New York.

To many mutants, not unlike Michael himself, the city was a beacon of hope. The resounding roar of vehicles blitzing through the roads as the metropolis yawned awake symbolized a new beginning. The skyscrapers reaching into the distant sky, growing ever higher, soaring ever farther up from the grimy muck were like an inspiration for those who sought a better future. And one certainly cannot forget the streets filled with the unbothered, rhythmic movements of people, moving as one bustling crowd swarming over the concrete; one blurred together crowd that held the dream-like promise of actual normalcy.

But Michael’s rose-tinted lens had broken a long time ago. Despite the ooh’s and aah’s of the small family in front of him as they took in the ever-expanding view of the city skyline through their shared glass window, all Michael could see was the urban jungle for what it was. New York City was just a city like any other. It was a cluster of rising buildings, plated and painted to look shiny and bright to lure in any stupid moths just so that their wings would burn once they realized it was all just a cruel illusion of nature, once they realized that their phantasmal moonlight was but a plain white candle. Or perhaps those flames would never touch them. Instead, they would flutter about a paper lamp, desperately trying to bind their bearing, their path, only to be trapped in an eternal dusk.

Was he being a prude? A hardcore pessimist, perhaps? No, not at all.

Just keeping it real.

By now, the train was zipping right into the depths of the urban jungle, a trailing bullet across the refractive window panes and spiraling highways, right before everything was shut out as it sailed into an underground tunnel.

Michael lightly tapped the handles of his wheelchair as he waited for the imminent stop of the train at its predestined endpoint. When he lost almost all motor function in his legs, he needed some way of funneling his subconscious waiting mechanisms out. Finger-tapping was the next best thing. That was probably one of the first things he changed as a result of his spinal injury. What did the doctor say it was? It’s a good thing. You’re starting to adapt, he remembered. Rehabilitation was a pain, but he’d be a fool to disregard all the good it did for him. At least, it had endowed him with the tools he needed to get by as a broken mutant in a cruel world.

"You’re not broken."

Oh but he was. As the train screeched to a halt, lights and beeps blinking and echoing through the vehicle interior, all he could think about was his useless legs and his even more useless mutation. Those wings that anyone would think of as a gift from heaven. Those wings that he deemed a cruel joke from heaven. Every time he prayed, he wondered why these wings were bestowed upon him as opposed to maybe telekinesis, or hell, just normal human genes so at least he didn’t have to have his hopes smashed again.

The journey through the subway itself was a struggle as he tried to maneuver around the ridiculous swarm of people that scattered about. He began to regret his decision to dress for the cold, wanting desperately to cast away his white coat, only to realize it would probably fall into a strange angle where it would only add more trouble. Then there were the bags at the back of his wheelchair, near heavy enough to tip him over, and after a while he began to also regret the decision to go it alone as opposed to having his sister accompany him on his journey to the Institute. He cursed his hollow bones under his breath as he slowly wheeled out of the train’s sliding doors. Even the bare minimum was quite a bit, especially for a teenage boy in a wheelchair in the bustling areas of the city. Michael didn’t consider himself feeble or skinny by any means. In fact, his muscles, while not bulging, were rather lean and strong, despite his halt in acrobatic training, and he silently thanked them for being the one thing keeping him from sprawling onto the floor, breathless.

And then he ended up on the floor. Right outside the main station doors, to be exact. The snow was this close to his face, actually.

Michael sighed, exasperated as a few people gasped and tried to crowd around him and his oddly possitioned wheelchair. Ignoring their concerned fussing and worrying, he sort of just lay there, staring off at the random fellow who was sprinting off down the sidewalk with not one, but two of his bags.

"Because of course it was just my damn luck I get mugged as soon as I get here, huh?" he muttered.

Dressing for the elements was a challenge for the young woman, but it was imperative given her susceptibility to the cold. She was wearing at least two layers of fleece-lined leggings, a knitted headband, a sweater, a scarf, a coat. Gina's bony, avian feet were still exposed, but beyond that she was pretty warm. From behind the darkened lenses of her sunglasses, Gina surveyed the bustling streets from street-level. Flying when visibility was this crappy, and when the air was so cold, was not enjoyable. Hence, walking. She was en route to Xavier's for her volunteer hours.

Most people have her a wide berth, despite the fact that she barely passed five feet. It came with the mutational territory. Gina just smiled, strode along, and minded her own business. That is, until someone mowed into her from behind. The gargoyle was sent stumbling forward.

“The f***?!” she murmured. Gina turned to face the person who’d slammed into her, a man who seemed preoccupied with the bags in his arms, “Where's the fire?”

