The Jacob Riis Park was a strip of beach frequented by New Yorkers-- it looked out over the open ocean and was a destination that was a hop, skip and a jump away from Queens. Between Memorial Day and Labor Day it bustled with life, attracting city-dwellers with all sorts of recreational promises, and even a historic bathhouse.

In the dwindling hours of the evening before Memorial Day, however, the public beach was essentially a ghost-town. Every now and again a person might stroll past, but it was otherwise devoid of life. Perfect for a devilish-looking young man to get some breathing room. He sat quietly in the sand, feet outstretched and arms propping him up, a small bonfire smoldering nearby. He was watching the waves, or perhaps he was watching the fire, but which it was was not clear.

Soft music streamed out of a nearby portable speaker, to which an MP3 player was plugged in.

Yes, even villains needed some R&R. And it was thus that Khalil found himself, alone, on a beach at sunset.

June stretched across her mattress already dressed for the evening in her dumpiest sweats, no make up, no hair, no expectations. She was ready to embrace the lazy which was, of course, exactly when Miranda started sending a panicked flurry of text messages.

Where was her journal? Had June moved it? What about the proofs for the Vogue article? She hadn't signed off for that (except June knew that she had) and the end of the month was approaching. Miranda needed facial cream. Miranda needed a latte to help her stay up late to review. Miranda needed a newspaper from two days ago, specifically the style section, June was to discard the rest. She needed it now. No, she needed it ten minutes ago!

The copycat swapped the sweats for activewear and stuck her feet into some sneakers that had neither been used for sneaking or running. In fact, June's agitated foray out of her apartment was possibly the sweatiest they'd ever gotten.

AND WHY WAS NOTHING OPEN!?! June flitted from bodega to news stand to gas stop before a single text made her nearly chuck her phone into the nearby ocean.

It's some American holiday. Put your feet up, love, we have an extra day.

June actually took a few angry paces toward the ocean, one arm around the style section from 2 days ago with a latte in hand and her phone pulled back, ready to let fly as she ran frustrated toward the sea.

"LOVE MY A**!" She shouted, a battle cry of sorts, and threw the latte and newspaper instead of her phone. In the end, she was too much of a coward to be without her phone and she'd really just needed to throw something.

Khalil shrugged his shoulders against the wind, leaning closer to his little bonfire. It wasn't much, but it warmed the pyro against the wind. An attractive young woman stormed towards the ocean, pitching what appeared to be a newspaper and a coffee to the wind. It made the most fantastic arc, the lid popping off of the drink and-- promptly sailing down-wind towards the demonic young man.

While Khalil relished attention, he wasn't exactly trying to show-off at the moment. He was trying to relax. And now, this coffee was sailing towards him and threatening to stain his beautiful maroon t-shirt, or worse, his portable speakers.

Unacceptable.

With a flourish of his hand, he sent an arc of protective fire over his head. The coffee hissed on contact and the smoldering coffee cup landed in the sand beside him. He felt a few drops on his cheek, but it was certainly far less than a dousing in coffee.

"Madame," Khalil said in greeting, "Please stand downwind before throwing beverages, next time."

He set about dousing the smoldering cup by shoveling sand over it, before returning his attention to the sea.

June squeaked and danced out of the way of a fast returned newspaper, tripped and landed with one hip buried in the sand. The wind was strong and the paper was light. The disposable coffee cup had also caught some air time and the fashionista whipped her head around to make sure it wasn't coming for her.

Instead, by the time she turned around it was already on fire. And a man, a most devilishly red man, was huddling beside two fires. One appeared to be on purpose. The other was much smaller and reeked of chemicals.

> "Madame"

She jumped. How on earth had she marched right past him and not noticed?

Ah. Miranda. Right. She'd been seeing all red already.

He casually buried the corpse of what had once been a skinny double shot no whip latte. June wished that he'd let it burn a little longer.

"I didn't see you." June intoned, most irritated to be caught after shouting in such a unladylike way and then falling and... well, really all of it. She pushed back up onto her spindly legs and brushed off the sand from her clothes. She didn't stop to think about how she was still upwind of him. It was just that the sand had to go.

>> "I didn't see you."

Khalil watched as the woman roused herself and brushed the sand from her clothes which, likewise, blew downwind towards the red-skinned man. He frowned in displeasure. Sand wasn't exactly something that could be blocked with a wall of fire. It'd just be hot sand.

Whatever night Khalil seemed to be having, she seemed to be having a worse one, so he didn't reprimand her further. He just shook the formerly airborne sand from his flowing black locks and quirked a deprecating smile.

"Whatever night I might be having, your night seems to be exponentially worse," Khalil commented offhandedly, watching as the waves overtook the flung newspaper with mild humor.

She hadn't bothered to step out of the hole of sand. She hadn't realized that the tide was rolling in. Her tennis shoes were abruptly soaked.

