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Awakenings
A CUTE MUTANTS ANTHOLOGY
SJ WHITBY
SHELLY PAGE
ELLE TESCH
ANDY PEREZ
HSINJU CHEN
SHANNON IVES
MELODY ROBINETTE
ASTRA DAYE
YVES DONLON
E.M. ANDERSON
HESTER STEEL
MONICA GRIBOUSKI
CHARLOTTE HAYWARD
AMANDA M. PIERCE
EMMA JUN
EDITED BY SJ WHITBY
Copyright © 2022
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-99-116033-1 (paperback)
978-1-99-116034-8 (ePub)
978-1-99-116035-5 (Kindle)
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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The Series So Far
Cute Mutants Vol 1: Mutant Pride
Cute Mutants Vol 2: Young, Gifted, and Queer
Cute Mutants Vol 3: The Demon Queer Saga
Cute Mutants Vol 4: The Sisterhood of Evil Mutants
Weapon UwU Vol 1: Godkillers
Cute Mutants Vol 5: Galaxy Brain
Shitty Mutants (patreon exclusive)
Project Himbo
The next page contains spoilers for the Cute Mutants series.
If you want to go in blind, skip it…
Previously
Let’s assume there are such a thing as mutants in the world—people with strange and unnatural powers. They were first created long ago by an alien energy network woven within the planet, commonly known as Cybele.
Most people aren’t aware of this. All knowledge of mutants was lost until very recently, when things began to change.
One of the triggers of this shift was a child born to two very powerful mutants. In time, she had a team of others around her, who came together to fight enemies and help mutants through the disasters they faced.
And yet despite everything they did, the planet was dying.
In an attempt to save the planet and mutantkind from their shared dire fate, the girl accumulated power. It was an act of desperation to stave off extinction, but she took on far more than anyone could possibly hold.
And in time, she was lost. It was a choice between death and destruction, and she chose to leave a safer world behind her.
When she passed away, all that power flowed back into Cybele. This vast spill of energy rippled out around the world, giving rise to a whole host of new mutations among the population.
They’re springing up everywhere.
We call this the Awakening.
Contents
1. Rose
Shelly Page
2. A Forest Hath No Fury
Elle Tesch
3. A Guide to Running Away
Andy Perez
4. Island Burnt by History
Hsinju Chen
5. When the Woods Whisper Back
Shannon Ives
6. Time of Death
Melody Robinette
7. The Battle Song of Gravity
Astra Daye
8. When the Forest Calls Us Home
Yves Donlon
9. Something Witchy This Way Comes
E.M. Anderson
10. Welcome to the Weirdlands
Hester Steel
11. Moth, Flash, Flame
Monica Gribouski
12. Vibe Check
Charlotte Hayward
13. California Dreaming
Amanda M. Pierce
14. Gary
Emma Jun
contributors
Farsight
The kid is exhausted, but they still won’t listen. I say kid, but it’s not really accurate. Dylan Taylor. Half-plant, half-mutant, all shattered. Someone who’s not only burning the candle at both ends, but has set the entire candle on fire and still isn’t satisfied.
“Mutants,” they growl at me, almost kicking a seat over as they climb into it. “Find them all.”
I shift uncomfortably. “My power’s not what it used to be.”
“I don’t care. Fucking locate them, Farsight. It’s in your damn name.”
We’re in a slender wooden tower rising high above everything else on this small island we now call home. Everyone’s calling it Mutopia, or else Miracle. Our new home, grown by Cybele, who’s either an alien or a nature spirit. I’m too afraid to ask. This tower was grown here for me, so I can use my ability to look around the world and try and find any newly awakened mutants. After we lost Goddess, and all the power in her flowed back into the world, there’s been a flourishing of people with abilities springing up across the globe. It’s still happening, more every day.
And we’re supposed to save them all, no matter how blind I feel.
Dylan has finally battled their chair to a standstill. They look at me, eyes drooping, hair leaf-strewn and messy.
“Found one,” I tell them. “Chicago.”
They’re instantly awake, the full focus of their attention hitting me like a wave. “Tell me everything.”
Rose
SHELLY PAGE
A headache slowly builds behind my eyes, turning the fluorescent lights into nails that stab and the chatter of customers in the café into booms that rattle my skull. My skin itches something awful. I scratch and scratch, but it only seems to make the feeling worse. I haven’t felt this off since I ate four chilidogs at the Taste of Chicago two years ago. My only reprieve is that I have an hour left of wiping tables and taking orders. Then I can go home to Sam, who’s probably face-deep in a textbook while chewing manically on Twizzlers. College seems like a kick in the chest, but I know Sam will make it through. I don’t know anyone with even half as much determination as them. Four years in and I’m still shocked they want to be with me.
