Scald-Crow 1: The Rocky Road To Whateley A Whateley Academy Tale by: ShadowedSin

High School is a living hell for Padraig, and his life is only made worse by bullying.
One night a powerful spirit offers him a deal, and his life is changed forever.
In a world where Superheroes and Villains are the norm, and mutants are hated by most of the populace
life get's complicated fast for our young hero.

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Chapter 1 - Auld Acquaintances

October 12th, 2007, - Ferndale, Washington

"There's a fag, and another fag," the words were stupid, annoying, and altogether useless. Why was I even caring about them? Their definition was wrong, but even as I walked by the pipsqueak thin boy in a hoodie, I felt ashamed. Why was this kid jeering at me? I never did anything to him! My green eyes closed as I breathed in and continued on my way to science that day. It didn't get any better but at least homophobe rando was out of my way.

Never would I guess that all of this was just the tip of the iceberg. Ferndale is a small town situated smack dab north of Bellingham Washington. It calls itself a city, but it's just a step above a four-horse town. Don't look at me, I'm shit at these sorts of descriptions. I digress, this wasn't where I lived, it was just where the school district bussed me every day since I graduated elementary. Year four of this journey saw me as a Sophomore just a tad taller than the rest, and a bit wiser. Graduating from not only grades I upped my fashion and added steel-toed boots to my look. Wait, wait, let me jump back.

My name SHOULD be Gráinne, that is who I am in my heart. But I didn't get a choice in that. Instead, I was born Padraig, and even from there I hate that name. And so I do what any kid my age does, I embrace black, I avoid eyeliner and I become a wannabe goth. What I wanted to tell everyone was that instead of boots I wanted clomper heels, and instead of a fucking hat, I wanted a veil. Yeah, I was already some weird long haired queer to half those kids. Most were so in love with football I wondered if they roleplayed it in the bedroom. All my snark aside, this is who I am. There's nothing that can be changed unless I somehow was a mutant, but with how ordinary my family was that wasn't likely to happen. I guess it's weird that here I am, this rando kid in the middle of nowhere wishing she'd mutate on the spot. I mean, one of my classmates last year changed, and she became an entirely new person.

Though to be honest, all I have to go on is Fox News complaining about the local mutant problems in Seattle, and whatever the heroes in Bellingham are up to. Let's face it, I live in the frontier as far  most of the country was concerned. But, that's a thought that needs to be tabled for now.

Today was the twelfth of October, and I was glad my week was almost over. Already my English teacher was chomping at the bit to drop a reading assignment on me. History was readying for a dip into the American Revolution, and it was only the second month of class. Even my friends from the year before weren’t in my classes, and above all, I had Orchestra that morning which added more weight for me to carry.

The day started with a ring of the bell a bit after eight and the music geeks of my class file in. One hand totes a large black reinforced case with my violin and my seat awaits. Orchestra was where the musically cultured, repressed, and dejected went. If you were good you were popular. The first chairs were always the best of the best and while we didn't compete for the seating as the band did, there was a hierarchy to our class. My hand rested against the string as I used a cloth to wipe away the dried rosin. Two boys in the back were giggling about something again, and all I could do was smile at the antics of our bass players. Mr. Olmstadt rose from his seat at the conductor's position and raised his hands. The man was tall, six feet at least, and had a shock of curled blonde hair at his head. He was dressed in a blue button-up shirt, jeans, and his shoes were even shined.  By a single movement, he started it all and practice began.

This was how it was three times a week ending on Fridays. I was in Orchestra and next was English. Most of the time I was able to avoid problems, and the other kids left me alone. During lunch, I would find a table and sit back with my friends, though John was avoiding me for some reason. During my walks carrying my backpack from one class to another, I usually ran into different people I'd like to avoid. Brad Finkbonner was one of them. He was your typical jock and popular kid. His hair was bleached at the top and he wore a silver chain around his neck. Barely a freckle on his face, and he showed the gangly muscles of a teenager who at least put some effort in the Weight Training P.E.

