Changeling

Watching other children at school was hard. Gareth frowned deeply, letting the jackhammer drown out the sound of their voices drifting over from the courtyard. St. Mary's had hired him along with others for the library remodel and though the pay was good, every day was a trial. Not because of the work.

He kept seeing kids who looked like Mort - black hair, hazel eyes, and bright smile - running along with friends and playing soccer. Or occasionally walking with a pretty girl along a fence covered in honeysuckle vines. Seeing such reminders of what he couldn't have only added to Gareth's resentment. Some parents truly did not know how lucky they were.

Occasionally he'd run into old friends who asked about his family, asked about Mortimer. Gareth would often find himself lying that they had sent him off to a private school - which of course was not the case since Ann had put her foot down on the subject.

He was wary of bringing up the subject again - she was lately coming down with something and testier than usual. He'd woken up to her twice this week, curled forward in bed - nearly bent in half - as she tried to relieve the pain in her stomach. Trying to rub her back had only made things worse.

Feeling guilty and worried, Gareth had turned himself around - making an effort at cleaning the dishes and chipping in with housework. He'd swallowed his personal pain to spend time talking with their son. Or he'd at least tried to; the boy was skittish around him lately. Whenever they were in the same room together, Mort would act as though he was doing something wrong by being there.

Lately, Gareth wondered if the kid had developed some kind of clinical depression on top of everything else. Wouldn't that just be perfect. Then he could have the full experience of raising a kid messed up in the head as well as physically. Gareth huffed, turning the jackhammer off and setting it down to wipe at his face. He hadn't signed on to be that kind of parent; this was asking just a little much of anybody.

"Toynbee!" James shouted, pelting around the building. Gareth lowered his water bottle, swallowing, feeling the slight surreal lightheadedness that usually came before bad news. James never ran. He was a twenty-year old kid from California who acted more like a model for jeans than a drywall contractor. At his fastest, James sauntered.

He paused to catch his breath. "Your wife. She collapsed at work. They're taking her to the hospital. Sam already knows. He said to tell you to just drop your work and go."

The rest was needless, Gareth was already running for his truck.

Ann's eyes were closed and her skin was jaundiced. Had she lost weight? He hadn't realized just how little of dinner she'd been eating lately, but now seeing her on the bed, her small body surrounded by tubes and wires, he remembered just how many times she'd simply scraped the contents of her plate back into Tupperware containers.

They had seen to her without paperwork, assuming that he had insurance. Assuming that he was not just a part-time worker who didn't qualify for benefits. Gareth wasn't going to say a damned thing until he knew what was wrong with her. The bastards had to make her stable either way.

Gareth sat in the chair beside her, waiting for the doctor and afraid to take her hand. He should have listened. He should have gotten private insurance in case something like this happened.

Twenty minutes later, he learned that it didn't matter anymore.

"We've run some tests, but your wife is showing all the positive signs of advanced pancreatic cancer," the young doctor told him. Gareth blinked at him, heart pounding.

"What does that mean exactly? How can it be advanced? This is the first time anything like this has happened!"

"This type of cancer usually doesn't have early symptoms. Not symptoms anyone would go in for a checkup over. It's very often mistaken for ulcers or upset stomach or simply back pains."

"She-She was so worried about our son. I'm sure she never even thought about herself. She's been having back pains and . . ."

And Gareth might have been able to tell her to go in earlier than this. To do something about it.

"Even by then, it was too late," the doctor told him, adjusting his glasses. "I'm sorry. There's really not much we can do except make her comfortable."

"What - but wait, how long does she have? Chemotherapy won't help?"

"We're testing for a diagnosis. We're also trying to see how far along the cancer has spread. At this point, she has anywhere from three months to two weeks, possibly less than that."

Gareth swallowed hard.

"Do you have anyone you need to call? There's a pay phone just down the corridor."

