Road to Recovery

They had come, just like they'd written in the letter. He wasn't sure how they managed to find out where he was hiding out, exactly who they were, but they promised him a "new life". Peter Colman was presumed dead in the crash that resulted in his current state of being, and he guessed that such a proclamation would be better for his parents to accept, more than that their son had survived, and instead turned into whatever this was. None of the people sent to retrieve him seemed too off-put by his appearance. Some obviously showed some concern, but this seemed a lot more routine to them than he would have expected. Giving him a large blanket to help lower attention, they shuffled him into a van, which initially seemed suspicious to him, but they explained the large space for him to be able to rest comfortably (instead of trying to shrink himself so he didn't cover everything in sticky tar residue). He was relieved to see everything covered in a layer of plastic. No need to worry about ruining other people's stuff.

It was a long car ride. While most would probably doze off, if not just out of sheer boredom, Peter physically couldn't. He was permanently vitalized, persistently worried about losing himself if he did try to do anything like that, and provably justified in that, without constantly reminding himself to reform, he would start to "melt". Pull yourself together. Sitting more upright, he tried to ask relevant questions: Who were they, where exactly were they taking him, what would happen to him, so on. Giving a brief overview of the island's history, general location, and purpose... Had Peter not been a large tar monster, he would have felt they were pitching the next young teen movie series. Fantastic school for special kids? He winced slightly. Was he really falling into this type of trope? They explained that most of the "fantasy" aspects of literature and religion were based on real things, that people like Peter would fit in quite easily, provided he avoided fire-users.

Right. Giant tar creature. Fitting in nicely. Sounded too farfetched. The next hour, he sat in silence, barely responding to what the others were talking about, trying to think about his former life. He hadn't been what he was for even a week yet. The vision of his best friend, engulfed in flames, the truck, half-submerged in wet asphalt, own vision partially distorted by tar in his eyes... Arm coming off when he tried to clean it... This all felt like some sort of bad dream. He'd died, gone to some purgatory or something, and was reaping the consequences of his crimes. Out of nowhere, in the middle of a conversation the others were having, he asked, "How did you know what happened to me?" To which they replied that they had a team of people scrying and watching news outlets, people who predicted the future, could "sense" oddities, so on and so forth. They knew Peter had become what he was, pretty much after it happened. It was just a matter of collecting him at that point.

He was lucky he was from California, or else the trip to the ocean would have taken a lot longer. It wasn't like they could easily hop onto a plane. Again, covering him with a large blanket, they transferred him like some sort of important criminal, onto a boat. There were others here, but most of them seemed to be reserved, which was fine with him. Some seemed scared, some excited, chatting to the ones sitting next to them. One in particular kept staring at him every time he "reformed" himself. "I see you lookin'," Peter stated, a deep bellow, a slow blink in the direction of the other kid. "What'chu lookin' at?" The kid didn't look at him for the rest of the boat ride. He leaned against the wall, slowly sitting down, melting against the wall. He was functionally nude at this point, his clothes long abandoned, but because he could control his shape, it wasn't like he was really walking around with his bits hanging out. Why ruin clothes for no reason?

The boat ride was significantly longer than the car ride, taking days to arrive to the island. The rest of the kids would eat at designated times, sleep whenever they wanted, but Peter partook in nothing. Activities were provided so the kids wouldn't lose their minds, but Peter's was significantly preoccupied. No tiredness. No hunger. He considered eating once, but realized he'd just be throwing food into a pit of wet asphalt. Making his way to the deck of the ship, he looked over the side. He'd never been on a boat before. Briefly, he wondered if it was anything like driving a car, then realized that was NOT what he should be thinking about at this moment. Keep yourself together, he reminded himself, feeling his foot ooze off the side of the boat, pulling back up and leaving a small black streak on the side of the boat. Oops. Looking directly over the side, he wondered what would happen if he were to submerge himself in water. He'd used a hose before, and it had all bounced off, but...

