Parks were a roughly even mixture of convenient and infuriating. Infuriating, because they were filled with noisy, arrogant, stupid, thoughtless people, none of whom Blake had any interest in dealing with. However, those people were quite convenient for sketching, and as much as Blake might hate having to deal with most people, drawing them was something he enjoyed. And parks, or at least all decent parks, had trees. Blake appreciated any place that had trees.

He had started out in one of those trees, balanced on a branch while he drew the people around him. After a few hours an impromptu soccer game had caught his eyes, however, at a distance and angle that made staying in the tree not the best idea. He could see most of the game, but not quite all of it, and still had to lean at an angle that he could only maintain for so long before his sides started aching from the strain. So Blake tucked the sketchbook and pencils carefully into a bag--not a purse, no matter what Ace said, it was black and had band logos sewn on, so it was too manly to be a purse--before climbing down from the tree.

There weren’t any good, climbable trees close enough and at the right angle to let him see the soccer game, so Blake settled on a bench instead, watching the game to find some interesting pose, position or arrangement of people, and then focused on his sketchbook, trying to capture what he’d seen as well as he could before he forgot.

At long last the season of the shorts had arrived, which meant that Locke spent every spare moment outside. What’s more, with Chase proving who had been sending the photos, the teen now was able to get off of campus grounds. There was a need to be active, to engage in some sort of activity that did not involve him sticking his mind into the dirt. Last summer Locke had tried picking up soccer, figuring a sport where the ball spent time on the ground where he could sense it would be easier than one where he had to try to catch something that he couldn’t ‘see’. In theory it was a great idea. Locke’s powers were earth based, soccer didn’t involve ball throwing. The only flaw was that Locke wasn’t very good at it. His only improvement thus far had been that the teen no longer could cause murder with the ball. No risk of decapitation anymore, but he’d win MVP about the same time that Mr. Noodle would. Still Locke could occasionally manage to join in a game in the park. He didn’t pretend that he was great, but just the physical activity was good enough for him. Slowly he was getting better at it.

The ball was passed to him, surprisingly enough, but Locke’s attention was elsewhere. He felt a burning sensation on the back of his neck that couldn’t be blamed upon the sun. Locke was always keenly aware of someone staring at him. Stopping the ball Locke took a quick glance over his shoulder, trying to determine who was staring. Shouts from the others reminded Locke that he was still a part of this game and that he had to make a move with the ball. Locke still kept in the game, but the knowledge that someone was watching him kept bothering him.

It wasn’t just that he didn’t like having someone stare at him. He felt awkward enough going about his daily life, but playing a sport that he was unfamiliar with made him even less at ease. Such unease meant that he started playing worse, which was saying something. Knowledge that Locke was sucking at the equivalency of a small black hole just made him more aware of the eyes upon him. Locke passed the ball and stepped away from the game. He had been feeling the stares for quite some time now and needed to do something about it. ”Hey,” he said to the guy with the sketchbook, intending to be polite, ”Would you mind not staring at us?”

Blake did not like people. They were, in general, shallow, self centered, rude, incapable of empathy and generally not pleasant to be around. He particularly did not like people who made him interact with them, and deal with all their unpleasant traits. People who insisted on making him deal with them when he wasn’t expecting to have to were even worse, and people who interrupted Blake when he was enjoying himself earned the absolute maximum disgust and resentment he was capable of.

So it was no particular surprise that when someone ordered him to stop staring, Blake looked up with a scowl. “I’m not staring.” The sketchbook was tilted pointedly, then on second thought tilted away to make it harder to see. “I’m drawing. What I draw is none of your business.”

He probably was being rather rude about this. Who was Locke to dictate what anyone did in a park, unless it was some sort of legal activity, in which case it was something that he should act against. Kids walk around in parks, and they don’t need that sort of influence. Locke would admit that he was probably being overly sensitive about this whole thing. None of the others playing the game had even noticed the person on the bench. It wasn’t a big deal to them. To them it was all about the game. But they probably didn’t have to worry about someone wanting them dead. Not everyone has a psychopathic mother. Had the artist been a little bit more polite in the reply, Locke might have apologized and gotten back to the game, But the other teen had been less than courteous, and Locke was really paranoid about being stared at.

