The kitchen was a normal, albeit a bit of a dirty kitchen. The tiny table with the checkered tablecloth was set for a takeout dinner for two. On mute the scene would have been totally normal...until the subtitles kicked in.

“You think you’re some kind of street punk who can do whatever the **** you want? Huh, kid?” The man yelling was bald and tall and he had a slight paunch around his mid-section that shook with his anger. His face was beet red when it turned to the gangly boy that was the object of the anger.

The boy looked unfazed as he replied: “Actually, I know I’m a street punk.”

The beet color deepened to an almost inhuman shade of maroon. “You are just like her, you know that? You don’t give a **** about anything. You think she was the ‘good parent’? If you knew half the ****--” The man’s rant was cut off by the sound of a glass breaking into a million angry pieces.

“Don’t you bring her into this.” The boy’s nonchalant front had been broken by the mention of his deceased mother.

The scene fades to black and then slowly comes back into focus, this time in a new setting...
--

Van’s blood pounded in his ears as he ran across the rooftop. He could still hear his father’s angry voice echoing inside his ears. ‘You’re just like her.’ Good. He wanted to be like his mother–he idolized her. The problem with his father’s words was that they brought all the bad things Van had chosen for years to ignore to the surface. Vicky Sanders wasn’t as perfect as he painted her out to be in his mind–and her son knew this. He damned his intelligence. Ignorance was bliss.

It had been relatively easy to scale the fire escape outside his window and launch himself onto the infinite rooftops of New York. Van hadn’t brought his cell phone and he didn’t wear a watch so he had no idea how long he’d been running in the chill night. All he knew was that this fast-paced movement was doing a good job of clearing his mind. It took a certain degree of concentration to make it between rooftops, seeing as none of them were evenly spaced and few of them were the same height. It was almost fun in a way, testing out the limits of his mutation like this. Usually using his power brought equal measures of fear and pleasure. Tonight the encounter with his father in which he had discovered his mutation was forgotten and Van allowed himself to enjoy the feeling of his arms and legs expanding and reaching for the next ledge.

‘You think you’re some kind of street punk...’ As if to run away from the all too familiar voice Van launched himself a bit preemptively at the next ledge. Instead of his feet planting squarely on the edge like he had planned his toes brushed it before he slid off. Long arms shot out to catch the rest of the body from the fall and the boy hung from the ledge, panting for breath and shaking. Slowly he began to drop further and further down as his arms instinctively stretched themselves out. Blindly, his feet scrambled against a window pane searching for a foothold. The arms were beginning to strain not to loosen anymore and the feet were in a near panic, kicking wildly at the side of the building.

‘I know I’m a street punk.’ Death by falling onto the street, how fun and vaguely ironic. Had Van not been freaking out he’d have enjoyed the irony of the situation more.

It was just one of those days. A bookshelf had fallen down, seemingly by itself, twenty minutes after Tarin had gotten to work that morning. Lee was still getting the coffee and walked in on her husband still cursing the broken items as he cleaned them up from the floor and struggled to stand the shelf back up. Her help was appreciated, as was the hot, liquid, caffeine goodness. The rest of the day had progressed in similar fashion, though.

Karma came back to bite Tarin in the ass and he decided that cursing at inanimate objects was the wrong way to do things when a rather large, angry woman spent a good half-hour cursing him out for what he’d told her in the back room of the medium shop. The worst part of the whole thing…he’d been telling the truth. The woman’s dead aunt was [I[in the room[/I]. Tarin had actually spoken to the old woman, reported accurately, and gotten cursed out for it. BS. Total BS.

Inventory needed to be done, especially after the lost items from the bookshelf, and by the time closing hour rolled around, Tarin had absolutely no patience left. For anything. He sent Lee home, hopefully his foul mood hadn’t rubbed off on her and they’d be able to have a pleasant night once he got home. If he ever got home.

It took far too long to do the books, Lee was better at it, but Tarin had been trying to take some of the pressure off her lately. It was really the least he could do. He was late, but the books were done. All that was left was the trash. A dragon Tarin had slain a number of times, only to have a rock from the entrance of the proverbial cave fall on his head and make him even later. No problems since a unicorn and a time traveler had helped him build a fence.

Outside Tarin went, into the dumpster went the trash, he looked at the spirit in the alleyway and shook his head. He was almost back in the shop when he heard it.

Thump, Thump, Thump, Thump. He closed his eyes as he heard the footsteps, then the scrabbling. Then looked up and saw a person, a person hanging from the roof, slowly dropping lower and lower.

