Nightfall Spar

Entering the mess hall was like stepping into another universe. The corridors had the clinical atmosphere of white walls against white floors, respectful silence only broken by steps and occasional whispered chattering. It all got replaced by a barrage of sounds and smells, flighted Avians of all flavours mingling about. No matter the hour, the hall always had snacks available, even though supper wasn't yet ready. An essential component of a facility housing organisms with fast metabolisms.

Blackbird remained close to the hall entrance, keeping his distance so as to not get in the way. With a lofty ceiling and ample space between each circular table, the area offered generous room. Even the floor's tiles were enormous, requiring several steps to get across each marbled stone. Although the space was well-lit by white ceiling lights, long golden strands bursted in from the high windows. The last remnants of the fading sun.

Under the room's lights, uncut fruit gleamed in deep basins like precious gems. The majority were tough-shelled, green and yellow balls about the size of a man's head. In between the larger balls there were a few magenta berries, which looked appetising even with the faint bruising on their surfaces. A few blenders were kept close to the fruits, abused down to their last bolts and blades. A small crowd had formed around them, a flurry of rusty winged recruits creating some unholy combination of a smoothie.

A salad bar claimed half of the width of the self-serve area. Most of its containers looked already depleted, in particular around the protein section. The lettuce and kale bowl jutted out like an overgrown patch, a sheer water mist keeping it fresh.

The double doors near the food stands opened, warranting a silent spell over the Avian crowd. One of the cooks carried a large container, brimming with red-brown jerky. They deposited it into one of the empty salad bowls, the rustling of the meat accompanied by a wave of their scent. It was heavily spiced: salt, pepper, onion, garlic, paprika, sugar, and scents beyond Blackbird’s recognition.

Red eyes lingered over the bowls. He had always been partial to those, probably the only source of real meat in the compound. Even if his appetite wasn’t up for a snack, he found himself walking for it. In the way, he noted the scent of sour paste and fresher ground meat, a bit one-note in comparison to the jerky. Lab meat. Dinner would be meatball sandwiches; he also got the hint of butter that heralded the sandwich bread. He was pleased to have woken up early. The queues for that got long.

Someone tugged on his flight feathers, pulling him out of his jerky-induced daze. Blackbird turned, disgruntled, but then his stomach dropped.

“Blacky, you made it!”

Orion was a tall Avian, lanky with short wings covered in white and teal. He had a mess of curly pastel feathers on his head, styled back and a stark contrast against his black sunglasses.

“Hi. Yes.” Blackbird managed to squeak out.

“It’s good to see you! This lighting suits you so much better than the one in the ward.” Orion giggled to himself, his hands flourishing up but failing to point at the actual lights.

Before Blackbird could protest, Orion had taken hold of his wrist and dragged him across the mess hall. He walked with his wings half-spread forward, snappy little flaps granting him space and clarity to walk. They settled on a smaller table, tucked away under one of the windows and far from the food bar. Orion set one of his wings over Blackbird’s, flight feathers rustling together.

“I missed having you around! Are they done prodding into your innards?”

Blackbird exhaled, tilting his head to face Orion but keeping his eyes glued to the table. Had it been anyone else, he’d have opted to stand and leave. But the strings of guilt tugged his voice into forming a response.

“For the time being.”

“That’s good! I missed your warmth.”

“Blankets are quite effective.”

“Dorrrrrrrk, ” Orion dragged out the word into a purr. “You know what I mean.”

His hand rested over Blackbird’s, giving it a gentle squeeze. It felt like the brush of the sun against the cold metal of the table.

“Right,” Blackbird straightened, the hand beneath Orion’s going slack but not quite forcing it out of his grasp yet. “Maybe we should get in line for those meatballs.”

“Ooohh, you smelled them too, didn’t you? But those aren’t the meatballs I’d like t-”

“Orion.” Blackbird gritted between his teeth.

The blind Cyclone broke into a roar of laughter, covering his mouth with a short-clawed hand. The tip of his fingers were calloused, the natural consequence against the frequent beating of strings. He regained some composure, mouth opening in gasps. The feathers lining his ears twitched and turned, until he finally nodded.

