Masque pulled his jacket tighter around him as a slight breeze made its way through the holes in the fabric.  On his head he wore a cloth hood, large enough to shadow his face slightly.  No one really paid him all that much attention; he was just another poor man walking through the park in the late afternoon hours.  On his back he wore his black and green backpack and it, as with all the rest of his possessions, had obviously seen better days.  The only thing he really owned worth anything at all was his laptop but that rarely left his house.

Masque liked the park and often came there to think and paint.  Sometimes he could almost forget what kind of life he lived now, managing to scrape by through a combination of panhandling, selling his art on the street and the occasional paid hacking job, barely enough to pay for his rent and have regular food.  At least, in the warmer months the park sometimes served that purpose.  Now, with winter not so far off, it was more difficult.  On days like this when the wind pierced the many small holes on his jacket and clothing he knew he was nothing more than the destitute poor, barely one step away from living on the streets.

It was with some measure of sorrow and envy that Masque watched the people around him bustle by.  It wasn't so busy as it would have been in the warmer weather, but since the sun was shining there were still people around.  An unexpected gust of wind came up and blew his hood down, revealing the white calcite of his flesh.  Startled, he quickly placed the hood back on his head, placing his almost painted face back into the partial shadows.  He looked around nervously, fearful regarding whether or not someone might have noticed him and his mutant flesh.

After his last adventure to the park, Ryden felt he should be somewhat more careful about his time spent outdoors. Running into another mutant wasn't necessarily a bad thing, but it was a reminder to be aware of his surroundings. With a deadline looming though, he decided heading to the outdoors was a needed distraction. His typed pages in hand, as well as his notebook, he moved out the door to find somewhere quiet to work.

The weather had been nice when he arrived at the park bench. It was metal, so that was a risk, but the rock he sat on last time was being overrun by small school children, so he'd take what he could get. About halfway through the first page, however, the weather took a turn...

...and took his writing with it.

Scrambling after the wayward piece of paper, Ryden watched it drift towards a hooded figure. Reflex took over and caution vanished as he yelled out. "Hey! Grab that!" Out went his voice, drifting and catching onto the nearest metal object. There was the distinct sound of something breaking, even as the figures hood was blown back. Ryden did a small double take as he slowed to a stop, paper fluttering at the guys feet.

"Hey! Grab that!"

When a frantic voice yells at you from nearby to grab fluttering papers glimpsed out of the corner of your eye, you really couldn't help but follow instinct and grab said fluttering papers, especially when you've been through the faint horror of having your precious work go flying away in the wind before.  Up went Masque's hand, grabbing hold of the precious sheets and nearby the distinct sound of something breaking.  That was kind of strange, the break coming in sync with the voice, wasn't it?

Masque turned, papers in hand, to rest his eyes upon the individual who had so nearly lost them.  His eyes rested upon a man who appeared to be a bit older than he was.  They then shifted to the ground beside the man where garbage was strewn about and a garbage can appeared to have cracked completely in half.  Well, that certainly was strange, wasn't it?  

Lifting the papers up for the man to take from his hand, Masque looked quizzically at the stranger, tilting his head to the side.  His own hands were clothed in thin gloves; he had learned in was safest that way.  Was it possible the man was a mutant like he was?  Maybe but it was probably wishful thinking.  All at once he felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.  Probably, he should have just let the papers fly away.  Probably it was too much of a risk placing attention on himself during the middle of the day.  After all, it wouldn't exactly take the most discerning eye to realizing he was a mutant.

The paper stopped, caught by the other mutant, but not without the unfortunate destruction of a nearby trashcan. Opps. Well, it wasn't like he didn't already owe money to the park, he's just have to tack that onto his bill. If things kept up he was going to be a starving writer. Maybe he just needed to learn to sneak away from destruction. If no one knew, they couldn't bill him...

The stranger...didn't say anything, oddly, which was something Ryden was particularly observant of. People who didn't talk were rare, especially when object broke around them. With a soft "Thank you" That vibrated the broken metal he took his paper, and glanced at the mans gloved hands and shadowed face.

