birdmusings

[birdmusings]

The plan was easy – it ought to be easy. Get on the ship, steal a barrel of gunpowder, get off with the barrel, sell it, be rich. Small plan, big responsibility, made up by three Irish lowlife. To think, it's an easy way of getting money – something they all needed, considering how they were stealing for living. They were hiding behind a few crates, the three of them. A girl, two boys, each had barely passed their twenties. Can tell from afar how used they are to each other, how this kind of life had brought them together, surviving at each other's sides. Actually, the girl and one of the boys had known each other since they were born. Siblings. The third member of this group, the other boy got along with them by accident and by falling in love with the girl. Sharp, witted, often stubborn, tenacious, blessed with fast hands, albeit a bit naïve from time to time, Michael always had some natural talent for thieving and talking himself out of sticky situations. Needless to tell how all these attributes had saved his life days later since the easy plan apparently required so much more responsibility than they originally thought. The girl, Clenna managed to escape to the docks whilst her brother was stabbed to death for leaving before Smyth did. The obvious thing to do was escape. Leave the keg behind, leave the ship's storage behind, leaving everything behind. Yet there was a noise. He remembers. The little noise prior the moment Clenna's brother's shout had managed to fill the night air. The little noise was a key. The way the key turned in the lock of the trapdoor leading to the storage. That was the exact moment everything had gone to hell. Michael hid behind a bunch of barrels, attempting to take up the smallest of places or the crew is bound to find and probably execute him for planning on stealing the King's supplies. Days, weeks had passed – he didn't count, didn't want to count which was the truth. They just passed by, he spent most of his time hidden away, only going to the kitchen at night, unnoticed, to get food. Otherwise he'd have starved to death. Time went by. Until they docked. The Irish boy got anxious, not quite figuring out what to do next. It was pure luck, one might say. The soldiers wanted to execute him right away, George Washington denied this from them. Said there was something within him. Something that could be used for their advantage. Michael was promised gold. Gold he had never seen before. And life. Survival. Needed no more – wasn't planning on dying away from the homeland, after all. By now, he's one of the Tyrannical King's best – if not only – spies. Working for nothing but money and survival. Loyalty toward both the first and latter. Toward his own, personal views.

[birdmusings]

