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[Open!]
You’re hanging upside down from a cliff face, using your beak to pluck softball-sized blue strawberries from a vine. They’re fuzzy like peaches, and tickle a little whenever you toss your head back to stick a new one into your throat pouch. It’s almost uncomfortably full, now; you’re going to have to heave some back into your beak before you can swallow any. That will mean turning rightside up again.
And... you don’t really want to do that. So you slow down, pinching at a fruit with the tip of your beak to try to see if you really want it. There’s no bottom to this cliff. Below there is only mist.
There’s a rustling and a scrabbling besides you. You look out of the eye on that side of your head as someone climbs down next to you. < Hey, > you tell her.
It’s Krile. She’s smaller than you and has a sort of differently shaped beak. Her colors are a bright lemony yellow with green splotches on her wings and crest, and darker green eye-stripes. This is utterly unremarkable; why wouldn’t she be a pterosaur? It’s not like you’re the only one.
< Hi, > she says, more subdued than she should be. You’re sad, because she’s sad; it shows in the curve of her neck and the cant of her head, but you can feel it, too. You watch her pick a giant blue strawberry and see that she’s been crying. That’s why the eye-stripes are darker. < So... what do you think you’ll do? >
< I don’t - > you start angrily, but you’re hurt because she’s hurt. And you shake your long head. You don’t want to hurt her, but you know you’re right to be angry, too. < I’m not going to talk about this! >
You launch off of the cliff face - really this move should be impossible. Really it’s more that one moment you’re hanging from it, the next you’re flying. Your throat pouch tugs downwards and you fly among the big branches, dodging easily.
Someone sideslips under you, small, his base brown-black, his crest and wing membranes spattered with dazzling blue and gold flecks. Apple caws up at you. He has goggles over his eyes. < Aboooove! >
You laugh. Maybe you’re only a couple years older than him, but you want to seem older, cooler. < Hey, kid, > you say. You have the ugly feeling that he’s going to ask, so you relax a particular muscle in your throat and toss your head, flinging one of the strawberries up and out of your throat pouch. You snap your beak shut and catch it before it leaves your mouth, and waggle your head teasingly. < Want this? >
< Yes! Gimme! >
You flick your head and let go. At the apex of its arc it drifts down like a balloon instead of falling normally. < Catch! >
Apple zooms after the strawberry and gloms onto it with all four sets of claws, gouging its flesh enthusiastically with his beak. You’re pleased. He’ll be busy with that for a while.
Then you’re buzzing what you know is the new planetarium, though in real life it’s not this big, doesn’t look like blown and sculpted glass, and there aren’t windsocks on poles stuck in the roof.
There’s Stellaris on the ground, her pale purple hairlike fibers long and flowing in the breeze. She waves at you, tossing her head so her blue-white beak flashes. You wave back, lurching a little in flight, and circle while she gallops through the vaulting quad launch and into the air. Together you spiral up to see the planetarium from higher in the air.
It gleams like a jewel. Now that you can see the whole thing at once, it’s shaped like a sea shell, or a bell. At the moment it seems like both. < It’s beautiful, > you say, letting your voice soften. Stellaris probably won’t scorn you for not seeming cool and uncaring at every moment of every day.
And she doesn’t. < I had help. It will be many more months before it is fully operational, > she tells you, canting her wings to catch more of the breeze. < Will you come to see it? Have you decided? >
Everyone wants to know! You’re so sick of being asked that! < It’s none of your business. > You dive rudely, not in the mood to apologize.
And then you’re walking into what you know is Wellspring Clinic, which is pleasantly airy and high-ceilinged and bright without being glaring. There’s Simon, stepping out of an examination room and rolling the kinks out of his long neck. He’s a spectacular show of vibrant purples on a more muted orange base.
< Simon! > He looks up at you out of one blue eye and nods distractedly before rearing up and nibbling between his fingers with the very tips of his long, decurved beak, a worried gesture.
< Above, we’ve got a weasel infestation, > he says seriously, and then you notice the long, furry little animals all throughout the hall, playing on and under the backless couches, harassing the receptionist by nipping at her tail and wingtips. < They’re a menace. >
You decide to help. It’s easy; the weasels don’t fight, but go limp as soon as your beak tips close on them. You catch three, and then the clinic is empty of them. Simon offers you some, but you only take one, gulping it down into your throat pouch. It’s soft and pleasant there.
You leave before he can ask, and then you’re on the shore of what you know is the lake, though it’s a great sea with slow, sighing waves, and instead of a beach it washes up against the empty parking lot. You close your eyes against the stinging spray and inhale, deeply, feeling the clean air plunge through your air sacs. If you focus hard, you can just barely smell it.
There’s the sound of wings and then Huo lands, running along on his back legs for a moment before falling forward onto his hands, folding his flight fingers neatly. His base color is grayish brown, with black edges around fluorescent orange and yellow markings.
