Brains, including that of a ten year old boy, can barrel through thoughts like a bowling ball rolling a strike. The thoughts can scatter, to be picked up by a mental pinsetter but never be placed back in their original order. They become a random jumble of unlinked ideas and notions. Many things can pitch the ball, from a shock to an injury to a pretty girl.

Thomas had yet to think about relationships or intimacy or sexuality. He felt, too much, the weight of his failure to uncover his powers. The fact they were a genetic mutation and not something he had any control of didn't matter. He still felt it to be his fault. Still, the eyes of the girl facing the breath from him and held it until his heart stumbled for a heartbeat. Then, with an explosive exhalation, he found he had it again.

She was older than him by perhaps three years. Dark skinned with a mess of wild curls for hair. She smiled at him and her lips thinned as they stretched, but it was her eyes that held him.

They looked to have fire in them.

He realised it must be the effect of her abilities, but it was a phenomenon he hadn't heard of before. All the colours of the shades she had just taken continued to dance and swirl in her eyes. Orange and brown and grey and specks of red from the brick wall, something that was generally seen as mundane, were retained after she'd assumed her proper form.

"I assume you'll stop staring sooner or later, "she said, smirking. "I'd hope so, anyway. I don't fancy hanging around here for too long."

The fire faded, turning the girl's eyes a deep green. They still held a spark when she inked, but Thomas was no longer spellbound.

"Sorry," he said, feeling less inferior than he would have expected. "I've never seen a Chameleon so good. How did you...?"

The girl stepped forward suddenly, leaning in to him. Her smile was gone.

"Don't call me that. Never call me that."

Her tone was low and even and, if she'd been an animal, would have been a snarl. Thomas flinched. He wondered how things could keep, so rapidly, turning sour.

"I... I... What? A Chamele..."

The girl's hand moved too fast for him to react, and the slap was loud, stinging sharply. Thomas was too shocked to cry out. He fought back the tears that were brimming and forced himself to not put his hand to his cheek.

"A Chameleon is a lizard. Do I look like a fucking lizard to you?"

"No! Of course not! I just... that's what your kind..."

The hand came again, this time from the other direction. Now, Thomas's full face was hot and throbbing. He choked back a sob and felt, more than any other time in his short life, like an admonished child.

"My kind? My fucking kind?"

"You don't need to swear," Thomas said. His voice cracked, but he tried to regain a measure of dignity.

The girl clearly wasn't expecting such a response. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, moving away from the boy. She stared at him.

"Well, I do apologise."

Thomas nodded but kept his mouth shut. He didn't trust himself to speak any more than he had. The girl laughed, a brief snort that could have been either derision or begrudging respect.

"I'm still pissed at you, ya know?" A nod. "I ain't a Chameleon. A Chameleon is a lizard. I ain't got a tail and I ain't green."

"But you could be. You know, if you wanted to be."

The girl punched his shoulder, not quite gently but not hard. It was a nudge, not an attack.

"Fair point," she said. "But don't ever call me that again. I'm a person. I have a name. I'm not an animal or a thing or a... brand or whatever you want to call it."

"OK."

"Damn right, OK. I hate that they give us all these names. I've got my own. Chameleon. Jacker. Mister. Orator. Smidger. I mean, what the fuck does Smidger mean?"

"It's a..."

"I know what it is! Of course I know what it is. My dad's one, for a start, but I'm not a fucking label."

"You're not a label."

"I just said that."

"No you said..."

"Fucking. I said fucking. I fucking said fucking. So what?"

Thomas knew better than to pick up on her profanity. He'd always been taught to speak properly. Swearing was the escape of the lazy mind. His father had told him that once when he'd been caught saying 'shit'. There was no smack or angry telling off. There was just that statement, accompanied by a look of severe disappointment. It was enough. He still swore on occasion, but he shared his father's disappointment with himself when the words slipped out.

"Nothing," he murmured, pressing and twisting his toe into the dirt.

"Good. I just don't appreciate being called something like that. I don't see the point. Our parents fucked up, so we've all got these weird powers. I didn't ask for them and I don't particularly want them, but I've got 'em."

"My parents didn't f... mess up."

"I don't mean our parents, idiot. I mean their generation, obviously. And why stop yourself?"

"Stop myself?"

"From saying fuck? Let it out. Just say it. You'll find it liberating."

"I'm fine," Thomas said. "I don't like it."

"Wuss."

"I'm not a fucking wuss."

The girl looked at him with something nearing admiration. It gave him a boost of confidence.

"So, if you don't like the label, what's your real name?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Go on., I can't just call you 'girl', can I?"

"Call me whatever you want. I don't give a shit."

"Do you use those words because it makes you feel hard? Are you cool 'cos of it?"

"I'm hard and cool anyway. You're scared of me."

"No, I'm not," Thomas lied.

"Keep telling yourself that, kid."

"Thomas."

"Whoever you are, you should learn to be honest. You're so prim and proper with not swearing, but you can still lie."

And steal, he thought. He'd have to come clean with his father about the money.

He nodded again. She was right. He was scared of her. He tended to be scared of everything. Being ten and powerless meant you were scared of life, because life was waiting to flip a coin to decide whether you got your powers before or after you went crazy. He knew his father was fully aware of what might happen, and the happy face was a mask for the concern inside.

"You nodding cos you're agreeing with me about being scared or that you ain't so perfect. Which still means you're scared."

"Both, I guess."

"Hey, kid. Don't be such a wuss. I'm just messing. I don't care if you swear or not. And being scared is fine. It's good. It's healthy."

"Healthy? How?"

As far as Thomas was concerned, fear was debilitating.

"Because it keeps you aware. The world has gone to shit. No one cares about anything anymore, when they can steal or kill for it without touching you. We've been born into a world on fire."

Thomas liked the phrase. He thought anyone who could think of something like that was someone he wanted to know. He could learn so much, and be far more prepared for what could face him.

"World on fire. I like that. You made it up?"

"Huh, I wish. It's an old BBC TV war drama. World War or something. Except now is the real fire. Now everyone gets burned as soon as they're eight and their body starts to become adult."

"You don't think it's cool to have powers?"

"Cool? If we got to choose, maybe. But we don't. We're lumbered. I can make myself look like a wall. Big fucking deal."

"But you do it so well!"

"Whoopde-fucking-do. Go team me."

"Sorry," Thomas said, his tow pushing the dirt again.

"What for?"

"For... I don't know."

"Look, kid. Forget it. Some people are happy that they can star in their own superhero movie. I'm not. I'm stuck with this Chameleon thing, so I figured I may as well be good at it."

"Well, you did that!"

"Thanks, I guess. I just wanna go to school, be in when the lights go out and live in the world my grandad lived in, before things turned to shit."

Thomas could empathise. Even though he knew exactly the sort of person his grandfather was, the world he lived in had none of the problems Thomas's did. There was crime and poverty and the like, but at least there was no risk of being killed by someone's laser eye blasts.

"What's your name," he asked again.

"Bren," she answered. "It's Brenda, but don't ever call me that."

Thomas quite like the name, but could understand. He hated being called Tom.

"OK, Bren," he said.

Then she asked the question he really wished she wouldn't.

"So, what's your power?"