2012-07-04 Philosophical Musings

Ah, the Fourth of July. Fireworks in the air, people milling about, so on and so forth. For Prabhakar, the event is an interesting one, if in a different way. The way the fireworks explode hotly, the way the air currents twist and roil so beautifully immediately after--it's beautiful. Then there's the cultural significance, which is especially interesting to his foreign perspective. He's sitting outside a café, more interested in watching the passing pedestrians than the light show in the distant sky. He's got his little black bag sitting on the table nearby; one never knows when medical attention will be required, and it pays to be especially vigilant on holidays. Tail poking through the wire backing of the chair, it flicks now and then, and his wings are folded over his shoulders to hang back and down something like a cloak.

Fourth of July! Please. These ruddy colonists are so arrogant. Angela makes her way to said café, her own large bag over her shoulder. Black shirt over green slacks, the Brit drops her bag gently on Prab's table and moves to sit. Asking permission? What's that? Being rude is better than being alone. "Hi. I'm joining- wow," Angela says with her posh British accent, words halting as soon as the gray skin and red eyes register.

The mutant looks up at the woman, attention on her made obvious by the inclination of his head. A warm smile comes to his lips, and he uses his left hand to motion to the other chair. "Please, by all means, you are most welcome," he says, his Indian accent giving his words a lilting quality. "It is rather--busy, yes?--and I certainly do not mind the company." He has a warm and open demeanor, though there's also that attentive and even inquisitive quality about him that comes from practicing medicine.

This takes Angela a moment of thought before she plops in the aforementioned chair. "Yes, it is rather busy," she repeats, countenance eased by the company and yet, curious of his look. Not afraid, mind you. She openly eyes the demon in front of her, head tilting.

Well, curiosity's better than some reactions, so Prabhakar won't complain. "I find these events most--interesting," he says. "Celebrating the birth of one's nation with a nation-wide event. In many ways, it's one of the most interesting holidays." He smiles again, then reaches for his cup of coffee to take a sip. Though he doesn't move his head too much, it can likely be "felt" that his attention wanders between Angela, the passers-by, and the fireworks.

"It's rather pompous, but I've been told it's rather rude to comment on it, given we are in the coloni-... America," Angela retorts coldly, pulling her purse to her lap and opening it.

"It /is/ a bit--ostentatious, perhaps," Prabhakar says agreeably. "But look at all the United States have accomplished--what my own homeland of India has achieved in millennia, the United States has achieved in decades. Yes, they are an off-shoot, of a sorts, of Britain, but they became so much more, in so short a time." He lifts his cup in something of a salute. "Not many countries can boast so much progress, so quickly, even if the argument can be made that it might have been /too/ quick."

From her purse, very thin and very long silver needles are pulled, from which dangles a wrinkled sort of web-like lacy item about a foot and a half in width and now about four inches long. "Agreed, though I don't have to care for the day at all," Angela quips as her fingers go to straighten out the knitted fabric.

"That is very true," says Prabhakar with a wider smile. He also decides to exercise his curiosity, as it's not often he gets to have such an interesting discussion outside of the clinic. "Which part of Britain do you come from, if I may ask? I seem to hear a bit of northern London, if I am not mistaken." He inclines his head a little to one side, indicating his elfin ears.

Green eyes track to the offered ears, even as the question makes Angela a touch uneasy. "Yes, I do," is all she replies as she lowers her gaze and seeks to continue her knit-work.

Ah. That seems like something of a touchy subject, so Prabhakar decides to leave it alone. No sense in being too forward. "You must have an interesting perspective on this country, I would imagine," he says instead. "I find it interesting to view such a country from 'the outside', as it were." That smile stays on his dark lips, a hopefully friendly expression to invite a similar warmth.

Similar warmth? Angela looks up, eyes the expression, then returns it with a sort of cold and distant, yet well-practiced smile of a noble, before she drops her eyes back to her work. There's a moment of silence, then, "Yes. Though I rather think it is an ill suited topic for this evening, don't you?"

It's probably a good thing Prabhakar can't see /that/ much detail. He sees /that/ Angela is smiling in return, so decides to forge on ahead, in spite of the reticence heard in her voice. "Perhaps, but if one cannot discuss a country as it celebrates its own birth, when /can/ one? I think this is a good time for such reflection, much as one may reflect on their personal histories during birthdays and anniversaries."

Angela sighs at that, then sets her work down and looks up at Prab..... Well, at least she's not alone. "True enough. I find the whole notion of celebrating a childish temper tantrum that resulted in mass terrorism and the lost of His Majesty's god given colonies tiring and rude," she says, almost hissing at the emotions.

That makes the mutant grin, and Prabhakar nods his head once. "That is one way to look at it, and I suppose it would not be inaccurate--though, of course, there is always another side. I believe they would mention the more oft-mentioned things such as taxes. Though, one of the tales I find personally most interesting is Benedict Arnold. Do you know much of him?"