< It is always a pleasure to see Above-gūniang. >
You sigh. < Hi to you, too. Don’t ask, okay? I’m sick of people asking. >
He blinks at that, neck curling in a startled expression, and tells you, < If it makes you uncomfortable, then I will not. >
< Good. > Since you know he won’t shut up if you don’t, you hock the dead animal out of your throat pouch and cut it in half with your beak. < Want half a weasel? >
< It would be impolite to refuse, > he says, but he sounds pleased. Half a weasel is much more food to him than it is to you, since you’re so much larger. He has to dismember his to eat it.
You lay out the half you kept and the strawberries, and one by one you swallow them whole, throwing your head back and feeling them slide down your long throat. When you’re done you wash out your beak in the surf and toss back a few beakfuls of water. It’s not saltwater, of course.
Huo is watching you, head held in a look of uncertainty.
< What? > You’re testy. < Spit it out. >
He tips his beak in a shrug, and when he speaks his voice is different. Younger, more informal. ...he sounds, in fact, a lot more like you. < It’s just that I don’t know if you know what you want, > he says earnestly.
He holds your eyes until you have to look away. < You don’t understand. No one understands, > you say. It’s half defiant statement, half plea.
And then you’re in the elevator.
Of course, it’s large enough to stand in comfortably, and the buttons are scratched from many beaks pushing them. You hit the secret button, the one in the ceiling that you have to stand up on your back legs to reach. The doors close, and the elevator goes sideways.
When the doors open again, there they are. The other three. Waiting for you.
< What took you so long? > Canadayce is an oddly harmonious blend of pink and orange and purple. Her crest is flaring and tiaralike, her claws all neat and slender. < You weren’t running away, were you? >
< I was busy, > you retort. < And I came back. >
Shorter-necked, stocky, Bertram is fiddling with a sprig of green in his beak. He’s a study of bright greens and teal shades, patterned like camo gone horribly wrong, and something about his eyestripe suggests glasses. < I enjoyed the rest! It gave me the opportunity to study the plant life. It’s the age of the great garnishes, you know. >
< Waiting around gives Moriarty time on his own. We don’t know what he’s been up to, > Mike reminds everyone. Unlike the rest of you, he has curved, dangerous teeth in his beak, and he growls when he talks. His colors are almost a checkerboard pattern of mauve and gray.
< Well, I’m back now, > you declare. < We can get started. >
Circling in the skies, Loki cries out imperiously. You push off the ground to join him in the air, feeling the others with you.
You’re hanging upside down from a cliff face, using your beak to pluck softball-sized blue strawberries from a vine. They’re fuzzy like peaches, and tickle a little whenever you toss your head back to stick a new one into your throat pouch. It’s almost uncomfortably full, now; you’re going to have to heave some back into your beak before you can swallow any. That will mean turning rightside up again.
And... you don’t really want to do that. So you slow down, pinching at a fruit with the tip of your beak to try to see if you really want it. There’s no bottom to this cliff. Below there is only mist.
There’s a rustling and a scrabbling besides you. You look out of the eye on that side of your head as someone climbs down next to you. < Hey, > you tell her.
It’s Krile. She’s smaller than you and has a sort of differently shaped beak. Her colors are a bright lemony yellow with green splotches on her wings and crest, and darker green eye-stripes. This is utterly unremarkable; why wouldn’t she be a pterosaur? It’s not like you’re the only one.
< Hi, > she says, more subdued than she should be. You’re sad, because she’s sad; it shows in the curve of her neck and the cant of her head, but you can feel it, too. You watch her pick a giant blue strawberry and see that she’s been crying. That’s why the eye-stripes are darker. < So... what do you think you’ll do? >
< I don’t - > you start angrily, but you’re hurt because she’s hurt. And you shake your long head. You don’t want to hurt her, but you know you’re right to be angry, too. < I’m not going to talk about this! >
You launch off of the cliff face - really this move should be impossible. Really it’s more that one moment you’re hanging from it, the next you’re flying. Your throat pouch tugs downwards and you fly among the big branches, dodging easily.
Someone sideslips under you, small, his base brown-black, his crest and wing membranes spattered with dazzling blue and gold flecks. Apple caws up at you. He has goggles over his eyes. < Aboooove! >
You laugh. Maybe you’re only a couple years older than him, but you want to seem older, cooler. < Hey, kid, > you say. You have the ugly feeling that he’s going to ask, so you relax a particular muscle in your throat and toss your head, flinging one of the strawberries up and out of your throat pouch. You snap your beak shut and catch it before it leaves your mouth, and waggle your head teasingly. < Want this? >
< Yes! Gimme! >
You flick your head and let go. At the apex of its arc it drifts down like a balloon instead of falling normally. < Catch! >
Apple zooms after the strawberry and gloms onto it with all four sets of claws, gouging its flesh enthusiastically with his beak. You’re pleased. He’ll be busy with that for a while.
