Disclaimer: I do not own Misfits. Any similarity in content and dialogue originated with the show.

I was inspired to write this after reading the amazing fic 'Immaturity At Its Finest' by Persephone Price. You should definitely check it out.

Chapter 1 - This Is Going To Be Complete Shit

Why the fuck the building was called the 'community center' was far beyond her comprehension. As one was typically given to understand from such reliable sources as 'the internet' and after school specials, 'community centers' were generally charged with promoting feelings like togetherness and cooperation. What togetherness and cooperation were supposed to look like, she wasn't quite certain, but they probably included murals covered with primary colors and sunflowers and smiling children and shit. This place did have a mural, but the paint seemed to have streaked, leaving behind nightmarish demons with manic grins in the place of those smiling children and any sunflowers had melted into a surrealist hellscape.

No, the so-called 'community center' looked much like the rest of the the estate—a dirty, dingy sort of grey that no angle of sunlight could improve upon. And the inside was no better than the exterior. Each light lining the hallways was just as likely to flicker ominously—or ineptly, depending on your point of view—as it was to work properly, never mind the higher than average chance of getting stuck in a storage locker and left to slowly mummify under the constant onslaught of a mildew-tainted draft. All in all, this building was dedicated to the community much in the same way that she was. Reluctantly and against its will.

Two hundred hours. Time to do the maths. That was twenty shifts of ten hours, twenty-five shifts of eight hours, or forty shifts of five hours. No matter which way you sliced it, it all added up to a giant pile of shit. And she would rather shave off her own eyebrows or listen to an entire album by Justin fucking Bieber than spend a minute, let alone six weeks, staring at this god forsaken building. Yet here she was, sun at her back, lined against the railing alongside six other disappointments to society, all basking in the shadow of both the aforementioned community center and their own poor life choices. A fucking buffet of petty crime.

Welcome to community service.

In her opinion, Isabelle McCallum did not belong on that railing in the first place. Was what she had done illegal? In the technical sense, yes. Yes, it was. But it bloody well had to be done, didn't it? Her case was of the variety the term 'extenuating circumstances' was made for. Hell, it was custom built. And had she turned on the waterworks, shown some cleavage, or simply, for a change, opted to act like a marginally functional human being, she might have even gotten away with it. But, sadly, this was not the case. No, she had to be painfully predictable and run her mouth like she always did. Apparently Constable Reggie or whatever the fuck his name was did not appreciate being called an 'insensitive prick' or being told to 'go home to his inflatable girlfriend'. In summation, a court-sanctioned psychiatrist had described her as having a problem with authority. Shockingly this did not serve her well when interacting with the authorities.

Fuck it. None of it mattered at that point. And if someone laid out the choices in front of her, she would have done the exact same fucking thing anyway, down to every horribly misguided detail. But that didn't mean she had to be happy about it, and she certainly didn't have to put on a smile. Especially since her bright red hair in combination with that ghastly orange jumpsuit made her look like a damned carrot. The freakishly pale skin of hers certainly didn't help one bit either.

Izzy leaned back against the railing with her arms crossed over her chest. It was a posture the court-appointed psychiatrist would have referred to as 'defensive', 'hostile', and 'antisocial'. Usually she would just turn her lips downwards into a moody scowl, tell them that she was cold and get the fuck on with it—though that would hardly be disproving the point—but seeing as they were facing some unseasonably warm weather that probably wouldn't have been the best course of action. Especially as nobody gave two shits in the first place.

The sunglasses had been a good idea. As shadowy and overcast as the skies remained—a purplish sort of grey a few shades off from the color of her eyes—the light still seemed to hit her retinas with a harsh glare. On a normal day, it would have been an annoyance, but this particular morning, what with the preparatory shots of tequila she had downed last night, she was not in the best place vis-a-vis light sensitivity and headaches, et cetera. Plus there was the added benefit that the probation worker couldn't tell just how little she was paying attention to his rousing speech.

The man stood between her fellow delinquents and the open maw of the community center as it waited to gobble them whole. He cut a figure that managed to be simultaneously imposing and defeated—squared shoulders that drooped slightly, an intense gaze that barely hid his exasperation. The general attitude went quite well with the speech being given. The words flew by her mostly ignored, but the few choice phrases her brain plucked out of the air were lyrics to a very familiar song. 'Give back', 'make a difference', 'you're all a bunch of scum and should be euthanized'—it was the same parade of bullshit platitudes she had heard a thousand times out of the mouths of teachers, guidance counselors, and social workers, and it still wasn't any more true now than it was then. Hell, the probation worker—Tommy? Timmy? she couldn't be bothered to remember—he didn't seem to believe it. They were all gathered here because they had no other choice, simple as that. And as soon as their hours were up, they would disappear like a fart on the wind.

Great. Now she was equating herself to a bowel movement.

Leaning forwards from her position on the far left, Izzy took in the appearance of her fellow young offenders. On the far end of the line stood a twitchy looking kid who through some unnatural feat of human biology managed to be even pastier than her. Between the slightly bugged blue eyes, blank face, and slumped posture, he seemed to have all the makings of a potential serial killer. Or an accountant. She couldn't quite decide.

