Thomas had gotten out of the shower, put on his jeans, holding his shirt in his hands, and his tablet, a cheaper knock-off of the apple products, Thomas was convinced the only thing you payed for was the logo. On the tablet he was searching every site he had access too, the Texan had picked up a few shortcuts into local PD's systems, since they were usually rather out of date, back in Texas. He couldn't get into any confidential files, but he could get the corner reports on the killed thugs, and the names of the ones in custody. 

It lead the Texan to figuring out who it was he was supposed to talk to. One of the local fences, a C.I to the cops. His name was Carl Jefferson, and he wasn't easy to shake up. But Thomas wasn't cut from the same cloth as the local police department. He had his own ways of getting information from the crocks. Thomas walked into his bedroom, and took a deep breath. Stretching his neck before he clenched his fists, and focused. His fists soon started shaking, and then his arms, shoulders and chest soon followed. Veins in his forehead, and on his left temple became visible. He let out a groan as the sickening sound of his skin ripping on his back, letting out the two white wings. A few drops of blood on the floor under him and behind him, as well as the wall behind him. 

Thomas was panting, kneeling on the floor. Sweat running down his face. His mouth tasting like blood and every muscle in his body felt like it was on fire. His head was spinning, dizzy, feeling like he was gonna throw up, or pass out. But Thomas knew this feeling so well, as he had experienced it so many times before. He had to push through, and not give in. The pain would subside, it always did.

Thomas looked up, the sweat dripping from his forehead, his body shaking slightly, as he climbed to his feet. The four meter wing-span flapping twice, before Thomas pulled the wings towards his body, making them almost unnoticeable if you would look at him from the front.

He made his way to the wardrobe, putting his hand on a panel in the back of the wardrobe, a metal handle was seen. With it, he pulled out the folded metal-bar that held up the hangers with his equipment on it. One hanger for the silk shirt he wore, one for the leather jacket. One for the holster with the shotgun in it. He had sheaths for knives, batons and even a machete. Today, he choose to go with the batons. He threw the leather holster onto the bed behind him, as he took down the shirt, removed it from it's hanger and put it to his body. It was always tricky to put on clothes with the wings out. But with a little effort, he got the fine fabric shirt to his body. He buttoned it up. Now for the leather jacket, as the leather was much harder than the silk, the jacket was always more difficult for Thomas to put on. Taking several minutes to put it on, Thomas adjusted it's fitting on his body when he was done.

Now all that was left was to apply the face paint. Thomas walked into the bathroom and opened the mirror, to get the navy blue face paint out. He opened the bottle, and put a little into his palm. Using the fingers on the other hand to apply it around his eyes, like a mask. He also applied a little around his face, to further disguise his features.

“Not that they're gonna remember your face anyway.. Wings are a bit more memorable..” Thomas mumbled to himself, the words of someone he once knew, back home. Once he was done, he pulled the hood up, and walked to the small balcony in his bedroom. He opened up the door. Looking around, seeing no one else outside, he swiftly jumped up onto the rail, and took a deep breath. Extending his wings from his body, as he leapt of, taking to the skies.