A painting hung on the wall, depicting a wave crashing against a rocky shore whilst the sun is setting. Nothing spectacular, but the artistic liberties were utterly hypnotic. Making sense of the piece was like taking mushrooms, complaining the effect was weak and said effect hitting a moment later with the force of a hundred freight trains.

Crossing my arms, I looked over to Miya, the giant bird coldly observing the third individual in the room; a turtle. The old fellow was, well, old, evident by the wrinkles on his scaled mug, though it didn't help that he also had a permanent scowl. He was reaching for something under the table, grunting a curse under his breath before placing the item on the table; a cassette recorder. I was going to be interrogated, yay! What crime have I committed besides tax fraud? Did they even have taxes? I doubt not.

Pressing a button, the discs began spinning around at a relaxed speed, the turtle clearing his throat before speaking. Most of the content he parroted was lost on me, I had advanced quite far in the past two months, but upon the discovery of the second and third alphabets I was deservingly humbled. Something something about a log? What did trees have to do with this? I gasped internally, did trees also become sentient? Blasphemy! Next they'll tell me my search history has also gained a conscience.

Snapping his mouth shut, he exchanged a word or two with my friend before addressing me, "Good afternoon, let us have a talk, okay?"

"Okay."

"How do you feel?"

"Good… good…" Not the best, but I'll live another day.

"Okay. Next are personal questions, okay?"

"Okay." Miya uncrossed her legs, her ear canal towards us.

"Name?"

"Johnny."

"Full name?"

"Jonathan Young."

"Hmm…" He clicked a pen, writing down, "Jonatan… Yung…"

"No. No." I shook my head, repeating, "Johnathan Young."

"Yes, Jonatan Yung."

"No! Johnathan. Young."

The turtle narrowed his eyes, more than they naturally were, "I say the same. Jonatan. Yung."

"Noooo… JoHnaTHan YOung," I spoke slower, placing major emphasis on the sounds he skipped by accident

"Hmm… Jonatan Yung. No more arguments." The turtle marked a period on the paper.

I sighed, "Johnny, just… call me Johnny."

"Okay, Jony."

„Fuck my life," I mumbled in English, massaging my temples in circular motions.

"Next. Age?"

„Duuude-" I had pondered on that many times, guess it was the time to face it, "I… don't know."

"What do you mean?" The turtle clicked his pen again, why have a recorded and written version was beyond me.

"Yes, what do you mean, Johnny?" She crossed her arms, her correct pronunciation touching my heart.

"Well… it's… a long story, really long."

"We have all day," the turtle clarified, leaning back into his shell. He also had a chair like us, but his shell had its uses.

"Well…" I glanced at Miya, her interest a far cry from the shyness I'd seen around her coworkers. "Alright."

Scooting a little closer to the table, I started speaking into the mic.

Heavy footfall kicked dust into the air, leaving behind imprints in the sand. Skidding to a stop, a hand reached into the jacker of the wearer to extract a device with too many wires, punching in a code before planting it in the center of the red X.

Erecting themselves, the assault rifle was raised to the shoulder, peeking behind a stack of crates-

BANG!

Only to be shot in the face.

"Fuck! Defend the bomb guys!" The low quality microphone didn't sound as assertive as the teenager hoped, crossing fingers, praying the brainrotten teammates could avenge his death. Spectating one of them, he managed to snipe his killer just before the enemy defused the explosive surprise. The beep of the messy amalgamation of electronics became more frequent, had I been in his shoes I would've bolted it out of the point. Instead, he chose to teabag the corpse of his victim, micspamming us to oblivion with slang even I wasn't familiar with.

However, karma was a mean lady, so another enemy player killed him the way his own teammate died. Turning down the volume, my earphones were bombarded with a low static composed of screeches and what could be described as monkey noises. Fortunately, the enemy was late to the party. The bomb went off, victory was ours.

Grabbing the small microphone connected to the headset, I congratulated the enemy team, "GG. Easy game soooo easy thank you for free win~" Though I knew they didn't hear me as the combined chats devolved into cavemen screams and slurs my mother didn't allow in the house. I swear, one guy even had his mom come into the room, yell something incoherent in Spanish and straight-up disconnect him from the lobby. The next round would decide if our toxicity was going to come bite us in the a-

"How is this important?"

