Crisis Point: All In A Day's Work

by Rossi

Sirens wailed in the night.

Colin ran down side streets and back alleys and deserted shopping arcades, byways and thoroughfares most of the city's daytime dwellers would be hard-pressed to find in a directory, let alone name. Living on the streets meant exactly that, and while they weren't safe by any stretch of the imagination, they were familiar, the place that gave him refuge, a place to hide.

Only it was hard to hide when you were glowing bright green.

Energy crackled around him, emerald fire licking up his arms from his hands and spilling from his eyes. The air was thick with the acrid smell of smoke and a cacophony of sirens – fire brigade melded with the wail of police cars. Colin hoped the rest of the squatters had gotten out of the disused office block in time – he hadn't meant to blow the place up _quite_ that much.

But at least people would think twice about trying to roll him now.

"Stop, police!" A car had screeched to a halt at the end of the cul de sac he was running down, its occupants leaping out to cut him off. His sneakers squeaked on the cobblestones as he stopped in his tracks. The two officers had their guns drawn – light from overhead glinted dully off the barrels. A wild glance over his shoulder revealed another car, another two police, another pair of guns, cutting off his retreat.

"Don't hurt me!" he cried out, raising his hands. Fuelled by his fear, the eldritch green fire intensified despite his panicked attempts to control it. "Stay the fuck away from me!"

"Power down, kid!" one of the police called back. It was hard to tell in the jumble of shadows, but his voice sounded older, reasonable despite the alarm that shook at the edges of it. "We won't hurt you, but you have to get a grip, control yourself, before someone else gets hurt."

"Get away!" Colin cried out again, and next to him a green wheelie bin exploded in a shower of food scraps and plastic wrappers and shredded cardboard. There was an almost simultaneous click as all four police pistols were cocked. Colin whimpered and cowered down, wrapping his arms over his head as the glow intensified.

The air fairly crackled with the energy the kid was producing – Senior Constable Macauley could feel the hair on the back of his neck rising. He risked a glance at his partner; Thompson was a probationary constable, fresh out of the academy, and liable to turn this situation into an official investigation. The constable was as scared as their quarry, his eyes wide and staring, his breath coming in harsh pants. Macauley could see his fingers tightening on the trigger.

"Take it easy, Thommo, the kid's just frightened out of his wits. Remember the training drill – no firing unless directly threatened," he murmured quietly.

The young constable's hands tightened on the gun, then eased slightly. He nodded, shakily. "But what about the muti- the kid?"

"I'll call in and get the bleeding hearts in. They'll deal with it."

***

There was fresh graffiti on the small shopfront.

‘At least they spelled ‘Exterminate' right this time,' Caitlin thought as she fumbled tiredly for her keys. They fell from her clumsy fingers and she cursed.

"That kind of night was it?" laughed the woman approaching. She was short and plump, radiating cheerful briskness and a confident capability. "What do I always tell you?"

"Always drink plenty of water before bed and always get the bloke's name," Caitlin replied, grinning despite her weariness. "'Morning, Sunita."

"Another late call?" Sunita asked, scooping up the keys Caitlin had let fall. The door stuck, as always, but a practised thump and twist of the keys dislodged it.

"Uh-huh. The cops called me in to help with a homeless kid that blew up one of the squats in the CBD last night." Caitlin followed Sunita into the dim building, flicking on light switches as she went. Florescent lights stuttered, then steadied, illuminating the battered couches of the ‘waiting room', the racks of pamphlets, the reception desk – Sunita was already turning on the computer and pulling the mail she'd collected out of her bag – and the small hallway that led past some stairs to the back offices.

"And how did it turn out?" Sunita bustled past Caitlin's office on her way to the kitchenette out the back. Caitlin paused to answer before checking the Centre's answering machine.

"Well, we managed to get him calmed down enough for the police to take him in," she sighed, rubbing at her tired eyes. "Of course they slapped a collar on him as soon as they could – the kid's some kind of power generator, bright green energy beams – and he really didn't like that at all. Some of these street kids, their powers are the only thing they have to protect themselves. So when the cops exercise ‘reasonable measures' to restrain them, they feel totally vulnerable. There's a remand hearing this morning – I left a message on Eric's machine last night to let him know."

Sunita's chuckle mingled with the tinkle of a teaspoon against ceramic. "Spreading the joy around, were you?"

Caitlin grinned, just a little smugly. "Well, he _did_ say to let him know about the custody cases as soon as possible. It's not my fault it was about two AM when I was done."

"And I bet you're just feeling terrible about it now." Sunita set Caitlin's rabbit mug down as she returned from the kitchen. "Oh yes, I can see the remorse is just tearing you up."

"Gee, a bit heavy on the sarcasm aren't we this morning?" With a sigh of relief, Caitlin picked up her mug of coffee and inhaled the steam rising from it. "But you're forgiven – you gave me coffee."

