Fall/Winter, 2006.

Verdigris clutched her backpack tightly on her lap. She hadn’t thought to pack something to do on the plane and the price of her ticket didn’t really entitle her to ask the flight attendant for anything. The magazine in front of her was dog-eared and the puzzles had been filled in with a red biro. She only flicked through it once, the articles didn’t interest her, the puzzles were completed and the coupon for the prize advertised on the front had already been torn out and pocketed.

Her palms itched.

She was determined not to fire something accidentally across the plane so she clutched the edges of her bag until the tips of her fingers drained white and bloodless. They were still white from her fingernails to the knuckles when the plane landed in New York.

Large cards with names printed or scrawled across them dotted the foyer. Couples embraced and children held their parents close.

No one was waiting for her.

Few people knew she had left, fewer knew she had arrived. None, in fact. She fingered the wallet in her pocket. Two hundred and fifty dollars wouldn’t go too far on the streets and she resolved to visit the nearest information centre and find a map, then figure out where the nearest hostel was. She would have to get used to relying on others for certain things. Were there soup kitchens in New York? She was fairly sure there would be. Wherever there were cities there were homeless, usually where there were homeless there was some form of shelter available to them. So she hoped.

“I can only roster you in for tonight, then you’ll have to wait in line with everyone else I’m afraid.”

The woman was kind, but had the slightly washed out look of a dishcloth that had mopped up too many accidents in its life in the kitchen. Verdy wondered how many “accidents” this woman had dealt with.

She gave no name, even when the woman asked, but she didn’t press the issue. She marked the section ‘green haired girl’ on her list of who had each room.

“We can’t let you in before six o’clock pm, or after ten thirty. You have to be out by 11am. No drugs or alcohol within the premise and smoking is only permitted in the marked outside courtyard. If a staff member suspects drugs, weapons or alcohol on your person a police officer will be informed.”

The woman seemed well rehearsed in her speech, the type who enters with a passion, altering her spiel individually for each person, who was beaten down a few times and stayed out of pure stubbornness. Her eyes flickered to Verdy’s hair before continuing.

“If you have an active X-gene you are requested to do all in your power to refrain from any injury or interference with the property, staff and other lodgers. If a disturbance occurs a police officer specialising in mutant restraint and discipline will be called in. Any questions?”

Verdigris (inwardly thankful this was a x-gene accepting hostel, run by a mutant sympathiser) merely asked where she might find a meal for a relatively low price.

After receiving advice, directions and a map, Verdy began the walk towards the place the woman had indicated, the lines- she had warned her- could get quite long and, if possible, it was better to get there early to get a place.

Rolling her shoulders beneath the relatively new bag-straps she sighed and trudged along the street. Her immediate plan had been to get out of Hawaii, and New York seemed like a good place to loose yourself.

She was lost, now what?


She consulted the map. It would seem that for the next little while at least, simply surviving would take up much of her time.

The fight really seemed to have started over nothing. Someone had a larger hunk of thinly margarined bread, or their plastic spoon had a longer handle. Whatever it was triggered by, it soon escalated from words to actions. Pushing and shoving took the place of ‘civilised’ discussion in the form of name calling and more than one polystyrene cup of soup was spilled.

The pimple-faced teens that served them- clocking in hours for “volunteer work” to complete some certificate or other- didn’t know what to do, and the manager had a strict policy of observation only. He would be happy to report who was involved or at fault once the police arrived, but until then he could be counted on to keep his long bony nose right out of the way of any fists, elbows, shopping bags or other assorted items that could be classed as weapons. Including the plastic spoons, long or short handled.

Verdy was peacefully eating her re-hydrated peas and chopped carrots soup when the first insult was thrown. She observed in silence as one of the regulars- a large woman with few browning teeth and poor hygiene habits, if any, known only as ‘Bes’- challenged a newer member.

Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but Verdy was sure his eyes were an unnatural shade of orange. The knife appeared quickly in his hands and was stroked, almost lovingly, between his calloused fingers. Bes, soon joined by other restless regulars began name-dropping. The prefix ‘X’ was thrown around a bit, as were a few more… colourful… words to describe him. Apparently ‘freak’ was the one to hit the mark though and the man who had carelessly dropped it into the insults was quickly writhing on the floor without even being touched. He strained against some sort of invisible bonds and yanked at his hair as if the roots were burning his scalp. Verdigris felt quite sick as he squirmed, powerless and unprotected- but noted the way the others had backed away from the newcomer with the orange eyes. His place in the pack would surely soon be secured. As he continued playing with his blade she quietly picked up her bag and escorted her cup of soup elsewhere. The police would be arriving soon, no need to risk being recognised.