After him were two other girls. The first had light brown skin and frizzy, well coiffed hair, her face oddly sultry for the first day of community service what with the ever-so-slightly pursed lips and hooded green eyes. All in all she was quite pretty, and seemed highly aware of the fact. Obnoxiously so, actually, given the way she kept touching up her lip gloss in the reflective screen of her mobile which remained constantly clutched in her perfectly manicured hand.

The other girl—the chav—looked more likely to fight than fuck. Her lips were curled into what looked to be a semi-permanent snarl which, when paired with the contemptuous glare, did not give off an air of approachability. She looked damned near ready to take out the hoop earrings and batter somebody right then and there. The dirty blonde hair was scraped back into a combat-ready ponytail so tight the mere thought of it made Izzy's scalp itch. The makeup look like it had been at least been left over from the night before—foundation that seemed slightly too orange to match her actual skin tone and mascara so dark it had probably been the work of several days of layering. All in all the entire appearance spelled 'not to be fucked with'.

The next contestant was a tall, lanky Irish kid on the less translucent side of pale with a ridiculous smile on his face that made him appear almost pleased to be there. Or he was just an idiot—that was another strong possibility. On top of his head sat a mess of brown hair so curly you could probably lacquer it and use it to open a bottle of wine paired with eyebrows thick enough that they probably made up for the fact that he was not yet capable of growing a mustache. He stood a few inches over the others, shoulders slack, hands shoved in the pockets of his jumpsuit, and altogether seeming far to upbeat for the setting. For some reason he looked vaguely familiar, but at the moment Izzy couldn't quite place him.

On the left of the Irish bloke was some wannabe gangster guy. If she was being honest, the bloke's most distinguishing characteristic was his cap. The thing was comically large on his rather thin face, making him look more like bobble-head figurine than an actual human person. Underneath the had was a face with ruddy skin, an uneven splattering of freckles, a few razor nicks, and a sour 'fuck the man' expression as he glowered at the probation worker. It was a threatening stance his thin physique was woefully unprepared to follow up on.

Last up was the bloke standing next to her. He was taller than Irish, even with the extra few inches that curly hair provided. He seemed to be trying to escape from the lot of them, leaning as far away as he could from Irish, jumpsuit tied off at the waist instead of zipped up like the rest of theirs, but she had boxed him in. The sigh he let out when she sidled up next to him had been one of irritation. His face was a familiar one—chiseled jaw, dark brown skin, intense and focused eyes, well muscled. She was just used to seeing him standing straight an confident rather than slumped. There as no need to speculate about his story. It has been splashed across he papers the last few weeks.

Izzy stared at her fellow delinquents as they bickered and complained, a dulled feeling of dread settling at the bottom of her stomach. These were the people she'd be spending her next few weeks with. Fan-fucking-tastic. She had been holding onto hope for something a bit more quiet, but it looked like she was now taking up residence on the Island of Misfit Toys. The curly-haired one seemed to notice her gaze. He leaned forwards as well, catching her eye and blowing her a theatrical kiss that made her scrunch up her nose in distaste. It was when he flashed her that carefree smirk that recognition shuffled up to her and smacked her across the face. He was the twat from the bowling alley. Shit. The bar for company was set even lower than she had expected.

Rolling her eyes, Izzy collapsed back against the railing and watched mutely as the entire situation devolved. Irish started mouthing off to Wannabe, Diva started chatting on her mobile, Runner-guy opted to wallow in self-pity out loud instead of sticking with the silent brooding, and Chav was—well Izzy couldn't rightly make any commentary on Chav. She had no idea what the fuck the girl was saying. The only one not polluting the surroundings with sound was Twitchy, though she suspected that had more to do with social anxiety then a lack of desire to complain. All in all their glorious new beginning as functional, contributing members of society hit a bit of s a snag when Irish and Wannabe started their sad little charade of a fistfight. Though she could say with pretty high certainty that neither of them managed to land a hit. Neither of them looked like they had the balls to do it anyway. It was more of that idiotic male posturing she hoped to God she'd never understand. As long as they didn't start pissing on anything she could ignore them well enough.

The probation worker made a sad attempt to salvage his little speech after separating the pair, but the magic of the moment—if indeed there had ever been any—had long since disappeared. To be honest he didn't seem to put all that much effort into it. She had met morticians with more enthusiasm. The can-do spirit of the system of criminal rehabilitation was lacking in a big, big way. As was the patience and perseverance, apparently. Izzy could see the frustration mounting behind his eyes, like a metronome that began to tick faster and faster until he got a sort of vaguely deranged look about him. Eventually he sent them off to paint benches, angrily thrusting dripping cans of white paint and brushes into their hands as they filed past the community center. "Anger management issues," she muttered to herself, glancing over her shoulder at him as she trudged down towards the canal.

