The League Of Extraordinary Teenagers : I Am Expendable

so yeah, it's the expendables. and the main character's past is a little haywire now, but it all comes to light soon enough. be patient. watch the expendables first. also, Sylvester Stallone is a BAMF but tbh I really didn't feel like writing a romance story because that's just like, ew whatever unoriginal.

so the second saga of The League Of Extraordinary Teenagers...Yay! also now available on fanfiction.net , my username is MarinaWrites woooo

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I Am Expendable

Parker Ross was no ordinary seventeen year old. For one, she was, well, a she. You wouldn’t really think it, with a name like Parker, but what can you do when your mom was pretty much psychotic 99% of the time?

As for number two, well. She was a mercenary. You know the ones you pay us; we kill whoever, she rolls with the best in the business, has done since her first mission when she was thirteen. Pretty young, but she was never much of a kid anyway, when your Mom kills herself it kind of takes away your childhood, not that she really knew that much about her mom anyway. She much preferred her dad.

Parker could usually be found with some sort of lethal weapon in her hands, a drink in the other and a smoking cigarette hanging out the side of the twisted, snarling lips she inherited from her dad, Barney Ross. Of course these weren’t their real names, she’s always been Parker, but she’d lost track of the surnames, the states of birth, and the birthdays. She didn’t care that much anyway. There wasn’t really much she cared about really, who has time to care when you’re expendable?

She didn’t really care that much about what she looked like, she knew she was totally working the rugged, reckless unkempt look, with long tousled dark brown hair, Italian-American skin, pouty lips the image of her dads, a straight nose that had seen a few breaks and heavy lidded brown eyes. She was tall and lean muscled.

School was a place that didn’t really like Parker. She didn’t like it either. She tended not to go there much, her dad or one of the guys, usually Lee, would sometimes look up suddenly and say “Shouldn’t you be at school, kid?” she’d shrug and curse, which was another thing Parker could often be found doing. If colourful language was the game, her mouth was a back of fucking skittles. She didn’t have any friends, she didn’t want any either. She had people who were either too scared to come near her or too scared to leave her side. She went to a tough school in New Orleans, but the kids there knew not to fuck with her or else. Some of the teachers needed to learn that, too.

The new guidance councillor had arrived last Tuesday, she was from the rich suburbs, hyped up on all her government scheme save the street kids shit, it may have worked in previous schools, but here it was going to be a dead loss. She had some white trash name and drove an obnoxious orange prius, and had made a beeline for the student records, and guess whose name had come out right on top of the list of no hopers? Parker’s.

She had a plan for that, though. Today was Tuesday, and a few weeks ago a new mission had just come up on the schedule in Somalia. The whole team was shipping out at lunch today, swinging by school to pick her up. So when this new guidance councillor cornered her, bam, she could have a taste of the batshit crazy, drug addled Gunnar Jensen. Hey, she’d done it before; she got a really good sense of power, seeing the teachers who had been acting all high and mighty five minutes before, telling her how she was going nowhere, she’d be held back, quake at the sight of Barney Ross and his boys, the expendables.

She grinned at this as she lit up her first cigarette of the day. It fell into position, hanging out of the side of her permanent, lopsided snarl. She ran her fingers through her hair and threw on some black jeans, the usual battered black docs and beaten up black leather jacket and a shredded Ramones t shirt, took the nondescript black bag and repeated the drill of packing for a mission, two hand guns, a few throwing knives, black leggings that had never failed her yet, a plain black t shirt and thick bulletproof vest. She looked down at the floor, where just below was Tool’s tattoo parlour, next door was a bar and on the other side was the garage that held her dad’s ’55 ford pickup truck and a range of other weapons that could cause all kinds of delicious chaos.