Then you’re buzzing what you know is the new planetarium, though in real life it’s not this big, doesn’t look like blown and sculpted glass, and there aren’t windsocks on poles stuck in the roof.
There’s Stellaris on the ground, her pale purple hairlike fibers long and flowing in the breeze. She waves at you, tossing her head so her blue-white beak flashes. You wave back, lurching a little in flight, and circle while she gallops through the vaulting quad launch and into the air. Together you spiral up to see the planetarium from higher in the air.
It gleams like a jewel. Now that you can see the whole thing at once, it’s shaped like a sea shell, or a bell. At the moment it seems like both. < It’s beautiful, > you say, letting your voice soften. Stellaris probably won’t scorn you for not seeming cool and uncaring at every moment of every day.
And she doesn’t. < I had help. It will be many more months before it is fully operational, > she tells you, canting her wings to catch more of the breeze. < Will you come to see it? Have you decided? >
Everyone wants to know! You’re so sick of being asked that! < It’s none of your business. > You dive rudely, not in the mood to apologize.
And then you’re walking into what you know is Wellspring Clinic, which is pleasantly airy and high-ceilinged and bright without being glaring. There’s Simon, stepping out of an examination room and rolling the kinks out of his long neck. He’s a spectacular show of vibrant purples on a more muted orange base.
< Simon! > He looks up at you out of one blue eye and nods distractedly before rearing up and nibbling between his fingers with the very tips of his long, decurved beak, a worried gesture.
< Above, we’ve got a weasel infestation, > he says seriously, and then you notice the long, furry little animals all throughout the hall, playing on and under the backless couches, harassing the receptionist by nipping at her tail and wingtips. < They’re a menace. >
You decide to help. It’s easy; the weasels don’t fight, but go limp as soon as your beak tips close on them. You catch three, and then the clinic is empty of them. Simon offers you some, but you only take one, gulping it down into your throat pouch. It’s soft and pleasant there.
You leave before he can ask, and then you’re on the shore of what you know is the lake, though it’s a great sea with slow, sighing waves, and instead of a beach it washes up against the empty parking lot. You close your eyes against the stinging spray and inhale, deeply, feeling the clean air plunge through your air sacs. If you focus hard, you can just barely smell it.
There’s the sound of wings and then Huo lands, running along on his back legs for a moment before falling forward onto his hands, folding his flight fingers neatly. His base color is grayish brown, with black edges around fluorescent orange and yellow markings.
< It is always a pleasure to see Above-gūniang. >
You sigh. < Hi to you, too. Don’t ask, okay? I’m sick of people asking. >
He blinks at that, neck curling in a startled expression, and tells you, < If it makes you uncomfortable, then I will not. >
< Good. > Since you know he won’t shut up if you don’t, you hock the dead animal out of your throat pouch and cut it in half with your beak. < Want half a weasel? >
< It would be impolite to refuse, > he says, but he sounds pleased. Half a weasel is much more food to him than it is to you, since you’re so much larger. He has to dismember his to eat it.
You lay out the half you kept and the strawberries, and one by one you swallow them whole, throwing your head back and feeling them slide down your long throat. When you’re done you wash out your beak in the surf and toss back a few beakfuls of water. It’s not saltwater, of course.
Huo is watching you, head held in a look of uncertainty.
< What? > You’re testy. < Spit it out. >
He tips his beak in a shrug, and when he speaks his voice is different. Younger, more informal. ...he sounds, in fact, a lot more like you. < It’s just that I don’t know if you know what you want, > he says earnestly.
He holds your eyes until you have to look away. < You don’t understand. No one understands, > you say. It’s half defiant statement, half plea.
And then you’re in the elevator.
Of course, it’s large enough to stand in comfortably, and the buttons are scratched from many beaks pushing them. You hit the secret button, the one in the ceiling that you have to stand up on your back legs to reach. The doors close, and the elevator goes sideways.
When the doors open again, there they are. The other three. Waiting for you.
< What took you so long? > Canadayce is an oddly harmonious blend of pink and orange and purple. Her crest is flaring and tiaralike, her claws all neat and slender. < You weren’t running away, were you? >
< I was busy, > you retort. < And I came back. >
Shorter-necked, stocky, Bertram is fiddling with a sprig of green in his beak. He’s a study of bright greens and teal shades, patterned like camo gone horribly wrong, and something about his eyestripe suggests glasses. < I enjoyed the rest! It gave me the opportunity to study the plant life. It’s the age of the great garnishes, you know. >
< Waiting around gives Moriarty time on his own. We don’t know what he’s been up to, > Mike reminds everyone. Unlike the rest of you, he has curved, dangerous teeth in his beak, and he growls when he talks. His colors are almost a checkerboard pattern of mauve and gray.
< Well, I’m back now, > you declare. < We can get started. >
Circling in the skies, Loki cries out imperiously. You push off the ground to join him in the air, feeling the others with you.