Alma was quite the sight to behold—she sat upon her largest bag, duffel bag on her lap, and backpack at her side, the image of either a lost traveler or a homeless girl with nice bags. She’d managed to acquire a map of New York City on her way out of the hostel, and was now sitting on the curbside a few blocks away, scrutinizing a map.

The hostel had had the best rates in the city—or so they claimed—at only twenty-five dollars a night. Though Alma wasn’t totally broke, the cost was beginning to impact her pocketbook. And, without a steady source of income, she needed to pace herself. This money would have to last her until she got a legitimate job. She couldn’t spend it all on a bed in a hostel. Thus, Alma was exploring her options.

As she sat on the curbside, perusing this map and book of places to stay (which was at her side—she was cross-referencing these places and their locations with the map, to see how far she’d be walking with all of her bags), the bodachs were finding other means of entertainment, and beginning to tarry. Alma had come to learn that, though they followed her while she was on the move, if she wasn’t doing anything worthy of their interest, they deviated. Some were attempting to (and failing at) scale a newspaper dispenser. Others were playing with broken glass, which shone temptingly in the sunlight.

A good chunk of the little ones, however, were focusing on living targets—humans, specifically—and causing problems overall. Though they could go invisible, it was far more fun to be visible and causing problems—which these smaller bodachs were doing. Somewhere, in the alleys, the big ones stalked. Alma, all the while, was wholly unaware of the behavior of her shadowy stalkers. She was more focused on finding a place to crash.

Homeless shelters… always an option. Thought I hardly seem the part. Do they reject people who don't look homeless from homeless shelters...?

Youth group at the Church of Everlasting Life involved a lot of hard work, that day. They traveled down to a poorer part of the city and helped some adults build a "community garden" on an otherwise unused patch of land that the Church had bought up. Apparently, this was a good and useful thing, because the people who lived down there could use it to grow vegetables as a small source of free food. Or something like that.

It was a great relief to some of the adults to see Kaitlyn again. They'd worried about her for weeks; the last day she'd spent with their group was more than a little traumatic. She wouldn't have been the only person to leave the Church after that.

Kaitlyn felt very tired when it was all over, and she didn't feel like going straight back to Future Sight. She and Alister weren't on good terms; each moment she spent in his presence was purest agony. It would be a lot better, she thought, if she put off going back there for as long as possible. With this in mind, she came up with an utterly brilliant idea: she could take a detour to a nearby ice cream place.

Half an hour later, she was walking out of the shop's front doors with a sugary, delicious ice cream cone in one hand, and a wad of change in the other. She couldn't help but notice all the little shadow-creature-things running around out there. The Sanctuary resident raised her eyebrows. Somebody seemed to be having fun with their mutation.

A few shiny coins slipped through her fingers and fell to the sidewalk. Slipping the rest of her change into her pocket, Kaitlyn went to her knees and tried to gather them up.

A trio of the little ones honed-in on the young redheaded girl, at first, because of what she had in her hand. Alma had not yet learned that they needed to meet, so the bodachs were feeling a touch peckish. It was the girl’s great misfortune that, not only did she have food, but it was unhealthy, sugary food—the food that the bodachs loved most, and the food that Alma did her best to avoid. The bodachs were frolicking on the sidewalk, hopping up onto a lip between tile that separated the building’s base from the sidewalk, before being pushed or pulled back down by the other bodachs.

When the girl made her approach, however, the bodachs slowly snapped to attention, one-by-one. And, when she dropped the change, that didn’t help matters—the once dull and boring sidewalk now had shinies. And, in the underdeveloped minds of the little bodachs, the introduction of shinies triggered their kleptomanic inclinations. The shinies were going to be theirs now, and the girl was powerless to their whims. They lunged into motion, darting after the coins just as the girl did. She was quick, but there was one, small success—a quarter had managed to make it just out of reach, and the shadowy imps were all-too-quick to commandeer it.

