February 11, 2006, 8:31 a.m. New York City, New York
"Remember my face yet, Little Bird? Well this time, I'm sure you'll never forget."
The words echoed around Wren's head like an omen. She was worried. How had he known her nickname? And where had she seen him before? She knew she had, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't think of any time she had seen such a face. It couldn't have been any ordinary affair, for surely she would not have recognized him, and he would not have remembered her, unless he happened to be very extraordinary himself. No, it had to have been something different, something unusual, for surely the man would not have made a point in talking to her otherwise. But she could not piece it all together, and the holes clouded her mind.
Kodiak watched the anxious profile of his sister with concern. Her face was scrunched in unease, lip chewed between crooked teeth and freckled brow wrinkled. Something was clearly bothering her. He didn't know what.
The screech of opening doors startled Wren out of her unusual thoughts. She turned and looked around the subway car. A young teenage boy sat in a corner on the other side of Kodi, listening to music quietly while staring wistfully ahead, as if he weren't really seeing. A man, a businessman, sat closer to Wren, leg crossed over his thigh, reading the morning paper. An older woman slept, snoring softly, her pale pink cardigan wrapped loosely around her shoulders. A well-dressed woman sat beside a little boy who was bouncing and giggling. The woman tried to hush him, looking reasonably embarrassed, juggling her phone and one of the boy's toys. She glanced around the subway cabin, an apologetic smile on her lips.
Only a few people were on, surprising considering they were in Brooklyn. Or where they in the Bronx by now? Wren didn't know anymore.
February 11, 2006, 4:46 a.m. New York City, New York
"Tell me, girl, what is your name?" the man asked as he guided Wren along the busy New York streets. His hand was rough, but warm, and his larger fingers covered Wren's hand entirely.
"Wren," the little girl whispered. She curiously asked, "What's your's?"
The man paused "You can call me Myc," the man replied curtly. He seemed distant, awkward but not apathetic, and hurried, with an strange urgency that Wren did not understand.
"Mike," Wren began, glancing up at the man uncertainly, "what did that man mean when he said that I have pretty eyes?"
Myc seemed startled, but to his credit, he recovered quickly.
"Surely you must know something already," he replied carefully.
Wren thought about it for a while. "Is it because they're blue?" she asked, already knowing that she was right.
"That's... part of it, yes," Myc replied, deciding how much he should tell the child.
"Well, what else is there?" Wren questioned, curiosity and anxiety filling her mind.
"It's said that there are only a few people born with blue eyes; only seven at a time. These people are not like the others."
Wren's eyes widened. She knew her eye color was uncommon, but she didn't know it was that rare. But just how were these people, people like her and her brother, so different than others.
"What? How am I different? Is it bad?" Wren demanded in rapid succession.
"No. Quite the opposite, actually," Myc explained. "People with blue eyes are said to be extraordinary."
"Wow," Wren breathed. "That's so cool!" She was completely enthralled, and she couldn't wait to hear what more Myc had to say.
"Not entirely," Myc warned presagefully. "With great power comes great risk."
Wren bit her lip. Myc must be referring to Jim.
"What do you mean by that?" she asked with a sinking feeling.
Myc opened his mouth, and shut it again. He straightened his jacket.
"I've said too much already," he whispered, more to himself than Wren. "Don't worry about it. For now, just come with me."
Wren was not satisfied, but she sensed that she would not get more out of Myc.
"Where are we going?" She asked skeptically. She admittedly had just met Myc and did not have the advantage of knowing his habits, and she wasn't keen on following a perfect stranger, even if he had saved her.
"To a safe place. It wouldn't do to have you hurt," he replied shortly.
"Hurt from what?" Wren cried, confusion and concern fogging her head. She had just about had it with Myc's dodgy answers, and for once, she wanted something substantial, something that didn't leave the taste of uncertainty in her mouth. She was tired of the riddles that no eight year old would be able to understand. "What will I be hurt from?" she whined. "Why won't you tell me?"
"It's for you're own good!" Myc nearly shouted. He had stopped walking, and Wren stumbled to a halt behind him. Myc, seeing the scared and wounded look in Wren's eyes, sighed and ran a hand through his thinning hair. "Look, I didn't mean to shout, but this is for your safety," he said gently. "I don't want you to get hurt. You'll thank me for it later," he promised.
Wren nodded somberly. "What about Kodi?" She asked all of the sudden, remembering her brother.
"Ah, so that's the name of your brother," he said, much to Wren's bewilderment and, frankly, discomfort. How did he know she had a brother? Wren had no idea how the man even knew she existed, let alone her whole life's story. This was certainly not an average day. "I've accounted for him as well. He shall be coming with us."
Alright then, thought Wren, deciding, whether it was a mistake or not was uncertain, to trust this man, and she flowed where he lead.