The lights above him flicker in a quite annoying and persistent way. He wondered if they'll ever change it and if they will, how many more cases later. The room is pretty damp. It has a table, two chairs and of course the flickering lights. He's never been here simply because he was never caught before, no matter what he did. But ( maybe ) setting a lawn on fire was a bit too much this time. The people he once called parents caught him red handed and did not hesitate a second to call the cops. So that's where Johnathan was wasting his time now. Under the flickering lights, an empty chair stood. He couldn't believe how they couldn't just issue a fine and let him go with it. As the minutes passed, he bit more off his nails. Not out of nervousness, merely out of boredom. The middle finger on his right hand was bloody by now, but he quite liked it. It'll be perfect for flipping people off. Finally, the door opened and a man entered the room. He was tall, taller than Johnathan, and definitely not as messy as he was. In fact, the officer was clean shaved and his hair was perfectly made. He moved around the room for a bit before settling down in front of the messy, bruised boy. “ Name. ” Fuck, that voice was stern. “ Forst. Johnathan Forst. ” “ Age? ” “ Twenty-two. Or three. Fuck knows. ” “ Language. ” Johnathan rolled his eyes. “ Occupation? ” “ Uh, does ‘ being a failure in life ’ counts? ” Now it was the officer's turn to roll his eyes. “ According to my papers, you're here because you set fire on your parents’ — ” “ ( Ex ) parents. ” “ Your ( ex ) parents' lawn. With gasoline, you burned the word... ( Cunts ) into their grass. ” Johnathan leaned back in the chair and shrugged – all while doing his very best to keep a snicker at bay. “ That right. It had a pretty fire until those cunts decided to put it all out. Fuck, what a shame. ” The officer cleared his throat. And he went looking into the folder he brought with himself. “ This isn't your first time in here, am I right? It says here that you've already got a record from before. A physical assault. You beat someone with your fists ( and ) a rock bloody because they called you a... ‘ faggot ’. ” Johnathan's hands came slamming down on the table. “ Okay, listen, that bloke fookin’ deserved what he got! ” “ Please, control yourself. Tell me about what happened now instead. With the lawn. ” “ I burned it. ” The officer gave a deadpan look. “ Why? ” “ I wanted them to know the meds they got me prescribed are worth nothing. I wanted them to know that I'm still alive, still around and I still hate them for drugging and mistreating the fuck out of me. And maybe I wanted the neighbours to know as well. To realize what cunts they are. That they're a load of bullshit. Them, their fooking religion and just... Everything about them. ” “ Why's that? ” And Johnathan, without realizing what was he truly doing, leaned back in the chair once again, threw one leg up over the other and began to talk. “ They were always ashamed of me. Fuck, they didn't even want the neighbours to know I exist. Dad cheated, you see. The mighty religious asshole cheated. It's kinda funny. We've got a few family photos from when I was a kid and he's got a black eye on all of them. ” Reaching down, his fingers picked at the hem of the pink socks he wore. “ Anyway, they soon realized that something's wrong with me. So they put me on medication. It was fine for a while. I lived in this chemical bubble and yeah – it was cool. But because I was always high on some meds, the other kids began to think there's something wrong with me and fuck me, they were right. ” By now, he was hooking a finger under the fabric just to keep himself entertained. “ My parents tried to hide me, with more or less success. They told me to go and hide when people came over. Said I shouldn't spend more than ten minutes downstairs and shouldn't talk more than it was absolutely necessary. ‘ Course I did as I was told. All day, every day. Until I got tired of being a drugged up, obedient doll. ” Silence. The officer fiddled with his papers and Johnathan fiddled with his sock. There was nothing but the absolute silence. No more questions. Like the man had heard enough. Until finally, it was him who broke the silence. “ You realize you have to stay overnight, yes? Also, you will be issued a fine. ” “ Sure, ” came the simple answer with a shrug. “ Can I get the prettiest cell please? ” “ — We will also provide you a psychologist. For free. So no further lawns will catch on fire. ” “ I — ” “ I will escort you to your cell now. ” “ But I – ” ( don't need the stupid psychologist. ) “ But . . ? ” “ . . Nothing. ” “ Then follow me. ”

[birdmusings]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Go. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Take a look at your son. Even god knows how horrible just the idea is. How stupid, pointless, unnecessary, meaningle –– a bump. He almost fell on his face for not watching his out for his legs instead of falling in a deep, fuming thinking. The almost accident occurred just a corner away from the building where he in fact is rushing. Ugh, he hated that place. Hated the gates, the holy ground, the garden, the glamour on the entire structure, the building itself – the inhabitants. All of them. Name, gender, physique, sexuality, behaviour. . none of those mattered. They were Nephilim. All of them. Born with the help of a former brother of his, Raziel. He always firmly believed helping humans was the worst idea Raziel ever had but for some reason, his brother never saw the bad in his creations. Or maybe he did. Just never told anyone. Passing by the corner and the ever so disliked building appeared in sight. The sun was hiding behind the glamoured church. It was not hard to distinguish what was real and what was fake. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀He likes to take a stroll outside the Institute when he's not on a mission. It was the familiar voice. Again. Causing him to roll his eyes practically at himself, pushing Zoe's voice into the back of his mind. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀"I'm on it, okay?" Grumbling underneath his breath partly for the voice, partly for himself. On it. Close to it. No can tell when was the last time he felt this. . nervous. Especially since never being the nervous type. Or he thought so. Opposite of the glamoured building stood an empty bench. That seemed like a good spot to spend his nervous minutes. Aiming towards said bench, the angel settled upon it, careful not to mess with his wings – all before reaching for the pocket of his leather jacket to pull out a pack and a lighter. The cure for nervousness. Blue eyes squinted at the gate as he placed a cigarette between his lips, lighting it. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀You don't have to talk. Right. Not that he plans on doing that. One drag, two drags, three drags – then the door opens up and someone sets foot outside. A fairly tall, handsome young man. Sunlight reflects on his blonde hair just as it does on Samael's, as it always did on Zoe's. This is the first time he finds himself choking on his own cigarette's smoke. The second time is when the boy glances aside, right at him. He is wearing the usual Nephilim colour, namely black. Even from afar he can see what blue eyes first glance around before they find him. The cigarette stops in the Nephilim’s hand and now they both look shocked. Both at each other. Both with sunshine reflecting blonde hair, bright blue eyes and ironically in leather jackets. If life does have humour, it should have a better one. A few moments which seem horribly long minutes pass before the younger blonde decides on skipping smoking. Instead, he turned on his heels, heading back to the Institute. As for him? He finds himself glued to the bench for even more minutes. Then, the cigarette is dropped to the ground, he gets on his feet – stepping on the cigarette in the process. Stuffing hands in his pockets and leaving with more thoughts than before.