"I know better than to let you start the day without it," Sunita replied. "And now I have work to do, so I'll leave you to your addiction. Your first appointment isn't until nine. The file is on your desk, under all that mess somewhere."

"I have a system, Sunita. It's under control." Caitlin, already engrossed in both coffee and the messages left on the Centre's answering machine, waved vaguely as the Sri Lankan woman returned to her desk and her the morning's paperwork.

***

"I can't believe it! Those absolute morons!"

"And a very good morning to you, Eric," Sunita said blandly to the tall, bearded man waving a newspaper around in the hand not encumbered by a briefcase. "And what has our wonderful government done _this_ time?" She was unperturbed by the display, although the dramatic entrance did startle the Centre's morning clients. The university student waiting to see Caitlin jumped and dropped the leaflet – "Twisted DNA! Dealing with the mutancy rollercoaster!" – he'd been reading, eliciting a giggle from the small be-furred girl playing with the blocks in the corner under her mother's watchful eye.

"What haven't they done? But specifically? It's these cuts to welfare spending – they're just dumping responsibility for the whole thing onto groups like us!" Eric flung the newspaper dramatically into the bin next to Sunita's desk – which served as a kind of front counter to the Centre – and ran the now-free hand through his brown hair, unmindful of the black newsprint smudge he left on his forehead. "Ah, sometimes I really wonder about it all, don't you, dear lady?" he asked, resting the hand on the desk and leaning forward. The expression on his face had lightened somewhat, and there was a twinkle in his blue eyes. Sunita gave him an amused look.

"The only thing I'm wondering about at this moment, Eric, is when you're going to remember the rather bedraggled young man hovering in the doorway." Sunita waved her pen in the direction of the door, where said young man stood, looking uncertain and defensive.

"Ack! Of course! Colin, come in, come in! This is Sunita, receptionist, nurse and all-round miracle worker." Eric beckoned expansively – most of his gestures were – and Colin shuffled in, glowering. As all eyes fell on him, he hunched further into the faded and dirty rugby shirt and shuffled his feet. "Sunita, this is Colin. I believe our Caitlin made his acquaintance last night. I have secured his freedom and thought maybe we could secure him some new clothing and the usual grease and oil check?"

Colin blanched and looked ready to bolt. Around his neck, the dull metal of a government-issue inhibitor collar gleamed. Sunita tsked and got up from behind her desk. "Eric, you're scaring the boy. There's nothing to worry about Colin, we're not going to hurt you."

"Who said I'm worried?" Colin asked, trying to sound tough but the tremble in his voice betraying him. The night he'd spent in police custody hadn't been particularly pleasant, despite the general good treatment he'd received. The court hearing itself had been brief, but bewildering. Eric had shown up in his holding cell, sleep-ruffled but enthusiastic, introducing himself as the court's Legal Aid lawyer specialising in mutant matters. Although Colin had written him off as another of those do-gooder humans, he had come through – before Colin had realised it, almost, he had been bailed to appear in a week on the condition that he wear the collar and stay in the accommodation Eric had organised, some kind of half-way house that accepted mutant kids.

Sunita was about to say more, but the phone (which had been ringing almost non-stop this particular Monday morning) interrupted. "Hello, Inner Metro Mutant Community Services, how can I help you?" The words rattled off her tongue with the ease of long practice, and as she listened to the voice on the other end, she gestured for Colin to come in. "Yes, that's fine, bring her in on Wednesday, say about three? No, I'm afraid not, we're booked out until then. Yes, there's not enough services; I'd suggest you write to your local member of parliament." Sunita rolled her eyes and placed her hand over the receiver. "Just have a seat, I won't be long," she told Colin, nodding at the row of battered op-shop-era furniture. After another hesitation, he shuffled over and sat uneasily, glaring at the university student until the other boy dropped his eyes back to the pamphlet. Eric nodded and headed for his office, passing Caitlin in the hallway.

"Michael Shepherd," she called. The student – Michael, obviously – jumped again. This time it was Colin who laughed, a brief, contemptuous snort. Michael's pale cheeks flushed slightly, and he rose from his seat, tucking the pamphlet back into the rack as he did.

"Hi, Caitlin," he stammered.

"Came back for more, did you? I'm glad we didn't scare you away after last time." Caitlin smiled at him, and then nodded at the street kid. "Hi, Colin. I see Eric got you here all right, then?"

Colin shrugged. "He done all right." One dirty hand crept up to the collar, seemingly unnoticed. "This some kind of charity place?"

"Not really. More of a place where people can get help with things related to being a mutant. A place to live, legal advice, learning to control your powers, all kinds of things, really. Which reminds me… Michael? You're up."