“Rose, Table 7 is still waiting on water,” Adriel says as he breezes past me toward the kitchen. Sweat plasters thick dark curls to his forehead. His hands are full of dirty dishes and the dark liquid sloshes over the sides of several cups and onto the dingy tile floor.
With a sigh, I retie my apron, grab the water pitcher from the stand near the bar, and head toward the booth in the back of the diner. Three men in their early twenties talk animatedly as I approach. They eye me with interest as I lean across the table to pour them water. My black V-neck T-shirt isn’t exactly revealing, but low enough. Apparently.
The guy closest to me leans forward and leers. “Hey, Mama,” he says. I step back, but he catches my wrist. “You are so beautiful.”
I jerk my arm out of his grasp. His friends share amused looks and snicker.
“Stay a while. What’s the rush?” Handsy Guy drawls before scratching his uneven stubble with long fingernails.
I resist the urge to gag but do roll my eyes. “I have other customers,” I say with more bite than I probably should if I want a tip, but it’s hour seven of my shift and everything hurts.
“No need to be rude,” one of the men says. His simple style and clean-shaven face would’ve fooled me into thinking he was decent if he hadn’t opened his mouth.
The third guy with a thick beard and a dangerous glint laughs heartily. “Yeah, I think I need help with the menu.” He dr
ags his gaze along my frame. “What’s your favorite thing to eat?”
I clench my fists until my knuckles crack, but work hard to keep my face tempered. I need this tip. “Everything here is good,” I reply. “I’ll give you a few more minutes to decide.”
I suck up to customers day after day and it never gets me more than a few extra dollars, but I need that money. With Sam in school, I’m left covering most of our bills, which means placating dickheads like these.
As I head to my next table, one of the men comments on my butt just loud enough for me to hear. I have half a mind to tell Jerrold, but I clock out in thirty minutes, and I’d rather not deal with the drama of them potentially causing a scene.
Over the next half an hour, I dodge a few more sexist comments and hold back a headache with two Tylenols and a pint of water. Table 7 remains horrible, but they do leave a 10% tip, which is more than I was expecting.
Sam says I work too much and don’t leave enough time for myself, but I’m not sure what I’d do if I had the time. School was never in the cards for me. Getting my GED at seventeen was the best decision I could have made, but I don’t want to be a waitress for the rest of my life either. I wish I could figure out what would make me happy. Something attainable, but certain. I don’t want to end up like my mom. She wanted to be a dancer her whole life. She graduated top of her class from Juilliard and had multiple companies begging her to sign with them, but the summer after graduation she got pregnant with me and that was that. No more going on tour with American Ballet Theatre. The closest gig was teaching contemporary dance at a small studio downtown. Mom always encouraged me to try new things and follow my dreams, but even while watching me somersault in gymnastics or score a goal in soccer, her eyes never shone like they did in the photos and videos of her dancing as a teenager.
I saw firsthand what having a dream—a purpose—ripped away does to a person. It’s a slow death. Moral of the story: no one actually gets the things they want most. Especially not people like me.
I clock out, grab my bag, and head to my bus stop with more pep in my step than I’ve had all day. I can’t wait to sink into Sam’s arms and breathe in their scent, which today is probably instant coffee and Doritos. Afterward, we’ll fall asleep on the couch watching cartoons like a couple of kids.
I draw up short when I see the 151 is out of service until tomorrow night. I barely have enough money in my account to call a shared ride, but try anyway. Just my luck, there are no Ubers or Lyfts nearby. I press my palm against my head to ease the budding pressure there. A single yellow cab drives past with three people shoved into the backseat and a girl hanging out of the passenger side window. She winks before disappearing into the night. I’m alone again.
Darkness and an electric quiet unnervingly presses against me. It’s never totally silent so close to downtown. The distant murmur of traffic on Lakeshore Drive and tourists leaving Montrose Beach create a tinny static that makes my ears ring. This late at night, however, it’s often empty in such a residential neighborhood.
I could walk home but doing so alone isn’t a safe option. I start to text Sam for advice when someone yells from down the street.
“Hey!”
I turn around slowly, my heart rate climbing with each passing second. Three men stand at the end of the block. When I focus, I recognize them from the diner. Table 7.
Damn.
The three of them approach me like predators. Long, slow gaits and piercing stares.
“Look,” Handsy Guy says once he’s a few yards away. “It’s the pretty little waitress with the fat ass.”
My stomach churns like a load of wet clothes in the washer. I look around, as if a bus will magically appear and whisk me away, but this isn’t a fairytale. No one’s coming to save me.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” the bearded one asks. When I ignore him, he latches onto my arm with an iron grip.
Immediately, my skin is on fire. It prickles like something sharp is trapped just beneath the surface. The man holding me hollers and slackens his grip enough for me to rip free. My skin reddens like molten glass. I trace a finger along my arm, and it snags on something sharp. A pinprick of blood bubbles on the tip of my forefinger.
