{"sf1_id":2267593,"sf2_id":"nJE7dKzm","title":"Travels: Part One","author":"Oliver_Hart","words":12705,"posted_at":"2025-07-05T13:54:29.000Z","tags":["Crow","Enemies to Loves","Foxing","HMOFA","Human","conflict"],"url":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/2267593-travels-part-one","original_url":"https://sofurry.com/s/nJE7dKzm","image_url":"https://cdn.sofurryfiles.com/submissions/thumbnails/f8/84/f8845c99-4dfd-4fd2-a560-11e7e6a435e7","description":"Elia and Gullen escape the sewers, only for Elia to later become trapped in the grasp of a memory  \nThis is an important chapter, and can also be read on my website: [https://autononymous.io/authors-and-stories/oliver-hart/foxing/act-one-augury/travels-part-one/](https://autononymous.io/authors-and-stories/oliver-hart/foxing/act-one-augury/travels-part-one/)","content":"\u003e \n\n\\\u003eWhen you make it out of the sewer, the first thing you hear is the morning songs of birds in the the aspen and maple, once belonging to front yards but now whose roots bulge beneath the sidewalk; whose branches stretch well-past normalcy\n\n\\\u003eWild blackbirds and robins, the occasional morning dove singing its melancholy song in the brush call out to you\n\n\\\u003eYou climb, bones aching with pain, muscles bruised and battered from falling onto ancient concrete\n\n\\\u003eYou flop out onto the asphalt like a suffocating fish as you finish clawing your way out of the bowels of the city\n\n\\\u003eWith some effort you roll onto your back, chest heaving with exhaustion\n\n\\\u003eAfter a few dizzy seconds, your eyes flutter open, and you blink a few times\n\n\\\u003ePink clouds doze above, patches of sunlight straying through gaps – a light barely fifteen minutes old\n\n\\\u003eDawn\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eThen, the smell of fresh, CLEAN air hits your saturates your senses, like a riptide dragging you away from the city and into the depths of the underbrush;\n\n\\\u003eYou smell rainwater and steam\n\n\\\u003eOh Ancestors, that smells good. It smells like growing things; wet asphalt, sodden concrete; like rust; like honeysuckle and lavender overgrown in the front yards; like rain dumped all over Purgatory the night before.\n\n\\\u003eThis is better than any potion or meal, so you suck down huge, greedy lungfuls of it\n\n\\\u003eIt’s not safety, lilacs and lavender; but it certainly isn’t rank sewer gasses, centuries of waste and death and smoldering anaree flesh\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eGullen crawls out of the manhole cover behind you in short order, gasping for fresh air himself\n\n\\\u003eHe crawls next to you and collapses in a dramatic heap\n\n\\\u003e”One more minute down there and I might have lost what little food remains in my belly,” he says on his back, chest heaving, lungs swelling with fresh air\n\n\\\u003e”It smells like flowers. Where in the damned city does it smell like flowers?”\n\n“The suburbs, and the gardens downtown,” you sit up on your palms and glance around, a weary attempt to get your bearings\n\n\\\u003eHomes with slant roofs and A-frames rise up around you, stretching for what seems like miles in all directions\n\n\\\u003eLike a maze\n\n\\\u003eIn between some streets there are copses of wild grass; an explosion of forest in the middle of suburbia untamed; but most of it is all concrete and decaying homes with yards stormed by weeds and wildflowers\n\n\\\u003eYou know you’re in the burbs — the outskirts of the city proper…\n\n\\\u003eBut where? The burbs could be south… close to Enclave\n\n\\\u003eEast, close to Ciril, your destination\n\n\\\u003eNorth, by Ohm, Varagas, and more…\n\n\\\u003eNot west\n\n\\\u003eNot against the mountains, though you’ve heard there are still-standing homes out there\n\n\\\u003eYou turn your head west towards the mountains\n\n\\\u003eThe city is a shadow against the backdrop of the foothills, silhouetted in fading dark; its outline traced in the flame of a new day; a forgotten predator brooding over what should have been its kill\n\n“I… I think we are on the north-eastern side of the city, but it’s difficult to tell from here,” you remark\n\n\\\u003e”We have not the the rations left to get lost a second time,” Gullen crosses his arm over his eyes, as if fighting back horrible visions of reality\n\n“We’re out of food?” You say, standing and taking a quick survey of the area\n\n\\\u003e”Correct,” Gullen says as he sits up, watching you search what remains of your pack. “No seeds, no meat, no berries, no jerky, no bread, no nothing.” He hangs his head. “There may be some monk root left. We could have tea.”\n\n\\\u003e“Tea does not fill my belly like seed cake,” you sigh with defeat\n\n\\\u003eYou haven’t eaten since mid-afternoon yesterday\n\n\\\u003eWith all the panic and excitement you forgot about it\n\n\\\u003eAgain\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eYour stomach rumbles in protest\n\n\\\u003eYou lift your gaze and eye Gullen\n\n\\\u003eMore specifically, his chemical rifle\n\n“Have any bullets left, brother?”\n\n\\\u003eThe raven gives pause and pats himself down\n\n\\\u003eAfter a moment of searching he come up with a loose assortment of tipped and non-tipped brass shells\n\n\\\u003e“A few remain. The rest I will leave to Purgatory.”\n\n“Then we shall hunt for our breakfast like the heathens of old. Surely you can land a rabbit or deer?” you extend a finger towards him, as if questioning his ability\n\n\\\u003eHe studies it for a second with a slight scowl\n\n\\\u003e”Why do you always wear gloves?” he wonders aloud. “None of the other crows I’ve worked with wear gloves, even beyond the walls of Ciril.”\n\n\\\u003eYou panic and offer a quick lie — an old standard, actually, like a rehearsed song\n\n“Precautions for when I’m out in the field,” you offer\n\n\\\u003eGullen pats you lightly on the back as he walks past you, onto the sidewalk\n\n\\\u003e”Come little crow,” he says, grabbing his rifle, “my hunger can demand no more of me. Let us break our fast.”\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eAs you travel the neighborhood, your senses alert you to something in one house to your right\n\n\\\u003eYou pause, and a few steps later, Gullen pauses alongside you, perhaps drawn to the same thing\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eBefore you stands an old Victorian-built home, very out of place in this neighborhood of slant a-frames and traditional suburban homes crawling with weeds and rot\n\n\\\u003eYou hear idle chatter, gales of laughter, and… loud, upbeat swing music pouring out of the strange Victorian house\n\n\\\u003eBlue light flickers light bottled lightning from behind the curtained windows\n\n\\\u003eSomehow….\n\n\\\u003e…you feel like…\n\n\\\u003eThe door creaks open, pushed by an invisible hand\n\n\\\u003eAs if the home beckons you in\n\n\\\u003e…you need to go inside and see what’s so entertaining\n\n\\\u003eFind out what all the laughter is about, and why can’t you be a part of it for once, instead of being its subject?\n\n\\\u003eYou’re so entranced by the raucous noise coming from the house that you don’t realize you’re walking down its chipped, concrete pathway\n\n\\\u003eUntil you feel Gullen tugging you by the collar of your shirt\n\n\\\u003eGentle momentum carries you backwards, away from the laughter, the warmth, the closeness of family\n\n\\\u003eYou turn and see Gullen shaking his head\n\n\\\u003e”Come, sister. I want no more dealings with anaree; let us walk the other side of this path,” he says, tugging you along like an overgrown, impatient toddler\n\n\\\u003eYou don’t resist – unable to, in fact\n\n\\\u003eBut that powerful, flickering blue light casting from the windows and the open door… why does it seem so familiar to you?\n\n\\\u003eAs if someone is trying to tell you something?\n\n\\\u003eYou put the thought out of mind as Gullen at last releases his hold on you on the other side of the street.\n\n\\\u003eThe desire to enter that house fades like fever when you catch his Gullen looking at you, impatient with hunger\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eThe two of you find and shoot a deer with one of Gullen’s last few rounds non-alchemical munitions, the report of his rifle like a concussive snap of thunder that bounces between houses and echoes down the street\n\n\\\u003eThe deer drops in spray of blood, a pained whine hissing out of its throat\n\n\\\u003eYou wait and watch the corpse for a few minutes from your blind to see if anything shows up to steal your kill\n\n\\\u003eThe poor thing — fanged, and feral, hungry for flesh — kicks as the last of the electrical impulses fire through its nervous system\n\n\\\u003eCrimson blood puddles beneath it from a hole in its side\n\n\\\u003eAnd at last\n\n\\\u003eIt dies\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eGullen retrieves the deer after some assurance from you that it’s safe to do so\n\n\\\u003eHe slings the carcass with ease over his brawny shoulders and walks towards you, a tall, feathered shadow of early morning light\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eYou kindle a small fire in a run-down home, one with a caved-in ceiling that allows you to off-gas smoke\n\n\\\u003eThe weak light of the sunrise slants in through the broken skylight\n\n\\\u003ePieces of moulding, destroyed wooden furniture, and long-faded books serve to fuel your cooking fire\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eIntellectually, you know it’s morning. But you’ve been awake for so long that a part of you think it’s about to be dusk\n\n\\\u003eYou yawn, exhaustion settling in now that you have a brief respite to actually feel it\n\n\\\u003eIt’s morning\n\n\\\u003eYou’re not…\n\n\\\u003e…dreaming?\n\n\\\u003eAt the thought that you might have dozed off, or slipped into a dream at some point after getting out of the sewers, you rush upwards and make for the door\n\n“Need to see details,” you hiss you to yourself, breathing hard. “Dreams never have strong details. Everything up close is gibberish.”