Owner	Pose
Sinister	It is a Thursday. Thursdays are rarely particularly busy on the club scene, but this is Mutant-town. It's also in the late afternoon, before anything has really begun to get started of a night. Club Evolution is a welcoming kind of place though and when you can slip-slide into places without being questioned terribly much, it's also a good place to get a good look at the local talent as it were. Sinister wears many faces. He's been here a thousand times, observing. This evening though, he's sitting in an alcove with beaded curtains hanging down, being generally ignored. Not because he's invisible, far from it; but there's something to be said for being able to look at someone and have them look the other way, often repeatedly.
Shannon	Local talent did indeed seem to be the fare of the day, as it so happened, with one lone young woman on stage. She's dressed in light blue jeans, flip-flops with daisies on the toes, and a delicate, cream cotton poet's blouse, modest yet light and cool enough to be comfortable for summer wear. She's perched on a stool, center stage, with a microphone on a stand in front of her, and a guitar cradled in her arms. Her pale blonde hair is long and loose, save for one pale blue braid dangling on the left side of her face, with three silver beads glittering on the end. Behind her, her snowy white, feathered wings, reminiscent of classical paintings of angels, flared out slowly, held in a relaxed pose, moving gently to and fro as she played. Her voice lifted in song, a simple, innocent, yet somehow haunting melody. "Hey, homecoming queen Why do you lie When somebody's mean? Where do you hide? Do people assume You're always alright? Been so good at smiling Most of your life Look damn good in the dress Zipping up the mess Dancing with your best foot forward Does it get hard To have to play the part? Nobody's feeling sorry for ya But what if I told you the world wouldn't end If you started showing what's under your skin? What if you let 'em all in on the lie? Even the homecoming queen cries...."
Sinister	Ruby red eyes, pupil-less and edge-to-edge crimson, watch the perfomance, one must assume. It is hard to tell the direction of a gaze without other bodylanguage to give a clue after all is said and done. The beads barely sway, save for the stirring of people passing and yet again, a hand gesture keeps a passer by passing by, not looking at where he's seated. He'd be quite recognizable to many otherwise; black hair, black goatee and moustach, skin so pale and pearlescent that it seems to have an inner eerie glow, in black leather and living steel, oh yes. He'd stick out otherwise. Leaning forward, shadows behind him twitch a little and he gestures with a hand over his shoulder as if to silence them. "Very sweet, little songbird, you are quite precious, aren't you?" murmured, he concentrates on Shannon. "When you finish singing your little heart out, take five. Come on over. Sit a while. I don't bite." Telepathic suggestion is a dangerous thing, sometimes. "I want to get a good look at you, Songbird."
Shannon	So intent and focused is Shannon on her song that the suggestion worms its way right into her mind without even a second thought. There is perhaps a hint of pain lingering on the surface, but she's done her best to bury most of it deep, using it to fuel her song. Her fingers continue to dance over the guitar strings as she sings on, putting her heart and soul into each and every note. "Hey homecoming queen How's things at home? Still walking on eggshells When that curtain's closed Did your daddy teach you How to act tough? Or more like your mama? Sweep it under the rug Look damn good in the dress Zipping up the mess Dancing with your best foot forward Did you want the crown Or does it weigh you down Nobody's feeling sorry for ya What if I told you the world wouldn't end If you started showing what's under your skin? What if you let 'em all in on the lie? Even the homecoming queen cries Yeah, what if I told you the sky wouldn't fall? If you lost your composure, said to hell with it all Not everything pretty sparkles and shines And even the homecoming queen cries Oh yeah Even the homecoming queen cries Hey homecoming queen Why do you lie? When somebody's mean Where do you hide....?"      The last notes fade into nothingness, her hands resting on the strings to silence them at last. Taking a deep breath, she slides from the stool and turns to put her guitar in a simple black case, each brass latch snapping shut. Picking up the case, she clears the stage, ambling over towards the back booths, where she can find a little peace and quiet--or so she thinks....
Sinister	One never knows. But there's probably a reasonable lack of such a thing to be had in the immediate future. So the Spider waits for the fly-girl, easing back into the alcove and placing his booted feet on the couch beside himself, fingers laced over his middle, thumb to thumb. THey tap together like a drum beat, pacing her steps over to the beaded curtain and the alcove beyond. It's only when she's settled, brought the guitar around, entered that little shadowy nook where he waits recumbant, does he speak. "Good evening. Don't scream. It's murder on the ears." Deep voice, english, a little like dark chocolate laced with heroine, Sinister smiles toward Shannon and applauds slowly "Bravo. You have quite the talent there."