”Go get him.” Tarin sighed, running a hand through his multi-hued locks. He was in short sleeves, if the kid thought he’d been saved only to get mugged by a street thug, it was the least he would deserve.

The spirit materialized, solidified, and took off to grab him. Hopefully whoever it was would be stunned enough, or desperate enough for help, that a spirit floating through the air wouldn’t spook him out of accepting the help. Tarin crossed his arms and waited, eyes milky white as his powers surged. His foot tapped a beat out on the concrete, this story had better be good.

OOC- Hi! Nice to meetcha. Feel free to let the spirit bring you to the ground. :-D

This was bad. Worse than bad. Van had gotten himself in with bad quite a few times but somehow hanging by his fingertips (which under the strain of even his slight weight had begun to stretch out as well, further loosening their grip) was worse than bad. Probably because bad usually inferred that things had the possibility of getting better. For example, if asked about his day Van could reply with: “It was bad, I had a fight with my father.” this is much better sounding than: “It was a terrible day, I had a fight with my father and I died playing ninja on the rooftops of New York.” You could talk your way out of quite a few situations, but trying to talk to a building out of being quite so tall didn’t really bear any results. Not that the thought hadn’t crossed his mind.

Instead of begging and pleading, curses more foul than he’d used with his father sprang from his lips. The boy hung there, struggling to pull himself up while his muscles stretched and thinned themselves out, totally resisting the urgency of the signal to contract. His heart was racing and his eyes were frantically searching for a foothold for his chuck-clad feet (had he been asked, Van would not have recommenced those particular shoes for climbing). And that was when he saw it...

A Something was floating/flying/hovering(?) next to him, its arms held out in a gesture that obviously meant ‘let me help you, buddy’. Confusion filled the dark haired boy in the tiny space that the panic had left behind and before he had time to think about whether the Something was like Scar from ‘The Lion King’, and totally gonna drop him, he swung himself over to It. Before he knew it, Van was back on the ground, apparently unharmed. His arms still hadn’t gone back to their normal size and hung down past his knees and his fingers were almost brushing the ground, but this was the least of his worries. For instance, what on earth had just happened? That was a much more pressing concern than awkwardly long limbs. Another concern that was a bit more prominent in the boy’s mind once he made sense of his surroundings was the man at the end of the alley who was standing with his arms crossed as if he had been waiting for Van to come down.

Wait, were his eyes white? Van peered at the man, trying to decide whether it would be a good idea to throw his arms over his shoulders and bail or to stay and try and figure out the last two minutes of his life. The awkward arms in question had slowly begun to ‘retract’, at least that what it looked like, back into his shoulders. Really everything was just kinda mashing back together. As his arms settled, so did Van’s thudding heart and he decided: Hey, I just escaped Death, what can this dude do to me now?

“Hi. How are you?” Van’s attitude was back in full force and it was obvious in his nonchalant tone that imitated the tone of an overly confident politician. The words were overly accented and the charming half-smile seemed to fit them–although upon further inspection it would be noted that the smile was slightly shaky and the grey eyes behind it still held a look of fear.

He was a kid, just a kid. Tarin shook his head as the spirit brought the boy down and set him on the other side of the alley. Tarin had asked for that, he didn’t want to spook someone who was already scared enough to take help from the undead. An eyebrow rose slowly as he studied the young man across the distance that the alleyway provided. Were his arms really that long?

He didn’t have to wait long for an answer and Tarin simply nodded his head slowly as the kid’s arms slowly started retracting into his body. That was a pretty cool power. Maybe he hadn’t needed Tarin’s help though. Would his arms have stretched him all the way to the ground? Were his bones still in there, or were they all rubbery too?

Tarin’s internal interrogation was cut short by the kid’s cocky introduction and he smiled, shaking his head and uncrossing his arms as he made his way across the alleyway.

“You know, if you would have knocked, the old lady that lives upstairs would have probably just let you into the hall so you could walk down. I know your way seemed faster, but if it wasn’t for my friend you might have had to deal with that whole broken neck thing, and that’s not much fun. Ask him.” It was an empty offer, as soon as the kid’s feet had touched the ground Tarin had let the spirit go. He looked a little less creepy and a little more approachable without the whole weird eye thing going on. The last thing he needed was a fight with a teenager in a dark alleyway.

”I’m Tarin.” he said, coming within comfortable talking distance, ”You were running pretty hard. Are you in some sort of trouble that necessitates us going inside quickly?” There would be time for pleasantries later if that was the case. Then again, Tarin had to remind himself that there was no registration act in place and this kid wasn’t cruising around on roller skates, glowing.

