Disclaimer: X-Men are the property of Stan Lee and Marvel. If I owned them, don't you think that I would have better things to do with my time than write crap like this?

Story Notes: This story includes an OC of my own creation. Dani Evans is mine and if you try to steal her, I'll have to release the giant ear-eating maggots that I have in a bucket outside. I've based her personality off of my own, so expect a bit of an enigma. There will be no OC romance in this story. Dani's your average eighteen year old with real problems and a real life. There will, however, be CanonXCanon relationships that are going on in the background. Note: Story may include Jean-bashing.

Rating: Story is T for language, suggestive content, and possible brief nudity.

Normalcy is Overrated: She never asked to be different. She was pretty complacent being normal. The day that changed her whole life changed. Being a mutant definitely isn't all it's cracked up to be. OC alert!

Normalcy is Overrated

-Chapter One-

Throughout my entire life, the word mutant had been uttered in a number of different ways. Most of the time it was said in fear, sometimes in admiration, but more commonly in disgust. Mutants weren't human; they were different, not like us. Of course, it's always been in us to dislike and fear what we don't understand.

Maybe that's why Hitler led the way to the Holocaust.

I was like any other teenager, really, except I tended to stick out a bit more than my peers. But, I'll get back to why later. Senior year was looking promising for me, and I was actually excited about the prospect of graduating for the first time since walking into kindergarten and promptly bawling the moment my mother left me to my own devices. Of course, that little episode had led to me discovering how wonderful crayons had tasted, particularly after I'd drawn a lovely mural on the white wall of my teacher yelling.

That had led to the day that my parents had actually given hope; they'd actually hoped that one day I'd grow up and be the next Picasso.

Of course, that dream was shattered in third grade when I revealed my first masterpiece and promptly caused my art teacher to cry. Apparently she didn't like the idea of a chicken and a cougar mating and producing the cutest little chiggar ever.

Luckily, it was in fourth grade that I discovered a few talents of my own that made being a bit different almost bearable. Somewhere, somehow, in a place far, far away and yet only a mile down the road, I had been born with the innate ability to bring laughter to those around me.

No, I'm not talking about a healing touch, the fist of God or some other mumble jumble that most people would balk at. I'm talking about the ability to take a roomful of people with the snarkiest attitudes in the world and somehow make them laugh. Like any great comedian, I learned that making jokes about myself often got me farthest.

Yet, even I didn't know how to joke my way out of the handcuffs and the looks of horror on the officers' faces.

People around me -teachers, students, friends, strangers- passed by me with looks of fear and confusion on their faces. The little corner the officers and thrown me in was right by the gym's main doors, and I got to see every shaken person as they stumbled through the debris and exited the building. Probably for good.

"Miss Evans, I'm going to ask you again one more time," Mr. Tall, Dark, and Ugly (at least that's what I called him) asked, his thick mustache twitching over his lip slightly as he glanced over at his companions.

Ignoring the confusion and the fatigue that had me in a tight grip, I offered the man a broad smile. "Hey, if I knew what happened don't you think I'd be giving you the details, officers? I'm just as confused as all of you," I murmured, lifting my cuffed hands in front of me and dropping them in my lap.

A sharp intake of breath on his part caused me to wince, and I cursed myself mentally.

Of course they didn't like me moving my hands. After all, moving my hands is what got my Letterman jacket practically torn off of me as three of the local police force tackled me to the gym room floor. Dammit. I worked hard for that jacket!

"You're aware that this is now a matter of national security, are you not, Miss Evans?"

Immediately, I found myself rolling my eyes at the man. "Listen, you're not the FBI and I'm not some terrorist. I have no idea what happened and neither do you so I suggest you let me go and let me have legal counsel because I'm pretty sure that this is illegal."

There was a long pause, and I suddenly realized that it was more quiet than it had been the entire night. It was then that I noticed that the trickle of people moving past our happy little group of cops and girl in cuffs had stopped. Everyone was seemingly out of the gym and probably out of the school altogether. Which meant that I was alone with a group of police officers that were completely convinced that somehow I was the reason that the gym had a hole in the roof the size of half the basketball court.

A man rushed up toward the officers suddenly and leaned in, whispering something in Mr. Dark, Dark, and Ugly's ear before disappearing again. I watched the mustache twitch yet again as the man jerked his head to the side. "Your grandfather is here, Danielle."

A brow lifted in surprise automatically as I dropped my hands into my lap and watched in confusion as a very unfamiliar man approached the scene via wheelchair, his calm eyes meeting mine from a distance and maintaining the hold completely. A preppy looking guy with dark shades was doing the pushing, and he merely stared at me as the officers parted. At least, I thought he was staring at me. I couldn't rightly tell due to the dark-tinted glasses.

Immediately, I opened my mouth to inform the wonderful officers of the law that this man was indeed not my grandfather. After all, my grandpa had been buried two years before. But, I suddenly found myself unable to do anything more than stare.

Miss Evans, I am here to help you. Please, do not be alarmed and let me speak with these men. They did not call the FBI. In fact, there are a number of men just minutes away that intend to mark you publicly as a mutant.

Confused and, above all, scared, I merely sat there with my hands in my lap as the man in the wheelchair introduced himself to the officers. Part of me wanted to believe that I was dreaming, that I had imagined someone's voice in my head. But, if I'd heard anyone's voice, it had most certainly been his.

This man, this Charles Xavier.

He was one of them.

A/N: So, any thoughts? Hahaha. Horrible, yeah, but I'm having fun and that's all that matters. Sorry for any and all grammar/spelling mistakes. I was too lazy to even read it over.