June looked down at them so frustrated and angry at herself that she didn't even have a curse left. That was, of course, when her new friend decided to speak. She didn't normally enjoy the company of those that might compromise her power with an unwanted one, but despite the almost face-latte, he was still being nice.

She pulled her feet up and out of the soupy sand with a schlorp, schlorp and more than a little despair.

"C-could I come sit by your fire? To dry my shoes?" Because walking home in soggy shoes was just going to be way, way too much for today.

The short-haired brunette walked towards the fire, looking rather like a kicked puppy, and the young man watched her with his amused feline eyes. The sea had laid claim to her shoes, which made her approach even more pathetic.

>> "C-could I come sit by your fire? To dry my shoes?"

"Yeah," Khalil said simply.

It was too bad that the sea had swept the newspaper away. That would make good kindling.

"Name's Khalil," he offered, the corner of his lip curling in a faint smile, "Come to abandoned beaches often?"

He kept his knees drawn to his chest, and arms wrapped around his legs. Perfectly harmless, at least in this situation. He was a pyro, not a predator.

She sat with movements stilted. He might not be moving, but her power was. With a mutant in proximity, that invisible arm reached out toward him and waggled like a hungry tongue of flame. As if it wasn't obvious what he was: mutant.

With her eyes cautiously glued to the man’s red skin, she began to shuck her shoes and socks off.

”Khalil,” she echoed the name, but her accent gave it an extra boost of sophistication-- in her opinion anyway. ”What manner of name is Khalil?”

Abandoned?

”No.” June looked around to the empty area, the setting sun, and general peacefulness. A wave of disgust for this sort-of holiday and it's effect of her lazy evening swept through her and despite the sand being terrible, June flopped backwards and let her arms sprawl out beside her.

The fire warmed her toes. Khalil's speaker played just audibly above the rush of the waves. Perhaps… a holiday wasn't so bad.

”What do you do mister Khalil?”

>> ”Khalil. What manner of name is Khalil?”

Khalil smiled, his tail making a quiet pap... pap... pap... as it flicked against the cool sand.

"It is an Arabic name," he purred, "What manner of name do you have?"

>> ”What do you do mister Khalil?”

That was the question, wasn't it? You couldn't very well tell a stranger that you were a criminal and a waif-- a slave to a powerful crime syndicate, through which you managed to afford an apartment-- an arsonist.

"I'm a student," he replied airily, "I'm studying theater at NYU."

Looking at him, at his antics and his disposition, it wouldn't be a stretch to say that Khalil was studying to be an actor. He had the fine features and the lofty attitude of one. Hell, even now, he was acting.

If he'd been a student, if he'd graduated, he might have gone into theater. Or some other career that would allow him to be the center attention.

"What about you?"

Her name? June wrinkled her nose. Her name was not as French as she was. It was a constant reminder of what love did to people: it uprooted them, it made them fools, it made them... run around on her day off trying to keep a job she liked and was good at.

"June." His amicable purr was answered with near despair. June continued to address the dusky sky from her flopped position on the sandy ground. "I'm from France." Not precisely what he'd asked, but it was what she was willing to answer.

"Theatre sounds lovely." Perhaps she should enroll in school. Leave the professional life behind... Except, what the hell would she study? Mutantology wasn't exactly a thing. She was too dumb for actual biology. Psychologists went for like fifty million years of school.

"I work in fashion. I love it. I think it's going to kill me." That's what love did. It killed you slowly by making you sacrifice yourself tiny bit by tiny bit.

June lolled her head to the side to give her bonfire-friend a quick onceover. "You look about right for the dimensions of a male model, actually. If you ever had ze interest." Ugh. She just couldn't seem to stop herself. That red was such a lovely hue.

>> "June. I'm from France."

“Lovely to meet you, June from France,” Khalil said quietly, smiling. The sun had finally kissed the horizon, and was starting to sink into the sea. Soon the warmth of the day would also begin to fade. Thankfully, he’d also brought a sweater, not wanting to run the risk of a brisk walk (or flight) home.

>> "I work in fashion. I love it. I think it's going to kill me.”

“What sort of things do you do in fashion?” Khalil asked politely. He assumed that it was a multifaceted endeavor, complete with fashion design, photography, and so-on.

>> “You look about right for the dimensions of a male model, actually. If you ever had ze interest."

Khalil preened at that, pushing a hand through his straight black hair, “That would be the dream… but I haven’t any training with modeling. And I doubt that a designer would want to figure-out accommodations for my… attributes.”

His wings fluttered at the mention of them. Modeling nude, however, was something completely different. Perhaps he could pose for a figure drawing class for some extra change, at some point. That would be pretty fun.

His polite question had June frowning sideways at him.

"I fetch coffee and pin cloth. I move papers and make sure people stand where they're supposed to stand when they're supposed to stand there." That wasn't fashion. That was task management and the role of an assistant. She'd forgotten that she wasn't actually doing anything fashion-related. Not really.

