bonk…. Bonk… BONK.. BONK! The angry tone echoed off empty walls of confined budget living, loudly announcing that it was time to get up. After arriving home at the crack of dawn with $100 less than she had netted through winning, Magnum had crashed into the less than sanitary sofa and tried to sleep away the pain pounding in her head like a hammer on nails. Now, as the last rays of yellow faded into deep reds, oranges, and purples, was time to begin the process again: live, die, repeat -- forget, remember, forever. The latina sat up slowly, smacking the alarm with malicious desires while muttering swears under her breath. “I’m already thirsty…” she groaned, rising to shrug off her clothing and head for the shower. Race, drown, repeat.  

Another day, another revealing outfit to please the men and raise her bets. That and her stunning red 2014 V6 Jaguar F-type always rolled in the dough from petty boys wanting to prove themselves on the city streets (who made the mistake of thinking girls were easy money). Almost mechanically, she floored the clutch, cranked the car, cut the parking brake, and pulled out of her alley garage. The Jag’s modifications purred around her. 

Inky black spanned the entirety of the sky, broken only by streetlights and headlights. The perfect night for street races because if you drove without lights the cops wouldn’t be able to get a lock on the plates. This, combined with muffler mods, made racers impossible to track -- as long as they could drive better. Mag had warmed herself up with a few easy money races, betting sex against a few grand with upscale pretty boys, but she’d had enough of that and was looking for a real challenge.  

She found it in a very unexpected place: lurking behind the wheel of a 2007 Camero, electric green. He was experienced. They didn’t place high bets, but the crowd betting profits would give a large enough payout to make up for that. However, they picked a hard course. Neither had driven it before; it had enough turns to make a Ferrari racer cry. As they pulled their ponies to the starting line, her eyes narrowed in focus.  

Five. 

Four. 

Three. 

Two. 

One…. 

In a heartbeat, she hit first, pushing the Jag to its limit.  

On to second and a drift around the first turn. 

Third, fourth...  

Classes were starting on Tuesday, and Jiri really needed to sleep. This would be easier if his mutation allowed him to sleep. It had been just over a month since he'd come to the Xavier's, land of mutant teenagers and weird adults who hung around and did vigilante things, and so far none of the teachers had been able to help him with his problem. Some of them had as good as told him that he'd just have to deal with it, that everyone had quirks to their mutation that they just had to accept. Honestly, his roommate had been way more helpful to him than the staff. At least Alex was helping him figure out basic things, like telling the difference between awake and asleep.

The key thing for Jiri to remember, what they'd worked so hard on, was this: Jiri was always awake. He needed to act like he was awake, or people could get hurt.

Therefore, when he lay down in his bed at the Mansion and started dreaming of drag racing, he knew something was horribly wrong. His slender hand was on a gear shift. Street lights flashed over the dark car, an engine roared loud in his ears, and another car jockeyed nose to nose down the street.

"Oh god damn it," was the first thing the teenager said, in a very feminine voice. A not too young, not too old voice. "I am so sorry, Miss. Umm. How do I stop this thing seriously I don't know how to drive--"

Jiri had always heard that the pedal on the left was the brake, but there were three pedals in this car, and he had a sudden fear of moving his (her) foot. Why would it have three pedals?

The car kept accelerating, though it began making protesting noises as they approached the next shifting speed. This did not make Jiri feel more comfortable with the situation.

Magnum listened to the RPMs climb to 2500 in fourth and reached for the shifting stick, simultaneously stretching to punch the clutch again. This would be easy: fifth gear, push the RPMs and speed, drift the turn, nose ahead and make it up to sixth before the next turn. Except that her hand didn’t move. Nor did her foot. And suddenly her thoughts weren’t her own, she heard another voice as it echoed in her head. "Oh god damn it! I am so sorry, Miss. Umm. How do I stop this thing seriously I don't know how to drive--” it said. Before the spirit had a chance to finish, though,her mother’s Catholic heritage sprang into action. “Demonico! Déjame solo! Ay Dios! Irse, mamagüevo!” she swore, fighting the spirit for control. English words proceeded to run from her mouth that were more colorful than San Francisco during Pride Week. 

The brick face of the local CVS raced toward them, but Magnum was more focused on how the RPMs had ballooned to over 4000 and were going to begin damaging her baby soon. She hardly ever pushed the engine to 6000, but that was where they were heading if he didn’t upshift soon. And if it stretched over 8000… Well, the police wouldn’t be investigating a street race - they’d be investigating a homicide.