He thought about Mortimer and his throat knotted. He didn't know what to tell the boy. And he wanted to be alone with Ann right now. He needed to be. Gareth shook his head and sat back down numbly, waiting for his wife to wake up.

The doctor's estimation had been too optimistic. Ann didn't have weeks left. She barely had two days. A priest was in the room by the end of the night, holding his book and standing quietly nearby like some kind of specter. Gareth didn't talk to him much. He didn't let go of Ann's hand, not even when the nurses came to change her catheter bag, filled with dark fluid that did not look in any way healthy.

He spoke to her, soothed her, apologized that Mortimer wasn't here. Mort would only be upset, and frightened, he reasoned to her still body. The staff would probably have kept him quarantined anyway, for fear that he infect her with whatever had turned his skin green. And if he'd had to deal with that, Gareth wouldn't have enough time to tell her that he loved her before she left this world.

He didn't sleep, didn't eat, barely left her side to drink or use the facilities. And at nine forty-three at night on the second day, her body began to fail. Gareth was moved aside as nurses rushed in, trying to revive her. He heard the priest start to murmur prayers and wanted to shake the man, to shut him up. Gareth clenched his fists and prayed along with him, helpless and forgetting half the words.

Within moments, Ann had slipped away. She hadn't even woken up.

The boy yelped, rolling off the couch in a tangle of blankets. He looked up wildly, trying to figure out what had woken him. The screen door was letting all the light through and he could have sworn he'd closed both and locked them before lying down. Someone was in the kitchen right now; he could hear cabinets opening.

Mort looked around for the portable phone and fished it out of the couch cushions, seeing that it was past midnight. Nobody had come home for two days or told him what was going on and he hadn't dared call the police, not when he was technically not supposed to be left home alone.

But someone else was home now and he struggled to get up, kicking at the blankets and stumbling to the kitchen. "Dad?" he called hopefully. The broad shoulders certainly looked it.

Gareth had his back to him, pouring an unsteady glass of port. "Go to bed," he muttered and downed the shot. The damned bar had stopped serving alcohol to him after a point. Friends had given him a ride home.

"Go to b- is that all you're gonna say? Where've you been, I've been worried? Where's Mom?"

Gareth grit his teeth. Not now. He didn't need this now. Damned screen door must have woken the kid up.

"Dad, where is Mom?" Mort asked again, voice shaking this time.

"She's dead."

There was a nice thick pause after that. If the kid started crying, Gareth swore he was walking right out of the house again. Let the cops take him in. A night in jail would be preferable to this.

"What do you mean she's dead?" Mort managed to get out. "She can't be dead. You would have called."

"I didn't call. She had pancree - pancr - some kinda fucking cancer. Wasn't any point in you being there. She never even woke up."

"But . . ." Mort's voice was wavering unsteadily. "Why didn't you call?" he asked helplessly, like a broken record.

"And what the hell was I supposed to say? Your mom is going to die, don't bother coming to the hospital because they won't let you see her? Have you looked in the fucking mirror at all, kid? They wouldn't have let you past the lobby!"

"You still could have told me!" he insisted, breath hitching. Gareth cursed loudly and smashed the tumbler into the sink, making Mort flinch.

"Shut the hell up! It's your fault - she could have caught it early if she'd gone for a damned check up! She would still be here if she hadn't been so fucking worried about you!" he yelled, shoving Mort's chest. The boy stumbled backwards and twisted gracefully to jump a few feet away, landing like a cat. He looked surprised at the feat, but Gareth stared at him in disgust. "She always worried about you."

He was hurt. He was mad at himself for his blindness. It seemed only fair that Mortimer feel just as hurt and full of blame as he did. Maybe even a little more.

"And what did it ever get her, huh! A son who's a fucking freak! A monster - look at you!" He grabbed the boy by the hair, ignoring the wails as he dragged Mort down the hall to the bathroom and held him in front of the mirror. "You don't look like anything I can even remember her by. Do you?" he hissed in Mortimer's ear.