[birdmusings]

Every single creature has some kind of a weakness. A certain point what ruins the whole concept, something what - if hit right - may lead to devastation. Even Angels got such a point. Even stuck up, spoiled Angels got one. However, this fallen Angel does not only have one. The walls he had built around himself are tattered with smaller holes, centred around a bigger one. The single weakness what drives him forward, the single weakness his existence is centred around, the single weakness why is he doing certain things in a certain way. Ridiculous, but it's a relationship. /The/ relationship, in fact. The one with Father. This is why when somehow his mind reminds me of them, he smokes more than ten cigarettes a day, this is why he tends to occasionally rip a handful of grey feathers out of his wings, creating holes in the grey ocean, just to later lie about it, saying it was an accident. No one knows about this weakness. Obviously, he is not keen on sharing it. Lilith, maybe. She knows. Yes. Only because just once he allowed himself to be weak, for the hint of a moment for the first time in his existence. This, maybe a few months after his descending. The warmth of Hell caressed his cheek as the blonde tried his best to hide in that pillow of his after finding himself alone. It was fine. There were no tears but anger. He was angry at himself. To be denied? It was fine. To be thrown away? It was fine. To be disowned? It was fine. To be branded? It was fine. The constant feeling of being useless? The feeling of being not needed? Now that was not fine. The only thing he could never get used to. That was when the reason of his descending found him. This is since she knows. The fallen tried to make it right, though. To make everything right. To turn back time, chances, every single thing he just could. It began with ditching Lilith, lying to her about certain things… It went on from years to years. How stupid was he to ever think, just for a moment that God might be willing to consider letting him back in Heaven. Finally, he got that certain message. About a visit. It made him incredibly happy, eager to leave everything behind. So he did. The blonde managed to get back, up in Heaven just to talk with his creator. All the hope, all the enthusiasm… Broken in under a moment. He was nicely told that he is useless by now. That, he might as well free to get back in Hell, that outcasts are not welcome once again. Only thing was purposely forgotten, however. The wings. They only turned grey, but Father never took them back, saying, it shall mark him for treachery. That, every single of his brethren will notice what has happened. All the anger and rejection managed to build the walls up around him. Not only Lilith, but this… This shaped him. This shaped the walls, raising them higher and higher. And he is still alone with this, merely because he does not wish to show any weakness. No matter the person.

[birdmusings]