The man at the end of the alley shook his head at Van’s question, uncrossed his arms and began walking closer to the boy. Van almost took a step back but the blonde/brown haired/redheaded (?) man was smiling and it wasn’t a creepy smile–at least it didn’t look like a creepy smile from the boy’s vantage point. As he got closer, the man began to speak. So he had been saved by a Something, assuming the man’s ‘friend’ and the Something were the same thing. Van whipped his head around, looking for the Thing. It had apparently disappeared. Then again, maybe it was never there to begin with? No...there had definitely been a Something, Van couldn’t think of any reason as to why he’d be hallucinating so there had been a Something and it had to do with the man with the multi-hued hair. Unless of course, he was going crazy...in which case he'd just go with it–it would make his life more interesting.

Trying to make sense of everything, Van made some theories in his head. So the man with white eyes had something to do with the Whatsit that helped me. So if a Whatsit is a Whatsit and the man obviously isn’t a Whatsit then what is he? Many things came to mind, all of them rather fantastical. Ironically, the mutant boy couldn’t recognize one of his own and instead assumed that the man was magical or something.

Van decided not to tell the man that he hadn’t actually been trying to go in and down, but up and over. It’s not like he really should have been hoping from roof to roof anyway and since he wasn’t totally sure of what the man was capable of it didn’t seem like a good idea to blab about 'no-no's. When he got closer, he told the brunette that his name was Tarin before asking if he was in any trouble. Whatever this Tarin was, he didn’t seem like an evil whack job out to destroy young mutants with his voodoo magic. The key word in that sentence was ‘seem’. Lots of people weren’t actually what they seemed.

“Naw man, no trouble at the moment. Whatever just happened kinda negated the death-by-fall thing so I’m thinking my trouble meter is a little low.” After a moment he added: “I’m Van. What did just happen?” The boy rubbed his arms that were a bit sore from the exertion of holding himself up and tried to keep his tone casual, as if he’d been unfazed by the entire situation. His hear rate was still elevated slightly above normal, proving that he was just posturing.

Tarin smiled again. Smart kid. It was idiotic to simply trust a person in new York City, no matter how noble their intentions seemed. The young man didn’t question Tarin’s reference to the spirit, seemingly shrugging it off for the moment. That was impressive, even if the kid hadn’t realized what had helped him, most people didn’t handle it well whne figures appeared out of thin air to help them.

Some of the bravado was gone now and Tarin could clearly see all the signs of a scared kid who had bitten of a little more than he could chew.

Tarin simply nodded when the young man, Van, explained that there wasn’t trouble following him. There was a lot he could have said on the subject, though, and the older man couldn’t help but remember a time when he’d ran from things too. At the time it hadn’t mattered that he’d never get away from them. Was it similar for this young man?

Van asked what really had happened and Tarin was impressed again. Some people simply would not have wanted to know. Tarin studied Van as he thought about exactly what he needed to say, exactly what he was going to say. People always said that the truth would set you free. In Tarin’s experience, the opposite was true. This kid was obviously a kindred spirit though. Maybe, just maybe he deserved it too.

”You know that nifty trick with your arms?” Tarin said, holding Van’s eyes. If the kid wanted the truth, he was going to look Tarin in the face as he heard it, ”Well, I’ve got some tricks of my own. The gentleman who helped you down from the building died six years ago, give or take, actually killed himself. Falling from great heights is popular in this town.”

Tarin shrugged, ”You stretch, I talk to dead people.”

The man, Tarin, locked his eyes with the boy when he began to speak again. Kudos to him, most people older than Van’s peer group had issues with looking at ‘kids like him’ at all. The young mutant respected the eye contact. Van nodded and bit back the sarcastic comment that his brain followed the obvious question with. He really wanted to know what this guy’s deal was and interrupting him would probably derail his trucking knowledge train. Grey eyes blinked a few times when Tarin spoke of the Whatsit, giving details of its/his death. Whoa. That’s kinda creepy. The man shrugged as if what they could do was nothing.

“So you’re a mutant?” Van spoke in a tone that was half confusion, half taunt to hide the confusion. Confusion was a weakness. Weaknesses were exploited. Things made a lot more sense if he was a mutant too and not some...whatever someone who could summon spirits was.

Despite himself, Van started wondering if the man could talk to all dead people or just certain ones. This led his mind to the dark places his father had brought to the surface during their fight. Could this man talk to Mom? Images of his mother lying in her hospital bed, more tubes than woman, so fragile looking and crying because Dad had said something mean again. These images turned to the fakey pictures of his mother all done up in her coffin, covered in more makeup than she ever wore in real life. Why couldn’t he remember her how she really was? It was like all he could summon were the terrible images of her last year. What happened to the smiling woman in the pictures? The boy swallowed hard in an attempt tp suppress the images and emotions. They didn’t make their way onto his face, just moved with his Adam’s apple.