Shannon	Shannon stiffens as she hears someone else in the booth, her head snapping around to see who it is. Her wings start to flare out again, instinctively, held in a tense pose as if ready to take to the air at any moment. "I'm sorry, sir... didn't even see this booth was taken. I could move if you like...?" The compliment to her singing, however, does elicit a light smile, a hint of color coming to her cheeks. "Thank you. I wrote that one. Did pretty decently on the country charts, too."
Sinister	Sinister's attention shifts to the wings, trailing over them with a gaze that has his head tilted to an angle, dye-straight hair slithering in an ebon curtain with it. "Oh, don't be silly. Stay," again, suggestion is a fun-fun thing, but there is no threat in the words backed up with the mind. Relax little songbird. "I can believe that, it has the right kind of sorrow to it that plucks those taut little cardiac muscles, right here." He taps over his heart with a single finger, looking to the blue streak and beads, the jeans and blouse, the flipflops with their daisies. His nose twitches, he sniffs and continues to lounge. Idly: "You don't know who I am, do you?" he sounds a little amused by that, but the tone is conversational.
Shannon	Shaking her head, Shannon just smiles, her wings soon settling in at her back again with a brief little flick. "No, sir, I don't. Should I?" As one of the servers passes by, she motions them over, murmuring a request for a root beer and some potato skins ole. With a quick glance back over at Sinister, she asks, "If you're hungry I'd be happy to order you something as well...?" Surely it couldn't hurt to be friendly, right? Right!      About as friendly as a fly can be to a spider, when one wanders into their web....
Sinister	"Well, aren't you just as sweet as cherry pie?" Sinister murmurs, looking at the server <<do not know me. But bring me a tall cognac on ice>> and back to Shannon, shaking his head. "Singing works up an appetite. Lounging around just works up an excess of calories, but thank you for the kind offer." The diamond in his forehead glows e'er so slightly for a moment, then returns to an ordinary hue. It actually looks like the exact same shade as Cyclops' visor. Odd that. "You look like an angel. I'm sure you've been told that a time or two before. Were you born like this?"
Shannon	Shannon laughs lightly, shaking her head. "No, I didn't gain the wings till I was fourteen. But the healing touch came in first." She wrinkles her nose at the memory, her fingers idly playing over the curves of the guitar case, which is kept roughly between herself and Sinister like some sort of musical shield. The glow of the diamond in his forehead isn't lost on her, but is only acknowledged with the upwards flick of one finely arched brow. "I've heard that before, yeah. But I'm just a girl that happens to have drawn some interesting numbers in the genetic lottery. That's all."
Sinister	"Healing?" Sinister echoes, blinking once, owlishly and smiles without looking at the server as they return with a tall glass of cognac on ice, setting it down on his table and walking away to finish with Shannon's request. Strangely, he still retrieves a twenty dollar bill from someplace about himself and slides it beneath the salt shaker. "Gracious me, curiouser and curiouser. I imagine that as a surprise --" he hesitates, smiles and leans forward a little "-- is there a story attached, I wonder? But I dare say it's a safe bet to think that, regarding the biological lottery. It's not quite as clean cut as pure chance though, oddly enough."
Shannon	Shannon nods, and smiles somewhat. "Shame on me for not having introduced myself first, though! I'm Shannon. Pleasure to meet you, Mr....?" She offers her hand by way of more formal greeting, canting her head slightly to one side. "There is a bit of a story there, but it can always hold for another time if you prefer. The emergence of the healing gift was certainly rather sudden and unexpected." Her wings ruffle in an approximation of a shrug, and she continues. "Fame won't last forever. I plan to go on to med school, and I'm also planning to take my EMT exam this month if all goes well."
Sinister	"Essex," Sinister replies, taking the hand and bringing it closer in the shake, turning the wrist knuckle up so that he can bend over it and kiss the air just above skin. "Nathaniel Essex," he release the handshake with a lift of fingers, elevating her own in a gentlemanly manner. "Nonsense though, I would be delighted to hear. I find myself all kinds of curious as to the growth pattern, whether it was sudden or gradual. And did it itch?" He muses this, crosses his ankles where he sits and leans back, propping his elbow on the back of the apolstery. He holds out his hand for his Cognac and it floats on over to his fingers, to be sipped. "You are in for a lot of work, methinks. I would say about four times as much as a young lady less elegantly gifted; a young woman and a visible mutant. The world is full of a thousand travesties, more is the pity."
