September, 2002–

Manhattan.

Margalo's POV.

The first rule about being a conman's apprentice: You don't exist.

For me, this one comes easy. A mega bird of prey in Manhattan is something to look at. Wonder about. Maybe even report to animal control, although nothing's ever come of those threats. Nothing but shaking fits, and some choice words that make one of the nuns taking their Sunday stroll through the park nearly slug them with their bible. But nobody spends long looking at a little bird. Even if my two-color coat makes out among the pigeons and gulls and other urban fowl, my size lets me fly under the radar. I might as well not actually exist. I don't think anybody would care either way.

I hate my job, but I've got the rules down pat. Sometimes I'm sure that this is all I was ever meant to do. So, so stupidly sure…

It's another dull day. Thursday, to be exact—I read the dates on the papers at the nearest newsstand. It's not essential for this job, but I need to know. I need to know how much time has passed, how many seasons have gone by since I last saw my family. How many years I've spent here, stalking the streets, with a vulture over my shoulder.

The weather's perfect, at least. Hardly a cloud in the sky, and even if it wasn't, I'm glad to be out, and not grounded to the back of the tower where he doesn't have to keep a tab on me.

Manhattan's bustling with life, which it would be, whether or not it was storming cats and dogs. More than likely, I should be able to find some abandoned sandwich or something to eat, and it won't even be sitting in a puddle of water. But first, I had a job to plan. In theory, one that would pay for a future meal that's not lifted from a dumpster.

There's a lotta people in New York. Many people to pray upon, but too many to pay attention to all at once. You need to devote attention to one person at a time, if you want to spot anything worthwhile. I think of it like a game of I Spy, where I make the list, and Falcon decides which potential marks are worth pursuing.

Sometimes it's as easy as lifting a wallet out of someone's back jeans pocket when they're asleep. Silent landing in the open window, gentle claws, and as fast a departure as possible. That was it. But sometimes it requires more work than that. Sometimes it required us to communicate with them. On the occasion, Falcon saw an opportunity for a big job. The bigger the job, the higher the reward.

We're perched on a roof across from 5th Avenue, not far from the east entrance to the park. High enough not to be conspicuous, but low enough for a naked eye view of the people below. But because two very different birds close together on a roof might raise attention, I sit close to the side of the building to our left, the shadow making it a perfect blind spot from the street. Ever since he pulled me out of the street gutter, I've lived as unseen as I possibly could. I'm not even allowed to see our sellers. Anything input I had, anything I had to say, I had to do it through him. It was for my own safety, or, so I was told. Just because he thought I had more value as an accomplice than a quick meal, didn't mean others would.

I'm not allowed to talk to anybody but Falcon, or… at least not supposed to. When your line of work is hinged on some level of deception, I guess you can't really trust anybody. The same people you do business with are as likely to shake you down, like the person you shook down. I think Falcon think's they'll see me as naive and will be more eager to try and cheat us.

Like that parrot, owned by the owner of a NYC gift shop close to the Bronx that doubled from the backdoor as a gold merchant. Gold prices were up, and while the owner was honoring the rate to the humans, we were being paid the same as before. I found out through another jeweler I spoke to once—a human, who seemed trustworthy enough. Take that for what you will. In hindsight, however, I wish I hadn't said anything about it. We never went back to that gift shop after Falcon confirmed the discrepancy had been going on for months. Shortly after, the owner of the place got two parakeets who flew loose in the shop, and I didn't see the parrot again. I'm not sure exactly what happened. All he said about it was the seeds-for-brains messed with the wrong vulture.

I don't like to think about it.

Falcon's miffed today, too, which makes him more unpleasant than usual. I don't think it's because he's been conned by a fellow conman, either. Whatever's on his mind is throwing off his focus, major. Instead of joining me in the shadow of the neighboring building, he just paces the length of the ledge in the sunlight, back and forth, like a pigeon waiting for the right target to use as his bathroom.

So much for practicing what you preach. The dude's right out in the open! Muttering under his breath, picking up the pair of doll sized binoculars he used for scoping out a fool, looking through them for a few seconds, then setting them back down behind the ledge.

He's making me anxious. More than that, he's getting on my nerves. "Would you chill out? And get out of the light! Someone's gonna see you!"

"Hmph." He answers me with a hard exhale through his nostrils. I should've figured as much. Even when I feel bold enough to correct his mistakes, it bounces right off him.

We haven't had a successful job in days, and our food has run out. Maybe he'd literally just starved of his patience, but so what? My stomach's empty, too. And I'm still taking this seriously.

I also look the other way when he conveniently forgets to slide me a portion of the meal that my quick feet provided. Lately, I've been going to the dumpster behind the Italian restaurant to make up the difference. A new line cook had completely overcooked the amount of spaghetti needed that other night, but his mistake was my luck. I picked at the top of the pile, flavorless, but warm and fresh, getting down as much pasta as I can, because I can't stand listening to the head chef chew and spit the poor kid out for long.

"This is a joke." Falcon says at last. "I can't stand off-tourist season. What's wrong with people? Cheapskates can't even spare two cents to make the homeless cups jingle."