“Darn, okay,” He snickered. “I guess you’re right. Let’s go.”

The crowd had grown thicker, clear even to Orion through the denser sounds of rustling feathers and idle chatter. Blackbird watched the scattered Avians, the vast majority were young Cyclones with broad wings, juvenile feathers with rusty undertones turned golden under the sunset. A few Whirlwinds mingled about, mostly keeping to themselves or chatting with one another. Blackbird noted how their feathers would spike, how their shoulders bunched at the nearby Cyclones yelling or getting too close.

As expected, a queue was already forming. It was still an hour for dinner, and dozens of Avians were standing side-to-side. First lining the food bar, and then curving towards the wall. Orion and Blackbird got in place, just as the taller Avian pushed earplugs into the feathers lining his face. All Cyclones were meant to have superb hearing, but being blind had boosted Orion’s other senses. He could echolocate using rain beating against the world, just as easily as he got mountain-splitting migraines if he stood in a crowd for too long.

Deprived of chatting, both Avians spent the time preening each other. Blackbird’s claws were blunt, which made his preen job a bit more sloppy. Still, it wasn’t like he had much to rectify. Orion had elliptical wings, with rounded feathers coloured in light teals, oranges, and a stark white that dominated over all in random splotches. The owner made an effort to keep the pastel feathers tidy, even if they didn’t see much use in the sky these days.

It was a harsh contrast against Blackbird’s own. Cinnamon browns, beige, oranges and off-black lined his ventral side. A perhaps dull pattern, turned into a bright bonfire with the clash of pure, void black on his dorsal side. Not even the room’s lights seemed to reflect off his onyx feathers, an obvious telltale behind his callsign.

At some point, the remaining snack foods had been removed in preparation for the bigger meal. Anticipation flourished, even the dullest-nosed Avian had caught wind of the day’s menu. Hunger and fangs were not a combo that the mostly-human workers of the facility appreciated. With the snacks gone, the kitchen door had been bolted shut and the food bar blocked until dinner bell. Routine and a promise of food dulled any offence the Avians could have taken.

The crowd had grown into a stifling mass of noise and heat by the time the bell rang. Avians whooped and flapped, wings raised in hailed entry to the kitchen workers unlocking the door.

An explosion of scents, the heavy spices had alchemized the meat into a fragrant balance. There was the characteristic starch of potatoes, turned tangy and sour with yogurt and cheese. Blackbird wasn’t one to fall into childish antics, but those potatoes made his wings flutter in expectation.

Dinner went like a well-rehearsed dance. Hundreds of Avians were to be served by just a handful of humans, and each of them had to clear a biometric scan before getting handed their food platter. It was an obligatory step. Any grumbling or (heavens forbid) trying to bypass the scanner got quickly straightened by the hungry queue.

Blackbird cleared the requirement quickly, the fingerprint scan beeping cheerfully. It paled next to the Avian’s own pleased squeak at getting the metal platter shoved onto his hands.

Orion followed, hugging him with one wing and staying close. With the earplugs on, he was true and thoroughly blind to the surroundings.

Slowly, Blackbird navigated between the ripples and waves of the crowd. There were plenty of free tables while the queue was still long, but he still led them away into their corner with the small table.

Even if Orion had been willing to hear, food drowned any motivation for chatter. Blackbird admired his share. Three subs the size of his hand brimming with meatballs, with a side of potato casserole covered on a cheese crust. A thick slice of so-called black cake: sticky rice steeped with pig blood and coated with crushed peanuts. A wide cup of bone broth. And between all, a lonely serving of the green-yellow fruit. It had a stringy off-white flesh, exuding a sweet scent.

Cyclones had the bad habit of devouring without tasting, but Blackbird made the conscious effort to enjoy the food. He muttered to himself before starting, grateful for the lives that were about to feed him. Even if grown from a petri dish. If anything, they were closer to being his brethren than organic-grown meat was.

The side dish was the first gone, and he was pleased to discover broccoli and cauliflower bits between the potato chunks. That moment made all his training, all the late-morning missions, all the patrol double-shifts worth it.