For a brief moment the drawing had been tilted towards him and Locke caught a glimpse of what was on the page. Not long enough that he was able to identify which individual person it was, but Locke followed logic. It had been a drawing of a person, and in direct line of vision to where this artist sat was the soccer game. Somehow Locke doubted that what he saw in the sketchbook was off the top of the other teen’s head, and it sure as hell wasn’t an elephant. ”Don’t you think it is my business when you’re drawing me?”

Locke wasn’t vain enough to assume that the picture had been of himself. Why would you want to draw someone who had no clue really how to play the game. During the game Locke had been following his usual tactic, which was to hang out on the side of the goal and try to defend against the opposite team. His powers were defensive, so he felt more comfortable taking on that role in the sport. It was weird when he considered the difference between soccer and baseball. There wasn’t as much of a rapid switch between the two when you played baseball. After three outs you either were on the offense or on the defense. ”Look I don’t mind you drawing, but does it have to be us?”

Blake’s nose wrinkled in a deliberate expression of distaste. “I wasn’t drawing you. What I draw is none of your business anyway.” Really, he had no idea if he’d been drawing this guy or not; he’d seen, and drawn, figures, without anything particularly identifying about them. Anyway, that meant he really hadn’t been drawing the guy, even if he had, because he was just drawing figures. So the guy was wrong three times.

“Yes. It’s none of your business what I draw,” was repeated yet again, with what Blake intended to be more force. Technically, he could go turn on the TV--if Ace wasn’t hogging it, anyway, but Ace was probably outside running his head into balls with his friends, like normal--and find some sport to watch and draw, but that wasn’t quite as interesting as real people. Or as varied; the professional sports were perfectly capable of getting themselves into strange contortions and positions, but generally had much less variety and frequency than enthusiastic but clueless park kids. And, it wasn’t good to get into the habit of assuming you could always pause an image to copy it, anyway. “Someday I’m gonna be an artist, and being a freelance artist is really competitive, so I have to be really good, so I have to practice everything a lot, and it’s better to draw real life than from pictures, so if I just draw from the TV I won’t be as good, and that’ll mean that when I’m an artist, I won’t get as much work and then I’ll starve to death.” It was all quite logical, inside Blake’s head. As was his final, most important and deeply considered factual opinion.

“…Also, you’re stupid.”

"They hire people you know," Locke told Blake, "Artists that is. They hire people to pose for them, or they get a friend to do it. From what I heard it's a good way to make some money. You get paid more than flipping burgers at McDonald', something like fifteen bucks an hour. And yes, this does concern me." Crap, did he have to tell this kid why he didn't want to be stared at? Was the giant scar over his eye not a clear enough indication that he might have issues about being stared at? Did he not think that there are just some people who want to live their life unseen?

Locke listened patiently as Blake went on to say his dreams of the future. Practicing Locke could understand. He'd played baseball as a child, and it was a regular part of his schedule to train with his powers. He also was going to be heading off to college in a short time to study childhood development. However there were some things that you either were, or you weren't. "No you aren't. You don't someday become an artist. Either you're one now or you aren't ever going to be." The words came out harsh, Locke could hear that, but he believed the more artistic things, such as music, writing, and yes, even drawing, were instinctual. Didn't some lady write a book that said you're a writer if the first thing you think of in the morning is writing?

Blake's final argument was that Locke was "stupid". The point was ironic, because it just oozed with the indignation of youth. "You're stupid," was the kind of insult that five year old children use. It was how Chris described girls, his sister included. "So being an artist is so competitive a field that you have to act like someone shoved a stick up you when they mention you trampling on their privacy? Dude, name one job that isn't cut-throat now. Call me stupid all you want, but at least I know what life is like outside of a safety bubble."

“Models stay still. And they know you’re drawing them, so they try and pose and look pretty and stuff and don’t look like natural people at all.” Wow, this guy was arrogant. It was like he thought he knew something about art. Which was obviously impossible; artists and jocks did not mix, and the guy was playing soccer. “Also, yeah, models do get paid a lot, and I don’t have the money for one.” Plus, Blake’s parents were absolutely certain that all artists’ models were necessarily nude, and that that meant they were porn at best. For some reason they insisted on thinking that Blake was actually old enough to be interested in any of that stuff, too, no matter how many times he said he wasn’t. And he definitely didn’t have the money for a studio. So the last thing he wanted to do was hire a model.

Also? Free, decently clothed, natural-looking people to draw, everywhere, all the time. Why spend money when there was no need to?