"I haven't really noticed," I say, even though I already did. Human habits concerning the city homeless are starting to change, but not because of stinginess. The tragedy that took place last year with the towers has created a wave of goodwill among Manhattaners that's still apparent today. Instead of dropping coins in their cups, people hand them another cup, filled with coffee or juice, and a wrapped sandwich. Once, I saw a couple take a little old woman sleeping on the stoop of an abandoned glass factory out to a patio for an entire lunch. Maybe those who care enough to do something are smart enough to avoid lending out money at random, keeping their donation from going to drugs and alcohol. Or maybe theft by birds was becoming more of a known issue in New York. Who knows? Either way, while I've ignored all opportunities to steal from the homeless on principle, I can't deny that I'm a little jealous of that generosity. I've never even been given a seed by a human before.

"You're being impatient," I tell him. "Good marks don't always jump out at you. You gotta wait for it."

"You think I don't know that?" He throws back his wings, like some sort of reminder of how imposing he could be. "Don't talk down to me, Margalo. Especially not about the things I taught you."

"Yeah, yeah… sure." Whatever. Not like he does any of the work these days. While he lurks in the shadows—the big, predatory buzzard that's not even native here—I'm the one who swoops down and takes the goods right off the mark's bodies.

Here and there, he uses his size as a distraction. Make slow, obvious 'look at me', circles above the crowd. Get the people looking up while I flew down and broke a gold chain off someone's neck. 'The Great Bird' or whatever they called him, became a popular rumor among locals after a few years, and at least one pack of tourists even caught wind of him. But Falcon can't do this all the time. Even I know he risked letting an animal catcher gain on his tail if he made too many appearances in a short time. It was nice to have him actually put in effort into our jobs. But by now, I'd accepted that he'd most fallen to the background. Pulling the strings from afar, choosing the marks, and only stepping out of the shadows for the more complex jobs. The ones that involved actually interacting with the mark.

In a normal situation, I'd be the shim. The distraction. Our jobs would be reversed. And while that might've been Falcon's original plan for me, we've discovered that it works too well this way.

"You think you can do better?" Falcon snaps.

I don't know what it is. Maybe it's because I'm so hungry. Maybe it's the sun in my eyes. Maybe I'm just tired. But now he's just pissing me off. And I'm not afraid if he knows. "Well, I know we're not going to spot a mark with their eyes turned if you keep leaning off the ledge like a gargoyle."

"Fine!"

My eyes widen, and all my senses become alert. He snaps open his wings, and it makes a sound like a heavy, dusty carpet being slapped against bricks outside a high rise widow. Falcon rises, ten feet in the air, then dived for me. Out of the sun, and into the dark the building's shadow.

A lump in my throat, feet slick, sliding backwards on the ledge. His one note of honor, and the only thing that made me feel safe, was the promise he made me the day he found me. The one about never eating me.

Suddenly I'm not sure he won't break his promise.

A hard metal clang vibrates through my body as he lands hard on the ledge. Inch long talons so close to my feet that I feel them bleed, even though they never touch. I clench my breath.

But he doesn't grab me. Instead, he thrusts the binoculars in my face. "You scout one out."

Heart beating a mile a minute, I fumble, barely catching the thing in my wings before it clatters all the way to the ground. When I recover, his yellow eyes are bearing into me expectantly.

Falcon's never asked me to pick our mark before. Man, he really must've been in a funk. Either that or he's come to finally trust my decisions. I'm not sure how to feel about that. Even if I spot one, he always approves of my victims before I strike. By doing this, he's removing the last bit of himself from the process. For me to take this step towards completing a job from start to finish by myself was huge.

I shoot Falcon a glare and put the binoculars up to my face. They're smaller than regular ones, but pretty durable, and they work well. They'd been lifted from a kid taking a walk through the park with their family. There's a saying that you never leave your belongings unattended in the city, but even those who think they know the ways of the streets make mistakes. Never turn your back on birds, especially when you come to the park to watch them. They might just be watching you.

Falcon unintentionally taught him that lesson the hard way, but at least for the kid's sake the binoculars didn't have sentimental value. I doubt it couldn't be easily replaced, unlike so many other things we've taken.

As far as I'm concerned, there were haves, and there were the have-nots. Take only from the haves, and leave the have nots alone. I've always been sketchy about the narrative that those who had expensive stuff to steal must have worked hard to get it. Like a diamond ring could really encapsulate the effort put forward by those in love. But what do I know about that?

I hear the sound of heavy wings passing overhead. Falcon had switched his viewing spot to the skyscraper on my left. "You know what to do," his voice echos in my ear. "And don't screw it up. I'm off to get a drink."

Good, I tell him in my head. Maybe I'll actually get something done today.

In another universe, where he cared about me, and where I was proud of my job and my accomplishments, this actually might be a nice moment. Not that I'm surprised that it's not. But, for some reason, I'm irked that it's not. This should have been significant between us somehow, but it… just wasn't. Falcon was my mentor in the loosest sense of the word. He was no dad, at least not to me. And at this point of my life, I could tolerate the truth. And I could take care of myself now.

There was only one benefit to this apprenticeship anymore. On the condition of not running away, was a dismal offer of protection, in the event some other predatory bird or mammal tries to take me as a meal.

I know it's stupid, and I know I just want to believe this actually means something. I mean, I'm desperate. For companionship? For someone to care if I disappeared? Maybe both.

