Disclaimer: The only thing I own is the story idea and only some of the witty remarks. I own so little; so please don't steal.

Background music: -

I Wish I was Extra Ordinary

"Shit."

Although his memory is hazy, Jack does not need to look far to know what probably conspired last night. He is lying naked under blankets that are an ugly red-orange color that he does not recognize, on a bed he does not remember getting on, with a boy he doesn't recall talking to. While a part of him is willing to believe that perhaps they had just gotten a little bit too drunk and had decided to take their clothes off on a whim, the unsightly used condom floating around in the folds of the sheets blatantly reminds him he is not seven and this is not a sleepover. He stares at it, grotesquely milky white, and says again,

"Shit."

He wants to find his boxers. But they are not on the bed. He looks over the edge of the mattress, not really wanting to expose himself and look around the room that isn't his; but they are not on the floor either. There is a sock, though, and it is sea green but he doesn't own socks in that color.

Probably he wants to find out who this boy is. He does not remember leaving the dorm during the party, but if he cannot recall what happened between him and the raven haired youth next to him (was it legal? He cannot believe it happened. It didn't happen, did it?), he doubts he can think back to if he did go outside. There are no pill bottles around to confirm whose room it is. There are no posters screaming school spirit. Jack's head hurts. He decides to focus on something other than frantic, panicking thoughts.

Well, he has that power and he may as well use it.

Jack swallows as he rubs his hands together. He doesn't need to, but it can prepare him in a useless mental way. He's gotten over the fact that he has the ability; psychometry – he touches things and can feel what has happened to them and the people they have seen. He wishes he could glorify it by calling himself object whisperer but in fact, it is a hasslesome talent. He has seen more than what he wants by accidentally brushing against something. But on days like this, he remembers it's actually useful in its annoying, paranormal way.

He does not want to touch it, but there is nothing he can be sure of that will give him in the memory, and people do not work as good mediums. He swallows again, extends his finger, closes his eyes as he pokes the ugly thing on the bed.

A red plastic cup, half full of some unknown substance. Supported by a slender wrist, attached to an unfamiliar body, jeans hanging off slightly feminine hips. Wallflower. Jack sees him, steers around the moving bodies around him to the wall. Lean against the wall. Smile.

Cheers. The feeling of two cups knocked against each other. The feeling of lips knocked against each other, the feeling of tongues clumsy and wet; drunk, intoxicated, light-headed. The beats of the music from the party tap a steady, rhythmic tune in his brain as he kisses this boy, his name is

The crinkle of a wrapper. The cool dorm air when it hits the skin. But it's hot. The boy's eyes, hazy, glitter when he pulls Jack forward, back onto the bed. Latex. Heat. Ah…

[=]

He uses a razor because it's the most convenient. Smashing a marble paperweight on his fingers will only result in unnecessary noise that will wake his parents. Jumping out the window is too extreme. Electrocution may be painful. Ralph's eyes are wide as he holds the blade over his palm, transfixed as the bathroom light bounces off the surface of the silver.

"Stabby rip stab, stab," he whispers. He lowers the blade and it descends, slicing into his hand.

It's painful and blood comes bubbling to the surface. He takes the blade out and holds it over the sink so the blood can run into the sink. He stares at his hand in awe. It's throbbing and bloody and gone. He turns his hand around, then back so his palm is practically in his face. The cut is gone. The blood is gone. The only trace is the razor that still retains its blood.

"No way." He wants to scream this, but he's really so surprised it doesn't come out his throat louder. He nicks his arm and watches as the blood creeps along the surface of the skin, then as if time reverses, inches back toward the wound, tucks itself back under the skin, and sews it up as if he hadn't hurt himself at all. "Wizard." He thought it was just his imagination when he tries to find the papercut he knows he had during study hall and cannot. But this…this is on another level.

"I always knew I was superhero material!"

[=]

They usually come to him in dreams; like the inferno nightmare – the sensation of running through the streets of the city as it burns to the ground. The image of the man with the pig's head; the smell of soot and anguish as he tries to find a place where the fire hasn't touched. The heat is overwhelming. He cannot breathe. He suffocates.

In actuality, they come to him in faints.

Today, he is sitting up in bed, but he knows he's still sleeping. The ginger from last night is holding his head in his hands, but he shouldn't be embarrassed – although it did hurt (as expected for his first time), Simon found Jack Merridew's skills in bed to be very adequate. Jack does not remember his name. In fact, Jack does not seem to remember anything last night so he has used his powers on the condom.

His dream self explains that he can see the future and saw Jack in a dream so he has to find him and acquaint himself with him. "Through sex?" Jack shouts, and it's a funny thing to say so Simon laughs. The silly man seems to think underage relations is more important than the fact that he's encountered another person with supernatural powers. Simon is seventeen and only one year under the law – and no one will know because he doesn't intend to tell.

"That's not the point," Jack will say, sounding utterly defeated.

Simon blinks his eyes open and Jack is already rocking back and forth, clutching his head as if he can teleport into the past and undo everything. The motion is disturbing the bed and feels like he is on a boat on the stormy sea. But he does not mind because he's seen another face in the dream – a blonde, indestructible and confident. He doesn't know outside of instinct why he must collect all the special people together, but he has the feeling the hellish future can be stopped. He is terrified of the man with the pig's head. He wants to forget seeing it, but he cannot control his visions.

But, he was surprised to discover, that when Jack held him, he could forget. He knows he's just met this man and he shouldn't let his guard down, but after all, he's just slept with him, so there's really nothing to be worried about, really. And he can see the future after all. "Your underwear's under the bed," Simon mumbles sleepily, knocking down the first domino of the set.

[=]

I can see Candice's panties at this angle, Sam.

I totally thought teddy bears were so fifth grade, Eric.

