The weight of family (and the pull of gravity)

by bonesofbluebirds (bluebirdonafence)

Summary:

Original title: Ill bloody up my hands (with everything I am)

New title from Heirloom by Sleeping At Last

 

Approximately 26 years ago, people started growing wings. Feathered wings of every shape and size, all the way from the smallest hummingbird to the biggest condor. A blessing, maybe. Or a curse; it truly depends on which whispers you believe.

But with Avians making up 15% of the population and rising, a black market rose just as quickly.

The Passerine Trade.

Songbirds were the most sought after, melodic voices and brightly-colored wings fetching good prices on the black market.

But Raptor Avians were feared; sharp senses and even sharper talons keeping most people away from them and their families. This typically kept them off the market for traffickers—and attempts usually ended with blood.

So when he was snatched away from his father’s side, Tommy hadn’t even time to process what had happened.

Because who in their right mind takes a Harpy Eagle Chick right from their parent’s side?

 

(THIS IS A HEAVY WIP. TITLE/CHAPT NAMES SUBJECT TO CHANGE)

Chapter 1: a fight that you were born to lose

Summary:

Chapter from Heirloom, by sleeping at last

 

> World building & some back story to set the stage :)

Avianthropes are typically looked at with awe; if not for their rarity, then for the simple absurdity of their existence. One day, humans had four limbs, bound to the earth and looking up to the heavens–the next, adults and children alike were sprouting feathered wings from their backs and soaring through the skies. Some claim it was a gift from god; rewarding the kind and good with the wings of his angels while still traversing this earth. Others say it was a science experiment gone horribly wrong, some lab-born disease that caused a drastic mutation that will one day kill us all.

 

And a select few people, the evil and the cruel, decided they wanted this gift for themselves. And when they never received it, they sought to steal it from others. Or more precisely, set bounties for these newly-dubbed Avians to be brought to them in gilded cages, no matter the cost.

 

Of course, human trafficking is illegal–and the spectrum of species Avians presented as provided ample risk. Avians who possessed raptor-like features were a force to be reckoned with; nails mutated into talons, sharp teeth and strong wings with a ferocity rivaling a landslide thundering down a canyon wall. But their songbird counterparts, people blessed with the lapis-blue wings of a bluebird or the cadmium-yellow of a canary, weaker and accented with feathers like gemstones, quickly became the majority of the Passerine Trade –the black market of Avians–colorful, beautiful, and lacking the destructive power of the Raptors, making them the perfect, harmless show ponies these people longed for.

 

Which is why, when Tommy, a Harpy Eagle , was snatched away from his father’s side, the sheer shock of it clogged the scream in his throat from passing his lips before it was too late. A rag was pressed over his face, that upon a desperate gasp for air, had the world gone blurry and his limbs useless and numb–leaving him unable to respond to the frantic calls of his father as his only nestling was dragged away by the arms of a stranger without so much as a cry.

At six years old, Tommy had never been more terrified.

Maybe the snowy baby feathers of his wings were mistaken for some other species. Maybe they thought they could train him young, or beat him into submission should that fail. Maybe they simply didn’t care what he was, far too eager to be showered in gold to give the unconscious child a second glance before shoving him into a cage and carting him off to the highest bidder.

 

And so the world–everything, every single thing he had known, was ripped out of his hands and dragged away until it was nothing but a spot of light at the end of a never-ending tunnel–thrust into a new life of far too many unspoken rules and steep punishments for even the smallest breath of disobedience. Bound wings and dulled talons and a muzzle locking sharp teeth away from ever finding the flesh of the hand around his throat–and boy, has he tried–but his attempts only ever end in more pain than they’re worth.

 

He had kept up a foolish sense of hope, for the first grueling months–praying to a god that never answered that his father might soon save him, that this would be over and done. Better yet, he’d wake up one day tucked within his fathers wings and assured that this was all one big fucked-up dream–hoping against hope as any scared child would that someone would finally say; “this will all be over soon”.

 

But no such thing ever happened, and the claws of doubt soon anchored in his chest, heavy and hurting. And as he grew, that spark never truly came alight once more. White down turned to monochrome adult feathers, once beach-blonde curls from days spent playing in the sun muddying from lack of proper care, and eyes that had shone like polished topaz fading grey as the shackles fastened tight around his wrists.

 

At thirteen, Tommy had never been more numb .

 

At least, he thinks he’s thirteen. No matter how much he begged and pleaded, behaved and submit, or fought with all he’s worth, the cycle of different cages have never given him an answer–cold steel bars and an iron collar around his neck as tight as a rope snare around the heel of a thrashing fox. The only slips of information he’s fed from the outside come from the other abductees; the freshly caught with their primaries still intact, the ones who have enough left of their head to stutter a year or month to him before being hauled off once more. The longest he’s had with another avian in the room had been precisely forty minutes and thirty-two seconds; a young, fiery sparrow with a burn scar on his right wing that had eaten up most of his outermost primaries and the respective coverts, left bound and shaken as arguing voices bellowed from behind a closed door.

 

He had said it was late-April, when Tommy could finally manage a question with a voice rough from disuse. Tommy’s birthday had been 18 days ago, and he was Fourteen. He had said that there were more laws put in place now, laws to help the avians being sold as goods–and more and more illegal markets being raided and people being freed. He said that his dad, a wingless man, was leading one of such attack forces. He said they would find him, arrest their captors and free the both of them. He said that he would help him find his dad and experience everything he had missed while caged away. He had sworn it on his very blood and told him to keep fighting. And then he was taken away, a grim determination set in his eyes while Tommy screamed and begged for him to return, his cries stretching long past when the door was shut and light gone dark, only tapering off when his throat was scraped raw and bloody and he could do nothing but whisper pitifully into the darkness.