"Wind came out of nowhere..." He remarked, and flinched as the trashcan cracked. Yeah, like he could have a casual conversation anywhere...

So far the man hadn't said anything that tipped Masque off that he had noticed anything unusual about himself and that was good.  Perhaps if he kept the interaction short, it might stay that way.  Then again, perhaps he was one of those precious few who actually felt some sympathy for mutants and he might be able to use that sympathy for a donation?  Things had been hard, after all, and he had learned years ago not to be too proud to ask for help.

"Thank you"

Maskue inclined his head, a gesture of acknowledgement that wasn't quite a bow.  Did that broken trash can vibrate when the man had spoken?  Surely he had to have been imagining things.  Either it was wishful thinking or just the wind and his own overactive imagination making more of things then there was to actually make.  Puzzling over the tricks is mind was playing with him, he dug into a pocket to dig out a plain white cue card and a black marker.

"Wind came out of nowhere..."

OK, this time he was certain he had seen something funny going on with that garbage can.  He wrote on the card in clear black letters 'Did you do that?'  It wasn't what he had meant to write but curiosity got the best of him.  He held the card up, gesturing to the words and offering another inquisitive tilt of the head.

Ryden was admittedly surprised when the stranger started pulling out cue cards. While he'd had plenty of conversations in writing, it was usually himself who was the scribe and the other individual the reader. Glancing at the trashcan he nodded his head and flipped through a few pages in his notebook. Turning it towards the man there was a poor sketch of an opera singer and a wine glass, and clear writing.

'My voice breaks things.' It summarized. It was a lot safer than trying to explain everything to the stranger. Besides, after the glance he got at the figure he was fairly certain he had crossed paths with another mutant. Usually, conversations were fairly safe to engage in he found.

Masque was more than a little surprised when the stranger followed suite and pulled out writing implements of his own.  Reading the words he wrote in his notebook, however, illuminated things clearly.  He nodded his head his head and smiled to show he bore no judgement, his eyes settling on the trashcan before returning to once again settle upon the stranger.  Lacking a voice wasn't exactly something he'd wish on anyone, but perhaps it was better than having a voice that broke anything around it.  Or some things around it.  Or however that worked, voices and things breaking.

With the realization that Masque was speaking to another mutant and one who didn't seem too inclined towards violence, not to mention they had something in common in a strange sort of way, he decided to take a calculated risk and put the cue cards back into his pocket.  Removing a glove and rolling up a sleeve, he revealed the porcelain white of his calcite flesh.  After a few moments black lettering appeared on his skin, matching perfectly his writing from moments earlier.

'We have something in common'.  Once he was certain the words had been read, they faded only to be replaced by more words.  'I've met very few mutants'.  A few moments later the words faded again.

Explaining himself seemed to be a smart risk, as Masque pulled off a glove and pulled back his sleeve. The skin was clearly pale white, although Ryden couldn't readily identify what coated it. The lettering was a unique trick though. Ryden was almost a bit envious.

He flipped to another piece of paper and scrawled on it. If he didn't have to talk, he much preferred writing to avoid the headache. 'I've met a few. The city is full of us so you might have without even knowing it. Are you new here?' His handwriting was clean for a guy, but being legible was somewhat necessary with his power.

It wasn't exactly surprising to learn that there were quite a few mutants living in the city; Masque had seen them at a distance, after all.  It was just that he had personally met very few.  Being mute, it wasn't always easy to approach people especially with the sort of life he was supposed to live.  The very few he had met hadn't exactly been friendly and that had driven him off of the prospect of trying to meet others.  Until today, that is.

More black letters appeared on his arm and he couldn't help but smile at the slightly surreal conversation.  'I've always lived here.  How long have you been here?'  Once again the letters faded.  One advantage of communication by writing is that the other person couldn't hear the sadness within a written word.  His life hadn't exactly gone the way he had hoped.

The next question took some writing to answer it. He scrawled it out on the paper quickly before holding it back so the stranger could read. It felt odd, almost like holding up a diary to be examined. Then again, his writing had always felt that way.