I'm afraid to admit to myself that, aside from maybe a stray cat without a fear of heights, the biggest threat to my life was, and always had been, the bird who took me in. I'd be way more privy to his protection if we lived in the jungle or something. But you can't be a street thief without the streets and the people to fill it. And there are far more pretty things to snatch in the neighborhood formerly known as Millionaire's Row, once upon a time.

He takes off above the building behind me. And then he's gone. I switched focus back to the street. The binoculars did help. From all the way up here, I could tell not just who was wearing jewelry, but what pieces looked real, and what probably wasn't. An old powder-faced lady waiting at the crosswalk with blood red hair who was as thin as I was hungry. She wore a flowery sundress and a huge set of green rocks on her neck. Easily fake jade. I'd find it a drag to have so much weight on my neck. And forget about flying. But for some reason, older ladies love their costume jewelry. I guess the bigger the better when you can't see that well.

Next: A couple paces behind her is a couple, the woman, forty-ish, dragging a red-faced man by the arm. I doubt he's been spotted by another street con, but I also doubt his plastic black-strap watch is worth much. And the wife's not wearing anything notable but a matching ten dollar wedding band, five dollar shades, and a bleached bob so ugly that it convinces me to leave them alone. Whoever does her hair's already robbed them.

If I'm in a hurry, I don't really have to look over both of them. If one human's broke, their partner will be the same. Once you've been street watching long enough, you notice patterns like this. Another pair are just a few paces behind them. An elderly Asian couple, maybe Chinese, based on the style of his collar floral pattern of her dress. Not even a pair of simple earrings hands the woman's ear. In one of the flashiest cities in America, they are as plain as can be. But they stroll the street hand in hand, carefree smiles exchanged between words I can't understand. Maybe because unlike a lot of their American counterparts, they live without debt. Some people still achieve happiness without spoiling each other right down into poverty. It's a pleasant sight, but it doesn't help me today.

Not far behind them comes two women with bright pink hair, carrying picket signs over their shoulders. One of them turns and accidentally hits the other in the back of the head with their sign, and then when the light changes, they proceed to bicker and scream at each other across the street and down the block. Incidentally, before they get far, I notice their picket signs have something to do with working towards worldwide peace in 2002.

From an animal's perspective alone, there's a number of problems with this idea. But who am I to be a cynic? After all, we still have four months. We'll see how that works out.

Then there a —hmm. Now there's something to look at. A young black guy, with a shiny stud in his ear. I lower and raise it a few times. It's small, a better indication that the diamond is real. He's casually dressed, but not sloppy. String drawn backpack over both shoulders, stainless white T over bike shorts. Walking alone, he stops at the end of the street and reaches into the pocket and flips open a sleek, blue cell phone.

Oh yeah. That diamond is real. The cellphone clenches it. Phones might be becoming a little more commonplace, but they're still a status symbol. But there's no way I'm getting that earring from him. For one thing, earrings are complicated. While studs are easier than dangles to separate from their owners, the human has to be totally oblivious for more than a split second. It's been done, but the person would have to be asleep, or face down drunk.

This guy is awake, and his Jordans rock back and forth on the curb with unspent energy. It's also not a good sign when the potential mark looks like they're either headed to, or just got back from the gym. I have to pass, no question. It's a relief in a way, too. He's kind of cute.

I lower the binoculars for a minute to relieve my wings, which have started to shake under the weight. I might start to relate to Falcon's unease. Manhattan's where I've lived for the better part of my life, but I never really considered it my 'home.' The people, the cats, dogs, and even the birds, seem to be living their own lives. One separated from me by a dome of glass I only ever leave in order to carry out a job.

Falcon claims it's better this way. Keep from forming an emotional attachment, or something like that. Honestly, half of what he says nowadays goes in one ear and out the other. And while staying out of reach is more necessary for him than it is for a regular little bird like myself, I admit it's easier to rob people on the spot when you don't know a thing about them.

We fly here and there, staying out late. When the streetlights are on, we make a nest in the tallest oaks. Different branches, same tree. Where he goes, I follow. The only exception is when we head back to the Pishkin building. The room at the top of the tower is enormous, and not often visited by humans. It makes the perfect common stop: a place where he can leave me and head off to attempt some higher risk, higher reward con he's worked up in his head. Whether or not he comes back successful, I'm there when he comes back. Even when I feel like I'm starving, I risk a quick visit to the street. I wait for him. Wait for the promise of food scraps which he returns, even though it's usually not much.

I'm afraid to think it's because I'm scared to consider the alternative.

I'm tethered to him by some invisible rope that we've both silently agreed upon at some point in the past. And the older I get, the more often I feel restless. Beating against my leash, like too many dogs I see tied up against hydrants in the summer sun. The universe above is open and waiting for me, and I pull it until there's no slack, and then...

Then there's nowhere else to go.

Technically, I can fly away at any time. But if I don't report back after so long, he finds me. He always finds me. And then the interrogation begins. Where? Why? And whom, if any. Maybe shakedowns don't scare me as much anymore, but when he asks the big question, I make sure I answer back truthfully.

No. I'm not running away.

But he's never asked if I ever thought about it, to which the answer's more complicated. Lately, I've been paying more attention to the birds that fly over me. Every year, I see the V formations, and I think that they could be leaving mates or entire families behind. I shouldn't envy that. And yet I do. I wish I had that. That something special that made the thought of going away a conflict of emotions. That made the city a place to call home when you weren't there.