Food was a big deal for Avians. Food was, beyond sustenance, a badge of honour. The mess hall Blackbird and Orion were sitting in wasn’t the only one in the compound; there were several, one for each trust rank. The higher the ranking, the better and more plentiful dishes turned out.

Blackbird was a measly amber orange, sitting well below average. Orion, meanwhile, was a comfortable lime green. He could have used his privilege of better food, but he always had dinner with Blackbird in the amber hall. At least, before being taken to the ward.

Being accompanied had brought a sting of guilt and jealousy, at first. If the amber food was this good, he couldn’t imagine what being in the greens must be like. Still, the memory of being down in the cherry red made him happy to settle for anything else.

He had already devoured the cake and the fruit, and now scarfed down the subs. It was a messy ordeal, the sauce made the dish look like a crime scene. Orion had already finished his share, and he scuttled over to keep fuzzing over Blackbird’s mantle feathers.

Dinner was vanquished, and the black-winged Avian unashamedly licked sauce off his fingers. He felt light shifting around him, and the crowd seemed to turn quieter ever-so-slightly, but he attributed it to Avians leaving after finishing their meal.

That is, until a voice approached from behind.

“I take it you are Blackbird?”

“Hah?” Blackbird turned, drawing out his index finger from his mouth.

He was met by an average-sized Cyclone, eyes severe and face elegantly lined with sharply trimmed black feathers. She had wide wings, strength evident despite being folded at her sides, framing her dark uniform in white and golden feathers. Not yellow, gold. The barbs shone and reflected the room’s lights with every minimal movement.

One detail in particular gave him pause. All avians wore devices on their necks, it was standard. Reasons were plentiful: tracking of biometrics, GPS logging and navigational aids, and an indicator of trust rank through a coloured light strip. Hers glowed blue. Teal blue. The highest ranking possible.

Orion squawked at Blackbird’s sudden ruffling of his mantle.

“Are you him?” She pushed, tilting her head and feathers bristling almost imperceptibly.

“Um, I guess. Yeah…,” he hesitated, his eyes drawn again to the teal blue. “...ma’am.”

She nodded, giving no hint on whether the respectful approach was necessary or not.

“I wish to spar with you. I’ve secured private training hours in the third hall of Branches. I expect you there at eight bell. Don’t be late.”

Taking no time to let Blackbird form a response, she turned and left. His eyes lingered for a moment, bewildered.

Her ventral feathers might have been ivory, but her dorsal was something else. Pure black, with bold patches of crimson red that shone iridescent under the room’s lights. A knot of envy clawed inside his chest.

“Blacky, are you good? Who was that?”

Orion hovered, patting down the black spiked up feathers. He held out one of his earplugs, and while he made an effort to not show discomfort at the background noise, Blackbird knew that tension in his shoulders.

“Um, yeah. Some lady came over to order me around.”

"A handler?”

“No, no.” Blackbird turned to face Orion properly, holding his hand and leading them away from his feathers. Still, their fingers remained tangled together.

“She was a Cyclone, a teal. Not very tall. White and gold ventrals, eagle wings. And, well, black and red dorsals.”

“Black, red, and golden?” Now it was Orion’s own feathers getting ruffled.

Most Cyclone wings were made to the whims of randomness, their traits and patterns generated from a pool. Only a select few were manually designed, and from those just a handful were trusted with the privilege of carrying the colours of Tarrukar. It came with privileges, often a predisposed job and better training, but also the crushing responsibility of the Empire’s reputation.

“And you say she was a teal, too?”

“Positive. Any clues?”

“Shit, no, not yet. What was she wearing? What was her hair like? Eyes?”

"Golden eyes…short black hair, still with little bangs, though. I think she was wearing a black flight suit."

Orion mused, repeating the description under his breath. "Red bracelets, by any chance?"

"Uh, I didn't check."

"You didn't-" Orion groaned, tugging on Blackbird's hands in reproach. "Blacky, you're the one with the eyes here! The least you could do is use them!"

Anger flared in Blackbird, it was a familiar nudge. It could have been easy to crush Orion's fingers then and there. A gentle squeeze, and the Cyclone wouldn't be using guitars ever again.