Shannon	"A gentleman, too. More's the pity that's a dying breed." Shannon smiles lightly at the rather old-fashioned, courtly gesture, allowing her hand to come to rest on her guitar case when it is released from Sinister's grasp. She closes her eyes, shoulders rising and falling as she lets out a light sigh that ruffles a stray wisp of pale gold close to her face. "I was fourteen, and it was at summer camp in Connecticut. My best friend of the time and I were tending to a couple pots heating over the campfire. She reached for it to check and see how it was doing, and knocked it all down her front. Burned herself but good. I made to put on some cool compresses, but accidentally touched the burn site. Wound up absorbing her injury as my own."      She shakes her head, opening her eyes. "You're right, there are far too many travesties. I lost my friend and most of my community that day. I'm also likely to encounter difficulty in my studies because I'm a mutant. But you know what?" The smile that tugs her lips upwards bespeaks determination, and an underlying strength that perhaps has seen her through a great deal. "I'm not going to let that stop me."
Sinister	"Unfortunate, but demonstrably true in this day and age. The amount of lack-a-daze louts that I have seen showing as much grace as a herd of swine and with half the manners. In what world is it now considered to be an acceptable common practice to break a young girl's heart by text on a screen? I ask you." Sinister clucks his tongue, pressing his lips to a faint moue as the story is told. "One would think such a gift would be wondered at, but I suppose coupled with other things one has a troublesome situation," he gestures to the wings. "And all kinds of superstitions to follow it. People are an odd bunch, by and large." Lifting his chin, one must suppose at least that he's regarding the wings.     "Commendable though. Why should you? The world owes you no mercy, but it equally owes you no dispensation toward bias for talent shown. You go get them, little songbird. Have you applied to anywhere?" He sips again from his cognac.
Shannon	Mention of a broken heart by text causes the young mutant's wings to droop visibly, her head bowed ever so slightly. Her voice, once resonating with strength, has now gone very quiet and soft. "At least a text message is something, instead of being left wondering for months on end, and finally having to accept they'll never return." She shrugs, adding, "At least my boyfriend this time, we got to say goodbye properly when he joined up with the Peace Corps. I don't know if he'll ever be back, though. When you sign on for that, it's for a very long time." By the end, her voice is nearly cracking, as if perhaps with very recent heartbreak.      For a few moments, she seems lost in her musings, shaken out of her thoughts by Sinister's next question. "Hmmm? I've given some thought to possibly Harvard, but that'd be a bit far when it comes time for my residency. I may consider Columbia if I want to stick a bit closer to home. I'm not sure how mutant-friendly either one is, but both have an excellent reputation."
Sinister	Sinister clucks his tongue. Oh to be young and feeling everything so very vividly. He tilts his head again, observing how those pinions reflect emotion so palpably. Interesting. "You do know that the peace corp actually has a leave program, right? And it isn't like deployment, so much as it is civil and social engineering; they do allow for visitations." But everything can be very tragic when young, also. "I went to Oxford myself," he casually muses. "They were the very devil for being snobbish. I believe new york city is a little more tolerant when it comes to scholarships, if I recall correctly. And if such places are difficult." He narrows eyes a little. "Do they still require a photo with admission applications?" Oh so innocently asked.
Shannon	Shannon's wings seem to perk at the thought of a leave program. "Hopefully, he'll decide to take advantage of that," she muses. "Though it's still up to him in the end. Still, one can hope." There is a note of hope to her voice as well, albeit a cautious one. Just how many times had she been burned before, when it came to matters of the heart?      With the talk of universities at the fore of conversation once more, the young woman relaxes visibly, the discussion an anodyne to more sorrowful musings. "I'm pretty sure they do," she replies. "Even so, I'm not going to hide my wings. It would look far worse to, forgive the pun, doctor a photo now, only to have them find out about the wings the hard way later."
