The Girl of A Thousand Colors [UNDERGOING MASS EDITS]

Prologue

HOLD UP - COMMENT WARNING
I have something to say.
As far as I know, if Padders (is that what we're called? I like it better than the Lightbulbs, anyhow.) comment on specific paragraphs of a story, if that paragraph is edited, the comments will be erased. So please don't let your comments be erased. I actually really like seeing people's opinions.

The day she was born, her mother thought she was blind. It seemed as if her white, sky-gray eyes stared at nothing, and she barely ever opened her eyes. But by the time the two arrived at the eye doctor, the young girl's eye and hair color had changed completely. They were now both yellow-gold with happiness and amusement as she giggled at the adults before her.

The confused mother took her back to the hospital. After some tests were run on the confused little girl, it was determined that differences from the average human in the limbic system (the "emotional center" of the brain) caused her eye color and hair color to change. "But why?" she asked. She'd never heard of such a thing. Surely she'd done something wrong–too much formula? Maybe the waitress had slipped a little rum into her smoothie? Or she'd stood to close to the microwave, and the radioactivity had somehow affected her poor little sweetkins' cerebrum somehow?

"Mrs. [Elvira, Agafya, Vincenza, Chantal], the problem is that we don't know. Such a case has never been brought to us before.

And so the young girl's mother gave her a single stripe, a highlight, to keep from confusing her with anyone else only days later. The girl did not have a name, but she was called Iris, like the goddess, because it was as if a rainbow lived inside of her.

Iris had no memories of her father. Her mother, realizing that with her limited funds could not raise the small child, left her, lost in a neighborhood she did not know on what was named her fourth birthday.

A middle-aged couple there took her in. They adopted her and loved her as their own. The woman had miscarried twice, and the two had wanted a child very much.

While they tried many times to find the biological mother, she never revealed herself.

By eleven years old, Iris had learned to talk big. In the manner of attitude, rather than exaggeration. Reading book after book after book probably didn't do much to slow her tongue. But music did. Time after time Iris' family's small house had echoed with notes, and endless repition of flashcards, or quotes, or songs, or just straight-out word vomit. Teachers didn't always like her, because she wouldn't "speak up".

"No, thank you, Ms. Hanson," little Iris breathed. "Pardon?" said Ms. Hanson. "I couldn't hear you, dear." "No, thank you," she repeated, whispering this time. "I'm lack-dose–lactose-intolerant." The math teacher sighed. "Just take it, little missy." She just about slammed the tiny chocolate milk box onto her student's desk. Silently, when the teacher wasn't looking, little Iris passed the box to her left, to Jane. She gobbled it down immediately.

Nobody messed with the short little girl who sat down every lunch and recess to read. Why bully her? She'd read up on all kinds of retaliation, anyways. The only questions she audibly answered were about the books she read. Lunch monitors got particularly worried at one point when Iris had walked into a pole, with her companion, Stephen King.

And then there was one big boy who'd been kept back at least once. Who towered over all the miniscule "squirts" surrounding him.

Jerry Tomlinson. The smug boy who had decided one day not to leave Iris alone. And the boy who most regretted it.

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     Okay, so this is my first attempt at writing a PJO fanfic with the POV of one of my OCs. Or, really, my first genuine attempt at actually completing a fanfiction. If I make mistakes, please tell me so I can fix them.

     I'm currently heavily editing this story, which means the plot is a whole big mess and if you keep reading you'll probably get confused.

     And I don't want you to be confused. Or Confucius. Confucius is already taken.

     Moving on.

    You don't have to read on if it doesn't make you happy. No one is going to tie you up against a a wooden pole over a roasting fire and shove this unfinished, highly screwy story in your face and command you to read it before they make jerky out of you (mmmm, jerky). At least, I hope not.

     Comment, vote, contemplate my moral values, etc.

     Kisses!

     See ya. Maybe.