author: Neo-rodent
She blackens an entire table with her mood. The only strip of color on her is a bright red mohawk. All else is variations of black and exposed skin. 'No wait,' you correct yourself as you approach her, 'some of her tattoos are colored also.' The one you see on her shoulder is a maroon colored kitty cat with murder in its slanted eyes.
As you, a dorky looking 4.0 seeker, sit across from her, the Punk Goddess dons a look of repressed surprise. That surprise is probably the only thing that keeps you from getting knocked out of your seat. You aren't exactly a man about campus, and even you know about Chameal Waters. She'd been in more fights than anyone else in school history, linebackers included. Rumor has it that her parents are in fact rich donators -- the only reason she hadn't been expelled. Rumor also has it she hates men and people in general -- you hope for once rumor is accurate.
"I'm here to give you something." You feel yourself seamlessly slipping into your new role. You're no longer an ordinary, aspiring physicist, you are... a nameless empowerer, a servant of the Goddesses-to-be destined to change the world into a hell for patriarchs and a paradise for macrophiles. "I'm here to grant you power."
The punk girl snarls, lip ring jutting out bullishly in your direction, "I already have plenty of power, micro-dork, so get going before I snap your dick off and have you eat it for lunch with the rest of these fags." She gestures to a preppy clique seated a few rows down, and they shift away with all the grace and unison of a slime mold. Expecting you to do likewise, she goes back to leisurely spooning her soup. When she looks up and finds you still there, her expression borders on disbelief. "Do you have a death wish? Oh God, please don't tell me you're one of those fucking emo-brats."
You just smile, convinced more with her every word that you've found the one. She'll become the Hippolyta of the new Amazon race... In your mind's eye, you dream of giant women in chain mail bashing buildings and wielding train cars like nunchaku. Chameal snaps her knuckly fingers in front of your face bringing you back to the reality -- "are you bent or just stoned?"
"Neither," you say, back into dramatic character, "I am just a messenger, a carrier of power I myself am unworthy for. To have this power, all I ask is that you be true to your own nature."
For the first time she smiles, "Kid, that just so happens to be the only thing I'd ever promise anyone."
"Good." Under the table, you giver her the ray.
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