Sinister	"I would gather then that you cannot," Sinister ponders, tapping at his cognac glass with a fingernail. "And they are rather large. Never, if you can help it, work in a negative pressure ward. It will be a nightmare for you on sterilizing all possible contaminant surfaces." He nods to the feathery whites. "Forgive my curiosity... how long did it take them to grow to that size?"
Shannon	Shannon shrugs a little bit, reaching for one of her potato skins and nibbling on it, a thoughtful expression on her youthful features. "I never really kept track of it. They came in about three weeks after the healing gift emerged, which put it towards the end of July, and by the following Valentine's Day, they were about this big. Itched like mad with the feathers coming in, too. Still does sometimes, when it's molting season." She chuckles softly, shaking her head. "I take a cue from birds and take a -lot- of baths and showers around then. It helps considerably."
Sinister	"I can only imagine. That must have been enough nigh to drive a person insane," Sinister wrinkles his nose oh-so-slightly, finishing the cognac in one pull. He drops his legs off the couch, cracks his neck left and right and exhales, closing his eyes a moment or two, then presses his lips firmly together. A moment later, there's a fleeting ripping sound and a fwoosh, as a pair of exceptionally glossy black wings, fringed in red as if dipped in fire, errupt from his back. They quiver a moment, then settle back. "Still hurts. Often itches at inopportune moments."
Shannon	Shannon flinches at the ripping sound, her brows furrowing with concern. It's a very nasty, flesh-rending tear, which has her immediately craning her neck to try and look at Sinister's back, to see if the site needed healing. She's put her snack down on the plate, hands held at the ready as if to bring her healing gift to bear on him. "I can only imagine it does. That sounded... awful...."
Sinister	Sinister raises the right one. They don't quite look like her wings. There appears to be an extra joint at the base, which isn't quite so avian; presumably they're more mobile for it. They also seem to sport long 'tail' feathers at the base of limb, which fan out beneath the wing's structure when the right is lifted. Not quite ravenlike, not quite eagle-like they're just not quite... altogether bird. He reaches up his hand to give a bit of an itch beneath the underside and a small amount of ashy down is dropped with it. He glances at her hands so held, spocks an eyebrow up, then goes down upon one knee, that he might tip forward so she can see his back. No blood or shredded skin to be seen. "I heal from it quickly," he informs.
Shannon	Shannon breathes a sigh of relief, once she has a chance to glance over the sites of emergence for Sinister's wings, settling back in her seat and returning to enjoying her treat. "Thank heavens for that, though I imagine it's still quite painful in the moment. An extremely robust healing factor, then," she muses, brows furrowing. Her expression remains thoughtful. That would put his healing in the same realm as Logan's, if his body could repair itself just that quickly.      This was not someone to toy around with.      "They're rather striking," she says, finally allowing herself a smile. "Interesting coloration, and they seem a bit different from mine in a few other respects as well."
Sinister	An astute observation that and indeed, as swift as Wolverine. Sinister eases back, perching because such a position becomes the comfortable one, unless you want to potentially sit on a feather and cause a problem when you try and stand up. That's never fun.     "I am quite fond, except when they're misbehaving," misbehaving? That was the choice of language, which begs different questions. "I am partial to the snow white look, there's a kind of purity to them which I cannot claim on this side of the table," with a flick of his chin up at the shiny flame-touched shadows. "How do you mean though? I would not presume to make assumptions on the part of yours, of course. That just makes one look an idiot."
Shannon	"Other than the coloration, the structure seems a little different," Shannon observes, extending one wing in his general direction for comparison. "I wonder, how does that affect flight, if at all?" The subtle gesture towards the flame-touched shadows has her brows furrowing--could they be creatures like the mini-bamf's that sometimes followed in Herr Wagner's wake? Her nose twitches briefly as she sniffs the air for any hint of the familiar, acrid tang of brimstone.
Sinister	THere is none. But as soon as the flickers of hellfire are noticed, they also vanish -- Ahh, the trickery of illusion! -- In actual fact, there is a vague smell of cinnamon about him, aside from the aroma of cognac. Sinister though, is looking at the wing closely, craning forward a little to measure the difference with his eye. "More like a swan or a dove, if going by comparative anatomy. Isn't it amazing how diversity occurs even in the same basic genetic tree?" he honestly sounds in wonder at that. "Are you an aerialist, or a long-distance flier? They look... a little of both, actually."