Groaning to herself, Izzy shoved in her headphones and tucked her discount mp3 player into her bra before crouching before her bench. She told herself to stay positive, but that wasn't a particularly strong part of her skill set. And the day didn't help all that much either. The grey sky left the entire estate looking washed-out, like a polaroid that had been left out in the sun a little too long. But still the sun managed to find a way to hit the back of her neck, making sweat slide down the collar of her jumpsuit and leaving her with the annoying sting of an inevitable sunburn. And why did it make sense to be painting these benches white? Everything on the Estate ended up coated in a layer of dust anyway. The most effective decision would to paint the benches that color.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe the only drawbacks she'd end up with were the occasional sunburn and smudges of paint on her Aviators. She had a tendency towards pessimism, but she had learned from an early age that high expectations are usually met with disappointment. And she had been disappointed enough for this lifetime, thank you very much.

Almost as if on cue, an underwhelming explosion of sound went off right next to her, causing her to look up. "Argh! There's paint on my cap!" Wannabe screeched, whipping the thing off his head and clutching it like it was a damn family heirloom. "This is bullshit!"

He proceeded to stomp off towards the community center in what Izzy presumed was supposed to be a dramatic exit, kicking paint buckets and the like. Though he hit a bit of a snag when he tripped over a shopping cart he had attempted to do violence to. Losing a fight with an inanimate object did not seem to bode well for him. Once he had the cap off, she could see why he wore it in the first place. He somehow managed to make himself look even less threatening without it.

Rolling her eyes to herself, Izzy turned back to her bench but not before catching an eyeful of Diva's cleavage which had been strategically angled towards Runner-guy. Less than fifteen minutes and she was already getting her flirt on. Eyes widening in something vaguely resembling alarm, she shifted where she sat, her eyes falling instead on the curly-haired twat who was leering at the blonde.

"So what are you in for?" she overheard Irish asking the Chav. "I'm guessing shoplifting?"

"Don' act like ya know me 'cos ya don't," the chav snapped back, her voice tense and wary.

Irish let out a quiet scoff, placing a hand over his heart as if she had just offended his honor. As far as Izzy could tell, the deception was twofold: one, that he cared about offending her, and two, for in any way suggesting that he had honor to begin with. "I'm just making conversation," he protested. "This is a chance to network with other young offenders! We should be swappin' tips. Brainstormin'. Come on, what did you do?"

"A girl called me a slag so I just go' into a fight," she muttered quickly.

Izzy exhaled sharply, but otherwise held her tongue. If fucking name calling was enough to get you landed in community service...Sticks and stones—they had learned that much in primary school. There were better ways to defend your honor, none of which ended with picking up litter by the side of the road.

Irish paused for a moment to stroke at his nonexistent beard, sardonically of course. "Mm hmm," he nodded in mock understanding. "Was this on the Jeremy Kyle Show?"

The wheezing guffaw that involuntarily left Izzy's mouth was quickly turned into a hacking cough, but not before receiving a passing glare from the chav. Her hand flew up to her mouth—whether it was to suppress a cough or shove her fist in her mouth to prevent further laughter, she would never tell. "Naw," the chav replied, her contempt shining through. "It woz at Argos."

"Ah, Argos," Irish replied, nodding sagely. "You know what you should've done? You should've gotten one of those little pins they have an jabbed it in her eye." He waited a few moments for a response, but when not enough attention was paid, be shifted on his feet, waving his paint brush in the direction of her bench instead. "What about you weird kid?!" he shouted at the boy sitting opposite her. "Don't take this the wrong way or anything," he declared in a tone that was definitely going to be taken the wrong way, "but you look like a panty-sniffer." He proceeded to emphasize this point by miming sniffing what was likely the largest set of pants known to man.

"I'm not a panty-sniffer," the creeper replied in a tremulous voice. "I'm not a pervert."

Izzy peered at the fellow over the rims of her sunglasses as he went back to painting their bench. The bloke was paying far more concentration to the brushstrokes than was necessary. He might not be a pervert, but calling him 'well-adjusted' would certainly be a leap. He had the look of the type who didn't get out that much, opting instead to subsist off of personal pizzas and the dim glow of their laptop screen. Plus there was the voyeuristic staring and twitchy demeanor. If she had to hazard a guess she'd say he had some sort of social anxiety disorder, but her uninformed psychological workup was put on hold when Irish began wanking off his paintbrush, pairing it with some guttural groaning noises to goad a response.

"I tried to burn a boy's house down!"

The ambient noises of the Estate, from the traffic to the errant pigeon, seemed to quiet for a moment for the express purpose of letting those words ring as clearly as possible. Hell, even the tinny music blasting out of those shitty earbuds of hers stopped—a pretty damn convenient time to switch between songs. Izzy felt her eyes widen and eyebrows shoot up, taking in the bloke's murderous glare and furiously clicking jaw. There existed a distinct possibility that creeper fit better in the box of 'serial killer' than she had initially thought. At the very least he dabbled in the crazy. Biting down on her lip, she pushed her sunglasses back up the bridge of her nose to hide the look of alarm. Mental note: next time she would not pair up with the pyromaniac.

The aura around them remained thick and tense until the chav's voice broke through it. "Wha' did you do?" she demanded, nodding at Irish.