Verdigris shoved her hands into her pockets and sighed. Another job application rejected in the first few minutes, again for the same reason ‘no permanent address, no job’. Why she needed a permanent address was beyond her. Having a place to return to every night surely didn’t on her working capabilities, but apparently it was so. The fact that she needed a steady, solid income before she could even think about thinking about renting an apartment, or even a loft-style room, so often advertised as ‘artist studios’, basically a clean attic with electricity (sometimes).

Adding to the complications was the fact she really didn’t want to produce ID. At least until her photo stopped doing rounds on the milk cartons. Her hair was short now, and green, so she was fairly sure there were enough differences that she would not be immediately recognised as the long-haired girl grinning awkwardly at the lens, black wavy hair past the shoulders pinned back with a frangipanni behind her ear.

Her name, however, was fairly unique, and the kind that- while you may be unable to pronounce it from reading, or write it after hearing it- sticks in your head, to rise with certain triggers, such as hearing or reading it. She was yet to find a resteraunt that was small enough, or had an owner who spoke little enough English and was desperate enough, to employ her without a full name, permanent residence and resume to boot.

The wind was seasonally cold, as if to drive home the fact that it was the first of winter. Verdigris hugged her legs to her chest and glared out at the world. Her thin hoodie, even with her single long-sleeve and two t-shirts under, didn’t do much to stop the wind dashing straight through and she rested her chin on her knees to keep her teeth from chattering. If she started now she wouldn’t be able to stop.

She knew she had to find a deserted alley and rapid-fire projectiles until she found some money before a café would even consider letting her hand around inside, and she had been saving as much as she could. What for she wasn’t entirely sure, or at the time she hadn’t been. Now, she was certain, she needed a coat. A jacket, a sleeping-bag. Something to combat the ice she could feel creeping and crackling in the edges of her nostrils and around her fingernails. The idea of moving, however, was simply too much, and she decided that once the sun had risen enough to warm the air slightly, she would wander off to find a quiet space. Until then, the park bench seemed as good a place as any.

She was fully occupied with glaring at an empty coffee-cup, mocking her with its warning label ‘Careful, I’m hot!’ when a pair of footsteps hurried towards her. Lifting her head from between her knees she glanced around. Seeing no one she frowned and twisted around. Still nothing. The footsteps stopped and a man flickered into view a few feet in front of her, holding out a huge jacket.

“Not all x-genes are bad. Pay it forward.”

Staring open-mouthed she accepted the jacket and pushed her arms into the sleeves. It was so large the sleeves brushed over even the longest of her fingers, but it was surprisingly light. Lifting her face to thank him she was faced with empty air and the sound of footsteps hurrying away.

“Thankyou! And I will.”

If only there was a way to help someone else, make them as happy as this jacket, unexpected and so needed, made her. She had attended a soup kitchen for a few nights and the resolution was made to volunteer one day in the week, after all, it took only her time and a little elbow grease. And it just might make somene’s day.

Nestling her face into the large collar and burying her hands in the deep pockets she began walking towards where she knew for certain there was an alley, hardly ever used. It was scavenging time.

The chill of winter nipped at her ankles as she stood in line outside the hostel. More people were here than she had seen before in either the hostel area or at the soup kitchens, although some came close. She was silently grateful as another chill wind rushed up her sleeve that she had arrived early. She was still about halfway back, but in the foremost half where she would most likely be granted access.

A nudge from behind, prodding into the section of hip-flesh exposed by the backpack straps.

She ignored it.

Another nudge, accompanied this time by the hiss of a husky voice that has inhaled too many cigarettes.

“Lemme cut in front of you.”

Staring straight ahead she moved her head slowly side to side. If the woman wanted to be further up in line, then she should have arrived here earlier, Verdy wasn’t giving up her place just because a woman could fake a rough voice and a cough convincingly.

The nudge became forceful and Verdy turned around, fed up with everything in general, especially the nudging. Turning was a bad idea.

“Back off!”

