Gathering my meager belongings from my many hidden "nests", I prepare to leave again. My body—and my mind—wants to rebel, that is, to rebel against my decision and instincts. However, my instincts tell me I must leave at once, and if not now, as soon as possible, for the sake of my own safety. The less people that know about my existence, the longer I will live. Therefore, I have to—no, need to—get rid of those two bumbling idiots before I leave. I know I must leave no witnesses alive to tell my tale or tell of my planned deed. I find my "stolen" length of cord from this theater, I fashion a form of lasso out of the piece. A Punjab lasso—able to kill from a distance and all the while remaining hidden from view, that is the perfect weapon to use. Underneath the black mask, which, if I haven't mentioned before, I also stole—but from the theater's costume department this time, along with much of my new clothes, I grin. If I didn't have a mask on, the sight of it would seem crooked, menacing, and quite gruesome—a death's head come alive and animated. Not a very pretty sight, I might add.
Making sure my wings are safely and securely held tight wrapped around my side and back from my shoulders down—so that no one knows they are there—I set off to find the two rumormongers. He probably doesn't even know what or who's coming for them. They will not live long once I find them. The one called Joe in particular will not live to see sunset tonight if I can help it. The other, he didn't really believe Joe, so, if I run into him first, I'll kill him; if not, I won't bother. After this, when it is dark, if it is not already dark by then, say about five in the afternoon or thirty minutes later, I shall take off and head west towards the great mountains and away from the major cities of this, the east coast of America. Though I was technically born in rural France, shortly after my birth I was transported to a facility in Quebec, where I was tortured for their "testing". So technically, I have no country of origin and feel no sense of patriotism to any country as everything was ripped away from me at birth.
I soon find "Joe", but alas, I have not found his comrade. He is once again backstage, as one can usually find him. After all, where else would one expect to find a stagehand-slash-sceneshifter? You obviously would not find them out front or in the dressing rooms—unless he was an insufferable little pervert, now would you? I didn't think so. I tail him silently from the shadows overhead.
He is alone now, off in a darker corner of the stage with a hammer and some nails. If I am really going to do this, I should do the hideous, yet humane, deed before he starts hammering. Once he starts to hammer, it would be quite suspicious if his hammering suddenly stopped for no apparent reason. A little voice in the back of my mind and thoughts agrees with this idea.
Bracing myself, I carefully and quickly throw the lasso down and loop it around his neck. With a sharp yank, the noose tightens and I can hear his neck audibly snap in the strangely quiet air.
Making sure no one else is around; I carefully lower myself to the ground floor. I quickly loosen the knot and slip the rope off his neck and store it in a pocket of my "modified" duster. I hear footsteps approaching and I know I need to get out of there right away. I tense my powerful leg muscles and resist the urge to spread my wings. I start to run, instinctively gaining speed and momentum, finally launching myself into the air like a track and field star at the long jump, the high jump, or even the pole vault—without the pole. I soar through the air and at the summit of my leap I grab a beam and use my momentum to propel and swing my body up and onto the narrow beam. I quickly regain my balance and make my way out of sight of those approaching below.
As they come upon the deceased's body, one of them screams—a woman, probably a girlfriend of one of the actors or stagehands that was originally brought back here to have a make-out session. A very familiar woman's voice it is that made that scream. I leap from the beam to a narrow rail and from there to the iron catwalk that the rail belongs to. I take off at a dead run towards my "nest" with my pre-prepared possessions. I must leave now, while I can. Many people surely heard that scream, including the security personnel of all people. I need to get out. It is dark enough now, as far as I can tell. I stop momentarily when I reach the "nest", but only long enough to gear up and prepare for my long flight ahead of me.
I burst forth onto the roof and finally unfurl my wings that have been aching and longing to be used. My black wings, in shape, are more fit for that of a tern than the raven of which they resemble in color. They measure at least sixteen feet across from wingtip to wingtip, but may be more now, seeing as I have grown since the lab technicians last forced their measurements upon me. Hard to believe I can hide them along the sides of my body as well as I can, isn't it? Almost impossible, I'd say. But it merely makes my all-too-thin body seem more normal, at least in my torso. For my chest has, like many birds, a keel bone, or in other words, a built-up, deepened, fused, and lengthened sternum, with much lean, stringy muscle attached to it. This is perhaps the most muscular, least skeletal area on my whole body besides my wings. Despite this, my ribs still do show through like a dried up cadaver.
I run to the edge of the roof and pitch myself over the edge. I enjoy the feeling of freefall for a bit before I start to ascend into the darkened sky with powerful downward strokes of my coal-black feathered wings. My sensitive hearing picks up a few gasps and even a few thuds as some people faint. Behind my blank black mask I grin. I always was one for morbid attention… What a sight I must prove to be! A sickly laugh escapes my horrid lips behind my mask. A mask not just to protect the public, but also to protect myself from the truth of my appearance and the hatred and fear which it only fuels, burning my psyche and destroying all hope of humanity, hope, and love for myself.