"Sorry, " he muttered, voice strained to a whisper.

"Well, whatever. With so much Tarrukar plastered on her, we're surely dealing with a government official. She didn't have a northern accent; couldn't have been an ambassador. Maybe military intelligence."

"Whoever it was, I don't think I want to go. That's not a way to approach a stranger."

"I don’t think that matters, Blacky. If the black and red summons you, you go."

He knew that to be true, probably more intimately than any other Avian. But he still freed his hands from Orion's. He was tired of getting chided like a toddler.

"I guess I should get going, then. I still have a report to fill before I meet with Mrs. Tarrukar."

Blackbird stood, suddenly dreadful about writing that document. Orion's hands bolted to the black flight feathers before he could go.

"Blacky, one second, I- uhm." Orion licked his lips, his sharp tongue suddenly slacking. "I was hoping we could chat more. You were taken away so suddenly. And now you’re back. I had thought…I’m not sure what I thought, but…”

A pause. Orion’s fingers stiffened on the feather he held.

“It’s like I can’t even be myself if you aren’t around. I even thought about breaking into the ward myself," he chuckled, more nervously than his usual laidback. "I’d kinda…wonder, what would I do if you were gone gone? I don't think I could keep-"

Blackbird quieted him down with a kiss, brief and gentle.

"Let's chat about this later, okay?"

Orion's shoulders sagged. He let go of Blackbird.

"Sure. Okay. Things to do. See you in the nest?"

"Yes. I’m not poofing away this time." He mentioned, more in a hope to himself than to Orion.

The report for his previous patrol shift turned out to be impenetrably dull, stuffed with more filler than content in order to fulfil the word requirement. It didn’t matter much, Blackbird knew it would get filtered by an artificial intelligence before getting sent to the void of archived logs.

He still mused about his word choices as he walked down the hallway in Branches. It was a distraction; anything to settle his stomach from fluttering at whatever ordeal he was meant to face now.

The corridor was spacious, and in daytime it would have had white floor tiles and dark grey walls. But with nighttime in full swing they had turned off the main hall lights. Instead, the place was illuminated by the massive windows that lined one side of the hallway. The solar glass stretched from floor to ceiling, offering a panoramic view of the verdant expanse beyond.

Trees towered on the other side, bioluminescent leaves stretching for the firmament, way beyond the fourth level where he stood. They casted a gentle glow, painting the otherwise stale hall into a canvas of blue and purples. A few branches broke the spell, swaying with the wind and marking the walls like snakes.

Between the branches’ shadows, the wall got interrupted every few metres by tall doors, each one marked in equally huge numbers. The training rooms were available at all hours of the day, just like all facilities of the compound. Still, diurnal Avians were the overwhelming majority. Blackbird liked this. As a kid he hated the loneliness of being nocturnal, but he had learned to take in the sounds of the night as company. The hooting of owls, the rustling of grass in the night’s wind, the chirping of crickets.

It’s not like he could hear those right then, though. Within the building, he only picked up the omnipresent hum of machinery and ventilation systems. The windows gave him some solace. Animals didn’t often approach the glass, but he still could see them stalking below in the forest floor. Yes, he liked nighttime. Its solitude was the only space he had to be himself.

He caught himself standing before the third door, only the moons witness on how for long. It was still early, eight bell had yet to rung. Would the mystery Cyclone already be inside? She looked dependable enough.

She had mentioned ‘sparring’, but he stressed over the memory. He could have misheard, it could be a codeword for something else, or a local term flying over his head. He had changed clothing for physical performance, a sleeveless top and dancer’s pants. But what if the sparring wasn’t physical? Was he being abducted into a debate club? He reckoned Whirlwinds were the ones partial to those.

The door was still closed. No point in stalling. He sighed, and pushed it open. Although it was constructed from several kilograms of pure metal, engines quickly opened it upon detecting pressure. The door slid back into place as he entered.