\n\n\\\u003eYou throw the old front door of the house open, now in a panic, the door colliding with the drywall\n\n\\\u003eGullen is outside, dressing the deer with his bayonet\n\n\\\u003eHe’s covered in blood up to his elbows\n\n\\\u003eThe raven gives you a gentle, confused salute\n\n\\\u003eIgnoring that, you rush over to the grass in the yard, which has grown wild and tall\n\n\\\u003eMorning dew gleams on the blades of grass, the sweat of the night condensed into sweet droplets on the flowers, the branches\n\n\\\u003eThe yards\n\n\\\u003eAs if on cue, morning birds flutter in from overhead, landing in the treetops that line this neighborhood\n\n\\\u003eMagpies roosting and signaling to one another as life goes on for them as it always has for centuries\n\n\\\u003eBluebirds and sparrowhawks struggle against one another\n\n\\\u003eYou think you even hear a crow somewhere\n\n\\\u003eThe wind does not feel as cold as it did in the city last night, either\n\n\\\u003eThe sky is a brilliant, almost nuclear pink now\n\n\\\u003e“Sister, come help me for a-” Gullen begins\n\n\\\u003ePretending not to hear, you spin on your heels and sprint back inside, shouting something about the fire – a half truth\n\n\\\u003eYou catch your breath for a second, and then, with some determination, you slip your talons from the gloves\n\n\\\u003eAnd you hold your scaled talons to the fire\n\n\\\u003eTo the point it starts to hurt\n\n\\\u003eYep\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eNot dreaming\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eGullen drags in the remainder of the deer’s carcass while you put a layer of canteen water on the fire for tea,\n\n\\\u003eA trick mom taught you: put the tea on before the meat flavors the wood and greases up the smoke\n\n\\\u003eWhile Gullen is busy carving slabs of meat out of the deer, you make your comrade a tin cup of monk’s root tea; the last of what you had in your bag, as a matter of fact\n\n\\\u003e”Thank you, sister,” he says as he accepts a mug of the green, floral-smelling tea, blood and viscera dripping off him. “I’ll need this to keep me going today,” he sighs, trying to clean himself of blood\n\n\\\u003e“The road ahead is long But once we determine where we are, we can use my map to find Ciril again.”\n\n\\\u003eGullen takes a meager sip of the tea and suppresses a gag\n\n\\\u003eYou tilt your head, eyeing him with a mischievous grin\n\n\\\u003eHe relents with a blush, and says, “I don’t suppose you have any honey biscuits on you? I usually take my tea sweet.”\n\n\\\u003eA smile breaks across your beak\n\n“Honey biscuits?” you parrot back to the raven, using his own voice to mock him\n\n\\\u003e“W-What’s wrong with asking for honey?” Gullen stammers\n\n“Nothing at all. I merely thought ravens enjoyed things for the misery they cause?”\n\n\\\u003eGullen flashes an embarrassed look\n\n\\\u003e”I-I just like sweet things, is all,” he stammers in quick reply, a warm blush now glowing on his cheeks\n\n“There will be honey-seed bread waiting for us when we return, brother,” you remind him\n\n\\\u003eHowever,\n\n\\\u003eYou know, deep down, in your heart, that probably won’t be the case\n\n\\\u003eSo, really, it’s a comforting lie for him.\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eAs the deer meat roasts over open flame, Gullen sits down on the floor and sighs a tired sigh\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eHe turns his attention to you after a moment of silence\n\n\\\u003eYou sit cross-legged on the opposite end of the fire, watching the meat sizzle and drip, stoking the fires of hunger in your belly\n\n\\\u003e”If we keep traveling east we should see the prairie — and hopefully someone or something that can point us to Ciril,” Gullen sighs, “Maybe the Ancestors will guide us home.”\n\n\\\u003eYou shift with uncertain energy\n\n“We are closer than you might think, brother,” you add in, “Do you recall the night we set off the city together?”\n\n\\\u003eGullen nods\n\n“I recall these homes like the one we’re in now arranged on the outskirts of the city.”\n\n\\\u003e“There are countless houses in the suburbs, sister. Surely you cannot know if we are close to the south-east.”\n\n\\\u003eYour breathing hitches as excitement builds\n\n“But! Do you remember the blue light we saw from the hill before we went south?”\n\n\\\u003e”I do… but you told me to think nothing of it, and I agreed that was wise. If we chased every light in Purgatory we’d be back down beneath it in an hour,” he says with finality\n\n“Yes, yes, you are right. However, that dwelling you stopped me from going into earlier… I think that is the source of the same light we saw from a distance.”\n\n\\\u003eGullen sits up sharply\n\n\\\u003e”So you think…?”\n\n\\\u003eYou smile in response, as if answering his question with you lips\n\n“We are not but a day’s travel outside of Ciril; If we aim our compasses south east I’d guess we arrive home by dusk.”\n\n\\\u003eAt that Gullen starts to laugh\n\n\\\u003eThick, joyful, laughter\n\n\\\u003eLaughter that makes you feel… redeemed after all\n\n\\\u003eLike all of what you just went through might have a happy ending\n\n\\\u003e”Good eyes, Elia,” he says with a hearty swig of his monk root tea, a smile plastered across his face. “Though journeys like this make me miss the stags. I do not look forward to the walk home.”\n\n“Oh Ancestors no, I do not either,” you say as you leaf through what remains of your personal notes and journals\n\n\\\u003eYou pull out some notes and scan your ornate handwriting; something about the demon’s language that you wanted to mark down\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eThere’s a header in your notes where you started writing ‘Oath — to swear to the demon god that you will accomplish a task in his name’\n\n\\\u003eHumming, you flip the leaf of paper over and uncover something – a relic of your older self\n\n\\\u003eA hand-drawn sketch of a fox – vulca – feathered in with leaded pencil and pen\n\n\\\u003eDated to when you were twelve years old\n\n\\\u003eYou do not smile when you recall your past\n\n\\\u003eThose memories are either bittersweet, or outright traumatic\n\n\\\u003eIt’s easy to tell from this drawing alone, if you look at it in the right context\n\n\\\u003eIt has all the hallmarks of your adolescence:\n\n\\\u003eShaky, infirm line work from anxious talons gripping an instrument\n\n\\\u003eProportions are amateur at best from never having seen a vulca, or only getting to seem them in passing\n\n\\\u003eThe weight of your line stroke changes, inch-by-inch, as if you started and stopped constantly\n\n\\\u003eLike you were on the move constantly\n\n\\\u003e…which actually was the case back then\n\n\\\u003eAncestors… this is from six years ago\n\n\\\u003eWas this before or after your cowardice caused your par-\n\n\\\u003eNo\n\n\\\u003eNOPE\n\n\\\u003eYou shake your head loose of the negative voices\n\n\\\u003eYou won’t allow yourself to go there right now\n\n\\\u003eYour blue eyes turn down again, towards the page, trying to extract joy from your discovery like drawing blood from a stone\n\n\\\u003eBut\n\n\\\u003eWithout going into too much detail, despite your unfortunate personal relationship to Vulcada and vulca, they…\n\n\\\u003eAbsolutely fascinate you\n\n\\\u003ePerhaps in the same way a terribly poisonous snake fascinates someone\n\n\\\u003eEnough to try drawing one of their service animals in your limited downtime, you guess\n\n\\\u003eYou continue leafing through your old notes\n\n\\\u003eGullen sips his tea\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eYou’re lost in your own little world when Gullen draws your attention out of your memories\n\n\\\u003e”Sister,” he says while shifting his posture a little, adopting a slouched, comfortable position\n\n\\\u003eYour eyes flick up from your old notes to Gullen, across the fire.\n\n\\\u003e“I’ve wanted to ask you something – something I’ve meant to ask you for some time” your comrade says, leaning forward, cupping his mug with both of his huge talons\n\n\\\u003eYour heart skips a bit, and you snap your journal shut\n\n\\\u003eYou hate when conversations start this way\n\n“Shoot,” you try with a false smile of confidence\n\n\\\u003eThe fire crackles\n\n\\\u003eSmoke chimneys out of the hole in this home’s roof\n\n\\\u003eThe two logs you found for the fire rest against each other in the flames, shifting as they’re worn\n\n\\\u003eGullen’s focused on the fire, too.\n\n\\\u003eHis eyes fill with dancing light, as he travels inward – and back in time\n\n\\\u003e”Do you remember a particular rainy night some months ago – the night you joined our flock at Ciril?” He says\n\n\\\u003eUh oh\n\n“Vaguely,” you offer, trying to sound like you believe in your own words\n\n\\\u003eBut you do in fact remember that black night\n\n\\\u003eOh, you remember it well\n\n\\\u003eJust like all your ‘hopeful new beginnings’\n\n\u0026nbsp;  \n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eSheets of rain spat down on you cold and slanted; thunder roamed overhead like a wild pack of hunting dogs\n\n\\\u003eLow flashes of lightning in the sky threw your shadow fifty feet tall against the gates of Ciril as you stood in front of those great iron slabs, alone, soaked through with rain water, nothing but what you could carry and some food given to you\n\n\\\u003eYou had no lantern — no need of it\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eAfter some time, a raven, his rifle drawn appeared at the top of the walls; the only guard on duty to hear your caw over the thunder\n\n\\\u003eHe planted an everflame lantern on the wall; used it as like a search light as he scanned the prairie below\n\n\\\u003eHis face is handsome; body young;. His yellow eyes burning with fervor for the cause so firm you can see them from the ground\n\n\\\u003eYou know he wants to – must do – what is just for the flock, which is to turn away exiles, traders, and others during weather\n\n\\\u003eFor whatever reason, you see him hesitate atop the wall, gears spinning in his skull\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eThe raven drew his chemical rifle and aims it at you\n\n\\\u003eYou’ve done this routine so many times that it barely fazes you\n\n\\\u003e”State your name and business in Ciril,” he commands, his voice competing with the pelting rain, “or leave, under pain of death.”