'Grew up in Ireland until I was 11, been here since then though. I write for the newspaper, so maybe that just forces me to interact a little.' HE shrugged in emphasis once he felt the stranger had read it, then flipped a few pages and held the book back out.

'My name is Ryden'. He added. It seemed like a good addition to the conversation.

It was nice not to have to write out everything by hand that he wanted to communicate.  It took longer that way and those who could speak took their ease of communication for granted.  Masque himself wasn't impatient to have Ryden finish because he understood better than most, but so many were.  

'I sell my art and do odd jobs online."  Black letters appeared and disappeared, lingering long enough to be read and understood clearly.  Maybe he could have mentioned that he sold art on the side of the street or the fact that his laptop was literally his only possession worth anything, but he felt suddenly ashamed.  Maybe there was something innately wrong with him that he had ended up here and people like Ryden had ended up, well, wherever he had ended up.  It was a pretty good guess that it was a better place than Masque, though.

'My name is Masque'.  

Art was not an uncommon practice in New York, but Ryden had been here long enough to know that there was a challenge surviving off it. It certainly wasn't easy making a living off writing, but at least he was doing ok. It was hard to tell whether or not his fellow mutant had the same luck though. Something was telling him the answer leaned closer to 'no'.

He scrawled on the paper and held it back up. 'Hopefully you're having decent luck with that. Writing has done ok for me, although it'd probably do better if I weren't constantly replacing things I break.' He glance sideways at the trashcan, which still awkwardly slumped on it's side. If he were a less honest person he would probably just run whenever something busted, but the guilt always caused him to owe up to the mistakes.

He dipped his head in greeting as they exchanged names. 'Nice to meet you. I'm not keeping you from anything, am I?' He jotted down. It was times like these he wondered if learning sign language would benefit at all. Without a translator it seemed silly because so few people learned to speak sign language. Maybe some day he's make enough to afford one.

'Hopefully you're having decent luck with that'.

Masque shrugged, looking down despondently.  Unless by decent luck he meant panhandler only one step away from living on the streets, the answer was a definite no.  'Not so much.  It's not an easy life'.  The words faded and he tried not to feel so sorry for himself.  It wasn't really his fault that he had so few life skills and was almost entirely unemployable.  He loved art but it wasn't a career; sometimes it wasn't even enough to keep him properly fed and clothed.

'I imagine breaking things so often must be inconvenient.'  What would observers think of their strange and silent conversation, Masque wondered absently.  The occasionally park patron passed them by with a strange look but thus far people had decided to leave them alone.

'Nice to meet you as well, Rydan.  No, you aren't keeping me from anything.  If nothing else, the life of an artist means lots of spare time."  A tentative smile with that.  Sometimes it was easier promoting the positives to others than it was really believing in the positives oneself.

Masque's body language changed at the question, and Ryden felt bad for asking it. But it gave him an idea at least, and considered it as he read the replies. He scrawled on the paper as the thought took hold.

'Have you considered going to the mansion? There is a place just outside the city that is sort of a haven for mutants. I've had friends who have gone there from time to time, and I've heard good things about it. I prefer living on my own, but if something ever happened with my job, that's the place I'd go to first.' He finished, holding it out. He tried to word it carefully. Last thing he wanted to do was insult Masque with the offer, but something pushed him to take the risk anyway.

A few strangers glanced at the trashcan again. Maybe one day he'd learn to put things back together after he broke them....

Masque read Rydan's note carefully and as he did, something changed in his expression.  A haven for mutants?  The very idea sounded too good to be true.  It was a nice thought, of course, that there be some place where mutants to go that they could be safe, but even if such a place did exist surely there was no way they'd accept him.  Probably there would be some fee to pay in order to be accepted and he certainly didn't have the money for that.  
'How do you get accepted into this haven?'  The words on Masque's arm took on a slight purplish hue instead of their usual neutral back, the hope of something better effecting the way in which his images appeared.  Strong emotions always seemed to reduce his usually fine control.

'It sounds too good to be true'.  Masque's gaze followed that of a stranger walking past down to the garbage can.  Well, at least no one seemed to be immediately pinning the damage on them, that was good.  It must get expensive having to constantly repair things accidentally broken.