 

He hadn’t moved, hadn’t so much as shift his wings for hours afterward–staring unseeingly into the hollow void of a room, standing numb and trembling until his knees finally buckled under him and sent him to the cold steel of the floor, fingers still closed around the bars of his cage in a vice grip as if he might fracture like glass should he dare to let go.

 

That is, until the tiny window far up the wall allowed the pale shine of starlight to trickle in–and a small, silver object half-hidden by a brown feather glinted on the floor not a foot from his cage, dropped beside what he could only make out as two lines of words smeared into the thick layer of dust on the floor. It was too dark to make out anything but the bottom line, even as he pressed his face as hard as he could against the bars to desperately attempt to understand them with what little idea he has of literature.

 

“May Boreas lift your wings.”

 

It takes him a good moment to sound it out–stumbling through the sentence as best he can. He knows it's a message from the sparrow–what it means is lost on him, but the intent is true and clear; good luck . And when he stretches his arm to reach for the object on the ground beside it, taking both the feather and the weighty metal shape in his fist, he brushes it away–as much as he longs to keep it, to read what had been written even if his limited knowledge had it fall useless, he erases it with a simple sweep of his hand before finally pulling his closed fist back to himself. No risks, not even if it has his instincts wailing and heart squeezing.

 

He tucks the feather into his hair where it falls over his shoulder, hiding it away within his curls before finally turning his attention to the metal object in his palm. He tentatively traces the pad of his finger over it, following the curved slope to a seam, and from the seam to a button.

 

May Boreas lift your wings, he mentally repeats to himself as his thumb traces the button, slowly pressing down until he hears a soft click.

 

Keep fighting, the voice of the sparrow commands in his head as the pocket watch springs open, the steady tick-tick-tick of its mechanism like a symphony to his ears, tears gathering in his eyes as he watches the seconds pass by in a steady rhythm.

 

Survive , his father’s voice murmurs, his feathers ruffling as the ghost of comforting hands travel across his quills and toward his face to brush the rolling tears from his cheeks and quell the quiver of his lip.

 

And then there's a feeling in his chest, a rising sensation that sends a pulse of warmth all the way from his heart to the furthest reaches of his wings, the dead flame in his chest finally fed with timber and oil and lit with a match, coaxed until the flame catches alight and roars to life with the potency of a wildfire stretching burning claws into the highest reaches of the heavens above.

 

And that fire grew with him, unrelenting and untameable no matter how many times its flames were stamped down. Cruel words and long beatings only served as gasoline and hardwood thrown to the heart of the raging inferno, two years spent feeding the blaze until it could’ve rivaled the very fires of hell itself despite sitting in the chest of a bruised and bloody sixteen-year-old with shaking hands.

 

Two years spent fostering hope through the blaze, playing housepet until the hands around his throat loosened their grip, holding him on a gilded leash instead of an iron chain, unbeknownst that their docile little lamb was a hidden wolf biding its time to finally sink its teeth into their unexpecting throat.

 

At sixteen, Tommy had never been more angry.

Notes:

guys guys did you know im seeing Tommy's live show today

Edit: IT WAS AWESOME (Charlie slime was there too!)

Chapter 2: The sky is burning, the sea is crying

Summary:

Chap. Title from Time Machine 2, by Daisy The Great & Illuminati Hotties

 

> Tommy's world shifts on its axis, again. Change is coming, and a storm sits heavy on the horizon.

“Shut UP!” 

 

The barked command is the only warning he gets before a back-handed slap connects with his temple, the sharp bite of jeweled rings leaving bloody scrapes in tandem with the angry red palm-mark sure to grow black and throbbing in time. He’s surprised when he doesn’t hit the floor upon impact, stumbling on shaking legs but somehow managing to keep his feet beneath him even as his teeth cut into his tongue and his brain knocks around his head like the innards of a violently-shaken snow globe.

 

That doesn't provide solace for very long, though, as his ankles are swiped soon after by a rusted chain–the one anchored to his neck via an iron collar–Causing his head to snap to the side with a pained grunt-turned-yelp when he’s forced into a half somersault in order to not break his neck when the chain tangles around his flailing wing. He meets the floor in due time, the side of his head smashing hard into the concrete in a way that has stars bursting into the dark space behind his eyes and dancing wildly, shoulder screaming in a way that feels like his arm has been wrenched from the socket, and wouldn’t surprise him if it had.

 

But that’s not punishment enough, because the man delivers a sharp kick to his ribs to seal the deal, the stiff toe of a polished dress shoe slamming into the un-cushioned bone of his sternum and surely leaving a new bruise to join the patchwork of others—littered across his skin in a variety of shapes and colors, an ever-growing pattern always stretched tight around his body like a second skin.

 

All because he had dared to question where he was being carted off to this time–they never let him out unless they’re showing him off, after all–rightfully angry but obviously unacceptable for their little bird in the cage to so much as whisper his reservations. He snarls silently as blood dribbles from between his teeth, stifling the whimper that would much rather bubble out from between his lips in favour of offering an innocent apology, playing up the act of the child eager to please, the lamb running back to the butcher despite the blood on his shirt and the cleaver behind his back.

 

“Sorry, I didn’t–I’m sorry, sir,” he whimpers, letting the pain he had ignored seep into his voice to make it as believable as possible, wet and shaky as he braces himself on his elbows and ducks his head like a child admonished. Of course, the man is quick to change his tune, shifting from rage to syrupy sweet fast enough to give Tommy whiplash–cooing and crouching down to ruffle his hair with a too-rough hand that feels nothing short of threatening.