"I'm getting there! Okay?"

"Trust him, he knows better," Miya threw in her hat.

"Mmm… okay, continue."

"Thank you."

Suddenly, my phone rang, vibrating against the wood. Averting my attention to the distraction, it became more than a distraction upon the status of the caller. Taking off my headset, I answered, though not before muting my microphone.

"Mom?"

She politely asked me to come downstairs, bad timing. I couldn't pause an online game, so I told her I'd be there in a gist, hung up, bid farewell to the lovely lobby and disconnected. Caused all the ruckus, missed the heat of the action; a typical Friday.

Pushing myself away from the desk, I swiveled the chair around towards the door, posters of lesser and well-known bands plastered neatly on the wall, a guitar sitting idly in the corner. Standing up, I shook my legs to get the blood circulating properly.

Once full feeling returned I left my room, heading to the ground floor. The carpeted floor created a static field against my socks, framed family photos hung on both sides of the corridor, the order unchronological, it fit where it fit. Grasping the railing, I trudged down the stairs, minding my step every, well, step. Halfway to the bottom, I caught the mumble of the television, the sight of the piano's cover open and already collecting dust. Once my foot reached stable flooring, I passed by the ancient heirloom and gently closed the cover, hitting a quiet key by accident. I then moved to the kitchen, a greeting halted by the appearance of a third party.

"Third party?"

"Yes, third party… a person."

An unknown man sat at the head of the table, a suit black as night and tie red as blood. I was immediately distrustful and skeptical of the situation, but one flash of the badge raised more questions than paranoia.

"I'm not sure what he was… FBI, CIA, he never made it… clear. Before you ask, the sounds I made are… I don't know the word for it. Important people."

He calmly explained the reason for his arrival. He'd been sent by a mysterious arm of the government to recruit willing test subjects, not his words, I simply removed the coat of sugar they apply to every grocery. To let yourself in a random house and offer to take away their only son without a detailed reason was insulting and outrageous. Even though he was with the system that ruled America, what right did it give him to flaunt power? Corruption of the highest order!

Until he presented a suitcase filled with more Benjamins that the heart could fathom. A 'fair trade' he called it. He made many sweet promises; an untaxed prize on the front, a blind eye to civil musts, an exemption from those pesky surprise expenses. Who the hell puts one price on the shelf and corrects the actual one when the customer is at the counter? Now that's outrageous.

To be honest, something like that happening out of the blue was too good to be true, but everything was true. The money, the offer, the representative, they were all real, but the promises…

While my parents were thinking, considering and eyeing what the candyman had put on the table, I asked, "And how long would I be gone for?" A year. From the day I leave home I shall return three hundred and sixty five days later. I opened the door for him, so he spilled the rest of the beer over the garden. From my eyes, my time in their care would pass in a blink. As I said, too good to be true. He rationalized what we have, a year of separation would pay off future generations, a sacrifice worth making.

And in the end? We lost. The contract was signed, hands were shook, belongings left in my room and three hands waving goodbye.

"Johnny… I-" miya started.

"Don't, I am not finished."

The ride to the facility was long, but it didn't feel as such, likely due to the satisfactory nap, the kind that left harmless belt marks in the skin. Security was tight, a blindfold wrapped around my head, I put my future money on the place being the infamous Fifty One.

Once we arrived at Wherever, I was allowed sight. It was a neat room, a dozen other ladies and gentlemen minding their own business, in the same shoes as me. My first thought was to connect with them but knew better. I wouldn't meet them again after this was over, whatever this was.

Over the course of a week we were tested. Those found unfit physically or mentally were returned to society, a generous slice of the promised prize still granted. Time was money, after all. Lots and lots and lots of questions. Some of the things they'd done were as bizarre as the eggheads themselves, and in the end only ten remained of the initial fifty to one hundred.

