December 27th, 2007

It was the twenty-seventh, Kota and I were sitting in the living room with Mom waiting for the arrival of the special guest, while Dad, Uncle Herb and Theresa were out having fun. I'm not sure who was more nervous me or Kota. She was wearing her usual baggy jeans and sweatshirt, after spending all of Christmas and the day before in slightly tighter pants and blouses with a sweater thrown over top.

I was wearing the devise rings Uncle Herb gave me, feeling the sparks stopping just short of my skin, being absorbed into the bracelet batteries. My hair was still damp after working off all my excess energy for two hours in the gym, and from the nervous energy building up I figured I could do another two or three hours before I started feeling worn out.

Since the roads sucked, we weren't sure when the woman, a Martina Richards, would actually show up. She'd been picked up by a limo at the airport after meeting Dad, but she could reach us in thirty minutes or an hour. Kota was playing 'The Legend of Zelda' on the Wii she'd bought when we went shopping together. We'd all taken turns playing it and a bunch of other games she'd bought on Christmas and the day after, amazingly Uncle Herb proved to be the best at it, Mom kept moving too fast for the controller to keep track of her.

I did ok, but today I didn't want to play, I just hugged my stuffed dog and watched.

The doorbell rang, Mom dropped her book and was at the door before the first chime faded away. Kota put her game down and gave me a nervous look. After a long wait that felt like hours, Mom and Mrs. Richards came in. The woman was pretty, flawless dark skin, expressive emerald green eyes, a killer body, and shoulder length black hair, she would have looked perfect except for the nervous smile.

She took a sip of coffee that Mom must have given her while they talked in the entrance way. “Hi you two. So you're both changelings?”

Kota and I both stared at her having no idea what she was talking about. “What do you mean changelings?” Kota finally asked.

“Changelings are mutants who have changed sex,” she explained. “I heard the word from Dr. Sharpe over fifteen years ago, when my parents were directed to him after I noticed some problems with my face and chest that the doctors couldn't explain.”

“Yeah we're both changelings,” I told her.

“Excuse me,” Mom said, looking uncharacteristically nervous, “should I be here while you talk?”

Mrs. Richards shrugged her shoulders. “I'm not a psychiatrist, so I have no idea. I'm just going to talk about things, and do some exercises that helped me out.”

“Can you stay here?” Kota asked, playing with the hem of her shirt. “Please.”

Mom looked at me, raising her eyebrow. I nodded, not sure if it was a good idea or not, but figuring it couldn't hurt. “All right, I'll just stay out of the way, but if either of you need anything I'm here for you.” She took a seat in a chair off to the side, pulling out a pen and notepad so that she'd have something to keep her hands occupied since she'd remember everything that was said and done.

“I guess I should tell you a bit about myself,” she said, getting a far away look in her eyes. “Until I was fifteen, I was Marcel Garcia. I wasn't special in any real way, just a typical teenage boy who liked looking at girls and asking them out on dates only to get shot down, playing sports, and messing around. Then one day I realized my chest was a bit flabbier than it should be, my voice was cracking, again, and my hair was growing, becoming finer and longer. I won't tell you all the other personal details, but within a month of noticing that, I was starting to panic when I realized that something was getting smaller. I told my parents I NEEDED to see a doctor, but wouldn't explain why. Two weeks later when I finally got a checkup, I was having to bind my chest, and thanked god that I didn't have gym class during the summer.” She smiled and blushed at the same time.

“By the time he was done looking me over, the doctor who had with my family for longer than I'd been alive was speechless, and very confused. My parents were called in, and he said I was growing breasts. Several rounds of blood tests showed I had more estrogen in my blood than should be humanly possible, along with a lot more hormones that would have a prepubescent girl shooting through puberty, like a rocket. My parents and I didn't know what to do, so there were more tests. All of this took a couple of weeks, and each week brought more changes. By the time I saw Dr. Sharpe, I was having to sit down to pee, and I looked more like a twin sister than me.” She looked at her long fingers for a moment.