Usually, when he wanted to he would just get behind me and shove me. "MOVE YOUR LARD ASS" I would hear and suddenly I would impact face-first into a wall. Or I'd be shoved into another upperclassman in front of me. All of this would then be hailed by the laughter of the jerk as he walked away. Being the outcast, even my social awkwardness placed me at odds with the other cliques. The goth artist kids disliked me because I actually -read- Interview with a Vampire and the other books and developed an opinion. The magic kids who played before class during the open period hated that I bombarded them with questions. Plus, the teachers weren't sure what to make of me because I had my head in the clouds. My own respite honestly was reading, and even then I didn't use the school library for the simple fact it wasn't very connected.

No, you see when I finished school and rode the bus back home I would endure the long journey via some novel in my hands. First, it was the Animorphs and after that, it was Lord of the Rings. By the time I was twelve, you would catch me walking from my house to the library a half a mile away daily. 

You see, I didn't live in Ferndale, no I grew up on an Island in the same county, so by the very fate of districts I had to ride a bus for an hour a day to go to school. The rest of the length was in catching a ferry home for five minutes and walking the half-mile down the road to where I live. Most of the kids in the city will have a different experience, but I had a small hike every day so it was no big deal to walk to a library to get the latest novel of the Wheel of Time. 

It's probably not weird at all really, but that is how I functioned. I usually read a book on the ferry and on the bus. When I was home I would load up some story on my computer written about someone becoming a girl. There I would learn more about who and what I was. You see, I don't fit who I am. Named Padraig O'Callaghan as a kid, I never seemed to like how my body fit. Mom would say "you just haven't grown into it" and would do her best to manage my mood swings. But, at the end of the day when I read those stories about magic, and technology 'fixing' someone I'd beg the universe for it to happen to me. Between these stories, and my constant reading I was able to manage my depression for short periods of time.

You see I did have a younger sibling, and we were good at pushing each other's buttons. So maybe it was why in retrospect I found it so easily to play into those dumb little squabbles we had. She'd say one thing, and I'd blame her for another. My father being the parent who took care of us on certain days would then take the next hour to lecture us on being nice. That's my life, it's not bad, but each day, I hold a burden that outside fantasy I can barely describe.

The afternoon of Friday I ran through the general route. First, I went to Orchestra and tried to just get a bit better. Next, I found myself in English, and after that it was math. All the while I would shuttle between classes and trudge across the large high school campus. My sneaker's kicking aside dead leaves and my breath misting out as it got colder each day. I juggled through Spanish, and finally, after so very long, all I had was P.E. Physical Education, the one class I hated and loved at the same time.

I liked games and even ones where I had to be physical. The competition wasn't fun to me, but I enjoyed getting the one up on people especially if they thought they could beat me down. Our P.E. building was the typical school basketball court. The outside was brick and mortar rising up well over thirty feet and accessible through two blue double doors. You pushed them in and walked to the right to get to the P.E lockers. If you were lucky, no one stole or messed with your clothing, and there you changed. If I could, I would change in the toilet stalls. Other times I stared at my dull painted blue locker before changing into shorts and a t-shirt. All this experience did was reminded me of my how wrong body was, the lack of breasts, and the only thing right being my long hair.

I opened my locker, pulled out my clothes for the period and exchanged my pants for black shorts. My shirt pulled off as some kid laughed, "look he's got tits like a girl" and I blushed. I wasn't fat, and yet, I kind of was. Ignoring him I yanked on the over-large baggy shirt and pulled on my shoes. Last period of the day, all I had to do was make it through. A quick dash took me out through the white brick-walled doorway back into the gym. Two basketball courts met my gaze, the shined squeaky wood floor, and the same weird white brick walls. The girls lined up along one line and the boys took another. Our teacher, a guy in too tight of shorts, named Mr. Saul, began our workout routine of the day. Jumping jacks, gods, I hated them.