'You are special,' they said. 'You are the exception,' they said. We'd serve as the first stepping stone for intergalactic travel, Father Time would bend to the will of Mankind and other crazier ways to express the same idea. I wasn't sure the pale egghead meant to let his tongue slip that night but maybe it was the powder bag on his desk acting in his steed.

On the day the experiment started, we were asked to remove our clothing and step into a chamber, one per each. Imagine if we had to share coffins, sounds like the end of a 1700s romantical tragedy. After that my memory fails me. I remember cold, I remember fog, a bottomless pit in my stomach and a gross taste on my tongue. Hell, I can't even remember my last thoughts, perhaps that coffin joke was just that. It should've been a cheesy line like 'I'll come back, I promise,' or 'don't forget me' or even 'I'll miss you.' Maybe not, I would've felt even worse when I woke up.

"That's it, I think."

"Th- 'that's it'?! Johnny!" Miya shouted in disbelief, wasn't the lore dump enough? I believe it got the point across without excess yapping. "O-okay, I'm… sorry, for yelling." God, she was so adorable when she apologized, made me wish even more that I could properly understand everything that leaves her cute beak. Filling in the blanks is hard.

"It's okay, I get it… what else do you want to know?" That included the turtle who was watching us interact in silence, his expression unreadable.

"E… everything. Everything," she repeated, every single one of her senses at the ready.

"Weeeell…" I searched for a clock, sighing in defeat when one wasn't found, "alright…"

For the next God-knows-how-long I ruined my vocal cords. They'd recover, but I wasn't used to so much talking! From snippets of general history I was able to recall and elaborate further on the countries of the world and their achievements. Naturally, I put America under a good light, I was a patriot deep down like all citizens should be. The land of the free! The land of liberty! The land of opportunity! I painted a gorgeous picture for her, one of paradise made on earth. However, when I saw through the pink lenses, I couldn't live with hypocrisy, so I gently, like with a newborn, mentioned the darker parts of history. Slavery, murder, genocide, the Great War and the man-made horrors. That was a turning point.

Until then, the information I dished out was random and sometimes all over the place. Like how Christianity had very strange sub-religions and we raced to the Moon, the latter was a bit of a mindfuck for them when I casually mentioned Mr. Armstrong for some reason, cool one-liner though. When we got to the subject of wars…

I learned an interesting fact from Miya. A century ago, they had a world war. Herbivores against carnivores. She didn't specify why, something about border disputes, classic. And I didn't dig deeper, everything would happen at its own pace. The fact they had conflicts didn't surprise me, it was the number of them.

When I told her about the First World War she gave me that look. That look. As if I had grown two heads and the other was of a different race, why settle for one pass when you can have them all?! Off topic. I didn't remember much about the first war, the curriculum valued the second over the first. That's where the problem originated. They didn't have a second.

Reciting everything that helped me barely pass from memory, Miya was graciously gifted with the uncensored version. The rejected painter, the soldier who spared his life in the first war, his rise to power, the decade-long setup for success, the blitzkriegs, and the cruelty of Man. Between the lines, she asked, "What did they do with… the bodies?"

I shrugged, "What could have they done? Eat them? Pff, no, they burned them. Sickness and such."

That was the key to the weapons. The ones from the Great War. The industrial revolution and its consequences would and will forever affect the world, even if theirs was grander or not. The reinvention of conventional warfare and what the rules of conduct were quite the ride, the use of fire to clear out trenches, a never-ending barrage to even out the playing field, gas to eliminate an impenetrable bunker-fortress, like Osowiec! I remembered watching a video with a cool metal song matching visuals that were not intended for undeveloped, innocent minds. Such is one of those industrial consequences; unrestricted internet access is a very, very bad thing for the youth.

I told her everything. Though at some point even the turtle politely asked me to stop. Not only because of my chaotic way of conveying information, but the content. I assumed they knew of suffering, and they have, but now a question was raised; how deep did the rabbit hole go? Unrelated to the species.

"I could go for more if you want, there was this guy, Napoleon, and he-"

"Johnny. Johnny. Please, I…" Miya shuddered, I forgot to mention the cold war and the thousands of stockpiled world enders we made just because we could. "I think… we should expose… little by little, okay?"

