lytiphile:
were he not mistaken, the bird’s fascinated with his stand. a certain strange ( though not crippling ) dread settles in his stomach, and upon the laptop’s handle, one gloved hand flexes in its grip before relaxing.
curious gaze follows the animal from its perch to its new vantage point of choice, some distance away. at this rate, he’ll lose the bus, but something tells him it might very well be worth it to pursue the faintest stirring the longer he observes. babyface, he knows, emits energy almost excessively subtle compared to more immediately aggressive stands whether a result of its lengthy process to produce anything vaguely capable of combat, or his own generally mild disposition.
he wants to wince when it vocalises, but with a flinch long since slaughtered, only the slightest twitch of arched brow betrays how unpleasantly he’d describe the sound. lips part only to close, and melone swallows the instinct to rationalize with it.
with a slow deliberation, eyes trained on the falcon, he’ll draw the computer up from where he carries it at his side, as if showing it to the animal, opening the lid to expose the screen’s display, flickering with the rhythm of his pulse.
again, he finds himself tilting his head to catch a depth of perception, and his lip juts in the vaguest pout, writing confusion across soft planes and features. briefly, he’ll turn his attention to their surroundings, as if some environmental factor’s provoked the bird’s behavior, but between sparesly populated civilians huddling into scarves and coats to buffer the wind and otherwise unremarkable elements, there’s little doubt.
the pout morphs into the press of lips, a slight figure alone waiting just beyond a bus stop holding a laptop up to seemingly nothing, as if this animal could understand just what it’s being shown.
Feathered form tipped further forward in response to slow movements bringing the ‘ box ’ up to the man's chest. Claws dug deeper, wood splintering. Balance maintained with ease, a posture taken on many times before. The beginning of a dive postponed. Movement stilled apart from a light sway of his scarf and the wind lending a swish to the feather adorning his cap.
Pet Shop had no reason to mistrust his senses. No imagination to delude him into thinking he had seen something not there, not seen something that was there.
And what was there was nothing, the contents of the box the box itself. An inside lined with small squares and rectangles. Purpose unclear. Dismissed. Attention instead drawn to an area of different coloration through which shocks of light passed in an even rhythm. Like a pulse. A heartbeat. Not an item, alive. A piece of the man that lived outside himself. The shape unfamiliar, the origin recognized in one jolt of avian synapses.
Body righted itself in one sinuous motion, head held high to behold the shape below him along the razor lines of his beak. Surprised silenced his voice down to a muted chirr, mottled feathers rising instinctively on the falcon's neck. Not a ‘ thing ’, an ‘ other’. One could bend iron around that certainty. The pieces had fallen into place, anchoring the knowledge in Pet Shop's soul.
He knew only one response. The man's other displayed no threat, yet the unknown must be met with caution at the least. Aggression otherwise. However, curiosity still tinkled faintly in the cacophony of the falcon's mind. He had been shown. In turn, he would show. Easier here than in hot, dry Egypt.
The wind's temperature dropped like a switch had been flicked, no longer merely cold but freezing, carrying the fresh tang of frost. Centered on Pet Shop's horny feet, molecules halted in their already sluggish dance. Tendrils of ice crested his perch, flowing down along the angular path of the mortar between bricks. They crept down the building's side like ivy, fragile spiderwebs of rime growing between the solid corners.