One kid puffed and puffed beside me as I began the awkward limb swing jump. Mister Saul started some upbeat music and after the jacks, we began our lap for the day. Three times around the gym, I generally alternating between a slow jog and a quick sprint to show off. I buzzed past a girl who shook her head and rolled her eyes. Another day, another annoying girl, and be jealous of her being her true self.

The cardio lasted for fifteen minutes. Mr. Saul broke the routine by calling for us to gather up before pointing to a line of balls he'd lain while we ran laps. My green eyes remained on those balls as the coach called out, "Bombardment". Instantly, he divided us by counting off between one and two. Each team split to respective sides of the gym and we readied for war. I lucked out today, Brad was funnily on my side, but one of his friends, Lanny, wasn't. Lanny was the short kid who others made fun of and used humor to deflect it. It was he who said I had boobs, and it was him with his beady little grey eyes that met mine. The whistle sound and I was off. Hands swing from side to side and I slid on my knees to grab a ball.

Damn, I snagged the ball and use it to out a leggy tan girl in front of me. I jumped over another before jogging back a few feet. I rarely was this lucky, but thanks to all that walking I wasn't completely out of shape.

"Hey, Patrick Star!" Lanny screamed over the others. Even his voice was pinched and high pitched.

"What do you want Lollipop Guild?" I tossed back, well that's what I thought I said. I really said, 

"WHAT!?"

Just as I took the time to look at him I watched him in slow motion. His right hand went back as he wound up the swing and snapped forward. The head size dodge ball flew out of his grasp and right at me. Now, this is where in the story I tell you I dodged it. No, you see the ball was thrown a foot above where I stood. But somehow, and I swear to the gods this very day the little creep was a psychic, it leveled down and slammed right into my face.

I heard the whistle again, "Ceallachain your out!" Mr. Saul stated.

Rising to my feet I shook my head and glared at Lanny as he pointed and jeer at me. Brad himself was laughing loudly, as he danced past a ball while in his long baggy jersey shirt.

"I hate this game," I grimaced as I walked over to the far wall and sat down. We played two more times that day, and every time Lanny knocked me out. And all, I could think of was his stupid smiling pale round face. Those brown eyes bulging as he pressed a hand to his gut and he laughed. The rage boiled up in me and would say with me all the way home on the bus for the rest of the day.

Afternoon, October 14th, 2007 - Harborview Medical, Seattle

Harborview was like any big city hospital, it was where the worst cases of the most important in the Emerald City were cared for. In the middle of the city, built on one of the hills making up the cities foundation. There, on the sixth floor in a very quiet room was a visiting Irish Professor, A quick glance of her chart would tell the viewer her name was Sinéad Maguire, and she was from Galway in the Republic of Ireland. What it wouldn't tell you was Sinéad was not even sure why she was there. All she could remember was the start of her day and the events leading right up to before it all went black. Invited to lecture on regional languages and indigenous studies at the University of Washington, she was also in the city to visit family. Most of the Maguires had fled Ireland during the tumultuous troubles, and the resulting public outcry. Sinéad herself while appearing as a simple professor, was also a woman many in her home county knew as "Song Spirit". That was what it said on her MID, and that's one reason she was also in Seattle.

A death among her American cousins had pushed plans in the work for over a year. It did help that her associates in Ireland, a team dubbed Fianna, were in the grips of a scandal involving the MCO. The specifics were once again not clear to her, but what she did know was it involved an underaged traveler girl, and one of her students a boy named Brian. Mutants in Ireland weren't hated, but they weren't beloved either. Toss in the politics of the traveling community plus a large traveler girl's family including her da and several brothers, and shat hit the fan quickly. After using what influences she could to move the lad over to England for a spell, she decided that the death of her cousin Michael was a good push for her to finally take the guest lecturer position in Seattle.