“Fortunately my parents and family were there for me. I went to live with my grandparents in California. My parents told everyone I was getting out of the city for the safer environment of a small town, and my grandparents told their friends I was a great niece who needed a place to stay while my parents settled some problems. I wasn't sure what I was going to do, but I knew I'd be horrified if anyone found out I was a boy turning into a girl. So I changed my name, and my parents did all the paperwork to change my identity, which wasn't easy but with all the doctors reports was possible, and I went back to school as Martina. We made sure I didn't have to worry about gym class, so all I had to do was make sure I didn't wander into the boys bathroom and make sure no one peeked when I had to go.”

“It was that easy?” Kota asked.

“I wish,” she replied, wistfully. “I had to learn how to walk in a skirt and dress, since my grandparents insisted I go to church. Learning how to talk differently, act, move, dress, and everything else so people wouldn't know I used to be a boy was hard. It helped that my grandmother was still going strong, and had the patience and stubbornness to teach me how to be a lady. At school they thought I was old fashioned, a throwback to the 40's and 50's, but it worked.”

“How did you handle it?” I asked.

“After the mind numbing terror, with a bit of denial, I adjusted. It took a few months of living like a girl every single day, but eventually it seemed right. I knew I was completely adjusted when a boy asked me out, and rather than being disgusted I smiled and said yes.” She moved her fingers like she was counting. “I think that was eight months after I started to change.”

“So liking boys and stuff is normal?” Kota asked in a whisper.

“Dr. Sharpe says it is, so did the psychiatrist I saw once a month that he recommended. The bit we have says we're suppose to be this sex, so it does a few things with the wiring in our brains to make us fit a little better.”

Kota's hands clenched up so tightly her knuckles turned white. “How do- how do you know you're still you?”

That got an understanding smile. “I asked myself that same question a lot. I can't say nothing has changed, I won't lie to you, but let's look things over. I still love football, watching it with my husband and kids, and play amateur flag football with my friends. I like guys now, but seeing a good head of blond hair, sweet blue eyes, and a nice tight body makes me weak in the knees, just like it used to. All my memories are the same, believe me I've checked with my family many times. My favourite colour is still black. As a teenage girl I still laughed at the same jokes I did when I was a teenage boy, and even now I will smile when I hear a good fart joke even if my tastes have matured. I still love spicy food that burns your tongue. I may like children more than before, but my husband absolutely adores children, so you can't say it's a man woman thing.”

She showed us her nails which were well taken care of but didn't have a trace of nail polish on them. “I did learn how to use makeup, but I only wear it for special occasions. And I'll dress up, because I like to look good, and I enjoy men looking at me respectfully, but I don't like spending more than twenty minutes on my hair, and that is mostly to dry it after a shower, and I hate primping and preening. The biggest change I think, is that I'm more open about my emotions and I like to talk more. As a guy, I would talk about things on my mind, but always look for a solution or try to show off how much I knew, unless I was killing time shooting the shit. And rather than crying on a friends shoulder, I'd do something physical alone or with a friend to work off stress. Now a good long talk that wanders around and doesn't have to solve all the problems in the world with a girlfriend feels just as good most of the time. So am I still me? I've done things that would make the old me want to puke, like giving birth to two wonderful babies, and visiting a gynecologist,” she made a disgusted face at that one.

“But I think I am me, different but not totally different or forgetting who I used to be.” She sighed as if relieved that a job was done. “Now, I want you to do something. Write down everything that you think you've lost or will lose.”

Kota and I both picked up our notepads and pens that had been set out earlier. I thought about what to write. Pretty, fashionable clothes, talking with girlfriends, talking about my feelings, dancing, having to do everything on my own, having to be tough all the time, having a baby, makeup...