“Thief! Stop him!!”

They were pointing at the guy who'd slammed into her. His grip tightened on the bags on his arm, and he broke back into a sprint.

Gina ran after him but her legs were short, she'd never be able to keep up or catch up with him. Before she knew what was happening, she spread her wings, frantically beating them to get off the ground. Flying was always faster. She was practically sprinting. In no time, she closed the distance between them. Gina swung close to the man who screamed in alarm or perhaps fear. Taloned hands clasped at the bags, but the man didn't release them. Gina banked higher. He was a small dude, quick too, so with minimal effort Gina began to climb.

“Let go of the bags,” Gina snapped, “Or I'll drop you.”

Apparently he was convinced, because he let go, stumbling to street-level. Gina fanned her wings, catching air. She jogged to a stop, turning to face the man. He backpedaled.

*Hissssssss,* the feral noise broke from her throat unbidden. The sound, or perhaps the gleaming canines, sent the man scrambling. Sometimes looking like a demon had its perks. Gina wrapped her arms around the bags and trotted back towards the crowd, pleased with herself. That could've been so much worse.

She was quiet as she returned, smiling at the bystanders. She wasn't sure who'd been mugged.

Michael had fallen plenty of times before. Even before his fateful accident, falling came with the training package, and he would be lying if he said none of the awkward smacks, slams and muscle tears hurt. In fact, his accident was one of the least physically painful things to happen to him in the gymnasium. It was short and straight to the point. He blacked out before he was in any real anguish. Now that the thought crossed his mind, he barely even remembered the accident. It was acutely quick yet nebulously slow all at the same time, and when the memory slipped through the lingering cracks of his subconscious it felt more like a dream than anything.
The sound of an alarmed shriek shook him out of his thoughts.

“Thief! Stop him!!”

The first thing Michael noticed when he was being carefully placed into his wheelchair like some fragile piece of glass was the young woman whom the ruffian collided with. He’d seen some not-quite-so-human-looking mutants before from the news and social media outlets, but never one in real life. He truly believed he’d seen it all when his eyes darted from the faint goat-shaped horns bulging out from her headband, her ghoulish gray skin and her strangely-shaped talons which were tearing into his stolen bags now – and were those wings?

Sure enough, with the fangs, the stone-colored skin and the bat wings, the other mutant seemed very much like the demons he’d read about in folklore. He knew he should have been frightened. For most people, that would be the appropriate reaction to what had just transpired. He knew for a fact that that was what most of the bystanders around him felt, as they slowly backed away, some even getting as far away as they could as fast as they could. He certainly didn’t blame them.

But Michael knew very well what it was like to be deemed a freak, even in his full angelic visage, and he wasn’t one to be known for hypocrisy. If even a literal angel was sickening, he couldn’t imagine what it was like to be a demon, permanently even. It was interesting, really, the sort of things humans idealized and fantasized about, only to shun when they were to experience it firsthand. Michael felt a slight twinge of fascination pooled in with an odd sense of jealousy. He wished he had the strength to fly like that in spite of everything around him, but he knew he’d only be shot down, and then what good would he be?

As the young mutant regarded the crowd silently, bags wrapped tightly in her arms, Michael realized she had no clue who owned those bags. He pushed forward, face as emotionless as usual, until he came right in front of her. “Those would be mine,” he said, stopping. “Thank you.”

However, just as he stretched his arms out to take the bags, he heard the soft hiss of fabric tearing before a book fell into his hand with a thud. It was a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, and it was soon followed by a few more small objects, including his pencil case, a few papers, and…

…he pressed his hand instinctively onto the hole before any more could fall out.

“It’s fine,” he said stubbornly, tugging slightly at the bags. “I can take it from here.”

The word of thanks was all but intoned. Gina heard him before she saw him. Her eyes meet the bag’s owner. He was in a wheelchair. God, what an absolutely sh**ty thing to do. But Gina supposed that a thief would think someone in a wheelchair was an easy target. Quietly, Gina wondered if she should've dropped the dude in principle.

“No problem,” the gargoyle beamed, chipper as ever, “I knew I could catch him, so I figured, ‘Why not?’ “

That was the thing about Gina-- contrary to appearances, she was all sugar and sweetness once she opened her mouth. And she was very quick to dispel any assumptions someone stuck to her appearance. She unfastened her hold on the bag, extending them towards the dude. The tearing was quiet, but her ears twitched at the sound, picking it up.

“Sh**.”