Colin watched the blue-haired guy follow the small woman down the hallway and up the stairs. The floors up there must be wood, he decided, listening to the loud echo of their footsteps. He turned his attention away from the ceiling to find the little girl had stopped stacking blocks and was now looking at him curiously. She looked, Colin decided, just like the ginger kitten his little sister had had – probably still did have, not that he'd know, having left home almost two years ago. This kid had soft-looking apricot-orange-and-cream striped fur, topped with blond curls that bounced on her shoulders, through which poked small pointed furry cat-ears, like those headbands you could get at novelty shops. Her eyes, fixed on him without wavering, were tawny gold, with vertical slit pupils.

"What?" he said, gruffly, but not _too_ gruffly. The kid was just too cute to be mean to.

"Nuffin," she replied. "I'm Jessie. What's your name?"

"Colin." There was a thump upstairs, as if something heavy had fallen, and he glanced up again. "What's up there?"

"That's where Cai'lin teaches people to be a mutant prop'ly," Jessie informed him, attention already returning to her building blocks. "But not me. ‘Cause I was bornded like this an' don't need to learn how to be a mutant." She stacked several blocks on top of each other, and then looked at him again, her expression curious, but not smug with her wealth of knowledge. A long ginger-striped tail waved behind her. "What do you do?"

"Got this weird green energy thing. Blows things up."

"Ooh! Can I see?"

"Jessie…" her mother remonstrated gently, leaning forward to touch the kitten-girl on the shoulder. "Maybe he doesn't want to be bothered by your questions."

"But how else am I going to learn things, Mum?" Jessie replied, wide-eyed and serious. "I _have_ to ask questions if I want to know things."

"It's all right, Missus," Colin said. "Sorry, kid, I can't right now. Got this collar on, see?"

"Take it off then, silly."

"Can't. Won't come off." Colin glanced over at Sunita, looking for an escape from the awkward question, but she was still trapped on the phone – every time she dealt with one matter and hung up, it would ring again.

"Oh." Jessie considered this. "Did you make a mistake?"

"You could say that, yeah," he replied, with a wry grin. The expression lightened his face and made him resemble the child he still essentially was, in years if not life experience.

Jessie nodded, solemnly. "People do, when they're mutants. That's why this place is here, isn't it Mum?"

"That's right, Jessie," the woman, an older, less feline image of her daughter, replied. The attention of all three was caught by Eric's return.

"Forgive me, Mrs Adams, for the delay. I was making myself familiar with your file. I believe you're having some trouble with the Education Department?"

"Yes." Mrs. Adams stood, then looked at her daughter, happily stacking blocks into a wall. "What about…?"

"I can keep an eye on her, if you like," Colin offered diffidently. Jessie's mother hesitated, but at Eric's nod, and a glance at Sunita, still battling the phones, she relaxed slightly.

"Mum won't be long, she just needs to talk to the man about school," she told Jessie, bending and laying a kiss on the golden head between those cat ears. "You play nicely with Colin, okay?"

"Okay," Jessie said, seemingly unconcerned. Her mother brushed back the curls hanging in her face – revealing a furry expanse of skin where ears would normally be in a human – and followed Eric up the hall to his small, over-flowing office.

"Excuse the mess, Mrs Adams, I'm afraid I have rather more books than I can store properly," he said, gesturing for her to take a seat and closing the door. "So, you've been trying to enrol Jessie in school?

"Call me Christine, please."

"Christine, then. And you must call me Eric. Now, what are these problems you mentioned on the phone?"

"Well, as I said, I've home-schooled Jessie for the last few years, but she's at the stage where I feel she'd benefit from interaction with other children, ordinary children. So I tried to enrol her in the local primary school."

"They refused to take her?"

"They claimed they weren't equipped to deal with her needs. I told them she has no special needs, apart from some dietary issues that I could handle, but they still refused to accept my application. I went to the Education Department, and was told there wasn't much I could do, it was the school's right to refuse entry to a child if they felt she was a danger to the other children."

"And is she? In your opinion?"

"Of course not! Yes, she has claws, but we have those clipped, for her own safety as much as anyone else's. And she knows she's not to hurt other people – for her age, she's remarkably intelligent. She absorbs everything said to her and she would never, _never_ harm another person." Mrs Adams sat back, shaking a little. "When I explained that, they just told me there was a health risk. This Legacy virus we've heard of in the States. But that's only dangerous to mutants, surely?"

"As far as we know, yes, although there has been one documented case of it infecting an ordinary human," Eric mused, taking notes as she spoke. "Did the Education Department say anything else to you?"

"Only that if I wanted to fight it, I would have to go to court." Mrs Adams spread her hands helplessly. "But I'm a single mother, Eric, everything I earn goes toward raising my child. I can't afford to hire a lawyer and go to court over this. But I can't keep Jessie at home forever either. She _needs_ to go to school."