Also to be considered was the fact that since the gear could only spin so fast, she had lost her edge in the race. Her nose was at the back end of her opponent’s door and slipping all the time. She needed this money. Although tonight had been the best haul in a long time, both her reputation and her ego were on the line.

With no end in sight, she did the only thing that came to mind. “Hard left pedal, take your foot off the gas and slide the stick all the way back!” she shouted. “Feet on the gas and off the clutch at the same time, jerk left then hard right on the wheel.” If… whatever the hell it was listened, they might make it out of this alive and still stand a chance at winning. Or they would both die.

High school Spanish had not prepared Jiri for swearing at himself. Still, 'Demonico' and 'Ay Dios!' were pretty easy to understand, and the Iranian teen had little doubt as to which was meant for him.

He debated just not talking again. Because not talking made things better, right? And if she could still talk, then maybe this was like the time he'd possessed Ghost at the Mansion, and she would still be able to move as long as he didn't interfere.

As the dials on the dash climbed, and the front of a building approached, Jiri's hands began to sweat around the wheel. The other guy (other girl? he didn't want to take his eyes off the road for long enough to tell) was passing them now. And turning, definitely turning, they should really be turning too--

>> “Hard left pedal, take your foot off the gas and slide the stick all the way back! Feet on the gas and off the clutch at the same time, jerk left then hard right on the wheel.”

Shouting orders at a panicking teen was surprisingly effective. When all he could think was that brick wall is approaching VERY FAST, "hard left pedal" came as a welcome distraction. Left and hard and pedal were all words his brain understood. He jabbed out his (her) foot, and slammed that pedal to the floor. Foot off the gas? Already done when he'd moved to the left pedal (which did what again? What was he even doing?) Stick all the way back, done, with sort of a clunk noise as he made very very sure it was all the way back. Foot on the gas and off the clutch?

"Which one is the gas and which is the clutch?" He shouted back.

Assuming he got a prompt answer, he'd do it. And believe him, turning the wheel sounded like a great idea by the time the rest of that was on.

They survived that turn. Somehow. Jiri was breathing very fast by the end, so fast he couldn't even appreciate watching his (her) chest rise and fall.

"You do this for fun? Lady, what is wrong with you?"

As her possessor executed movements, Magnum felt herself give a small smile inward. If the male-sounding being could actually drive, he might be a good racer. But as if to reinforce that it knew nothing of street racing or manual cars, she found it asking for distinction between the clutch and gas. At the same time, the RPMs were dropping fast, as was the speed. Every second mattered in a manual race - starting too slow for the gear you were using meant beyond sh**y acceleration. With the way things were going, they needed every bit of speed that the Jag could produce. “Press right as much as you let up on the left, trying to take your foot off the left completely as fast as you can,” she coached, terrified yet again for the fate of the race - and her ego.

“Hard right pedal as much as you can through the turn, then keep pressing!” This instruction came as the demon began their drift through the turn. Well, perhaps it wasn’t a demon - she and her baby hadn’t crashed yet. Instead of whooping with the euphoria of adrenaline, the being complained. For some reason, it thought that racing wasn’t fun. Magnum couldn’t help but give a small chuckle in response to its wrongness about racing. No matter how wrong it was, she would make it finish the race before telling it how to stop without destroying her gearing.

Assuming it listened to her instructions, they still had a chance at saving the race with a quarter mile (and one turn) left. The rest of the layout was about power, which her modifications maximised. The course was a straight uphill, then a slight right and a short drag race to a right hand drift around into the starting lot. She’d have the male-voice shift into neutral as they rolled over the finish line, and donut off the speed because she didn’t trust it to downshift properly while in a crowd.

Being directly in someone's head, sharing their thoughts as they thought them, helped a hell of a lot with figuring out how to time a shift or when exactly to turn the wheel. Not that Jiri realized that, on any conscious level. He was a little more concerned with how ridiculously fast the street signs were moving past and oh god wall (turn damn you turn).

By process of elimination, he could figure out which one was the brake, now. But her instructions were coming too close and too fast for the teen to think that far. And there was another car and it was really close and probably they'd do some kind of crazy NASCAR collision and they'd all die if he tried to do anything on his own. It was much safer to listen to the Latina yelling at him, and pray to his own God.

And so it was that the girl's instructions were interspersed with reverent pleas of Sam'i Allahu liman hamidah, rabbana wa lakal hamd, and other such Farsi prayers. The Hispanic accent was just the icing on that cake.