 

“It’s alright, I forgive you, little owl.” The man cooes, a rotten smile and slicked-back hair like tar, and Tommy has to almost physically restrain himself from correcting the idiot–somehow, at some point, he’d been sold as an owlette–and either the people are too stupid or too naive to recognize the growing patterns and shape of his wings as something else entirely—more and more baby feathers shed, soft greys and blacks taking up space in the swathes of white as nestling-turns-fledgling-turns-adolescent. But in the same breath, he can’t blame them. In all his years of being passed between buyer to buyer, he has never–not even once– seen another eagle of any species, not even the smallest serpent eagle who’s wingspan would only reach less than two thirds of his.

 

He wonders how much more fear they’d harbour, if they knew his true roots. If what they thought was a young barred owl turned out to truly be a harpy eagle, the most fierce and volatile of any raptor avianthropes in the known species–hand in hand with great-horned owls but with more destructive power. 

 

He supposes it’s to his benefit, for them to keep their assumptions and him to play the part. It’ll give him the upper hand, if ever the time comes. But for now he cooes in the warmest way he can muster, pushing his head into the hand tangled in his hair as if enjoying the touch when he’d much rather sever the offending limb at the joint if his claws weren’t dull and cracked from lack of nutrients.

 

Eventually, the hand retracts–grabbing him under the shoulders (much too close for comfort to his wings) and hoisting him up. He has to bite hard into his cheek as the shoulder he’d landed on makes a quiet groaning-creak, sending arcs of sharp pain through his nerves. He’s embarrassed to say he stumbles when his feet are finally beneath him once more, wings pulling at their binds in a bid to stabilize him but only serving to tug him backward at the sudden, violent jerk of movement. Luckily, he’s able to counteract with a step forward–the man spooking slightly at the move toward him, but what’s he gonna do with mitted talons and a muzzled jaw? Spit at him?

 

Well, for whatever reason, the man only scowls at him–the same look a rich lady with full pockets and a fur coat would give a beggar tucked away on the corner of a busy street asking for coins, the same man his father would’ve offered a warm meal and fresh clothes should he happen upon him, ivory-and-ink wing settled on his shoulder and blue eyes soft like melting glaciers under the spring sun as he asked what he could do to help.

 

A tug from the chain breaks him out of his head, and he stutters to start walking before the man gets fed up and drags him out the door like a misbehaving dog on a choke-chain. There's blood in his mouth and dribbling down his chin, a growing wet patch on his temple where the rings had pierced his skin and left sluggishly bleeding punctures in their wake–but he doesn’t complain, doesn’t breathe a breath of a whimper, ambling a few paces behind the man as he walks and speeding up when a tug at the collar around his throat presses painfully into his skin whenever the man deems him too far behind.

 

He stays quiet and reserved as he’s led down a hallway and then up a flight of stairs, the cold, stale air giving way to a fresh breeze from an open window somewhere, and he cant help but open his mouth just the slightest bit to let the scent of plants and animals and water and sunlight and outside engulf him, breathing heavily and sucking in the smells he knows he won’t have when he’s inevitably locked away once more –the soft hint of rain from somewhere far away a temporary balm to his anxieties.

 

Except, they usually take a left, into a large room filled with people who ogle and coo at him, touching his wings and his face and his arms and his back all while he’s forced to say stock still lest he be punished when they jump back in surprise. But the man makes a right instead, a door unlike the others in the way it opens into a garage with a van parked and the back doors flung open, a crate inside that would’ve barely held a large dog also open and empty, and suddenly there's a pit growing in his stomach taking the form of a caged fox, barking warnings in his ears and scraping at the bars in anticipation of what this means for him.

 

They’re getting rid of him .

 

He jolts when the chain is handed to a stranger in a tactical suit, fit with an earpiece and blackened sunglasses barring him from telling exactly where he’s looking–and then a man in a white dress suit is stepping out of the car, bottle-green eyes and windswept dark-blonde hair that falls over his forehead and a lazy smile on his face as he approaches Tommy’s current owner, black hair and tan skin and too-many jeweled rings.

 

“Barred owl, huh? Rare to come by a raptor, especially a practically-mature one. Four million for him, yeah?” The new guy asks, casual in his demeanor and voice light as if discussing the weather with a new acquaintance rather than buying a whole-ass person for Four million fucking dollars . The man Tommy’s familiar with smiles–sharp and horrible and Tommy suddenly feels the pit in his stomach grow to consume his chest, because sure he's been beaten bruised and bloody by this man but at least he knows what to expect from him, and that can’t be said for the green eyes that flick over him–calculating and scarily devoid of the warmth portrayed in his tone in a way that has Tommy uncomfortable and squirming in his own skin, feeling too exposed and much too fragile.

 

“You got yourself a deal.” The new man shakes Tommy’s keeper's hand at his confirmation, firm and white-knuckled as he seals his fate. The fear that had been spilling like oil through his body morphs into panic, and he suddenly finds himself flailing—pawing uselessly at the chains with the tough-leather mitts over his hands and attempting to flap his wings—though it only serves to send pain lancing from where the bindings twist and yank his feathers out, sending thick droplets of blood spraying out. The man in the white suit doesn't flinch, and neither does the one in sunglasses–but the man who’d had him for so long stumbles over his own feet to backpedal when Tommy turns his sights to him.