"Every day a little?" I asked.

She nodded once, gently yet firmly holding her hand over mine. "Okay." What was so bad about what I said? Maybe the part where we disposed of the dead or the methods we used, but come on! How different can they be from us?

"I think that's enough for today," the turtle spoke up, hitting the pause on the recorder. "Miya-san, please change the schedule, until we," a string of words I didn't understand left his mouth, ending with, "until then, fare-"

"Wait…" She raised her hand from mine, returning it to her lap, "I think… he should know."

The turtle deadpanned, or that was his form of neutrality, "Are you sure? I don't think it's the right time."

"And I'm his-" another word I didn't understand, thought the lovely smile directed to me was assuring, "so I know best, he has the right to know, but…" she turned to me, "do you want to?"

"To know what?" I asked, examining the device from afar. I'd have to ask her what year it was, what kind of counting system they used. Did they have a Jesus as well or something else entirely?

"The truth."

"Yes," I replied without hesitation. I'd gotten too comfortable and complacent with all of this. I didn't think it was possible, but for a while I actually forgot how wrong it all was. Talking animals, me being the only one around, the more I replayed the first days in my inner vision the more I burned, yearned to know. What led to all of this? This could be the first and last opportunity, you miss all the shots you don't fire.

"Promise me… one thing," she began pulling out her phone, a flat little thing, something old folk from my place would have when I finished Elementary.

"Yeah?"

"Don't-" another word, I have to step up my game and fill in the blanks, it was starting to tick me off. While earlier I was able to assume the obvious, she could've meant anything by that. Don't cry? Don't scream? Don't panic? Had to be.

Taking a deep breath, "I promise," offering a toothy smile. She blinked multiple times, glancing at her phone. Tapping the phone a few times, she turned her hand ninety degrees, automatically flipping the screen horizontally. An equilateral triangle stared back in the middle, a bright background blurred by the pure white shape. Leaning closer to get a better look, she pressed the triangle, a video starting.

A pair of black gloves adjusted the camera on their chest, the rig heavy and packed with equipment out of sight. Beneath their armored boots is grass, freshly cooked and caked with ash and powdered concrete.

"Three days before retirement…" the figure groans, giving up on the bodycam. "Good enough…" They turn their whole body to the left, quite a sight to behold.

Where there should've been benches and paths snaking through the park were various vehicles of snow white and sandy forest. Tanks towering over the recorder, trucks whose wheels alone weighted tons, an artillery one somewhere further away. A group of armored soldiers passed by, the same dull green and gray pattern on their uniforms. A helicopter passed above, but the recorder didn't care.

For the center of attention was partially sunken into the now shallower lake. Stretching from one end to the other, about a hockey field and a little more, it was unlike anything they had seen before. A chrome so bright civilian news choppers were restricted access, as if the intervention of several superpowers wasn't a deterrent, hinted by the different flags on a number of soldiers who passed too close to the camera. They gazed to the sky, a little to the right. It was clear of any clouds, blue as can be, but a patch of dark rose from afar.

For a second, just one, the recorder caught a glimpse of the city. Towering skyscrapers, apartments here and there, nothing unusual for modernity. That second spoke more than any politician ever could, for a pillar of black smoke rose from a ruined officer building a dozen stories tall. Its neighbor didn't survive, having disappeared completely from ground view. There could be more, there could be less, but the path was clear as that day; the chrome punched through like a champ. Back to the object, its shape was eerily similar to the head of an arrow. Aerodynamic? Cheap? Efficient? Many theories, little answers. Yet, that was the objective the recorder was tasked with.

Meeting up with a standout group, they donned on good ol' and reliable; biohazard. With the addition of armored vests, rigs, and weapons fit for every individual's respectable size. One was as tall as a mailbox, another so big they could cause a crate where they stood if they slammed down their foot. Regardless, they created a personal crowd, waiting for something.

The recorder answered the radio piece in their ear, "Yeah…? Yes, we're all here… copy… me too buddy… me too…" He sighed, addressing the rest of the crew. "Alright you sacks of meat! You know the drill, don't shoot, but if shit hits the fan, go out blazing."