He could feel her in his (her) head. She was excited. There was a drive to win there that was literally blocking everything else out. Like, say, the minor fact that she was being possessed. Who the hell had that kind of focus?

Crazy girls. Crazy, don't take them home to momma, warn-all-your-friends girls.

They were coming up on the finish line. Frankly, he didn't see anything finish-y about it, besides the crowd of people who did not understand how close they were to being run over by a sixteen year old.

"Please don't let me commit vehicular homicide," he prayed, more to the woman sharing his head than to his God. He would do anything she asked just as long as they please please please didn't hurt anyone.

The other car was nose-to-nose with them. Jiri didn't even notice, but the voice that shared his head most certainly did.

[OOC: crude religious stereotyping/humor]

Terrified. The demon who had possessed her was terrified. It had started babbling in another language between her instructions, the only word of which she actually understood was Allahu which sounded a lot like Allah, which meant God. Except not God. Why would a demon pray to God, unless he was not a demon. Based on this conclusion, Magnum’s thoughts loudly announced the first logical conclusion they came to: “Holy s**t the terrorists have a mutant working for them!”

In retrospect, this was probably not the kindest, most religiously or ethnically considerate comment to make. Magnum didn’t care, a flipping terrorist had possessed her. THAT WAS WORSE THAN A DEMON.

The finish line was approximately seven seconds away, and they were still gaining speed. They were also edging ahead. Magnum bit her lip; if she had the masculine voice continue to press forward they were guaranteed a win. However, he didn’t have the stopping practice required to bring the car to a halt inside a group of people safely and comfortably. If they shifted into neutral now, they would win unless her opponent touched the nos (an illegal move for this race, but one he might make anyways).

“Please don't let me commit vehicular homicide,” the not-demon terrorist pleaded. Well, maybe he wasn’t a terrorist at all… or maybe he just didn’t want to be arrested/die before acquiring his 72 virgins. That was something Magnum could agree to though - even the 72 virgins part. Who wouldn’t want to get in bed with that? Also, the dents that vehicular homicide would put in her Jag would cost too much to repair. At that point, she would have to replace the body and any parts of the engine that didn’t survive a human-at-100-mph encounter.

She was worried that he would strip her gears,  he was worried that he would kill someone. With some moral debate, she counted to three, then began giving orders again. The not-demon semi-terrorist could die another day, because her baby was not getting destroyed. “Foot off the gas, heavy left pedal, shift the stick halfway up to where you can move it left and right freely.” This was the most important part of high speed racing - if he didn’t make sure the car was in complete neutral before he started decelerating, he would strip her baby in ten second flat and she’d have to pay to have the drivetrain replaced. That would not be okay in the slightest. While she was panicking and making internal threats if he happened to destroy her car, they crossed the finish line, winning by a few inches. “Hard center and sharp drifting turn.”

The crowd seemed to be closer together than usual, but they held the same distance as always. If anything, they seemed closer because they boy had slightly slower reaction times than she did - he was very inexperienced. “Apply your brake now, gently or you’ll flip us; and don’t touch either of the other pedals,” she coached.

Jiri was not entirely certain the woman knew that he could hear her thoughts. Like the terrorist line. And the 72 virgins thing, especially the part where she contemplated 72 virgins in bed (seriously who even had time for that) and then proceeded to be more worried about her car than about the human bodies which might soon be denting her car.

Jiri tried helping her out a little, by not-so-subtly giving her some thoughts of his own to read. Ones so ridiculous she had to figure out that he was faking them. For good measure, he even played up the Iranian accent, sounding a lot more like his father than himself.

Not that this string of words would ever come from his dad's head.

Allah protect me, the infidel is on to me! Give me the strength to survive this wretched race, for here I can only kill dozens, but by evenings' end thousands shall burn in the hell that awaits their capitalist souls--

Yeah he couldn't really keep that up. Especially not with the distance between car and crowd rapidly closing. He followed her directions exactly, praying that her love for this car was enough to protect the stupidly cheering masses.

It wasn't until they'd safely parked and (s)he was taking deep, calming breaths that he had time to think again.

To be fair, his power would rock for a terrorist plot. Hijack a body, blow it up, lather-rinse-repeat until all the infidels were literally in crispy toasty pieces--

...And that was enough of that train of thought, really.

