Chapter Text
“Scar? Scar, where are the keys, I’m late!”
“Oh, um- I don’t know! Maybe by the door?”
I can barely hear him over the sizzle of tuna in a pan on the stove. He loves those cats more than anything, feeds them better than me. I have a sneaking suspicion he feeds Jellie my leftovers. I’ve never seen a single fly near our garbage.
Hopping on one foot, I pull my other shoe on, eyes locking onto my keys sitting on the table directly below the hook they’re meant to be on. I’m not messy, Grian! I always put things where they’re meant to be, don’t blame me! He’s so frustrating sometimes. As I pluck the keys from the table, the jangle alerts Mr Finnegan and Katy Bee to my presence. The little beasts come reeling around the corner towards me, tumbling over each other as they run, followed by Jellie in a leisurely stroll towards me.
Scar pokes his head around the corner, his sunflower-embroidered apron poorly tied and drooping off him.
“Grian, on your way home, would you grab some of those Renchanting Books? I hear they’re the best magic in town.” He winks at me, his expression enthusiastic but distant. I struggle to understand him most of the time. He’s impossible to read.
“Alright. See you after work.”
I give him a weary smile, leaning in to kiss his cheek. Vex magic has left his skin warped and gray along his jawline in a burnlike scar, a staple of his heritage. No vexborne can harness their power without the physical ramifications. It’s the same reason he walks with a limp. I step outside, blowing a little kiss to the kitties before closing the door, briefcase in hand.
The air is warm, a gentle breeze ruffling my feathers as I breathe it in. It’s a beautiful day. I stretch my wings out, feeling the strain of moving them as I walk towards the car. I rarely wish I’d learned to fly while I still could. I get stares from little kids sometimes, probably because of the slim and runty appearance of my wings, but I don’t mind it too much. I’d rather not fly. It’s too dangerous.
My thoughts are interrupted by the barking of Meri over the road. I look up, pushing my glasses up my nose to properly focus as Joel and Lizzie step out of their front gate, their five-year-old clutching Joel’s hand. Lizzie beams at me with a beautiful smile, her pink hair flowing in the sun. Their daughter takes after her, just without her catlike halfborne features. She got those bits from Joel. I smile back.
“Good morning!” I call over to them.
“Morning, Grian!” Joel and Lizzie call back in sync as Joel struggles to hang on to the kid, carry his bag, Lizzie’s bag and a little tanooki-patterned schoolbag all at once. Lizzie is holding nothing, clearly thriving.
“Good morning uncle G!” the little one calls out, waving enthusiastically.
“Anything interesting on today, Grian? I’ve got like, three parties on at Prisma Palace and the fountains in the playpool are down.”
“Sounds fun,” I giggle. “Just filing for me today, unless someone comes by with a permit request.” Joel lights up.
“Does that mean you’re open today?” his bushy brown tail twitches, ears perked up.
“Umm. Hey, Lizzie, aren’t you late?”
“Oh- OH I’m so late! Joel get in the car! Go! Go!”
The family piles into the grey sportscar, Joel’s pride and joy. The windows are all down already. Theft isn’t really a problem around here. Before I can say it myself, Lizzie and the kid interrupt me in unison, calling out the windows with identical smiles and waves as they steal my line.
“Goooooood-byeeeee!”
With that, Joel speeds off. I wave with a smile as they leave, then let out a breath. I’m late myself.
As my hand lays on the door handle of the meticulously cleaned and polished Thunderbird I take so much pride in, my eye is caught by a peculiar feather drifting down, landing delicately on the wheel. I push my glasses up, furrowing my brow as I pick it up. It’s large, sleek and black, with a purple sheen that I’ve never seen on any bird or avian. It feels almost statically charged against the skin of my fingers.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see another. In the street. I turn to find a trail of them floating down to the cobblestone road. That’s… weird. I follow the trail into the air, looking for the source, and find nothing. Whatever dropped them seems to have flown by too fast to catch it. I squint in the sunlight, searching the sky for another few moments. Nothing.
Hesitantly, I reach for the handle once more and get into my car, tossing the feather into the glovebox. Weird. I kick the car over and back out, beginning my mental preparation for the mind-numbing work of the permit office as I flick the radio on. Just gotta get through another day.
As I approach the square of the Shopping District, rich with signs, advertisements and wacky billboards and architecture, I listen to the radio host as he rambles about the latest compositions made for his channel by the residents of the region.
“Next up is a piece called ‘Peardle,’ submitted by Pearl Moon and Oli Orion! This is a lovely ambient piece to start off our workday, but first! How are we today?”
“Mediocre.”
“Good! Wasn’t that migration this morning beautiful? Those feathers were just magnificent. Anyways, I’m Xisuma, this is The Beat Machine, and here’s Peardle!”
A jaunty tune plays, and I mull over the host’s words. A migration? It’s weird for anything feathered to be migrating mid-spring. I know that much, I’ve got a set of wings myself and at least one relative that didn’t lose the instinct to nest, collect and travel. Gem’s about as birdish as an avian gets. Nothing should be migrating right now. I’ll have to search it up on my lunch break.
The radio skips. I glance at it. It skips again, distorting and switching channels. Weird. I fiddle with the dial, trying to get Beat Machine back, before an odd sound catches my attention. I twist the dial a little more, focusing in on the channel. A low, warped voice is speaking in a monotonous tone. It sounds like some kind of orc, or some other species with a throat not made for English or human speech in general.
“--making our way down Clocker Street. He’s about to turn past the roundabout onto the Main Road of the district.”
I turn right on a roundabout, onto the main road of the Shopping district, only half-listening.
“Cue cyclist and move troupe three to Crossing Six.”
A cyclist cuts me off on the road, forcing me to break hard. My heart flutters in the panic before I reach a realisation. My eyes move to the radio, now speaking in more hushed tones. What is it saying? It speaks in a language that sounds vaguely elven before speaking once more in English.
“Switch frequencies.”
There’s a sudden sound of static and a loud whine. I hit the breaks, wincing at the sound - as I do, in a moment of perfect synchronisation, every single person and moving thing in the vicinity freezes, as if on a clock, wincing identically. In less than a moment the world grinds back to motion. Like nothing happened. What on Earth was that?