Sometimes I imagine what it would be like to know somebody like that. Someone who would care if I left and never came back. Maybe at first I fooled myself into believing that Falcon cared. But now I understand that his only interest in me is what I can contribute to his income. My value is measured in how much I can lift off of the unsuspecting people of New York. That, and only that, is why he keeps me around.

It's funny, in a way, how you can be so close to someone, and still feel so … lonely.

Shrill cries fish me out of that pit of thoughts. My feathers stand on end as I notice a parade of kids hop and skip across the street I was supposed to be monitoring. Their bright clothes stand out in the sun, sneakers as white as the box they came from. Brand new back to school apparel that has yet to be scuffed and stained. It's a sight I haven't seen in a while. Suddenly, then and there, I realize the significance of it being September. The school nearby must've just let out. Their lunchboxes clink and their ponytails bounce as they line up behind the crosswalk, energy mounting like a crowd before a concert.

I don't like stealing from kids. I'm only thirteen myself, and I know how vulnerable they are. The idea feels particularly treacherous. But I have to admit, they make it look pretty easy. They don't guard their stuff very well.

But public school kids don't usually have much to steal, anyway. Disney World Charm bracelets and last generation GameBoy Colors aren't worth a lot. Still, on a slow day like today, it wouldn't be smart to ignore them outright. Especially when most of them are decked out in bright new clothes,and throwing around shiny lunchboxes.

The walk light changes, and the first group of students make a screaming dash across the intersection as if their lives depended on it. Well, I guess it would, if drivers got any more dumb lately. I've nearly got splattered across windshields before myself by dudes going twenty over the limit. Even from this distance, I vaguely recognize a lot of the kids, if only from their different cartoon backpacks. These are the same Manhattan locals, those who live close enough to walk home from school. Most are the same age, between eight and ten, though a few of them are walking with their older siblings. What's different is a few adults now dot the procession. When the towers fell, it changed a lot. Parents are thinking more about their children, and worrying about them. The kids talk as if it's lame to have one of their moms or dads always on top of them. Maybe it is, but I'm a little jealous about it.

I lean back and sigh. If my stomach had a tongue, it would have a few blue words for me for treating it so poorly. I'm tempted to give up, swoop down and start digging in the trash for some leftovers from the local pizzeria. My mouth waters at the thought of coming across a nice spill of melted mozzarella, stuck to the underside of a used pizza box.

I shake my woozy head. Focus, girl! If you and him both go back to HQ tonight with nothing to show for today, you know who he's going to punish.

This is my first entirely solo job, and for whatever reason, maybe the hunger, maybe the frustration that's built up inside, has made me determined.

Binoculars up. I spy, with my little eye…

… Four kids lightsaber fighting. One tailing back, nonchalantly running their broken saber along the outside of closed iron fences… Three girls with glitter smears on their cheeks, hovering over a tamagotchi keychain… two boys passing a Spiderman action figure back and forth… A streak of bright red by the sidewalk—

Wait. What?

I blink and lean forward, lowering the binoculars. What was that?

I lean forward and squint, using my own eyes on the throngs of students. There, in the middle of the march. I can see it. Something on the sidewalk, moving as fast as the kids were walking. Bright, glossy and shimmering in the sunlight. But before I can make sense of what it is, my view is blocked by a couple of boys following close behind. None of them seem to be aware of the shiny, red mass that is steadily keeping pace with them, either. At least that's how it looks at first. But the longest I study them, I wonder if it's that they don't care.

Normally I never risk an approach unless I've got a clear victim in mind. But I can't resist. I have to know what I saw. From the ledge where I've stayed safe in the shadows, I set down the binoculars and leap, curving a hundred feet to the right. The mid-afternoon sun sinks into my cap, warmth sinking into the feathers of my wings as I swoop down into a skinny young street tree the next block over, bobbing when I land in the middle of a flimsy upper branch.

After steadying myself, I pull aside the branches from my face. The kids keep moving right along 5th Avenue. Close enough that groups start to become indistinguishable clusters, but just far enough to avoid overstepping the 'don't walk' signal at the end of the street. And I'm close enough now that I can almost hear what they're saying.

But it's not the kids I'm paying attention to. Now I can identify the mysterious red streak. It's a tiny, apple red, model convertible, with the top down. It's waxed, spotless, dentless, with chrome bumpers that gleam in the sunlight. This is no cheap, plastic Hot Wheels toy. Whatever this thing is, it looks expensive. It almost looks like a real car.

But that's not all. This… thing? This little car, cruising along the sidewalks, bumping up and over the cracks, is occupied. There's something in the driver's seat. Bright and white, almost hard to look at.

I slide closer to the edge of the branch, my weight bending the tip downward. It has two pale pink disk shaped ears, and a dozen silver whiskers that shimmer in the sunlight. Even with a poor personal frame of reference, I swear it looks just like a mouse. But it looks so out of place, I'm convinced it's just a stuffed animal.

Following right behind him are two skinny boys. One's a pale blond kid with black glasses and two different sweaters, one tied around his waist. He keeps switching his focus from the other boy on his right, and the car just a few steps from his feet. Everything about him screams indecisive. Uncertain. Par for the course for middle schoolers, though. I expect there to be a remote control in his hands to drive the model car, but they're stuck deep into the pockets of his oversized combat pants. Similarly, his friend, a black kid in a red sweater vest, uses his hands for emphasis as he talks, and it's easy to see both of them are empty, too.

