honestly, it’s not the move that I was against.   It’s dealing with being around supers. Supers are brave and wonderful people. They really are, for the most part. Unless you're related to them. Pap lets me go and gets up from the bed.   “I’m gonna see about getting us some food.”

“Can I have my tablet before you go?”

Pap smiles.   He goes back to his chair and pulls my backpack from under it.   It’s one of those fancy crossbody sling style bags.   I got it online.   At my size, I can’t wear it the right way, but I love the look.   I pull out my little 7” tablet and my phone, turn on the mobile hotspot and catch up a little.   I reach out to some of my friends online.   Let them know how things are going.   I’m a member of a couple of online trans groups for teens.   I post a couple of messages, and promise to post pics once we’re settled in.   All I’ve told them is that we’re going to be in DC.   I try to be real careful online.   Too many people hate people like me.   Child of a mutant.   Transgender.   Ginormous Fat.   Too smart for my own good.   (I graduated high school from my hospital bed when I was thirteen).

Pick one.

All of a sudden, I need to pee.   Badly.   So I get out of the bed, and trundle over to the bathroom, glucose drip IV in tow.   I take the tablet with me, sit down on the toilet and have a nice long pee.   With the IV no one will say a word to me about sitting down to do my business.   I’m reading this really cool article on using a small trailer with a fuel tank and a gas powered generator to extend the range on electric cars when I hear a commotion outside my room.  

I hear the door open, “He’s not here!   Get a BOLO out on the brat!”

Then I hear Pap, “Agent Manship, you came all the way out here from Indianapolis to tell us you missed us?   Is that it?”

Steps, those are definitely heels, “Would someone care to tell me what’s going on?”

“Special Agent Rick Manship, DMA.”   He pronounced it DEE-ma.   “Young Mr. Kell is on a watch list for probable mutation.   There was a report of a display of some sort of regurgitative chemical spray at a rest stop near the state border.”

I hear Pap start to snicker.

I just sigh.   DMA.   Department of Metahuman Affairs.   Part of Homeland Security.   Mutant hunters.   Every six months, I have to go to a DMA office and have a blood sample taken to show I have no active metagene sequences in my genetic structure.   All children of mutant parents do.

I wipe and flush while the woman and Agent Manship argue.   Then I come out of the bathroom and head back to the bed.   Everyone stops in their tracks.   I grin.   I can’t help it.

Agent Manship comes over and handcuffs me to the bed.   “Augustus Archibald Kell IV, you are under arrest!”