"Calm down, Christine, there is hope," Eric said, smiling. "There's clearly a wrong been done here, and I believe the Equal Opportunity Commission will be extremely interested in this, to the point that court may not be required at all. But should that not be the case, I think I can convince Legal Aid to fund the appropriate legal assistance."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. The Department was just trying to fob you off. Now, let's get a few details, shall we?"

***

***

"Relax," Caitlin said softly, "Don't try and force it. Just let it happen, slowly and gently." She watched the young man in front of her take a deep breath before extending a hand over the plastic cup of soil on the small table between them. Michael closed his eyes, focussing as Caitlin had explained, and a small golden orb of light enveloped the cup. It shook slightly, and then there was a small eruption of dirt as a small green shoot burst forth. Caitlin found herself thinking of those nature documentaries with the time-lapse photography; the seedling shot upwards, sprouting leaves and climbing tendrils, the plastic cup splitting as the roots developed. Maybe ‘Jack and the Beanstalk' was more apt, she thought, watching the bean plant collapse under its own weight, still growing at a furious rate. "Okay, Michael, that's enough. Well done."

Michael opened his eyes and wiped the sweat beading his forehead. "I did it?" he asked doubtfully, then looked down at the fully-grown bean plant on the table. "Hey, I did it!"

"Of course you did, I knew you could. It just takes practice and concentration." Caitlin looked at her watch. "Unfortunately, time's nearly up – was there anything you wanted to talk about?"

"Not really – that mutant support group at the uni you put me onto is pretty good with that stuff. They even spoke to the academic board and convinced them to not take disciplinary action for what happened in the exam, since I didn't _mean_ to slow time like that. I suppose it was because I was nervous."

"Some powers are like that – frequently they respond to subconscious wishes as well as conscious ones, especially when we're not trained in them," Caitlin explained. "Stress, especially, can bring them on, or make them difficult to control. But the more practice you have with using them, the more control you'll have, which is what I'm trying to do here. By getting you used to your powers, you won't have to worry about ‘accidents' like that one."

Michael grinned. "Yeah, I figured that. I've been practising a lot at home, too." He ran a hand through his fine blue hair. "One question, though – why would time manipulation turn my hair blue all of a sudden? My mum was asking me if I'd dyed it or something and she wouldn't believe me when I told her it was the mutant thing."

With a chuckle, Caitlin replied: "I honestly don't know, Michael. There's a lot about mutancy we're still learning. The general feeling is that there are two kinds of mutant powers – those that have a physical manifestation, like having wings or fur or armour plating and the like, and those that are less obvious, and generally related to the manipulation of energy. Either directly, like having force beams or fire shooting out of various orifices…" Michael snickered. "…Or more subtle things, like telepathy, which manipulates thoughts, or your power, which lets you control time. There's some schools of thought that say all mutants have both types of mutant powers, just one is stronger than the other, generally. Sometimes, though, one might have just enough edge to make a small appearance, such as a change in hair or eye colour, or limited telepathy in shape-shifters." Caitlin shrugged. "They're still working on it."

"Sounds like a possible research topic for later study," Michael suggested with a grin. "If I was into genetics, that is." He scooped up his small backpack from where it was sitting next to his chair. "Time for me to go, I suppose. You want me in again next week?"

"Yes, that would be a good idea. Make an appointment with Sunita on your way out," Caitlin agreed. She gently coiled the bean vine up and picked up the cup of soil, following Michael down the stairs.

"Hey, can I ask you a question? A personal one?" Michael glanced at Caitlin over his shoulder, pausing and half-turning on the stairs. When she nodded, he went on: "Where did you learn all this stuff? About controlling powers and stuff?"

"In the States," Caitlin replied. "My parents had sent me there to visit relatives, and while I was there, my telepathy manifested. It's not that strong, but more than enough for a thirteen year old girl away from home. And the general reaction to mutants over there isn't very good."

Michael nodded, remembering a recent news broadcast mentioning a number of attacks on mutants by ‘human rights' groups. "So what did you do?"

"Well, luckily my aunt and uncle, who I was with at the time, had a mutant child of their own and were involved with an organisation called the Mutant Underground. Not a whole lot different to this place, only without the government funding. Or the government's approval, really. They focussed on rescuing mutants in danger, relocating them, that sort of thing. But they also had a number of… teachers, I suppose you could call them. People trained in the use of their powers, and in the training of others. Auntie Pam got me to one of them, and she taught me how to live with being a telepath. When I got home, my family found there wasn't much in the way of training available here, just a few private organisations. The mutant community centres hadn't been created yet."

"So you decided to do something?"

