Cutscene: Prospectus
IC Details

Painted into a corner by registration, Warren Worthington makes a difficult choice. …Half the population was probably okay with it, though.

IC Date: December 05, 2018
IC Location: New York City
OOC Notes & Details
Posted: 06 Dec 2018 04:26
Rating & Warnings:
Associated Plots

"They're ready for you, Mr. Worthington."

It's a phrase Warren Worthington has heard often enough over the course of his life, in various contexts. Only in the last few years, however, did it ever truly matter.

Today, it will matter more than it ever has before.

Warren Worthington steps up to the podium, moving in the rustling half-silence of a room rapt with anticipation. The slight protruding slope of his back, and his odd unbalanced gait, are by now familiar sights to the world; not even the expert tailoring of his pure white suit can hide either of these features fully. He has been known for these physical trademarks ever since he was just 'the Worthington heir,' a fifteen year-old scrap of a boy standing in his father's shadow.

A shame, they all said. It was almost worse for such a beautiful young man to be marred by such small disfigurements. Almost worse to just scrape two inches short of perfection, instead of never having a chance at all.

Warren always laughed about such talk — outwardly. It was harder to laugh at the end of the day, when his wings would ache, too stiff from long confinement to open or bear his weight.

They're aching now, a dull throb pressed down too-small against his spine. He puts them from his mind as he looks up across the sea of faces and readied cameras. There's some prepared cards in his hand, which he places on the podium before him. He glances down at them, as if to refresh his memory, before he settles his hands to either edge of the podium and raises his golden head.

"I've heard the media is already trading stories that I've registered under the Metahuman Registration and 'Public Safety' Act," he begins. The quotes are audible in his voice. "My respects to the paparazzi — " an ironic small bow is swept to the cameras, " — as always, they've got a talent for sniffing out a man's business, often before he even knows it himself."

He turns the cards over on the podium, flipping them face-down. "In this instance, however, I know exactly what my own business is… and so here we are, so I may clarify the matter." A sardonic half-smile. "A little speculation might be good for business, but not this kind of speculation, as the rest of the board has been very free to remind me. 'Why is he registering? Was he in danger of being arrested? Has he committed some crime? Will Worthington Industries be prosecuted? Does he have a secret Stark suit or two?'"

A pause. "Very rude, the last one. Unthinkable."

Warren exhales a breath. "Bad business. So let's have all the cards on the table."

And that is when the Worthington scion begins to strip on national television.

The suit jacket goes, handed off to his personal assistant. Beneath, over his dress shirt, is wrapped something the public has never seen: a harness, bound about his torso to keep something strapped down tight against his back.

The harness unhooks from the front, straps falling away, steel rivets clicking against one another. The dress shirt unhooks from the back, custom-tailored — as all his others are — to leave a gap over the shoulderblades.

The reasons for that — both of them — spread abruptly with a creak of cramped muscles stretching, and a rustle of feathers shaking out. White wings fan free, sixteen feet from tip to tip, spanning from one end of the stage to the other. One wingtip accidentally knocks over a decorative flowerpot; absolutely no one pays the slain plant any mind.

There is a deathly moment of silence.

Warren leans forward on the podium, bare from the waist up, wings mantling over the corpse of his anonymity.

"You're all quite lucky," he says, even as the room fills with the furious click-clack of camera shutters. "I usually don't pull these out until the third date."

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