"Who me?" Irish asked innocently. "I was done for...uh, eatin' some pick n' mix." At that, Izzy couldn't help but let out a heavy snort, making the bloke round on her. "What's that now?" he demanded, gesturing at her with the paintbrush. "You there. What's your problem?"

Izzy stopped painting and pulled out her headphones for the first time since they left the center. She raised her sunglasses to rest on the top of her head so he could see the skeptical look on her face. "Nothing," she replied with a casual shrug. "I just call bullshit."

"Um, excusez-fuckin'-moi, Ginger!" he exclaimed, waving the paintbrush at her with a frantic energy. "I do believe I was in the middle of the stirrin' tale of my most dramatic incarceration...And what the hell do you know about it?"

Izzy clambered to her feet and pushed the flyaway hairs out of her face. "So you're telling me that you're not the twat at the bowling alley who faked a seizure and then tried to escape the fuzz by crawling into the sodding pinsetter?"

A look of recognition dawned on Irish's face and he whirled around wildly, as if searching for a witness. "Do I have a stalker—are you stalkin' me? Now why would you go and do that, love? You're a fit enough bird, even with the sour face. And I'm a bloke—all you gotta do is say the word an'—"

Twat, as she now decided to refer to him, proceeded to bite his lip in a way that could only be described as lewd, giving Izzy no choice but to roll her eyes. "I have better things to do with my time than stalk a dickhead like you."

He placed his hands on his hips and raised his eyebrows in mock indignation. "Well then what were you doin' at the bowlin' alley then, hm? Checkmate."

Izzy shook her head, her mouth falling open in disbelief. "I was bowling, you twat. Is that not the conventionally agreed upon purpose of the bowling alley?"

He pursed his lips and furrowed his eyebrows in seemingly careful consideration. "I don't know," he drawled. "The story still seems a bit funny to me. Though I can see why you'd remember a—" he gestured up and down his form "—a body like this one."

"Not so much," she replied, crouching down by the bench. "It wasn't exactly displayed to the best advantage while spasming on the ground. It was kind of like watching a fish die on the deck of a boat. Sad, but not enough to make you care."

The chav let out a bark of laughter and Izzy shot her a hesitant smile, though to be fair it probably came out more as a grimace. She went back to painting, hoping the little exchange had found it's end. Sadly, she had no such luck. Twat swaggered over to her bench, crouching down next to her with a sly smile on his face and placing said face far too close to her own. "How would you like me to display it?" he asked, waggling his eyebrows and blowing her a kiss. "I can think of a few ways, but I'm willing to consider other options. You wouldn't happen to have any suggestions, would you love?"

Izzy returned his smile, but hers remained icy. "In the middle of the road during peak traffic hours?" she supplied innocently.

Twat feigned a wounded gasp, clasping his hand over his heat. "Hey!" he croaked theatrically. "Words hurt!"

Rolling her eyes heavily, Izzy flipped down her sunglasses again and began slathering the worn wood in paint. "Piss off."

His mouth flapped open once more, presumably let fly yet another obnoxious comment, but he was cut off by a loud crack of thunder. The two of them looked up at the sky and Twat clambered up to his feet, twisting his neck around as he surveyed their surroundings. Dark black clouds that hadn't been there a moment before were rolling in across the Estate, casting angry shadows. The darkness made the area look even more dirty and depressing than usual.

"What is goin' on with this weather?" Twat demanded, voicing her thoughts.

Another crack or thunder rang out, making Izzy twitch with surprise. She glanced up at the sky again, but her eyes fell on the probation worker who was approaching with a look of extreme frustration. "How'd that happen?" he asked, nodding at the white paint that had splattered across the asphalt during Wannabe's ridiculous outburst. "I mean, you've been here five minutes. It's painting benches," continued with derision. "How do you manage to screw that up? You tell me, because I've got no idea."

Izzy opening her mouth to make another stupid comment that would likely get her in even more trouble, but was interrupted but a sudden crashing noise. Between the shock and the ground shaking beneath her she teetered off-balance, toppling over on her back. "What the fuck?!" she exclaimed, grabbing the edge of the painted bench as she shoved herself to her feet. Wiping her hand off on her jumpsuit, her eyes roved around until they found the source of the noise. What looked to be a chunk of ice about the size of a beach ball fell from the sky and crushed the roof of a nearby car, leaving them with a blaring car alarm and a hell of a lot of befuddled expressions.

That—that was not normal. Of all the precipitation patterns they studied back in environmental sciences, that had definitely been left off the curriculum. She took a few hesitant steps towards the car, craning her neck to get a better look.

"That's my car," the probation worker said in a small, sad voice, like a kid who just had their favorite toy taken away.

Twat laughed giddily. "Classic!"

Izzy glanced around at the others and they seemed just about as freaked out as she was. And for some reason Twitchy had pulled out his mobile and started filming the whole thing with the shitty little camera. She had yet to witness such fucked up priorities.

Just as Izzy's heart began to slow to its regular pace there was another crash, this time just behind her. Shards of shattered ice skidded across the sidewalk and somehow managed to find their way into her socks. As if the experience itself wasn't chilling enough. She wheeled around and stared up at the sky. Ice chunks began to fall from that dark like cannon balls, hurtling towards the earth and crashing all around them. "Jesus Christ!"