"Name something constant in your life."               "You." She always asks this. Every single time. As if once or twice would not have been enough. Such a sardonic smile spreads wide on red painted lips, revealing a few perfect pearly whites. The smile is always so wide; the pearls are always so flawless. Sometimes it makes wonder, how many gallons of blood must she bathe in to keep up such a look. The answer, turning out to be satisfying enough. Just as every single time. She does not say 'good' or compliment. Never did before, not going to start now. "Now, let's talk about the Old Man." The words cause fingers to curl, forming a fist at his side. His jaw clenches, a deep breath is taken. As always. As if everything would go in a loop, again and again.          "I would hate to." Such a pretty way of rejecting this wonderful chance. They are going to talk about it either way. Much for the mood. "How are you feeling about him this time?" As if it could be answered this easily. Bitter. Always incredibly bitter. The prodigal creature. Father always seemed to be so kind, so hopeful, so trusting and proud towards every single of his Angels. Something has changed with him. The exception.           "The usual." So many things were hidden in a single word, she knew all of these feelings. All the hatred, bitterness, disgust. . . Still kept on asking. As always. "Nothing changed?" As usual, her svelte eyebrow would arch.         "Quit playing games." This time, his tone changes. It gains an edge, an attitude. It becomes. . . /Sharp/. As usual. As usual, she would huff ever so unnoticed. Simply because he refused to give a normal answer. An answer she would expect. It's always about what she expects. "Still remembering why are you here?" Of course. This question is only to ruffle his already perfect mood. He is here because of the horribly going relationship with Father. For centuries he believed, curiosity caused the entire mistake, Father's rage, his falling. Funny how that was only one of the reasons. Funny how he never figured it out before. A few lives, centuries back when his feathers used to be white, when he used to deliver messages as well – when he got to be a Seraphim, there was someone. That someone was beautiful, kind, flattering, charming. . . He had a unique, universe scent. The best things his mind can recall. Not a name, not species. A male. That someone was just a point for the messages. Favourite point of his. Oh, how fond he used to be of that someone's smile. It was the best thing. How his voice used to soothe, how he used to look at him. How peaceful that point was. They just seemed to like each other. Father never told it was forbidden.           "Of course." This was something never told to her. Own safe heaven. Something only for himself. "Good. Now, you know every single thing can be thank to me and no one else?" As always, she would ask this. The memory's hint shattered, dark clouds surrounded everything again.   "Of course. Although /thank/ is a slightly powerful term." She would always get upset over this. Seemingly for no reason. The next thing should be felt is a slap across his face. It isn't happening. It isn't happening as the next thing he sees is the dark room's ceiling. Her image disappears, leaving everything behind. As always. Shifting to his side, a slow glance is cast at the clock. Past three in the morning. Slow enough, he manages to leave the sheets behind, escaping to the kitchen to have a cigarette. The usual. As always.

[birdmusings]

“It is… Quite cold in here.”

I know.

“And… Dark. Why are we here?” The man asked, glancing over at his counterpart.

I want to show you things.

“What kind of things?”

 That was when the first flash happened. It was bright. Awfully bright, it hurt the man’s eyes. He had to cover them with his sleeve. Bright white and reddish flash.

Why is the red colour?

 I want you to watch.

“But it is too bright. How am I supposed to see anything?”

Please. I do not wish to…

 In that exact moment… Pain. True, killing pain. From the man’s head to toe.

His hand was burning, as well as his heart.

Fingers ran through his hair as he clung into the white locks as it was a helpless cry for help.

 WATCH.

“Make this stop!”

I cannot. Only if you watch.

 But how? His entire body was in pain, the… Thing what he was supposed to see was too bright for any eye pair. And the cold...

[birdmusings]

The male’s arrival was due today. A rainy November day, he wondered all the way here when is he going to be able to see the sky, feel the wind and rain again.

Traveling was rather pleasant, he spent it reading the Bible. That's all he brought with himself along with a wooden cross – contrary to popular belief, neither of them was to praise the Lord’s name but to praise something better, something bitter, something much more. . Meaningful. Something beyond a normal person’s imagination but not beyond his. A greater good and Oswald was its own herald.

At the therapy he was diagnosed with hallucinogen persisting perception disorder, narcissistic personality disorder and paranoid personality disorder after being sent to sessions due to his visions about himself, taking the greater good manifestation’s hand as it guides him toward the light, to salvation.

Oswald knows the greater good is real, he is certain of it – thus dedicating his life to praising it, sharing its tenets, described by Flynn himself.

Around two in the afternoon, blue eyes pierced the huge gate standing in front of him. Behind it, an even bigger building.

The preacher stood tall, clutching the Bible to his chest, grasping the wooden cross. He wasn't nervous. These people need the greater good and he's going to show them the direction.

[birdmusings]

Family above all. That's what Oswald Flynn was taught in the entirety of his life.