"When I finished school I wanted to get involved in developing something. I did my Psychology degree, started working in community health, with mutants and their families, mostly, and when, after a _lot_ of advocating and letter-writing and public speaking and generally being a pain in the arse, the government finally took notice of what mutant rights groups were saying and set up the Centres, I got this job."

"Just how old are you?" Michael asked, looking at the woman next to him. Even two steps above him, she was still shorter than he, something you didn't notice when she started talking, such was her presence of personality. Red hair cut to jaw length bounced around her face as she gestured enthusiastically, and her eyes were blue and practically glowing with her sheer energy.

She blushed, just a little, looking even younger, and gave him a playful swat on the arm. "As young as I feel," she said. "And older than I look. And that's all you're going to get. I'll see you next week."

***

"Are you a nurse too?" asked Colin, looking warily at Sunita as she advanced on him with a thermometer. "As well as a secretary?"

"Administration assistant is the preferred term these days," she pointed out, but there was a chuckle in her rich voice. "Actually, in Sri Lanka, I _am_ a doctor. I worked in a hospital for many years, before I came here." She stuck the thermometer in Colin's mouth and picked up a blood pressure cuff. They were in the rear-most back room of the Centre, which had been a kitchen in days gone past. Now it was set up as a crude surgery, with a padded table (upon which Colin was uneasily perched), a set of scales, and various non-drug supplies such as bandages, stacked on the shelves.

"Why aren't you a doctor now?" Colin mumbled around the glass tube. "You'd make better money, I bet."

"Because this country has rules about qualifications for doctors, and before I can practice I must pass the qualification exams," explained Sunita, wrapping the cuff around Colin's scrawny upper arm. "And to do that, I must pay the fees. Which I do not have. So, I work here, and save. A lot."

Colin waited until she finished taking his blood pressure before asking his next question. "So why'd you come here?" He seemed to realise he was being nosy and added: "If you don't mind sayin'."

"No, I don't mind. My son, Sanji, is a mutant, like you. Only he was born with his powers; he's a shape-shifter, and when he was born, he was furry all over, with a tail, like a little tiger cub. Quite a shock for me and the doctor who delivered him. In my country, in Sri Lanka, people are afraid of mutants, and there are no services for them, no assistance. Worse, many mutant babies are abandoned, left to die, and there are beatings and killings. My Sanji was a sweet, good-natured little boy, but he became so afraid of people he refused to go to school, to leave the house. It wasn't unusual for people to abuse and threaten me in the street, and I had to watch over Sanji all the time, to make sure nothing happened to him. In the end, it was too much, and I came here." Sunita pulled up Colin's t-shirt to listen to his heart and lungs. "Breathe in for me, Colin."

He did, exhaling slowly as she requested. "Was it better for Sanji here?"

"Yes and no. Here, I can't work as a doctor, and money can be difficult. And there are still those who would hurt him for being what he is. And for being dark-skinned. But if we had stayed, I don't doubt he'd be dead by now. Either at the hands of a mob, or his own." Sunita's tone was matter-of-fact, but there was a small quiver in her voice, a darkness in her eyes. Colin decided not to ask any more questions – there was something else there he wasn't sure he wanted to dig up. He wished he _had_ kept her talking, though, when Sunita asked him a question of her own.

"What about your family, Colin? Do they know where you are? Would you like us to contact them for you?"

"I doubt they'd be interested." Colin looked away, feigning indifference. Sunita nodded. The street kids the Centre saw – and there were too many of them - were always reluctant to talk about their backgrounds. At first, anyway.

"I'll keep it strictly professional then, shall I?" she said instead of pushing further. Colin would talk in his own good time, when he trusted them.

***

"Got a minute, Sunita?" The voice was a new one, that of an older man – late fifties, possibly older – dressed in a militaristic dark uniform with the tell-tale red epaulettes of the Salvation Army.

"Sure, Tom," Sunita's smile was as welcoming as it had been at the start of the day, despite the avalanche of papers on her desk and the fact she'd had to take the phone off the hook in order to get some peace to think. "Do you need my brains, my body or my connections?"

"All of the above, actually," he chuckled, taking Sunita's innuendo in his stride. As Caitlin was wont to say, the Salvos were her idea of Christians, more so than the occasional evangelists who picketed the Centre – they did a lot for people without shoving religion down their throats. And they had a sense of humour. "Let me take you away from all this."

"Ah, Tom, I thought you'd never ask. I'll just let Caitlin know I'll be gone for a hour or so."

"Less than that, probably," Tom promised.

"You really shouldn't sell yourself short like that, Tom." Sunita's grin grew wicked as she watched Tom puzzle this one out, and then burst into laughter.

Ten minutes later, sitting in the passenger seat of Tom's beaten-up Ford, with her first-aid kit on her lap, Sunita asked:

"So, what's the emergency this time, Tom?"

