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Verdigris had chosen carefully that morning what she was going to wear. It was not yet warm enough for a tank top, but not cold enough to warrant a long-sleeve. She had opted for a plain black t-shirt and a pair of jeans. These were the older pair, a little more scruffy around the cuffs and warn soft on the seat, but missing the faint bloodstains of the last pair the boss had seen her in. She had a small clutch-bag with her towel and flip-flops over her shoulder. (She knew better than to walk barefoot in a shared change room, no matter how often it was cleaned) and she was wearing the swimsuit under her clothes for speedy changing. She didn’t want to keep the boss waiting for too long and wrestling with a new pair of swimmers- never worn- was much nicer in the privacy of her own little bathroom.

With a hasty look at the resuscitation poster outside the entry she found the correct entry point and the boss, looking very not-nervous. She smiled at his stiff-backed pose and big blue eyes. Was that… a goatee? She swiftly dealt with the receptionist (with a furthering of the resolution she would never behave like a blood sucking parasite while working in a clerical position) and walked over to where the young man was sitting.

“Good to see you again Mr Slate, are you ready?”

Bring on the shallow-end… on second thought perhaps she should have brought floaties.

Verdigris wriggled. She jiggled, she sucked in until her cheeks glowed a vibrant red. But still the tight nylon wouldn’t let her body in. With a snort of contempt she tossed the swim-suit onto the small pile and took a deep breath, the squealy voice of the judgemental assistant piped up from where she was jiggling around outside the door.

“How you going sweety?”

Verdigris grit her teeth, a young teen calling her ‘sweety’ was almost too much. She inhaled and addressed the feet she could see peeking under the door.

“Can you grab me the next size up?”

She twitched as she heard the intake of breath. She was fairly sure if her chest didn’t fit into this one then she would give it up as a lost cause, it had been so long since she had worn a swimsuit that she really had no idea what size she was anymore. The assistant seemed to want to make her feel like a freak, bringing in swimwear that would have been tight on an underdeveloped ten year old and gradually moving up the sizes, consistently slipping in at least one pair of bikinis each time, no matter how many times Verdy protested that she wanted a one-piece.

She would not destroy the innocence that lurked in her boss’ face. Not with swimwear as temperamental as the flimsy jobs the twiglike assistant was apparently fond of. She transferred the pile to just outside the door and took the new pile from the assistant’s outstretched hands. The girl could put them all back on the hanger herself, it was what she was paid for, and Verdy didn’t feel like being generous. She tossed two suits on the floor without even trying them, a leopard-print bikini and a one piece roughly the colour of strawberry thick shake. Complete with flecks of darker material.

She was able to pull this one up at least, but it squeezed her hips something terrible. She tossed the grey material aside. Next. She pulled it on, had one look in the mirror and began frantically struggling to get out, although with a neckline like that it was a surprise she didn’t fall out without even trying. She flicked through a purple number, camouflage print that would only help if you were hiding in a plate of scrambled eggs and a strapless blue suit that defied all laws of gravity in staying on. Finally she came across a suit that looked promising.

She turned it left. She turned it right. She double-checked the price. Then, and only then, did she take it off the hanger and slip into it. It was tight across the small of her back, but not constricting. The leg holes were wide enough for comfortable movement, but had little legs, almost like shorts, that meant any embarrassing moments as elastic became looser in the water would be avoided. The halter neck was a clip-job, no tempting ends of ribbon to be yanked by cheeky kids, and there was the tiniest layer of padding across the bust, allowing modest movement between pool and towel, even on the most freezing of days.

It was perfect.

She gave it one more twirl in front of the mirror, inspecting all angles, lifting and lowering her arms to observe armholes, bending from the waist to check the neckline and after one final crouch she was satisfied. There was no way that this swimsuit was coming off by accident. The little shorts even meant she didn’t have to splurge on board shorts. She stripped off and tugged her own clothes on, pausing to arrange the other options on their own hangers before unlocking the stall and stepping out.

The assistant gave her a sickly-sweet smile.

“So? Did you find anything that fits?”

The twitch that should have followed that comment was replaced by a smile, the swimsuit made it all better. She passed the pile of rejects to the girl (How old was she? Fifteen? Maybe sixteen?) and placed the black suit on the counter. The thin ribbing matched her eyes, a toxic waste-green and she fiddled with her bag as the girl rang it up. It took her a moment to pay and she politely accepted the material bag with the logo of the store splashed across it. That could be their swimming bag.

Crushing the receipt in her palm she flung it through the portal and out the other into a trashcan. Her towel was still good. She was ready. The warm spring air tossed her hair gently and she gave a little bounce with each step.

