The bar was small. Dark green paint covered the walls. It peeled around the baseboards and the battered crown molding. This was the type of bar that people went to so they could be alone. James went there so she could hide. She sat on a barstool, the pleather top was ripped and the edges of the tear were worn. The stuffing peeked through the canvas lining. She didn't care. Her feet were hooked on the lower rungs. The white toes of her black Chuck Taylors pointed toward the ground. Her jeans were ripped. Barely jeans anymore. The front of the left thigh almost completely gone, bottoms frayed beyond repair. The soft pink remnants of scars peeked through the holes of her jeans. If one counted, they'd reach the number thirteen before the jeans hid what was left. She used to hide the scars. Now there they were, on display for the world to see. The plain white Hanes tee-shirt she wore fit her well. If one looked at her closely, they could see the black lace bra she wore underneath. Her elbows rested on the bar, her forehead in the palms of her hands. Her long blonde tresses hung in waves over her shoulders, spilling over her hands and dusting against the bar top. Her eyes were closed, her breathing slow. One might think she was sleeping if they paid much attention to her. In this place, people didn't look too closely at one another. No one wanted to get to know the person next to them.

James sighed softly. She hated this. She hated everyone and every thing. The paramedics that brought her back. The life that was handed down to her. She couldn't accept that this was it. The ice had long since melted in her Jack and Coke. The watered down mess that was once a decent alcohol sat in front of her, Condensation sitting in a perfect ring on the bar top. No use for napkins here. They didn't even give you a small straw to stir your drink with. If you wanted to drink here, you drank straight from the glass. And you hoped that the bartender had actually washed it. She sucked her lower lip between her teeth and bit down. The pain sunk in gently. She was still alive. As much as she didn't want to be. It would have to do for now. She lifted her head, pushed the hair out of her face and opened her eyes. The electric green orbs looked down at the glass before her. The eyes were not natural. Upon a closer look, one would notice that nothing in this bar was natural. The man at the end of the bar had this strange green color to his flesh, and he spoke with out parting his lips. The bar tender poured drinks with out raising his hands. And James, she had those eyes. Those eyes and the gift of seeing people for how they truly were. Looking down deep into their thoughts and hopes and dreams. She saw the people of the world for what they were worth, and they were not worth much.

A small scar curved it's way around the outer edge of her left eye socket. A reminder of the cruel kids in school. The ones that tried to spoon her eyes out because they were afraid. They were ignorant and afraid. James let her tongue part lips, moistening the chapped flesh just a little. She knew taking a sip of her drink was going to sting. She didn't care anymore. She used to care so much. So much that she'd lock herself in her bathroom and let herself bleed. The only form of control she had. She couldn't control her "gift" as her parents called it. She couldn't control the people around her. She couldn't make them see what she could see. No one understood that. The razor gave her control. She chose how many. She chose where. She chose how long, how deep, which way they went. Her inner forearms were covered in the white-pink lines of scars. At least a hundred on each arm. She had spent countless hours bleeding because of the people she tried to save. And then she fell down. She fell and she didn't want to be picked up. That's why she sat in this bar, this dark, dank bar, hiding from the world.

(More to come soon)

She wrinkled her nose up in disgust. Her fingers wrapped around the glass sitting in front of her and she lifted it, bringing it to her lips. She didn't sip, she opened her mouth and poured the mixture of melted ice, alcohol and flat soda down her throat. She put the glass back down on the bar and looked up at the bartender. He smiled at her. She needed that. She knew that he felt her pain, everyone here felt her pain. That's why they were here. The door opened and a flush of cold air rolled into the bar suddenly. It felt as if everything warm had been sucked out of the atmosphere. The bartender stiffened up. Everyone that could see the door did. James barely had time to react. She felt every tiny hair on her body stand on end. The air was electric with fear. The sounds of guns being cocked and pointed echoed throughout the small bar. A voice muffled by a riot mask said her name. "James Christine Harding, stand and come with us."

She was calm. It was almost as if she had known they were coming for her. She stretched her legs slightly as she slid off of the barstool, her hands up in the air. She didn't need her hands to protect herself. Her lush, chapped lips curled up in a smile. The police came into a "freak" bar dressed in S.W.A.T. gear as if it would help them. She was sure that at least one person in here could kill them all with just the flick of a wrist. If only they knew as much. She nodded toward the bartender and her hair fell back behind her shoulders, the long curtain of golden waves brushed against her teeshirt and she turned around to face her captors. "All right, you found me, let's go." Her voice was creamy and soft, almost soothing.

The police formed a circle around her and began leading her to the door. She let her hands drop to her sides and allowed them to take her. She was sick of fighting against everything. And they were good men. They were just doing their jobs. They had families to go back to. They were more afraid of her than she was of them. Their fear crept off of them like a thick springtime fog. Her eyes seemed to pick up an eerie glow as she walked with them. Their emotions fed her gift. The men arresting her did feel weak all of a sudden. Like they were tired, but they got her, so they moved on with their orders. Obtain one James Christine Harding and bring her to the cheif. He had business to discuss with the woman. They didn't want or care to know what kind of business the cheif had with this woman. They were paid to carry out orders, and they were good at what they did. They brought James outside and to an unmarked van. When the door was opened she climbed in and found herself a seat on the bench along the driver's side wall. This was going to be a short ride.