Shannon	Shannon laughs, holding her wing steady for Sinister to look at to his heart's content. "You're right, a bit of both, for the simple joy of flight." She smiles wide, letting out a sigh of pleasure and contentment, leaning back in the booth but leaving her wing extended. "Those of us who can fly, we'll see the world in ways most can never dream of. It's a simple joy they'll never have." She chortles softly, a hint of mirth twinkling in the depths of her pale azure eyes. "Not to mention it can save a whole lot on gas for transportation. It's a win-win."
Sinister	In a sotto voce tone: "After we've figured out how to actually fly, that is. Air is a lot harder than people think it is and there were one or two face on collisions with walls, or treestumps. And once, in my case, a bush that never seemed to end." Nathaniel shakes his head self-effacingly at the memory, though amused by it at the same time. "The taking off was usually easy. Steering, not so much, but the landing? That did take a lot of work." He holds up both hands then though, making a rectangle of them through which to look through, as a window and says "**CLICK**" as he takes a mental picture of the anatomy, lowering his hands after. "Except for the other fuel cost. Eating like a man sized bird is considerably disgusting after a while, when you consider how many calories you've put away." Hesitantly, he reaches out a hand. "May I?" Asked with a nod to the feathers.
Shannon	"I suppose I'm lucky I began to learn the fine art of flight in winter, then. Plenty of snowdrifts to break my fall." Shannon grins a little sheepishly, shaking her head and laughing, her cheeks taking on the rosy hue of chagrin. "I got a lot of snow where snow didn't belong that winter. Sounds like the bush you found is very much like the tree that kept eating Charlie Brown's kites. Except instead of the kite, it was you."      Inclining her head, she leans just a shade closer to put her wing more easily within reach. It seemed she was used to this sort of request. "Of course. They're mostly just normal feathers, really."
Sinister	"I think Peanuts was one of my guiltiest little pleasures," Sinister laughs, nodding. "It just would not let me go, for love nor money." But that said, he inches closer. Long, detrous fingers brush the underside, along the groupings of feathers, their culverts, flight and skirts with thier specific shape and function -- the brushes are crosswise and down once or twice, combing the barbs flat so the fletches adhere. It's just a little 'armpit' feather that he dislodges, catching it on his palm and looking over the down and root. "And that. The bane of the ones where they rub, they keep falling out. Then it's itchies in the awkward places." He brings the feather back, sitting back with it and gives it a very close examination.
Shannon	The brushing of her feathers with such care actually proves to be a rather calming thing to Shannon, letting her relax and hold quite still while Sinister examines her feathers with more care. She wrinkles her nose as the little puff of down is found and removed, shaking her head and chuckling softly. "Itches in the awkward places, and I wind up leaving parts of myself where they don't belong."      She watches as he further examines the downy feather, canting her head this way and that. Something about this didn't seem quite right. With his interest in her wing seemingly satisfied for the moment, she moves them in just such a way where it appears she's only settling them on her back once more--but in actuality, she is sending a light breeze in his direction, in a bid to fan the feather right out of his hand!
Sinister	"I can only imagine and probably shouldn't as it will lead me to all kinds of interesting scenarios," Sinister observes, flicking his gaze up from palm contemplation at the settling of wings. Interesting. Intent has a kind of aftertaste and the little downfeather flits free, landing somewhere behind the couch, drifting down to settle on the floor. Where it's pinned by the most subtle of telekinetic 'brain stomps'. That is not going to go anywhere. In fact it is going to slither along the floor and pin itself to the back of his boot and up under his pant leg. "Well, I do hope I have the fortune to listen to you sing again, miss Shannon," a look of concentration takes Nathaniel's face and with a kind of whisker of charcoal dust in the air, the wings vanish back into his back, all that dander sucked back with it until it's flush with his skin. "And I wish you all the luck with your college applications. I'd be keen to hear where you got in. I admire determination." That said he inclines his head and stands. "I'll leave you to the last of your potato skins. Have a wonderful evening, hmm?" And it's a amazing how many just don't look at him as he makes his way to the iron-wrought exit of the bar and club.
Shannon	"Perhaps if our paths cross again," Shannon replies, smiling and inclining her head. "It was a pleasure to have met you, Mr. Essex. Safe journies to you, and may the wind remain ever beneath your wings." She raises the last of her potato skins by way of salute, taking a rather large bite--and staying put. Nope. She wasn't toying around with this one. No way, no how.      This was not over yet.