The training room was comfortably big, with a tall ceiling covered in an intricate abstract mosaic. In classic Kerish style, it was formed by solid squares and triangles, simple shapes that overlaid to form complex structures. Besides the ceiling, one wall was fully lined in mirrors, and all other surfaces were padded with beige shock-absorbing material. All training gear was stored away in one corner: protective armour, practise dolls, punching bags, and extra mats.

On the very centre sat the mystery Cyclone. Her legs tucked in, wings half stretched to the sides, she looked like the vengeful angel statues that often shielded public parks. And like a statue, she kept poised in silence, staring straight at Blackbird.

This time, he noted the red bracelets on her wrists. Simple cloth bands, held together with a metallic clasp. Why did Orion wonder about them?

He opened his mouth, ready to question, when the eight bell drowned his voice. It chimed mighty. Not loud, but rather, omnipresent. Every speaker, every room echoed with it. As it faded, the stranger talked.

“What took you so long?”

Blackbird tilted his head, pointing not quite up, but to the atmosphere. “But…it’s eight bell sharp.”

“You were standing outside like a fool.”

Unlike the hall, the training room was well-lit. It still shone with nighttime dimness, a feature for the comfort of nocturnals, but the ambience was even and diffused. No harsh shadows fell over the sitting Cyclone, and Blackbird couldn’t pick up any reproach or annoyance in her face.

He shrugged, pushing aside any attempt at excuses. “I don’t even know who you are. Um, ma’am.”

She blinked, and nodded. In a single movement she stood up, and walked swiftly to Blackbird. Barely centimetres away from him, she halted and leaned down. Wings unfurled, pointing forwards and crowning Blackbird at his sides. She looked up at him, anticipating his response.

His breath caught, making him stall before mirroring her moves. Both of their wings formed a dome between them, shielding their upper bodies from the outside.

“I'm Agnes, codenamed Barracuda.” She whispered.

“Blackbird.”

“I knew that, your codename. You don’t have a casual name?”

“I don’t. Just Black’s fine, though.”

She nodded and stepped away, standing upright. Blackbird recovered too, but he still hesitated to follow as she walked back to the centre of the room. A domed greeting wasn’t standard. He had only seen them a handful of times; an interaction between strangers wanting to set trust between each other. In the closeness, one was vulnerable and shielded from the outside, the only world being oneself and the other.

Maybe it had been a test? To check how naive he’d be to step right into an enemy’s trap? It made no sense, not with their ranking difference.

Agnes stood back, expectant.

Whatever her reasons, he’d have other times to ponder over them. He walked to the sparring area, a large black square between the beige padding.

Her position, her entire being shifted. She stepped back, taking the eastern corner of the square. A subtle guard up, wings folded but raised enough to serve as shields. Eyes dilated, tiny darting movements catching every detail of his build.

“Why did you step down from the Tournament?”

He was caught off-guard. Only for a second, before he reminded himself where he was standing. Why would she care about that? Why would she even know? She didn’t abuse from his moment of shock though, keeping to her area.

“I was in Broken Wings.”

“You aren’t injured, I hope?”

“No. I was declared fit and able at discharge.”

She nodded, now taking a real fighting stance. Wings half unfurled, arms up, slouching down. No point in stalling, indeed.

“Best out of five. Tournament rules.”

No flight feather damage, no injuries that would require stitches or prevent work. Each victory was granted only if the other yielded. Passing out meant a forfeit of the whole set.

He took on a solid guard, not slouching down as much, but surely the change had been visible. The questions pestering his mind faded away, replaced by a new focus.

They circled each other in slow steps, absorbing strengths and weaknesses. Agnes was well built, her flight suit silhouetted slim muscle and powerful legs. Even if he feinted adjustments in his wings, her eyes remained trained to his body.

She threw a punch with her left wing, no tell foreshadowing her move. It almost grazed Blackbird, pure instinct forcing him out of the way. Right where she wanted him: a knee caught him square in the jaw. Dazed and out of balance, he couldn’t dodge her next kick, landing him on the floor.

A foot settled over his throat, pressing down, cutting his breathing. Passing out meant a forfeit. Bold. His hand clenched on her ankle. Her grip was strong, but he was stronger.

