Mason Crawford
"It's nice to meet you too Mason.", Erica replied. She was a warm individual, that was for sure. The way she spoke was both enticing and welcoming, and Mason soon found himself beginning to feel comfortable. "I um, can't seem to place your accent. Where are you from?" she asked.
Mason chuckled. "
Originally, I'm from London." he said, scratching the back of his head. "
But my dad's German so I spent a lot of time there growing up." He paused for a length that was but a millisecond too long to be comfortable, and averted his gaze to break eye contact with Erica. "
Even moreso in recent years, actually..." he trailed off, lamenting his situation. It was fine. It'd been fine when he moved there and it was fine now. It was fine. He was fine.
One of the more introverted members of the group spoke up and pointed towards one of the other readers. "That one wishes you wouldn't smoke," he said before having some kind of socially anxious meltdown and hiding behind his novel. Mason didn't know what the boy was talking about, but it seemed to have got other people thinking. He ignored the comment about the student who apparently disapproved of him smoking; he had little regard for what other people thought of him. Rather, as Greg introduced himself, his eyes were drawn to the book in the boy's hands.
There was a picture of a beetle across the front cover, and Mason recognised it as Kafka's
The Metamorphosis. He actually had an original copy from the 20th century stashed amidst the other tomes in his baggage, albeit in the original tongue and under the title
Die Verwandlung. "
That's a great book, Greg," Mason said. He was about to offer to lend the boy his copy, as he felt Greg would likely appreciate seeing the original print. But the second he made eye contact with the shy boy, he was overcome with nausea. He immediately broke his gaze and concentrated on the woods, trying not be visibly effected. The feeling soon faded, but Mason grew weary of Greg. Had he done that..?
Other people began to introduce themselves, and fortunately for Mason he was great with names. The shy, emo-looking kid was called Casper, and the delivery of his introduction reinforced Mason's assumption that the boy had some self-esteem issues. It kind of made Mason want to approach him, and let him know that things would change as he got older; the way they had done for him. He saw a lot of himself in the kid... But now wasn't the time.
The black-eyed boy was named Devin. Mason assumed he was blind, as he'd been staring into the same spot for most of their time here. The other guy who had just arrived and helped kickstart the conversation was named Kane, 'with a K and an E'. Mason liked the Kane's assertiveness, but the guy was giving him a really dirty look that suggested Kane was not feeling the same way. He and Devin began speaking amongst each other in French. It was strange, however; Mason was a pretty adept French speaker, but he could only pick up traces of the conversation. They must have been speaking in some kind of territorial variation; perhaps Quebecois. Regardless, he left them to it.
The girl who had lit Mason's cigarette was called Lynn, and she cracked a joke about AA meetings that made Mason smile wryly. Maybe he got the wrong impression of this girl, she was pretty funny. It was too early to assume they'd be best friends, but Mason definitely made a note to try and understand her a bit more. The fey boy whom had apparently taken umbrage with Mason's spoking identified himself as Abbey, though specified that Chess was preferred.
Abbey Chessar; Actor! Debater! Entertainer! Mason mocked in his mind. He made a mental note to call this individual Abbey at every given opportunity. He smirked absent-mindedly, before his attention was caught by yet another, rather loud arrival. He turned to see a tall, broad guy with angular features and a shaggy mane of blond hair struggling with an unforgivingly burdensome bag, which he swore at profusely.
Wait, that accent! Mason noted to himself. This guy was a Yorkshireman. Mason's mother had family in Leeds and he could spot the accent a mile off.
The guy apologetically asked for a lighter, and Mason smirked at the irony of the situation as he shot Abbey a deliberate glance, one eyebrow raised in an exaggerated fashion. Before anyone had time to comment, the sound of an engine and broke the tranquil serenity of the woodland as the unmistakable rattle of tires on gravel road drew nearer. A large, black bus with black-out windows drew around the corner from deeper in the woodland, "PORTWOOD INSITUTE FOR TALENTED YOUTH" emblazoned along its sides.
Mason chucked with and shot the new arrival a sympathetic look. "
I don't think you'll have time for any of that, mate." he said, laughing as the bus came to a stop beside them. It was simply massive; bigger than any bus Mason had seen, even those tourbuses that famous musicians travel the world in. Several members of uniformed staff slipped out of the vehicle and welcomed passengers onboard as they helped stash their belongings in the baggage compartment.
