It's basically Fan-Fiction of X-Men (I'm a HUGE fan!). It starts basically right after the end of the third movie.
If you know nothing of X-Men, then either do some research, watch the movies, or don't join... Not trying to be rude in any way, but I want this to be as close to believable as possible, if that makes sense.
The train lurches forward. This is it. This is the moment; there’s no going back. I finally get to be somewhere I belong. Well, when I get there anyway. And, if they’ll accept me.
As I stare out the windows, the green scenery beginning to zoom by me, I recall the other day; the day I found out.
I had been walking back to my seat, minding my own business, when the class Jerk kicked his binder in the middle of the walk way, tripping me. I fell face first onto the beige and gray speckled linoleum floor, and the class began to laugh at me. My anger boiled and just for a moment, I imagined the kid rushing up in flames. Not so that he was harmed, just the flames surrounding him, like I read in a book once.
The next thing I knew, the class was filled with shrieking, and the kid was engulfed in flames. But he wasn’t harmed.
“Make it stop! Make it stop!” he cried frantically, flailing his arms and hitting himself, trying to put out the flames. The fire died out quickly, and the boy stared at me with awe, fear, and hatred.
“Stay away from me, freak!” he spat.
The police were called, and I fled. I went home, hoping to find condolence from my parents, but when I told them what’d happened, they looked at me like I was some supernatural accident, and they disowned me.
I remember blinking back tears and rushing to my room, grabbing a red duffle bag and throwing clothes and whatnot in. I left the house and never looked back.
Now, two days later, I’m leaving a train station I didn’t bother remembering the name of, and I’m heading towards Grand Central Station. From there, I’ll take a taxi, or walk if need be, to Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters.
Maybe they’ll be kind to me. I overheard some drunks talking about the place in a family bar a couple of weeks ago. It’s a school for mutants, or people like me. I hate that word: mutant.
They, the normal people, make it sound like it’s a disease. Apparently, they’ve come out with a cure for it; you can go to Alcatraz Island and get it. But I don’t want to resort to that just yet. I want to see if there’s a place I can feel at home. If there isn’t, well… then I’ll get the cure.
My name is Freya. I’m thirteen.
You’re probably thinking that my power involves fire, or something lame like that. If that’s the case, you’re way off base.
I have to be extremely careful with my imagination. If I start day dreaming about flying ponies, well, Security, or the police, or some kind of Authority would have a huge mess to clean up.
If you still can’t guess by now, whatever I imagine comes true. I have to keep a mental block on my mind at all times. And dreaming is especially hard. I’m afraid to sleep anymore. If I let my guard down, somebody could seriously end up hurt.
I stare out the window, wondering what Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters will be like. But I don’t focus on any one aspect for too long. I have to keep my mind shifting at all times, that way my power can’t get a grip on what I’m imagining and make it come true.
Hours go by. I’m so tired, but I don’t dare dream. Not here in public. The train slows down, and the wheels give a piercing screech as we come to a halt. We’re here; I’m here.
Can I call this place home, though?