AN: Hello! I decided to start this after reading some brilliant ones on here (200 Hours by It Belongs In A Museum is now one of my all time favourite fics, whenever I watch Misfits now I feel like something isn't right because Izzy isn't there!) I know there's a lot of Nathan/OC stories around, and from the ones I've read the standard is pretty high, so I'm hoping you'll give mine a chance!

The characters in Misfits are so well written and complex that they're very hard to get in character, which is sort of why I'm doing this as well - practice at characterisation. I'm hoping Melody stands out as a character in her own right, and the relationship stuff will be eventual. I'll be doing it episodically, but with some of my own ideas added in subtly that hopefully will work.

So let me know what you think, I really appreciate feedback, especially about the stuff I mentioned previously. One last thing - any ideas about Melody's power, let me know!

It wasn't as bad as she expected. It was worse.

Melody Murphy's face was beginning to hurt; for the last five minutes, the sound of the probation workers cliché motivational speech had led to her features contorting into a frankly unattractive mixture of bitterness and boredom. Eyebrows narrowed, she made a mental note to ask the next Christian door knocker what she had done so wrong to piss off the big man; she didn't believe in God, why would she? She had been dealt a fucking terrible hand in life, and every single time she thought maybe, just maybe, something decent could happen - boom. Her grandmother died. Boom. She was arrested.

The bruises left there by the pair of handcuffs Melody had been unnecessarily bundled into had barely begun to fade, and her community service had already started. 200 hours. 200 hours of mindless shit all because of one mistake - it was almost a slap in the face from the justice system. We're not sending you to jail, but we are going to make you clean the graffiti which was painted by better criminals than you. They got away with it, you didn't! Fuckers.

She needed to calm down. The angrier she got, the harder it would be. All she wanted to do was get as many hours done as possible, keeping her head down while she was at it. And that was another thing winding her up; due to her temper, she was being forced into anger management. It may be only once a week, but it was a burden she didn't need. There was a whole world out there to be explored, things to see and alcohol to drink, and Melody was stuck here, in a dingy housing estate with no money, and a devastatingly bright orange jumpsuit. It was all she could do not to laugh at the absurdity of the situation.

"There are people out there who think you're scum. You have an opportunity to show them they're wrong."

"Yeah, but what if they're right?" Melody was pulled out of her thoughts. She let her eyes fall towards the voice, a Irish to her own. It was a curly-haired skinny boy with his hands stuffed in his pockets, and if Melody was in the right frame of mind, she would have realised his face was vaguely recognisable. "No offence, but I'm thinking people are just born criminals."

"Are you lookin' to get stabbed?" demanded a boy in laughably over-sized cap, not realising he was fuelling Irish's sentiment. She had seen his type a million time before on the estate; the cliché would be a little boy trying to compensate for certain issues (possibly a small penis), but Melody had seen things in her nineteen years. This idiot was, simply, an idiot, all talk, who would be known as Gangster from here on in; Melody hadn't bothered, and didn't think she would bother to learn their actual names. The only people she needed in her life were either fictional or musicians, a thousand leagues away and blissfully unaware that she exists.

Gangster's empty threat gave Melody a chance to take in her fellow criminals. She would feel sorry for them too if she cared enough. Sandwiched in between the other two girls on in the group, there was an impressive difference between her neighbours. Melody tried hard not to judge people, she knew how it felt, but the girl on her left was quite clearly a chav and the girl to the right, fluffing her hair so much it made Melody wonder whether she had some sort of physical twitch, screamed slut. That might have been a harsh judgement and obviously couldn't be confirmed from the outside, but the tits bursting from her partially zipped-down jumpsuit, painted face and pouting lips said otherwise. Bookending the group were two males, again, strikingly different.

The one on the right didn't need introducing. Curtis Donovan, if she remembered rightly. The perfect example of good guy gone bad, if the media was to be believed. She couldn't remember what drugs he had been found in possession of; the papers infuriated her and more often than not she skim read them, glancing at the headlines without interest and flipping to the TV guide. Curtis looked even more miserable than she felt; the only achievement he's going to be able to tell the grandchildren about. He looked furious. Left bookend clearly had some sort of social anxiety - when Irish, gradually cementing himself as a loud prick in Melody's mind, said: "You alright there, weird kid?", the lads white skin tone plummeted even further. He looked up, blinked a couple of times and said nothing.

