1962-02-10 - Rebels With A Cause
Summary: A long time ago, in a St. Louis far away…
Related: None
Theme Song: None
mimic lynette 

"…. guest today is Johnny Keane, Manager of the Cardinals. Mister Keane, is it true that the Cardinals decided to add the players names to the back of their jerseys in order to…"

The customers listen to the staticy radio station while they sip their coffee and wait on their simple mid-western breakfasts. Eggs, bacon, and toast are the most popular items on peoples' plates, but occasionally you'll see a more exotic choice like ham or a pancake. It's the sort of diner one can find just about anywhere in the country, albeit with a few minor differences.

Difference One:

"Still can't believe you're sellin' the place, Sully. That Gateway Arch is gonna be a goddamn eyesore." A customer at the bar grouses to the owner/proprietor with a mouthful of scrambled eggs.

"Ya wouldn't be so surprised if ya saw how much they bought the lot for. They hadda pay me though. Got 'em by the balls, don't I?" The owner of the diner looks happy to be selling his last few plates of food after a long career here. He's already bought property in Florida to retire to. In a few months the diner will be completely demolished in order to make way for the Gateway Arch that'll begin construction early next year.

Difference Two:

A 1953 Indian motorcycle pulls into the parking lot, but doesn't park in any of the spaces. Instead, the driver pulls almost right up to the door before dropping the kickstand, killing the engine, and pulling out a cigarette. He doesn't look like anything out of the ordinary, just another James Dean wannabe with slicked-back hair and a leather jacket. As he lights the cigarette in his mouth, he hops off the bike and heads straight inside. Nobody seems to mind. After all, most of the guests are smoking too.


It was one of those rare times when the girl had found enough extra scratch on the streets to feed herself something hot, that wasn't out of a dump. She never did enjoy soup kitchens, after all, or shelters. There were just too many people there. She was also lucky to find a place that didn't balk at the idea of letting her in given she wasn't the main 'hue' as everyone else present. Keeping to herself, the girl with massive hair and mocha skin sits at a back booth, hugging up her drap, oversized and aged clothing around herself to keep a bit more cozy due to the chill outside. Before her is a mug of joe, still steaming pitch and untouched. She was waiting for something else, it seems, food perhaps. The conversation at the counter goes mostly over her head.

The rumble of a bike at least has her obsidian eyes glancing its way, taking a once over of the beautiful machine, and an even quicker glance at its driver. She was counting faces now, keeping track of everyone in the diner. So far, there were only about eight people; nine including here, and now ten including the Rebel.


"What can I get ya?" The proprietor isn't exactly 'rude' to the man with the slicked-back blond hair, but he definitely seems a bit more icy when the guy who looks like a potential troublemaker sits down at the bar. The man who was previously conversing with the owner busies himself shovelling eggs into his face, though he looks like he's expecting the young man to try to rob the place any second.

Those damned kids and their rock and roll music.

"Coffee. Corned beef hash. Stack of pancakes." The young man is equally brusque when dealing with the older men. No need to be overly talkative. They're squares, after all.

There's dust on the man's boots and jacket, and he looks like he's been riding for a while. Fortunately, his pomade is strong enough to hold up against seventy mile an hour winds. It's basically a helmet, which is fortunate because he isn't wearing one.

It's been a long while since Mimic left the crowded city and started Kerouac-ing across the country on the back of an old bike. Mostly sticking to the backroads, he's been able to avoid members of his own kind for the most part. But after he places his order, he starts to get an old, familiar itch somewhere in the front of his brain. He tries to play it cool, shoving his hands in his pockets and smoking as casually as possible, breathing in through his mouth and out through his nose.


The street urchin girl doesn't make a sound. It wasn't her place to, after all, just another figure getting some grub. Finally, her own food arrives, causing her to offer the waitress a thankful smile. Her own meal isn't much, though, but it was enough for now; eggs and four slices of toast. Sitting up in her seat, she dresses up her coffee with cream and sugar, quickly turning it to a pale tan color. The toast gets libral amounts of butter, and the eggs get a small toss of salt. Without pause, hesitation, or much in the way of manners, she starts shoving in as much food into her beak as possible, her cheeks rounding out as an after affect as she chews.


Someone here is a mutant. Mimic's pretty sure of it. He's also pretty sure it's not the old guy next to him, or the older guy across the bar. Maybe somebody back in the kitchen? He can't be sure.