Angela frowns delicately, that look of the upper class glaring down at an impoverished servant. "I'd rather not continue this current topic. Would you be so kind as to promptly see it changed," she asks, her diction flawless. "Perhaps, you would care to discuss your physical appearance? Tattoo," she quips, trying to sound interested.

That makes Prabhakar actually laugh, a short but mirthful sound. "I do sometimes forget," he says, "just what my difference means to most people." He lifts his left hand to turn it back and forth in front of him. "To my eyes, this hand looks little different than your own. I do not see in color, at least as I understand the concept. I see variations in heat, so the warmth of my hand looks little different than the warmth in your own." Settling his hand back in his lap, he crosses his legs at the knee, tail swishing a little in humor through the wire-backed chair. "I am reminded of how interesting it is that we humans are biologically disposed toward finding differences in others." As mutants are, if technically, humans, he sees no reason to not consider himself as one.

Angela mmms faintly, eyes now spotting the... "You have a tail," she comments, and now that her gaze is drawn that way, she leans to peer at his cloak...? "And wings?" She smirks then, eyes narrowing. "You must frighten people," she quips, then licks her lips.

A hairless brow arching, Prabhakar considers that, a thoughtful look on his face. "I suppose I do, though I also do not see it as being of much concern. I--do not believe that someone else's perception is really--ah, what is the term--my problem, I suppose. It seems to me that there is nothing I can do, that I am not already doing, to ensure I do not scare people." Another smile, and he adds, "So far, I seem--to be winning people over, I believe."

And that's when Angela murmurs, "If you frighten people, you've just won me over." Her smile is more than a little ....dark. Sure, she's fine now, but give her a few days. Always plan ahead.

That piques Prabhakar's interest, and he cants his head a little once more. "In what way do you mean?" he asks, surprise and even a bit of confusion evident. He wonders if she might be making a joke that he just doesn't "get"--which wouldn't be that far-fetched, really. Humor is always one of the most difficult things to understand about another culture.

Angela licks her lips once, then looks away. She inhales a bit, and looks down to her knitting. "Nothing. Sorry," she lies smoothly, counting the stitches she's made quickly.

There's something in the way her heat patterns suddenly shift that really catch Prabhakar's attention, and he gives her another smile, his demeanor shifting to become that welcoming sort that patients find comforting. "I do not mind," he says sincerely. "I am a doctor at a county clinic in Hell's Kitchen--I know how to keep a secret, and I doubt I would be surprised by anything you could tell me."

"A doctor?" Angela's eyes widen. Her heart suddenly speeds up and her gaze lifts to Prab again. "I'm not sick," she states with the vehemence of a mental patient's firm denials.

"Oh, I did not mean to imply I thought you were sick," Prabhakar says quickly, lifting a hand in an apologetic manner. "I merely wished to say that I have heard many, ah--'interesting' things over the years, and you can be assured that I know well how to keep confidences."

Angela's eyes narrow, her lips starting to sneer. "Yes, I've heard it all before, -Doctor-. If you'll excuse me," she's saying, hands reaching out to collect her things.

A hint of color rises to Prabhakar's cheeks, a faint crimson providing an odd and not-exactly-complimentary contrast to his normal grey tones. "Please, do not go on my account," says Prabhakar, leaning forward a little as his tail curls underneath the chair in a contrite manner. "If I have offended you in any way, I do apologize, for that was not my intent." One of the first interesting conversations he's had outside of the clinic, and he's apparently blown it. Wonderful.

His apology makes Angela pause. Her eyes flick about, knowing none of the people out there. Lack of company, she knows makes the nightmares return faster. She's loathe to shorten the duration a good night's sleep does for her so quickly. She sighs and leaves of making moves to department. "I don't like doctors, as a general rule of thumb. I've seen.. far too many for my liking. Unless... are you a ... medical doctor or... a ..." She pauses, as if unable to get herself to say psychologist.

"Yes, I am a general practitioner, at the New York County Health Clinic," says Prabhakar. "I do not--ah--'shrink heads', is the term I believe? Let me get you a card, hmm?" He goes to pull his medical bag closer to him and unzip it, so he can fish around in it for a moment. It can be seen that he's using his fingers to "look" through the items therein, and a stethoscope can be seen, along with a few other items one would expect from a doctor's medical bag. After a beat, he pulls out a small card with the N.Y. County Health Clinic's Hell's Kitchen address on it. It probably isn't one she's been to, being a free clinic and all, but it /is/ a genuine clinic. "Though we do refer people to psychiatric care if they wish," he says as he slides the card across to Angela, "it is not something I, myself, practice."

The card is taken with distinct care and tucked into her purse without a glance. "I see. Well, I suppose I should apologize for my earlier outburst...."

Another smile settles on Prabhakar's features, and he sits back once more. "I will accept your apology if you accept mine first," he says easily, the warmth returning to his demeanor.

<>