Despite this, the Flynn family was something to be never considered above all. Left behind at the age of two by his father, the young Oswald spent his early years with a single mother in a quite poor environment, constantly at odds with money and society.

 At the age of seven, Oswald was given to an orphanage to be adopted; to help easing the burden his mother was carrying. He still remembers her words at that time.

'Stay strong and God shall notice your strength’.

So he did. Each and every night when everyone was asleep, Oswald prayed; each and every day he showed no weakness.

Family above all.

That's what Oswald Flynn was taught in his entire life from birth to a certain point from which this rule meant little anymore.

 Despite the rule, the Flynn family lacked a father, it was only the young Oswald and his mother whom he stood very close to and that was perfectly enough.

She would always be there for her son, she would always protect and take care of him, she would always... Do anything for her 'precious little boy’. There was no one else Oswald could have trusted more.

Which marked the young boy’s upcoming ages in advance.

 Growing up rather poor, only with a mother and socially awkward had never been easy. Enduring the constant, daily bullying was something that required time, patience and strong will.

Time, that he had plenty. Patience, not so much. Strong will, absolute zero. He was but a broken kid with nothing but a mother to lose.

Psychiatrists say, around those ages did his mind develop paranoid personality disorder as well as narcissistic personality disorder due to Mrs Flynn’s method of talking highly about her son to keep a fragment of his confidence afloat instead of letting it fall to pieces.

She would always say, 'don't worry about the other mean kids, Oswald. You're my wonderful, unique little boy’. She thought it would help, little did the poor thing knew the words would lead to a disorder.

 At that time, everyone was but an enemy, someone who would only harm the socially awkward kid. At that time, his mind developed something else other than DPP and NPD. It was something endlessly mundane, something what only made little difference next to both symptoms. That something was limping.

There were no reasons for this actions, no explanations. Well, nothing what Oswald knew of. However, it was not a constant form of movement either – seemingly only occurred once he had suddenly forgotten of himself.

 They say, there's always something good within all the bad but life isn't a fairy tale. Except maybe for some occasions.

There was that day when a fragment of the young Oswald's soul was taken from the rest by someone other than his mother.

That day, someone simply sat next to him, dragging him out of his usual melancholy by a mere presence.

That was the day something new was born. Something neither of them had before.

A friendship with no other than Henry Prince.

 They were called the 'weird boyfriends’ by others whom witnessed the friends’ bonding. No wonder. There was something with both of them, something neither of them could wrap their fingers around. The two 'antisocials’ got along well and that was what mattered.

 Then, something changed. Years happened, they grew up, Oswald’s mother died and he isolated himself so much in fact, he refused to keep contact even with the only remaining person in his life.

Those were the years when the young, broken adult heard the voices first. The great good had not only spoken to him but appeared and he found a meaning again. Little did he know his mind began playing a trick, the third symptom, namely hallucinogen persisting perception disorder.

 Years went by, the 'greater good’ began gaining more and more influence, forcing Oswald to commit sacrifices in his name.

Up until by an unlucky event he was brought to a therapist and labelled sick.

Then the journey to the Whisperwind asylum began.

 ----------------------------------------------------------------

 They say, some always remember their first murder.

Some suffer from it, some don't. Then again some already think forward and plan the next crime.

 The thirteen-year-old Oswald Flynn is closest to the second group, although sometimes he would wake with nightmares. That kid deserved it, he tells himself. Of course he did, a voice would always agree. Then, an another would always ask if his mother would be proud. No. No, she would not be. But she does not know about yesterday, he only told her the good things, majority of them were bits of this new friendship he is having. Mother smiled then, sharing her happy thoughts on the matter.

 She doesn't need to know about that day, she doesn't need to know how his temper got the better of him, she doesn't need to know what kind of animalistic instincts kicked in at that exact moment, she doesn't need to know how did blood stick to her son’s hands for the first time.

She doesn't need to know how much he enjoyed giving someone what they deserve.

 It could have been around the afternoon but he doesn't quite remember.

There could have been a group of kids, friends, actually, three or four of them. And him. Alone at this time.