As he tried to pull away, the long fingers pressed harder. Not enough to let the wicked talons break skin, but if he kept it up, she very well could. Not against tournament rules, as the movement would have been provoked by him. His head throbbed.

Both hands on her shin, he used it to push down his wings and lift up his legs. They clung around her torso, and with all his weight supported on her, she tumbled down. He readjusted his grip, aiming to sit over her, until she tugged on his hair. Dirty, but not illegal. With limited range to dodge, he got kicked. Again and again.

He slapped the ground three times. Yield.

Immediately, Agnes let go and stepped away.

“You’re strong.” She conceded, barely winded.

Blackbird stood up and recovered his corner. He wiped his face, his eyes had watered from the choking. He knew he could have recovered that fight, but it wasn’t worth it with four matches still pending.

Guard up, and the fight unfolded again.

Unwise for his usual style, Blackbird took the initiative. He surged forward, closing the distance with a punch. She evaded, and he hooked his arm under her wing. Grabbing her opposite arm, he lifted and swung her over his folded wings.

In theory, she would have landed stunned to the ground. But mid-twist, she grabbed his wing and discharged all her momentum in a kick to his face.

He fell to his back, groaning. Pain radiated from his nose. It didn’t feel broken, but the world was a blur of tears and pounding vessels. She pummelled his mid-section with strikes. A painful, but predictable pattern. Over his ribs, then his keel, then his stomach. He didn’t need to see to grab her foot. He yanked on it, and the sound of slapping flesh against the padding told of her impact with the ground.

Wings flapped, both Avians struggling to regain balance. Blackbird clinged to Agnes’ leg, dragging her closer, hooking his arms around her chest and pushing her wings up.

It was a mistake. Her legs had been freed. He realised this even before the kick connected with his face, again. Heel against nose, he bit down a curse and yielded.

He was out of practice, yes, but this was pitiful. She only needed one more win for victory.

Dignity forced him on his feet the moment Agnes stepped away, but he still claimed a few precious seconds to cradle his nose. Still not broken. His opponent was either the goddess of control, or he had just spent a year’s worth of luck. Couldn’t complain, he dreaded stepping into Broken Wings again so soon.

“Will you forfeit?” Agnes asked after a minute.

“No.” He growled, wiping away tears and bloody snot from his face. The corners of his vision were blurry and his head was pounding.

“You aren’t fighting as usual.”

“Eh?”

“I’ve watched replays of the Tournament finals from last year, and you didn’t do grapples.”

Blackbird was uncertain if he was amazed at her research, or a bit unsettled.

“Ion’t really like ‘em, but it’s wha’ they been trainin’ me in lately.” His face was swollen, and his voice came out nasally.

“If you don’t like them, why train in it? You are strong, but there’s more ways to use that.”

He shrugged, waving away the argument with one hand. “‘s wha’ I’m told to do.”

“But-” She stopped herself, her eyes catching Blackbird’s neck for the first time. She nodded, slowly, her subtle frown of confusion diffusing into understanding.

“I get it now.” A particular ember flickered in her eyes. “I swear I won’t tell anyone if you choose to fight differently."

You don’t get it. He mused, trying not to look at her teal. The pain on his nose flared, but he stopped holding it as if it were to fall off at any moment. He had no real reason to trust her. She might have been tasked to measure how easily he fell into the temptation of misbehaving. Turns out, very easily.

“‘Kay, then.”

And then, it’s like he turned into a different person. He abandoned the bulky guard in favour of something looser. A peppy bounce, standing upright, his wings relaxed close to his body. He stilled his rushing heart with long breaths.

Agnes still took on her preferred guard, but this time she kept her wings a smidge higher.

Their circling was brisk, inching closer in feint strikes. Agnes became a blur of motion, striking hard and fast. A high knee and a wing strike in junction. Blackbird deflected them with a twirl. Another blow; an easy evade. Their dance unfolded, weaving through the space with precision and confidence.

His opponent moved with cold efficiency, exploiting every millimetre of space he would grant her. If he granted it. Her hits stroke like a viper, quick and sudden, but whatever he didn’t evade got blocked. Bit by bit, he moved faster, taking the fight to the corners, to the centre, manoeuvring around her limbs like a swift winding between branches. Out of the way, never striking back.