\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eTwo figures, alone at this hour, stare at one another from a great and rainy distance\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n“Elia Longfeather,” you called up to him, “I seek shelter and…”\n\n\\\u003eHome?\n\n\\\u003ePeace?\n\n\\\u003eAcceptance?\n\n“… to serve this flock,” was your answer\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eMinutes later…\n\n\\\u003eThe gate groaned open, and Gullen was there, his rifle aside, to bring you in to the barracks\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n“I- I remember. You were the one who let me in the gate,” you reply in a soft voice, drifting back to the warm memory\n\n\\\u003eGullen shifts, grappling with the memory and his part in it\n\n\\\u003e”You were lucky I was on gate that night — the others would not have been so…” he trails off, searching for the word\n\n\\\u003eFull of pity?\n\n\\\u003eNo\n\n\\\u003eNot pity\n\n“Kind?” You say, turning to him, unsure of your words, as if using them in this way for the first time\n\n\\\u003e”Kind…” Gullen says, cocking his head at the word, an unfamiliar, foreign word to him. “Perhaps ‘kind,’ yes. But I knew by your name you were crow. We always have need of your kin,” he offers in return, attempting to reduce his act of pity to a mere act of service. “It was merely a practical choice on behalf of the flock.”\n\n“Among the ravens I’ve scouted with, you are among the kindest, brother.”\n\n\\\u003e”A raven cannot afford kindness often,” he whispers, his voice small and contemplative as he studies the dancing flames\n\n\\\u003e“I didn’t think of it at the time — maybe because of the rain — but I wonder it now…” he turns his attention to you\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003e“Whenever there is travel between the cities by our kin, it is done in groups for safety. And by way of stag, for transporting goods.”\n\n\\\u003eYou shrink just a little into yourself. “So? What’s your point?”\n\n\\\u003e“You came alone. On foot.”\n\n\\\u003eFeathers\n\n\\\u003eYou start to concoct a lie for Gullen, jaw working\n\n“I- I was travel-”\n\n\\\u003eGullen carries forward\n\n\\\u003e“Why were you alone that night you joined us?” he turns to you, eyes serious, glare hard.\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003e…\n\n\\\u003e…\n\n\\\u003eYou’re hesitating again\n\n\\\u003eWhy?\n\n\\\u003eBecause there is a truth to speak here; a brave truth; a vulnerable truth?\n\n\\\u003eOne that opens old wounds scabbed shut?\n\n\\\u003eUndoes stitches you’ve sewn with careful hands?\n\n\\\u003eExposes parts of you that you’ve kept drawn suppressed, under venerable lock and key?\n\n\\\u003eA chance to open the door?\n\n\\\u003eAnd let another in?\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eThen there is half of the truth — the heavy shield you wield against all disappointment and pain\n\n\\\u003eIt’s not a lie, but not the exact answer either\n\n\\\u003eYou don’t trust people when they say ‘they mean nothing by it’ — that is a lie, whether they know it or not\n\n\\\u003eNo matter what they say, nothing means everything\n\n\\\u003eYou lift your heavy shield again, weary from using it to cover for your inadequacies\n\n\\\u003eYour eyes go soft\n\n\\\u003eGullen turns the meat again, checks it over with hunger\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n“I am a coward, Gullen. Despite what you may think, deep down, I am a coward.”\n\n\\\u003eThe raven looks over at you, confused, tongues of flame licking up at the roast meat\n\n\\\u003eHe says something\n\n\\\u003eYou don’t hear his voice\n\n\\\u003eYou hear your father’s low, rattling voice in Gullen’s throat\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eAnd then you’re twelve again\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\nhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3qFWp\\_j9JQI\u0026list=PL9aXlzDRA49Rmp4y6Z9Si9dS2LvmTNY7S\u0026index=11\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003e”You’re not a coward, Elia. You’re the bravest, bravest girl I know.”\n\n“I’m a freak. A monster. There’s a curse in my blood, and we all know it.”\n\n\\\u003e“You deal with a lot — and you handle it all so well,” dad tries soothing your hurt\n\n\\\u003eBitter, frustrated tears cascade off your short beak, lost in the drizzling rain\n\n“If not for me, we’d still be living in Ohm. If not for my… my… my ‘condition’ we’d still have a home. I should have just come out and said what I am when they were asking at Seminary,” you bite back\n\n\\\u003e“Come, little one, nobody expected them to check. That’s a burden a child should not have to carry.”\n\n\\\u003eYou groan internally\n\n\\\u003eDad doesn’t seem to get it\n\n\\\u003eNeither does mom, who chirps up alongside dad\n\n\\\u003e”You’re- you’re not sick, little one,” mom says with a worn breath. “You have an incredible gift from the Ancestors, and we love you, no matter what you say about yourself. ”\n\n\\\u003eHer voice is a ragged, exhausted squawk, brought about by days of hard travel – most if through sheets of rain\n\n\\\u003eYour wrapped talons churn the dark soil beneath you into mud as the three of you struggle down the left side of the highway\n\n\\\u003eThunder wheels in the poisoned skies above, a mad harvester stomping about the clouds\n\n\\\u003eYou travel behind mom and dad, head on a nervous swivel, looking for any signs of danger\n\n\\\u003eAnaree\n\n\\\u003eTochta\n\n\\\u003eHarvesters\n\n\\\u003e…Demons\n\n\\\u003eThis is your first time outside the walls, after all\n\n\\\u003eBy the Ancestors, you only barely scratched the surface of your Seminary studies on Purgatory. You’re as good as useless out here compared to your parents\n\n\\\u003eSo you feel less like a scout on her first field trip, and more like some kind of sacrificial lamb, lead to the slaughter even with the best of intentions\n\n\\\u003eYour first time outside the walls shouldn’t be like this — not filled with such shame and sadness all centered on you\n\n\\\u003eYou feel like you’ve not slept in days. There’s no peace out here; no ease. Only burdens to lift and carry\n\n\\\u003eSo you haven’t relaxed, not with tochta wandering up from the south, harvesters from the east, and heretics, always slipping through the nets of the ravens patrolling the northern corridors\n\n\\\u003e“Elia,” mom says to you, breathless from climbing with her back so burdened by her old life. “Elia, come walk next to me for a bit.”\n\n\\\u003eBeing much smaller and weaker than your parents, you carry what little you can on your back\n\n\\\u003eWhich isn’t much\n\n\\\u003eDad has the gun and half the supplies\n\n\\\u003eMom has the other half\n\n\\\u003eYou? You just have your own personal things: books on Purgatory, some loose sheets of paper, a well-read copy of \\_The Adventures of Aaron Ringo\\_, maps, little drawings and poems you wrote,\n\n\\\u003eA pair of gloves, a dream journal, and all the warm clothes your little arms could stuff into your messenger bag\n\n\\\u003eSighing, you stomp through the muddy prairie next to your parents, joining mom on her left\n\n\\\u003e”That’s my girl,” your mother coos in a gentle breath\n\n\\\u003eShe wraps a talon around your shoulder for a second, breathing hard. Warmth blossoms inside of you, a flower’s petals unfold, the bareness of a mother’s touch warms you — even through the cotton filter of your sweater\n\n\\\u003eThe unconditional love of others waters the wilted flowers within you, even though you protest\n\n\\\u003eYou can feel your gloom lifting like rain clouds scorched into sunlight and steam\n\n\\\u003e”Remember when you first told me you could dream walk? You came bursting into our room in the dead of night with your little friend — you were so excited to tell me!”\n\n“So young, and so foolish” you remind her. “I didn’t know there was something wrong with me back then. Of course a little hatchling thought it was amazing she could visit her friend while she was dreaming”\n\n\\\u003eYour mother — a notoriously patient crow — sighs, looking over to her husband for help, rainwater dripping from her beak\n\n\\\u003e”Matia,” she whines, “By the Ancestor, speak some sense into your daughter.”\n\n\\\u003e”Elia,” your dad says, his voice firm, yet still buoyed by love. He forges ahead as he speaks. “You’re not a coward or a monster, or a freak, or any of those things you and Ohm think you are. There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re our daughter, and we will find a new flock to call home. I promise, little feather.”\n\n\\\u003e“Just pretend we’re on your first visit to the field, and everything happening is all part of your training,” mom chirps\n\n\\\u003eYour eyes roll to the back of your head\n\n\\\u003eYou’re twelve-years-old\n\n\\\u003eYou’re not buying this hopeful junk. You’re too old for blind optimism already; too old for trusting in the words of other birds, especially adults\n\n\\\u003eYou brows slope into a discontented scowl\n\n\\\u003eKnuckles flex and tense in your suede leather gloves\n\n\\\u003eIt feels like there’s a bottomless well of sorrow and self-hatred in your stomach, and the sky is trying to fill it with rain water\n\n\\\u003eYou plod along in the mud next to mom, silent and sullen, not responding, absolutely catered and-\n\n\\\u003eOh!\n\n\\\u003eThe rain is letting up\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eNight arrives as you unpack your things in the shelter of a ‘highway rest stop’ — words whose meanings have long-since forgotten by the peoples of the present\n\n\\\u003eTo you and your kin, those embossed shapes and letters on the wall of the smooth-stoned, metal-roofed building mean:\n\n\\\u003eShelter\n\n\\\u003eSafety\n\n\\\u003eIt was a chilled, damp night\n\n\\\u003eThe ground outside the rest stop is a minefield of mud and puddles. The air clings to your lungs and feathers like dew clings to a flower in the morning\n\n\\\u003eThe three of you set up camp — or more accurately, mom and dad set up camp inside, while you stand around looking lost, trying to warm up\n\n\\\u003eDespite your best efforts, you can’t stoke your temperature any higher with self-flagellation\n\n\\\u003eThough it does make you choke up a little bit to remind yourself that this is all your fault\n\n\\\u003eSo instead of being productive and useful, you shiver, soaked to the feathers with rainwater, wishing you had a fire to warm yourself against\n\n\\\u003eWishing you had the wooded floors of your old house, instead of concrete or mud and prairie grass\n\n\\\u003e”Elia?” Dad calls as he unburdens himself with his baggage, grunting from the weight. “Come here a moment.”