The victor let out a faint squeal of delight, holding the quarter over its head. Upon seeing this, the second (and empty-handed) bodach tried to take it, and a tug-of-war over the quarter ensued. The third, all the while, looked to the other two, looked to the pavement, and the stared at the redheaded girl. Or, more specifically, the red-headed girl’s ice cream. Luminous white-blue eyes pierced into her very soul, and seemed to say. Give the cute, eerie thing your ice cream… you know you want to. It even let out a faint whine.

The other ones heard the noise and emulated it, though neither released the quarter. They whined at the red-head in hopes that it'd earn them ice cream.

Kaitlyn gave the little creatures a quizzical, amused look. She couldn't say that she cared about losing a coin to them. It was only a quarter, after all. Besides, the little things were almost cute, even if they were a little creepy.

Then, they started making that whining noise at her, and looking at her with those big, shiny eyes of theirs. Scratch 'cute,' make that 'adorable.' It earned them a faint smile, but they wouldn't be getting any ice cream. All the cute things in the world wouldn't be enough to make this Orderling relinquish a good cone of pistachio ice cream.

The littler bodachs continued in their whining, for it seemed to get a positive reaction from the redheaded girl. She smiled at them, which was a step in the right direction, but it wasn’t getting them what they wanted. The whines became a chorus, and their eyes blinked in and out of sight, as if they were batting their nonexistent eyelashes.

The sound of the begging drew the attention of passerbys, both human and otherwise—a larger bodachs inched out of the alleyway, hearing the commotion, and edged soundlessly closer to the redhead. The littler ones redirected their attention to their larger cohort, jumping up and flailing, and continuing their high-pitched noises. Though there were no intelligible words in the stream of noise, the larger bodachs crept around the redheaded girl and the diminutive shadowy creatures, inclining its head, luminous gaze flickering towards the boon—the sphere of pistachio ice cream.

Well, if that was what they wanted—

A tendril of bodachs-goop extended from its side and formed a vague arm, almost like a tentacle. As it drew closer to the ice cream, the tentacle split into five smaller parts, emulating a hand. The bodachs grasped the ice cream and pop! beheaded the ice cream cone. The little ones cheered victoriously, leaping and attempting to grab at the newly-acquired treat. The larger bodachs, however, wasn’t feeling particularly generous.

It took a hesitant bite of the treat. And, upon realizing that it was pretty good, took another bite. The shouts of victory from the little guys became whines again, though not of begging—of disappointment.

"Sorry," Kaitlyn told the whining little creatures, "but this is mine. You can't have it." An insincere pout danced tauntingly across her lips.

It was around this time when they started cheering. Kaitlyn gave them a quizzical look, and was about to take another lick of her ice cream. That was when she noticed. Her ice cream was gone! "Wha-?" she turned around just in time to watch a larger shadow-creature start to eat it. Large meaning well over a foot taller than Kaitlyn. So, roughly the size of a normal human being. Kaitlyn hated being short.

"Hey! Give--" she began to demand angrily, stopped herself. The creature was already eating her ice cream. She wouldn't have wanted it back; she didn't know where shadow creatures' mouths tended to go. That wouldn't do. If nothing else, she would soon have her revenge. She looked in its eerie, glowing eyes and gave it a death glare.

Although Kaitlyn didn't have much strength, Lenna had taught her how to properly throw a punch. There was a special technique to it, a rotation of the entire body that let her put not only her arm's strength behind a punch, but her legs and torso as well. The punch that little girl threw at that bodach on that day had such perfect form that it would have made Lenna proud. Although the shadow-being had no discernible legs, Kaitlyn was aiming at what she assumed would be its groin.

She felt perfectly justified in taking such a measure. Who the hell steals ice cream from kids?

As the little redhead began her indignant shouting at the larger bodachs, it let out a quiet rumble and turned its shoulder, much like a dog defending its meal, and it continued to nibble at the acquired treat. It seemed not to care that the child was staring daggers into its head, for its single-minded focus was on the snack.

Had it not been so intent upon eating, it might have moved aside as the girl went to punch it. It paused, perplexed for a moment by the girl’s new stance. Her body tensed, and then she released the punch, which connected with the creatures midsection with a disgusting squelch. The bodach glanced down, then at the child. It stared blankly, for a few moments, as if baffled by the action. And, while it stared, the ice cream lolled out of its hands, landing on the sidewalk with a splat.