There was more, but I couldn't think about how to write them down. It was all just a big confusing mess in my head. After ten minutes I put the notepad down. Kota kept writing, scratching things out, and writing again. Finally she threw the note pad down with a look of disgust.

“Now, I want one you to start, read the first thing on your list and we can talk about it, then the other will read theirs, and we'll work our way down the list. Who would like to start?” Mrs. Richards asked.

I looked at Kota who was sitting there with her head down. “I'll start. I won't be pretty anymore.”

“Do you like looking at guys?” she asked.

“Yeah. But I don't want to look like one!”

“You can't change what's happening, but you do have some choices over how you look. You don't have to try to look ruggedly handsome, or a punk, the clothes you wear, your hairstyle, they'll help you a lot,” she said. “Dr. Sharpe also has some things for you to try when you see him, he's not an expert on BIT's focusing on GSD more, but there are some things you might be able to do to help shape it a little, especially this early.”

Mom spoke up for the first time. “Estelle, why don't you and I look at some pictures of mens' clothes and styles? Maybe we can find a look you like.”

I nodded, wishing I could hide in a baggy shirt like Kota.

“Kota, what about you?”

She mumbled something that I couldn't make out even though I was right beside her.

“Kota, what is it?” Mom asked.

“I'm weak,” she whispered.

“No you're not,” Mom said. “I saw you running the other day, a weak person couldn't run like you, or talk to me like you did either.”

“Then wh- why did I let... it happen?” she asked, tears starting to fall from her eyes.

Mom came over and gave Kota a hug. “Mrs. Richards, Estelle, how about you both keep talking, while I talk with Kota in private?”

I gave Kota a gentle pat on the back as Mom led her out not waiting for either of us to answer her, cradling the now openly sobbing girl to her side.

Mrs. Richards watched them leave, a sad look in her eye. Giving her head a shake she turned back to me. “Well Estelle, what's next?”

“Here,” I said handing over the list.

She took a moment to read it. “Dancing? Why can't you keep dancing?”

“I'll have to relearn everything, my balance will be off, everything is different, and, and...” I didn't know what else to say.

“You like dancing?” she asked.

“Love it.”

“Then relearning how to move won't be that hard. You're going to have exemplar reflexes, honestly you'll need something to challenge yourself, because you're going to start improving my leaps and bounds.” She came over to sit next to me. “You don't have to give up what you love, I certainly didn't. Now talking with your girlfriends. Do you know many guys?”

“Not a whole lot. I go to an all girls school,” I admitted.

“From a former boy, boys do talk, they talk about different things, and they usually try to solve a problem instead of just listening,” she rolled her eyes. “But they do talk, some more than others. And you are allowed to have friends who are girls, and you can talk with each other about all kinds of things. It's a bit more rough and tumble then with most girls, but that's one thing you'll have to get used to. And this leads us to two other things.”

She read over my list again. “Having to do everything on your own, and being tough all the time. Guys do ask for help, don't believe the stupid sitcoms on tv. They don't ask for help as quickly as girls do, they like to look tough and knowledgeable, but most guys aren't stupid and when they don't know what's going on they'll ask for help, after trying one or two things on their own hoping they can boast about it later. If you have trouble, get some friends and ask. As for being tough, boys don't want to look too weak in front of some people, but if they bottle it all up it's not good either.”

“So why do I usually see boys acting all macho?”

“Because they're trying to impress people in public,” Mrs. Richards explained. “When they're alone with friends, they'll complain about things, they'll play sports to let off tension, when they're old enough, they'll go out for a drink with friends and cry in their beer, yell a bit, or make a lot of tasteless jokes. And if they have a really good friend or a girlfriend they trust, they'll even cry on their shoulder. I married a man and we've been through a lot, the tough guy act is mostly for public consumption.”

She looked around, “Where's the bathroom?”

I gave her directions and while she hurried off, I got curious. Taking Kota's notebook, I saw that over half the page was scratched out. Guiltily I started reading the few words that were almost ripped into the page. 'Weak, helpless, alone, pretty little toy.'