Mason's mouth dropped silently as he boarded the vehicle. "
Well, this is nice..." he said casually, taking in the sheer luxury of the coach. Rather than a traditional "rows of two" seating plan, the interior of the bus was entirely open-plan, save for a separate driver's cabin. It was carpeted in a rich deep red, which was mirrored in the red-and-gold decor of the room, with large and highly comfortable armchairs and sofas lining the room. At the rear of the bus was a large television screen, which ran a continuous slideshow of the school on loop, showing some of the various locations and facilities it had to offer.
Mason took a seat, watching the slideshow absent-mindedly. He didn't engage in much conversation for the bus journey, as the windows were so dark he couldn't see outside, which made him feel nauseous. Perhaps his incident with Greg earlier had not helped matters... He contributed sparsely and where relevant, but mostly he just listened to any conversation that was taking place, or in moments of silence enjoyed the calm orchestral music that played quietly in the background.
Mason sat in the large assembly hall. The seats were made of fine wood and bound in plush red velvet, matching the elegant crimson drapes that hung strikingly in the mahogany room. The bus journey had been terrible, with Mason feeling sick most of the way. There had also been not one, not two, but
three security stops; points at which armed guards checked the vehicle routinely to ensure everything was in order. Despite Mason's protests, he was allowed to leave the bus for air at none of these intervals, and the whole ordeal had left a bitter taste in his mouth.
The low mumble of the room dimmed to silence as a man took to the stage. He was of an average height, with quite a portly build, with light grey hair neatly adorning his head and upper lip. He wore an expensive-looking suit with a tie that matched the room's scarlet decor, but his expression was one of warmth and welcome. He stood at a podium, smiling, and opened his arms to the audience.
"Welcome, one and all, to the Portwood Institute for Talented Youth!" he bellowed, his voice filling the room with the aid of a speaker system. "I am Professor Alan Portwood. I founded this school thirty years ago, and for much of that time we have been at the forefront of mutant education. It is no secret that, for a time, we were forced to close our doors..." he said, pausing for effect more than anything. "But thanks to President Goode, and all the efforts of PEACE, we are back in action and more prepared than ever before to bring you the pinnacle of academic excellence!" he said, raising his voice like some sort of ringmaster. Several of the staff members clapped and cheered, which sparked a reaction throughout the rest of the hall. The man was certainly charismatic.
He spoke some more about the history of the school and what was expected of students during their time at PITY; rules, routines, classes... That kind of thing. It was awfully patronising for Mason, who felt that at 19 years old he had left school behind forever. But, he began to pay closer attention as the assembly seemed to draw to an end. "As you leave, dormitory arrangements will be available at the reception, where the wonderful Miss Rodgers will present you with your keys and welcome pack. After you've made yourselves at home, lunch will be provided in the cafeteria." he said. "For now, I'd like to thank you for travelling such great distances to join us here at PITY. It is my pleasure to welcome a group of such talented young people through our doors."
With that, the assembly was over. Mason had sat near the back of the hall, and so he managed to get back out into the reception before most of the others and was one of the first at the reception desk. He was both excited and anxious to find out who his new roommate would be. Would it be one of the people he took the bus with? Or someone completely different? Would they be clean? He hoped so. How old were they? Did they like the same things he did? He hoped they at least shared some common ground. Before he could give it any more thought, a ditzy blonde woman attracted his attention.
"Mason Crawford!" she announced, smiling girlishly at him.
How the fuck does she know my name? he thought to himself. "If I remember correctly, your student number is 23009224. Which would put you in room 139..." she said, pouring through a ridiculously large folder before withdrawing a file. There, at the front of the file, was Mason's application, his photograph emblazoned in the top corner.
She didn't even have the file on hand... he thought to himself in amazement. "Yep!" she announced casually. "You're in 139. You'll be sharing with Zachariah Bale. Have a nice day, Mason!" she said, before turning her attention to the next student and addressing them by name.
Mason nodded, overwhelmed with confusion, and walked away from the desk. The reality of having a roommate dawned on him as he started on the journey in search of his room, the key tight between his fingers. There were certain things that would be very difficult to keep secret with someone living under his nose.