But she had an eye for it.

And he fit those dimensions.

"I wouldn't care about wings." She asserted stubbornly. "It's your skin. Such a bold and entrancing color. And a solid. I'll bet you can get away withs so many patterns."

June pushed herself up onto one elbow. "At the end of each show zere is a capstone piece. It's supposed to be bold, a statement." Something avant garde danced behind Junes eyes. Something structural with slashes to reveal red, red, and more--- she wasn't a fashion designer. She pushed paper.

The frenchwoman flopped back into the sand.

Theater, he'd said. "You act, then?" Wouldn't that be hard to pretend to be someone else?

Khalil listened. Ah, so she was low on the totem pole… suddenly, the hurling of newspapers and coffee cups seemed to all fit together. An office-slave, if you will. But the young man certainly wasn’t going to say such a thing, lest he risk offending his newfound friend.

>> "I wouldn’t care about wings. It's your skin. Such a bold and entrancing color. And a solid. I'll bet you can get away withs so many patterns."

The narcissist practically glowed with the observation that June made. His skin was nice, wasn’t it? A little smile danced upon his lips. Always nice to meet someone who had good taste. Khalil brought his ponytail over his shoulder, and idly began to play with his hair.

“Thank you,” the demon purred. He was about to attest that, no, he usually preferred black and other similarly dark colors.

>> "At the end of each show zere is a capstone piece. It's supposed to be bold, a statement."

Khalil wished he could follow June to wherever her mind had wandered, this capstone piece. What would she dress him up in, he wondered? He knew very little of fashion, especially high-fashion, spare the occasional internet meme. For some reason, he envisioned pants that looked like accordions. Hm.

>> "You act, then?"

“Oh yes,” Khalil murmured, “When I get the part.”

He exhaled sharply, as though chewing on his words, “Sadly, most roles in theater require certain, how do you say… attributes. Wings and a tail, especially of mine, might put me out of the running for a part, if it doesn’t fit the director’s vision.”

He’d let June come to her conclusions about that. If he was skilled but under-appreciated, or if he was a loser who couldn’t get a role to save his life… even if it was all a ruse.

“Surely you must have similar systems in-place in the fashion industry?”

"Yes that surprised me. Withs your appearance, I would assume you are perpetually typecast." June frowned at the thought. She didn't have to imagine how frustrating that would be. She was already empathizing just fine. And, though she could do something about that, she could not do it for the duration of an entire play.

> “Surely you must have similar systems in-place in the fashion industry?”

"A designer often has a specific look in mind. Wide set eyes. A front tooth gap, for example, very 'in' right now. Height is incredibly important. Some won't even look at a model under 176 cm." But that wasn't what he'd asked. Khalil wanted to know how their castings might be similar.

"Zere are gatekeepers, yes. Don't want to waste time on someone outside the aesthetic." That was just the way it was. Inborn looks were equal, if not more important than actual talent.

Shoot. She was running at the mouth. And somehow she'd become so engaged that she'd rolled onto her stomach in the least flattering pose.

"Do you love it, Khalil? Acting? If you could shed your red skin and your wings and tail to take the spotlight... would you?"

Khalil nodded solemnly. Yes, yes, perpetually typecast. It didn’t help that, in the real world, such typecasting was usually spot-on. But mostly that was because of his life of crime, not because of his appearance.

He listened as June described specific looks that might be sought-out by designers… wide-set eyes, gappy teeth… neither of which he had. After doing the mental arithmetic, however, he did realize that he was tall enough. Just as in acting, there were gate-keepers in the fashion industry. Of course there were.

>> "Do you love it, Khalil? Acting? If you could shed your red skin and your wings and tail to take the spotlight... would you?"

“That’s the million dollar question, isn’t it?” Khalil said, mostly to himself. Would he choose a life of looking human, in exchange for normalcy? For the spotlight, if you would? He sighed heavily, a frown tugging at his lips. His parents probably would’ve kept him, if he hadn’t been born this way—he might not have been the “bad seed” in elementary, junior high, and high school. He might not have fallen-in with Syndicate. Who would he be, if he wasn’t who he was now? Would he even act-out?

“I think I like the spotlight,” Khalil began carefully, “Because of how I look. Does that make sense?”

He fanned his wings ever so slightly before laying in the sand. What did it matter, if he aired all of his deep, dark secrets to this essential stranger? As if they’d ever see each other again, after this.

“I mean… if everyone’s always looking at you, you might as well own it. Put on a show, give ‘m something to look at…” he fanned his hands out towards the pinkish-purplish sky, the look on his face growing completely dismayed, “I don’t think I’d want to be center stage so badly if I wasn’t… well… me.”

Metaphorically speaking, that is. Khalil was beginning to wonder how much of this was a ruse—because it was starting to feel too close to home. Like any good lie, it was heavily entrenched in truth.