"Alright, everyone, let's get inside."

It took a few moments for her brain to process the words. The probation was doing his best to remain calm and collected—an effort which did not last very long. The next chunk of ice to hit the ground sent him screaming with the rest of them.

Izzy took off as quick as she could, breath coming out in gasps and feet pounding against the pavement. She felt as if she was about to tip, always a moment from collapsing to the ground, but she forced herself forward. Fuck. The sky was literally falling. She glanced over her shoulder at the chaos unfolding behind her only to find the creeper swinging his mobile about, trying to catch the whole thing on film. His foot caught on a small bit of protruding brick and collapsed to the ground, his phone skittering away from him. Izzy felt herself stop and she stilled for a moment, torn between the impulse to run to safety and the moron crawling on his hands and knees, searching for his goddamn phone.

"Fuck!"

Gritting her teeth, she turned back and closed the few long strides between them. She grabbed hold of the neck of his jumpsuit, forcefully yanking him up to his feet and shoving him forward. Moments later an ice chunk hit the ground just where the creeper had fallen, breaking through the asphalt like it had been the crust to a loaf of french bread. Swearing to herself, Izzy shoved him forwards again and began to sprint, hands over her head as if that would somehow do something to help her. Somehow the fucker had gotten his hands back on the mobile and was right back to filming, never mind the imminent death looming in every direction. Apparently it wasn't to be bothered with. "Sort your fucking priorities out, mate!" she shouted over the general sound of the world falling apart at its seams.

By the time the two of them caught up with the rest of the group, they were banging on the doors to the community. They were locked out. She really couldn't catch a fucking break. The probation worker was going through the keys with shaking hands. Screaming, yelling, panicked breaths—they all swirled around her until she was dizzy. Panic began to rise inside her, clawing its way from her chest up to her throat, circling her neck and constricting until she began to choke on it. Her heart slammed inside her ribcage and then—BOOM!

A bright flash cracked in the periphery of her vision and all the sudden she was blind, all color and edges struck from her vision. A force struck her from behind, catapulting her into the air. Electricity pulsed through her, starting at the center of her torso and pushing outwards, setting everything from her veins to her nerve endings aflame. She both too aware and not aware enough of the sensation to call it pain—it struck her, filled her, and then vanished just as quickly as she rested there, suspended in a moment. Everything and nothing. Blackness and light. Was she experiencing both or neither?

She crashed back to reality as her back hit the asphalt. That numb feeling of a moment ago focused itself into a searing pain along her spine. Keeping her eyes shut she let out a low hiss, trying to will her muscles to stop spasming. Was she dying? Was she dead? All evidence pointed towards her just having been hit by fucking lightening, so it was fair to assume that she was not okay. Fuck, she must be dead. It was the only reasonable conclusion. Dead. Dead, dead, dead. Shit, at least it was a cool way to go. But where the fuck had she gone?

Tentatively cracking an eye open, she glanced around. Everything seemed the same. If this was what the afterworld looked like, it was a bit of a let down. She had expected at least one fat, diapered baby with stubby wings to flit past her while playing the harp. Unless this was hell. that would make more sense. What was that French existentialist shit Sartre wrote in 'Huis Clos'? L'enfer, c'est les autres. Hell is other people. Shit. Maybe her own special brand of hell was being doomed to an eternity of painting fucking benches with these six shitheads and a temperamental probation worker.

Izzy's one open eye continued to rove until she glanced up at the sky. It had completely cleared—no indications of apocalyptic hail whatsoever. Hell, it was bordering on blue. A relieved sigh escaped her lips. Eventually the experience would become a really cool story she could bust out at cocktail parties—as soon as she started being the type of person who got invited to cocktail parties—but for now she ached like an arthritic octogenarian. Slowly, she pushed herself up on her elbows as everyone else did the same. Car alarms blared, small bits of ice slid off the roof, but Izzy's eyes locked on each and every one of them, and from what she could tell they were all okay.

"I feel really weird," the chav drawled in a dazed voice.

"Yeah n—no shit," Izzy managed to croak out, her hand massaging her larynx. "We just got hit by lightening. I'm no expert, but I'm pretty sure that qualifies as some level one traumatic shit."

The girl shot Izzy a quizzical look. "Level one wha'?"

"We should be dead," Twitchy muttered quietly.

"It's great to have someone around with such a positive outlook," she muttered under her breath. Pulling herself to the sitting position, she hovered over the others and took in their appearance. "Everybody okay?" she demanded through a deep breath. "Do I need to call an ambulance?" Nobody responded, but all seemed alive and intact. Which meant she could lie down again—something for which she was very grateful.

"Hey!" Irish shouted, snapping his fingers at the probation worker. "Hey! I little reassurance might be nice, you know! You're fine! Looking good!"

The probation worker writhed on the ground for a few moments, clearly not yet recovered. He managed to lift his head off the ground a few inches, but couldn't make eye contact with anyone seeing as they were rolling in the back of his head and such. "W—wanker," he managed to force out through gritted teeth.