Melody shrunk back against the railing, wishing she hadn't left her headphones in her brand new locker (courtesy of the nameless, faceless man who orchestrated this whole bullshit punishment) as the situation between Irish and Gangster worsened. Some time between Chav mouthing off to Curtis in a wonderfully stereotypical accent and the probation worker desperately trying to get through to them with his almost defunct speech, they had started fighting. If you can call it fighting. The good old probation worker finally got his chance to shine, though there was a quiet frustration behind his eyes while he dragged the wannabe Gangster away, his fingers cocked to mime a gun. Irish didn't seem fazed. He didn't seem fazed by anything, obviously one of those people void to all emotion. Melody couldn't blame him, she would be exactly like him if she could. Part of her thought it couldn't exist, this being able to ignore everything and bounce through life without a care in the world. It couldn't happen. No-one deserved to have it that easy.

"Show's over." said the probation worker, bitterness evident in his voice as he led them to their first job. Why oh why did I pick this job? Now I have to work with these delinquent teenagers! Oh, his self-pitying could fuck off. He wasn't the one spending his days with Irish, Chav, Slut, Gangster, Anxious and Curtis fucking Donovan. Melody trailed along behind the group, and let herself hope whatever they were going to be doing wasn't going to be as mind-numbing as she expected.

Painting benches. Painting fucking benches.

So for the second time today, her expectations were wrong and the outcome wasn't better. The sight of four benches, various pots of paint and paintbrushes and a smug smile on the probation workers face was enough to turn Melody's blood burn. She tried to stop it rising, a couple of deep breaths normally did it. It was as if there was a little part of her brain waiting quietly for something to trigger it, big or small. It was the bane of her life. She had been told by her counsellor that one more big kick off would land her in jail, and that couldn't happen. Prison was her worst nightmare, not for the obvious reasons either. Prison ruined lives.

Melody pulled her caramel hair into a clumsy ponytail. Some people could pull of the whole dip dye look, but white paint ends aren't quite as appealing. Back home, she took care of her appearance; she had a longing for appreciation and it manifested itself in rebelliousness and promiscuity. Most of the time, she would try to pull a lad simply for somewhere to stay the night. The flat she shared with her mum wasn't appealing; the only drawback to this little arrangement was having to act too pissed for a shag when she only wanted the bed. It made her sound like a horrible slut, and she cringed to the thought. Ireland was her past. She left it behind the moment she boarded the flight to England and signed the papers changing her surname.

"There's paint on my cap!" shouted Gangster, who had been painting the last bench to the right, on his own. "This is bullshit!"

Slut's giggles rang out as Gangster kicked off in magnificent fashion. He launched the paint pot into the water and stormed off. 1 down, 6 to go. And good fucking riddance. Melody, unimpressed but a little amused, rolled her eyes and clenched her fist softly. It was a sort of coping mechanism, it comforted her.

On the bench across from herself and Anxious, she heard Irish ask, "So I'm guessing.. shoplifting?"

Chav carried on painting, but obviously realised he wasn't going to let this one go. "Don't act like ya know me 'cos ya don't."

"I'm just making conversation. This is a chance to network with other young offenders, we should be swapping tips! Brainstorming. Come on, what did you do?"

"This girl called me a slag so I just got into a fight." explained Chav casually. Of course it was going to be assault, Melody could have told you that the minute she laid eyes on the girl. She was good at reading people, through their mannerisms and body language. The latter was because of a year studying psychology at college, but most of her free time was spent people watching in town. Sitting back on a bench with a packet of cigarettes and a can of diet coke, as drinking alcohol in the daytime isn't exactly socially acceptable, Melody would invent stories of peoples lives. It was nice, enjoyable, if a little creepy.

"Was this on the Jeremy Kyle show?"

It probably was. She had to laugh, despite deciding this morning that she wouldn't partake in any sort of socialisation over the next 200 hours. Not with this idiots, anyway. It sounded bleak and miserable, but it was easier this way. The closer she got to people, the harder it was when they let her down. He looks familiar, she thought. Why the fuck does he look so familiar?

"You like that, huh?" he started, full of confidence. "So, Curls, what about you?"