I am dead tired and most definitely hungry. Not something that I've felt like this since I last ran from that lab in Canada. I have no citizenship, I haven't any country—I was never given a birth certificate when I was born. Although I was born alive—though I looked quite dead and not quite human even then, as I have always been a hybrid—my real mother was told that I was stillborn. I dearly wish I could meet her. I wonder what she would think of her son. Is she still alive? Or is she dead? Would she accept her son looking as I do? Looking like a long-dead corpse of an angel? Somehow, I highly doubt that she would ever accept me as her son if we were ever to meet. And I highly doubt that such an event would ever occur.
I need to find a place to rest. I've been following highways and rivers, as well as the path of the sun in the sky, heading ever westward—where to, I'm not sure. Perhaps I'll end my journey in the wilds of the Rockies…
Scanning the ground below me to find a suitable landing area that is free of people at the moment, I see a pavilion of sorts in the middle of a park with animals. What do the Americans call these places again? Oh, yes, I almost forgot—zoos. I aim for the zoo just as the sun rises once again for another day. I am dead tired, and my first instinct is to curl up in a ball and sleep the day away.
It's easy to find a nice, sturdy tree and climb its trunk, as there are many good-sized trees in this animal park. I settle in, my whole body aching after my nonstop, two day flight from New York, in the crook of one of the spreading branches of this nice tree. I dig out a stolen blanket and wrap it around my sweating body. Am I feverish? I ponder inside my head. I fall asleep quickly.
The figure in the tree remained unaware of the dawning day and its growing activity. First, the keepers arrived to make their morning rounds, which is when the sleeping hybrid was first spotted. Attempts were made to wake it up, which is when they discovered its wings. Taking no chances, they gave the sleeping creature a shot of a mild tranquilizer.
Carefully and gently, they removed him from the branches. He was so deeply asleep that he never even stirred once. They took him to the resident zoologist, who, upon examination, was puzzled. The creature looked human, with the exception of his double-jointed shoulders, his wings, the vestigial feathers on his rail-thin arms and legs, and his corpse-like visage.
One of the assistants did remember the sensational news of the bird-kids case in Colorado, and told the chief zoologist about the court custody case. He suggested that they give a call to Frannie and Kit, to see if they had room for one more at their place and in their hearts. Soon as an arrangement was made, they woke up the unconscious teen.
I wake to the harsh glare of indoor lights, particularly those of medical establishments. Immediately I panic, thinking I had been caught and brought back to the Institute I had escaped from. But there are no bars. This surprises me and my panic starts to subside. My hands tentatively explore my face, and find not my smooth mask, but the harshness of my sickening visage. My heart thunders inside my chest.
"Where's my mask?" I screech, in even more of a panic than I was previously upon waking up here. I noticed, for the first time that I was cold—they had removed my clothes—except my underwear, which, for those of you curious, are boxers. I guess they have some decency after all… I muse.
A kindly, fatherly-looking man in a white coat entered the room. Despite his appearance, my nerves are on edge and I can only feel apprehension towards the medical figure. How am I to know that he is not in league with the Institute back in Canada or even some colleague institution like the Institute? He is, after all, a doctor in a white lab coat. Although why he would be in a zoo is beyond me.
"It's okay," he tries to reassure me but only sets me further on edge.
"Liar," I snarl, my odd-looking lips curling in disgust.
"No, don't be afraid." I growl, low and dangerously, yet loud enough to be heard by him, towards the doctor. "I am only a zoologist. Not a doctor as you probably are used to," he states. My whole body relaxes with relief that he is not one of those scientists. I wonder what he wants with me and why he is even interested in me, though…
The poor creature was visibly shaken when the esteemed zoologist stepped into the room, which is where he had been brought after being found and examined, once it had awakened. Although on edge at first, the wild animal doctor gradually gained the hybrid's trust after introducing himself as merely a zoologist. Why he was on edge before that may never be known, especially not to those present, but some theories had been assured in their minds after his introduction.
"My name is Dr. Zhbevik. What is yours, young man?" The man in the white coat asks.
"Erik. Erik…Daemon…" the seated, recently named teen mutters in a level that could be said to be under his breath. The creature has the most beautiful the good doctor has ever heard. In his mind he thinks that his voice more than makes up for his physical ugliness. It is almost as if he is a siren sprung to life from ancient Greek myth.
"Well, Mr. Daemon, we have found someone willing to take you in and feed you without expecting anything in return. Don't worry, they know about your special circumstances—especially s they have already taken in and bonded with several other children much like you. I am taking you to meet them in Colorado as we have not been able to find much about your past or biological family."
Erik turns his deep-set golden eyes towards the doctor and says simply: "I'm hungry."