\n\n\\\u003eYou shake your head as if to shake those thoughts of self-hatred loose\n\n\\\u003e”Yes, father?” you say, plodding through the mud to him\n\n\\\u003eHe bends down to your meager height, his knees popping as he does so\n\n\\\u003eA warm smile spread across his features, just a touch of mischief twinkling in his blue eyes\n\n\\\u003e”I’ve a quest for you – a mission; one you’re perfect for.”\n\n\\\u003eYou cock your head to the side. “Mission?”\n\n\\\u003eIt was as if he had spoken a foreign word, like something in your books on the humans\n\n\\\u003e”Yes indeed, a mission for Elia the nimble. A very important one too.”\n\n“Dad, I don’t know-“\n\n\\\u003eMatia shushes your doubt with a whisper. “There’ are quite a few drainage pipes beneath the road back the way we came, remember how I pointed them out?”\n\n\\\u003eYou nod\n\n\\\u003e“Back in my scouting years, I’d use those drainage pipes to find kindling for fires as a last resort – it’s an old crow’s trick. No matter the weather, there’s always some debris in those pipes that’ll burn. Pushweeds, branches, leaves… easy to carry for small arms. Do you understand what I’m saying?” he says, punctuating the suggestion with a playful wink\n\n\\\u003eYour sullen blue eyes widen in confusion\n\n”You want me to go look for kindling for the fire tonight?” you blurt out, perhaps a touch too loud\n\n\\\u003eIs dad really giving you responsibility after everything you’ve put this family through?\n\n\\\u003eWhere’s the punishment? The retribution from your parents whose lives are similarly ruined?\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eWhy do they still love you?\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eBefore you can respond to dad, mom clears her throat and raises her head\n\n\\\u003e”I heard that!” she chirps, now pacing over to you and dad, her tongue clicking in her mouth with audible disapproval\n\n\\\u003e”Matia, you’re not seriously thinking of sending our daughter out alone at night, right? She’s too young!”\n\n\\\u003eMatia, ignoring his wife, leans over your shoulder, the family’s old map in his hand\n\n\\\u003e”Look, it’s easy – just follow the road we’re on for two miles south. Do you see that line there?” he points with a talon towards a small line on the map of Purgatory — a line marked ‘I-twenty-five’\n\n\\\u003eYou nod along, still lost in disbelief\n\n\\\u003e”That’s the route we’re taking to our new home — the road we’re on right now. If you just go the opposite direction of us, keep your eyes peeled, you’ll find ‘em. I spotted a couple of large pipes beneath the roads as we were headed this direction. Whatever is in them is probably dry or at least close to it. Bring it back and we’ll get a fire going. We can even have din-”\n\n\\\u003e”Matia!” Mom cuts in, her concern honed to a razor’s edge. “She’s too young to be out on her own beyond the walls! Have you lost your mind? What if a harvester sees her? What if there are Vulcada nearby?”\n\n\\\u003e”Nonsense,” Matia says, dismissively, “There are no harvesters out here right now. We’d hear them well before they see us.”\n\n\\\u003e”She has little training , her instincts are still that of a hatchling’s outside the walls!” Denica snarls, her arms crossed across her chest as she towers over your father\n\n\\\u003eOkay, ow\n\n\\\u003eThat one went a little deep\n\n\\\u003eYou did well in Seminary\n\n\\\u003e”And so were ours,” Matia fires back in a calm, tempered voice. He rises to her height. “Were we not about the same age when we began outwalling? The nights we spent, skating by on the Ancestor’s grace, alone? Remember when the Ohm city guard caught-”\n\n\\\u003e”Matia, this is not the time for stories and tales of the past. We need to be rational here,” Denica says, gaze narrowing\n\n\\\u003e”I am being rational. Personally, I think it’s a wonderful opportunity to build her skills and boost her mood a bit,” dad replies. “Besides, it’s perfectly safe out here right now. However, just so you’re not worried...”\n\n\\\u003eDad retrieves a small bottle of ink and a pen from the bag of supplies he was carrying\n\n\\\u003e”I’ll even mark our camp on the map.”\n\n\\\u003eHe draws a large ‘C’ on the map and circles it on the amber-colored paper\n\n\\\u003eYou squint at the old map. Now that you finally get to see the map, you’re confused – there are places marked that you didn’t learn about in Seminary\n\n\\\u003e…\n\n\\\u003eAre you guys using the right map?\n\n\\\u003e”Now she can find her way back if she can just find the road,” dad remarks, victorious\n\n\\\u003eMom is silent, like a leaden statue. Though it’s dark now (mostly trivial to your kin), you can see her posture shifting from rigid to pallid; a slump of the shoulders, a drop of the neck, a tired roll of blue eyes\n\n\\\u003eSensing he might not have won the battle just yet, dad springs into action with another hasty plan plan\n\n\\\u003e”There’s… also something I wanted to talk to you about, Denica,” dad says, standing to full height, turning his attention to his wife. ”What do you say, a quick mission for our girl? We need to talk about where we’re living next, among… other things.”\n\n\\\u003eDenica flashes a disgruntled look, but at last sighs relents — not to the truth of her husbands words\n\n\\\u003eBut travel exhaustion\n\n\\\u003e”Fine. Go. Bring us back some kindling. Ancestor’s grace, how I long to warm my feathers and sit somewhere dry.”\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eYou grunt as you hoist yourself into the drainage pipe, spindly arms shaking and bowing inward as you complete one half-baked pull up\n\n\\\u003eThe drainage pipe is small — small enough for a little crow such as yourself to squeeze inside, but not tall enough to fully stand\n\n\\\u003eAnd when your eyes finally convert the darkness into a thin, milky light, you see your prize further down\n\n\\\u003eHeaps of dried pushweed and old, brittle leaves forced to the far end of the drainage pipe, pushed there by the wind\n\n\\\u003eAncestors be praised; this will only take a little bit\n\n\\\u003eYou inch forward on your hands and knees as you scour your way down the length of the drainage pipe\n\n\\\u003eNearly at the middle, you reach out with one gloved talon to scoop an armload of kindling down behind you\n\n\\\u003eYou think you can get most of it back if you work like this\n\n\\\u003eYour parent’s map is in the back pocket of your trousers, so you know the way to camp, too\n\n\\\u003eThis isn’t so bad\n\n\\\u003eYou know what? By the Ancestors, you think even a freak like you could accomplish something like this\n\n\\\u003eSomething do to — a way to contribute in light of your abject failure\n\n\\\u003eAs you push the kindling down, you feel your heartbeat starts to quicken, like a sprinter reaching the apex of their stride in a split second\n\n\\\u003eToo young to realize what your body is trying to tell you\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eYou pause to catch your breath, but it doesn’t feel like you can get enough air into your lungs to bring you into the moment\n\n\\\u003eYou’re…\n\n\\\u003eYou’re going to suffocate in here!\n\n\\\u003eWHERE IS ALL THE AIR\n\n\\\u003eWhy…\n\n\\\u003e…why do you feel so anxious?\n\n\\\u003eIt feels like something is dreadfully wrong; like a bullet speeding your direction, harvesters on your scent, cross builders pinning your arms down — an inevitability just a heartbeat away\n\n\\\u003eGah!\n\n\\\u003eTo harvesters with this one; there are other drainage pipes\n\n\\\u003eJust a simple matter of getting out of this one\n\n\\\u003eYou tighten up your body into a compact ball of feathers and adolescent muscle and force yourself towards the night air, shimmying as quick as you can\n\n\\\u003eBut that heart-gripping anxiety isn’t going away as you work yourself to the very edge of the pipe\n\n\\\u003eBecause you hear something- something foreign to your sensitive\n\n\\\u003eYou swallow a few deep breaths of wet air and start forward again, fortifying yourself with a small prayer\n\n\\\u003eAnd, you think the Ancestors have turned their favor towards you\n\n\\\u003eUntil…\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003e”Hey, Ben, let me ask you something.”\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eA gravely voice above you, speaking in a language you barely know, pierces your ears\n\n\\\u003eA voice deep and masculine, yet scratched raw, as if from breathing smoke\n\n\\\u003e”Shoot,” another voice says\n\n\\\u003eThis one is young — but not young enough to be your age. Male. But rich with something you find only in your parents:\n\n\\\u003eKindness\n\n\\\u003eOpenness\n\n\\\u003eA sense of ease\n\n\\\u003eStill…\n\n\\\u003e…the voices above you sound nothing like your kin. Nothing at all. Words and consonants and pronunciation are all wrong; couldn’t be Corvish\n\n\\\u003eTheir sentences and pronunciation sound so… jagged; flinty even. Obtuse and tough to sound out even in the safety of your mind\n\n\\\u003e”When was the last time you heard from Mary? One of my buddies at base camp, Devon — curly red hair works the mess — said the sixth order Lightbringers got delayed again. Apparently the city is fucking FULL of cross builders again, so no mail for another week. God above, can you believe that?”\n\n\\\u003e”Hey Rich, no blasphemy in Enclave, no blasphemy out here either. And besides, I’d rather be in this part of Purgatory than in the city right now.”\n\n\\\u003e”Yeah, but what a kick in the balls. I know base camp is a couple days from the nearest supply chain, but we’re not as far out as the Easterlings. The post has to come through.”\n\n\\\u003e”They’ll come through, alright. We pay them enough for them to make it happen.”\n\n\\\u003eHeavy footsteps from above resonate down into the pipe, like concussive bombs against your sensitive ears\n\n\\\u003e”They damned well better. I’m living on stale bread and the letters my girl writes. She told me she spritzes a bit of her perfume on them before she seals them. God almighty, I’m getting antsy thinking about not hearing from her already.”