 

“Wait–please, I–please, no, don’t–” He begs, panicked chirps and crows pushing out of his throat as his heart takes the form of a cornered jackrabbit chased by a wolf with a white-foamed mouth. The green-eyed man says nothing, but Tommy can still feel his eyes on him as he struggles on the end of the chain futilely for familiarity. But his old keeper only stares back at him, mouth ticked in annoyance despite being fearful not a moment earlier

 

And while his eyes, brown like rotten wood, bore into his–he says one last thing, before turning back into his home and slamming the door harshly;

 

“I expect that money to be in my account before you’re on the road.” He commands, scathing as he stares into panicked–gray eyes, teeth bared and uncaring as he throws Tommy to the wolves at his back.

 

“Of course. I’ll have one of my security personnel come get you once he’s secured.” White suit says, just a moment before the door is shut in his face. And then, toxic green eyes are turned on him, and Tommy feels all his feathers puff even further if at all possible–a sparrow under the claws of a toying cat–the whispered drone of danger, danger, danger, playing on loop in his head.

 

Because he might be an eagle, but a bird will always be beaten by a cat when it’s wings are pinned.

Chapter 3: gotta get up and try, try, try

Summary:

Chap. Title from Try, by P!nk

> Freedom is within reach.. or is it?

When Tommy comes to, it's to darkness and thin latticed bars pressing in on all sides. Everything is fuzzy, from what ended him here–but there's the crust of dried blood on the side of his neck, courtesy of a needle used to administer whatever-the-fuck they use to make him black out as a reminder.

 

The van has been long shut-off from what he can make of the stagnant air and heavy silence–he’s probably been in here a while. Almost a day, if the painful stiffness of his limbs has anything to say about it. But trying to shift proves useless; he can't so much as turn on his side without ripping his feathers out from where his wings are pressed against the bars overhead and tangled in the seams. So he focuses on keeping the panic locked away, reaching out with available senses to make a lay of the land, and what lies beyond the steel walls of the van.

 

He focuses his hearing–trying to pick out living from artificial sound. It’s–not very helpful. All he manages to catalogue is the steady drip-drip-drip of a leak somewhere in the room, the soft tick-tick-tick of the pocket watch hung around his neck via a snatched shoelace when he’d faked a fall, and the faint sounds of conversation beyond a wall and shoesteps scuffing over hardwood floors. 

 

Nothing useful .

 

He lies there for what must be hours, motionless beside taking shallow breaths to keep the blurry edge of his vision at bay–though they only serve to coat his throat in a thin veil of dust from where it had collected on the inside of his muzzle. Theres nothing to do , except lay there. He can’t break out–and even if he managed to pop whatever mechanism holds the paneling of this cage together, he’d still be trapped in this van until those men came back for him–and that wouldn’t go over smoothly, the phantom pains of cuts and bruises a steady reminder to be good, be patient, behave until they bare their necks. The sparrow, a steady voice in his head since they’d met, speaks to the rhythm of the clock pressed against his chest “Just wait, i’ll be back from you. I will get you out.” He promises, and Tommy can’t help but respond even when he knows the words are only a memory replaying.

 

“ I’m trying.” he breathes through his teeth, throat protesting in a way that solidifies what his internal clock is telling him; he’s been in this cage for far longer than he should’ve been. He would’ve assumed they’d have transferred him by now to whatever new cell or operating table they’d bought him for. Or maybe he thought he wouldn’t wake up at all. Maybe this is the delirious hallucination of a boy dying of bloodloss on the side of the road, his wings having been severed from his back, taken like some sort of trophy to be hung over a mantle.

 

But the dry, irritated feeling in the back of his throat, the pain of thin metal bars digging into his wings, and the cold, cloying air causing goosebumps to rise on his skin is enough to convince him that he is, in fact, alive—However much the voice in the back of his head cries and wails for him to go to sleep , for something kinder to take him away, somewhere far from shaking limbs, bruised skin, iron chains, and too-small cages.

 

And… it doesn’t seem like those men will be coming back for him anytime soon. He can’t discern any movement in the room with him–and even the talking from outside it has ceased. This could be the last chance he has to make a move, the opening he’d been waiting for for ten years. But he’s not strong, and he doesn’t know where he is or what he’s going to have to go against out there. It might be worse to try and escape than it would be to show his belly and wait for them to cut him open.

 

But–if he dies, he’ll never see the sunlight again. He’ll never feel the tickle of long grass beneath his palms, or the wind beneath his feathers. He’ll never get that sparrow’s name, to thank him for making him keep going. He’ll never be wrapped up in his fathers wings like a crying nestling, or learn to fly side-by-side . So wether by adrenaline or stupidity–He makes another attempt to turn. Pressing against the ground with his forehead (despite the way the metal edge of the muzzle cuts into his face) and raising his chest, he tries his absolute best to rotate his shoulders in the barely-a-breath of space he’s managed to gain–a dull pain, the pulse that had been emanating from his shoulder that he’d been ignoring from the time he’d been kicked down to now–flares up with a vengeance and an audible pop.

 

His shoulder fully dislocates–at least it feels like it, when the entire thing goes numb and tingly–and he finally manages to wrench his arms out from under him. His wings tuck tight, almost painfully against his spine–but it doesn’t help, because were those spikes– the metal bars hold on to his wings with an iron grip, and rip feather and flesh and spray blood in a half-arc from the roof, over the wall, and all the way to the floor of the van when he finally wrenches himself fully onto his side. He bites his cheek so hard he half-expects to have bitten a chunk of flesh out, the smell of bood having already made the air turn thick and metallic in a way that makes him choke and wheeze.

 

His wings are bleeding, and heavily. Theres a puddle of blood steadily forming at his back, a growing carmine stain in the corner of his vision that soaks into his feathers, clothes, and skin. Its enough to make him nauseous, heart jumping into his throat and eyes squeezing shut as he forces his breathing to stay even because he needs to get out if he wants to survive.