(more coming soon)

The police officers filed into the van, taking seats on either side of her and across from her. She knew they were not real police. Their gear was too nice for that. They were paid. By who, she imagined she would find out shortly. Her hands grasped gently at the metal bench she sat upon and her body bounced slightly each time the driver hit a pothole or a bump. She breathed in carefully, keeping her eyes down toward the floor. Suddenly she twitched her eyes upward and caught the glance of the man sitting across from her. Images flooded her head. The man entwined with another woman. The woman crying because he was going home to his wife and kids. The man shaking her off telling her that he'd be back later. The man in his car, crying, twisting his wedding ring on his finger. He shouldn't have done that. He knew better. He just wasn't sure why he did it. He felt like dying. He didn't know how he could manage to live. He knew his wife would hurt if she knew and he couldn't deal with the pain. It was too much for him. She saw him sitting on the front porch of a quaint house, tears rolling down his face. He thought he still smelled of his lover. He thought he could never wash that woman's smell off of him. And as suddenly as it began, it ended, with a solid fist to her jaw. She tasted the coppery taste of blood rolling over her tongue and she dropped her head again. A man's voice spoke, angry 'Oh no you little cunt, you're not going to use your freak shit on us." He spoke out of hatred, out of what society made him hate about her. She was really no different than he. She could just see things. She wondered why they wanted her. She would soon find out. The van came to a stop and the driver hopped out and slapped the side of the van twice. She closed her eyes and waited for the van doors to open before opening them again.

She was a few blocks away from the bar. They could have walked from the bar. She guessed the AK-47's they were holding were too heavy for them to carry. She snickered a little and shook her head. Her golden tresses hung on either side of her face as she exited the back of the van with help from a gun butt to the back. She coughed and shook her head, tossing her hair over her shoulders. She knew where she was. Him. He always did this shit to her. Her brows furrowed and the men around her could sense the energy in the air crackling a little. She was angry. Her eyes seemed to glow more than usual. Her fists clenched and suddenly the men around her seemed to fill with rage. They were all agitated beyond belief.They didn't know why. One scowled, another held tighter to his gun, another growled. They were not happy men anymore. They were men that suddenly felt cheated. They felt as if they didn't get paid enough to bring this dangerous wench in to their boss. They felt as if they had been taken for fools. James felt as if she would never be left alone. She did not want to work for this man. She did not want to contribute to the greater good that he called evolution. She didn't care about things like that. She cared about her own survival and this man thought that he could send his "soldiers" in whenever he wanted and toss his "authority" around. She hated him for his conceited notion that the world would bend to him. She walked toward the glass doors that led into the foyer of the building. The doors opened on their own and she stepped in. The foyer floor was marble, white with veins of silver passing through it, the entire lobby of the building looked like a snow had fallen, everything was white with silver accents. She walked through the lobby unaided by the angry men that had brought her here. They seemed to get more angry the longer they were here.

The elevator doors opened for her and she stepped in, allowing the doors to close behind her before she turned around. She rolled her neck, cracking it, the sound almost sickening. She cracked her fingers slowly, she knew she was preparing for a fight. Her body was tense. The elevator doors opened and she looked into the top floor office. The moonlight filtered into the windows that surrounded the top of the office. There he was sitting in his chair. The executive of his own little world. The King Pin of the "united freaks". She smirked and stepped off of the elevator. He spoke, his voice smooth and deep. "James, how nice of you to come see me."

"It was a little hard to not want to come, Walter. Your invitation was quite intense". She sucked her teeth and tilted her head to the left a little. "What is it you want with me? I told you I didn't want the life you wanted to give me. I don't need your shit."

"Always quick to jump the gun James, too quick. My shit, as you call it, you will come to discover that you do need it." He watched her carefully, he knew that she was angry, he could feel it in the air. She was close enough to him for it to effect him. He felt angry. She had that wonderful quality of feeling. "My offer still stands, my love. Come here, work for me, want for nothing."

She scoffed softly and shook her head, stepping towards him. He knew that she could force him to kill himself if she wanted. He knew that she was more powerful from him and it scared him slightly. "I can smell the fear rolling off of you. You're a pig, you know. You think you can control all of those people. Your employees. No, you can't control them. That's what you want me to do. That's why you need me so badly. Your empire is falling apart and you need me to make these people think they need you."

Walter stood, he was in a well cut suit of black wool, a charcoal colored button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his blood red tie loos about his neck. "James, My Love, My Darling, you are right. I do need you. The terms have changed. I need you for something else. You will still have your freedom."

She nodded, listening half heartedly and she spoke one word. "Talk."