I heard footsteps coming down the hall, and hastily put the notebook back down. Mrs. Richards came in and sat down beside me. “Estelle, like I said I'm not a psychiatrist, so how about we just talk as friends? Anything you want.”

“Ok,” I said, distracted and trying to figure out why Kota had written those things. “What were you afraid of when you started to change?”

We talked for several hours, until Dad, Uncle Herb and Theresa came back with supper. Kota and Mom came out of the guest room then, and while Kota was even more quiet than usual, she seemed to be walking a little bit more lightly.

**

December 28th, 2006

The next morning, Mom, Kota, and I sat on the couch while Mrs. Richards sat on a chair across from us. Mom was at one end and Kota was in the middle, she was holding Mom's hand like it was a lifeline. Mom had asked me quietly before we started if it was ok, she would have sat in between us, but they wanted Kota and I to try to talk to each other today. After seeing Kota's breakdown the other day and reading what she'd written, I didn't have a problem with it. I was still upset and unhappy about my coming changes, but with the long talk yesterday, I saw that it didn't have to be the end of the world, I was doing better than Kota to, and I could figure out why.

From listening to Kota's last question before she started crying, and what she'd written, it didn't take a genius to figure out what it meant, at least once I had a chance to think about it with my own head clear. Some of the kids my parents helped had suffered pretty bad abuse, even that. I'd overheard them talking about both girls and boys who'd come to them for that reason, and I'd met one or two of them, like with the GSD kids, I was just suppose to be there and act normal around them, letting them know they weren't freaks or anything.

Taking what I knew, I placed my hand on Kota's knee, so she would know I was there for her.

We'd both had a chance to get to know Mrs. Richards in a more relaxed way during the evening over supper, and that morning. It turned out she knew even more about football than Uncle Herb and Dad put together, and she liked rap music which gave her something to talk about with Kota.

Now, however, we were both nervous about what we were going to talk about. Kota was wearing her baggiest jeans and a hoodie. I hadn't seen the hoodie before, unlike the other ones she'd worn which were for guys, this one was cut for a girl, if fairly baggy, with a basic dark grey, blue and black, diagonally striped pattern, it also looked new. Occasionally her free hand would reach up to the center of her chest and seem to touch something hidden under her shirt.

I was almost the opposite of Kota, tight white jeans, pink socks, a pink and white V-neck shirt with 'LOVE!' stenciled on the front and a bunch of hearts. Until the last possible minute, I was going to be as fashionable and girly as possible. And after looking over a bunch of fashion sites for men with Mom the night before, I swore to myself that I would still be fashionable after the change, even if I wouldn't be as hot and cute as I was now.

Mrs. Richards made herself comfortable, and looked at both of us. “Today I think it would help if you two talked to each other. How does that sound to you?”

“Sure,” I said, having had a chance to think about it.

Kota just nodded.

She gave us a big smile. “Great. This is something we brainstormed last night, if either of you feel uncomfortable or upset, tell me and we'll take a break or change the subject. I'd like both of you to tell the other one why you liked being a boy or a girl. I think it will help give you somethings to consider.” Mrs. Richards looked at me,. “Do you think you could go first Estelle?”

“Alright. I like being a girl because I like to dress up and look pretty. When I know I look good, it just feels,” I struggled to think of the right word, “right, I guess.”

“What about when guys look at you?” Kota asked quietly.

“As long as they aren't leering, I actually kind of like it,” I admitted, thankful that my red complexion didn't show how much I was blushing. “I like to know I'm the prettiest girl.”

Kota shook her head, folding her free hand across her body. “I don't understand that. It's like they're undressing you.”

“Not really. Ok, sometimes, and that can be creepy, especially if they're ugly or old. But usually it makes me feel good, especially if they're cute.” My mouth snapped shut as Mom looked at me with pursed lips, and a promise that we'd be talking about things later on. A thought came to me. “When you were a guy, did you like girls looking at you?”