"My name is Melody. No, you can't call me Mel.. and you definitely can't call me Curls." she said, emphasising her point strongly. All she needed was an annoying nickname. "And it's a long story."

"We have time. 200 hours of it, in fact."

"We could have 500 hours, and I still wouldn't tell you." Melody wasn't sure why she being so hostile. Like he'd said, he was only making conversation.. but why should she spill the details to someone she had only just met? Her arrest hadn't been a mistake. It was criminal, and at some point she may even admit she was wrong, but she knew perfectly well what she was doing. It was personal, and although she thought 200 hours litter picking was a bit steep, with the same motivations Melody would do it again without hesitations.

She heard the dickhead mumble something about girls and and their time of the month but thankfully, Chav stopped her from retaliating. "What did you do?"

"Oh, I just got done for eating some pick and mix."

And that was it. Too much bullshit for one day. She pulled her headphones out of her pocket - she'd ran back to her locker before joining the others at the benches, it was a must - and ignored the frustration starting to build up inside her when the fuckers wouldn't untangle. How is it that a pair of headphones can literally do nothing more than sit in a pocket and still managed to entangle? It was some sort of witch-craft, and Melody wasn't in the mood for magic unless it was a Harry Potter box-set in her flat, accompanied by beer and pizza.

The paint fumes were getting to her head. That's what she was telling herself as the six of them ran towards the door, presumably running to save their actual lives. It was the only logical solution. That giant fuck-off block of ice that fell from the sky and smashed the probation workers car couldn't be real, it wasn't real. This was community service, not a low budget science fiction film! Frightened screams bounced off every wall, and every car - the ones which weren't destroyed, at least. Melody's breathing was ragged; she never ever thought she would wish she tried harder in PE. Right now though, fitness would have been a godsend. All she wanted to do was collapse onto the floor, but the apocalyptic death rocks coming from the blackening sky had other ideas.

Her headphones had fallen out of her ears during the commotion and with her attentions diverted, Melody didn't realise the dirt-covered wires closing around her ankles. That was, until, she fell flat on her face. Mild pain seared through her grazed hands, and she tried to get to her feet before she got her head caved in by ice. It didn't sound like a very glamorous way to go.

"You need to get up. Here." It was the painfully shy one. He was holding a hand out for her, the hand that wasn't clutching a phone, which she accepted gratefully, pulling herself to her feet and abandoning the headphones. "We need to get inside."

"You fucking think?"

He'd just saved her life and she was being a bitch to him. Nice one, Melody.

They caught up to the rest of the group as quickly as they could, their arrival signified by screams of "Open the fucking door!" and the probation worker getting pissed off at their apparent lack of respect. Someone needed to teach this guy about timing. It was the end of the world or some shit, and he was focusing on manners? Spectacular priorities.

And then it went black. Everything drained from her body. Blood, energy - all she could feel was the lack of gravity engulfing her, drowning her. She prised her eyes open, but could see nothing apart from the hypnotising bolt of lightening dancing in front of her. It was so beautiful, she wanted to reach out and touch it-

But it was gone almost as soon as it came. She hit the floor with a painful crash. Ignoring the pain in her head, she cracked open an eye and peered round. Her fellow young offenders seemed to be in the same state as her, looking just as a freaked out as she was.

The chav spoke first, her voice laced with confusion. "I feel really weird."

"Er, we were hit by lightening. What the fuck do you expect?" Melody shot back, irritated.

"We should be dead."

Lovely. "Aren't you the positive one."

"A little reassurance might be nice. You know, you're fine, looking good!" Irish mumbled sarcastically, glaring daggers at the probation worker who was laying in front of the door to the community centre. He looked extremely worse for wear, odder than the whole group put together. If he was irate before, the freak storm had only intensified his mood.

"W-wanker."

"Did he just call me a wanker?" To be honest, from what Melody had seen of the lads personality so far, he really should be used to it. However it is pretty shocking when someone of authority swears. It's like when you make the transition from school to college, and all of a sudden your teacher doesn't mind letting one slip. It's funny, and at first it's strange but it highlights their change in attitude. They don't think of you as a child any more, and you feel a little bubble of pride inside yourself even though you've done nothing more than age. "Hey? Hello!"

"Jesus, you love the sound of your own voice, don't you?" Melody pushed herself up from the floor and patted down her jumpsuit. Frustrated, she turned to the probation worker and took control. "You look like shit. I'm assuming we can go home, yeah?"