They could have been picking on him, as usual. They probably were, in fact. They could have been not only picking but beating, he doesn't remember. He cannot remember the little details, just a few of them. Little images tend to flash in from a certain point.

Actually, he is rarely capable of focusing to those little images.

 It's winter, the boy is laying in the snow on his side, watching as the blood coming from his nose and mouth paints the white to crimson. Legs are pulled to his stomach in attempt to curl up the best way possible. Everything hurts, the voices coming from above him are distant, no words can be recognised, only hardly. Then, the next quite sharp pain comes from his head, sending said pain all the way down on his body.

 ‘So, how do you like that, freak?’

One of the friends.

Blue eyes then flicker from the crimson blood to the boy’s physique who is currently crouching to look him in the eye – to laugh. They are looking in each other’s eyes now. The boy is grinning, unlike him.

Frozen, shaking hands reach out, grappling for the boy’s coat who is apparently way too busy or way too naïve to pay attention.

Finally, fingers curl around the coat’s fabric, they practically hook in it, having no intentions to let go. With the sudden arrival of some strength, the boy is pulled down into the snow, his head bashed against the ground, the strongest way possible. Blood is boiling, rushing like mad, the voices are distant, so are the other boys. Nothing is cold anymore, not hands, nor legs, nor fingers. Everything is alive.

 Said fingers dug in the snow, finding a bigger rock, clutching at it madly. The soon-to-be victim still seems like somewhat struggling but he is on the move, ready to return the bash his head just gotten.

Animal instincts kick in once again, only this time they mix with panic and Oswald is doing his best to move backward, to catch a breath.

 Now. Now. Now. Now. Now. Now. The voices begin chanting at this point in the cruellest way, causing him to stop crawling backward. They push him instead, forward, relentlessly. A sound, a growl -something he had never found himself doing before -, now sliced the cold air and with it, the raven haired boy threw himself at the other kid, once again doing his best to keep him down. The rock holding hand then raised. An animalistic grin, never seen before curls upon the cold, thin lips.

 One. Two. Three. Fourfivesixseveneight.

All the times the rock collided with the bully’s skull, faster with each hit.

 The snow isn't white anymore. The boy isn't laughing anymore, he isn't joking around, he is just... Laying.

It's Oswald who is laughing instead – freely, without regret. No regret, no thoughts, no worries – nothing. He is even taking a little time, facing the body.

“It hurts, doesn't it?”

Rhetorical question.

 Finally, the thirteen-year-old boy managed to stumble upon his feet prior wiping the blood off his nose.

Leaving everything behind.

[birdmusings]

Money, power, fame.

Three things revolve around Ian.

 Art, fame, power.

Three things Ian always wanted to revolve around.

 Nothing is ever certain or known about his past, intentions or goals.

Few things are. Such as his unconditional love for art and knowledge. Ian is not a so-called peasant, not even from afar.

Famous for his work and fast ladder climbing skills in a theatre, the male always wanted more. Fast ladder climbing or not, he was always and often put in the background where audience never got the chance to see him shine. What a waste! For ages, the audience was deprived from seeing a true star, a shining example perform. All those years. . .

Not until one night, the showman stepped on the stage, bathing in the spotlight, bathing in the amusement what tended to spread in the thick air, filled with terror.

The stage is set.

 That night, Ian killed someone on the stage.

The audience thought it was planned by everyone, that the blonde beauty was part of the show, willingly.

For minutes, they believed it is all a play – a play they even paid for.

Divine.

 The female’s death was slow; quick deaths are horribly dull after all.

Slow death, extended in her limbs tied up by hooks and moved. Just like a doll. She tended to scream, to beg for help but the audience was stupid enough to clap, to think she is in her role.

She was – in Ian’s imagination.

Slowly, the blonde female bled out. All for art. For the people, for their admiration. She was a perfect tool for him to step out. To collect and bathe in that certain admiration.

Death should never be quick. It should be an opera.

 Although she was small, her crimson red liquid covered the stage for the finale. What a perfect scenario.

No wonder the artist was swift enough to show himself. Red is a primary colour.

Arms spread wide, the crowd is cheering but they wait for something. They wait for him to let the female go, to bow with her, to let her bathe in the admiration as well.

