The position felt pleasant, despite the cold air dancing over her shoulders. That jolted her awake immediately. That was wrong, that she should be even semi-unclothed, though she couldn't say why. Something lingering, instinctual, told her to be wary of that. Of what? Her skin? She was confused. Still wary, though. That wasn't fading. And something else was wrong.

She sat up in the plush bed of what appeared to be a hotel room. Typical hotel room surroundings, anyway. A nice one, too. Mini-bar, mini-fridge, T.V. Only problem was, she couldn't quite remember how she got here. Drunk, maybe? Was that it? A blackout after a binge? Nah, she knew she wasn't…wasn't what? Much of a drinker? She couldn't call up any memories of that, either.

Or her name. She was fully awake then, and terror crept over her stealthily. She wasn't scared enough to cry, just shake until she could gather her composure. After a few long breaths to clear her head, she tried again.

Her name…her anything! People had…people had names and childhoods and…and parents and friends. She couldn't call up anything, not so much as a tantalizing wisp of memory. Her age? Nothing? Job? No. Not a damn thing.

The room then, what about that? Any clues? She scrambled out of bed, only to have her feet tangle in the sheets. She pitched forward, a strangled half-gasp, half-shriek that produced a high trilling in her throat. She flailed her arms out in front of her to catch herself, waiting for the impact.

It didn't come. She opened her eyes, vaguely aware that she didn't remember closing them (and isn't that funny, just the order of the day? She thought somewhat hysterically). The ground was missing. No— no, she was. Missing the ground, anyway. She wasn't falling, and it took her a moment to realize that she was simply hovering. How the fuck? She felt something in her head and body, like a muscle, or an extra limb. It was just…on. How did she turn it off? Or move?

The girl…or woman, as she couldn't place herself, let out her breath and envisioned herself settling on the floor. Her body responded, gracelessly depositing itself onto the thick carpet. That should've hurt, too, or at least caused some damage. Her—her thigh. It hurt, felt like a fucking rugburn. God, how the hell could she know what that was, but couldn't even remember her own name?!

Anger and frustration gave way to astonishment as she watched the injured skin…heal. Simple as that, she supposed dully. No more pain, and the skin wasn't even tender. Whole, and—and pale, like the rest of her, like it hadn't seen the sunlight in ages. Or ever. Why should that be? Tied to the reason she felt that her skin shouldn't be unclothed, undoubtedly. Why?

She shook her head as frustration mounted once again. Okay. You wake up in a fantastic hotel room, no knowledge of how you got there, why, or who you are. And the icing on the cake? You're a mutant. Fan-fucking-tastic. Her day couldn't get any better. Of course, this being the first she could remember, she didn't have much of a base for comparison, she thought wryly. Hmm. Apparently, she had a sense of humor. She could build off that, anyway.

A lock of brown hair falling into her eyes reminded her that she didn't even know what she looked like. Jesus, what a morning. The rest of the day didn't hold much promise, either. Ugh.

Okay, so she was a mutant. Powers so far established? Flight, fast healing…and her skin? Something was wrong with it, anyway, she thought as she gingerly walked to the bathroom. She pushed open the door to view herself for the first time.

Wow. Not…well, definitely not bad. Aesthetically pleasing, to say the least. What—what was that thing of white doing in her hair? No— not in it, it was her hair. A section, anyway. Now, she knew that wasn't normal. People—people don't do that. Part of her mutation? White hair? It was impossible to get hair bleached fucking white, she knew. Jesus. Well, she didn't appear to be an obvious mutant, she supposed. The one bright point of the day. No FoH'ers to worry about. Pity, how persecuted mutants are. She felt badly for the distinct mutants.

God, she knew about the outside world, but not herself? It was a hole, just in her head. She even knew the day; September 6, 2001. Just nothing, not a clue about herself.

People. She looked about eighteen to twenty, surely she'd made some friends along the way. Someone would know her. They could—they could tell her about herself. Was anyone she knew staying at this hotel? She could ask the clerk downstairs. The concierge, maybe. She didn't look like the high-maintenance type, but those bags near the bed would've been hard to carry up by herself. She could go to the police, if need be—

The bags, damnit! They had to have some form of I.D.! She rushed over to them, frantically pushing toward the largest. The tags! They said…she turned over the laminated card to read it.

Nothing. Totally blank.

She clenched fingers to her palms in despair. Okay. Inside the bags, this time, girl. She unzipped the largest carefully, and went through the clothes. Nothing, not even in the pockets. She breathed deeply and shook her head again. She needed some clothes, anyway. Naked was not the way to go about the day. Ha, a rhyme.

Hmm? Underwear, or not to underwear? Shakespeare, right? Hamlet, perverted by an amnesiac chick. Was she the type that wore underwear?

Oh, well, go with modesty and screw it. She chuckled and dressed, choosing comfy undies. Pulling on a pair of worn-in jeans and a zip-front black sweater, she felt…kinda cool. Best she'd felt all morning. Still…

Something niggled at her in the back of her mind. Some part of this ritual was incomplete. She opened a smaller bag to find it filled with…gloves? Opera gloves and—and body stockings. Was she some sort of fetishist? She felt better when she'd pulled on a pair of upper-arm length black leather gloves, though. She thought she might've liked this pair once. There! Fuck! Almost…

She held onto the tiny shred of an image. She'd gotten these from someone. A…present? Too late, it was gone now. Damnit, she thought she'd had something there.

The girl/woman (could she choose, she wondered?) scanned the rest of the room carefully. On—on the nightstand! A letter, oh thank God. She paused. Did she believe in God? She had a basic working knowledge of religion, but no clue as to what she followed, if anything.

Well, God, if you're up there, this particular chick would really, really appreciate some help, she thought. She didn't know which God she prayed to, but instead offered it up to whichever deity would hear her. She wondered if so recently as yesterday if that sort of thing would've mattered to her. What sort of person had she been?

She hungrily snatched letter off the end table and carefully opened it, unmindful of the now-healing papercut. That mutation was handy.

And inside—

/Hey—

You're in Los Angeles, California, at the Four Seasons Resort/Hotel. Posh, huh? You're curious about a lot of things now. That's okay. Think this over, though: Do you really want to figure some things out? Leave it where it lies. Trust me on this one.

You have a Swiss bank account, account number 833271. There's well over twenty million there. You're well provided for, but if you choose to work, you have a real knack for computers—/

The girl had another flash. A big man, he was…unclear…teaching her, in front of a computer screen. Yes, she knew computers. Her /teacher?/ had been one of the best.

/ --so if you should see fit to work, try something in that field.

Now, most importantly: you skin. It's dangerous. You're a mutant, but that's the most important "gift". No one can so much as brush any of your skin, do you understand? It drains others, killing them in the process. Same with animals. Wear the bodysuits, and the gloves, whenever you're around people/animals.

On a secondary note, you're also the proud owner of a regenerative factor. You'll heal from anything short of death. No, that doesn't include what's happened to your memory. Keep yourself in the green: you're not going to age.

Enjoy your life.

--M./

Well, well, M. Who the hell're you? M., apparently, was closely tied to her memory loss. Okay. How to find M.? And why was her memory erased?

The no-skin thing bothered her. Drain? Drain others of what? Hmm.

She rubbed the bridge of her nose and sighed. No, the day wasn't looking to get any better.