I fly upwards, darting into another tree at the end of the street, this time on the lowest branch facing the street. Now I'm almost at eye level. The river of kids continues to break off in clusters as they stop at the end of the light. The two boys that seem closest with the model car keep a steady pace a few feet behind, just far enough to avoid stopping short when the toy stops.

As the first crowd rushes across the street, the many legs darting around the car clear, I get my first good look at what's in the driver's seat. And what I thought at first might have been a stuffed animal proves me very wrong as he turns around, hands gripped to the wheel, and looks up at the boy just behind him. "C'mon, George!" he said. "I'm trying to hit all the green lights!"

I shake my head. It moves. It's… talking.

"What's the rush for, Stu?" It's the other kid who responds, one more outspoken who gestures with his hands. Both look and sound like they could be around my age, give or take a year. Although comparing humans to birds doesn't say much. "I mean, I hate school as much as the next guy, but you're driving like you stole that thing! The teachers ain't gonna drag you back with their nails if you don't run fast enough—least not if that one nightmare I had doesn't come true..."

Hmph. 'Like you stole that thing.' As if sheltered kids like these would know how difficult that actually is.

"Mom said our soccer uniforms are gonna be in today. Remember George?" The mouse whips his head back to look quickly over the headrest. "Don't you wanna get home and try them on?"

The shyer boy with glasses abruptly slows to a stop. He looks exactly like how I felt when I tried to take a bite out of a pad of discarded wall insulation, thinking it was dry cake. "Oh. Yeah. The Soccer thing…"

"Yeah! I wanna make sure they fit."

Either I've lost my mind, or this mouse is being acknowledged by the humans as if he's… one of their own. They keep responding to him like it's normal!

This isn't normal. It's isn't real. It can't be, can it?

Quickly, I fly back up to the top of the building and snatch up the binoculars in my feet. The last group of children before them round the corner, and I fly just a few yards ahead, keeping the width of the street between us.

There's a flower box on the patio of an apartment above an overpriced cafe across the street, some hundred feet ahead. Once settled there, I snag the binoculars in one wing as my feet grip the edge of the thin metal box. Now I'm on the same side as the kids. Here, there's no shade and nothing keeping me out of sight, but protocol is far and beyond my concerns, now. I shove the binoculars up to my eyes.

It's not long before the mouse nears the cafe. He's definitely a boy, with a broad arrow shaped head, large ears and spotless white fur. Against the brilliant red of the car, he stands out like fresh snowfall on a new red awning. At his collar and wrist I can make out the ends of a baby blue sweater, which helps him stand apart from the car even more.

"That they fit?" Hands-boy furrows his brow at the mouse speeding ahead in his car, as if he's only now puzzled at what he's seeing. This close, I can hear their conversation loud and clear. He wags his pointer finger up and down his own torso. "You been doing some sorta… growth spurt I haven't noticed?

"Not exactly," The red car slows to a stop at the red light before the crosswalk. The mouse takes his hands off the wheel to rub his knuckles. "It's just that we both got new clothes not too long ago, and—"

"He means that he went up a few sizes since he came to live with us," Two-Sweaters says bluntly. "The orphanage didn't exactly have as much food as we do."

"Yeah." Somehow, that comment only draws out the slightest annoyance from the mouse. He narrows his eyes for a second, and places his palms back on the pristine little steering wheel. "But once we start, y'know, doing the soccer thing, I'll get in shape, not to mention it'll be good for your confidence—"

"No offense, Stuart," the one apparently called George interrupts, "but can we talk about something else?"

"Oh… sure." He may be small, but the mouse's dejection jumps out at me from the second story, even without binoculars. I don't have the context to explain why, but this question has made his enthusiasm plummet so hard, I practically hear it hit the ground.

I feel my ankles bend, and I cradle the side of my head with one wing, binoculars in the other. I feel woozy. This is it, isn't it? I've waited too long to eat, and now I'm delirious. But no matter how I shake my head, how hard I look, the car remains what it is. And so does its driver.

WHAT IS GOING ON?

"Can the uniforms wait?" The other boy looks as if he's been dying to change the subject, too. "I was kinda hoping you guys would come over again anyway. I'm itching to get back to the Zelda game before I have to trade in my N64."

"Wait!" Hearing this, Four Eyes, Two Sweater spins to his left so fast, his waist jacket makes an audible whip against his legs. "You promised you wouldn't get ahead in Majora's Mask without me!"

"I won't, if you hurry up and finish the dang game with me!"

"But George…" The mouse speaks up once more in a way that sounds borderline desperate. "Ah, nevermind."

He doesn't say anything after this, and the car picks up pace. Strange how he can stand out in the sunlight and yet seem nearly invisible to everyone around him.

Strange how I kinda know what that feels like.

Of course, like the humans, he has no idea I'm here either. Watching him go by. Stupefied by the enigma that is his existence, like a ghost who's found another. Even though we've never had a conversation, even though he doesn't even know I exist, I have the strangest feeling like I might just kind of understand him.

"Well, what have we here?"