Responding- especially like that- was an even worse idea. The woman’s fist drew back and smacked into Verdy’s nose solidly. She fell to the ground out of line and heard the ‘crack’ of the reading glasses in her pocket being destroyed.

Clutching a hand to her nose which was oozing blood slowly in the cool air, barely bothering to drip at all, she stood.

“Go to the youth hostel you undergrown b*tch, come back when you’re older.”

Pinching the bridge of her nose Verdy looked to the person behind the shover. He looked away- slightly guilty- but she understood, with her out of line there was a higher chance of him getting in. She probably would have done the same. Wiping the blood away with the back of the hand she shouldered her bag and spat the gluggy blood that had trickled down her throat into her mouth at the woman’s feet.

Running a hand through her hair, pushing the overgrown fringe out of her eyes she huffed and started the walk towards the youth hostel which would, no doubt, be just as busy. She didn’t mind the hostel itself, it was more the looks from the staff and the offers of pens and paper to write home that made her feel like it was constantly a temporary solution, which she supposed it was. She knew that they hoped she would ‘pull herself together’ and go back home, and perhaps one day she would, but not until she could fully control her mutation. She wasn’t even interested in thinking about it until then, and the adult hostel didn’t try to make her.

The line was just as long as usual, if not longer. The bite of winter was like that of a pit-bull, once it had you in its jaws the ‘kill’ reflex latched on and no amount of jumping up and down and crying ‘sit’ would release you.

Verdy kept her fingers deep within the pockets of her jacket until she was inside. No winter bite would snap at her fingers on this, her first day of work. She stored her backpack carefully out of the way, it had taken a lot of convincing to get this privilege. Not a job as such, but far better than standing out in the line herself.

The small fan-forced heater in the corner was payment enough for her. Washing her hands quickly and thoroughly- she could feel hawklike eyes watching her- she ignored the stinging in her missing fingernail bed. She was ready.

Today her job was to serve the soup into the polystyrene cups. With her back to the serving window, and the clatter of utensils in her ears she was not tempted to serve more or less into certain cups, cups that would wind up in the hands of certain people. Her hands moved swiftly, ladling the specified amount- marked by a line on the inside of the scoop- into each white cup. As fast as she was filling them they were being passed out, and before long she was warm through from the movement as well as the little heater and the glow of ‘paying it forwards’ as she had been instructed. While she wasn’t passing on the x-gene part of the message, it made sense that some amount of leeway was given. As far as she could tell the manager had a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ mindset about mutants. It was a sensitive issue, after all, and like sexuality not one you’d expect in a job interview. Especially a volunteer job interview.

Her body found a rhythm quickly and she scooped and poured soup for three hours before the torrent of people finally slowed. She retrieved her own cup of soup and slice of bread and lingered for a moment in the warmth, before descending to the freezing air outside. She had managed to organise a week of evenings volunteering like this, to be reviewed at the end of said week. No matter the result at the end of the week, those few days out of the biting air would be a welcome change for her immune system, constantly battling the temperature. Her stock of stolen vitamins would only last so long, and any help from the soups or hostels was carefully balanced by withholding one of the small tablets.

The wind was blowing fiercely outside, sleet splattered across the reinforced glass, like the ringing of a service bell. Verdy tossed. The heater in the corner, an ancient model from at least thirty years ago, clicked on, the thermostat warning that the temperature had fallen. There was a distinct smell of burning dust, and the element began to glow softly.

Eyes wide, she lay staring at the crack-riddled ceiling. Black lines, as thin as spider web, spread across the paint. It was impossible to tell where they started, but the jagged path drew the eyes, and a maze seemed to unfold above.

A gust of wind, more ferocious than the last, threw something larger against the window with a sickening ‘splat’. Bolt upright, eyes scanned the darkness, trying to make out the shape. A passing car threw light across the window and a dull hush of tyres dislodging slushy snow and water was almost audible. A maple leaf. The silhouette made a shadow for a second across the woollen blanket, soggy from the sleet it was stuck to the glass.

Laying back down and pulling the scratchy blanket to her chin she forced her eyes shut. It was stupid to get a place in the hostel, only to lay awake for hours because of strange noises. Her stomach growled, almost empty, and the heater reached temperature and clicked off. Another car passed in the street, light and unusual noise.

She would have to find an umbrella the next day, and scrounge some food from somewhere.