 

He swallows the whimpers, the desperate chirps for someone, anyone –and tucks his knees up, bringing them as close to his chest as he can before being blocked by bars–he tenses up his muscles until he starts to shake with the effort, takes a deep breath, and releases the strongest kick he can muster at where he hopes the latch is. He packs as much panic-induced strength into the kick as he can, and almost cries when he feels the lock bend but not break.

 

So he tries it again.

 

And again, he’s met with more give–but still, no break.

 

His legs are starting to cramp, his ankles groaning like rusted posts about to snap, and more blood sputters out of the wounds on his wings each time he moves, like some sort of macabre fountain. But he doesn’t stop. He clenches his teeth together, tiny arcs of pain shooting through his jaw when he clenches it like his life depends on it.

 

And it does.

 

Because he doesn’t know what he’ll find outside the cage, outside the van. But he refuses to go down without a fight, to lay down and give up like his aching limbs beg for him to do. Because he’s a raptor, damnit. And raptors never go down with their claws curled. So he forces a final, shaky, quavering breath before kicking out once more–and theres a snap, and a crash as the cage door flies off its hinges and slams into the back of the van with enough force to rock the thing.

 

And he wastes no time, violently scrambling to get himself out of the cage–leather-mitted talons slickened and slipping from under him as he pushes himself toward the entrance, the steel cross-bars of the muzzle pressing uncomfortably against his face and aggravating the earlier wounds until new rivulets of blood begin to trickle down his cheeks and join the puddles already soaking into his clothes.

 

The first thing he does once he’s managed to squeeze himself from the cage is to turn to the leather mitts that keep his talons hidden away–trying to yank them off. He won’t get anywhere if he’s bubblewrapped. But they’re secured, and too–tight to yank off his hands even if he dislocated his thumbs (and he’s tried it). He tries to rip them off; using the tiny spikes of metal on the cage to attempt to tear the belts around his wrists, but only ends up with catscratches for his troubles and a hell of a lot more panic.

 

No talons, no teeth, no wings–he’s basically a toddler. He suddenly feels six again–terrified, panicking, and absolutely helpless to do anything but sit there and whimper.

 

The fight is starting to drain out of him. He can feel it as the adrenaline slowly crashes, the tremor in his limbs turned full on shaking; cuts and bruises aching sharply instead of the dull, muted pain from before he’d been easily able to ignore.

 

He finds himself slowly sinking to the floor until his knees hit the metal bed of the van, hands left useless in his lap and eyes focused yet unseeing on the smallest sliver of pale light peaking between the doors. That is, until, a noise grabs his attention–forcibly yanking him from his downward spiral.

 

Screaming.

 

He could’ve passed it off as an argument gone wrong, at first–but now its shrill, and panicked–and the unmistakeable sound of shoes skidding across polished floors tells him all he needs to know. Another avian probably escaped. Its the only logical explanation–until a door smashes open with enough force to send it flying off the hinges and into a wall. And then people are entering the room. Two pairs of footsteps, and two voices.

 

“Tech– Boar! This one is still locked. The owl must be in here! We need to get them out–” A voice, vaguely feminine but muffled by the doors calls out–and he has half a mind to be confused, before the van is being rocked violently, doors tugged harshly but not giving way. He bites his tongue, though–staying silent even when he’s practically thrown onto his side.

 

“ Riptide, calm down. I’m comin’. Zephyrus and Notos’ members have everything handled. We don’t gotta panic.” Another voice, rougher. Calm and collected whereas the other had been higher and panicked. The doors are rattled again, before theres an audible sigh.

 

“ Yeah, it’s shut tight. I’m gonna shoot the lock.”

 

“What? What if you hit them–”

 

“You got a key?”

Silence follows the last exchange, the panicked voice not responding for whatever reason. Tommy feels his heart hammering in his chest, hard enough to make his ribs hurt.

 

“ If you’re in there, get outta’ the way of the lock. If ya’ can’t, get low as you can. I’ll shoot toward the ceiling.” The deeper voice says, and Tommy quickly obeys. He doesn’t need more injuries to deal with. He pulls himself to the wall, pressing his back against it. His wings twinge in pain, but he ignores it.

 

A click, and then a loud bang as a bullet goes straight through where the keyhole mustve been–a ragged, empty circle left in its wake. Tommy’s ears ring for a moment, vision swimming–before he manages to push through it, and stare wide-eyed at the two people outside the door.

 

Two people. They’re both wearing black tactical gear with a sewn-on polar bear emblem on the breast, and golden full-face masks—though with different designs.

 

A shorter girl stands a few paces back, Osprey wings flared behind her and hot-pink hair in a tight bun atop her head. A baton is strapped to her left thigh, and a handgun on her left hip. Her mask is a simple circle with wave outlines painted in a lapis blue color, and her fingers are accented with golden claw extensions that glint in the low light, sharp enough to draw blood easily.

 

The guy has similar hair to her, except it's a softer shade of bubblegum-pink, hanging over his shoulder in a long braid. His wings are folded, bright white with smudges of black that make him think snowy owl –but he can’t quite tell. His mask is much more intricate, shaped like a boar skull with large tusks that curl over the snout–and the same golden claw extensions on his fingers, though there's a dagger instead of a baton on his left, and the holster on his right is empty where the gun is held firmly in the respective hand.

 

It's easy enough to tell which was which. Riptide, with the blue and gold mask, and boar with the–well, boar mask.

 

They’re avians, like him.

 

But that doesn’t stop him from ruffling his feathers, a shaky growl rumbling from his throat.

 

Riptide steps back slightly, wings spread halfway as if she can't decide whether to run or not. Boar, on the other hand, doesn’t move–other than huffing.