"Not so much of an emergency as a medium-sized problem," Tom said. "This woman's been a client of ours for a few weeks – rent assistance, some food vouchers, and she's been looking for work through the employment register. Three kids, two just babies, really, and a son around eleven. She can't have been much more than a child herself when she had him. Any way, this afternoon she burst into my office screaming like a banshee about her son – Ricky, his name is – being sick. But when I offered to call an ambulance she wouldn't let me."

"The child's a mutant?" Sunita had seen the scenario too many times to make it a true question. Even with government-sponsored education programs, there were a lot of people in the low economic brackets who were frankly paranoid about mutants and the way they were treated. Six months ago Sunita and Tom had attended at a squat where a young girl had bled to death in childbirth rather than going to hospital because she was worried "Social Services" would take away her baby because she was a mutant.

"From the sound of it," Tom confirmed, pulling up in the car park of a block of Housing Commission flats. They loomed up into the sky, grey and dull and somehow oozing an atmosphere of hopelessness. "I hate these things."

"Have you seen the kid yourself?" Sunita was trying to piece together the scenario.

"Not really – his mum wouldn't let me see him beyond a quick peek. He seemed to be in some pain, but not in any danger, from what I can tell."

"And the mutation?"

"Can't help you there. His mum wasn't making a whole lot of sense." Tom took the case from her as they exited the car and headed towards the nearest building. "We're in luck – the lift is working today."

It wasn't that much of a benefit – it reeked of urine and there were used syringes on the floor. With a series of disturbing whirring and clunking noises they eventually reached their destination of the sixteenth floor. The odour of a thousand old meals had soaked into the beige paint and the dull brown carpet of the halls. Rows of identical wooden doors bore plain black numbers – 1610, 1611, 1612… Tom stopped at 1614 and knocked gently. It was opened by a woman in her early thirties, rawhide thin and with that sense of being stretched beyond her limits. A cigarette hung from her mouth, trembling slightly, the frizz of her dyed blond hair stained nicotine yellow at the front.

"Carol, this is the woman I was telling you about, from the crisis centre," Tom explained to that hard face. "Sunita is here to make sure Ricky is all right."

"You're not anything to do with Social Services are you?" Carol asked suspiciously. "I'm a good mother – you won't find a mark on my kids."

"No, I don't have anything to do with the government, and I'm sure you do your best. Three kids would be a handful – I know one keeps me on my toes…" Sunita, seeing Carol's face soften slightly, took the initiative and indicated the door. "Can we come in?"

"Okay." Carol allowed the door to swing wider, revealing a small flat strewn with the debris of small children, but not filthy. Efforts had been made to make the place nice – a couple of framed photos on the wall, one showing a red-haired boy grinning cheekily at the camera, the other a toddler holding a baby with careful concentration; an old shawl had been tossed over the back of the threadbare couch, hiding the revoltingly ugly brown velour. Carol closed the door after them, and indicated a closed door across the living room. "Ricky's in there, if you want to see him. Ashlee and Troy are in my room, out of his way. This isn't going to cost me anything is it?"

"Not a thing. A couple of questions first – have you noticed anything unusual about Ricky lately? Before he got sick?"

"Well, he's not been himself lately. Kinda quiet. Hard to get out of bed in the mornings. And he hasn't been eating much. I found last week's school lunches under his cupboard. I made sure he ate something last night – just about had to force-feed him – and then this morning he was sick everywhere. Said his stomach ached as well."

"Anything else?" Carol hesitated.

"Well, I kinda noticed his skin looked… weird, the other day. Sorta green tinged. I thought he was getting sick or something." Carol shrugged. "Didn't seem like too much until this morning, when I noticed he was… _green_. Not like the Hulk or anything, but it freaked me out a bit and I went to Tom. I didn't know he was a mutie. I mean, kids get bugs all the time, you just wait for ‘em to get better." She dragged deeply on her cigarette, her hand trembling slightly and her eyes an odd contrast of paranoia and concern. "I mean, no-one could say I was neglecting him or anything?"

Sunita made a neutral gesture with her hands. "I'll have a look at him, see how he is," was all she said.

The room was tiny, crowded by two single beds and a small wardrobe, and stank of vomit. A few toys were strewn about, forgotten by their owner, who was a small huddled shape on the bed, a bucket on the floor.

"Ricky?" Sunita left the door open behind her and crossed to the bed, sitting carefully at the end and putting her first aid case at her feet. "My name's Sunita. I'm here to see if you're okay."

"Are you going to take me away?" came the muffled response – Ricky had learned that one from his mother, Sunita thought with a grim smile.

"No, I'm not. I'm not from Social Services, I'm from a place that helps people that are having problems. Are you in pain, Ricky?"

The ball uncurled slightly. "You're not taking me away? My friend Paul said people take you away if you're a mutant."