Izzy's eyebrows shot up, disappearing into her hairline as her body convulsed with a restrained guffaw. Irish, on the other hand, let his jaw fall open, somehow managing to look scandalized. "Did he just call me a wanker?"

"Well clearly his judgement is intact," Izzy drawled, nodding in agreement. "So I'd say we're all in tip top shape."

"Oi, shove it, Ginger!" Irish protested loudly, jabbing a finger in her direction. "We've all just had a brush with death! That kind of shit is traumatizing. This hardly qualifies as the time for name-callin'!"

Izzy stared back at him a few moments with an unamused expression before smacking his hand away. The glaring only lasted a moment as their attention was suddenly diverted by the probation worker. He spasmed—head shaking and face slack almost like a stroke victim's. After a moment, though, he seemed to recover himself. "Is everyone alright?" he asked weakly.

"We could have died, you dick," the diva girl spat, failing to disprove Izzy's initial impression of her.

"Are you aw'right?" the chav asked, showing altogether far more concern than Izzy would have expected.

"You're actin' like a freak."

Izzy pressed her lips into a thin line and nodded. There it was.

Slowly, the probation worker pushed himself up into the sitting position. More than injured, he looked positively baffled. Of all the potential scenarios outlined in the probation worker's manual or whatever the fuck it was they used, 'mass lightening strike' probably hadn't made the list of primary concerns. "Uh, maybe we should call it a day," he muttered.

At that, Izzy bolted upright, the small bits of ice that had collected in her hair sliding down the neck of her jumpsuit and making her shiver. "Whoa, are we getting a full days hours?" she demanded.

The probation worker stared back at her with an expression of extreme confusion. "What?"

"Our hours," she elaborated, shifting uncomfortably as she felt all eyes on her. "We've got a certain number of hours to work in a set number of shifts. Today's one of the shifts, but we've been here an hour tops. Do we get a full days hours?"

The man gaped at her in disbelief. "No, you don't get the hours."

"Ehrm, wot do ya mean we don' get tha hours?" the chav interjected, waving her hand at the lot of them before jabbing a finger in the guy's direction. "We didn' ask to be hit by fockin' lightnin'. Dat's some bollocks."

"Seriously," Diva piled on, jutting her chin out defiantly. "If I'd known I had today off, I'd've made plans."

"Then when do we make them up?" Izzy pressed, ignoring the others.

"I'll sort it out with corrections," he growled, shoving himself to his feet. His legs shook beneath him, but he managed to keep himself upright. "Alright, you lot get yourselves home. I've got to fill out some paperwork."

As the others slowly got to their feet, Izzy stared absently at the pavement in front of her. Fuck. She didn't want to call it a day. She wanted to log as many hours as humanly possible and get this shit over with so she could move on with her life. Given her near death experience, she should probably want to go get drunk in some sleazy, hepatitis-filled bar, but she really just wanted to go back and finish painting that fucking bench. Her fucked up decisions had stalled her life enough to begin with.

"When can we make them up?"

A high-pitched, cartoonish voice probably intended to sound like her interrupted her reverie. She glanced up to find Irish looming over her, a smug smirk covering his face. "Here I was figurin' weird kid for the arse kisser."

"And here I was figuring you for someone with basic logic," Izzy retorted. "It looks like both of our first impressions turned out to he a load of shit." She hauled herself to her feet, disappointed to find that even at her full height the top of her head only reached about midway up his nose. Regardless, she stared up at him, eyebrows arched challengingly. "We don't do the hours now, we have to do them later. I want out of this shit-show as soon as possible. The company isn't ideal."

Without another word, she spun on her heel and began marching in the direction of the locker room. He fell in line, his casual stroll matching her determined gait. "Yeah," he agreed absently. "That weird kid does have a funny look. I bet ya he's a virgin."

"And that's relevant...why exactly?" Izzy muttered with a roll of your eyes.

If Irish noticed her hostility, he didn't make any indication. He just let out a scoff and continued with his jaunty step. "Please, Ginger. That's always relevant." Izzy didn't respond, and the two of them continued towards the locker rooms in a silence that lasted precisely thirteen seconds. Not that his leering didn't say enough all on its own.

"Sooooooo," Irish drawled as casually as possible, draping an arm over her shoulders and leaning in till his curly hair tickled her ear, "we've just been through an emotional trauma. I'm vulnerable. You're vulnerable. I think we'd both be be given mutual comfort if we—"

"I'd rather eat my own toenails," Izzy replied shortly. She gripped his fingers and pulled his arm away, picking up her pace to the point she was nearly jogging.

"Are you a lesbian?" he shouted after her. "Because it's okay if you are! I'm not fussy! Plus we could find another traumatized girl or two wanderin' around the Estate—put together a sort of group thing!"