What the fuck?
“You bitch!” Bearded Dude yells. He lunges for me, arms flailing. One by one little needles burst through my skin. No. Not needles. Thorns.
The man draws up short, his eyes widening. “What the—”
The thorns shoot from my arms and palms, cutting through the air with rapid precision. Three embed into the chests of the men closest to me with wet thunks.
Handsy Guy howls, “She’s a mutie!”
Bearded Dude pulls a thorn out his collarbone with wide eyes. His expression morphs from shocked to pissed in the span of a second. “I’m gonna report you.”
“It doesn’t work that way anymore.” Clean-Shave says breathlessly. He tugs on his friends’ arms. “Come on. Let’s just go!”
Bearded Dude hesitates during which I mentally prepare for a fight I’m due to lose, but at the last second, he turns. I’m left breathing fast and hard as the men scatter like the sewer rats they are. I drop to the ground, the concrete scraping against my knees. In the reflection of the bus booth, I see myself and nearly faint. I’m glowing. My skin is bright red, thorns sprouting from every visible surface. I look like a terrifying, poisonous…plant.
My hands tremble with adrenaline as I enter my apartment fifteen minutes later. I ran the entire way home, only slowing once for a passing glance at a blackened store window to see I’ve returned to normal. No red skin. No thorns. Maybe I imagined it?
I’ve seen those reports on the news. Heard of people changing. That’s not me. It can’t be. I just need to get out of these clothes and into the shower. But my hands are still shaking, my heart galloping in my chest.
The apartment foyer is dark, and I don’t bother with the lights. Raging panic claws at my throat and wraps around my lungs. The air has turned thick and syrupy, making it impossible to take a full breath.
Calm down, I tell myself, but that’s never worked in the past. Why should it now?
And where the hell is Sam?
I don’t want to drag them into this, but there’s no one else that can help me. Sam is my everything. They don’t care that I’m a high school dropout. They laugh at my terrible jokes and worship my curves even when they start to look more like rolls. They listen to me and are more supportive than I deserve. They’re also particularly good at quelling my panic attacks.
I fish my phone from my bag. Three rings. Three long rings where the air slips further and further away from me and then—
“Hey, babe. I’m walking home from 7-Eleven. How was work?” Their voice is soothing and sure—a warm blanket on a cold night. “Rose? Are you okay?”
“I…panicking.” Those are the only two words I can get out, but they’re enough. Sam knows what to do with them.
“Okay, I’m here, baby. I’m here. Focus on the sound of my voice, okay?” I nod as if Sam can see me. “Focus on me,” they say just as my thoughts start to drag back to my lack of oxygen.
I do. I listen to Sam breathe slowly then ask me to do the same. We do our usual dance when panic hits and it works, even over the phone. Within a few minutes, my lungs start working again. The room doesn’t feel so small.
“Good,” Sam says once I’ve officially stopped wheezing.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
“You gonna tell me what triggered this one?” they ask.
Oh. Right. I know the world has changed, but I can’t be what Handsy Guy called me. I’m a waitress. There’s nothing remotely remarkable about me. Sure, on bad days, I wish for something more. Something like ballet was to my mom. Something to make Sam proud of me and me proud of myself, but what if I never get it? What if all I do is waste precious time?
“I tell you when you get home, babe,” I mumble, hoping this isn’t the start of the end.
I me
et Sam along the stretch of beach behind our apartment because I’m so needy I can’t even wait for them to come inside. My body instantly calms when I see their slim frame, round face, and black hair. They’re wearing the same Loyola University hoodie and joggers from yesterday. As usual, their thick plastic glasses inch toward the tip of their nose. I let myself be soothed by the familiarity of it all.
“Hey, you,” I say, trying to keep my tone light.
“Hi.” Sam wraps me in a hug and I bury my face in their neck. They smell faintly of coconut shampoo and the remnants of Dollar Store laundry detergent. It’s not the coffee and Doritos I’d pictured earlier, but just as comforting.
“Gonna tell me what happened?” they ask, a splash of worry softening their words.
I take a minute to steady myself before I speak. I know they’re going to freak out, but I can’t keep this to myself, either. We don’t keep things from each other, and I don’t know how to deal with it alone. “I was attacked after work.”
“What?” Sam’s entire body tenses, concern mushrooming into fear. Or anger.
I wince and pull back enough to look at them. Their oval eyes are black in the dark and their warm brown skin is muted in the cottony glow of the moonlight.
“I’m fine,” I assure them quickly. “Really. I just…there were these guys who were sort of harassing me at work and then I saw them outside when my shift ended. One grabbed me—"
“Shit.” Sam runs a hand furiously through their hair before latching onto my shirt so tightly their knuckles crack. “Did they hurt you? I’ll kill them, Rose.”