An involuntary jump nearly makes me lose grip on the binoculars. I scramble to hang on just before they slide from my feathers, and then I freeze. I freeze in that position, my spine like ice, feathers standing on end, with only enough courage to turn in the direction of the voice that seemed to have materialized at my side.

Falcon is perched just two posts to the right, in full view of the cafe's patio, which thankfully for us, is empty. It doesn't take long to realize he's followed my gaze right back to the street. When did he come back? How long has he been there? Watching me? Watching the kids? Watching the car?

He must've seen me leave the roof. Hop down from the treetop, to the cafe. I must've looked like a nutcase. Of course he'd know I saw something!

But that something is… what? I gape at him. I don't even know how to answer his question, even if I wanted to. I don't know what I'm looking at. What we together are now looking at.

I dare to turn back to the street, where the two boys and the car carrying the mouse have now crossed the street, and are growing smaller in the distance. The mouse that's driving the model car. The mouse that's talking to the kids. And the kids are talking back to him. Like he's one of them.

He doesn't even look in my direction for confirmation. He doesn't acknowledge me at all. His eyes narrow as they hone in on the same crowd of kids that I've been following for an entire city block. Goes nearly a minute without blinking.

And then it clicks. He's not asking me what this is. Falcon's talking out loud to himself.

The boys and the mouse approach an alley. Hands boy stops shy boy, letting the toy convertible carting the mouse cross the alleyway and on much farther ahead. "Let him go," he tells his friend. "The sooner we drop him off at my house, the sooner we walk back to your place and get back to the game."

"Read you loud and clear." The shy kid sighs and pushes up his glasses. "I just wish Mom didn't make me walk Stuart everywhere. It gets old. For the both of us."

"I feel you man," Will tells him quietly. "I'd be miffed if my Mom made me babysit my brother all the time if we were the same age."

This. If nothing set off a dozen alarm bells, this was it.

Falcon and I turn to each other almost immediately, his expression is a near mirror of the one I feel like I'm making back at him, if not slightly more skeptical.

Falcon. "Did he—?"

"—just say—?" I falter, too.

Okay. So, either we're both having the same hallucination, or this is, by far, the strangest thing we've ever come across. Well, at least it seems like it. The humans sure don't seem to act as if anything is out of the ordinary. I wonder how long they've known about him. I look at the mouse, then back at Falcon. His expression is growing increasingly intense. He's tipping his head to the side, blinding. Arching his back. I can't remember the last time I've seen him look so… focused. Passionate.

Hungry.

Oh. No. "Wait a second," I say.

No… not in front of all those kids, Falcon. Don't. The trauma would be catastrophic. I'm pleading with him silently. Don't do this.

And for whatever reason, I'm worried most for the mouse. He'll never see it coming, and he's so vulnerable… without the boys around to warn him… without any other kids nearby, he's…

No. I shut my eyes. I can't look.

"Interesting." When I dare to look, he's raised a wing to the end of his beak. "Very interesting."

"What is?"

"A boy with a mouse for a brother," he thinks out loud.

It's only now that I feel my body start to relax, the idea of Falcon swooping down and taking the mouse as meal starts to look unlikely. In hindsight, this revelation might have just been the thing that kept Stuart the mouse out of Falcon's immediate dinner plans.

Either way, this is an oddity if nothing else. He's just as curious as I am about the relationship between this boy, and this mouse, and as I soon find out, eager to exploit it however he can. "A mouse with his own car."

"What are you…?" My heart beat is in my ear.

I don't think he even hears me. "A family that can afford to give the boy a pet rat with his own working car has got to make bank," he says, again, out loud.

I can't tell if he's still talking to himself. His eyes are still forward, and now I'm studying him. I look back at the kids. He referred to the mouse as 'the kid's rat', as if the usage of the word 'brother' seems to have had no impact on him.

Even though I'm certain of what I heard, I'm afraid to correct him. Least I make the situation come off even more confusing than it already is.

After an anxious wait, he finally breaks the silence. "Margalo, I think the winds have just shifted in our favor."

I peek between my wings. I'm lost. Just a few minutes ago, he flew off in a huff, with a bad case of hustler's block. Now, out of nowhere, it seemed like his mood got significantly better. But why?

He's wearing that sort of look I haven't seen in a while. The look that says all the gears are turning in his head. But this is all so new and strange. Up until now, I thought I knew Falcon like the back of my wings. "Okay… what are you seeing that I'm not seeing?"

Finally, he turns his head my way. He cocks a brow. Grins from the same side of his beak.

I'm afraid I've caught on. I gesture vaguely to the right of the horizon, where the model car is nearly out of sight. But we both know who I'm talking about. "What? Him?"

"Why not? Kids are easy. And a kid like that isn't gonna see it coming. Not even if it slithered up like a cobra and sank his fangs in."

If that's not a nauseating analogy… We watch the sidewalk together until the red car disappeared around the next turn. "He's turning the corner." He started flapping his wings, and took to the air. "I wanna see how far he's going."

As it turns out, not very far at all. If what we witnessed on the street with the car and the mouse didn't stupify the Falcon yet, what we see next does the trick. Eventually, the buildings on our side of the street become trees as we flow into the edge of the park. The tree tops gave us an extra sense of coverage as we fly in bursts no greater than five hundred feet, to keep eye on the bright red model, the mouse who drove it, and the boys who seem to be guarding him from a distance.