The creature stared mutedly at the dropped ice cream, stepping away from the punch, letting out a disappointed grumble. It turned and began to leave, then vanished altogether. The little ones, all the while, abandoned the quarter over which they’d been bickering and, as a team, picked-up the ice cream and began to make their retreat.

“Hey!” one of the little guys chirped, emulating the redheads own shout as they retreated. The one cry was followed by echoes from the other ones, “Hey! Hey!”

They were taking their boon back to their master who, still wholly unaware of her creatures’ shenanigans, was perusing a map book and a book of hostels. Alma fixed her hair with a sigh, a familiar rumbling catching her attention. It was one of the large shadow-things.

“What?” she demanded. There was no answer. Thirty seconds later, the trio of little guys came scampering around the corner, holding the ice cream over their heads as if it were an enormous trophy. With how they were whistling and shrieking in delight, you would think that it was such a thing.

“Where’d you get that?” Alma demanded of them, as they scurried closer. As always, the things didn’t answer. They just dropped the scoop of ice cream down on the sidewalk—the second that the treat touched the sidewalk, there was a feeding frenzy. Alma donned a bemused expression, and went back to reading the mapbook with a murmured, “Huh, I didn’t know you pests ate.”

Squelch

Kaitlyn felt like she'd just punched a bag full of jelly. Dropping her arms from her fighting stance, she stepped back and stared at the tall shadow-creature, uncertain that her efforts to harm it had any effect. Uncertainty vanished when she saw it drop the ice cream and fade away. To the girl, this suggested that she'd caused it pain, which was a good thing. It wouldn't bring back her delicious cone of pistachio ice cream, but it was still kinda satisfying.

"Hey! Hey! Hey!"

She swiveled around to see the smaller shadow-creatures carrying off the partially-eaten ice cream scoop, seemingly mocking her earlier indignance as they did. These things were probably working in cahoots with the bigger guy, weren't they? The girl followed them, dumping her newly icecream-less cone in a trash bin along the way. She was going to get to the bottom of this.

Soon after they'd rounded a corner, Kaitlyn believed that she was close. Another girl, probably eight or nine years Kaitlyn's senior, started talking to the little monsters. They ignored her, choosing to gorge themselves on their ill-gotten gains instead.

Kait walked up and tapped the other girl on the shoulder

"Excuse me, miss. Are these pests yours?"

Alma looked up from the map book as there was a tap upon her shoulder, and a crisp, young voice attempted to grab her attention. Alma arched a fine eyebrow as the word “Miss” passed through the girls’ lips, her eyebrows stitching. Alma was no “Miss”, but she appreciated the younger girls’ politeness.

>> "Excuse me, miss. Are these pests yours?"

Alma glanced slowly towards the little guys, then back at the little girl—slowly, the pieces were fitting together—ice cream without a cone, acquired via methods unknown. Those little bastards.

“Yes,” Alma sighed, “Was that ice cream yours?”

"Yeah."

Kaitlyn's anger showed in her voice. She seemed as if she was about to say something else on top of this, but she stopped herself. At first, she'd assumed that there was a mutant behind this theft, probably a guy, who was knowingly and willingly stealing her ice cream, because he was a terrible person and Kaitlyn needed to end him. This did not appear to be the case. The girl who seemed responsible for those creatures' existence just seemed embarrassed and upset by this whole situation. She probably didn't even have any control over those shadow-things. Getting mad at this older girl would make her a hypocrite.

The little Orderling took a deep breath. "Yeah," she sighed, her anger giving way to a feeling of sorrowful resignation.

She peeked over the older girl's shoulder, noticing a book about hostels and a map of the city. That small part of her mind that wasn't busy lamenting her lack of ice cream was now trying to determine what a 'hostel' was. Hadn't she heard that word before?