"Yeah, yeah." The probation worker agreed. His face was contorting into odd gurns, making him look like a werewolf before it transforms. Wow, she really had to stop watching so much telly. "I think we should call it a day."

"Are you alright? Ya acting like a freak." Trust the chav to put it bluntly. She was right, though.

"Just go home. Back here tomorrow, 8 o'clock."

All Melody wanted to do was crawl into bed with a film and as big a pack of beer as she could find. It was very much needed, especially after the strange day she'd had today. In the locker room, she pulled on the pair of skinny jeans and t-shirt she arrived in this morning, finishing off the look with an oversized zip-up hoodie.

"Wot did ya say?" Chav demanded suddenly, breaking the awkward silence hanging between the three girls in the locker room. Whatever she thought she heard must have been important; it cracked her out of the process of hair-brushing that she seemed to have mastered. It was hypnotic. And it must have hurt. Maybe it was a chav thing.

The prettier girls face screamed judgement. "I didn't say anything."

Chav didn't look satisfied; a couple more moments of silence ensued, before her glare landed on Melody. "'Ere mate, I'm not a fucking chav, alright? Name's Kelly."

"Melody."

"Alisha." Alisha said, making a quick exit.

This day is fucked up, thought Melody. It was all too much, and there was a flat waiting for her ten minutes down the road. It might have been dingy, and definitely not even worth the pittance of rent she paid - well, her gran paid - but it was stocked with food and drink and fucking normality.

She grabbed what she needed from her locker - cigarettes, house keys, copy of To Kill A Mockingbird brought with her in case of emergencies - and went left Kelly fixing her hair. Yes, they had just gotten themselves caught up in a end-of-the-world esque storm, but they were going home - who needs a face full of make-up and perfect hair for that?

Melody was greeted by a bunch of wild black curls flitting about messily as their owner flung himself at the vending machine, repeatedly. Maybe that was the root of his quite obvious brain damage.

"Are you having a fit?"

He turned and looked at her through rather beautiful eyes. Whoa. "Have you seen these prices? Bloody scandalous, love."

She read the prices from the side of the machine. One pound. He couldn't stretch a pound for a drink. This guy would be fucked if ever he ended up lost in the desert. "What's your name? I think I've seen you before."

"Nathan. Nathan Young." He held his hand out as if he wanted to shake her hand, which was odd in itself, but then his eyes narrowed at her words. "You recognise me? We haven't.. you know..?"

"No!"

"Well, yeah. Of course we haven't shagged." He smirked, pulling a lecherous facial expression. "I mean, if we had, Curls, I'm pretty sure you'd remember it."

"Right." Melody straightened her ponytail. "Again with the curls. Can't you think of a better nickname? Curls isn't very original is it? Or, and I'm just putting this one out there.. you could call me by my actual name?"

Nathan smiled and flung himself at the vending machine once more. She lingered next to him for a second, wondering if he was somehow immune to pain, and turned to leave once Slut - Alisha, she'd have to remember that - arrived and announced she wasn't going to wait for their dickhead of a probation worker to let them go... and then she remembered.

"Nathan?" she asked, keeping the laugh out of her voice. She already knew she was right. Of course it was him - he hadn't changed a bit. "Nathan Young? I do know you! You went to my primary school in Ireland. St Mary's?"

He didn't seem fazed by this revelation at all. Cracking open the can he'd finally managed to beat out, he said: "Yeah, I went there for a bit. Left when I was about seven or something."

"I know. Didn't you wee yourself in assembly once?"

Nathan looked pensive. "Yeah, I probably did. How the fuck do you remember that far back? Have you got one of those weird fetishes about piss? Hey, I don't mind - I respect that!"

She barely heard the last part, she had already started to walk away. It was true; he had gone to her school, albeit one she only attended for a little while. Melody moved around a couple of times as a little one, only settling down when her mother decided her father was a lost cause and stopped chasing him. It hurt to think about her dad. The only reason she was arrested in the first place was for him, to tell him she loved him before it was too late; it was too late now, he was probably dead. Fuck it. Fuck the police for stopping her, and fuck her mother for keeping it from her. Melody pushed open the door and shoved her headphones in her ears, willing the music to pull her out of her thoughts.