\n\n\\\u003eFrom the sound of the voices, they’re almost directly above you\n\n\\\u003e”I know what you mean. The last time Mary and I talked, we talked about having kids. Putting a bookmark on that page was hard.”\n\n\\\u003e“Woof, tough subject.”\n\n\\\u003e”Tough? No, not at all. Her and I agree on almost everything. And to be honest, I… I’ve always wanted to be a father. I just never got the chance to tell Mare.”\n\n\\\u003e”No kidding. Boy or girl?”\n\n\\\u003eThere’s a bashful pause, one even you can feel from below\n\n\\\u003e”Can I tell you something a little soppy?” Ben says, his voice quieter\n\n\\\u003e”How come you Foxers can never seem to give me a straight answer? Fine, go ahead,” the other adds with a sigh\n\n\\\u003e”Whenever I shut my eyes, and I think about Mary and I — we’re married in this fantasy, mind you — I always see a little girl running up to us, full of laughter. Her name’s Charlotte. She has these adorable freckles from her mom, but she has my eyes. So, I think I want a daughter. I’d be alright with a son, but I grew up with two brothers. A change in scenery would do me good.”\n\n\\\u003eThe metallic snap of an everflame lighter’s lid flicking open\n\n\\\u003eThe scratching sound of a flint wheel catching steel, throwing sparks against a wick\n\n\\\u003eThere’s a brief pause as the smell of those weird smokey sticks you read about clears away the mossy, earthen, smell of fresh rain over Purgatory\n\n\\\u003eThe odor is offensive to your nose almost instantly\n\n\\\u003e”I wouldn’t say this about a lot of the Foxers I’ve paired with, but Benny boy… you’d make a decent father. You’ve got a gentle side that I think many in the Church don’t have.”\n\n\\\u003e”C’mon, Rich. A guy opens his heart to you, and you start to tease him?”\n\n\\\u003e”No, I meant it. You may be one of the kindest Foxers I’ve met in almost eight years of service. It’s amazing you’re not dead yet. Kindness will get you killed out here, you know?”\n\n\\\u003eThat wins a friendly chuckle from Ben\n\n\\\u003e”Just put me in front of a damned heretic and I’ll show you gentle,” he says\n\n\\\u003e’Foxer’\n\n\\\u003eYou know that word\n\n\\\u003eThat evil, horrible word in the demon’s tongue\n\n\\\u003eTo you, it is a cursed word. A word with the weight of a rainstorm\n\n\\\u003eThat word is ‘Vulcada’ to your people\n\n\\\u003e‘Foxer’\n\n\\\u003eAncestors… there’s Vulcada RIGHT above you!\n\n\\\u003eHUMANS\n\n\\\u003eSCOUTS\n\n\\\u003eTHE ENEMY OF YOU, MOM, DAD, AND YOUR ENTIRE RACE\n\n\\\u003eDIRECTLY OVERHEAD\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eSo what’s your next move?\n\n\\\u003eYou’re twelve years old\n\n\\\u003eIn a drainage pipe\n\n\\\u003eSeveral miles from your mom and dad, at least\n\n\\\u003eAt night\n\n\\\u003eDirectly beneath horrible demons who probably want nothing more than to torture and murder you in the name of their evil god\n\n\\\u003e…\n\n\\\u003eYou turn your beak down as tremors settle into your synaptic muscles\n\n\\\u003eYour heartbeat pounds like a tribal hunting drum in your skull; hot blood thrums in your veins as your vision starts to collapse\n\n\\\u003eClouds of dark stars begin to overwhelm your dim sight\n\n\\\u003eIs it getting harder to breathe again?\n\n\\\u003eAncestors, you’re going to have a panic attack down here\n\n\\\u003eA voice from above almost forces a surprised gasp out of you\n\n\\\u003eYou cover your beak with your hands\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003e”Lucy! Hey, stop fidgeting and let me put your collar on,” Ben says, voice rising into a commanding shout\n\n\\\u003e”Why’s she so wound up? Did you forget to feed her again?”\n\n\\\u003e”I think it’s the cigarette smoke. She sometimes does this when I smoke, too.”\n\n\\\u003e”Well, I’m not wasting this one. I just lit it!”\n\n\\\u003eDecision time, Elia. Time to unfreeze your joints, thaw your muscles, and get out of here as quietly as you can. Slip into the night, a shadow on a shadow, a phantom in the starlight\n\n\\\u003eYou start forward, crawling through the pipe on your hands and knees\n\n\\\u003eYou work with the speed of a frightened rat, and all the grace of one, too\n\n\\\u003eAncestors, you hope they don’t hear you down here\n\n\\\u003eWith a sudden, harsh cry, you hear the Vulcada shout, “LUCY! Get back here!”\n\n\\\u003eYour ears key in to something moving through the damp brush outside the pipe\n\n\\\u003eNO TIME TO DECIDE\n\n\\\u003eSOMETHING IS ON YOU\n\n\u0026nbsp;  \n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eYou heave yourself out of the drainpipe with incredible effort, gasping for fresh air…\n\n\\\u003e…bellyflopping on your way down…\n\n\\\u003e…and crashing right into the mud, face first, tasting rich soil and brittle buffalo grass in your mouth, the scent of fresh ozone and growing things in your nose\n\n\\\u003eOw\n\n\\\u003eA dull pain starts to throb in your head\n\n\\\u003eYou lift yourself with your palms and turn your beak up-\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eVulca\n\n\\\u003eA fox\n\n\\\u003eAnd it’s sitting right in front of you, on its hind legs, like some kind of obedient dog\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eIts fur is feathered a slate gray, like bruised skies before a storm\n\n\\\u003eIts bushy tail flickers with agitation and impatience\n\n\\\u003eHead cocked left, then right, then left again, as if it’s never met a crow, much less a corvid\n\n\\\u003eYou sit up on your palms trying with every single ounce of your meager soul to contain a terrified scream\n\n\\\u003eUnfortunately, one of the demons screams for you\n\n\\\u003e“LUCY!” Ben says, “God above, why’d you run off like that, girl?”\n\n\\\u003eAnd then you see him at last:\n\n\\\u003eA demon\n\n\\\u003eThe first you’ve ever seen — putting an image to what the words in your Seminary texts tried to convey\n\n\\\u003eThe Foxer slides down the muddy embankment, his rifle bouncing off his back. He doesn’t seem to have spotted you\n\n\\\u003eHe sports a drab, olive uniform — mostly a tucked, collared shirt, bearing a faint orange hue\n\n\\\u003eMost prominent is his orange scarf, bearing two bars of white on the tail end\n\n\\\u003eBut it’s when he looks over at you\n\n\\\u003eAnd it’s when your eyes meet\n\n\\\u003eDo you really see the face of the man who altered the course of your life\n\n\\\u003eHe’s young, smooth in the face except a faint outline of a beard\n\n\\\u003eMedium-length brown hair; warm, earthy-brown eyes, like small lakes of amber\n\n\\\u003eThin, pink lips that tremble with the foundations of a shocked scream\n\n\\\u003eBut he doesn’t scream\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003e”H-Heretic…” he stammers, voice a panicked hiss. He swings his chemical rifle into his shaking hands. “Heretic! Richard! Get down here, Goddamnit!”\n\n\\\u003eYou scramble to your feet\n\n\\\u003eThere’s a flash of light as the other demon appears, brandishing an everflame lighter in one hand\n\n\\\u003eYou shield your eyes from the touch of the light, cutting a terrified squawk in the process\n\n\\\u003eLucy the fox yips in excitement, her tail sweeping the brush\n\n\\\u003eIn a flick, she’s back beside her Foxer, barking her head off\n\n\\\u003eYou’re about to bolt hard to the left and make a run into the open prairie\n\n\\\u003eIt’s night — the demons can’t see at night, like you can\n\n\\\u003eThe muscles in your prominent haunches tense up, compressed like the springs in landmines\n\n\\\u003eHowever\n\n\\\u003eIn a blur, Ben racks his chemical rifle’s bolt-action, the distinct metal click you recall from the times dad took you out shooting\n\n\\\u003eThe Foxer’s hands work in tandem with your heart to slip a brass shell into the weapon\n\n\\\u003eYou don’t know if it’s truly loaded or not, but you’re not about to find out\n\n\\\u003eYou freeze in place, your blue eyes shot wide with panic, body wracked with tremors, never once dreaming of encountering anything like this before your first mission at fifteen\n\n\\\u003eWith trembling arms, the Vulcada trains the weapon on your small body\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eAnd for a few seconds, there’s this confused silence that settles in the air between you three\n\n\\\u003eNobody moves\n\n\\\u003eDespite the ringing in your ears, you can hear the demons drawing ragged, exhausted breaths of air\n\n\\\u003eYou even hear the vulca panting from exertion and excitement\n\n\\\u003eAnd you can hear your own heart beating like a hunting drum in the tight confines of your skull\n\n\\\u003e”Well?” the other human – Richard – sayss, his round face glowing red from a blush of adrenaline and physical strain. He looks at his Foxing partner and scowls, as if he had the authority to give orders\n\n\\\u003eBen squints down the sights, he scarf almost slipping off from around his neck\n\n\\\u003eHis index finger trembles against the trigger\n\n\\\u003e”What are you waiting for?! Shoot the damn thing!” Richard demands\n\n\\\u003eBut, ”It’s a crow,” is all Ben can say, his voice quiet, his chest heaving with indecision\n\n\\\u003e”So what? There’s plenty of other crows to bring home! This one probably belongs to some nearby warband-”\n\n“…she’s just a kid. Looks like she couldn’t be older than ten or eleven,” Ben replies under his breath, still training his rifle at your center mass despite his own reasoning\n\n\\\u003eRight at the sweater mom made for you last year\n\n\\\u003eThe gray one that mom made for you for your twelfth hatching day\n\n\\\u003eMom sewed this garment with her careful hands, every gentle stitch infused with maternal devotion\n\n\\\u003eAnd now you’re going to die in this sweater\n\n\\\u003eWorse, you’re going to stain it with your disgusting, cursed blood\n\n\\\u003eYou’re going to ruin it\n\n\\\u003eLike you ruin everything\n\n\\\u003eOdd thoughts at the end of one’s life\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003e”If we let her go, she grows up a little and eventually she kills a Zealot or Lightbringer,” the other demon reasons. He draws his face close to Ben’s. “What about a Foxer? One of your order?”