“Fine, then, someday I’m gonna be a professional artist, Mr. English Teacher, and need to be the best professional artist to eat.” Blake’s tone was just as harsh, or would have been, if some of the harshness wasn’t hidden by a poor attempt at superior disdain. “And, yeah, it is competitive. So is music and sports and acting, because everyone always wants to be one of them. You ever met a three year old who wants to grow up and be an accountant?” Blake tossed his head, throwing the hair that had been falling toward his eye back out of the way. “So, what, you’re just another one of those people who thinks that just cause you’re older, you know everything? I don’t like arrogant jerks, so go away.” That point needed to be emphasized, so that it would be obeyed. Conveniently, there was a pebble on the bench next to Blake; the tiny little three millimeter wide type of gravel that snuck into peoples’ shoes and spread everywhere. Obviously, this meant the universe supported Blake, so he threw the piece of gravel at the arrogant guy. No reason to disagree with the universe, after all.

"Did you just throw a pebble at me?" Locke asked, hardly believing it. Alright so the two had hardly been considered the height of proper etiquette to each other, but thus far everything had been confined to physical barbs, and in the case of the "stupid" comment, not the best ones. It was not a big heavy rock, nothing to get bent out of shape over. But Locke had been under a lot of pressure lately. He couldn't express his anger about his father's lying to him all those years. The man was dead, and Locke felt to blame for that. His mother was alive and she didn't want him to be. Locke didn't want that parent around, but with the lie he wasn't entirely sure if he wanted his dad back at times. That thought scarred him. One of his friends was afraid of him now because of his mom. In short a lot of crap was going down and Locke didn't want to deal with it. Of course no three year old wants to e an accountant. Nobody even knows what an accountant is until they need one.

He didn't think he was being an arrogant jerk, just giving Blake a dose of reality. And not everyone wants to be the sports star, or a famous musician, and not everyone was able to be an artist. Locke could only draw stick figures really well. His desire in life was much more humble, but no less tenuous a position. Teachers only work for part of the year, and there were always budget cuts to worry about. Even as a person working in a day care there was the chance of a ramen for every meal diet. It seemed like parents didn't watch their kids anyways these days.

Locke was really starting to hate this guy. Age had nothing to do with offering advice or making requests. All Locke wanted was to be able to play his soccer game without feeling like he was underneath a microscope, and now this snot was throwing a pebble at him. His temper snapped and two dirt hands wrapped themselves around Blake's ankles. With a gesture from Locke's thumb the hands pulled the younger teen down, into the dirt that would have been a golem. Cold Steel had been the first to experience this burial, and that had been just one leg. With the one who pointed the accusing finger of "arrogant jerk", it was more than just one leg, it was the body up to the waist. "This is New York City idiot. Don't go around pissing everyone off," Locke hissed. The soccer game paused behind him, but Locke had never lied and said he was normal. He told them, when they saw the scar, that he was a mutant, he'd be fine to play. That, more than his bad playing, made it hard for Locke to find a game. The game started up again, but not with quite the same enthusiasm. "Didn't your parents ever teach you that?"

“Yeah, well, anything bigger might’ve hurt you.” And either was out of Blake’s reach, or was used for art, and there was no way he was throwing anything useful for art at anyone; it was far too much of a waste. Even with that reasoning, though, Blake felt he was being quite nice about it; the little bit of gravel was kind of like flicking a kid on the nose and telling them to leave, only for farther away and probably with even less pressure.

Even if Blake had considered his behavior incorrect, he would not have guessed that someone who looked and acted so normal was a mutant, and particularly not one who was willing to attack (apparently) normal people. He also had not known it was possible to feel yourself going white from fear, but apparently it was.

The first implicit threat Blake was halfway too scared to notice, much less respond to. The second he heard, but it still took a second and a few very deliberate, deep breaths before he could answer. “My parents taught me I should carry a gun around so I can kill dangerous freaks when I find them.” The words were slow and careful, but still as defiant as he could get past the fear. So what if Blake was, technically, a mutant too? He wasn’t dangerous or violent, and neither was his mutation, so he was weird, but he wasn’t really a mutant, not like most of them were. He wouldn’t hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it, and even if he would, he couldn’t. So, he was sort of still close enough to being a normal person, this mutant ought to still be able to appreciate that Blake was on his side. “I thought that was a good reason not to listen to them.”

