[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/Jk9wrt1.png[/img][/center][color=#e3dac9][u][b][center]The Compound - Wit's End[/center][/b][/u][/color][color=#e3dac9][u][b][center]Mentioned - [@Marrok][/center][/b][/u][/color]
Standing at the entrance to a bar all too known throughout the compound, Willow instructed his thrall to lower itself to a knee, allowing the boy to slide off, a pair of small feet hitting the ground with a weightless thud. A mount like any other, Willow often found himself atop the undead servant in an incredibly lazy display. Beyond the walls of the compounds, one would likely view the development as an oddity. However, within the circus of freaks so often called Devo Town, it fell into the local norm. The compounds were nothing if not colorful. Also, of course, as one would call them, shit holes. It was, however, the only reality Willow had known since early childhood. He was all too familiar with every nook and cranny within Devo Town, New York. Such was the life of a mutant orphan. Willow's appearance gave off his nature as a deviation from humanity at first glance.

Ghostly white skin, large, black eyes, claws, albeit small, atop fingers and toes, and of course razor teeth would fundamentally indicate the result of this most failed pregnancy. A mutant, clearly, Willow's size also indicted a miniscule, sylph like creature rather than a human in both height and girth. This set him apart from his kin, even before powers manifested, which for Willow, was at the age of nine. He could not imagine how it must have felt for those who built themselves a life in the surrounding city, only to be ripped from those they had learned to love, from their very existence, and dropped in the concentration camp Willow had known as his home since birth.

It was a depressing thought to be sure, comfort swept from under one's feet, and left to fend for oneself. The fine folk of New York's pristine venues could not imagine life within the compounds. To be thrown into the nightmare so abruptly was not a scenario Willow had little empathy for. These thoughts reached the front of his mind once Willow pushed the bar doors open and saw a waiter he had not witnessed in the past. He must have been new. At the very least, newly hired. "That dude looks like he's about to break," Shade laughed, his arms circling Willow's shoulders from behind the boy. "Oh, that's rich! New meat!" of course, where Willow displayed empathy, Shade found laughter.

"Let's have a seat," the mutant boy commented, before pulling a chair out in the safety of a shadowy corner, alongside Bob and made himself comfortable. It was ironic, in a way, or perhaps a sad revelation, that despite all the company Willow had accumulated, he was well and truly alone. Bob was a husk, a creature controlled by the boy and Shade was a figment of Willow's very fractured and damaged mind. The sad part found itself displayed in the fact that without this schizophrenia, he'd be lost. Without that voice clawing at the back of his mind, without the imaginary touch he had grown so used to, Willow could only see himself growing mad.

Pulling his hood down, slender fingers worked on the buckles keeping his beaked mask in place, before finally revealing the boy's young, androgynous visage to those within the establishment. With a soft breath, Willow shook his messy, raven hair loose, and tugged his gloves off. It was not often that the boy exposed his face in public, merely out of habit, rather than a more insidious intent. He oftentimes forgot himself, even when indoors, and thus only took his mask or gloves off when he retired for a night's sleep, or well earned meal. Porridge was what Willow considered his norm, and also what he could afford. Working for the resistance movement had allowed for some income, but nothing to consider impressive.

Willow's main source was tailoring, where he repaired clothes or crafted new vestments. It was the one labor he excelled at as a child in the orphanage, and a skill which had come in handy more than once. Willow tailored his own masks, and had made several options available in the hole he called a house. With a stretch and a yawn, the young mutant unzipped his hoodie, before a pair of large, obsidian eyes fixed their attention on the new hire. He seemed scared, lost, out of his element. This wasn't a man who had grown to understand the compounds. Not yet. Willow's gaze intensified somewhat as the server was apprehended by a patron, but the situation quickly simmered out. "Pff..," Shade's voice trickled into Willow's ear, "what an underdog."

"That used to be us, you know," came a soft whisper in turn as Willow shifted his attention to Shade. "He's the reason no one messes with us," Willow finished, motioning to Bob who sat silently on a chair by the table.

"And that's a fucking shame," Shade offered with a sigh and roll of his eyes, "when was the last time we melted someone? Admit it, you fucking love the feeling."

Willow's silence hinted at a response, one he wasn't necessarily proud of, before turning to look at the menu on his table. Using his powers was, in a word, bliss. It was exhilarating, conjuring forth the energies swirling within. What Shade said was true, even though Willow was less than prepared to admit it.