It was often around that point where his opponents grew frustrated. Tells would turn easier to read, punches more desperate. Fights weren’t meant to last this long.

Agnes kept her cool, moving like a breeze. He even caught her smiling between one of his pivots around her wings.

Their rhythm escalated, heavy breathing resonant with the impacts. Slowly, his strategy blossomed. A block turned into a parry, a twist came with a high elbow. His strikes weren’t devastating, but they hit true. Little nudges that forced her out of balance. Still, she recovered her footing far too easily to be any advantage.

At least, that would have been the case if the floor was clear. But in all their waltzing, he had laid his trap. Dozens of his own down feathers, plucked and thrown out.

In one of many nudges, he saw it. A sudden shift, a slip. He stormed like lightning, catching her momentum into a lock that sent her twisting to the ground. He pinned down her wings with his knees, holding down her head with one hand and one of her frontal shoulders with the other.

It was all so sudden, it took her a second to realise she was on the ground. She tried to break free, but no amount of squirming could shake Blackbird off. He was solid like a boulder, and he pressed lower on her shoulder. Surely she’d realise that something was bound to crack if she kept moving.

But her mind was set; the wriggling intensified by the second. Most bafflingly, it came accompanied by an increasing ringing. Between her twisting and the surprise at the sound, he lost control of how much strength he was putting in the shoulder grip. Something slid under his hand, and the joint popped out of place.

Blackbird recoiled in terror, gasping. “Oh, oh crap, I’m sorry, I-”

“I’ve gotta pick this up, one second.” Agnes interrupted, her voice levelled.

The ringing continued. It was low, likely only audible to Cyclone ears. Agnes tapped on the side of her neck device and it ceased.

“What?” She demanded, seemingly to no one.

There must have been a reply, as suddenly Agnes broke into a long tirade. The language wasn’t one Blackbird recognized. Some sounds seemed adjacent to the modern Kerish used in Tarrukar, but she spoke too fast to make any real comparisons.

The source of the back-and-forth was a mystery. Had she been wearing a privacy earbud all this time? Must be; he would have heard the other side if she were wearing a normal auricular. But no foreign materials jutted out from her ear feathers, and anything would have fallen out after all the tossing around.

Her speech became more interrupted, until finally she grunted something with finality. Looking back at Blackbird, her former joviality was gone.

“I’ve got to go.” She sentenced, standing up. Her arm hung limp at her side, like the empty sleeve of a shirt.

“‘Wow, hold on! Don’cha need ‘elp with that?”

She looked at her shoulder, and met the deformed joint with surprise. Her head tilted with a one-sided shrug. “I got it.”

Without even blinking, she held her flabby bicep and gave it a solid shove back into place. The arm came back to life, and she gingerly tested the movements of her joint. Blackbird could only watch, wide-eyed.

He had had his shoulder dislocated before, and the pain had been memorable. Blinding, all-consuming pain, the thought of amputation had crossed his mind then as a mercy. Holding, or even just looking at the arm had been out of the question.

A ragged hiss reminded him that there was a world outside his thoughts. He looked at Agnes again, his feathers prickled on her behalf.

Superficial red lines stroke her face where Blackbird had planted his fingers. Her short hair was a mess, partly covering her eyes as she scanned her hand. Her wings trembled under a disconcerting tension in her shoulders. Surely the pain was kicking in now.

A thunderous cackle dissolved that thought. She pointed to the feather-lined floor, attempting to form words but only squawking incoherent breaths against her laughter.

“Are you…are you good?” Blackbird stepped forward, uncertain if he should help. How could he even help?

“Fah- Fuhck!” She chortled, attempting to control her breathing. “Fahking feathers! Imagine that!”

“Um.” Blackbird looked around, kicking a few wispy downs. They fluttered in a slow whirlwind. “I don’t ‘ink I’ve gotta imagine it.”

Agnes recovered something that resembled a levelled breathing. “Sweet Angels, I’m under oath to not reveal your fighting today, but…I’ve got to tell folks of this. Feathers.”