Looking around as nonchalantly as possible, he takes stock of the diner. Maybe the young mother? Maybe her six year old son? Maybe the trucker with the handlebar mustache? The salesman with the briefcase? The cops in the booth? Surely it couldn't be the girl who looks like she hasn't eaten in weeks? Actually… of all the people here she might seem like the most likely candidate.

Mimic suddenly realizes that he's staring, when he catches the proprietor giving him a strange look. After all, he's been looking at Lynette a bit too long, and it's 1962. St. Louis isn't Birmingham, but it's also not New York.


Lynette continues to eat as she had. Today was like Thanksgiving, as she had enough to order two helpings of the same meal, but one at a time. That way, you get 'more', or at least it seems that way. She knew that feeling, though, the 'stares', and while nibbling at a triangle of crispy bread, she rolls her dark eyes up and gazes up and over toward the Rebel and his solid mass of golden hair. She doesn't speak, not yet anyway, but her brows do flex and furrow in a silent question.

Shrinking in on herself a bit, her shoulders hunch and her head lowers. Her eyes break contact before she shoves the rest of the bread away and keeps to herself, and her plate, all the more so. She shovels at such a speed, that she starts to cough for a moment, washing down the flecks of crumbs with some coffee. Thankfully, the waitress asks if she's 'ok' and 'ready for her next plate'. "Y-yeah. T'anks." The Creole murmurs, allowing her empty dish to be taken away.


"Here ya go, sonny. You know, it's nice to see somebody your age drinkin' coffee. I swear, my grandson drinks so much Pepsi I'm thinkin' of buyin' a share in the company."

The owner sets a mug down in front of Mimic, and starts filling it with coffee. He seems to be warming up to the younger man, now that he's determined he isn't planning to rob the place or play rock music on the juke box. Of course, the presence of two cops helps him feel more at ease than he might otherwise.

Mimic reaches for the cup the way he would any other time, in any other diner. It's a reflexive gesture, something he doesn't have to even think about. But something happens that takes him, and everyone else in the diner, completely by surprise.

The cup meets him halfway, jerking suddenly into to his hand and sloshing a bit of coffee over the sides of the mug and onto Mimic's hand, scalding the back of it.

The owner's eyes open wide. The old customer's mouth opens wide, making little bits of egg drop back on his plate.

Mimic nearly drops the mug in surprise before registering the pain of the scalding coffee, followed quickly by the surprise of what he's just done.



Did he do that? Did she do that? She wasn't trying to. The scene of the trio before her bristles at the back of her girl's neck as she's the one now staring. Biting against her lower lip, she looks to her left, then right, and from the cops to the door. Moving, quickly, she tosses down her change and starts to walks, swiftly, toward the exit. Bundling herself up with her oversized sweater, her partially laced boots 'thunk' across checkerboard tiles. With a ding-ding, she leaves the building, the door swinging shut behind her.

Turning for another glance inside, curiousity or guilt getting the better of her, she bumps back into the parked bike, causing it to wobble, but stay in place. Her hands reach out, making sure the machine doesn't fall over, and once that pending doom is evaded, she shuffles back before taking off down the sidewalk.


It's been a while since the last time something like this happened to him, but Mimic knows that nothing good will happen if he stays long enough for questions. But the questions start coming almost immediately…

"What is it, a trick?"

"You one of those muties or something?"

"Musta seen it wrong, right?"

Within seconds, Mimic is certain of two things: 'that girl' had the right idea getting out of here, and she's most likely the one whose powers he unwittingly copied.

"Keep the change, pal." Mimic slaps his last few dollars down on the bar. It's more than twice what his meal wold have cost if he'd stayed to eat it, but he needs to scram. The cops are starting to get up as Mimic heads to the door of the diner, just in time to see 'that girl' bumping into his precious bike. He's going to need to get to it before the cops get any funny ideas, or he might find himself spending the night with the drunks.

"Hey, hold on a minute…"

But Mimic is already out the door, with the keys in the ignition. The cops run outside just as the rebel without a cause peels out of the parking lot.


Lynette was use to running. She was use to hiding, too, and sneaking about when need be. But she had a belly full of food, and the sudden rush of jetting from one block down five more causes her to pause in an alley and hold a hand against her stomach. Panting, her eyes press shut, tightly squinting before she turns and loses everything she had just swallowed down. Shuddering, she rubs at her mouth with her sleeve and spits a few times, before cursing at herself in Haitian-Creole, clearly not happy with missing out on a meal. It didn't taste better the second time around, either.