“Yeah. But that's different.”

“How?”

“Well, because... they're... it's not the same!” she insisted. “As a guy I was in control.”

“So am I,” I told her. “I don't know what it's like in some places, but if some creep is staring at me, I can glare at him, leave, ask for help, or point him out to my friends and start saying bad stuff about losers that stare.”

Her expression hardened. “I don't like asking for help.”

“Why not? You can't do everything by yourself.” It was this type of boy attitude I couldn't understand, even after Mrs. Richard had told me it wasn't really as bad as I thought.

She brought her knees up to her chest and stared straight ahead. “I used to ask... ask my brothers for help all the time.”

Mom hugged her tightly, whispering in her ear. I don't know what she said, but after almost a full minute of whispering, Kota relaxed, a little. Mom didn't stop hugging her though. “Ok,” Kota finally said, still staring at nothing, “asking for help isn't bad. But I still don't want guys staring at me.”

Mrs. Richards nodded. “That's fine, neither of you have to agree, just try to understand and see it from each others perspective. Kota, what about you?”

“Standing up to pee was great. There was almost never a line up for the bathroom as a guy,” she said.

We all smiled at that. “Alright, one very good thing about being a guy,” I giggled, thinking about the times I'd been forced to wait in line at a busy restaurant or mall. Assuming it was my turn I got my giggles under control and said, “Hugging my close friends. I don't really like touching that much, but a quick hug, a hand on the arm, things like that whenever I feel a little down, or happy, or just want to know people care about me is great.”

I immediately felt bad about saying that when I saw Mom tense a little. I hadn't really thought about her when I said it, but I should have.

Kota looked at Mom and then me. “I think I can get that one. Guys put their arms around the shoulders and pat on the back, but hugs aren't really our thing. My turn again, I guess. Boys aren't talked down to as much.”

“What?” I asked.

“People just seem to treat me like I don't know something since I became a girl, when talking about the same thing as a boy people acted like I knew something,” she explained.

I didn't know what to say to that, and a look at Mom for support, just got a shake of her head, letting me know this was all on me. “Well, I've heard of that. But I go to an all girls school, and I don't really know many boys, so I haven't really noticed. That must be really annoying.”

“Very,” Kota almost growled. “And people seem to get a lot more upset and confused, when I don't act all nice and polite.”

“Girls are usually quieter and act more easy going than boys,” I admitted.

“It gets old fast. And boys aren't weak,” she continued.

“What do you mean?”

“Girls are weak. Boys aren't.”

I'd never had a problem with being weak, with my training and exercise I could probably beat up most boys my age even before manifesting. But I knew a lot of my friends wouldn't last more than a few seconds in a fight, if they were able to fight at all. “You're an exemplar now, you're probably stronger then when you were a boy.”

“I'm not strong enough to fight back.”

“Bull!” I said, channeling some of my fighting instructors. “Sure you'll get into fights you can't win, but if you know how to pay attention, how to defend yourself, and are willing to go all out, you can buy yourself some time and let them know you won't go easy.”

“Have you ever had to fight?” she asked me.

“Once, and I couldn't win. I almost... I almost died,” I said, closing my eyes trying to hold off the images of murder and death. “But I still fought.”

I could see the anger rise in her face. “Than you're better than me.”

Mom turned Kota around to look in her eyes. “No she's not. Estelle has trained, and learned how to fight. You haven't. And the people who attacked her were strangers who were killing almost everyone they found, except for children and other sacrifices. NOT people she trusted. Believe me, THAT changes everything.”

The quavering voice was almost too quiet to hear. “I'm still weak.”

“So change it, learn to fight.” Mom bit her lip for a second. “Ok, let's move this to the gym. Martina, would you like to watch us train, relax, or take a limo to do some shopping?”

Mrs. Richards seemed a little taken back at the offer. “A limo! Are you sure?”