The twins giggle.

[=]

His weight is a sensitive subject, but not because he can't help but be fat. Pygmalion could be anything but fat. Seriously. He just chooses the life of fat because it is most convenient to him, because he has thought the whole thing through beforehand.

If he makes himself skinny, people will want to be his friends or want him to play sports. If he becomes close to a large group of people or becomes a superstar of the field, he may accidentally let down his guard and expose that he can mold his body into whatever shape he likes. He will be subject to lab tests like in those sci-fi movies. He does not want to be dissected and prodded at. He likes his life very much, thank you.

So he considers it a great willpower to withstand names like Fatty, Piggy, because really, those are shallow, insignificant consequences in relation to the fact that the world will probably implode upon itself when it realizes that Pygmalion Stout is human clay.

[=]

To say that Roger hates the world would be an understatement because hate is not a strong enough word.

He knows his life is fucked up. It's very cliché, really. His father is in prison. His mother is a crack whore. He hasn't actually gone home in months. He lives on the streets and the only reason no one has pulled him over or given him a hard time is because he can hack into their minds and make them hurt so much they pass out and he can make his escape.

He doesn't kill anyone because murder just makes the whole business so much damn harder.

He sits in alleyways because he doesn't want to be seen. He will infiltrate the minds of anyone who even dares mention he is a troubled teen with issues and turn them into a drooling mass of idiocy. He is not afraid to do that. Roger watches as a rat makes its way across from him. Even the animals know to fear him. But he is not feeling merciful today. The rat has just looked at him the wrong way. He stares at the rat, seeing the nerves of its tiny brain, the make of its minute skull.

The rat squeals like a bitch that hasn't been paid and before it can even cough up another mouthful of blood, it kneels over and bites the dust. Roger spits into the shadows. What a waste. He sees the shadow make its way toward him and ignores it. He can return the favor twenty-fold.

But the voice that calls out to him is not vicious. "Roger Doloris," it hisses, sounding positively malicious in a smirking way. "I believe I have an offer you will not want to refuse."

[=]

They call him Lord of the Flies, and there is no room for doubt. He feels a loathing for everything about this place. Humanity, that forced this hideous appearance on him. The specials, who were not able to do a thing and mocked him for not controlling his powers. He will make them all pay, and it will burn as hot as the hate he feels.

He knows the boy is curious, but will not open his mouth so he speaks up. "I know you're wondering what happened to me," he says, as Roger Doloris glances at him with dark eyes. "And I will explain. I am not afraid of speaking about my past. It is the past that creates the future, after all."

Roger nods.

"I, like you and a select number of other cursed individuals, have genes that code for unusual abilities. As for myself, I used to be an ordinary man who happened to be able to change himself to look like any animals. I scared my mother by hiding behind the corner and barking like a dog; bless her soul, she was always afraid of dogs." He strokes his chin, slightly tufted with cottony hairs. "I could do any animal imitations; but I could not do so in public. You see, I had to hide to do them, as my head always turns into the animal in question before I can speak their language."

"It was a practical joke; a couple of friends and I were playing a prank on a classmate of mine in college. After it ensued, we were making fun; and purely by luck I accidentally slipped into pig mode. They did not let me live it down. They turned on me. Foolishly I allowed fear and surprise to completely take hold of me – and after that horrible night, I could not turn back to my human form.

"It took a while to completely alienate myself away from my tormentors and even more to learn the language of humans again. It is not natural for pigs to speak, you see." He chuckles, shaking his head so the droopy ears flap. Roger does not stare. "I had heard while in my time of isolation away from society that there is a group of specials…or individuals endowed with powers…that specialize in these sort of circumstances. They can erase memories and set things straight. I went to seek them immediately after I could communicate again, but they disappointed me greatly. They claimed they could not fix me because it was a mental block that prevented me from changing back and actually attempted to imprison me for being so brash about my powers. I was going to have none of that. I collected a small following of fellow specials unhappy with the governing specials' methods. Together, we disposed of them. As we speak, young Roger, the specials world is presently in chaos without that group of highly skilled specials. This is the perfect time to seize power.

"We will, simply, take over the world. No one will laugh at us again, or give us grievances. No special will have to suffer, but for that to happen, we must get them all on my side. Many claim to follow the governing specials, or the Pack's, code and refuse to alliance. We have them in custody.

"Recently, a seer of mine claims to have seen a group of youths overthrowing me. They will have a seer as well. We must find them before they discover any weak spots of ours. We must not let them interfere." The Lord of the Flies turns to Roger. "We will eliminate them, flying around like these pesky flies." He waves a hand around; flies have congregated around his head since its transformation. "I know you do not care for these matters; but I know you value your powers. With me, you can utilize them to your heart's content. You too can avenge those who have hurt you. That is your deepest wish, isn't it?"

Roger merely stares at him. The Lord takes this as agreement and turns to walk away when Roger speaks up. "Sir," the boy says in forced politeness, "would you like to kill those flies for you?"

The Lord laughs. "Actually, Mr. Doloris, these are part of my charm." He laughs until he snorts and tears come to his beady piggy eyes. "But thank you for the offer."

[=]

The stage is The Island; the island of the highest technology and intellect – the place with the highest collection of specials. It houses all the influences of the rest of the world – without it, the planet will become a war zone. All politics and order stem from The Island. The pieces of any puzzle can be found there, from the black card of death to the ruby cheeks of love and the answers are there if you only care to look.

Welcome to The Island.

Owari

[=]

Note: NO. That is the answer you will get for will you please continue this please please please? And do you own all the stupid references you peppered through the story? Because 1) I seriously cannot haul on this new AU and 2)I don't own them. This wasn't even supposed to be dark and ominious. I don't even know what happened. So NO. Thanks.