The rumble, growl, and sputter of a bike catches her attention next, as she hugs up to a wall and peeks out from around its corner. Was it her? Was it him? Either way, it was a wonderful reminder of why she didn't care for public places.


The bike rumbles past, making the sorts of glorious engine noise that the EPA will try to drastically reduce in the coming decades. The clamor of a siren is next, as the flashing lights of the police car go past the alley. But as fast as the cop's car is going, it's pretty clear they're going to have a hard time catching up with the motorcycle, even as bulky as Indians were.

It's unfair. He didn't do anything. The thoughts come briefly to Mimic, but are almost immediately dispelled. He should have known better than come to a big place like St. Louis. The bigger the city, the more likely he is to run into someone with powers, and he's just not ready for it again. Not after the last time…

Looking in his mirror, he gauges how much distance he's got between himself and the cops. Making a sharp turn, followed by another one, he ducks into an alley and hides the bike behind an obliging dumpster. There's a pretty intense pucker factor as the cops race past, but he appears to have given them the slip. He waits for a few minutes before turning the engine back on and heading back in the opposite direction. Back toward the diner, and toward the itch in his brain.


Lynette slumps down a wall at the sound of sirens, the shadows around her swallowing her whole, tucking her back and away as 'nothing' in the thin passage between buildings. She had been on the run for what felt like ages now, and the last thing she wanted was to be in a cage with people that hated her for one reason or another; there was a list of possibilities, after all. When they're a 'calm', the darkness slinks off her form, allowing her another gaze out of the alley's mouth. Rubbing at the nape of her neck, her curls bounce before she steps out and crosses the street.

A deep breath eases in through her mouth, and out of her nostrils, flaring them as she tries to settle herself back to a more 'normal' state. From one alley, to the next, she starts walking, her hands shoved into the saggy pockets of her sweater. Keep to the shadows, stay off the streets, and no one will care if you're alive or dead.


The 'mutant detector' that Mimic possesses is pretty far from precise. But he can sort of half-assed tell where a mutant is based on how strong or weak he feels the powers getting. Assuming there's only one mutant in the vicinity, that is. He's pretty sure that he's on the right trail, when sure enough the itch gets as strong as it was in the diner. It's a maddening sensation, part of the reason he's been avoiding his own kind for so long.

Maybe it's better to just hit the road, get out of town as fast as he can? He's brought too much attention to himself, surely? But something makes him decide to stay, as he pulls his bike into what he believes is the Right Alley. This girl didn't ask for this any more than he did, and she looked like… he's not sure exactly, but he can't just leave without seeing if she's okay.


The slow rumble of the bike's engine catches her attention, much like it had when she first heard it arrive at the diner. Soon enough, she's looking at it, head on, along with its driver. Her face twitchs, and body tenses visibly. It's the look most creatures get when they're trying to decide which wins out; fight or flight. Straightening her posture, slightly, she takes a step forward, and another, dragging her scuffed boots across debris and shallow drain water.

"M'sorry." She peeps out, her voice soft, swallowed, subdued. Clearing her throat, she allows herself a bit more volume. "M'sorry f'back dere. I didn'…if I did dat, I didn' mean t'. If y'did it, m'sorry dey got upset." Pausing, she glances at his hand, her expression turning apologetic, concerned. "Y'lright?"


"No no… it's…" One of Mimic's booted feet kicks out the kickstand, and he kills the engine to the bike. It'll make him less conspicuous if he's not making noise, certainly.

Crossing his arms, and resting them on the handlebars, he leans forward and looks the girl over. It's dark out, but he can tell she's possibly a bit too thin, and isn't exactly made of money. Any other impressions that he gets we'll leave between him and whatever deity he prays to.

"It's my thing. When I'm around… people like you, I can sort of do what they do. I've been trying to stop, but stuff like that happens to me whenever I want it least, seems like."


Lynette nods, those wild curls bouncing as she keeps her distance. Another glance at his hand, she checks it for burns before leveling her gaze back to the man's face. "M'sorry." She offers once more, not really sure what else to say in the situation. There was food there, and some warmth, but then it turned into two people bolting from the fear of reactions.