Snow was confounding, it got everywhere. Living in Hawaii didn't equip one to know anything about the floating white bits of fluff, other than what was shown on TV. She wasn't in the mood for snowmen. No matter how many times she scraped it carefully out from behind her dumpster, it always managed to blow back in. Huddling in her jacket was all well and good, but once her backside hit the ground her pants were wet for ages and the chill seemed to seem into her soul, filling her from the inside, and prompting her never-ending shivers.

After three days in a row of no room at either of her regular hostels (or any others she could find, or was referred to) she had what felt like a permanently running nose, and shivers that, once started, seemed to last for hours. It was the cough that did it. The hacking sound, the shaking of shoulders, it was all too much. It was time for some renovations.

The people who owned this particular establishment were very conscious about their waste. Boxes were folded down, food was discarded in separate garbage bags to general trash (which made for an excellent scrounging environment) and the trash was taken out at exactly eleven o’clock each night, a time which Verdy made sure to be elsewhere. The back of their restaurant, and therefore the dumpster, also happened to be in an alley, lit on most nights by a streetlamp at the entrance.

Taking a cue from one of the other homeless she had seen that day, a man clutching a harmonica tightly and perched on top of a sheet of cardboard, she chose a box that seemed wide enough to sit on, but not so wide as to make things difficult trying to place it behind the dumpster. Sniffing at regular intervals and pausing every now and then to cough into the sleeve of her jacket she wriggled the box in and lay it down on top of the snow. Because of the double layer the snow underneath shouldn’t melt for a good long time.

Placing her backpack carefully onto the cardboard she surveyed it critically. Flakes were still coming to rest on it, so with a stifled cough she delved again into the dumpster for another box. This one she arranged to lean between the wall and the dumpster’s catching hook. Satisfied with her roof she moved underneath and shoved her hands deep into her pockets. To rebuild her little shelter each time the dumpster was removed would be a pain, but for the week between then it would suffice.

The warning was strict. The security guard’s face crinkled into a frown, thick eyebrows over dark eyes. He looked at her with pity, perhaps he had children the same age, but his job description demanded that she be removed. Loitering was not allowed, as he ‘informed’ her.

“By Law, Section 240.35, you are not allowed to stay here without a legitimate reason, I will have to remove you if you refuse to comply…”

His pity seemed to take over then, and he seemed torn. It was so cold outside, it made sense to come into the mall to stay warm. She made full use of his moment of hesitation, turning sorrow-filled eyes on him, in a look that she had nearly perfected.

“Go home kid, or at least don’t let me see you again alright? And get yourself some vitamins, its cold out.”

With a nod she stood and wandered off. Sitting with her backpack, without any signs of purchases and with slightly greasy hair made her a target for the security. Despite the fact she wasn’t hawking anything, or trying to sell herself (at that point in time) there seemed to be a crackdown on loiterers. She would have to manage a shower somehow, scrounge some soap from a public bathroom, in the absence of shampoo.

Sleeping outside was a dangerous mission.

Her dumpster was in a relatively safe location, but she couldn’t tell if there was still someone following her. He had been flitting around her, just out of her full line of sight, all day. He had followed her on her regular walk through the park, inspecting the various fruit-trees’ blossoms and maintaining both stamina and body heat. Burning energy made her stomach complain, louder than usual, and she made certain to pass by the cafes which had tables on the street.

She managed half a salad roll and a handful of cold fries without being noticed, but glimpsed a flash of dark shoes, which seemed to coincidentally tread all the same streets as she did.

She had discovered a public bathroom a few days ago that had showering facilities, so she made her way there, constantly on the lookout for opportunities. She found one in the shape of an orange, bumped or dropped off a fruit stall, she managed to swipe it discretely from the ground and peel it on her way. The vitamin C was important to try and kick the cold which lingered in her chest. A wisp of cologne, barely noticeable, but no-one she could see for certain. She hated looking back.

The shower was thankfully free and after a wash, scrubbing body and hair with a stolen bar of soap, she pulled on her most clean pair of jeans. The jacket still wrapped around her shoulders, it was cold outside, she lifted her bag and continued her walk. A dull sense that each step she took was echoed by another’s.

Finally she could stand it no more and, scrounging together her long-saved change she stopped in at a Laundromat’s. All her clothes went into the load, the jacket too, it was warm enough inside that she was able to stay in just a T-shirt as the clothes spun in suds behind her. Her eyes remained trained on the street outside, and finally she picked the man who was lingering, his eyes carefully turned away. Crossing her arms she decided to wait.