It never happened. It was never planned to happen.

Ian remembers everything. Slowly, the claps get silent, people start to realise and panic. A last bow.

With that last bow, a quick hand reached for a gun he had always kept close enough.

A quick turn on his heels and he was facing with the woman’s corpse.

 An another turn on heels.

One.

In the crowd. Blindly.

 Two.

In the crowd. Again.

Someone falls over, sprinkling the rug with red blood.

 Three.

Someone was too close to the door.

Their body is now seemingly blocking the exit.

 A last turn on heels. Facing the dead woman again.

Four.

Piercing the heart.

 Not a stain on his clothes.

In carnage, I bloom, like a flower in the dawn.

 “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming!”

The deep voice is cheerful, proud. It out voices the yelling.

A very last, deep bow.

Time to go. Authorities should be here at any minute.

 The gun is holstered as he makes his way off the stage, never in a hurry but in the most elegant way. Striding.

Fair.

By the time authorities had arrived, he was nowhere to be found.

Brutal way of breaking out of the dark but. . .

 Art requires a certain. . . Cruelty.

[birdmusings]

There's a rare storm outside. Raindrops keep hitting the Institute's windows, thunder is everywhere, loud claps are filling the air.

Everyone is inside.

He is outside.

Running along the beach, arms are open wide, eyes are closed and he is just running.

The loud thunderclaps just barely infiltrate through the classical music filling his ears.

A wide smile.

 This is what it likes to be free. This is what it likes to be alone but not entirely.

Soon, out of air, he stops, taking a breath.

Hands are resting against his knee.

The ocean is troubled, although he keeps a distance from it. Grey eyes are watching the wild waves as everything is just water.

Water from the ocean, water from the sky but not water from his eyes.

A deeper breath is taken and he yells. A strong, powerful yell that one, followed by a laughter.

So this is what it feels like to be free.

 In the next moment, he finds himself struggling his boots off, leaving them in the sand as certain thoughts echo in his mind.

Is this what it feels like to be different?

 The boots are left in the sand and he is wading in the wild ocean without thought, without regrets.

Nature is scary, they say.

Nature is beautiful, he says.

This is just an ugly storm, they say.

Wonder if they see the point of a storm, he wonders.

 The ocean is now surrounding him which causes an another free laugh. Everything is soaking wet in the salty liquid.

Eyes are closed again, he's dealing with the waves just fine, not too far from the shore but not too close either. In a safe distance.

A few minutes pass by.

No one thinks he's thinking about being different. Somewhere deep, he knows. Has this certain kind of feeling, whether it's unpleasant or not.

Few things ghost around in his mind.

Being different, uncle Arthur, the Scholomance, Liv... Rook’s son...

 A wave finds him in the face to which he responds with a punch into the nothingness.

Squinting the salty water out of steel coloured eyes, he begins to move forward the shore, out of the water.

Boots are pulled back, the earphones are placed back in his ears, firmly.

Deep down, he thanks the ocean for having him before returning to the Institute, quickly, before anyone would notice how soaked he is.

[birdmusings]

1980, Berlin, Germany

If anything, then Warren Worthington does not like the grinning man in front of him.

The stranger has been holding his chin for minutes now, examining every single detail either of his face or his wings.

Yes, he had been taking a fair interest in those feathery body parts what were sticking out of the young boy’s back.

 The room where the two are sitting is dark, wet, unwelcoming and uncomfortable. But Warren had seen worse around here. They escorted him around already, he had seen everything and everyone. Everyone who was willing to show their faces, of course. They snarled at the boy, showing off their strength, playing the dominant; even behind a set of bars.

Because this is apparently where they are keeping creatures like him. Angel did not get a cell yet, however but he was counting on it.

Well, to be honest, he was brought here in a cage if it counts something… He has his own place already.

 Not only the room was unwelcoming but the whole club from the inside to the outside.

The building took place in an alley and it seemed to be always full for certain events.

Warren would have enough time to think about these events but had no courage.

What if the man in front of him is going to notice that he trails off? Nothing good can happen.

