Chapter 1

If anyone had a speck of curiosity or, at least, the courtesy to check out of modesty, pretending to have an interest, turning their heads towards the East Wing entrance, one would spot something—a moving figure, perhaps—but a piece of furniture: The hall lights caressing the antique brick walls, flustering the side of its beaked face. Brooklyn—a tall, built red-crimsoned, beaked looking creature someone (you?) could prophesize Satan! would be entirely misunderstood. There are a couple of nondescript traits that distinct him: a snow-white mane and a pair of tense yet focus green eyes. His son haves his gift, focusing with them at the moment. Scanning his father—and the "panorama of adulthood," he thought—you could say.

"This happened yesterday, Brooklyn," the Italian male elder blurted out, "during the middle of the day. It's in that box of moving pictures that said." "Truly he speaks, Brooklyn." Becca, Antony's mate added. Brooklyn took in the elder's testimonies—and scowls—with a grain of salt. Maybe he can add a bit of morphine in his next drink when he gets the chance. Moments like this created "sighs" and headaches.

While the scene is active the stealthy hatchling tip-toe (tip-"talon" to be correct) his way towards a nearby furniture of the room; although unsuccessful, camouflaging himself; caping his wings similar to his father's, locking the cloak of silk, with the two miniature talons, on each wing. Then evaded to another--a table. (Observing the it and analyzing his size, comparing one another—distasting the table—displeased with his size—how am I going to make peace to such an object of craftsmanship that is tall as me? he thought. It's been two years. He crawled towards another. Still not pleased.

"It has only been over a week, and…" He faces through a window, distasting the exterior of Manhattan, then points a finger, firmly, but with such prosecution. All of them face with him: nothing; but a mist blanketing, surfacing the wide-awake metropolis.

Then he relaxes.

"When Brooklyn?"

Becca placed an around her mate, soothing the antique gargoyle's nerves—and back. Antony, only, stared at the floor. The expertly-knitted rug didn't replace his thoughts. Brooklyn, taking the emotions in front of him--and wandering he, one day, would be a proud, but defeated elder… at a time like this? "Days, nights like this can be dark even for all of us." Antony raised his head, tears still visible, stained his face. "But," Brooklyn added, "doesn't mean we're going to close our eyes that easily." Saying this, however, Antony stayed untouched. "You asked for my help and I gladly took you in; but, with all due respect, you have been hot-headed and, even more, agitating the rest of the clan. Plus your feelings are--" He takes a deep breath. "contagious…"

Antony: a bag of rotten apples.

Becca: a bag of over-layered onions.

Brooklyn felt his heart ache, just for a moment, but kept his face unchanged.

Brooklyn moved forward to him, then laid one of his hands, gently, on the beaten warrior. "Don't let this get any worse, elder," he said. "Are you with us?"

Antony, readjusting himself, straightening his torso and shoulders. (He once was like him. When energy--and youth--was part of him.) Inhaling then releasing, he looked up, control and decorum now in place--to the Manhattan leader.

His response: "Aye."

As soon as they left, Brooklyn thought for a moment: settling against the wall; staring at the rug, crossing both his arms, he stared down at the floor. Comprehended the rug's paternal, enigmatic maze. He, however, didn't mind frolicking around in there. The sensation became familiar. Timedancing can I guess do that to you, he thought. He smiled, unknowingly. He needed to smile… unknowingly. Akiko, however, smiled just watching him smile.

"Akiko!"

He didn't expect that. He crept down under the table, behind the sofa, kneeling where his tale touched the floor, full length. Feeling it was too late to close his eyes, he was right. Brooklyn stood right in front of him, looking down. Akiko had no choice, but to look up at his father's displeased face: his eyes were sharp; and it hurt him just staring, again. He spoke, " Hey dad."

His father didn't respond or move, but observe his son's guilty demeanor. He has the same jet-black hair as his mother, but the same appearance as he.

"What were you doing?"

"Well," he thought for a bit, then: "I was waiting outside with my ball." "Aha?" "I believe I was sitting there as I saw three planes pass by. And I believe each flew by every 10 minutes."

Brooklyn comprehended the response, then sighed heavily.

He planned to play with him.

Akiko shivered his father's response, then rose the ball to his father's chest. Brooklyn took the ball, then turning and observing it. Akiko eyes lightened until--

"How about a pretzel first?" the exhausted gargoyle asked, trying to put up a smile.

"Okay." He said. "If you don't wanna play, then--"

"No. It's fine."

Akiko didn't seemed convince, but gave him a wry smile.

"Alrighty."

"Alrighty then." A few chuckles from both of them. It's been days they'd felt this sort of warmth, at least with each other.

Walking to the courtyard, Akiko walked beside him. Brooklyn had to lift a smile at that.