The amount of change she had limited her to one short cycle and a hot spin in the dryer. Roughly half an hour each. By the time the machine beeped its completion, dusk was shrouding the street and she could no longer see the man with the dark shoes. After spending several minutes trying to explain to the owner what she wanted she finally conveyed her need. A back door.

As soon as she was out she began to run, guessing where she was from landmarks seen from behind. Finally she slipped through one alley, down a block and into her regular alley. She huddled wide-eyed and trying not to pant on her flat cardboard box for twenty minutes before her heart stopped racing.

Sleeping outside was a dangerous mission.

The park was a beautiful place to be in spring. The sun glittered on the many water features, swollen with the melted snow and ice of winter, throwing sparkles across the blossoming plants and the undersides of bridges. Willow trees, brilliant green with new buds, fondled the earth lovingly as it began warming. Birds dashed frantically around, catching insects to deliver to noisy chicks in hidden nests. Baby squirrels made their first outings into the world and sat, wide eyed, on paths or grassy areas.

Long walks in the park distracted her often, she could wander for hours among the trees, subconsciously noting which trees were fruit trees and how far progressed their blossoms were. The air was clean and in the main it was warm enough that her jacket stayed tied about her waist or in her backpack. Food, while not abundant, was more accessible, as more and more people ate out of doors.

“‘scuse me?”

Verdigris met the small child’s wide eyes with a mix of curiosity and fear.

“Why is your hair green?”

The boy tugged his own curly black locks as if to indicate to her what he meant. A hand flew to her own hair to twirl it nervously. There was an inch long strip of black between her scalp and the start of the green, but the colour had stayed, possibly something to do with the irregularities in having shampoo. The boy’s body language suggested that he would not be dissuaded in a hurry and she hesitated.

“Because I dyed it.”

“Why did you dye it?”

“Because I wanted to.”

“Why did you want to?”

She shrugged. Explaining a moment of teenage rebellion to a child seemed a futile project, especially if every aspect would be questioned. The boy seemed to consider this for a moment before grinning at her widely with baby teeth.

“What’s your name?”

“Verdy. What’s yours?”

“Sam.”

She nodded, he was a friendly kid. The world hadn’t had time to corrupt him, if he would still speak to people he didn’t know. Before she had time to step away he had bounced up and grabbed her hand with his own little warm palm. She froze. She had been practicing her mutation at night, or in alleys, or whenever she could manage to find a quiet place with no witnesses. Even still the touch made her nervous, she didn’t want to hurt the little kid, to prove that not everyone was friendly in the world.

“Saaaaaaaam!”

The child’s grip tightened and he began tugging on her fingers, she followed if only to protect him from inadvertently activating her mutation. He was still grinning happily up at her as he pulled her along.

“That’s my Mom. We’re having a picnic.”

Verdy swallowed and took a deep breath, hoping that the child’s mother was friendly and wouldn’t take what she saw the wrong way. She gently tried to prise her fingers from the child’s grasp, but didn’t succeed, he looked at her with what could only be described as a wibble pleading without words that she would remain. She sighed and resigned herself to whatever the woman would say.

“Oh, hello.”

The woman had the same curly hair as the boy, and shared the friendly face as well. She glanced from Verdy’s captured fingers to her face and back again.

“I see you’ve met my son. He can be a little pushy sometimes. Sam, I told you not to talk to strangers.”

The boy looked bored with that statement, and refused to let go of her hand. He turned pleading eyes on his mother now, and Verdy could see her struggling not to give in.

“She’s going to have lunch with us, ok Mom?”

It was more of a statement than a question, and the boy dragged her to the checked mat, spread with food for the other children (Four? Five? It was hard to tell because they kept moving) the woman gave a tired smile, as if she had lost this argument many times before.

“Do you mind? I’m sorry, if your busy. He just gets so impossible if he doesn’t get his way and we have plenty of lunch.”

Thankful for the free meal Verdy sat on the mat next to ‘Sam’ and shared their food as politely as she could. She even stayed to stack plastic plates onto each other and scrape the leftovers into a box. Grateful for the food and pleasant, albeit loud, company she lingered until they were leaving properly. After final farewells to her little friend she returned once again to wandering in the fresh spring air, just this time with a properly full belly.