Mort didn't understand it wasn't a rhetorical question until Gareth shook him, still holding him by the hair. Eyes watering, he looked at his reflection. He had his mother's dark hair and narrow shoulders. He had her mouth and her nose set in his father's slightly angular face. But his golden eyes and green skin and everything else that was wrong with him belonged to nobody but himself.

"Do you?"

Whimpering, Mort closed his eyes, tried to look away. "No," he admitted quietly.

Gareth shoved him out into the hallway, grabbing his arm harshly as he tried to run for his bedroom. He made the boy face him. "You just remember that. And you remember that it's just as much your fucking fault as it is mine that she's dead!"

"D-Dad -" Mortimer begged, unable to take it anymore. He clutched at the man's shirt, scared and hurt and wanting him to take it all back. "Dad, please -"

He cried out as Gareth wrenched his arm, shoving him bodily into his room so that he fell hard against a shelf. Mort gasped for air, side flaring with pain as books fell down around him. He tried to sit up. Gareth was twisting a clothes-hanger around the outside doorknob, eyes cold. "Dad -"

"You call me that again, kid, I'll fucking belt you one. Haven't been my son since you were born."

The words slammed straight into his chest, hurting more than anything he'd ever experienced. Mort let out a desperate sob, unable to get up and go to him. He tried, but Gareth was already slamming the door shut, tying it against the frame so it could not open from the inside.

"Don't - don't!" he breathed painfully. There was a scream building up somewhere but it was too big for his lungs to hold; all he could do was gasp. After what seemed like decades, he managed to crawl to the door and grappled with it, trying to force it back open. His mind was having trouble processing things. Mom was dead. She was dead. She'd been smiling at him two mornings ago, and now she was gone. And Dad had just . .

He moaned, clawing at the surface of the door frantically. The pressure in his chest was suddenly crushing. It was his fault. It was all his fault - he should have noticed Mom was sick. Should have told her to take him to the hospital even though he was scared. Maybe the doctors would have noticed something. Maybe they could have saved her.

Mort's lungs finally permitted a low cry and more followed it. He yanked on the door, kicked it, clawed it. The more noise the better - he didn't care if his father came back to hit him. He was suddenly terrified of being alone with this, with what he'd done.

Mort called out to him desperately, trailing off into helpless sobbing when there was only silence to answer him. Had the man left him? Left the house? Was he alone again? He was crying too hard to listen. Eventually he lost strength, curling onto his side and giving into exhaustion.

Something inside him was destroyed utterly by the time the sun rose.

His son looked dead, lying on the floor like that. Gareth stared at him, saying nothing to disturb Mort's sleep. Somewhere inside he was burning with shame, but there was no Ann to answer to anymore. There was barely even God.

Gareth swallowed. His mouth had tasted as though someone had stuffed used socks in it by morning. He had washed the taste away with soda, and then some sherry. Alcohol made the pain go away. It also banished guilt, even as Mort was a living reminder of it.

After a space, he reached out his foot and nudged Mortimer in the ribs, making the boy stir. "Get up," he muttered.

Awkwardly, Mortimer obeyed and kept his posture entirely submissive. He looked weak, feeble, broken. Again that small spark of shame lit up in the pit of Gareth's stomach, but he solved that problem by simply looking away and not returning the pale hope in the boy's eyes.

Mortimer's light touch on his wrist was suddenly there, trembling. A reluctant glance told Gareth that the boy was clearly expecting to be hit, yet was leaning closer to him. No. The older man stepped away, making Mort stumble and catch himself alone. The hurt in the boy's eyes pierced like a knife. Gareth turned away and escaped to his chair in the living room.

He listened to the sound of his son shambling into the bathroom to wash his face or shower or maybe cry. He told himself that he didn't care. The next few gulps of sherry convinced him.

Days seemed to slip by this way, one after the other. He could almost believe it was pleasant without Ann around, if he fooled himself. Nobody to nag at you. Nobody to tell you to quit drinking.

