Dusted Out on Route Guano

In Which True Colors Begin to Shine Through

She lives off of coffee and cigarettes. There isn't a day that goes by that her whole body doesn't twitch from too much caffeine or nicotine. Mostly too much of both. We offer her Power Pup, the granola bars we're able to trade or steal. She never takes them, sipping away at the muddy liquid in her mug, a cigarette smoldering away between her fingers.

Despite his initial outburst, Gerard has allowed her to stay. He, of course, will never occupy the same space as her. The girl will enter the room in a haze of blue and purple and he'll immediately leave in a flash of red. It'd be annoying if I weren't already used to Gerard's permanently shitty attitude. He's not getting his way so now he's pouting. It'll be like this for a few days and then suddenly everything will be business as usual. We'll all be forced to pretend as if nothing has happened. Moody princess. If he wasn't my best friend I'm quite certain I would've taken my ray gun to his head by now.

The others are wary of Mag as well. My comrades find her unsettling. They mutually agree that it's her ghost-like appearance, the way she can walk into a room without a sound that is the most off-putting thing about her. I disagree. Sure, her randomly appearing is a little jarring, but you can get used to it. For me, it's Mag's eyes, the unnatural glowing purple. Sometimes, I can trick myself; see them as a hazy grey, but not often. I can feel them on me as I move through the gas station. Turning around to catch her gaze just sends that familiar shiver down my spine. It's an obvious modification from the BL/I labs; a slap in the face. A, I'm more powerful than you'll ever know and there's jack shit you can do about it, bullet to the chest.

If Mag's notices how strangely we all act around her, she doesn't say. Maybe she just thinks we're all a bit off, prone to jumping or stuttering or randomly throwing the things we're holding to the ground. Something tells me she knows though, knows we're changing our behavior because of her. Mag seems like a smart girl, quick on the draw. Perhaps she's choosing to say nothing as a way to avoid stirring an already bubbling pot.

"What are you going to do when you run out of those things?" I question, using a spare rag to wipe my oil streaked hands. The Trans Am has been making a strange whining noise for the past few months. I figure now is a good a time as any to check it out.

Mag shrugs lazily, stretching out over the car's front seats, letting her legs dangle through the open window. It's been interesting to watch her transformation. She's managed to re-dye her hair, an electric blue tinged with deep purple at the ends. Her eyelids are painted with sparkling lilac and rich navy. The glitter over her cheekbones shoots rainbows over the inside of the car. Her jeans have been replaced with black spandex shorts. Mag now looks out at everyone over the top of mirrored sunglasses. The metal spiked leather jacket seems to be a permanent fixture over her slowly healing shoulders. The image of a chalk ray gun stands out against a deep purple tank top. To say Mag cleans up nicely would be an understatement. Then again, we haven't seen a girl in a long time. At this point, you could probably put a monkey in lipstick and I'd think it looked good. 

"I've got enough," she shoots a glance over at her bag, slumped against one of the long-unused gas pumps.

Curious, I toe the flap open. Inside is a pile of cigarette packets mixed in with a few shirts and changes of pants. How the hell did she get all of those? Turning, I blink back at the girl who simply arches a pierced through eyebrow, "Wanna share?"

"Not with you," Mag leans up in the car, giving me a wicked smirk before blowing a plume of smoke in my direction, "babe."

The new, cleaned-up look she's sporting seems to only stoke the fires of her snarky personality. I'd love to know if it's an act, something to make her seem dangerous or if that's just who she is. After only a few days with her around, I find myself more and more intrigued. Each snippet of information Mag offers only leads to a dozen more questions. I do enjoy talking with her though, my own sarcasm coming out to match hers. Party, Jet, and Kobra won't entertain my snarkyremarks anymore, brushing them off with an eye roll or non-committalshrug. It's a treat to get to flex thosemuscles again, to have someone to engage with.