"W-weren't you supposed to give a debri-"

"I'm not repeating myself… and that should've happened at base," unholstering a pistol from the side, the recorder nodded at the big one, the latter reciprocating with a massive circular saw whirling to life.

"Ignore them, you know the mission, that's all that matters." The rest responded with affirmatives of their own, the goal clear in mind.

Approaching the chrome craft, the hazmats prepared themselves. Shaking a boot, stretching a joint, loading a bullet into the chamber, history was to be made one way or another. A helicopter hovered in the sky, a glint caught by the camera on his person.

Bringing the saw to the metal, guns raised as the teeth began tearing into the surface. Sparks flew everywhere, blinding even to distant bystanders without protection. Twenty minutes it took to cut a hole barely big enough for the handler to enter. It was a tough piece of work, surprisingly resilient. Once the saw slowed down, the big one put it aside, taking a few steps back before launching a kick at the rectangular cutout. Then another, and another. It took five kicks in total to break the part, though it hung onto the rest of the body by bent metal on the verge of snapping. Hence, they gave another kick just to be sure, sending the piece flying inside.

Activating their flashlights, they went in. One by one, their attachments lit up the interior of the alien craft, to describe it in one word; ugly. Fried circuits, compact pipelines, missing boards and broken shards crunching under their steps. Half of the problems could be chucked to the crash, but what about the other half?

"What is this place…?" another voice spoke, its owner forever unknown.

"Don't know, don't care, I want to go home." The recorder replied, lighting up the left side while another secured the right.

"Split up?"

"No, bad idea. Seen too many movies like this."

"Heh, that's your reference?"

The movie watcher cursed the soon-to-be retiree, "Fine, let's visit the pilot."

"Expect contact."

All flashlights trained on the way to the cockpit, overlapping footsteps occasionally interrupted by the creaking of metal or the crushing of glass. Although the entire mission was mad, there was something else in the air, a special dread. Unexplainable, to the hazmats at the time and the human.

After a couple long, silent minutes, the hall ended at an open door. Approaching the entry, one by one the hazmats entered the head of the craft, it was worse than the hall. The impact totaled the control panels above and below. Out of the trio of seats one was bent at a terrible angle while the other had been flung, leaving noticeable dents in the roof and floor. Only one remained. The top of a helmet peaking past the chair.

The collective gasp of more than half of them deafened the private channel, all weapons trained on the interloper. "Freeze! Hands-! Ow!" To the right, one of the hazmats slapped another's scalp.

"We don't know if it can even understand us, it can be sleeping for all we know."

"That's pretty stupid."

"... Yeah, I don't know anymore…" They sighed, settling on keeping quiet and lightly fiddling with their gun. One wrong move and the pilot would get it, transformed into fleshy swiss cheese, that is if they were an organic being in the first place.

Forming a semi-circle around the last seat, the hazmats started to realize an oddity. After falling out of the sky and rocking their world, the being in the ship had to have felt that, had to have known where they were and what forces were at bay. Yet they didn't move, not a twitch, reinforcing the theory of an automaton straight out of science fiction. However, here lie more holes in that theory, so that left little options for the team.

"S… sir…" one of them said, average height across the animal kingdom.

"Yes?" The recorder said, still as stone behind the pilot.

"I… I'm going to touch it."

"You're going to- DON'T YOU DARE!" The recorder said, the gun in his hands twitching towards the encroaching hazmat.

"Oooooh we're so screwed…"

"What else have we got? Great plan by the way," another remarked sarcastically.

He sighed, "I knew I should've been dishonorable… damn work ethic…"

A step behind the pilot, a gloved hand slowly extended to the chair, long fingers gripping the top. Gradually working around the pilot, the hazmat turned the chair to face towards the team, many triggers itching.

Thankfully, they had the self-control to not pepper the suit with lead. It didn't change the fact the alien hadn't moved. Not a breath.

"Why…"

"The helmet, uh, shield, just look!" A finger pointed at the helmet, all lights suddenly blasting the face cover. Dust. A sick white that brewed disgust in some. But it was just dust! Unsanitary, but it wasn't going to kill them! What being loved to be blinded by microscopic filth?