His boss had called two weeks later when he failed to respond to any messages, reluctantly telling him that he had to let him go and offering his sympathy. Gareth had flipped the machine off and taken a nap.

He'd woken up with his hands throbbing as though he'd been in a fight. Gareth examined his knuckles which were red and tried to remember what had happened. Something to do with the pizza box laying open and empty by his feet. He barely even remembered ordering it.

Had it been last night? Had he paid the pizza guy or punched him out? Well, there was none left now. He wasn't sure if there was any food left; he hadn't bothered to leave the house much. Certainly not for groceries.

Needing noise, Gareth turned on the television. Nothing was on that was any good without beer.

Mort stuffed another shirt into his backpack, wrapping it around the sketchbook which held photographs in it. They were the most important thing he was taking from this house. The other was a card that he'd found on the kitchen counter. The address to Xavier's Institute wasn't familiar, but he could ask around. He could make his way there. Other kids had probably made it there alone.

He left the empty frames in a neat pile on his desk and slowly opened the bedroom door. The TV was on, illuminating the dark bruises on his face and neck.

Last night, Mort had been hungry and he'd mistakenly presumed the last two slices of pizza were his. It had been all the excuse his father had seemed to need.

He pulled the hood of his jacket over his face and adjusted his backpack, walking as silently as he could to the door. Right now, Gareth was snoring in the kind of sleep that even the screen door wouldn't wake him from. Not like the man would stop him if it did.

Mort didn't look back as he walked out onto the porch, waiting for the usual slam. It never came. Alarmed, he turned back and saw that the screen door was stuck open, whether by the closer finally rusting or by some other sort of intervention. He managed a frail grin. It was like the house was helping him get away.

Once again, he made sure that all the skin that he could cover was hidden under fabric. The dark of night should help with that anyway. He wasn't sure what shelter he'd find during the day, but he figured he could sleep there and travel again when it was dark.

Finally sure that he was doing something right for once, he stepped off the porch and started walking. Once he got to the Institute, everything would be just fine. Mort was sure of it.

He never made it there.

The night was a rare peaceful one, the kind of hot summer night that made the sky turn dark purple - or dark red where the clouds hung over the city. There were no lights in the abandoned truck yard and the yellow quarter moon cast pale light on the arches beneath the freeway's bridge.

Marcus thought he'd made it very clear that he was not interested in recruits. So when Andre and Theo came up to him with an unknown third, wearing the customary bag over the head, he sighed sharply. Apparently the peaceful night was about to end in him breaking a few stubborn skulls.

"Yo, I know what you're gonna say about this, Marco - but lookit -" Theo started, pulling the figure closer. The surprise recruit started to resist, nearly slipping out of his hold, but Andre still had a grip on him. Marcus saw a backpack and nearly groaned. Great, a runaway. And a skittish one too.

He stared at Theo flatly, ready to lay into him as soon as this little show was over and the kid was either dead or running away for his life. Marcus toyed with his knife, not sure which mood he was in just yet.

"Chill, man, chill," Andre shouted. A pleading noise came from under the sack before Theo rudely ripped it away. The kid went limp just then, trying to relax out of their hold and hide his face behind his hair.

"Light." Marcus ordered, getting up and walking over to him. Someone produced it immediately, training a flashlight on Mort. "Look up at me."

When there was no response other than a shudder, Marcus knelt and reached out to part the strands of hair away from the boy's face. So the kid was green, in every sense of the word.

"The guy was in our territory. I was gonna ice him, but thought you'd wanted to see," Theo could not seem to help but butt in.

Mort made another noise and strained to curl down further, shaking. Marcus saw the damage to his face; a swollen lip and bruises. They went down the side of his neck and disappeared beneath the collar of his jacket. He reached for it, ignoring Mort's attempt to flinch away, and pulled the fabric to the side.