\n\n\\\u003eBen never takes his eyes off you\n\n\\\u003e“What about this? She might be the one who drives a bayonet through Mary.”\n\n\\\u003e“Shut up, Rich-” Ben starts\n\n\\\u003eThe Zealot cuts him off\n\n\\\u003e“Your future daughter, even.”\n\n\\\u003eAnd after that?\n\n\\\u003eSilence\n\n\\\u003eYou watch Ben’s chest heave\n\n\\\u003eHear the demons gasping for breath\n\n\\\u003eYou have no idea what they’re saying. You only have one question:\n\n\\\u003e‘How am I still alive?’\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eAnd yet\n\n\\\u003eAfter a few moments\n\n\\\u003eThe Vulcada lowers his weapon\n\n\\\u003eBen pulls back on the bolt-action and withdraws the round that was meant for you\n\n\\\u003eHe draws heavy gulps of wet night air into his lungs as he tugs at his orange-and-white scarf, off-gassing heat from beneath his uniform\n\n\\\u003eYou haven’t moved an inch since he started aiming that gun at you\n\n\\\u003eBut now?\n\n\\\u003eYou feel your muscles begin to thaw\n\n\\\u003eA trapped breath of air leaks out of you\n\n\\\u003e”I’m not gonna kill a kid,” the Vulcada says with finality\n\n\\\u003eThe Zealot does not take kindly to this news\n\n\\\u003e“Are you INSANE!?” Richard barks, “Listen, Ben, I don’t want to kill a fledgeling either, but it- it’s heresy to let her live! You know that as well as I!”\n\n\\\u003e”No,” Ben says as he pulls his arm through the strap of his weapon, slinging it against his back. “We’re not going to kill this one. I won’t do it.”\n\n\\\u003eLucy yips in agreement and leaps from her Foxer’s shoulder\n\n\\\u003eThe fox lands gracefully in the mud\n\n\\\u003e”Fine, then I’ll do it,” Richard says as he slips his arm out of the strap holding his chemical rifle to his body\n\n\\\u003eAt that, Ben’s demeanor shifts entirely – like someone pouring black poweder onto everflame\n\n\\\u003eAnd for a second, you see the protective rage\n\n\\\u003eOf your father\n\n\\\u003e”Listen to me: touch one feather on that little girl, and you’re walking home through the anomaly fields ALONE,” Ben snarls through clenched teeth\n\n\\\u003eRichard takes another look at you; eyes you like a cat told not to play with a near-dead mouse\n\n\\\u003eThe Zealot deflates with an exhausted sigh\n\n\\\u003e”Fine. Fine. Then what do you propose we do with her then? We can’t just cut her loose. She could tell her flock, or the warband she’s with.”\n\n\\\u003eYou have only a slight idea of what they’re saying\n\n\\\u003eSomething about the Vulcada going through something alone? Or was it the other rounder one, the Zealot, who will navigate a dangerous path?\n\n\\\u003eYou’re drawn out of your analysis by a familiar word spoken to you by the Foxer\n\n\\\u003eThe last thing you’d expect a murderous demon to say to you\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003e’Hello’\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003e”Chii,” Ben says, looking at you\n\n\\\u003eYou tilt your head a bit\n\n\\\u003eBen — the Vulcada who was just aiming his chemical rifle at you — just said ‘hello’ in Corvish\n\n\\\u003eHe then approaches you, his vulca pacing alongside him, looking sniffing at you expectantly\n\n\\\u003eThe Foxer drops to one knee, as our faces level with one another\n\n\\\u003eAnd your eyes meet\n\n\\\u003eAnd then…\n\n\\\u003e…there’s a sudden cascade of sensory data; centuries of primal knowledge and understanding suddenly poured into your skull as if injected into your cranium\n\n\\\u003eNot knowledge of man and beast; of Corvid or demon\n\n\\\u003eSomething far deeper and far more personal to your own history crosses the invisible gap between you and this human, inches apart in reality but miles between your minds\n\n\\\u003eThe sudden exchange of understand forces you to look down at his hands\n\n\\\u003eThis human… unlike the other human… he wears…\n\n\\\u003eGloves?\n\n\\\u003eThe other human certainly isn’t\n\n\\\u003eAnd you think — just for a heartbeat, a loose, sparking thought — that this particular demon might be someone like…\n\n\\\u003e…you?\n\n\\\u003e”Chii? Uhh… Choo? Damnit, I probably should have brushed up on my Corvish at camp last night. Sorry if this is wrong but I need to try…”\n\n\\\u003eHe takes a deep breath and then\n\n\\\u003e“Chii skaa. Skaa jasish Corrcorvas?”\n\n\\\u003eYou blink a few times, disbelief forcing you to jaw for a response\n\n\\\u003e’Hello, I am speaking Corvish?’ iIs what he said\n\n\\\u003eYou open your beak to answer, but something cold and wet jabs at your exposed ankles, distracting you\n\n\\\u003eYour eyes flick down to your wrapped talons\n\n\\\u003eLucy the Fox jabs her wet nose at your trousers, inhaling your foreign scent\n\n\\\u003e“That’s Lucy,” says. “Don’t mind her. She likes to get to know people.”\n\n\\\u003eThis vulca… fox…\n\n\\\u003eIt’s not biting or ripping your flesh, as you’ve been taught\n\n\\\u003eIt’s just circling you, drinking your foreign scent\n\n\\\u003eSo, you summon a response as best you can, in a tongue you hardly know\n\n\\\u003eBecause the Foxer did it for you\n\n“C-Corvish… is… umm… yes… uh… you?” you stammer in reply, turning your beak to face the demon.\n\n\\\u003eWhile you’re on the topic of language, you better let these demons know the extent your grasp on English, with an eloquent sentence like:\n\n“I say… uh… small demon...”\n\n\\\u003eA friendly smile breaks across Ben’s face, his pink lips spreading to show a row of unfamiliar white teeth\n\n\\\u003eFunny, you were always told the demons had mouths packed with fangs, like the tochta who inhabit the city\n\n\\\u003eThis one must be young; he’s yet to file his teeth down into jagged flints, clearly\n\n\\\u003e“You speak some English?” Ben replies. “That’s good. English Baanta.”\n\n\\\u003e’Baanta’\n\n\\\u003e’Good’\n\n\\\u003eThough you protest in your heart, you feel pained tears spring into the corners of your eyes. A vise chokes your response into a fractured stammer\n\n\\\u003eYou’re sure they’re just doing this to keep you calm, a verbal sedative before they make you turn around so they don’t have to look you in the eyes as they blast holes in your chest cavity\n\n\\\u003e”N-Nii katha,” you say, voice shaking in desperation. “No… death…’\n\n\\\u003eFrustrated tears begin to work their way down your face, despite your inner pleading\n\n\\\u003eThe Vulcada frowns\n\n\\\u003ePerhaps operating now on protective instinct, Ben brushes away your tear with a gloved finger\n\n\\\u003eYou cheep in surprise when you feel his surprisingly gentle touch against the plumage of your dark, feathered cheeks\n\n\\\u003eA minor infusion of comfort – like the warm sunset of bell flowers sap in your veins – travels to your core\n\n\\\u003eBut despite his opiate-like touch, all the comfort in Purgatory can’t distract you from one little fact:\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eHe…\n\n\\\u003eHe’s wearing gloves?\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eWhy isn’t the other one wearing gloves?\n\n\\\u003eAnd why do you feel you know this person so well?\n\n\\\u003eBen takes your talons in his own gloved hands and squeezes them tight, like a father reassuring his anxious daughter\n\n\\\u003eAnd when your hands touch — even through the leather gloves — electric currents arc up your spine like a lightning rod\n\n\\\u003eYou feel…\n\n\\\u003eScared, on the brink of a panic attack?\n\n\\\u003eYes\n\n\\\u003eBut more than that, you’re overcome by a macabre sense of… understanding… from this demon. It’s as if he knows something about you that the other demon doesn’t — can’t\n\n\\\u003eLike he’s peered inside of you and seen the secret you keep close to your heart, and promised not to tell\n\n\\\u003eWhen you look down, you see that both hands are gloved in the same brown suede leather, almost impossible to tell apart when pressed together\n\n\\\u003e”You wear gloves just like I do, aye?” he says with an observant click. “Why’s that, bird? You don’t seem old enough for scouting, so you probably don’t need em.”\n\n\\\u003eYou tilt your head in confusion\n\n\\\u003e“Hand- talons cold?” Ben tries, pointing at his own gloves. “Cold?”\n\n\\\u003eHis words all sound like a ball of yarn; completely tangled together\n\n\\\u003eYou tilt your head again\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003e”Ben, quit making friends with it and let’s figure out what our plan is, damnit,” Richard whines. “I don’t know about you, but I’d prefer to end this mission next to a campfire — back at base camp, INDOORS.”\n\n\\\u003eThe portly Zealot snaps shut his everflame lighter, killing off the warm, orange light, which made the demon’s seem a lot more…\n\n\\\u003eFriendly?\n\n\\\u003eSuddenly, Ben’s face is washed clean in the starlight; heavy shadows drip off his young jawline, making him look predatory; jagged\n\n\\\u003eRichard seethes in the dark, his helmet shadow cast across his face, obscuring most of his features\n\n\\\u003e”Get your fox ready to move, and figure out what you’re going to do with the heretic. God above, we’re making this too complicated as it is,” he moans\n\n\\\u003eThe Vulcada spins and yells something to his comrade, something that sounds like, “I’m working on a plan here!”\n\n\\\u003eBut you don’t understand him; only some fragments of his English are firm to you\n\n\\\u003eMore for any girl your age, though\n\n\\\u003eTruth be told, demons always fascinated you when the subject came up in Seminary. You spent maybe a little too much time trying to learn their language and studying their culture, instead of pointing your efforts towards something useful, like navigation, or physical training\n\n\\\u003eSo your understanding isn’t the worst…\n\n\\\u003e”You probably don’t know all of what I’m saying, do you?” Ben says with a tired, slightly defeated laugh\n\n\\\u003e…it’s also not the best\n\n\\\u003eYou stare directly at the human, tremors rocking your small body, mouth quivering with the genesis of a sentence in half English\n\n“Is uhhh… small… word…” you repeat, hoping to convey that you grasp on the demon’s tongue is fleeting at best\n\n\\\u003eFeathers, you hope that’s correct English\n\n\\\u003e”Good enough for me,” he unclasps his hands from yours and stands to his full, impressive height (at least compared to you)\n\n\\\u003e”What’s your name, kid?” Ben says,\n\n”Name?” you parrot back in the Vulcada’s voice\n\n\\\u003eLucy tilts her head and peers up at you, as if awaiting a command from you and not her Foxer\n\n\\\u003eInstead of unnerving and frightening the demon as intended, Ben laughs. “That’s a superb impression for a fledgling. My name is Benjamin, but most people call me Ben.” He throws a casual thumb over his shoulder. “That fellow over there with the lighter is my Zealot-pair, Richard.”