Her first week in Seattle had been perfectly fine. The weather was similar to her family home in Galway, and the coast reminded her when she grew up in Connemara. Even the fishing boats resting at nets on the coast added to the nostalgia she felt upon seeing them. The sky was cloudy, just like home, and the fall sun just as bright. But something was -wrong- as well. Once she stepped off that plane into SeaTac she all of a sudden felt at odds with the world around her. First, it was an itch along the back of her neck, and the whole day before the lecture she was feeling a growing sense of anxiety.

Right before leaving the hotel she walked right into the bathroom to examine herself. Just as always her flaming red hair and green eyes met her gaze. Like any Exemplar woman, she was good looking, with each movement punctuated by the muscle underneath her half-nude form. She checked her eyes, her mouth, and even sang a small ditty to herself. Her codename, Song Spirit, came from her ability to manipulate sound and to entrance people. Since she had manifested, and taken on the burden as a Draoi, or druid, she'd had a deep connection to her Gaelic heritage. As always, looking at herself revealed that sense of double-vision, as if seeing herself through someone else’s eyes. Initially, it took her months to get used to it, but now after being bonded to her spirit for so long she felt right at home in her body.

"Sigh, mornin’ Morgan, mornin' Sinéad," she said to herself. Her brogue was thick like any girl born from Connemara, but it also held a distinct sing-song flavor to each syllable. Even when out and about she had to watch her voice, or she'd cause someone to stop paying attention. This was especially dangerous when in a cab, or when walking in a crowded street.

Sinéad completed her morning ritual and set aside a small bag of runes carved with Ogham, the old line and dash writing of the ancient Irish. Much like a Norse rune reading she asked a simple question like, "WIll my day be fruitful?" and drew a series of runes from their bag. The runes themselves were small flint stones marked with words in Old Irish. Most were simple words such as "luck" or "health", others were more complicated such as "reaper" and "carriage." So when she drew the rocks from their home this morning and the words spelled out "old friend, bad luck", she was nervous.

There wasn't any actual magic to the runes, but she knew in her gut that something was wrong. The truth was she'd made them up after a friend did a Norse rune reading five years ago, and usually kept them around for the placebo of decision making. And yet, she eyed those words again and tried to fathom what by Dagda's grace they could mean. Red eyes narrowed and widened at them, as she bit her lip uneasily.

"Feck it," she grunted, 'I got shat ta do, and na' much time ta do it."

The Irish lass gathered up the cast runes and shoved the bag quickly into her purse. Whatever bad luck old friend meant, she'd have to figure it out later.

She put on the simple grey pullover for the weather, and a nice pair of khaki trousers. Her favorite leather shoes were next, and after fussing with her hair for ten minutes she declared it "good enough".

The walk from the hotel to the university lecture hall was a few blocks, but Sinéad barely minded a thing. While walking past a window display from a local boutique she cast a glance and caught a girl walking the other way, straight black hair, and a hoodie pulled up over her head. Strange, dun remember passing her by. The Irishwoman ignored the thought and continued on her way. 

The noise of the city was a bit much for her and while waiting for the crosswalk when the eerie sense of someone staring at her caused her to glance over her shoulder. No one was there, again she shrugged it off and continued on her way. Along her way she tucked her purse closer to her person instinctively, and soon passed the last block before arriving at the Communications Building on the University Campus.

Sinéad inhaled deeply before pushing open the door to the building and made her way to the elevator. Pressing the button for the second floor she wrapped her arms around herself as she banished whatever anxiety was starting to creep up her spine. The door opened perfectly on cue and she scooted her way past a brunette student waiting to enter. Just as her lecture was to begin she walked into the Simpson Center lecture hall. Row upon row of seating awaited her and was quite full as she padded down the right side of the room.

'Oh, dang, sorry fer bein' late," she said while passing one of the faculty, a woman dressed in long black skirt and black blouse.

"No worries Doctor Maguire, we were just starting to file in, you are on time," the woman replied. Sinéad smiled her eyes alight with vigor.

"Alright, shall we start?" she asked and set down her purse before removing a jump drive.

