[h2][color=a2d39c]Mason Crawford[/color][/h2][hr]Mason watched as others began to arrive, and made smalltalk with Casper, Lynn, Erica and the blind boy, Devin. They hadn't really spoken before, and Mason directed most of his attention to the three he had already met. It wasn't a conscious effort to isolate Devin, rather just Mason's way of handling the situation. "[color=a2d39c][b]Pretty small class, huh?[/b][/color]" Mason asked the other four as they stood alone in the field. 

A loud, shrill whistle interrupted their conversation. Mason turned to see a man marching towards them across the field. His features told the story of a former athlete; his muscular structure had begun to age and droop slightly, but Mason had no doubt that the man was still strong as a bull and could kick his ass with ease. The man stood to attention before them and addressed the group. "Well, don't just stand there," be barked. "Get running!" he ordered, jabbing his thumb in the direction of the field behind them.

Mason obeyed, and maintained a steady pace. All the while, this man was yelling with enough volume that he was easily heard. He was quite terrifying. "My name is Rick Wheatman! You will call me Sir!" he bellowed. "I operate on a strict '[i]NO BULLSHIT[/i]' policy! That means no fooling around, no weaklings and [i]NO POWERS[/i]." Mason thought this was a strange rule to have at a school for mutants, but he was willing to oblige. It's not like his powers would be of any use out here anyways. 

Without warning, Mason caught glimpse of Coach Wheatman jogging alongside him. Mason's smoker's lungs had done him no favours, and he was wheezing considerably. Coach Wheatman, needless to say, was not. "What d'ya call this, boy?" the man roared into his ear. 

"[color=a2d39c][b]R-running..?[/b][/color]" Mason puffed, sarcastically. 

"Boy, you ain't running!" he yelled. "You ain't [i]SHIT[/i]!" 

Mason stopped immediately, and looked the coach dead in the eyes. "[color=a2d39c][b]I'm -- I'm trying -- my best.[/b][/color]" he gasped, catching his breath. The coach looked even more furious than usual. 

"You're trying your best, [i]what[/i]?"

"[color=a2d39c][b]I'm trying my best, [i]sir[/i].[/b][/color]" Mason replied, purposely adding an obvious degree of venom to the last word. Coach Wheatman's eyes narrowed. 

"Boy, don't you test me." he said, his gravelly voice made all the more menacing by the fact he was nose-to-nose with Mason. The was a moment of tension before the coach withdrew, and yelled even louder to the others. "This sissyboy says he's doing his best!" he called. "Well, if that's his best, then he's weak! And I do not tolerate weakness!" he roared over the field. "Everyone get your asses over here and listen up." he said. 

"If this fairy's as weak as he says he is, then we gotta toughen him up. And if you's his friends, then I'm gonna guess y'all are weak too." he said. Mason looked to the ground in shame; he could tell where this was going. "Everyone drop and give me 50."