Douglas' car is parked outside a small, nondescript building. The inside of the building is anything but nondescript, but we'll not go into that, seeing as Douglas is just coming out.

In one hand, he has a paper bag containing goodness knows what.
In the other, he has a keyring, and he's muttering at it as he slides the keys around, trying to find the proper one to unlock the car before he reaches it. Yes, he could do it by magic, but it's rather a waste, even if it is easier.
And it never hurts to pretend he's normal.

She's late.

She has a meeting with a tutor an hour ago, and she just remembered it, and this was very, very bad.

She brushes past him, the feel of cloth and wing and cloth and that wasn't how brushing past a human feels. Ever. It just... isn't. Too soft, wrong shape, and bony underneath in the way the human back isn't.

She doesn't even realize.

Douglas drops the bag, and something inside shatters noisily when it hits the ground. He doesn't seem to mind too much, however, being preoccupied with the young girl who'd just pushed past him.

"Stop."

Wasting magic on unlocking a door is one thing - wasting magic on controlling possible specimens is quite another.

She pauses, bird alighting, that frozen-in-motion look of a bird that can't tell whether or not to fly or stay, that coiled-inward motion that arested faster than a normal human could have.

A normal human would have stumbled. Swallow does not.

"Yes?" Did you want something? This had better be important.

She's angry. She's impatient. She's irritated.

She isn't really sure why she isn't just brushing past him, ignoring him. That's how she'd normally have handled this.

He mutters a spell, and then...

"Come with me."

He beckons.
This time, it's a command. Unless she has some unforeseen resistance to magic, she's got no choice but to obey.

She follows, looking thunderous, but not commenting just yet.

Honestly? She's rather scared. Otherwise she'd be being snarky right now.

Douglas steps over and unlocks the car. He even opens the door for her, but rather ruins the gentlemanly air of the gesture by intoning, "Get in. No struggling."
What, no 'please'?

Ignoring his purchases (which were now oozing out onto the sidewalk where they'd been dropped), he slides into the driver's seat and slams the door. If he were the smiling sort, he would smile; but he's not, so he just smirks.

She gets in, positively humming with magically-restrained anger.

If she were the glaring type, she'd glare at him.

Somehow, she finds herself gazing idly out of the window.

Sitting against the car seat is uncomfortable. She hunches forward, because she doesn't particularly like squishing her wings into pancakes.

For the record? She would really, really, really like to know what the hell was going on.

Just for the record.

There is no small talk as Douglas starts the car,... drives off... and finally pulls into the driveway of his home.

"Get out of the car," he instructs, doing so himself to lead the way.

She gets out of the car.

If she were the type to mutter obscenities, she would mutter obscenities. She isn't the type.

She follows.

Swallow is led inside, and down to the basement. It's not a scuzzy, damp, plaster, drywall basement, nor is it a rec room kind of basement. It looks more like a clinic was transplanted here.

"Sit on that table, and do not move," he orders, pointing to the table, then wandering over to a counter and idly selecting a small bottle. He then turns to face her. "So, girl. What are you?"

She blinks idly at him.

That wasn't an order, creepy older man with creepy powers.

Maybe she's mute.

She, meanwhile, is thinking through something. She sat on the table as commanded. Now she stopped moving, as commanded. Now there aren't any more commands, are there?

Hm.

She'll continue not moving, not because it was ordered, but because she wants him close enough to kick before she moves.

She is a master of hypocrisy and lying to herself, you see.

Ooh, a stubborn one.

"Well? Tell me what you are."
That's an order.

Douglas strides over, unscrewing the top of the little plastic bottle.
He's not even looking at Swallow.

"Female."

And then she kicks him in the ahems.

She fulfills the letter of the order.

Really she does.

Kinda?

That would be very painful for Douglas... if he weren't shielded.

What? He's not quite dull enough to not shield himself when dealing with creatures (yes, creatures) of uncertain species.

"Lively one, aren't you," he remarks, one eyebrow twitching. "Let's rephrase that. You are not to move. At all."

Pause.

"Except for breathing, or talking. Now - your species?"

Pause.

Maybe she's human. Maybe she's an angel. Whatever she is, she's somewhere inbetween them.

She doesn't have to tell him that.

The wings, under the coat, are noticable if you care to look for them. She's never seen a reason to hide them.

And you know what? He forgot to phrase that as an order.

She is not going to be helpful in his little enterprise.

Douglas circles her,... takes off her coat.

"If you won't tell, I'll find out for myself."

He takes hold of one of her wings and pulls it open, seeming rather unimpressed.

"You're not much to look at, are you... I was expecting something less drab."

"I am not drab."

She is irritated.

Her feathers aren't drab, exactly, except in color. If you like complicated patterns and spots and things in black and brown, anyway.

They're incredibly healthy wings. Shiny, well groomed.

And, hey, they're wings.

They also don't like you, creepy man.

"You're drab. Not at all what I expected."

Douglas runs his fingers over the feathers, finding the nicest ones.
And plucking them out.

They get placed in the small bottle, and labeled 'F. Angel (?), 02/15/06' .

How is one supposed to react with this?

Not with violence, or swearing. Not with anger, or tears.

She blinks, and with each blink, with each feather, she makes herself more stubborn.

She is stronger, mentally, than anyone she has ever met. She is strong.

She is stronger than... this.

She blinks in time with her heartbeat.

This really isn't a very eventful little event, is it? Sad, almost.

Having finished selecting feathers, Douglas goes on to gather other samples from the girl - like he's done countless times before to other non-humans. A little skin here, a little blood there, is all he needs.

And once he has those, he steps back and regards her with a slight frown.
He's wondering if it's really worth the mess to toy with her a little longer.

She raises her eyebrows in sardonic dare.

What are you doing, exactly, you insignificant insect?

Douglas smirks.

She hasn't been much fun thus far,... he wouldn't expect that to change.
And, all that mess for nothing? Definitely not worth it. Some people would think it was some kind of show of respect for her strength that he's letting her go without much further ado.
Some people would be wrong.

"Very well, then, I think we're finished, but for one last thing..."

He hisses a spell that's intended to clear her memory of this whole event, - of himself, especially. It was annoying him that he had to tell his specimens exactly what they needn't remember, so he developed a new spell to do the task for him. Mind, he's never used it before. He can't be sure it works.

Once the spell's set, he waves a hand to shoo her. "Go on. Get out."

She rises - stumbles, and stumbles her way out, blind and deaf to all around her, lost. Lost and disoriented and gone.

She takes random turns, random streets, until she's so tired she can't see straight (or perhaps that's the spell), and she leans against a wall and trembles.

Something hurts.

Someone hurts.

Who?

...who?