Stretching his arm out and over the rails, he put his hand in the water. It didn't feel like anything. It was thicker than air, sure, but he didn't feel any dissolving happening, no structure loss. When he pulled his hand out, it didn't even feel like the water had clung to him at all. A brief wet layer before quickly being replaced with his typical "skin". He guessed that was an answer. In the distance, he could see... Something. They would be arriving soon, and an announcement that you could see the island ahead prompted many other "special" kids to make their way to the deck. That was when he'd take his leave. An announcement to ensure all belongings were together, to be ready to depart the boat, reminded him of how he lacked any personal effects. He didn't really have many in his regular life, anyway, just his tools to hotwire, so it wasn't like he missed anything.

They were told that they would be meeting with other students in the main school to be shown around, answer any further questions that hadn't been answered to this point, and generally make their stay as comfortable as possible. To report any problems, or mis-handling. Peter watched as everyone eagerly lined up to step off, some flying off, others using whatever abilities they had to get off, and Peter followed suit, easily spreading himself upwards and over the side of the boat, reforming once he hit the ground. Staff pointed to a trail, leading to the school. He figured he had nothing to lose. He was assigned someone named "Destin Eaves". Was that some sort of pun?

Peter didn't walk, he lumbered. It was hard enough getting a repetitive motion to move, but to go up-hill while trying to maintain his form, trying to ensure that the part he'd burned had remained where his "feet" should go, so he didn't leave a trail of murky black footprints behind him, was even more difficult. He found that the best way to do it was to pull himself to a sort of bulbous-topped shape, and just move his "legs" like he was moving some sort of large furniture, walking it by turning the entire thing a step at a time. Because of this, he arched his "back" forward, a tidal wave of black, before coming to a stop before a teen who had had his eye on him since the moment he arrived in eye-shot.

Before Peter could even speak, the guide opened his mouth, and puns, jeers, jokes, spewed from his mouth.The white circles embedded in Peter's "head" narrowed, a brow of tar furrowing to show that he disapproved. When all Destin did back was grin like an idiot, Peter moved his hand forward, and covered Destin's mouth with it. He was uncomfortably warm to the touch, a hot car in the middle of summer, just barely enough to cause slight pain, but not unbearably so. The stickiness, on the other hand, was like Peter was covered in a thick glue that hardly seemed to dry; his hand affixed to Destin's face in every pore, an airtight seal around his mouth that would provide no breathing room. Nor speaking room. He left his nose untouched. "I'm pretty new at this whole 'being special' thing. I'm not quite used to my powers yet. Be a shame if I lose control and leave us 'stuck together' longer than we both want, wouldn't it?"

Peter pulled back from Destin's face, leaving a large greasy black stain around where his hand had been, something that would take quite a bit of rough scrubbing to get off. "I'm not happy with you having to show me around either. I didn't ask for this. So can we just get this over with, and you can go back to making puns with your little friends, or whatever?" His speech did not reflect his size and stature, sounding more like what he was a week prior: A teenager.

Peter was surprised, and admittedly, a little angry, that Destin seemed to take his threat in stride. Put it off like it was nothing, then went about his business as if he hadn't done it in the first place. Having been raised with his gang, he was used to his threats carrying a little more weight than that, though he supposed it was also who he was with that made him more powerful. He imagined, though, that this new form he had would make up for it. After all, Peter knew he wouldn't fuck with a giant tar monster if he was face-to-face with one, but yet, Destin showed no real fear. Pull yourself together, he reminded himself, noting that he was starting to slip a little bit, a murky puddle pooling around his feet, leaving a small black circular stain when he pulled himself back upwards.

Peter watched as this kid in front of him played with his hat, pulling out a jar of peanut butter and smearing it along his face. Did he just... Carry that around with him? And he just left it there, on his face. Just... Alright. "It's... Peter," he corrected him,

"If you're that much of a messy eater, I don't know if the cafeteria's the best place for you," Peter began moving, "Unless you're wanting some face-crackers too?" he added. This guy was really... Odd. Strange. Unusual. This... This was his life now, wasn't it?

"I mean, I don't know if the cafeteria's worth it, man. I don't really... Eat, anymore."