Izzy didn't bother turning around or shouting back. She just raised her arm in the air and made a prominent display of her middle finger. Making her way back to the locker room, she toed off her worn, fraying sneakers and stripped off her orange jumpsuit, leaving her in a plain white tank top, black sports bra, and black pants. They weren't lacy, frilly, or brightly colored like Diva's or Chav's. She had bought them in a five pack along with some plain white socks, and that suited her just fine. Particularly her bank account, which was currently sitting at an unsettlingly low number. Throwing open her locker, she yanked out her clothes and actively tried not to think about the rank sock lying at the bottom of her locker that morning. She quickly slid into her ripped, motor-oil stained jeans, jumping up and down slightly, and tied the sleeves of that worn blue flannel shirt of hers around her waist.

Plopping back down on a nearby bench, Izzy paused for a minute to take a breath, absently playing with the necklace hanging around her neck. It didn't look like anything special—just a simple, unembellished silver locket. She ran a thumb over the inscription on the back. It used to read 'to my darling Isabelle', but that nervous habit of hers was making it fade away with time.

Fuck. She had hooked her earphones around her neck before all hell broke loose and now the only pressure she could feel against her neck was that of the silver chain. Those things cost her five quid. Fuck. She needed to ask Max for more shifts at the garage if she was going to survive the cold, cruel, perpetual winter that was life on the Estate.

Swearing under her breath, Izzy shook her head and forced her mind back into working order. The two other girls had already dressed—Diva was retouching her makeup and the chav was brushing her hair back even more. Izzy sighed and snatched up her sneakers, lacing them up and enjoying the silence.

"Wot d'ya say?" the chav suddenly demanded, rounding on Diva and advancing with a look of murder in her eye.

"I didn't say anything," Diva snapped, throwing her arms in the air defensively as she slipped past the blonde and out of the room.

Izzy blew out a breath, but otherwise just sat there watching the chav scrape her hair back. It was oddly therapeutic, like watching waves crash on a beach with that slow, steady, calming rhythm. But God it must be painful. Why someone would ever put themselves through that for the sake of a mediocre hairstyle was beyond her.

Suddenly the chav wheeled around, that spark of homicidal rage still flickering. "You got somefin' ta say, yeah?" she demanded.

"I didn't say a fucking thing," Izzy responded evenly, slamming her locker door closed and slinging her bag over her shoulder. She busied herself with her phone, shooting a text off to Max to see if there were any hours available in the garage. Best not to piss off the girl who ended up in community center over an assault, even if the daft cow was picking fights in every direction. Hell, especially if she was picking fights.

"Who ya callin' a fockin' cow?" the chav shrieked, making Izzy twitch violently, almost dropping her phone.

"For fuck's sake, I didn't say anything!" Izzy retorted, holding her hands in the air and backing away slowly.

Swearing again, Izzy kicked the door open and strode out into the hallway, only to find Twitchy, Irish, and Runner-boy all milling about the vending machines and generally failing to challenge the image of the 'errant youth' they had been accused of representing. "Where's the probation worker?" Curtis demanded, as if she had magically been gifted the bloke's timetable.

"Fuck if I know," Izzy replied, brushing past them. "And if I'm not getting my hours, I'm sure as hell not sticking around this shithole."

"Hey what about my offer!" Irish shouted after her. "I've put out a few feelers, you know! Nobody's gotten back to me yet, but it's only been twenty minutes!"

"How about I give you call when I've lost all sense of respect," she shouted over her shoulder.

"Nice!" he called back. "I'm liking my odds, then!"

Izzy shoved her hands in her pockets and strode out the front door of the community center, but what she found made her pause. Most of the ice had melted to some degree, leaving huge puddles dotting the Estate. Except for that crushed car of the probation worker's there didn't look to be too much damage. Stray roof tiles littered the sidewalk, but all in all one could even make the argument that it improved the aesthetic. Sighing to herself, Izzy began to pick her way between the puddles, doing her level best to keep the frigid water from soaking into her socks and saying a silent eulogy for her Aviators that lay at the side of the street, crushed beyond recognition. Her phone chimed from its spot in her pocket and she quickly whipped it out. Text from Max. No help needed today, plenty of work over the weekend.

Altering her route slightly, she turned in the direction of home. Though 'home' was a generous term for it. 'Hovel' suited better. Or perhaps 'multi-purpose closet'. But it was all she had, so she wasn't about to start complaining about it. She would like to say that her stoicism came from some sort of enlightened understanding of the difficulties of others like starving children in Africa, but really it stemmed from the fact that there was just no fucking use in being upset. The way she saw it, life deals you a hand. If it's a crap hand, there's no point whining, because whining sure as fuck isn't going to fix anything. And being bitter just takes too much energy.

For some reason mid-day on the Estate always found a way to look like dusk. The sun was constantly setting, which she tried really hard not to see as a metaphor. Turning a corner, Izzy ducked into the alleyway that served as a shortcut between her 'flat' and the community center. She made it half-way across when suddenly two shadowed figures appeared at the other end. Gritting her teeth, she glanced over her shoulder. Sure enough, there was another at that exit as well. Fuck. No breaks provided today.

Taking a deep breath, Izzy reached into her bag and grabbed her keys, positioning one between each knuckle. Her fist clenched, ready to swing. She continued with little interruption to her step, hoping they would just let her past. Clearly karma had a bone to pick with her, because she was not so lucky.

