It's a very groovy mutation.

And at one point you'd hope that the physicist would step down from the pulpit and walk to your brokenhearted spouse there in the pew and tell him that all the photons that ever bounced off your face, all the particles whose paths were interrupted by your smile, by the touch of your hair, hundreds of trillions of particles, have raced off like children, their ways forever changed by you. And as your widow rocks in the arms of a loving family, may the physicist let her know that all the photons that bounced from you were gathered in the particle detectors that are her eyes, that those photons created within her constellations of electromagnetically charged neurons whose energy will go on forever.

And the physicist will remind the congregation of how much of all our energy is given off as heat. There may be a few fanning themselves with their programs as he says it. And he will tell them that the warmth that flowed through you in life is still here, still part of all that we are, even as we who mourn continue the heat of our own lives.

And you'll want the physicist to explain to those who loved you that they need not have faith; indeed, they should not have faith. Let them know that they can measure, that scientists have measured precisely the conservation of energy and found it accurate, verifiable and consistent across space and time. You can hope your family will examine the evidence and satisfy themselves that the science is sound and that they'll be comforted to know your energy's still around. According to the law of the conservation of energy, not a bit of you is gone; you're just less orderly.

"Pod," Charles says warningly - not that he wanted to call his son that, but he was finding it increasingly difficult to remember he didn't want to. He'd sit the boy down for a good long talk about that, except he was afraid the poor child would have another hysterical fit.

The boy's gaze snap to Charles' guiltily, and he hangs his head, shivering when his sister reaches for his hand. Charles sighs, and rubs a hand along his eyes.

"Just behave, won't you?" He pauses, letting the chorus of 'Yes, Papa' and 'Yes, Mister Xavier' reassure him somewhat. "Good. Remember the rules?"

The children glance at each other. Pod speaks first.

"The people are for greeting, the food is for eating - "

"The animals are for watching - " Penelope supplies helpfully. (Charles had always emphasised this one with her, after all.)

" - and the ground, sky, and surrounding features stay exactly where they are," Charles finishes, with a pointed look at Pod. He volunteers a sheepish smile, and Charles can't help but be appeased. "Very good. Off we go, then."

The pair race out of the car as twin blurs of gingery curls. Charles takes his time gathering the picnic basket and blanket, before following at a far more decent pace.

It really was a lovely day - almost unnaturally so. A few years ago, Charles would have been extremely suspicious, but he had long learned that life was far easier when he didn't look a gift horse in the mouth. More often than not, the result was rather distressing, and sometimes a horse wasn't a horse at all, so to speak.

The weather is beautiful, he thinks vaguely at the atmosphere. You'd do well to join us. 

There is, as expected, no answer - or at least none that he could hear. Charles wasn't entirely bothered. Another thing he had learnt was that things would happen when they happened. Besides, when he was around, Penelope tended to start addressing Charles as 'Chuckles'.

(Pod was more adept at sensing disturbances of a specific kind than Charles was. He has discovered this one night, peering into the living room, to find his son perplexedly tapping out a beat of four.)

He's busy laying down the picnic blanket when he realises the children quietly huddled together in the distance.

"Something the matter?" he asks, when he's crossed the field - then he notices the bird's carcass by Penelope's feet. He's about to sigh, and reprimand the pair, when he notes the wounds inflicted on the feathered body, the way the blood has congealed in dark patches along the grass - astoundingly, it didn't seem to be either of their faults this time around.

He looks at the children. The children look at the bird. Penelope smiles hopefully, all tiny white teeth, and Pod regards the carcass with mild detachment. 

"It's a shame we had to find this on our picnic ground," he says gently, stepping between them and the bird. "But it's all a part of nature. I think we ought to leave it alone. Go back to the blanket - I left the ice box open, and ice cream only lasts so long."

Charles expects Penelope to move first. Pod is one of the few children who can still surprise him.

He watches as Pod slips (somehow, that is how he always felt - Pod slips, Penelope slithers) behind him, picking up the mauled corpse with his bare hands. The boy makes his way to the fence a few feet to the side - 'cleaning the body' he murmurs to his father when Charles protests - scooping the bird’s bloody guts back into its chest before it can spill over its chest and onto his shirt. A moment's pause, and Penelope follows.

Pod makes to heave the bird over the fence and off the field, but he is a child (still) and not terribly strong (now). The throw falls short and the carcass splatters at his feet. Bodily fluids scatter generously, and Pod's face scrunches up in distaste at having the hems of his trousers stained.

"Oh, well," the boy says remorsefully, looking at Penelope. Charles is silent (later, he'll reprimand himself, curiosity has few places in caring for these children), ready to break up another sibling squabble, but Penelope only moves to join her brother.

She bends to pick up the corpse. “Waste not,” she told her brother importantly, who nodded understandingly.