Mom nodded.

“How could I say no to that. Thank you, I'll do some shopping.”

“I'll make the call. Estelle, Kota, change into some workout clothes,” Mom said as she walked out of the room already phoning the limo company. Now that she had a purpose, nothing was going to stop her.

“Are we really going to fight?” Kota asked, well more like squeaked.

“No. Probably. But I think you're going to get a crash course in self defense.” Getting up, I gave her a little smile. “We'd better get ready, when she's like this hardened criminals do what she tells them.”

**

I was the first one in the gym, wearing a tight t-shirt and shorts, not quite sure what Mom was planning I started stretching. Kota came in a few minutes later wearing a track suit, it looked like a new one and actually made for a girl, so I guessed it was one that Mom had gotten her. Silently she started stretching as well.

Mom finally came in as we finished stretching, she was wearing a yoga pants and a tank top, I knew we were going to do some serious training because her sunglasses were off. “All right, lets begin. Kota, have you had any self defense or fight training?”

Kota shook her head. “No.”

“Have you ever been in a fight?”

“Just school yard fights. I used to win most of them.”

That got a frown. When I'd tell her about how some of the kids fought when I'd gone to public school, she'd laughed and said that wasn't fighting, it was just slapping each other and posturing. “All right, let's see how you punch,” she said, holding up her hand.

Kota shrugged, made a fist and punched Mom's open palm. There wasn't much speed to it, her wrist twisted a little, there was very little weight in the punch, and all in all it was terrible. I wisely kept my mouth shut, taking criticism from an official superhero was one thing, but I figured with how Kota thought I was 'too' girly girly, my critiquing her fighting skills would not be taken well.

While Mom taught Kota the basics, I started pounding away on a punching bag. To work off the energy I'd been slowly building up, I gave my muscles a small charge and really let loose. Since the bag was made for my parents light training, the specially made kevlar punching bags that were full of ball bearings were kept behind some hidden wall panels so visitors wouldn't see them, it held up well to my beating, but it was still rocking pretty hard.

“I can't do this!” Kota yelled.

I stopped and looked at her wiping the sweat from my brow. Kota was red in the face, her lower lip trembling. “I can't fight anymore. Even she's stronger than me!” she shouted, pointing at me.

“Estelle, when did you start learning how to fight?” Mom asked.

“I started when I was six. And you had me doing push ups and sit ups when I was three,” I said. “When not on holidays, I train with a personal trainer for three hours every Saturday, and I train for two hours a day every three days.”

Mom gave Kota a hug. “See, it's not about how strong you are, but training. If you want I can start training you, and you can keep it going at Whateley, but if you just give up you'll stay weak.”

Kota didn't say anything, too lost in her misery. Sighing Mom let go of her and typed a code on the security panel by the door. Walls slid up revealing training equipment, Mom zipped around the room pulling out punching bags, gymnastic equipment, specially made weights and workout machines, until the room was crowded with equipment.

“All right Kota, my daughter is trained in fighting, you're trained in moving. What do you think is better?”

“Fighting,” she answered immediately.

Mom smiled. “Let's find out. Estelle, I want you to punch Kota within five minutes. No powers. Kota, don't get punched. Starting now.”

I loudly punched my palm, giving Kota a small chance to get ready. The girl looked at my Mom like she was nuts, then saw me moving towards her, fists raised. Without even thinking about it, she jumped over a stack of free weights and was off.

The next five minutes were frustrating for me. I'm not clumsy, and my dance training helped me be light on my feet, but dancing is not made for jumping and dodging like a mad person. She'd jump, slide or duck and weave around something, as if it was all planned in advance, and I'd have to slow down, look for the best way around it, and fall another second or two behind. The fact that I couldn't use a charge didn't help matters.

When Mom finally stopped us, I was breathing hard, sweaty, and really wanted to get back to punching the bag. Kota was breathing a little heavy, but was actually smiling.