"Where you off to in such a hurry?" a low, gruff voice asked her.

"None of your fucking business," she replied, trying to push past them. But two hands grabbed hold of her shoulders, pushing her back hard and sending her crashing to the ground. She jumped up to her feet and scrambled a few feet backwards, only to have her back ram into the third one right behind her.

"There's no reason for rudeness," the second one said with a smile. He was thin and wiry with ruddy, splotchy skin and a beanie pulled down so low on his forehead she was surprised he could see. One of a thousand faces on the estate that looked exactly the same. It was the teeth that alarmed her—shiny, sinister white and almost tapered to a point.

"Yeah, well I have herpes," she lied quickly. "So unless you want to be scratching your balls for the rest of your life, I would fuck off out of my way."

She was shoved backwards again, a sharp pain erupting in her back as it hit concrete. "For some reason I just don't believe you," the first snarled. His breath hit Izzy like a wall, all meat, cigarettes, and cheap lager. The panic began to seep into her bones again, so she did the only thing she could. She kneed him in the groin.

The first creeper doubled over in pain, and she lifted her leg, smashing her foot into his head with as much force as possible. He fell back against the wall, spitting and swearing, but one of the others was already on her. She swung her arm and the keys clutched in her hands caught his face. Three tracks of red sprung on his cheek, making him cry out. He rounded on her, grabbing her wrist and smashing it against the wall. Her keys fell to the ground with at pathetic clink. Two large hands grabbed her shoulders, forcing her against the wall and pinning her in place. She tried to struggle, but the odds of one slim girl against two hulking blokes were hardly spectacular.

Her breath hitched as the the first one—the one with the teeth—straightened and took a few steps towards her. He was still smiling, but blood now stained those sharp teeth. "You're gonna regret that," he hissed.

Izzy's heart hammered hard in her chest, her body trembling as adrenaline coursed through her veins. But that feeling—the need to run—was met by another sensation, this one unfamiliar. A strange pressure began to build in her body, trying to force itself out as if the skin wasn't enough to contain it. An engine that had been over-heated, threatening to explode.

"GET OFF ME!"

The words ripped from her lungs, echoing against the walls of the alley. And suddenly that pressure within her burst outward. The hands on her shoulders disappeared and all three of the men were sent flying. Each collided with a wall, giving rise to a sickening crack, and crumpled to the ground. Izzy stood there for a moment, paralyzed with shock. The sound of a car alarm shook her back to her wits and snatched up her keys and ran.

She didn't stop running till she reached her flat, taking the steps two at a time as she flew up the stairs. Once the door was closed and locked behind her, she fell against the surface, her hand on the doorknob keeping her upright as her chest rose and fell. Gradually her breathing stilled, and she was left to look around the interior of her flat.

Everything was just as she left it. Absolutely shit. One smallish room with everything she needed crammed in. Her dirty, second-hand mattress lay on top of that cracked frame she got from those bastards at IKEA, sad and uncomfortable. Her kitchen, blocked off from the rest of her place with that bench she had somehow managed to knick from Starbucks, consisted of a microwave, hot plate, and mini fridge. And lastly there were the bookshelves—cinderblocks and unused planks of wood pilfered from construction sites. She felt the overwhelming urge to splash some water on her face, but the bathroom was down the hall and at this time you could bet your arse the kids from 6E had managed to clog the toilet.

Leaving her shoes and clothes on, Izzy collapsed face-down onto the mattress. She was broke, she was in community service, she had almost been assaulted, she had no legitimate friends other than Max—if that fucker even counted—and with the conviction she had blown damn near all her prospects. And she had been hit by lightening. How the hell did that become the afterthought?

Grabbing hold of the covers, she yanked them over her head and buried her head into the pillow.

Fuck life. Delirium suited her just fine.

Chapter One Soundtrack

1) Meet the ASBO shitheads.
-~-~-~-Somebody Was Watching - Pop Staples
2) Painting benches, sharing stories.
-~-~-~-Bones - Electric Tickle Machine
3) Running for their lives.
-~-~-~-Wondering (Dirtyphonics Remix) - Does It Offend You, Yeah?
4) Leaving the community center, passing up the wreckage.
-~-~-~-You Gotta Decide - A. Sinclair
5) End of the day, time to pass out.
-~-~-~-Straight to Hell – The Clash

PS, if you get the Constable Reggie reference, you are my all time favorite person.

A big thank you to those that reviewed this chapter: IdiotBanana, shinelikegold, ZoeThe1st, Fan, AlfieTimewolf, GlitteringSnow, Alice, Guest, marina2351, evil-pink-robot, ShineX, Guest, Done1938, Alternate Mind, TheGoodTheBadTheGoodAgain, Wolf That Howls At The Moon, Lei1995, and Sam726 for reviewing. You guys have no idea how deeply I appreciate it.

I'm really excited to be delving back into this story again, you guys. I hope you like the rewrite. I definitely feel like my style has changed/improved in the bast few years, and I'm enjoying the updating! I really hope you guys are too.