Nightingale (closed oneshot)

[Typhoid]

Having to work for money wasn't something that was particularly new to Typhoid. Actually going out and looking for a job, on the other hand, was an entirely different matter. As a young teenager she'd depended on a meager allowance from her adoptive parents, as a runaway she'd depended on what the streets and other mutants had thrown her way, and as a Morlock she'd depended on payment for services rendered, though those "services" usually involved getting one person out of the way for someone else. These days, that wasn't a particularly viable option to turn to. She didn't have it in her to intentionally hurt someone anymore, not unless wildly provoked.

Walking down a street in Greenwich Village popular for it's jazz cafes, music clubs, and higher end restaurants, she thought ruefully that perhaps the option of "starving artist" wasn't all that wonderful either. She'd been on two auditions already, both for night singers at music clubs. Both hadn't gone particularly well, and in one she'd actually been turned away as soon as they saw Xavier's on her resume. When she'd pointed out that she'd gotten two scholarships based on her performance ability, they simply sneered at one of "Xavier's muties." She'd been tempted to bring the building down around their ears, but it wouldn't have done much for her prospects.

The last place with open auditions that she'd found was one that unofficially catered more to mutants, and that alone rankled Typhoid. If she'd wanted to go somewhere that was a mutant haunt, she'd have tried the Hellfire. For once, she wanted to make it on her own as a mutant in a human world without the crutch of mutant sympathy. It wasn't working out so well, and now she had little choice in the matter. She needed a job, and so she went around the back door of a place called "Spades."

Walking in a side door marked "Auditions," she turned her resume over to a woman handing out numbers to the others standing in line. It was crowded; jobs like these were too popular, and Ty sighed, leaning against a wall and taking a drink from the much depleted bottle of water she'd been carrying all afternoon. Minutes turned into hours, and she finally sat down, tired from walking and standing. She had a minute or two to straighten up before her number was called, and she went inside the club proper.

For New York, it was rather large, with the prerequisite intimate tables, their chairs turned upside down on the top because the place was closed. A piano sat off to the side of the stage, the man sitting on the seat chain smoking blandly. A woman sat out in the audience, scanning her resume. "OK..." she checked the name Typhoid had given. "...Ty, what have you got?"

Ty blinked. The people she'd auditioned for so far tonight had been men, though she supposed she shouldn't be surprised that a woman would own a club. Ty turned and handed her sheet music to the piano player. The position they had open was for a singer/waitress, so she knew this would only be half her "interview."

"Gershwin," she replied to the woman, her voice sounding clear despite being tired. "I thought I'd keep it simple." The woman nodded at her to continue, and Typhoid launched into "Someone To Watch Over Me."

Half way through, the woman held up her hand to stop her. "OK, Ty, we know you can carry a tune, have you ever had a job waitressing before?"

Ty was forced to admit she hadn't. "But I learn fast, I'm reliable," she said, hating the fact that she had to sell herself to this woman. "And I don't mind late nights."

The woman nodded. "All right. We've got your name and number. Call back at the end of the week."

Ty nodded and left the stage, taking her sheet music with her. It was only Wednesday. She had a long wait ahead.

[Typhoid]

Typhoid called back later that week, and about fell over when she was told to come in for a call back. She borrowed Scott's car to get there, and came into the club breathless, barely five minutes before she had to be there. The woman was waiting for her in the main room by the bar. "Well, Ty," she said, finally. "It looks like you've got the job, but there's a two week trial period before I'm going to say it's definite. Call it a second audition, only this time it'll be during opening hours."

Ty nodded, inwardly ecstatic but outwardly placid, for once. The woman introduced herself finally as Sandra, and she was the clubs owner. "First day is training," Sandra said. "We'll pair you with another waitress. After that you're on your own. You've got to be up on stage singing at least twice during your shift. We've got songs you can learn in the back, but bring your own stuff and run it by the manager first. Uniform is black pants, red shirt, and it needs to look professional. I see a lot of boob, you get sent home. No alcohol on shift, we provide a meal. All this make sense?"

Ty nodded; it was about like she'd expected. Sandra continued. "Our main draw are the singers. You don't perform right, or well, or the crowd doesn't like you, you're out. If I still like you after two weeks, consider it permanent."

Ty nodded, and quite unlike her, held out a hand to Sandra. The woman's handshake was firm. "You start Friday night, 7 pm."

"Thank you," Ty replied, politely, and walked out of the club and down the street before she gave into a huge grin. Now to get home and let everyone know.