"Yes, the computer is ready if you have the correct file we should be able to start your presentation," the faculty member said. Meanwhile, a tall student in a black button-up shirt and jeans stood up to address the audience.

"Thank you, everyone, for attending this afternoon's guest lecture by Doctor Sinéad Maguire!" he began before continuing, "As you may have heard, Dr. Maguire has recently published her study on the current status of the Celtic Languages of the British Isles. As per usual, please wait for the Doctor to complete her presentation and then we will be allowing a short question period thereafter."

Sinéad gulped, this was a small audience and far smaller than the crowds she was used to. As Song Spirit, she was a leading member of Galway's Fianna, and she wasn't at all inexperienced in presenting herself to the public. Under her real identity though she rarely did anything but conduct her research and present it for peer review. Now, for the first time since she was invited, she would actually be putting her results for others to see. Well, for those not directly in her small circle of fellow Doctoral experts of indigenous European Languages.

"Hello everyone, an' before I begin, I just wan' ta say thank ta the Washington Celtic Society here in Seattle for the invitation and providing for my visit," she breathed slowly to calm her nerves.

"I also want ta say thank ye ta everyone for attendin' my lecture. While many may not know, the native regional languages of Europe face an' uphill battle. We in the Republic have nationalized our native tongue, bu' only maybe twenty percent of citizens speak it actively." She continued discussing the statistics before opening up her powerpoint presentation and showing a brief history of the language. Once the data flowed she eased the cadence of her voice, letting her voice carry her growing confidence she leaned back against the table where the projector rested.

"Now, when I conducted my research, I did so with explicit permission while spendin' weeks at a time in well known Brythonic and Goidelic language settlements. The Gaeltacht of Ireland, in towns in the Hebrides of Scotland. These areas are home to defined dialects and vary between that spoken as the standard in their home country. Wales, which is noted as having a far higher speaker population itself shows stronger Welsh presence in those areas farthest away from the dike built by King Offa."

In all her time in between work with the Fianna, she had picked up how the traditions of the Draoi were found throughout the Isles. If the University of Galway gave permission for her trip to Bretagne more could be realized! Even more so for personal understanding, she wanted to know more about the elusive tradition she was a part of. Her research for the preservation of her people's language was just a plus along the way.

She was just about finishing up her presentation when a wave of anxiety hit her again. Sinéad felt the wisps of a daze dash through her eyes as she leaned against the table once more. Her right hand curled around the edge of the cheap college furniture as she ran her eyes across the audience. Everyone was intent on paying attention to what she had to say. The genuine fascination they held invigorated her to go further. The Doctor wobbled a bit feeling her legs wanting to give and pushed herself to remain standing.

"Now, what I have noticed through my study, which will require further corroboration," she froze mid-sentence.

At first, she wasn't aware of why she stopped, before her, she realized that pain was exploding in her arm and worming its way to her chest. Her heart beat harder and harder, filling her hearing with its drumming. Slowly, she winced, and felt her legs giving way just as her grip on the table loosened. There was a rush of shocked gasps and when her body impacted the ground it let out a loud thud.

"Someone call 9-1-1," she could make out the faculty member yelling, "I think she's having a heart attack."

The pain continued and slowly drew her away from the light, deeper and deeper until nothing remained.

After blacking out she later found herself in that quiet room in what appeared to be a hospital. The steady beeping of a heart monitor met her wakening senses as she tried to move and found herself completely drained of energy. Did they say a heart attack? But I couldn't have one that easily, right? Questions invaded her sluggish brain and Sinéad closed her eyes. Neither her arms nor her legs wanted to move, and her chest felt like someone had driven a spike into her ribs. 

From her prone position, she shifted her head painfully slow to take in the room. A window glaring with the nightlight of the city was the first thing she saw. Second, she noted the bedside light near her bed and finally at the doorway to the bathroom. Her hospital bed was comfy, not as nice as her bed at home, but it kept the pain at bay. Sinéad licked her lips nervously while trying to make heads or tails of the idling worry returning to her senses. Ever since stepping foot in Seattle, everything felt wrong. Even the day of her presentation had felt off, and the runes were just adding to the fire of confusion. One attempt at sitting up only rendered more pain so before she even began she gave up. A soft thump against the pillow was all she heard as she closed her eyes.