It had to be intimidating to suddenly find yourself halfway in the ground, but really the only danger that Blake was facing was a worm in his underpants. Had Locke wanted to really hurt the idiot he would have buried him further. Seeing him go white in the face made Locke feel uneasy. Like he wasn't any better than his mother. If Locke were to let the punk go now he'd run for it. The Californian took a deep breath and looked down. He would let his captive loose once he had gotten him to listen. ”No wonder you've got no manners,” he said. The thing about the guns wasn't frightening him. For one the kid hadn't pulled one out if he had one. Plus even if the guy had one, he wasn't going to be getting it at this point. The bag was left on the bench and the kid's waist was in the dirt. ”You were raised by idiots.”

Locke rarely bad mouthed other kids parents. If he wanted to complain about someone's child rearing skills he could always blame Kendra, though now he had plenty of ammunition for the other parents that played a part in the raising of him. As messed up as his own family was turning out to be, at least he had been taught to treat people with respect. ”Look, you could be human, you're not shooting me, but you have got to stop being an ass,” Locke said, being as firm with his words as he had to be with the twins, ”Because even guns don't stop everyone.”

“They’re not idiots!” Blake, generally, thought that his parents were setting records for idiocy, in fact. They always paid attention to Ace, even though he was a jerk who was just going to hit his head for a living and then die from it, instead of paying attention to Blake or Irri, who would actually be worth something. And they never listened when he told them things, even things that were so obvious they shouldn’t have to be told to begin with. When someone else insulted them, though… they were still his parents. “They’re just afraid. And you’re not doing much to prove them wrong, anyway.”

“Not everyone attacks people for drawing ten second figures, either,” Blake muttered. He still turned his head away, looking down at the ground, then paled again and looked off to the side instead. “And it doesn’t matter anyway. I don’t like guns. They’re stupid.”

”First of all I'm not attacking you,” Locke pointed out,”All I'm doing is keeping you still. Secondly, you through a pebble at me, before I did anything.” It was only a pebble, but Blake still had made a physical attack of sorts. A pebble was what had been available, but if his parents had been able to convince the teen that a gun was the solution to anyone who he disagreed with this would be considered more of a serious matter. ”There's people here, not even just mutants, who would hurt you for less.”

Like his mother, who thought that Locke not instantly recognizing her after over ten years was sufficient reason to try to scratch his eyes out. Sometimes all it took was a simple bump on the sidewalk to set someone off, but other people didn't even need a reason to snap. Long time employees of Disneyland were especially prone to it, probably because of having to wear an ear splitting smile everyday, even when they did not want to. ”But this isn't about that. It's about you acting like you're the only one who matters.”

“Yes you did! Trapping someone so they can’t get away from you is attacking them. And it was a pebble.” Blake folded his arms, glaring up at the arrogant guy. “If a pebble can hurt you you need to get hit more, anyway, so you’ll stop being a wimp. And you were yelling at me.”

Blake glanced away again, but wasn’t deterred. “There’s lots of mutants who kill people just for existing, too. And there’s terrorists from other countries and politics and cults and things that do the same thing. I can’t do everything to be safe from everyone, so why should I bother bowing to everyone else’s whim just in case they actually care?”

“I’m not!” Blake was just sticking up for himself. There was a difference. Besides, the arrogant guy was the one who was insisting that everything had to be the way he wanted it. “You’re the one telling me I can’t do anything because you don’t like it.”

”It’s just dirt,” Locke pointed out, seriously, this kid had to keep insisting that he was the victim here, ”You could get yourself out if you actually stopped whining and acting like I’m trying to kill you.” Sure it would take some effort, but by no means was Blake stuck there for the rest of his life. Any material that could trap someone forever was too difficult for Locke to work with. ”And you’re in it because you need to actually use that brain in your skull. You do have one right?” The words were harsher than Locke usually used. He wasn’t much for insults, other than perhaps a few gentle and well meaning jabs at close friends. When something bothered the teen he tended not to talk about it. Blake was just pressing all the wrong, or perhaps right buttons.

”I didn’t say that you couldn’t draw. Hell, I even said I didn’t mind if you did. All I wanted was you to not draw us playing soccer,” Locke said. What he needed, besides a two by four to whack some sense into Blake’s head, was a plausible reason why the teen couldn’t draw the soccer players that did not involve Locke or his insane mother. Add to that the whole dead eye thing… ”Some of us don’t want people to look at us, and a few of the others are major show offs.”