February 11, 2006, 8:34 a.m. New York City, New York
A well-dressed boy in a dimly colored wool coat and black trousers walked into the small compartment. His dark hair was slicked back, although no amount of styling could hide the natural kinks of his hair. His shoes, polished to a shine, made soft sounds on the floor.
He sat down a few seats away from a redheaded girl who looked very small, and crossed his arms, frowning. He noticed that his father sat on the complete other side of the car, already having his laptop out, typing away.
Of course he would, the boy thought. He only ever thinks about his work. It wasn't fair. He didn't want to be here. It wasn't his fault his dad had to go on some stupid business trip, to a different country, and that he had been dragged along. He wondered why his father had even brought him with him. He would have preferred his father to have him stay home by himself, like he normally did. Perhaps his father did care, and didn't want his son to be alone for a month while his father was in the States. But he didn't know. He couldn't tell what his father thought. He was like a safe, closed up and locked away.
I wonder why he's like that, the boy thought sadly. He thought of all the other children who played outside his window, and their parents who would go out of their way and do anything for their child. Why can't my father be like them?
"What's you're name?" a voice chirped in his ear, startling him. He ignored it, still trying to figure out why his father didn't love him. Wasn't that what parents did? Loved their children unconditionally?
"Hellooo... I'm talking to you," the voice persisted, and the boy turned to see the red headed girl, who had scooted the few seats over and was now next to him. Her eyes were wide and teeming with curiosity, like an inquisitive fawn.
"What," the boy asked halfheartedly.
"What's you're name?" she repeated brightly.
"Sherlock," the boy muttered. He didn't want to talk, he just wanted to be alone with his thoughts, but clearly this little chatterbox had other ideas.
"I've never heard that name before. It's funny." She laughed innocently. Sherlock didn't even want to be talking to this girl, let alone having his name insulted. "I'm Wren," she introduced.
"What kind of a name is that?" Sherlock couldn't help but ask. Wren? Wasn't that a type of small, unattractive bird?
"It's a bird," Wren said proudly. "But what's a 'Sherlock'? That sounds like a bad haircut," she snorted.
Sherlock felt a bit hurt, and a lot annoyed. He did not like this little girl.
"It's the name my mother picked out!" he defended, feeling sad suddenly, and grumpy.
"Well, wrens are the kings of the birds," Wren stated matter-of-factly, a contently smug smile on her face.
"What? That's absurd! How can an ugly little bird be a king?" Sherlock scoffed.
Wren frowned at him for being rude. "Well, the story goes like this," she began, and Sherlock nearly groaned. He didn't want to hear this. "The birds in the forest needed a ruler, and nearly all the birds wanted to be king. Fighting broke out among the birds, and no one could decide on a king." This already sounds stupid, Sherlock thought. "Owl, the wisest of the birds, came up with a challenge to decide on a king. He said 'Whichever bird can fly the highest will be king.' All the birds agreed with the idea, and they started to fly. Little Chickadee tried with all her might, but she didn't get very high at all. Robin got much higher, but he still wasn't as fast as some of the bigger birds. Heron used his big wings, but he still wasn't the highest. Raven got even higher than Heron, but she still wasn't the highest. Eagle flew as high as he could, and only once he was too tired to fly any higher did he check to see who was above him. He realized that he was above all the other birds, looking down at them all. He would be king. Suddenly, he felt something moving in his feathers. Little Wren had hidden in his plumage! Wren fluttered his little wings until Eagle was far below him. No other bird could fly higher than Wren did, so Wren became the king." When Wren had finished she gave a satisfied smile.
"That's just a stupid fairy tale!" Sherlock exclaimed, feeling like he wasted his time listening to this little girl tell her stupid story.
"No it's not! It's true!" Wren insisted.
"How do you know? Did you read it in a history book?" Sherlock asked doubtfully.
Wren looked taken aback. "N-no," she stuttered, quickly losing confidence. "My mother told it to me every night," she said, somewhat childishly. Then she quietly admitted, "I can't read."
Sherlock was shocked. He understood this girl was very young, but surely she should be able to read by now!
"You can't read?" he repeated incredulously and Wren shook her head shamefully in confirmation. "Well, I taught myself to read when I was four," Sherlock boasted.
Wren's eyes grew wide, adoring even. Sherlock wondered what she was thinking.
"You did?" she breathed, awe hushing her voice.
"Yep. And now I read books that have no pictures," he said with pride. After all, most nine year olds read books with at least a few pictures. Or, that's what Sherlock thought anyway.
"Cool," Wren said enthusiastically. "Can you teach me how to read?" she asked suddenly.
"No," Sherlock replied instantly, although feeling admittedly flattered that this girl had taken such a sudden interest in him. He still didn't like her, and he did not want to teach her how to read. Besides, he probably wouldn't see her again once he got off this underground train, and for that he was thankful.