"I don', ah…I don' t'ink s'mt'ing y'c'n stop, dough. Maybe…maybe y'learn t'control it s'mday, non?" She offers then, handing out advice that she probably wouldn't take herself. Powers were scary, after all, and she had enough issues in this day and age. Nervously, she starts up a new train of conversation. "S'nice bike."


"Thanks. Got it for basically nothing. Nobody seems to want the old Indians anymore, but I bet one day they'll wish they still made bikes like this. Of course, by then we'll all be driving flying cars."

There's not even a touch of irony in Mimic's voice. He seems fully convinced that flying cars are just a few decades down the road.

"My plan is just keep driving, avoid people, see if I can't figure it all out, you know? It looks like you've got the same kinda plan, huh?"


"Flyin' cars? Y't'ink?" Her brow quirks as she considers the idea of the future, her head resting to the side. She nods, then, licking her lips briefly. "Yeah. I t'ink so. M'jus' walkin', dough. Not sure were m'goin', jus' know where m'not goin' back t'."


"I know the feeling."

It's small talk stuff, nothing more. But Mimic is suddenly reminded just how much he's actually missed talking to other people with powers. There's a sense of knowing that seems to develop almost immediately, a sense of commonality, a sense, almost, of family. Mostly though, he notices the itch in his brain, and it's already starting to drive him crazy.

"It's really none of my business, I don't claim to know where you're supposed to end up. I can't help thinking that you might be going the wrong direction though. There's a place in New York where people like you and me can just sort of… exist. It's pretty groovy, getting away from the square community and just chilling with other hipsters."

Note: Hipsters in 1962 didn't drink craft beer, or wear their hair in man buns.


"New York, huh?" The girl considers, moving to rest her back against a wall, her hands still hidden away in her pockets. "I don' know. M't'inkin' 'f stayin' 'way fr'm cities f'a spell." She pauses, and looks him over, before focusing her dark eyes back onto his face. "Dat where y'goin'? Maybe…maybe I find y'dere 'gain if y'stayin' dere." Grinning, she hears that new grumble that groans in her stomach, a painful reminder of why running so sudden, and so quickly, was never fun.

"If, ah…if y'headin', well, 'way fr'm here, y'mind givin' a girl a ride? Don' care where, jus' t'de next town?"


"It's where I left, actually. Which, yeah, sounds like a pretty bad recommendation, but I had to. That many people. That many powers… it was driving me nuts, but I'm a special case, I think."

Riding with the woman means that he'll have to put up with 'the itch' for longer. There's no way that he's going to turn her down though, not after he inconvenienced her the way he did. Plus, she might be the kind of girl that's worth getting a slight case of itch from…

"Next stop for me is Illinois. I always to see Chicago, so I'm working it into my tour of the states. I'm going to drive this baby to all fifty states before I head back home."

Apparently nobody ever explained Hawaii to him…

Sliding slightly forward, he makes a bit of room behind him for the girl to hop on. It's the closest thing to a direct invitation that he's likely to offer.


"What do y'mean, 'itch'? S'dat y'power?" The idea of travelling at a faster rate just seems something favorable for the girl. Thankful, her expression softens to one of genuine appreciation, and after giving a bit of a skip, she moves closer to him and then behind him, after stradling the bike.

Frowning, she clears her throat and murmurs a gentle, "'m sorry", before hugging around him to keep herself steady whenever he plans to make them move. She's an odd collection of smells; dirt, sweat, vanilla, honey-suckle, and harsh, dry soap. Even if grit is still caked under her nails, at least she made some effort to keep herself clean somehow. Perhaps, that's where her money went to instead of food.

"Ain't neva seen Chicago m'self. Don' gotta ride de whole way, dough. Y'get sick a'me, y'let me know."


"It's… complicated."

A few months ago, Mimic would have been able to pick out the intracacies of Lynette's scent. But ever since getting rid of all of his powers, he's been stuck with a nose that's plain ordinary. All he's able to process is that she smells 'good' to him, in a way that appeals to the caveman parts of his brain.

As she wraps her arms around him, Mimic turns the key and stomps on the kickstart. The engine roars to life as he pops the kickstand back up and starts backing out of the alley with his feet.

"Chicago here we come! Unless I get sick of you first…"

He pulls back on the throttle, and the bike shoots forward. Good thing the cops in this part of town just went speeding off in the opposite direction.


Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License