"Paul's wrong." Sunita slid a little closer, trying to see Ricky's face in the dim room. His voice was tight with anxiety, but there was also a note of pain, and he seemed to be clutching his stomach. The brief glimpses of skin she got revealed it was leaf-green. "I promise I'm not here to take you away." That much she could promise – later she might have to decide if official intervention was required, but the initial indications were good. Carol was stressed, but still coping regardless from what she had seen, and Tom would have already reported any potential abuse. "Does your stomach hurt, Ricky?"

"A bit." The ball unfolded some more, and a pale green face peered up at her from under a shock of red hair. "I was sick all over the bathroom floor this morning," he confided. "Ashlee stepped in it and Mum got mad."

"Your mum said you haven't been eating much lately. Not been hungry?" Sunita lay her hand on Ricky's forehead – the skin was warm, but not feverish. This close she could see evidence of recent weight loss in the slightly hollow cheeks.

Ricky pulled a face. "Nup. Not even pizza, and that's my best favourite."

"What sort of pizza?" Sunita asked, pulling her stethoscope out of her bag. He flinched a little, and she added. "It's okay, I'll warm it up for you."

"You're not going to give me any needles are you?" he asked suspiciously.

"No needles. That I can guarantee." Without a licence to practice, Sunita was unable to prescribe medication or take samples for testing – technically what she was doing now was illegal, but she'd come to an understanding with the local health centre's doctors. They turned a blind eye to her activities as long as she confirmed all diagnoses by sending her ‘patients' to the centre or the hospital. It was a pragmatic world they lived in – the lack of health funding and the demands of the region meant that resources were stretched beyond breaking point, and the most vulnerable frequently fell through the cracks. Sunita helped catch some of those. "I just want to listen to your stomach for a minute, okay?"

Reluctantly, Ricky pulled his shirt up, exposing more green skin, this of a paler shade. She listened to the deathly silence of Ricky's digestive system, noting the way he flinched. No wonder – the food in his stomach was effectively sitting there, doing nothing. She got up to pull the curtains partly aside to get some better light. When she turned back to the bed, Ricky had completely unfolded, stretching his hands towards the patch of sunlight falling onto his bed.

"Does sun make you feel better, Ricky?" she asked, noting how the green tinge was darker in sun-exposed areas of Ricky's body, such as arms and face.

He nodded. "Don't feel so tired when there's sun. ‘Cept Mum doesn't let us play outside much – she says it's too dangerous, too many junkies. Lunchtime at school's the best – I stay outside all the time, even when it's raining, if the teachers don't catch me."

Sunita nodded, an idea of what might be happening forming in her mind. She finished examining Ricky, and then went to talk to Carol again.

"Well, he's not in any danger," she said, going back into the lounge room where Tom and Carol were discussing things over a cuppa, while a little girl played at their feet. "What he needs right now is sunlight, as much as he can get." She'd left him lying in the full stream of afternoon light that came through the window after she'd removed the curtains.

"What's the matter with him?" Carol asked.

"Well, as far as I can tell – and you'll need to get this confirmed by a doctor – he seems to be photosynthesising. Like a plant," she added, seeing the confusion cross Carol's face. "Instead of food, he's getting what he needs from sunlight. That's why his skin has turned green. There's a chemical called chlorophyll that turns sunlight into energy, and that seems to be replacing the melanin in his skin. That's also why he's not eating – he doesn't need to any more. When you made him eat last night, you made him sick, since he can't actually digest solid food now, it seems." Sunita pulled out a business card, one of the supply she got from the medical centre. "It's really important that he sees a doctor, and these people can help Ricky, a lot more than I can right now, anyway."

"What about Social Services?" Carol returned to what was, for her, the most important issue. "They won't take him away?"

"If there's no risk to his health or well-being, there's no reason for them to get involved at all," Sunita told her. "Ricky's mutation isn't something that you did, or something that you could prevent, it's just the way he was born. From what I've seen, you've been doing your best to take care of him." Sunita turned the card over. "This is the number of the crisis centre, where I work. We can help you look after Ricky, learn about his mutation."

Tom nodded. "And you know I'm around to help you with anything else you might need."

"This photo-whatsit… it's not dangerous? To Ricky? Or the other kids?"

"I can't answer that fully right now, after such a brief examination and without some tests confirming what I think, but he seemed to improve as soon as he got some sunlight. And once he gets rid of that food in his stomach, he'll feel a lot better. That's why it's important to get him to a doctor, so they can give him something to do that. But no, he's definitely not a danger to anyone else, as far as I can see," Sunita explained, her tone professional but not cold – she had seen this scenario too often to make it glib. "How about I call the medical centre for you now, make an appointment for Ricky?"