At the bottom of the helmet was a little extension, a tiny flat piece near the neck. It was the mechanism to lift the cover up and down. Daring thus far, the hazmat beside the suit grasped the level, looking back to the rest before bringing up the shield.

When matter decays, it becomes something else. All energy is conserved in the universe. Some can easily be seen, kinetic. Some can't, heat. When wood burns, some of its energy converts into heat to warm a chimney while the rest becomes ash. To assume the dust was covering the pilot's helmet was a healthy assumption, one a child could make. They were sorely wrong. It was calcium.

"It's dead." The recorder stated, one of the hazmats letting loose a blood-curdling scream. A gun clattered on the metal floor, another animal rushed to the panicker's side, holding them close and turning them away from the corpse.

However, it was an unfair comparison. A corpse has that flesh and skin vibe, there was none of that within the suit, the straps over its body having held strong in spite of the march of time. The recorder decided to make a move, stumbling closer and closer to the suit, never taking their eyes or camera off the horror.

"It's…" He swallowed, the lower part of the skull had fallen off, a permanent dropped jaw mimicking their reactions. "It's…" Two holes resided above the upper teeth and below the middle of the eyes, the face flatter than any other known being. "It's…!" The skull stared off into the ceiling, an infinite void hiding the dual cavities of the sockets. "A… primate?"

If the discovery of an alien and a dead one at that wasn't enough, its similarities to a particular family tree was the loudest whistleblower of them all. To list and ponder over each and every inquiry would take days, possibly a week, netto! It was an impossibility but there it was, right in front of them, spitting in the faces of the observing researchers.

"God… oh god… I didn't sign up for this!"

"A monkey?! A fucking monkey!?"

"Watch your tongue before I shove a banana up your-!"

"You can beat the speciesism out of her later! We need to go to the back, now!" Falling away from the iron tomb, the recorder ran back the way they'd come from. A rush. The team followed in hot pursuit, some calling him mad. The light from the outside returned into view, but swiftly disappeared behind the runner. Fifty paces later, the recorder slowed down to a slog, his boots dragging against the floor.

"What the hell, man!"

"I thought you were supposed to be the rationa- oh damn it all, can't blame you for nothing…"

"Guys, did you see all that?" One of them, possibly another recorder, asked into the feed, the responses they received were on a different channel.

In front of our recorder was a room in which no light escaped. Not because the density was infinite, rather no objects were present to reflect. Placing a foot inside, the recorder went in, whatever he felt overriding calculated logic.

Step.

Step.

Step.

Crunch.

Ceasing the advance, he lowered the weapon to the source. While he stared at the cause in silence, the rest filed in, exploring the relatively spacious room. However, it was no room; it was the cargo bay, any other term simply unfit before the discovery of its true purpose.

All around, top to bottom, left to right, in and out, was the dust. The dust. The. Dust.

Shining the light around, the screecher had recovered from the initial shock only to fight against the urge to expel that day's breakfast. On both sides of the bay stood rows of proud pods, holding what were the rest of the pilot's kin.

Dust. The pods were open wide. Dust. No power. Dust. No light. Dust. No life. Dust.

"They… gone," the recorder fell to his knees, unintentionally disturbing the calcified blanket on the floor. In every pod rested a skeleton, some missing the jaw or limbs. Luckily, the rotten apple hadn't fallen far from the dead tree. Spread at random across the floor were bones, even a skull, a crude puzzle posing a challenge for the craziest of psychopaths. What once stored lives now served the opposite; a messy graveyard. Even through the isolated suits and filtered masks, through the safety of the screen, death opened its palm, offering the adventure of a lifetime.

No words were spoken for none could. Every theory, every plan to deal with the newly acquainted doomsday was made on the same basis; someone. Who in their right mind would've thought of a literal skeleton crew carried by nothing but an immortal vessel and the winds of the sun? Tragic. To never know what happened, what they were, how their lives led to becoming a scene no film could ever replicate. Seeing and hearing is one thing, smelling as well is another, but being there? Really being there? Pain.