Blackbird tilted his head in question. An oath wasn’t a term Avians used lightly, or anyone in Tarrukar, really. But she wasn’t looking, and he didn’t have the stomach to openly question a teal on word choices. He ditched his confusion away with a shrug.

“I think as long as you skip, um, the fighh itself, you can ‘alk ‘bout it.”

She nodded, patting down the black feathers that lined her face while still beaming a bright smile.

“I really got to go now. Thank you for humouring me.”

He exhaled, apologetic and amused. He hadn't any option but to come.

“It’s a’ight, but please rest that arm. I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t be. That win is yours. Two and one. We will be finishing this another day, Black.” She offered out her hand; the injured one. Was she really not in pain?

Still, the polite thing was to take it.

“Um, what did d’ose mean?” He asked, nodding at her bracelet and feeling blood dripping again from his nose.

She looked at him as if he had spontaneously grown a third wing.

“A’ight, nevermi-”

“I serve with the Elder’s guardians.”

“Oh. D’as pretty cool.”

She shrugged, letting go of his hand. “It’s an honourable job. Now, you tell me: What were you humming on that last round?”

Blackbird tensed, staring at anywhere but her face. He had been so used to practising his beats alone, the rhythm itself often found his lips. An old breathing exercise, it kept his focus trained for his movements and nothing else. It was a bad habit, an opponent could read his attacks more easily if they paid attention.

“Y’know. Music.” He forged the nonchalance of a cat.

Agnes sneered with an exhale, but didn’t press further. A nod, and she was gone from the room.

His heart had settled back into a relaxed beat, easing the pain radiating from his nose. The blows on his body hardly affected him, he had grown so used to bruises it was as if he had been born with them. Questions bubbled in his mind. Who in all the blessed world was Agnes? He had never seen her before, but he also never interacted with teals. Except for a particular thorn on his side. Still, for all the yapping Hunter did, he also had never name-dropped Agnes.

The disaster on the ground awaited him. He began sweeping the feathers with the tip of his wings, wanting to leave it as a more manageable mound. It was a pleasant background task for his thoughts. Wiping his nose paused him every few steps; he should have gone for tissues before getting invested into cleanup.

It was an effort trying to recall what he knew of the Elder’s guardians. When it came to public-service Avians, everyone was a guardian. Wardens, custodians, keepers, so the job titles went. But, being Elder-worthy must have been special.

The Elder of Tarrukar made part of the head of government, aiding more as advisors than actually calling the shots. They worked similarly to the Lorekeepers of Teotlanco, save that instead of an institution, it was a position limited to no more than a family of people. Their task was to remember the past, to make sure Tarrukar’s actions were congruent with its mission. Or so his social studies book said. He never paid much attention to that class. Still, the point was clear: they were a big deal.

Orange feathers twirled between his legs like embers. He remembered an excerpt. It barely counted as a paragraph. 'The Elder is protected by the Red Hands, a restricted order of bodyguards nurtured and grown only for their task. If seen out in the field, they are best left alone to their jobs.’

There had been gossip during that lesson, too. With such a mysterious description and enigmatic name, it was natural. He had paid no mind then, but he scrambled to gather pieces of what he had heard. The Red Hands were winged Vastare, stolen from Menet. The Red Hands got their name from being the personal hitmen of the Elder. The Red Hands weren’t burdened by feelings, not curiosity, not love, not fear. Not pain. The Red Hands were without will, their mind was only what the Elder called them to be. The Red Hands didn’t have faces, so they wore red bracelets in place of collars.

But those were gossip. People stuffed beans into bags of gold to make them more enticing all the time. He had heard the gossip people made about him, most if not all far from the truth. The most sensible thing would be to dismiss them.

The connections were solid, though. And she did wear red bracelets, a rather unique accessory between Avian spaces.

Perhaps he should ask Orion about it. Orion. His wings flapped harder than he meant to, sending the semi-tidy mound spiralling through the room.

At least that gave him an excuse to delay returning to the nest, he consoled himself while waiting for the floating feathers to settle back down.