"Please?" she begged, looking up at Sherlock with wide, pleading blue eyes.
"No. I'm not going to teach you. Learn on your own," he said rather coldly and dismissively, turning his head away.
The little girl sniffled. Sherlock swiftly turned his head back to look at her, startled. She wasn't about to cry, was she?
Sure enough, Wren's eyes watered. She blinked, wiping harsh fists over her eyes.
"Why are you crying?" Sherlock asked, perhaps a bit insensitively. He was completely bewildered, and he could not imagine why this child would be crying right now.
"It's just," she paused, wiping her nose. Sherlock wrinkled his nose and politely said nothing. "My mom never taught me how to."
"It's mum," Sherlock corrected. "Can you not speak right either?" he mocked.
Wren's face contorted. Her eyebrows lowered and she frowned deeply. Sherlock supposed she was angry.
"No, it's mom, and I can speak just fine," she said moodily.
"Are you sure? Because now that I think about it, you sound kind of funny," Sherlock asked offenselessly.
"I do not sound funny! Everybody talks like this," Wren declared. "You sound funny."
"You're wrong!" Sherlock accused. "I talk like everybody else. You're lying. You talk funny." Sherlock paused, weighing his words. "Didn't you're parents raise you right?"
Wren's face reddened, and Sherlock felt a little guilty, although he didn't know why. Wren's stormy eyes were damp, and she turned away, burying her face in her hands.
"My parents are dead!" she cried, shoulders shaking. She tried to speak again, but she didn't know what to say, and she gave up.
Sherlock felt bad. He felt really bad. He knew he had gone too far. He just made this little girl cry. He did not want to apologize, although he knew he should.
Sherlock placed an awkward hand on Wren's shoulder. He was met with a glare, and quickly pulled his hand away. He didn't know what to do.
"If it helps any," he began, uncertainly. "My mummy died, too," he admitted.
Wren looked up at him, surprised. He didn't look like a boy who lost his mother. He looked like one of the wealthy people with two working parents and enough money to buy anything under the sun.
Wren regarded him carefully, determining that he was most likely telling the truth.
"R-really?" she managed, surprise and sympathy in her voice.
"She died giving birth to me. Father said she was a wonderful, beautiful woman, and that I have her eyes," Sherlock said, subdued.
Wren looked more closely at his face, blinking away the leftover tears. His skin was pale and unblemished, with slim, dark, wiry eyebrows, and lips pressed in a thin line. And he spoke in a funny way that Wren associated with people from another country. His eyes were blue, like water, with a steely green around the center. Wren breathed in sharply through her nose.
Sherlock was confused. This girl could not be that surprised that his mother had died in childbirth. He didn't know where the shock had come from, and it bothered him that he didn't know, and couldn't figure it out.
"My mom died four years ago. In a car accident," said Wren after a pause. "I miss her," she said softly
Sherlock looked at her incredulously. This little girl would not have been able to remember her mother at such a young age.
"She died when you were one?" he asked, stunned.
"No!" Wren exclaimed, offended. "I'm not," she counted on her fingers, "five! I'm eight!" she said proudly.
Sherlock stared at her blankly. He did not believe her. She could not have been more than five, six at most, although Sherlock admittedly did not have a very good gauge on these things.
"No way!" he said, shaking his head in disbelief. "You can't be more than six," he said with finality.
"Believe what you will, but I'm eight. How old are you?" she asked, smiling up at him.
This girl was a puzzle to Sherlock. Why did she seem to dislike him so much, and yet still be friendly to him? He couldn't fathom it.
"I'm nine," he said smugly. Even if Wren was telling the truth about her age, he was still older.
"Cool!" Wren said simply.
Sherlock opened his mouth in reply, but was cut off.
"Sherlock, this is our stop, and I cannot have you remain in New York City. Do come here immediately and do not be a burden," his father said, and Sherlock ruefully stood from his seat and made his way to the man.
He glanced behind him and gave Wren a half smile, to which she waved and stuck out her tongue playfully. He waved back, before walking off the train car, breaking contact with her blue eyes.
-.-.-.-.-
Wren sat back further in her seat, swinging her short legs. She had rather liked Sherlock, yet he had still managed to irritate her, and she found it amusing to mess with him.
Still, his presence had only been a short distraction, and her thoughts once again turned to the man in the alley. She shuttered.
"Wren?" Kodi said quietly. Wren looked at him. "Who was that boy you were talking to?"
Wren shrugged. "He said his name was Sherlock. He talked funny. Like Mike, but funnier. He was nice," she said casually.
Kodi nodded, glad his sister had made a friend, even if it was short lived.
"So Wren, what exactly happened? With Mike?" Kodi asked, with sudden, guarded intensity.
Wren motioned for him to be quiet, and told him, in full detail, what had happened.