Mom gave me a smile, letting me know I'd done a good job, and patted Kota on the back. “Now than Kota, in a straight fight Estelle has the advantage. Her training, and her powers are all very offensive, fighting her on her terms is about as effective as trying to beat me in a footrace. Your training and powers can become offensive, but right now they're mostly good at letting you get away and surviving, which is not something to be upset about. In my professional opinion you should look at hit and run tactics, distractions and setting people up for a very powerful hit, rather than the stand up fight you're thinking about. It's easier for you to expand on what you know, suits your powers better, and it's safer.”

“I shouldn't have to run away from fights,” Kota said, shutting down once more.

“With training, you don't have to. Moving a fight to where you have the advantage isn't weak or cowardly it's smart. When Fly By and I started being superheroes, we,” I gave her a look, causing her to backtrack. “Ok, mostly I, would go straight into a fight without planning anything more than hitting the bad guy a dozen times before he could blink. It worked just often enough that I kept doing it. But there were quite a few times I ended up in the hospital, and once... Fly By was captured because I wanted to be just like you, and I walked into a dozen different traps.” Mom clenched her fists for a moment, pushing back the memory which had hurt all of us so badly. “After that, I started learning how to use my speed as something other than a way to get from point A to B and to punch or kick people really fast. Now, while I like a good fight, I come at the criminals from odd angles, get in a good hit aimed at disabling them or setting them up for another hit by Fly By, and get out. I still get hurt, but visits to the hospital are a lot less frequent, and even when things go south, Fly By and I can still manage to get away and fight another day.”

She hugged Kota again. “Running away is often the smart thing, especially if you aren't a hero, don't think you're weak when you're just being smart. Now let's work on your punches again, once you get enough control, you can practice them on Estelle,” Mom said with a grin.

“Wow! Feel the love in this room,” I groaned.

“At least I'm not going to make you put all of this stuff back by yourself.”

**

After a full day of hard training, made possible by the fact we were all mutants with powers that gave us ridiculous endurance, Kota was feeling more confident, and I was actually starting to feel her punches as something stronger than fly bites. I didn't mind being a mobile punching bag as I had on some light padding, and I was allowed to charge myself up first. Then I got to watch Kota do her parkour thing while slamming her feet, elbows, knees and fists into Mom, since she was tough enough to take it, from all different angles, which was pretty interesting. Usually it was Mom who did that kind of stuff, and I could guess that once Kota got more experience, she'd be a real pain to fight anywhere that wasn't a flat field.

Mom helped move the heaviest equipment back into place and left the lighter stuff for Kota and I while she went to check her emails and get some work done.

“Feel better?” I asked as we put the equipment away.

“A little,” she admitted. “I don't think I'll join the martial arts class this term like your mom recommended, they're teaching Parkour in survival class. But maybe in September I'll do it.”

“As long as you keep practicing by yourself that should be good enough for now. I don't think I'll join martial arts when I get their either.”

She stopped moving a punching bag back into its' wall panel. “Why not? You hit like a ton of bricks.”

Shrugging, I answered, “I already know how to fight, pretty well to. So I don't really need to learn a new style to defend myself. And from what I read, the survival class seems pretty interesting.”

“Don't you want to be a hero like your parents?”

“Do you want to be exactly like your parents?” I asked.

She lowered her eyes, and wordlessly started pushing the punching bag again. I moved over to her and put my arm around her shoulder. “I'm sorry. I didn't know.”

“I-it's ok,” she muttered, keeping her head down.

“Want to talk about it?”

“No... Yes... I don't know.” She punched the bag. “Why are you guys so nice to me?”

There was something in her voice, like she was pleading for the truth. So I told her. “Because they wanted more kids and they could only have me, and they can't actually touch me.”

“That curse?”