\n\n\\\u003eYou can only stare, your jaw unscrewed as you suck in shallow gasps of air\n\n\\\u003eBy the Ancestors, what did this demon just say to you?\n\n\\\u003eAfter a few moments of awkward silence, Ben shrugs\n\n\\\u003e”Probably not old enough to have learned functional English. No problem. Let me try a different approach.”\n\n\\\u003eHe clears his throat, and says, “Cu anim…? Is that how it’s pronounced? Ay-nim?”\n\n”Oh!” you chirp in surprise\n\n\\\u003eThe demon was close with his pronunciation, but not quite on the mark. Still, his Corvish isn’t bad, for human standards\n\n\\\u003eIt’s ‘ah-nim,’ by the way\n\n“Skaal anim… my name… skaal anim Elia?” you repeat, tongue stumbling over the foreign word ‘name’\n\n\\\u003eAt that the Vulcada breaks into an excited grin, and throws his arms up to the sky “Praise God, you understand!” he exclaims\n\n\\\u003eYou flinch at the volume of his voice and strangeness of his words\n\n\\\u003eBut, excited, he looks back down at you\n\n“So your name is Elia, is that right?”\n\n\\\u003eYou nod fervently, pointing at yourself with one finger, sensing that you are millimeters from breaking through to him, reaching a primitive notion of the idea of understanding one another\n\n\\\u003eAnd maybe that’s how these these things are meant to unfold – that understanding between two foreign peoples is not bought or stolen with coins or weapons, but built together over time and experience; a monument to your new found kinship\n\n\\\u003eWith a budding sense of you, smile a little\n\n“Skaa Elia!” you chirp, practically jumping with relief. “I Elia! I Elia!”\n\n“Elia, huh? I think that’s a pretty name for a bird,” Ben remarks\n\n\\\u003eYou bob your head, nodding fervently to his every word. You have no idea what he just said outside of your name and the word ‘bird’\n\n\\\u003eA plan takes root in your fertile mind – an adolescent, poorly-thought out one\n\n\\\u003eBut a plan\n\n\\\u003eIf you just play along, they’ll let you go, cast you off into the night as a lost, forgotten orphan or something like that\n\n\\\u003eInstead, Ben asks you a question that arrests all your previous momentum\n\n\\\u003eSmothers the idea of hope like a boot stomping out the embers of a dead fire\n\n\\\u003e”Elia,” he says, fiddling with his gloves.\n\n\\\u003eYou turn your beak up at him, sensing a question\n\n“Hai? Umm… skaa vo desa ‘yes?’”\n\n\\\u003eBen pulls on the ends of his leather gloves, tightening them against his body, as if preparing to leave\n\n\\\u003e“Where is the rest of your family?” he says, pulling on his gloves, tightening them as if preparing to set off somewhere. “Your flock?” He pauses. “Is that your people’s word for family? Honestly, I can’t remember what that damn word is.”\n\n\\\u003eHe leans in close – uncomfortably close – so much so that you sense a shift in your panic, bubbling to the surface like a geyser of scalding water\n\n\\\u003e“Essentially what I’m asking is: where are your mom and dad? Daka? MInn?”\n\n\\\u003eNow THAT sentence you understood\n\n\\\u003eFlock\n\n\\\u003eFamily\n\n\\\u003eDaka\n\n\\\u003eMinn\n\n\\\u003eYour heart sinks into your gut, as if encased in lead\n\n\\\u003e“You look a bit too young for scouting,” he says, appraising you. “And you’re not dressed for life outside the walls. So you’re either traveling with parents, or you’re some kind of vagrant. A runaway, maybe?”\n\n\\\u003eBefore you can cobble together a response, something pokes at your rear-end – specifically your back pocket\n\n\\\u003eYou let slip a startled squawk and spin to try and defend your parent’s map\n\n\\\u003eBut you stop short of dropping the literal gloves when you see who’s behind you:\n\n\\\u003eLucy, her tongue rolling out of her mouth, her chest heaving, eyes fixed on you like you’re withholding something tasty from her\n\n\\\u003eHer posture is restless, shifting in place, as if waiting for the next opportunity to lunge at yo\n\n\\\u003eShe must sense something about you – on you, maybe\n\n\\\u003eYou have no food with you\n\n\\\u003eNo weapons\n\n\\\u003eJust…\n\n\\\u003e…the map\n\n\\\u003eIs the vulca drawn to your parents map?\n\n\\\u003eBut- But- vulca are trained to seek out artifacts and anaree\n\n\\\u003eNot maps!\n\n\\\u003eUnless…\n\n\\\u003eYou spin to face the Vulcada again, using your arm to fend off Lucy from behind\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eThere is absolutely NO WAY you can tell these monsters where you’re camped\n\n\\\u003eThat’d lead them…\n\n\\\u003e…to mom and dad\n\n\\\u003eNope\n\n\\\u003eNone\n\n\\\u003eZero\n\n\\\u003eNot gonna happen\n\n\\\u003eSo, what do you do to save your feathers from savage demons?\n\n\\\u003eYou lie\n\n\\\u003eYou lie\n\n\\\u003eYou lie\n\n\\\u003eYOU LIE\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n“Nii… flock. Not… familah,” you say butchering the pronunciation on the human words\n\n\\\u003eThe lie tastes bitter on your tongue, dry like ashes from the campfire last night\n\n\\\u003eYou hold up one talon, and then point at your chest in a poor attempt to convey that yes, you are alone; a poor orphaned crow evicted from her nest, now at the mercy of strangers\n\n“Nii familah. Skaa Elia!” you shout, your falsities rolling off the tongue like shards of glass\n\n\\\u003eBen looks like he’s following as you try to cobble together the right assemblage of words to sell your lie\n\n\\\u003eBut it looks like he’s… he’s not following the direction you want him to go…\n\n\\\u003eHe nods along with you, arms crossed across his chest\n\n\\\u003eA slight, sardonic frown points his lips down\n\n\\\u003eFeathers\n\n\\\u003eThat’s the same things dad does when he knows you’re lying to him\n\n\\\u003eYou recognize all the signs\n\n\\\u003eYou heart can’t beat any faster; panic flushes through your system as if injected with a syringe of it\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eYou try to continue in what little English you know, but when Ben just keeps nodding along, disbelief across his face like an impatient mask, panic overwhelms you\n\n\\\u003eYou switch to Corvish\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n“Skaa Elia. Nii ‘family’” you use Ben’s voice, hoping it wor-\n\n\\\u003eLucy, who’s had enough of your bad acting, cuts an impatient yip and launches herself at your backside\n\n\\\u003eYou spin in time to dodge the vulca, but in doing so, you expose a fold of your parent’s map – just a small corner sprouting from out of your back pocket, jostled loose from the scramble to get out of the drainage pipe\n\n\\\u003eThe Vulcada reaches out, snags the corner of the map, and plucks it free from your pocket like pulling a weed\n\n\\\u003eOh feathers\n\n\\\u003e“You’re kidding?” Ben sighs a deep, disappointed sigh as he begins to unfold the map. “This is why Lucy’s all worked up?”\n\n\\\u003eYou can’t tell if he’s disappointed at the map – or you\n\n\\\u003eThe Cree stomps over to Ben, his lighter blazing hard against the night once more\n\n\\\u003e“What in God’s name is that?” He says, leaning close, snaking his neck to see around Ben. “It looks older than Enclave itself, if I had to guess.”\n\n\\\u003e”This is…” Ben squints as he draws close to the map, “…this is something that the heretic had on her. I think it might be a relic of some kind, given how Lucy reacted to it.”\n\n\\\u003eAs if on cue, Lucy propels herself up towards the map, which the Foxer easily keeps far from her reach\n\n\\\u003e”A relic?!” Richard seethes, peering down at you, face twisted into a snarl. “You mean the little bitch is keeping relics from us?”\n\n\\\u003e“I can’t be sure-”\n\n\\\u003e“What do you mean you ‘can’t be sure’?” Richard shouts. “You’re a Foxer – it’s your job to be sure!”\n\n\\\u003e“No, what I’m trying to say this map is all wrong, so I don’t know if this is a relic or not! God’s grace man, give me more than five seconds to look at this damned thing.”\n\n\\\u003eRichard side eyes you, still huffing. ”What’s strange? The map?”\n\n\\\u003e“Yeah, I can’t make sense of it at all. Here, take a look.”\n\n\\\u003eThe Zealot brings the everflame lighter dangerously close to the map, and you want nothing more than to snatch it out of the Vulcada’s hands right now\n\n\\\u003eNot even for your own potential return to camp, but to protect the one thing your parents entrusted you with\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003e”The geography is all correct, but there’s all these towns on here – definitely ones that I don’t recognize. Like, Littleton, Northglenn, Aspen, Pueblo down south… and look here!”\n\n\\\u003eBen practically jams a finger through the map itself\n\n\\\u003e“The city has finally has a proper name. Denver!”\n\n\\\u003e“Look here,” the Richard says pointing to a spot on the map. “Read that.”\n\n\\\u003eBen pauses in disbelief\n\n\\\u003eHe squints and draws close against the map\n\n\\\u003eThe Vulcada only says one word\n\n\\\u003eA word that has meaning to you in prayer\n\n\\\u003eA word – a place – you learned in seminary\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003e“Amberose.”\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eAmberose\n\n\\\u003eA fallen city of myth\n\n\\\u003eThey say it never existed\n\n\\\u003eBut apparently\n\n\\\u003eOn mom and dad’s map?\n\n\\\u003eIt’s still there\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003e“How outdated is this thing?” is all Ben can say after that\n\n\\\u003e”Can’t be that outdated” Richard says, dragging his stubby finger across the parchment, landing on a black ‘C’\n\n\\\u003eEncircled by the hand of your father\n\n\\\u003e”Someone’s drawn on this recently,” Richard concludes, “and I have an idea as to where that will lead us.”