“Well. That is definitely not an owl.”

Notes:

YAYAYAY HOPE YOU LIKED IT IM SO PROUD OF THIS

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Chapter 4: Theres a wind alive in the Valley

Summary:

Chapter title from Thus Always To Tyrants, by the Oh Hellos

> RESCUE!!

The kid is feral, at least from what Techno can tell.

 

He hasn’t said a single word–only growled and lunged at Riptide when she got too close, and looked at him warily when he raised his feathers in warning–shrinking back into what darkness the van offers.

 

It’s a tough situation, really.

 

Because on one hand, the kid is obviously traumatized and beat to hell–missing clumps of feathers, slick and splattered with his own blood and tears, and bound like some sort of vicious animal. He wouldn’t have even thought he was a Harpy if he hadn't been so aggressive–would’ve assumed he was some sort of odd-looking barred owl. But his mannerisms match up perfectly with Angel–The Harpy eagle in sector Zephyrus, and the co-lead of Anemoi itself–and from what he can see with his wings being tied down to his back, he’s got a similar feather pattern and shape, too. So harpy eagle it is. He thinks. He’s pretty sure.

 

He doesn’t come upon many eagles in this situation, after all.

 

But on the other hand, raptors are dangerous–especially eagles. He’s seen firsthand what a Harpy eagle can do–He’s seen Angel snap a bone with his bare hands and gut a man in one swipe of his talons, throw people across a room with a single aimed slap of his wing and bat a full-grown man around hundreds of feet in the air like a cat toying with a mouse. Terrifyingly powerful, and an ability Techno would gladly kill for should he be given the option.

 

And so he’s left at a standstill. He’s never been good at calming the kids they rescue–much less what seems like an aggressive and traumatized eagle that already has his instincts calling for him to take to the skies. That’s always been Halo or Angel’s strong suit–hell, even Diamond is better at this than him. But the avians from Notos and Zephyrus are busy–Diamond and Bullseye sweeping the rest of the property, and Halo and Angel busy detaining the patrons and likely ushering the rescues into whatever trucks Eurus has brought in thus far.

 

Which leaves Boreas—Riptide and him—to somehow convince this feral eagle to get out of the van without fighting them, or vice versa. And Riptide is barely a fledged member–having only joined field work three missions ago. So this is gonna be up to him to figure out, less the new feathers somehow gets herself killed en transit.

 

Truely, a herculean task.

 

“..hey, kid.” He finds himself saying, and he inwardly slaps himself for how awkward and monotone he sounds. Not comforting at all. Crap.

 

“... We’re here to get you out of the Trade. Team Notos of Anemoi .” He continues anyway. It occurs to him that Anemoi probably means nothing to the kid.

 

“The fuck is anemone?” a voice–the kid’s voice–rasps quietly from the back of the van, suspicious gray eyes peering through the darkness out at him. Yeah, should’a figured as much.

 

“It’s Anemoi. Not— “Anemone” . That’s a flower.” He corrects him instead of explaining, and receives a huff of annoyance and the dragging shuffle of feathers against chains.

 

“No it’s not. Anemones are sea animals.” The eagle says, sounding offended. Techno’s eye twitches.

 

“..Yeah. That too, kid.” He relents. Riptide is giving him a look that says something along the lines of this is why you have no friends . Which, she isn’t wrong, but she could at least give him some slack. It's stressful talking to children.

 

“..What’s.. A–ne–moi ?” The kid then asks, over pronouncing the word but at least he’s saying it. Techno purses his lips.

 

“..Classified information. I can tell ya once we’re outta here.” He elects to say. He has no idea how many ears are listening, or if the security feed is still running–even though Python has probably fried the circuits by now, and wiped any and all connected servers and databases. The reason Anemoi works so well is because no one knows enough about it–other than the name, and the widespread liberations, of course.

 

The kid growls again, but inches forward ever so slightly–just until the artificial light highlights his face, and the bloodied, metal muzzle over his mouth.

 

“..How do I know this isn’t just some fucked-up trick, and you’re not just gonna go on an’ package me up.” The kid demands, fangs bared behind the steel slats of the muzzle, fingers flexing under the rough leather mittens secured over his hands. Riptide makes a sort of involuntary, heartbroken sound that has the kid shrinking away once more. Techno bites his cheek. How the hell does Halo do this? How the hell does Angel do this?

 

“Listen, kid. We’re an extraction team. We get avian’s outta this market. We don’t care what you do when you’re out.” Which– lie , because Lamb is definitely gonna keep this kid in the med wing until she sees him fit, and then place him with someone until Python can figure out where he came from in the first place–if he even can . But it’s really only a partial lie–because they do get avians out of the Passerine Trade. They just also happen to keep them safe for a while before re-introducing them to society.

 

The kid is silent for a few beats, and techno can practically feel the scrutiny radiating off of him like waves.

 

“..Cut the mitts off. And the harness.” He demands, crawling forward until he's crouched on the edge of the cargo bed, and Aether above because this kid is so much worse than he looked when he first saw him. Riptide gasps a quiet oh my god , and he makes a low shushing noise at her.

 

“You’re not gonna try and snatch my gun, or make a run for it?” He asks in return, but slowly approaches the kid anyway. He receives no response except for an angry huff of words beneath the kids breath, but looking at the metal hobbles on the kids ankles, he wouldn’t get anywhere, anyway. 

 

He unsheathes the dagger on his thigh, securing his gun in its holster if only to make it that much harder for the kid to make a grab for it.

 

“Don’t move. I don’t wanna cut you up anymore than you already are.” He says motioning for the kid to give him his hands. The mitts are thick–thick enough that he wouldn’t even be able to pinch something through the leather, and they’re tied together with a rope just long enough to put his arms flush against his sides.