“Yeah. Mom comes from a big family, Dad has lots of cousins, so they wanted a big family to. Then they were cursed, and they don't want to risk having another kid who can't touch them. So they help out kids like you and Theresa as much as they can.” We walked over to a bench. “If they were baseline they'd be foster parents, maybe adopt a few kids, but because Mom is a known mutant they're not allowed, it would not be a safe environment for the children. And I help them, because I've been doing it since I could walk.”

“So we're not just charity cases?”

“No, you're not. Once Mom and Dad get their hooks you, you're unofficial family.” An idea popped into my head. “Come on, we can put the rest of this stuff away later. I want to show you something.”

Grabbing her hand, I made Kota follow me to the library. I made her sit at the table, while I went to a wall that was right beside a bookshelf. Opening a hidden panel I typed in a code, and the wall opened up revealing photo albums. Taking several of them I brought them to the table.

“That's pretty elaborate security for photo albums,” Kota said.

“These are special photo's that could reveal a lot more about my family than we want.” I opened up the first one, there was a boy with a parrot beak sitting beside Prairie Sun and Fly By, and another with my parents not in costume, and me all swaddled up. “This is Bobby, he was the first boy who actually stayed with them for a few weeks. Before that they would just keep newly manifested mutants for a few days, maybe a week or two before passing them onto Whateley or a family member. That was thirteen years ago, just a few months after I was born.”

I slowly flipped through the pages, each one was of Bobby, showing him growing older. The pictures were taken in the house, in the headquarters, the surrounding prairies, a few were in Edmonton, where Bobby wore a surgical mask, that bulged oddly. In quite a few I was being held by him or sitting beside him, my little hands were often grabbing for his beak, which he seemed to love. “He's working as virtual assistant now over in Vancouver, we visit each other two or three times a year.”

Taking another album out, I showed her a picture of twins, a boy and a girl, they had been badly beaten, each of them had a cast on their arm, and the girl was in a wheel chair because both her legs were broken. “Dylan and Tanya, they called 911 when their parents called H1 and walked away after they manifested. Mom and Dad looked after them for a whole year, while they recovered, mentally and physically.” The pictures showed the twins getting healthier, but at first they were always holding each other, as if they were afraid to let their sibling go. I was three years old when they had lived with us, and anytime I was in the picture, Tanya was holding onto me like I was her most precious doll. Then the pictures started showing them apart, Dylan playing ball or fishing with Dad, Tanya working on a computer or reading a book, still in her wheelchair.

“What happened to them?” Kota asked, when the pictures ended abruptly with the twins just in their late teens.

“They died. They were on their way back here after graduating from Whateley, they were driving across the country, playing tourist. They got caught in a bad thunderstorm and they were at least an hour away from a hotel, there was a car accident.” I wiped my eyes, remembering riding around on Tanya's lap as she pushed her wheelchair around as fast as she could go, which since she'd been a speedster, had been pretty fast. “They were going to go to school here, Tanya had gotten a great scholarship to study psychology, and Dylan was going to study policing to be a hero. My parents were helping them pay for it.”

I held Kota's hand. “We've got over fifteen photo albums each one for a different kid, and a bunch more for kids who only stayed with us for a short time. If you come back, you'll be getting one of your own. My parents don't care who you are, or where you came from. They see you as a teenager who needs help, and they'll help you as best they can.”

“My parents aren't like that,” she whispered. “They didn't even want me.”

I hugged her. “It's ok, you're wanted now.”

Tears hit my cheek and ran down onto my shoulder. “I-I thought my brothers loved me. But-but they didn't. I changed, and th-then they used me.”

Kota had been a bitch when we first met, but with her crying on my shoulder I pushed that aside as water under the bridge. There was a girl just barely older than I was, grieving at being abused and abandoned by her family, and I was the only one there to help her. “If you want, you can come back every vacation. You'll always have a place here, and our summer reunions are pretty spectacular.”

She was crying too hard to make out her answer, but from the way she was hugged me closer, I took it as a yes.