"Are you legal to drink?" Jiri asked, in her voice. "I'm not, but I'm pretty sure no one's checking my ID."

He'd never gone drinking before. But television and movies told him that this was precisely the time to do so.

Its emotions were like wind breezing by. Overarching emotions of being who had stolen her body transitioned from confusion to disbelief, and then to ridiculing mockery. “Allah protect me,” it began, with an accent heavier than before. “The infidel is on to me! Give me the strength to survive this wretched race, for here I can only kill dozens, but by evening's end thousands shall burn in the hell that awaits their capitalist souls--” Fear caused this string of unholy words to cease, overriding everything else but the need to save people that might hurt her baby. Logic started to kick in, stating that although he had issues running over people, he was completely prepared to blow them up.Was a death not a death unless it involved fire and bombshells?

While Magnum contemplated this ideology, her possessor managed to slide the Jag to a halt without damaging it - or any of the crowd. For some reason, though, he was panting like he’d just run the 2 mile race. She didn’t understand why her captor was so flustered; it was just a race. (Then again, she had been doing the same sort of thing 6 nights a week for the past month or two.) As soon as it caught its breath, it was on to thinking about how cool blowing up people would be. That’s when it clicked: he wasn’t a terrorist, just an aspiring terrorist. Stupid kids.

Much to her regret, this was not the lowest he sunk. No, after moving on from how awesome it would be to kill people, he thought about getting drunk. Brilliant idea, Sherlock. Even better was the fact that he could drink a vast amount more in her body than in his own - a rather sad fact attributed to years of practice and tolerance building. “"Are you legal to drink?" he asked. "I'm not, but I'm pretty sure no one's checking my ID."

She couldn’t contain it, she burst out in laughter. The irony of it all was too great. First, he’d just contemplated ways to murder people. Second, he’d just participated in an illegal street race. Third, he hadn’t collected her money from illegal gambling yet. And while all of this was going on, all he could think about was if she could legally consume alcohol. Her laughter lasted for at least thirty seconds, but was closer to a minute before Magnum was able to provide a response without breaking into giggles again.

Breathlessly, she managed, “You’re concerned about legally consuming alcohol? First, you need to go pick up the cash from the guy in the back left corner. While doing that, you need to avoid getting laid by all of the horny guys outside this car. Last, you need to not drink, because you’re underage. Also, try not to get punched by the guy you just beat; some of them get really mad about losing to a girl.”

The laughter was grating. Even more so because it came with color commentary from her thoughts. Illegal street race, illegal gambling, so sue him if he hadn't really put those facts together yet--one of them had driven this car here tonight knowing what she was getting into, and one of them had literally woken up behind the wheel in the middle of her death race. There hadn't been much down time to think, all right?

Suffice it to say that the Iranian teen was sulking in her head.

"Lady you cannot be more worried about me taking your body drinking than you are that I'm going to use you for a suicide bombing. You cannot." This was the new ground rule for their relationship. It was important to establish that fact before he stepped outside of this car.

Her next words were far from comforting. Pick up the illicit cash, sure, fine, whatever. Avoid being laid by half the crowd? Oh god, that mental image, he did not need that. If Jiri had ever needed proof that he was straight as an arrow, the very thought of that sent him cringing to the hetero side of the ball field. Or whatever it was, when you were currently (literally) dressed as a girl. Misandry had never seemed so appealing.

The punching, by comparison, sounded like just the right level of testosterone to shore up his manliness.

"Lady," he said, curling her lips into a smile, "I make no promises."

(S)he popped the door open, and stepped out into the night. Some sauntering might have resulted on the way to pick up their cash (damn their womanly hips).

And if Mr. Other Driver wanted to make trouble?

Bring it, man. Bring. It.

The mutant’s reactions, namely his emotions, were like small feelings in her otherwise flawless head. This way, she could sense inklings of his shame, and later of his determination (which was also testosterone filled male rivalry). However, the icing on the cake was his words."Lady you cannot be more worried about me taking your body drinking than you are that I'm going to use you for a suicide bombing. You cannot," the boy ranted. To this, Magnum responded how she would to any other human who believed they could tell her what to do: “Telling me what to do does not help your case in the least.” As for the actual plea in his words, Magnum swept them under the carpet, making an internal commitment to be slightly more relaxed about what the goodie-two-shoes was planning.

Then the testosterone flared up. Yet again, all males could think about was beating one another up. This raised flags immediately, as Magnum realized that although she was virtually powerless under the circumstances, the boy had full control over something she could barely circumvent herself. "Lady, I make no promises," he smirked, obviously full of himself. "Look, stop calling me 'lady'. My name is Magnum."