A glance told him that the bruises covering Mort's chest were days old, nothing his boys could have done. Good. He gently rearranged Mort's clothing, then carefully swept a few tendrils of hair behind the boy's ear.

"We're not gonna ice you," he said, hoping he sounded relatively soothing. His voice was rough from barking orders. "Relax."

The boy had gone slightly glassy eyed and shivered as Marcus inspected him further. His teeth were sharp too and his legs had looked strong. Poor kid probably hadn't grown into them yet. Marcus' mind was just about made up. He motioned for Andre and Theo to release him.

"What's your name?"

"M-Mortimer," the boy croaked out. Several snorts sounded behind Marcus and were quickly covered up.

Marcus scowled over his shoulder, honing in on the loudest source. "Yeah, like you've got anything to talk about, Albertino?"

More laughter, this time Albertino rolled his eyes good-naturedly. Still kneeling in the gravel and dirt, Mort seemed to loose a bit of tension in his shoulders.

"So where are you heading, Mort?" Marcus asked.

"Uptown New York? I sorta h-have a place to go to. For people like me."

"For muties?"

Mort blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Muties. Mutants. You're a mutant, aren't ya?" He was meant with a blank stare and sighed. Nobody had told this kid anything, had they? "Kid, you aren't the only one who went through some 'changes', you know? Some are obvious, some aren't. You're one of the obvious ones, so life probably isn't gonna be easy on you. I mean, if those bruises say anything. Those from your old man?"

Mort didn't answer, but his cringe told Marcus everything.

"Yeah, figured. You know, this place you're going to is still pretty far away. New York at night isn't that friendly a place to travel in. It's barely that during the day. Why don't you just kick it with us for a couple nights? Eat some food, get some sleep without worrying about some hobo pissin' on you or stealing your stuff."

Marcus' words were crude, but his voice was gentle - almost affectionate. Mort couldn't help but notice that he was being talked to like a person. He unconsciously leaned toward him, craving the kindness.

Would he have the same thing waiting for him at Xavier's? Maybe his mom was right about that place - it could be just a trap for all he knew. A place where they tortured or experimented on people like him . . . on mutants. Either way, she hadn't wanted him to go. Mort bit his lip, debating.

"Come on, Mort," Marcus coaxed. He knew by the look on the kid's face that he almost had him. Life would be better for him with the Thirteens than out on the street. He'd give Mort membership too - not like other gangs, which would probably just turn him into a pet. Or something worse. "Hang with us. You don't need to go any further, not right now. "

Loose strands of the boy's hair escaped from behind his ear and Marcus unthinkingly tucked them back. It was the perfect length for dreads. Thirteen of them, like the rest of his brothers. That action alone seemed to decide things for Mort. He looked up at Marcus, shivering in the night air.

"I - alright. I'll stay."

And he had stayed, longer than just a few nights. He found life was pretty good with the Thirteens - better than it had been or possibly might have been.

The only thing that Mort really hated about it were the gang wars. He could so easily do without those. Even though Marcus had trained him in knife-fighting and said he was good at it, Mort just didn't feel like a knife sort of person. He wasn't a gun sort of person either, which fortunately Marcus declined to teach him since he was no fan of firearms himself. They were too easily traced, he said.

Actually, Mort never got much of a chance to find out what sort of weapons person he was, since Marcus would move him toward the back when it looked like any actual fighting was going to happen.

When he asked, Marcus simply told Mort that his basic purpose to the Thirteens was to be their scarecrow. A sharp-toothed green guy smiling at them was unnerving to most people.

It was effective with mugging too. His first time, all Mort had to do was come out of the shadows and the poor woman practically threw her purse at his face before running away screaming. That night had made him rather popular with the rest of Marcus' boys; nobody had doubted his place with the gang afterwards.

He still didn't enjoy the fighting. Even if Andre was amazing to watch with his blades, the blood that usually followed turned Mort's stomach.

