Duck's been snoring slightly on a table in the middle of the room, head pillowed on a piece of paper, when -
do you have the resolve, little duck?- she wakes up with a start, shaking her head to get the last wisps of weird half-memory out of her head
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"No, Fakir.
"I just spoke to him briefly."
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(Some things you don't need to be especially quick or perceptive to guess.)
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Duck is really going to have to talk to Fakir about being a jerk.
"He's always like that . . . I mean, I don't think that's the real Fakir! I think, the real Fakir, the real Fakir's nice deep down - way way deep down - but . . . it's really hard to see that a lot of the time!"
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"Some people aren't good at tact," she says.
"I hope you're right, though."
It's better than his being not nice deep down.
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"That can make people act like jerks sometimes."
Especially boys.
What?
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A sudden chain of associations leaves Duck wide-eyed. "- oh um he doesn't know I'm a duck! So you can't tell him, okay?"
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"I won't tell anyone, Duck. I promise.
"That's your secret, not mine."
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Sometimes, Duck almost approaches something like self-awareness. Sometimes.
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"Well, I'm older than you are. I've had more practice."
She wasn't all that good at it when she was younger.
(But, then, she didn't have all that many to really keep back then, either.)
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