It happened more than Gina cared to admit, mostly with her own clothes, and as the result of her own carelessness. Usually the gargoyle took the time to mend the tears, except when it came to jeans, which bore tears well. This was a first, though-- in snatching the bags back from the bag-snatcher, Gina had all but ripped the dude's backpack open.

“My bad.”

>> “It’s fine, I can take it from here.”

Gina's mouth formed a ponderous slash. It didn't sit right with her, to cause a problem and then not repair it--even if said problem was the result of being very helpful.

“Hey man, I could totally, like, stitch those holes up,” Gina interjected despite the guy's prior statement, “I'm studying to be a seamstress.”

The bags were already in his lap, however, so it was his call.

Michael was an honest person. At least, he liked to think of himself as being honest, at times very honest, when considering other people. So if one were to ask him what he thought of the girl before she opened her mouth, he wouldn’t hesitate to assume she was nothing but a storm of clouds, not unlike the ones that menaced old stone buildings, flashing bolts of lightning over the grotesque creatures that found themselves perched, growling on their ledges. It was a natural aspect of humanity to jump to preconceived conclusions, and it was rather silly to think otherwise. It happened everywhere. It could happen in spite of an open mind. Assumption was inevitable. Thankfully, though, speaking out required an active force, and thus, suppressing such opinions and keeping them within to be eventually snuffed out was always an option.
And the assumptions he had were indeed snuffed out, stamped into disintegration as soon as the demon girl burst into sugar and rainbows.

>>“I knew I could catch him, so I figured, ‘Why not?’”

In many ways, Michael would have much preferred his preconceived version of the sort of person she was. At least that was familiar to him. At least it was comfortable, and not…

He glanced again at her beaming smile.

He wanted to puke.

Overly cheerful people, in his experience, were some of the most annoying people on this planet.

So when she offered her help it was his first instinct to refuse.

“No, really, it’s fine. Once I get to where I need to be, I can get someone to fix it,” he answered, firmly this time. He didn’t especially feel like spending any more time than necessary with her. He had nothing against her, no, it wasn’t a personal grudge at all. He hoped it didn’t come across in that manner. In such situations, a resting deadpan face and default toneless voice proved to be invaluable tools. Michael wasn’t in the mood to be in the presence of her infectious joy. He’d had enough of that during rehabilitation. I’d had enough of that with myself, he remarked silently, trying to shove aside the memory of his unbridled joy once he found out about his not-so-heavenly gift, as if it were an embarrassing stain on an obsidian cloth.

Unfortunately, the universe seemed to have a way of toying with him, making damn sure he almost never had his way. He fumbled with the straps of the backpack, trying, unsuccessfully, to position it onto his lap so he could use free up his two arms for transport. It tossed, turned, dipped dangerously low, then swung back up in aggravation. If his sister were here she’d have a hell of a time gloating about how right she was when she tried to convince him of the benefits of a remote-controlled wheelchair as opposed to a more traditional one. Rachel and her damn technology.

Did that thought make him seem old? He supposed it did. He did seem older than his actual years would suggest, or at least, that was what his family seemed to think. Regardless, Michael didn’t regret using a traditional wheelchair. After all, if he couldn’t walk or fly, the one thing he could do was push, at least. At the very least, that was one freedom granted to him in this chaotic whirlwind that was life.

Then the backpack slipped and fell onto the snow-layered ground, a few books and miniature technology spinning out, forming, yes, a chaotic whirlwind mess underneath it.

“F***.”

Gina shrugged at his dismissal. Maybe he had a mom or a girlfriend who knew how to sew. Fair enough. Gina was all about righting her wrongs, but she wasn't going to be a nuisance about it. Plus, she'd already done one good turn, today, which was a lot more than most could say. She turned to continue her stroll towards Xavier's, adjusting the accessories that'd become disheveled in her spontaneous flight.

This was, conveniently, in the same direction as the dude in the wheelchair was headed. It wasn't as though Gina was trying to follow him. She was walking to Xavier's, he was rolling in the same general direction. Apparently the dude's backpack had other ideas and toppled over, his belongings skittering free. A small, black metallic box spiraled further than the other items, coming to a halt against the talons of one of Gina's feet.

Gina stooped down, picking the device up off of the pavement and wiping it on her leg. She sauntered towards him. She picked up the books while she was at it, too. The guy had already been clear about not wanting her help with mending the bag, but that didn't mean she wouldn't help him otherwise.

“Hey,” Gina said casually, holding the collection of personal belongings out for the taking, “Here. I think… I got a plastic bag here somewhere… then your sh** won't fall out all over the place.”

Once the books were back in the guy's possession, Gina unclasped her messenger bag and began to rummage through it.