***

"Yes indeed, you're entitled to your opinion, but I have difficulty in accepting that God would judge someone on something as random as a combination of genes," Eric said into the phone, rolling his eyes at Caitlin as she passed. She snorted; they'd been due for one of their regular "Mutants are Godless hordes destined for Hellfire" calls and it sounded like Eric had been the one to answer the phone, with Sunita still on her emergency errand. "The God I believe in judges people according to their actions, not their DNA. And I think that counts for a lot more." Eric listened to the response and then replied, a little more sharply than his usual good-humour allowed: "All I can say is that some of those ‘freaks' have my utmost respect and I am proud to consider them friends. And what you are doing is using az telecommunication service to threaten and harass. Which is a Commonwealth offence. If you persist in calling, I'm sure you can have fun explaining your theories to the police." There was a audible squawk of outrage, and Eric hung up, shaking his head ruefully. "I don't know how Sunita deals with that kind of thing on a regular basis," he said to Caitlin.

"She usually uses a whistle down the phone," Caitlin chuckled. "They tend to get the hint."

"I'll keep that in mind." Eric checked the next file on top of the pile: "Jimmy? What are you doing here again?" The bedraggled man – he looked to be in his sixties, but was actually in his forties, the result of a hard life – staggered out of his seat with a beaming smile and a gust of boozy breath.

"Eric, me old mate!"

Caitlin giggled as Eric led Jim to his office – the alcoholic was a regular client of all three of them. He was an empath who had manifested back in the 1970s when mutancy was barely acknowledged in Australia. Without any kind of training or understanding of his powers, Jim had turned to alcohol to numb the flood of emotions assailing him from all sides. Thirty years later, he was a chronic alcoholic with multiple health problems and a police record that went of for several pages. It was acknowledged that he was a hopeless case – Caitlin's attempts to help him control his powers were no more successful than Sunita's treatment of his cirrhosis or Eric's efforts to keep him from going back to jail. But they kept on trying – Jim's cheerfulness, while tiring in its enthusiasm, was infectious. Besides, if they gave up, who else was there?

***

Darkness was falling as Sunita closed and locked the Centre's door, and then turned back to her two colleagues. Caitlin was just switching on the answering machine and putting the day's case files in Sunita's tray on her desk, while Eric could be heard bustling about in the kitchenette, humming under his breath amidst a clattering of crockery and glass.

"I hereby declare this Monday officially closed," he announced, coming up the hall with a large platter in one hand, three wineglasses in the other, and the neck of a bottle of red sticking out from under his arm. Sunita pushed a stack of old magazines to one side of the low table between the two couches, and he set the platter down gratefully. On it were various cheeses and dips and a couple of piles of sun-dried tomatoes and olives, as well as crackers. A corkscrew was produced from the pocket of his suit pants, and as he opened the wine, Caitlin came over and flopped onto one of the couches with a tired sigh. Sunita joined her, with slightly more muscular control.

"Is it me or are the days getting longer around here?" Caitlin sighed, shoving back a handful of hair from her face as she accepted a glass of wine from Eric. "I feel like I've been on the go all day."

"You _have_ been on the go all day," Sunita pointed out with a grin. To Eric she said: "Just a half for me, I'm driving, remember?"

"Of course. Although I know a good lawyer should you need one," he chuckled, passing her a half-glass and then pouring one for himself before sitting. "We've all been exceptionally busy today, I think. And judging from the appointments book, we shall continue to be so."

Sunita groaned despite herself and looked over at Caitlin. "Is there any word about the funding for a proper secretary? One that doesn't have to disappear into the sickbay for checkups or go on emergency trips?"

"I'm working on it," Caitlin said. "I'm hoping sheer bloody-mindedness will win the day. I know Karen's busy this year with her final year of study, but I wish she had been able to stay on. That girl was a treasure."

"Indeed she was, and I have first dibs on her when she does qualify," Eric agreed. "But until that happy day, how about this as a possible solution to our staffing problems? We could take on another work placement student from the university, or try maybe one of those job assistance programs? That way we wouldn't have to foot the bill, at least until the funding is approved by the Powers That Be."

"That's a possibility…" Caitlin mused, sipping at her wine. "I'll call my contacts in the university; I know the Psychology honours students will be needing 100 hours of work placement, and one of them's bound to be studying mutancy. Or was that the Criminology department? I'll try both." She nibbled thoughtfully at a cracker, piled with cheese and sun-dried tomato. "Anything we ought to know for tomorrow, Sunita?"

"The appointment book's full for both of you and no doubt there will be some kind of crisis needing our attention," Sunita said wryly.

"Just another day at the office then?" chuckled Eric.

"Seems like it," Caitlin began, to be interrupted by a tapping on the door. The three exchanged looks. "It never ends, does it?" she said with a roll of her eyes.

"No, but wouldn't life be boring if it did?" chuckled Sunita, and went to open the door.

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