Alma groaned, looking mildly ashamed, and a little miffed. It would figure that she wouldn’t get a useful mutation. Nothing cool, or deadly—she was followed around by specters that were just as unruly as monkeys. Stupid, vile things that stole ice cream from little girls, right out of their cones. If only there was some way to reprimand them.

Alma turned her body, attempting to reach for her messenger bag, but the map and the book were getting in her way. She folded the map in half, along the crease, and used it as a bookmark as she closed the book, setting the guide down on the sidewalk cover-side up. She then turned and began rummaging into her bag. After minor digging, she finally fished-out her wallet, murmuring crossly in French, before raising her voice to a normal, conversational level to address the child.

“How much does ice cream cost here?” Alma inquired, “Would five dollars suffice?”

Alma was already withdrawing a five-dollar bill and holding it out towards the younger girl.

“I’m so sorry,” she explained, with a self-deprecating laugh, “I’m new to this whole mutant thing. These guys don’t listen to anyone, particularly not me.”

Kaitlyn nodded happily and pocketed the bill. Five dollars was more than enough; she could buy an even bigger cone with that kind of money. "Thanks."

And she could have just left it at that, could have gone and bought another ice cream cone and never seen the other girl again, but she just stood there. She felt a sort of kinship with this fellow mutant. She knew what it felt like to have an uncontrollable mutation that terrorized everyone around her. Although she was obviously a lot younger, Kaitlyn seemed to have more experience living as a mutant. Perhaps she could say something to try to comfort her?

"Oh, it's okay," she said. "I did a lot worse when I was new."

Alma had turned her gaze away and averted it to the book before her once more, when the young girl spoke a second time.

>> "Oh, it's okay. I did a lot worse when I was new."

Now that got Alma’s attention. She looked up at the little redhead, inclining her head at her. She’d heard of mutants who grew into their mutations early-on, or were even born with them, but they were rare. Most mutants grew into their powers at puberty—at least, that’s what her uncle always said.

“How old were you when you evolved?” Alma inquired. The question was far less offensive than pointing out how the young girl didn’t even seem of the age to be a real mutant, and evolution implied that gaining a mutation was a step in the right direction. Some mutants were touchy about what they were capable of, but Alma bore general intrigue in anyone who wasn’t related to her.

“What do you do?”

Kaitlyn shrugged. "I guess I was about nine." The diminutive redhead looked like she was about the right size for a short ten-year-old.

She hesitated to start describing her own mutation. From her expression, one could tell that the topic made her a little bit uncomfortable. "...One guy said I'm kinda like a walking bomb. And just after I evolved," which was now her favorite word for it, "I used to blow stuff up on accident all the time. I mean, I don't do that anymore... but I used to."

This was close enough to the truth for Kaitlyn's purposes.

Alma listened closely, closing her book of places to stay, and using her map as a bookmark, while the child spoke.

“That is a very young age to evolve at,” Alma remarked, adopting the same term that the girl had. She cracked a small, hesitant smile at the child. It was difficult for children to come-into their powers young, if they weren’t of a mutant family—heck, born-humans usually had difficulties regardless of age. Alma was backwards in the sense that she grew powers belatedly, and only after that did she come to realize what a nuisance her powers were.

The girl proceeded with her explanation, throughout which Alma was attentively silent. So, she could blow things up—had the teen been her uncle, she would have promptly tried recruiting her. But, seeing as Alma was not her uncle, she merely listened.

“Maybe there’s still some hope for me, then,” Alma murmured, shaking her head.

As an afterthought, she rose from her seat atop the suitcase, extending a hand towards the child for a handshake, “My name is Alma. Nice to make your acquaintance.”

The dark-haired woman looked around—it struck her as odd that such a young girl be out and about without company, particularly in the city—perhaps she’d just been in Saint-Jérôme for too long, and had forgotten the ways of the city-folk.

“Do you attend Xavier’s?” Alma inquired. Oh yes, she knew of the school—Sophia had attended there when Alma was younger—but, seeing as Alma was well beyond school-age, she didn’t even consider seeking sanctuary there. The inquiry was also far less loaded than one orienting around how her parents had reacted, though served the same purpose as such a question.