Back to his feet, the recorder raised a finger, spotting something in the furthest corner of the ruined maze. "There… there… look…" he suppressed a cry. One of the skeletons was so small, so much smaller than the rest. Its arms rested over the ribcage, one hand holding the other in prayer.

And there it was. In the sea of darkness was an island lush with green and a tiny bit of blue. When the rest saw through the airborne faux dust, a second rush rocked the boards of the ancient ship. Standing in the middle of the surrounding crescent moon was the recorder, a common pod indifferent to their presence. But if one looked closer like they have, they'd see the green lights on its sides, the rare few blue and rarer flashing variants. The recorder's hand momentarily hovered over the black glass, a gasp of joy echoing.

"It's cold."

The video ended. Just like that. At some point the turtle left quietly, his absence as crucial as his attendance. I swallowed the accumulated saliva, my hands literally shaking. Had it not been for the AC, I'd be sweating bullets and glistening like a gem.

"M… M…" My lips refused to part. Below the flashing blues was a number, a string of ten. Any item in a warehouse had to have a serial number. One, seven, five, zero, nine, eight, five, three, four, three. "M… mine… my… number…" I breathed out, my right hands pushing the phone away. Miya complied, pocketing the damned thing. Breathe. Breathe. Calm. My chest rose and fell, the table out of focus.

"Johnny…" Regret poisoned her sweet voice, shoving the knife deeper into my heart. I didn't know what to do, what to say to all of… this.

"M-miya… M-miya-a…" I grit my teeth, my only friend leaving her seat to kneel before me, the last seat in use.

"J-"

"It… I… it wasn't part of the deal," I blinked, a drop trailing down my cheek. "I didn't… I… no… nooo…" I blinked again, more drops. My chest hurt. It hurt. Every exhale was a day full of chores, heavier than the last. The last.

She said nothing. I didn't blame her, but I wanted her to. Please, do. Please… please… There was no punchline. No joke. No other. I saw what I saw. I heard what I heard. And I felt what I felt.

Wrapping her arms around my waist, she rested her head over my shoulder. I patted her back, the feathers around her neck so soft. Tilting my head to the ceiling, I bit my tongue, but a whimper slipped past. That was the straw that broke my back.

A scream of agony, sobs upon sobs staining her beautiful self, but she didn't care, tightening her hug and shedding a few of her own. I hated her, in the moment. Why show me? Why? Why not just tell? I dug my nails into her back, but they were harmless, so I buried my face into her neck, a moan muffled. I wouldn't have believed it. I would've never got it. And when it hit me that it wasn't the full picture, I cried harder. Where were the rest? What happened to them? To us? To my family?

"M-miyaaa…" I shivered, my voice producing the whine of a dying man, maybe I was in a way.

"It's okay… I'm here…" I hugged her as hard as I could, guilty of dirtying her feathers. It hurt. It hurt so much. I didn't want to think of the others, the whole world, but I couldn't stop the self-feeding fire from burning my mind. In that moment, sobbing in the arms of a grown, human-like avian, I wanted to disappear forever. If that could stop the new feelings, I would.

After a long, long time, I had exhausted my supply. Tomorrow was another day to shed more tears. Sniffling once more, I rested my head upon her shoulder, one hand rubbing up and down my back while the other secured the lower half.

"Johnny… feel better?"

"... No… no…" I spoke softly, squeezing my shut eyes, sighing, "but… I'll live."

She continued to soothe me, silent the whole time. Just in case, I assured her, "it wasn't your fault… I… I wanted to know… thank you," I whispered, her hands stopping in place.

"Miya…"

She hummed, the tip of her beak pressing against the top of my back.

"I am… tired… take me to bed… please…" I didn't care anymore, I just didn't. If I could have one good thing today, this was it.

It wasn't a minute later when I felt her lift me into her arms, one supporting my back and the other under the knees. I snuggled into her warmth, on the verge of falling asleep after spilling the dam. It felt good. But I knew tomorrow was patient, that when I was emotionally sober my curiosity would win again. It always did.

Before I was laid to rest in my bed, I felt a kiss on my forehead, a farewell to a dreamless night.