Hiding behind the shadow of the neighboring apartments, in what I assumed was going to be another of the city's vacant lots, sits a lonely, three story home that looks as if it had been cut from another time and place. It has to be at least a hundred years old. Probably older than that.

And that is where the humans eventually catch up to them. At the bottom of the staircase, shy kid with glasses bends over, one arm had the car, the other a reluctant looking mouse. One after another, both boys hurry up the wrought iron steps, where a woman has just opened the door at the top for them.

"It just keeps getting better and better, doesn't it?" Balanced on a tree branch hanging just over the wall of the park, Falcon turns to me. The ends of his beak are turned up in a smile. A rare sight nowadays.

"I didn't even know this was here. I didn't think anything was even back here but apartments." I've never been this far east of the park's edge before. Never had reason to. I thought after all these years that I knew Manhattan well enough. How many times have I nearly flown over this place?

"You realize what we've stumbled across, don't you? That house has got to be a goldmine. Nevermind the expensive little toy he's got. The property value on this place alone has got to be in the millions!"

"You're planning to con them out of their house?"

"Hey hey! Lay off the sarcasm. Margalo, think seriously for a moment. Just imagine what's inside! And now we know who lives there. Y'know, I've often wondered who did." He lowers his lids and smiles proudly, the hook of his beak glinting in my direction. "Not bad for your first one."

I feel myself look at him the same way I did, back when he presented me with a dead carp for dinner, with the head still on. "First what?"

"A mark, obviously." He flips his wingtip back nonchalantly.

"You mean the mouse?"

"He's obviously connected to the humans who live here in some way. Maybe as some sort of glorified pet."

That isn't what it sounded like to me. How could Falcon so soon forget the black kid called the mouse the other kid's brother? "You mean you want me to talk to him?"

"Go on. Get to know him a little. Schmooze him. Try and see what you can learn about that family of his."

"But I thought we didn't go after kids?" I was referring to the bigger cons Falcon plans. Pit-pocketing kids wasn't exactly off the table for us, or I wouldn't have bothered spending the last half hour watching the kids leaving school. We wouldn't have the binoculars, either. But deceiving a kid for a longer job? That felt so much lower.

"Why not? He's around your age. And from the looks of it, he doesn't have a pack of other animals to talk to. Maybe he'll see something in you he doesn't already have."

"Oh, now you want me to be the shim." I roll my eyes.

"Hey hey, don't give me that attitude. You're always going on about how you're never the distraction. Welp, this is your chance! Show me what you can do. What's there to lose? Heh, if you get somethin' real good, maybe I'll finally introduce you to my sellers."

"What-really?" My eyes widen. Now that was a perk. To get to know the sellers, to not have to funnel all my loot through Falcon, to get my share of the pie for once? My real share? "What do you think you'll… what we'll get out of him?"

"Meh. Whatever you can find. If they live on 5th avenue, the sky's the limit."

I already know I'm going to hate this.

But then again, I've gotta consider the boons. Even without meeting Falcon's sellers, an opportunity to plan out my own con was massive. A chance for him to loosen the chain on me even more? A chance for me to spread my wings for a while?

Maybe even… if I really wanted to… a chance to consider a way to escape?

"But first," he thrusts a wing tip in the air. "We have to wait."

"For what?"

"What else?" he snorts. "We study him. Get to know his exact schedule. If we get to know our victim, the easier it is to extract what we want from him."

"Why?"

Falcon ducks and hides his head behind another branch. From behind the curtain of leaves, he points to the two boys, emerging from the front door, and out of the little house with the L carved into the wood above the entryway. "It's only gonna work," he whispers, "If the mouse is all alone."

Margalo's POV

Years Later...

In hindsight, this revelation might have just been the thing that kept Stuart the mouse out of Falcon's immediate dinner plans.

For the next three days, we came by around the same time of day, waiting for the red sports car and its white mouse driver. It seemed clear that was coming with the school that let out everyday at three, so there was a schedule to his appearances.

I still didn't know him from Jack, but at least I had a name for him, now. Or at least I think I did. "Stuart…" I found myself whispering his name here and there. Testing it out. As if dressing him in those monogrammed sweaters wasn't enough, they gave him the dorkiest name, too.

Oddly enough, I found I liked it. Feeling those two syllables on my tongue and the way my beak easily came together to make the 'u' sound, almost as natural as a bird whistling. Strange, because I hadn't had the desire to whistle in longer than I can remember.

We formed a plan. I was going to crash land in his car. Get him involved in a chase. The idea was to make our meeting look as inartificial as possible. After we 'made our escape,' I would say that I was running from the big bad Falcon for hours before the brute caught up to me and rammed me out of the sky, and ask to come home for a bandage, and maybe stay for a moment to soothe my nerves.

The time came much quicker than I expected. That Monday, the two boys who'd followed Stuart home all last week were suddenly nowhere to be seen. Seeing the mouse putter home by his lonesome in that little car meant our chance had come.

"He's alone," Falcon grinned at me. "You know what to do. And eh, make it a good scream, will ya?"

I looked away, took a deep breath, and I dived. And mid-fall, I stop my wings. It's not as easy as you'd think. Every fiber, every cell inside me wants those wings to keep pumping. It's a reflex, almost like breathing. It's etched into your genes. But you have to fight it. But I have willpower, now, and just enough time watching Falcon to know what a good dive bomb looks like. Thankfully as well, learning to fly all those years ago gave me more than enough experience in falling.