The Thirteens weren't like the gangs on TV, dealing drugs or shooting at people for fun. Marcus never got them into a fight that didn't have a good reason. And more often than not, even those would end with minimal bloodshed plus assurance that their territory would be respected from now on. That was an equation Mortimer could live with.

Then the Diablos moved into their section of the city. They were small fish in big waters, looking for a chance to appear bigger than they were. The gang was growing, recruiting people alarmingly fast, but Marcus had not appeared concerned. He figured their leader would wear himself out with so many new egos to handle at once, and the anarchy would dissipate them.

But the Diablos didn't dissipate. They only got more brutal.

Now when there were fights, Mort saw at least one death. He watched members of his family lay where they dropped. Soon, Marcus no longer had a choice in the matter of keeping Mortimer safe.

The Thirteens were dwindling in number and Marcus had found three new recruits who looked more like red shirts than anyone useful in a fight. Mort hated to think that, considering his own lack of skill, but it was true. He'd seen them training and they were actually worse than he was.

There was no time to do anything about that by the next time the Diablos attacked. It was both the first and last gang war Mort would ever be forced to participate in.

Streetlights blurred in his vision, becoming a constant line of light. When Mort next got his bearings, it was no longer in some alley with three cops racing towards him.

Instead, a man with white hair was staring at him in curiosity. Maybe even a little pity. Strong hands gripped his shoulders as he swayed, tasting blood and bile.

"Alright?" he asked.

No. Mortimer was not alright. He'd just killed someone. He hadn't even known his legs could do that. The Diablo had lunged with a knife and he'd simply kicked out of pure instinct.

"Sit," the man said firmly and then made him obey. Mort wound up sitting on someone's porch stairs, finding the world slightly less sideways than before. He still didn't understand why he wasn't staring at the other teenaged boy on the ground, choking on blood and curled around his ribs.

"Hey, if you vomit on these shoes, you're buying them."

Mort's expression must've been terrible, for the white-haired man knelt down to his level. "Just joking. Kid, look at me. Focus. We can't stay here and chat forever. The little gang-war of yours was big and the number of cops on the street is starting to worry me. I got you out of there. No need to thank me. Really."

He paused and Mort belatedly realized that it had been sarcasm, and that he should say thank you or something. A finger went to his lips as he opened his mouth.

"My name's Pietro. Call me Quicksilver when we're out in public. Anyway, I helped you because you're a mutant, like me. And frankly, I think you could do better than being the mascot of some lowlife street gang."

"T-They're not low-lives," Mort argued, thinking of how Marcus had . . . had just been there for him when he'd had nobody. "And I'm not their mascot."

"Yeah sure, whatever," Pietro muttered, mostly under his breath. "Look, my point is that I'm giving you a chance to be part of something bigger than this. A chance to be with people like you. If you come with me, I can show you that you don't have to live like this."

"I have to go. I have to find Marcus." Mort tried to stand up, barely managing.

"The cops are going to find you first," Pietro warned him, standing up as well. "They're combing the streets for you and for them. For anyone who knows information about you. Technically this counts as a mutant attack against a human. Pretty serious stuff."

Mortimer had made it halfway down to the mouth of the alley and stopped, listening to Pietro's words. He wanted to find Marcus. Failing that, he wanted lie down on the old beat up couch in Marcus' house and just sleep for a month.

"My guess is you're going to find your friends very ready to hand you over once the cops are finished riding them for information," Pietro said, suddenly in front of him. Mort took a step back, bristling.

"Marcus wouldn't do that."

"Okay. Then go. Find out the hard way. Don't count on me to fish you out of jail when he hands you in for immunity. Sorry for taking up your time, kiddo."

Mort's stomach clenched in fear. He didn't want to go to jail. Marcus wouldn't really turn him in, would he? Even if he didn't, there was nowhere to hide. He stuck out like a sore thumb. Agonized, Mortimer grit his teeth.

"Wait," he called to Pietro, who'd been walking quickly instead of just zipping off.

Pietro heard and turned back to him, smiling.