 

He saws the rope first, taking a few slices before it snaps apart. The mittens themselves are the hard part, skin–tight at the base with a buckle coated with so much rust it would be impossible to undo, and impossible to cut off with a double-edged knife without hurting the kid further

 

“Fine. I don’t care. Get the harness off.” The kid snaps after Techno scrutinizes the gloves for a moment too long, trying to think of a solution that never presents itself.

 

The harness is quite easy, to its discredit. A simple leather thing with thick straps that keep his wings folded up against his back, though stretched and stressed from what must be years of wear. All he has to do is cut the two straps over his chest–and the rest is painstakingly pulled off, layers of dead feathers, blood, and grime coming with it despite his best try at being as gentle as possible.

 

And yet, despite how uncomfortable the process must be, the kid looks almost blissful–wings that must be atrophied and painful from disuse stretching open the smallest bit–before falling limp behind the kid in a feathered heap.

 

“..Thanks.” He croaks, and there's a certain level to his voice that makes him seem like he’s made of porcelain, moments away from hitting stone after falling from the highest shelf.

 

“..Don’t mention it.” He says in response, a lilt of awkwardness to his tone he can’t manage to force away. The kid slowly lowers himself off the edge, feet slowly meeting the floor–shaking like leaves as weight is applied. And while Techno’s ready to let him try, he’s frozen by the sound of yelling–and then gunfire from somewhere outside the manor. The comm unit in his ear quickly crackles and screeches to life on the emergency channel—Halo’s voice cutting through.

 

“Come in Notos, Boreas! Angel’s down, Eurus is under fire–mýga, mýga !” Halo’s voice is panicked and broken up by the sound of muffled, tinny gunfire that matches up with what he can hear through the walls.

 

He curses silently.

 

“Kid, we need to leave, now. Don’t fight me, I don’t wanna have ta’ drop you and leave you for them to cage again. Riptide, gun out. Shoot first.” He says, Riptide quickly obeying his command–Gun already primed in her grip, safety clicked off and wings tucked to make herself a smaller target.

 

The boy starts to say something, likely asking what the hell was going on, but Techno sweeps him up in his arms–broken words turning into a shriek of surprise–tucking the teen who is way too light and way too bony against his chest before all but sprinting out of the large garage-area—Riptide guarding his heel as they retrace their steps to where the rest of Anemoi awaits their arrival.

 

He’s not worried for himself or his partner—Riptide is competent and quick-thinking, and he’s strong enough to carry this kid even if he starts squirming. No, he’s worried for the little eagle, as he’s not numb to the growing patch of dampness soaking into his uniform or the thick smell of blood that wafts from the kid like a warning.

 

All he can do is focus, right now–and trust that whatever insane amount of luck has been saving his ass for this long lets him continue his living streak.

Notes:

TECHNO RAAH WHY IS HE SO HARD TO WRITE

Chapter 5: Boreas

Summary:

Chap. Title from Boreas, by the oh hellos

> Techno brings Tommy back to Anemoi's base of operations

Returning to Anemoi is somehow the most anxiety-inducing part of this mission.

 

The eagle fledgling had passed out upon getting into the truck—and had consequently anchored himself to Techno. Which is a problem in and of itself, because he doesn’t like people, but also because it makes it incredibly hard to handle a gun—especially when there's a chance of a firefight starting up at any moment, and their back-up is long gone.

 

The other two other trucks that had been sent had left much before them—having been used to escort what he assumes was a heavily-injured Angel and the rest of Notos back to base. Halo was, thankfully, left behind to assist Niki and him with the kid—but for a guy who tries to keep a passive approach, he isn’t very helpful in active combat, much better suited in his role of negotiator whereas his teammate Angel usually dealt with the bloody parts.

 

So that made four Anemoi members in this van–three winged, and one non-winged from Eurus– Monarch, he recalls–as the driver. Plus the kid, and a kingfisher in much better condition sitting quietly in the furthest cargo seat from where Niki is settled in the corner.

 

Monarch’s radio crackles every once and a while, with what he assumes are transmissions from base, though too quiet for him to catch anything but a few louder sentences from different people, ranging all the way from ‘ Monarch, what’s your ETA? No, Ph–Angel, sit down. Everyone is alright. They’ll be back soon.’  (a transmission from Lamb, which Monarch quietly responds to) all the way to the gem of ‘TUBBO! Give back my stethoscope! How the hell did you even get in here? You don't have a key!” which is absolutely a mistaken transmission, because Ranboo quickly gasps and apologies when they notice they've been broadcasting, and turn their radio off before Tubbo can scream whatever obscenities Techno had been anticipating. It’s enough to give him a quick huff of laughter, much to the disdain of the eagle in his arms who growls his protest at the jostling.

 

He tunes that out though, when nothing interesting comes through for a stretch of time.

 

He turns his attention to Halo, sitting in the front passenger seat, quiet and facing forward–hands folded in his lap, and black dove wings curled properly at his sides. Then to Niki, who’s tucked herself up in the corner with one of her wings pulled into her lap, golden claw-rings discarded beside her while she methodically preens through her feathers.

 

He briefly glances over the Kingfisher, but his eyes don’t linger. They don’t even look all that messed up–the worst injury being a scrape on their cheek and rope burn on their wrists from  where they’d been restrained for auction. They could’ve been kidnapped not even a week ago, judging by their condition.