At least she was alone.

Running through the events of the day Sinéad tried to figure what could have happened to cause her to almost die. As a mutant, her health was quite good, and she hadn't even stressed herself out remotely that much with her studies. She ate well, and was fairly young for an exemplar, and should have a long life ahead of her. Other than a few of Fianna's arch-enemies there was no one actively wanting her dead. Song Spirit was the face of the Fianna, but she wasn't one of the biggest targets. No one should even know she was -in- Seattle other than members of her family and her team.

It all left her befuddled as to what happened.

That's when she saw it or finally saw it. In the glare of the window, the smallest movement by the base of her bed. Reacting quickly, she painfully rolled over to spy the mirror facing the edge of the bed and stood still. Her heightened hearing picked up nothing, and nor did she see anyone. 

Again she looked at the window, and again movement, the barest of it on the other side shifting of the blankets. Her muscles protested her reversal in the bed, and as if by magic she found no one on the opposite side as well.

"Tick - Tock," the barest hint of a voice whispered. Sinéad's body tensed, her eyes darted around looking for a source of the sound.

"Tick - feckin' tock, the Rider's run ou' the clock," that stupid voice was feminine, and sounded like a little girl singing under her breath. Whoever, or whatever was speaking showed not a hint of being close enough to her or remotely in the room.

A yelp of frustration emitted from the heroine's mouth as she pounded her fists into the cushion of the bed's mattress. WHO THE FECK IS TEASING ME! WHO ARE YE!

"Just an old friend, come callin'" this time the voice was louder and placed right in front of her. Sinéad's head leaned forward trying to spy someone hiding at the foot of her bed.

"Up here ridden," the words drew her gaze up, and she saw it. The shock of the image hit her harder than a dram of shit whiskey, and it was perhaps the last solid thought she would have.

There in the reflection of the mirror was a girl, well, the body of a girl. A body that vividly lacked a head. It moved directly into view in the glared mirror, and the voice started to hum. Sinéad squinted to make out the body's clothes and realized she was dressed like a young girl from the victorian era. The dress itself was held up by a thick white petticoat and appeared dark-colored. Around the headless neck was a lace collar fitted with a small black ribbon tie. The sleeves went down all the wave over her wrists and were edged in white lace. The only thing she lacked was what made it seem so eerie.

"Dullahan," she whispered. The headless grim-reapers from Irish faerie tales, and there was one right there in her room's reflection.

"Spot on, well done ridden!' the voice chirped and as if to add insult to injury the hands of the body clapped.

"What do you want?" Sinéad croaked, as she began to hear her heartbeat pounding in her ears.

"Just to finish the job, as I said, tick-tock." The Exemplar tried to wrack her brain for why a magical creature would be wanting to kill her, and how a reflection was going to do the job. Just as she inhaled to focus the hand of the Dullahan snaked away from its resting place at the body's side. It's arm extending inhumanly out to plunge fingertip first into her reflection's chest. Just as it did she felt a burst of pain, and blood began to seep up through the paper hospital gown.

"The poison, wasn't working well enough, and your rider kept you alive," the headless being spoke again.

"How - how?" she coughed.

"Hurt the shadow, and the victim bleeds all the same," the little voice said with a chattering laugh.

"Tick - tock, rider, I know you are in there," the hand whatever it was grasped at her heart and squeezed.

In her dying moment's the only thought she had was the epiphany of what the Dullahan meant by rider. Morgan, the force that gave her her powers, and sustained her. But, the force itself was just that, a force, a spirit without any real name other than Morgana or Morgan as Sinéad called it. Could it be something else?

"Tick - tock lass, the banshee's wailing for ye at home," were the last thing she heard as the mirror monster's hand squeezed her heart till it burst.