But that didn't make this any less terrifying. My breath hitched, my heart skipped a beat, just like I imagined it would have if I'd taken a T-bone strike from the Falcon fifty feet in the air.

Long before the mouse had the chance to look up, I gave into freefall, and I didn't have to pretend. My scream was real.

Little did I know at the time that this whole thing was going to be pointless.

First off, how was I to know the Littles inherited that house on Millionaire's Row through an impossibly long series of inheritances? How was I to know that the family of five was hardly better off than those getting by paycheck to paycheck? I wasn't. Talk about a let down. But it's the kind of thing you only learn by living with them for nearly a month, before your absolute bird brain of a boss finally realizes something's up.

And something was very much up. The way the plan was supposed to work was that Stuart would ask me inside to have a look at my injured wing. I never once expected Stuart to ask me to stay at the house for the night. I never thought that I would actually want to, once the offer was laid out to me. Starting from the day I fell into his car, I suddenly stopped being invisible.

How would I know that this was going to be my last ever job? The last time I ever worked for Falcon.

In the end, my life and all I've worked for came crashing down all over again. See, there was something more important than being invisible, and more important than walling your heart up against remorse. And just as I thought I had perfected the art, that I had finally come to terms with my life, even when it was wrong, I ruined everything.

The only thing worse for a conwoman having remorse for your victims, as it turns out, is falling in love with them.

This is another really old passage that I edited a bit for posting. I wrote the first parts of this I don't know how long ago. There was this distinct idea of when/how Margalo first saw Stuart that I thought was interesting. With the context the movie gave us, she and Falcon had to have known about Stuart before Margalo 'fell' into his car, giving them an excuse to meet. I think it'd be a stretch if she was in love with him at first sight. I also think it might come off creepy if she's already thirsting after him while they're plotting this con. Almost makes it seem like she'd secretly enjoy planning the 'rescue' from the falcon by Stuart as an excuse to stalk him, and that's not a good look for anybody. The vibe I got was that she was reluctant to carry out the job all along, maybe even before she got to meet Stuart. I think it could be supposed she feels this way for a number of reasons. A reluctance to take advantage of another kid her own age, and maybe being another small animal makes him come off more vulnerable than the humans I'm guessing she normally steals from.

Headcanon explanation time:

I've emphasized this in other fics before, but it really comes into play here: There's this idea I had that while Margalo has worked for the self-proclaimed "conman" Falcon for years, the majority of her crimes consist of petty, impulsive robbery. This all stems back from that instance in Stuart Little 2 where she swoops down and instantly unclasps the string of pearls from Mrs. Little's neck.

There's a number of reasons I like the idea that Stuart was her first and only real con-job. For one, I do believe it's easier for someone with Margalo's conscience to deal with what she's doing if she makes no personal connection with her victims. She might think she's become cold and unfeeling to it all, but that's not true. That warmth and gentleness that comes out when she talks to Stuart, that's who she really is inside. Not the bitter stooge on the roof here in this fic.

Margalo might even subscribe to the idea (one that Falcon might have helped implant) that humans are selfish creatures that don't deserve the spoils they have. This would further reduce the guilt she'd feel from picking jewelry or money from their bodies. It's easier to believe that if Margalo doesn't get to know many, if any, humans. I recently had this idea of a friendship she has with a local shopkeeper pre-Stuart by stopping a robbery (la irony), but I don't think that's interesting enough for a passage by itself.

I also wanted this passage to be significant for Margalo in that this is the point in which she graduates from petty thief, to junior conman. Falcon may have taught her everything she knows, but here is where it first occurs to her that maybe she doesn't need his help/input at all. Her confidence, combined with her irritation with Falcon, inspires her to re-evaluate their relationship. Had Stuart not ended up being the influence on her life that he was, she'd likely have still run away at some point. Far enough that Falcon wouldn't easily find her, but when she's settled, she may have started a small jewelry-flipping operation of her own, whether or not she chose to leave to migrate.

To beat an already dead horse, it's Stuart who inspires her to dump this part of her life entirely. Not by telling her it's bad, or asking her to start her life over, but because of that unconditional love and support he gives her. She's ashamed of what her life has become, and she wants to be an honorable person because of him. The older she gets, she has this double whammy of insecurities. While she's losing the slightly apathetic/hardened attitude she had to adopt to deal with Falcon, she's also realizing she has a hard time talking with the girls in her flock. Opening up, being one of the team. Migration and the rules of her kind are almost brand new to her, and it makes her feel inept and foreign.

I do want Margalo to come off as cynical, even if it conflicts with her moments of positivity/how she behaves in SL2. She's hungry, she's not in a good mood, she's a little depressed that this is what her life has become. I don't know if it came off clear enough, but claiming that Falcon is in a funk may just be projecting her part. Falcon is cocky and confident, but I also imagined he'd be insufferable to be around when he doesn't get his way, almost like a manchild. Though I don't know if I'm skilled enough to convey that well enough.

If you made it this far, let me know what you think. This Margalo story in particular I think should be interesting since it's as close to covering SL2 as it gets, and there's really no OCs here if you don't count the background characters walking around the street. Ciao.