\n\n\\\u003eThe Foxer peers down at you from behind the map, brows sloped, brown eyes narrowed in disappointment – the type a father experiences when his daughter is caught in a lie\n\n\\\u003e”’C’ for ‘Camp’” I’d bet,” Ben says with a disappointed sigh, still looking at you\n\n\\\u003eYou have no clue what they’re talking about — all you can focus on is the map\n\n\\\u003eThat’s YOUR FAMILY’s map\n\n\\\u003eYour ONLY way back to camp\n\n\\\u003eSo…\n\n\\\u003e…why aren’t you fighting back?\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eYou don’t get the chance to draw your talons, because the tone of Ben’s voice freezes you in place\n\n\\\u003e”Elia,” the Vulcada says, his voice commanding and tempered with distrust, just a decibel above the echo of your heartbeat in your skull\n\n\\\u003eA spray of birdshot against the voices in your mind that tell you to fight\n\n\\\u003eThere’s a catch in your throat — like you swallowed a hummingbird, or a butterfly, or some other wild creature that’s fighting to break free\n\n\\\u003eBut then…\n\n\\\u003e…the Foxer does something that your feeble heart did not expect\n\n\\\u003eHe folds the map, and extends it towards you, a parchment peace offering\n\n\\\u003e“You bring us back to your camp, and we’ll leave you there. Safe.”\n\n\\\u003eAgain, his words are mush to your ears\n\n\\\u003eYou’re only half-focused on his command, anyway\n\n\\\u003eYour blurred eyes fixate on your parent’s old map\n\n\\\u003eIn a flash, you snap the map out of the Foxer’s grasp and unfold it\n\n\\\u003eYou scan it over, as if it was a forgery, as if they had desecrated it with their disgusting touch and ruined it\n\n\\\u003eBut it’s still your parent’s map\n\n\\\u003eDad’s ‘C’ is still just a mile or two down the road, scratched onto the thick paper\n\n\\\u003eThe city of amberose pressed up against the flatiron mountains\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eFeathers, you think you can get at what the demon is asking you to do. They must have seen dad’s mark\n\n\\\u003eYour blue eyes flick between the two demons\n\n\\\u003eTheir faces are hard, jawlines cast in shadow, firelight from the lighter flickering beneath their dark chins\n\n\\\u003ePredatory eyes, fixed on your small form, cold and hungry for answers and obedience\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eNope\n\n\\\u003eNo\n\n\\\u003eNo way\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eYou shake your beak side-to-side in a definite refusal of the proposal\n\n\\\u003eRichard grunts with annoyance\n\n\\\u003e”This is a waste of our valuable time, Foxer. I won’t babysit this little brat if she’s going to be dead weight. I say we simplify this and kill her now,” he grumbles\n\n\\\u003eYour focus bounces between the two humans\n\n\\\u003eYou try in vain to piece together what they’re saying, but it’s like trying to shape water, or hold smoke\n\n\\\u003eThey talk too fast and use too many strange words, obtuse words for your ears\n\n\\\u003e”Try to show a little more composure, Rich. We’re not going to kill the damned hatchling, and we’re not going to kill her family either,” Ben says, reason slipping from his tone\n\n\\\u003eThe Zealot stammers back with an angry reply\n\n\\\u003e”So we just- just- leave her at her camp? A good deed paid towards the enemy? What’s that gonna do for us except let the rest of her warband know where we are?”\n\n\\\u003eBen shakes his head. “You shouldn’t be so hasty in extinguishing life, especially one so young.”\n\n\\\u003e”Don’t feed me those lines like some kind of heretic yourself! She’s the enemy!” Richard cries. “Am I the only one who has the will to do the Lord’s work here!?”\n\n\\\u003eSuddenly, the Foxer grabs hold of Richard by the collar of his waxed, canvas-green fatigues and jostles him with sharp tug\n\n\\\u003eThe Vulcada’s face glows red with barely-restrained anger as he draws his face close to the Zealot’s\n\n\\\u003e”Think about it for a moment you fucking idiot — they don’t send kids outside to scout for relics. And look at her!”\n\n\\\u003eThe Zealot side-eyes you, appraising you\n\n\\\u003e”She’s in plainclothes,” Ben says, his fury gated behind his clenched teeth. “I think this one’s an exile. Chewed up and spit out by the system for one reason or another. As good as dead,” Ben concludes, releasing his hold on the Zealot\n\n\\\u003e”So what’s it matter if she’s wanted or not?” Richard says, fixing his crumpled shirt collar, smoothing it over with his pale hands. “That’s al the more reason to get rid of her.”\n\n\\\u003e”No point in wasting bullets on exiles. Getting booted is a death sentence by itself; their little quorum just won’t admit it. Exiles wander Purgatory until something puts them out of their misery. But it looks like this one clearly has some kind of special map on her,” Ben says. “And I’d be willing to bet the family – or whoever she’s traveling with – might also have more relics with them, like the map. So here’s my plan:”\n\n\\\u003e“Just get on with it before I start walking back, compression anomalies be damned.”\n\n“We have Elia here lead us back to her camp. We frighten her parents a little, take whatever holy relics they’ve stolen, and then we leave. Them? Scared and hugging each other. Us? Heroes. How’s that for a plan?”\n\n\\\u003e”It’ll do,” the Zealot grumbles. “The only issue is in getting this kid to cooperate. She doesn’t seem too interested.”\n\n\\\u003e”Oh, she’ll help us,” the Foxer says, flashing a quick, confident smirk. “Watch this.”\n\n\\\u003eThen, as if channeling his younger self practicing rifle drills in his dorm, Ben shifts his chemical rifle into his hands, feeding a thin, brass sliver of metal into the chamber with mechanical smoothness\n\n\\\u003eHe cranks the bolt action forward and levels the rifle at you\n\n\\\u003eAt that, the corked geyser within you gives\n\n\\\u003eAnd you finally start to cry\n\n\\\u003eReal, gut-heaving sobs spill out of you as you squawk your childish plea in your native tongue\n\n”Nii! Nii katha!” you beg\n\n\\\u003eYour small body contorts into a self-defensive shells, arms and the map shielding your face as you prepare to have your brains evicted from your skull\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eYou HAD to realize this was coming at some point, right?\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eOnce you’re no longer useful — if you were never useful to begin with — is when they dispose of you\n\n\\\u003eIt all makes sense if you thought for just five seconds\n\n\\\u003eOf course they’d kill you\n\n\\\u003eThese are not your kin\n\n\\\u003eThese are demons\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n\\\u003eScenes of your short and pointless life play out in your mind\n\n\\\u003eTime stretches itself to an infinite length, losing all meaning, as you see…\n\n\\\u003e…climbing practice with mom and dad…\n\n\\\u003e...first day at Seminary when you cried so hard that the teachers made your dad pick you up….\n\n\\\u003e…dream walking for the first time during a sleepover with your friend Kina\n\n\\\u003e…the happiness of the time spent alone, the golden hours spent leafing through the pages of your parent’s copy of Scout’s Field Guide…\n\n\\\u003e...fireworks at the harvest festival, their phosphene sparks fluttering down like flower petals against the tepid night sky\n\n\\\u003eYou wanted to catch one when you were young and foolish\n\n\\\u003e…these moments and memories condense into tears, tears that roll off your feathers and cascade down your beak like glass raindrops…\n\n\\\u003eSo you tense up, ready at any moment for the sharp crack of the rifle, and the end of all things\n\n\\\u003e…that is…\n\n\\\u003e…until you hear a hollow metal click; the resonate ping of a chemical rifle’s safety catching\n\n\\\u003eYou’re still in tears\n\n\\\u003eStill clutching your last breath against your ribs\n\n\\\u003eBut, with some hesitation, your posture slowly uncoils from itself, blue eyes breaking open\n\n\\\u003eThe Foxer still trains his rifle on you, one eye squinting down its iron sights, rifle socketed firm against his shoulder\n\n\\\u003eLucy the fox perches atop Ben’s left shoulder, gray ears pasted against her skull\n\n\\\u003ePanting hard, as anxious as an animal can be\n\n\\\u003e”Next time,” Ben says with a rising chest, his voice devoid of color or warmth, “the safety won’t be on.”\n\n\\\u003eHe then motions with the iron barrel of his chemical rifle for you to walk up the embankment and get back on the road\n\n\\\u003eLike the weakling you are, you comply without a second thought as to where this all might lead\n\n\\\u003eOnly your survival – hanging on by a thin strand of obedience – matters\n\n\\\u003eIn a flash, you scramble through the brush and overgrowth, scampering up the hill, churning soil into mud as your talons at last scrape onto the shattered asphalt road\n\n\\\u003eThe demons join you in short order, their clunky boots slipping in the wet\n\n\\\u003eOnly Lucy is able to meet your pace\n\n\\\u003eA gray streak who runs ahead of you and waits to catch up, as if she was the one with the map, leading you all\n\n\\\u003eYou turn to see the demons surmount the small embankment and clunks onto the shattered asphalt\n\n\\\u003e”See? Sometimes you just have to be stern with kids, even if you don’t really mean it,” Ben laughs, his scarf dangling from his neck\n\n\\\u003e”Whatever suits you,” The Zealot says in a strained puff, as he follows up behind the Foxer, breathing hard\n\n\\\u003eWhen the Zealot is at last standing, the first thing he does \\_isn’t\\_ clean himself of mud and wet grass\n\n\\\u003eOr even stop to catch his breath\n\n\\\u003eHe slings his chemical rifle – bayonet fixed – into his grasp, and glares down at you, eyes piercing your composure like bullets shot into a brittle statue\n\n“As for me? My safety’s off. If the hatchling, or any of the other birds she’s traveling with try something clever, I’m putting holes in them.”\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\nTo be continued in Travels: Part Two\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\nhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dmYPkIaRJns\u0026list=PL9aXlzDRA49Rmp4y6Z9Si9dS2LvmTNY7S\u0026index=37","series":{"name":"Foxing","previous":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/2256407-waking-the-dead.json"}}