Bring on the swimming lessons...

The General didn’t seem entirely pleased, his face was all sucked in, and his eyes glittered with something between hate and pain. She knew green apples were sour, but had never tasted one that bad, or seen one have this effect before. She blinked at each question fired at her, but without waiting for her muddled brain to form a coherent answer the young man was rushing about. He drier-ed the handtowel after only one use, she suddenly felt quite grubby.

A deep breath, exhale gently, now to the questions, the man was standing before her in obvious expectation of their respective answers, so she tried to deal with them mainly in the order they had rapid-fired across the spotless room towards her. She glanced at her watch.

“I’ve been wearing my clothes for probably about two hours, three maximum. They came out of the wash yesterday and this is the first time I’ve worn them since, I put them on directly after my shower this morning, also about two, two and a half hours ago… except my socks, which I put on about half an hour ago to wear to the kitchen and back.”

She considered the statement about apples and juice for a moment, the whole cleaning thing had really got to his head apparently. She carefully pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her fingers and mouth delicately on it, before wrapping it around the apple core and slipping it back into her pocket discretely, with her luck that wouldn’t be good enough and the general would start scrubbing her a scary prospect. She looked the man up and down. There was a word for this state, she was sure… not shaken, or rattled or even discombobulated, but still… Shell-shocked? What had happened to this, strong, fearless young man to make him act so strangely?

“Are you ok, sir? You’re acting a little… neat-freaky, you wanna… talk? Or go grab some breakfast or something?”

Maybe the cleaning products were partially to blame, but why would he have been using them so liberally anyway? The possibility of some kind of crime, murder perhaps, sent chills down her spine, but she set herself firmly on the pristine-to-the-point-of-luminescent carpet.. The General was one of the good guys. Well, at least as far as she could tell.

~~"S'not gonna change, whether you freaks are here or not. But if you're not here, see, if you're not, then you can't kill us back."

She waited for him to blow- quite enthusiastically actually, surprising how much snot could come out of one nose, especially considering how dehydrated he must be from all that alcohol- and took her damp hanky back without comment. ‘Ewwwww!’ She shoved it in her pocket, she would deal with that later.

“And you would just go back to killing and suppressing people who are gay, or black, or female, or different, who don’t come equipped with the occasional steel plating and ability to breathe fire. Yes?”

Which was kinda strange to be saying, seeing as she had yet to meet either of those particular ‘gifts’. She continued to pat the man’s shoulders, curiously she wondered how long since he had spoken about this to anyone. Were there councillors that dealt specifically with those who had irrational (?) fears about mutant supremacy? How ironic it would be if it was a mutant councillor. Did mutants get high-profile jobs like doctors and lawyers or councillors and teachers? Surely there was some form of equal opportunity laws in place, ignoring the prejudice that cannot be swayed, no matter how many forms are filled and signed. She really needed to splurge on a newspaper once she got her glasses fixed, catch up on what was happening around her.

"Do you think It's a student?...or a teacher?... I would hate terribly to be caught in such an embarrassing situation by anyone who helps run this place..."

Verdigris quirked her lips, if whoever it was was a decent person, and not some snotty-nosed brat who would take pleasure from their situation then it was fine by her.

“Rescue is rescue my dear friend, no matter who is on the white horse, prince or no.”

Her eyes found the book that Andrea was offering her, and an amused snort left her at the title. Strange, strange things that people were… ‘amused’ by these days.

The hummer looked left, looked right, did a 180, looked down, apparently the request for a ladder didn’t prompt someone to look up as soon as one would think.

~~"But before I go to rummage through the school with a ladder on my shoulders, why don’t you tell me, where you are, first?"

She glanced around briefly for a suitably scathing statement, but decided not to employ the use of the ever useful ‘where do you think genius?’ and opted for the gentle option. Their fate rested, after all, on the shoulders of this man.

“Erm, we’re kinda on top of the bookshelf.” A pause and a wave “See?”

The fact that they were surrounded by the steamy section- complete with the newer titles including those involving X-gene positive (‘Eugene and the girl with two mouths.’)- should not be mentioned, must not be mentioned. The fact they were two young women dressed for bed perched atop said section was irrelevant.

They were stuck.

I would like to nom-inate Cafas again for this month.
For his involvement in Dirty Boys
His subsequent mourning and obsessive cleaning in Final wishes
His shameless sharing of That dance and its dedication to us.
His constant planning, scheming and never shutting up about MRO in real life, no matter what we're doing/supposed to be doing. Woot for character planning during study and English periods!