[Capital: Misha & The Revenant]
Misha was wandering, plain and simple. He'd taken to doing it a whole lot since he quit attending classes, and he was aimless some recent. Since the dreaming, he'd been even more aimless, not wanting to be nothing special, but not knowing how to be something he knew he wasn't. Back when he'd been real bonkers, when he'd thought Damian was something beautiful created in his own mind, it had been easy to go 'round living being just a boy. Now, he knew better, and stepping back was a whole lot harder than he'd reckoned it would be.
He'd considered deals and bartering, but he hadn't done nothing foolish or impulsive. Damian would be real fussed if Misha came home human and having sold something significant to get that way, and it was the only thing keeping the boy from doing some daft thing just on account of his melancholy. Misha was in the doldrums just at present, and when he got low his days shifted idle 'tween sleeping and wandering. He hadn't danced in a good long while, and he hadn't fiddled in a good long while, and tonight found him walking, dressed soft and how he did when he was feeling low. There were thick boots on his feet, and his knee highs were white, and he wore one of Damian's hoodies over the dress.
And he was just wandering. He wasn't looking for trouble. He wasn't looking for nobody to save or meet or talk to, but the penthouse up above drew his attention in a way that was real non-human. On the roof, there was a whole line of Watchers, and they were waiting. Misha could see their wings tight to their bodies, and he sighed and walked himself through the closed lobby door. He could've just blinked on up, but he didn't. He took the elevator, and he stepped out and toward the man that had slipped on his way to the stairs. He crouched, touched a cheek with fingers that glowed warm, soothing. "You go on," he said quiet, just mellowing the fear in the man's eyes some with that golden touch. He waited some seconds 'til the man was full gone.
He stepped into the penthouse next, the sound of wings carrying with him, though the wings weren't visible none. He walked to the desk next, where the woman was slumped, and he touched his fingers to her throat, too, and then he looked up and saw the man from Claire's ritual.
"I don't reckon it's dancing you're here for," he said plain. "You're Claire's murdering man, the one she was real torn 'bout." He looked 'round. "You been busy."