If he could, would Van really want to know if his mother had anything to say?

And there it was. The surprise and slight shock Tarin expected to see on a face every time he explained his powers. Powers were like a box of chocolates, he supposed, you never knew what you were going to get. Oh, there were your elementals, which seemed more run of the mill than some other things and the broad spectrum of people who could do things with their bodies. Like Van. Then there were the healers, the psychics, the empaths, the flyers, and everything else a person could imagine. For some reason, people were always shocked at the fact that Tarin could see spirits.

When he thought about it, Tarin didn’t find that fact so astounding. Most people didn’t even believe that spirits existed, let alone that a person could have the ability to communicate with them. Mediums had been the topic of jokes and spoofs for years. There was no reason to believe that one actually existed.
”Shocking, I know.” he said, then shrugged his shoulders, ”You play the hand you’re dealt, right?”

Van asked if he was a mutant and Tarin nodded his head slowly, ”Funny that was the last test they thought to do when I was in the crazy house.” Yep, they’d tried every other test and treatment, right up to ‘bite this leather strap, all you should feel is tingles.’ That had been a lie.

The kid was lost in thought, Tarin could tell, and the older man winced and ran a hand through his hair. Sometimes people got freaked out by his powers, and sometimes they let intense curiosity get the better of them. Tarin took a look around, there were spirits here and there. Was the kid going to ask him to look for someone? Secretly, Tarin hoped not. That had a tendency to get messy. These weren’t little Caspers, running around and asking to be your friend. Spirits were often confused, confused and driven towards a singular purpose. People ended up getting upset more often than not.

Ask the kid’s face fell, so did Tarin’s and he decided it was time for a change of topic, at least for a minute. ”Are your arms the only things that you can stretch out?” he asked, nodding towards Van’s shoulder, ”Can you do it with your legs too? Would your neck have even broke if you fell on it, or are your bones flexible too?” Distraction. FTW.

Sometimes you played the hand you were dealt and sometimes things worked better if you tried to stack the deck...bluffing had good qualities to it as well. Van didn’t like the idea that all he got was the hand and not the choice of cards. Sure, he could use them however he wanted, but sometimes he wanted to trade suits. There were times where he really wanted to trade suits.

Lofty card thoughts aside, Tarin admitted to being a mutant as well and that he’d been in some kind of mental house. Checking for a mutation last? Sounded about right to Van, people were so quick to jump on the crazy card that it made sense that they’d do everything BUT what should have been obvious. Not that the boy caught on to the obvious fact right away either, but he hadn’t even finished highschool–weren’t doctors supposed to have degrees and all that jazz? Maybe it didn’t matter how much schooling you had, people would always be some kind of stupid. The boy just nodded and tried to make an empathetic face that turned out to be more of a half smile. It was the way this Tarin mutant just said it, there was shock value in an offhanded comment about the looney bin and it was not lost on the boy.

Aw, baby can’t get over losing his mommy.

Van was brought back to the present when the man started asking him questions about his power. He let himself be distracted, thankful for the excuse to turn off the darker part of his brain. Mutated limbs he could talk about without thinking of his mother. “I can stretch most of my body.” Not in the mood to demonstrate after his arms failed him when he was hanging off the building, Van settled for explaining his powers with just words. “Unless I stretched it out before I fell my neck would have broken. But even if I had I still would have messed it up.” He paused, trying to find the best way to explain. Talking about the mutant side of him was something the boy did rather seldom considering he preferred to hide it. “When I stretch...” Damn. He might have to demonstrate a little. Taking a step closer, Van held out his arm so the man could see it clearer. “When I stretch I kinda go rubbery, that’s not the best word for it, but it’s the easiest one to use.” He focused on his arm, stretching it just a few inches. The red plaid jacket he was wearing seemed to meld with his skin, the pattern becoming distorted as it stretched. “My bones do the same thing, but everything’s still fragile when I stretch as far as I can tell. Sometimes it’s even more fragile when it’s all spread out...” The boy trailed off, unsure of what else to say.

It was from his closer vantage point that Van noticed the man’s bare arms. “I like your ink.” He complimented, his mind drifting to needles and his own colorful sleeve and further away from images of his mother. As he said this his smile was genuine and a lot more normal than any nonchalant grinning he’d done that night.