His egotism and arrogance were dangerous, very dangerous, but Magnum tried to keep this fact away from her thoughts (as she had just reached the conclusion that if she could read his thoughts, he could read hers). Yet, somehow, she had to figure out a way to keep him calm without ever mentioning that he had stolen her ability to manipulate water molecules.

The testosterone was not helping one bit. Any sort of extreme emotion, especially excitement and fear, caused the humidity levels to fluctuate… but humidity was only the beginning of her powers.

She couldn’t allow it to grow beyond that.

"Your name is not Magnum," Jiri commented, shouldering aside a guy who was too busy talking to his friends to make way for a lady. When the guy glared at them, he blew a kiss. It seemed appropriate. "Magnum is a type of gun. People don't name their kids Rifle or Glock, and they don't name their kids Magnum, either. Don't make me search this outfit for an ID, neither of us want my hands going there."

He was starting to feel a little sassy. In a manly way. And she was feeling... what? Nervous? It was harder to tell, suddenly. Probably worried that someone was going to key her precious car while it was out of her sight.

He bumped another guy out of the way, and stood face-to-face with the man she'd pointed out earlier.

"You the guy who gives out the money?"

That guy he'd just bumped? Definitely the other driver. He looked about as thrilled that this chick didn't even recognize him as you'd expect.

Magnum had to give the body-snatcher some credit: he was sassy enough to pull off acting like her for the short term. Although she was not typically quite as rude as he was being, he had the air of entitled arrogance going for him (but, in all likelihood, he’d had plenty of time to practice assuming he snatched bodies often - all he needed to do was find an heiress or some other silver spoon girl). If anything, the kidnapper needed to work on his vigilance and observation skills.

However, his doubts gnawed on her. Of course parents didn’t name their children Magnum, but sometimes children chose their own names later on. He needed to grow up and respect that her name was Magnum and there was nothing he could do about it. The ID in her pocket said so; it also labeled her as 22. “I dare you to check for yourself; it’s in the back left pocket,” she challenged right after he’d finished speaking to the bet master. Soon enough, she… he…. whoever they were…. They would have the money and they’d be able to leave to where they could argue in private without having to worry about looking crazy.

“But before you check it, you have to tell me your name.”

Jiri really didn't want to put his hand down that pocket

(except he really did)

Except did she even realize she was telling a teenage boy to touch her ass?

(well if she insisted--)

No. Though it might take all the self control he had ever possessed, Jiri kept his (her) hands to himself.

"I'll take your word for it, Mags," he said. "I'm Jiri, the passenger inside your head tonight. Pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Yes. Yes he had been talking to him/her/themself where people could hear. Jiri scowled at the money man and that look on his face.

"Oh come on, gramps, you know this isn't the craziest you've ever seen. And you--" he pivoted on a heel, and poked the driver he'd beaten in the chest, "don't even think about starting something, bad or good. If I'm not getting into my pants, then neither are you."

Jiri stuck out a demanding hand. With a certain let's keep the druggie happy raise of his eyebrow, the money guy started counting bills into their hand.

Lots of bills.

And he kept going.

Holy crap, why was he in high school, clearly drag racing was what the smart boys and girls did.

Well, that was settled. He had accepted that her name was Magnum, and provided her with his own: Jiri. It was all she could do to keep from laughing as her 'brain passenger' tried to act like the toughest person on the block. Although she was good at fist fights, Mag was pretty dang certain that there were people here would could beat her without batting an eye (she was just that tiny). However, she had to admire his egotism. Not many people could walk into her life and roll with the punches like he had been doing in the past half hour. More than that, he almost seemed to be enjoying it. When he started to sass the race manager, though, she cautioned him, “Hey, be careful, I’m on commission to race here. Don’t ruin it.”

As the bills slipped into her hand, Mag’s laughter spilled over. She found his thoughts hilarious, namely the ‘holy crap, why was he in high school, clearly drag racing was what the smart boys and girls did’ commentary. She didn’t manage to recompose herself until after the bills (all 3 grand of them) finished their sliding exchange. Jiri was well on his way back to her car, a few thousand dollars heavier, by the time she managed to talk. “Don’t drop out of school, racing is a short term thing that lasts as long as the cops don’t catch you, your reflexes don’t fail, and your competition doesn’t kill you.”