Snippet #2410380

A performance magician, Donovan knew all too well when he was being watched, pried apart for answers to impossible questions— and the girl unnerved him, with her seeming telepathy. The way she could speak right into his head like his voices worried him that she, too, was reading his mind. But Donovan was quick to chastise himself; there he was, again, acting like he was of the more paranoid flavor of schizophrenic. Like he was schizophrenic at all. Even if he wasn't childhood-onset... he was still young enough.

No. He'd looked it up on the Internet, checked for symptoms. He wasn't the most social of people, but he still felt the desire to interact. His speaking was fine. As far as he knew, he could still experience pleasure. Try as he might, however, he couldn't shake the feeling that his mind was going. He couldn't shake the fear that, if not surely, slowly, he was losing his ability to stop himself from hurting someone. Out of all his fears, a worry that he would snap and lash out plagued him the most.

Words from the bleach-blond angel suckled him away from his paranoia. "Well, a party huh. One night out can't kill me. Where is it? But won't it look weird if I go as well, I don't exactly... I don't really blend in." He was answering the girl's question. So he'd heard her words, too. Donovan's eyes drifted to the angel. Almost ironically, he had such a comfortable air about him that the wings felt like something of an afterthought. Donovan, on the other hand, was doing his best to keep his neurotic side in check. There was a chance he wasn't hallucinating all this. That, or his hallucinations were whacked in the head, too, in which case he really needed help. Except he didn't have money, so what, then?

Years living in and out of various things he couldn't quite reasonably call 'homes' had left the instinct to check his pockets when he was nervous burned into his muscles. His wallet was still gone. Usually, his hands weren't lying to him. He let them sit there, straightening his posture and relaxing his shoulders to take the tense edge off his stance. Winged men? Well, there was only one. And a telepathic little girl?

"I'm down for a party any time, anywhere. Do we have time to go shopping? I think he needs some less.... used clothing." The woman in the red cardigan spoke, and a surge of guilt hit Donovan. Used. Yeah, she was putting it nicely. He didn't want to waste their time, though, hunting down clothing he couldn't afford, anyway. His stomach knotted into a self-conscious ball as she continued, her voice as sweet as honey laced with lead, "I'm Naomi, by the way. I guess we'll be working together." Whoever this Naomi was, Donovan wasn't sure how much he trusted her. Certainly only a little bit more than himself.

Donovan almost missed it when the tall, pretty woman in the leather jacket spoke. All she gave was an almost offhanded acknowledgement. Of the people in the room, she'd said the least but needed to say the most— Donovan had a nagging feeling of curiosity prying at the edges of his conscience. He wasn't sure what to think about her just yet.

Thankfully, his brain had quieted down with the premature judgements and the fragmented sentences. He was calming down again, his brain falling back in synch with his lax posture. He didn't mind going to a party, and he didn't want to be the odd one out. "Sounds alright," he said, unsure what else to say even though his words hardly gave away his inner shyness, "Although Naomi's probably right. How formal's the party? Ah, and I'm Donovan, by the way."

He glanced around, his eyes trying to find something to look at. There was the door. The counter. The girl, who had sunken into one hip as she stood, watching them with eyes that seemed to slink from one man's innards to another. He didn't trust her, either, but he looked to her to break the silence with more answers.

Elsie straightened herself, flicking flyaway hairs back behind her ears with her free hand. A sort of deep-in-thought expression passed over her face, creasing her face in places he'd never have expected on a girl her age. Her nails were painted a bright, summery orange, but they were chipped and bitten down to raw stubs at the thumb and forefinger. He suspected her middle finger would be next to go.

"I suppose I have more to explain to you, then," something of an 'ugh' crossing her face as she said it even though she couldn't speak it, "The party isn't until six o'clock. And unless all of you want to risk getting shot by rooftop snipers returning home, we're all going shopping. We aren't guests, anyway," she paused to glance at Ezra. "Assuming we're not dead by sundown, we're booked as entertainment. This is an expensive venue. Seats sell for thousands, if not more. If all goes well, we'll be paid well; even the down could cover a nice dress or two. So consider it a gift. A reason to trust us."

All Donovan could think was, I'm held at ransom by strange people saying other strange people want to kill me, and I still have a show tonight? The girl smiled up at him, and for a moment he feared she'd heard his thoughts. She turned away to smile at the others, as well, however, and Donovan saw it was just the smile of a young girl excited for a shopping trip. In better times, he might have refused just to be polite, but he was desperate before. Nevermind that fact that he'd never be able to return home again for fear of being shot at his doorstep.

"So," Elsie tilted her head a bit, the grin almost as wide as her face, "Store-hopping it is? I say we get out of this place. It's dark in here. Besides, we can use the opportunity to get to know each other better. Fate knows, we'll have to." She twirled off, not even waiting for their responses, not in the least fazed by the fact that she was spending money that wasn't technically hers to take people she didn't know out shopping.

To keep his worried thoughts from turning on him again, Donovan turned to the tall woman in the red leather jacket, blathering. Blathering like a well-seasoned fraud, but blathering all the same. "Tell me," he mused, "If we're going to get shot dead trying to get home, what keeps us from being targeted right here in the streets?" Still yet, he started toward the door, picking up the handkerchief still lying on the floor and stashing it in his pocket for good measure. It was rude to leave things just sitting there when customers would be coming back in any second, now.