 

Which leads him to stare down at the eagle; skin and bones under his palms. His wings are small and stunted, patchy and speckled with broken, snapped, or outright missing feathers–and covered in a layer of dust, grime, and blood so thick the whites look brown. No wonder they’d thought he was a barred-owl. His hair is long and uncut, probably either brown or dark blonde, tangled and slick with blood, oil, and dirt. His skin is pale and papery, and covered in swathes of bruising in all stages of healing—some barely a faint yellow-green, others a dark purple. He can feel every single rib jutting out of his chest, devoid of any and all fat a healthy teenager should have—especially a kid of his height, who must be only a few inches shorter than himself. And he smells of death—not the sterile kind of saline and linen, but the dirty, natural kind that sticks to everything it touches and clouds your lungs with rotten air.

 

And as much as he’d like to maintain his usual air of apathy, he finds himself with a pit in his stomach, staring down at the kid.

 

Even when he’d been in the trade–two years of his childhood spent on a chain or locked up in a cage–he’d never gotten this bad. A bit malnourished and aggressive when Anemoi had rescued him, but never to the point of struggling to bear his own weight. This kid looks like he hasn’t seen sunlight in years, let alone had a full meal. 

 

It makes Techno feel sick in a way he never has before.

 

He spends the rest of the trip staring down at the kid in silence, the only sounds in the van the quiet shuffling of feathers and soft breathes from its passengers, and the steady hum of the engine as the van weaves through backroads and tall buildings toward the forest base far away from the tightly-packed city.

 

—

 

When they arrive, it's to no celebration. There's a heavy silence in the air, and the slightest hint of blood above the scent of antiseptic and steady hum of fluorescent lights. The eaglet had been quickly taken from him by Lamb while Ranboo monitored Angel–who was still avidly arguing with Ranboo to be let go after the bullet hole in his bicep was sewn up, all while the nurse-in-training desperately tried to keep the raptor down so they could grab a sling for his injured arm. They toss Techno a forlorn glance as he passes by, on his way to take a shower and tend to his own injuries–only a few cuts and bruises, and a couple pulled feathers.

 

Bullseye glances up at him when he enters the lockers, giving him a quick nod. The Gyrfalcon’s hair is damp, wings still dripping water on the fresh clothes he must’ve just changed into. Ultraviolet is probably lurking somewhere around here, too–the smaller peregrine never far behind his older brother when he returns from the newest mission. Techno simply nods back, grabs a towel, and moves on. The door creaks a few moments later, signaling the departure of the falcon right before he turns the water on.

 

He peels off his uniform–sticky with blood and whatever else he’d accumulated in that god forsaken estate–and tosses it in a heap on the floor before he steps into the shower. The warm water feels heavenly on his skin when he steps under it, steam quickly thickening the air around him–the water rushing in rivulets down his wings before he ruffles his feathers, flaring out his wings until the worst of the dirt and grime is successfully washed away by the steady stream. 

 

He then lathers some soap in his hands, and goes through the motions of cleaning the rest of his body. And soon enough, he’s turning the water off and stepping out of the shower–tugging on fresh clothes and pulling his hair up into a bun at the base of his skull to keep it out of his way until he can properly wash it when he finally gets home. He shakes his wings out, too–though it doesn’t really matter, they’ll be dry in a matter of minutes anyway.

 

Just as he scoops up his dirty uniform and towel to deposit in the bin, the overhead speakers crackle to life:

 

“ Boar to med room 6, Boar to med room 6.” Lamb–Puffy’s voice commands, and as much as he’d like to ignore it, he makes his way to the summons without distraction.

 

When he enters the room, he’s met with a woman with untamed white curls pushed back by a bandana and a stethoscope around her neck.

 

“Oh good, thanks for coming, Techno.” She says, visibly deflating. Techno doesnt respond for a moment, but just stands there–admittedly a bit like a deer in headlights.

 

“..Uh.. what’d you need me for?” He says, depositing his hands in his pockets. 

 

It’s always weird, being called by his real name and not his alias by some of the Eurus members. Eurus doesn’t participate directly in field work–they’re mostly responsible for planning and healthcare for the rescues and other members. They know most of the identities in Anemoi , and most know theirs. But the Avians on the field teams are seperated from eachother–if only to keep bias from forming in case they were to know eachother personally. Of course, Techno knows Niki–but that’s because he’s been training her since she volunteered in Eurus, and wanted to move to field work. 

 

“The eagle rescue just stabilized. I need some information on him, if you have any.” Puffy then asks, grabbing her discarded clipboard from the foot of an unnocupied bed and tapping her pen against it.

 

“Ah. Yeah, the kid. He didn’t exactly talk to us when we were runnin’ for our lives. But he couldn’t walk. At least, not well. He was shakin’ like a leaf when we got him outta the van.” He says, roughly recounting the rescue. Puffy nods along, probing further every once and a while until she finally places the clipboard down once more, satisfied with what information he had provided. 

 

“Alright. Thank you, Techno. Would you like a call when he wakes up?” She then asks, voice soft. Techno pauses, but ultimately agrees. He doesn’t like people, but he’s not heartless.

 

“Yeah. Sure. tell me if anything happens to the kid.” He says, and turns to leave–palm already on the door, before he’s interrupted by an exclamation from Puffy;

 

“Oh, your dye is fading, Techno” She says, and sure enough, when he stretches one of his wings out, the expertly painted black smudges on the tips of his feathers are starting to go dull and grey. He mutters a curse under his breath.

 

Being a bird of prey has always been the best thing for missions–he’s got the build for it, and people respect-and fear-a snowy owl. 

 

Not so much a common swan.

Notes:

sorry for disappearing yall my dog died

the archive authors curse is real man I thought I was safe after last time

Notes:

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Yes? deal?

 

HOPE YOU LIKED THIS KAY LOVE YOU IM GONNA PASS OUT NOW <3