This is how the two was now. The grinning stranger – he really seemed to be happy – and him, the freshly caught mutant.

 “Perfect.”

The other male spoke up finally after long minutes, letting go of Warren’s chin with such a force, a crack has filled the silence.

“Take him in the first round. There is a first time for everything after all.”

 Out of the pure darkness, hands reached out for the young adult’s shoulders, lifting him up; out of the chair with ease as if his whole structure would be nothing but paper or weightless.

Worthington wishes to fight back.

He is kicking, punching in every direction; panic, fear and confusion was overwhelming under his skin.

What is going to happen? What first round? What first time? What even is this place? Why are they keeping the others in cages?

There is no reason to fight back, he is just wasting energy. German words are filling his ears, things what he did not understand and then… More German words. Louder ones. Is it… …Chanting?

They are getting closer to a door, the chanting is clear and powerful enough by now, filling not only his ears but probably the whole building.

Then, a more familiar voice…

“Engel!” The antipathetic male yells and the doors open up. Now Warren does not need a dictionary to know what 'engel’ is.

…Or who 'Engel’ is.

 Everything happens in a blink in the next moments.

With a painful last grip, the hands finally let his shoulders go, he is flying in mid-air – they obviously threw him in somewhere –, a dull thud hits his ears right before the mutant could even just realize to the situation.

A quick glance around was enough to make his stomach shrink, cause his whole form to bend and shake.

There is something in front of him. Or someone.

He is standing on his feet, straight spine, proud posture. His height, weight combination is simply overwhelming and he is just yelling, laughing, stimulating the cheering crowd.

He is about twice of Warren’s size, there is no way he is willing to put up a fight and survive.

 Legs pulled up to his chest even more, not even daring to take a single breath on the floor.

But the colossus has moved – is the ground shaking? – and pain, true pain has found the boy’s back, spreading rapidly.

A pain reflecting yell escaped those lips of his, accompanied by wincing, groaning and whining. This… Beast does want him to get up so he is making the boy get up by grabbing the stainless body parts on his back, raising him in the air.

Warren does not even dare to open his eyes and glance around. He does not want this place to be the last thing what he is laying those bright orbs upon.

 He is flying again.

But this flying has a price.

The price is called electric shock.

The commentator is yelling again with a cheerful laugh.

The crowd is still cheering.

And the beast is moving again.

 The next moves of his opponent are making Worthington feel even more sick; he would like to throw up with every powerful kick what ends up in his stomach.

He is not going to fight. He cannot fight. He is not willing to fight.

 There those paddle hands coming again, turning him on his back just to make the encounter with his face easier.

One punch.

Two punches.

Three punches.

And so on.

It is painful but Warren is still calm, even though blood has started filling his mouth. He barely got to taste any blood before, not even talking about his own blood. This metallic taste liquid has begun colouring his teeth, making him turn his head to spit out some of it.

 Kicks, punches, laughing, cheering, yelling… These things did not exist as one anymore but everything was a giant mess in his head.

Bright orbs flickered between sources; the crowd, his opponent, even the lamps up on the ceiling, when… Darkness. Pitch black.

 The next thing Angel realizes is that he is behind bars. Thanks or not to his mutant existence, he does not feel anything broken in himself, as if pain would be nothing but a memory.

Eyes closed, legs pulled up to his chest once again, his mind is trying to keep out all the memorial pain even though Warren does feel something what clearly is off.

This is his new place.

Should get used to it.

[birdmusings]

Pickpocket, thief, street kid. All Dante ever was.

Stories about him? Not many. As far he is concerned, there is some dossier at some police station, that is where all the stories are.

Stories… Crime record, more like.

 They used to catch him a fair amount of times before. Before… The recent years, before… A choice was made. A choice which he still stands by; his dirty little secret.

 Such people like him always come with tragic backstories. Misunderstandings, turning backs, burned bridges often are the very essential pieces of their stories.

There's nothing special in Dante's.

Maybe the special is how he lies through the days, how he tends to keep a special bond with his family. The bond what had made him make that choice.

It's a weird bond, for reasons.

 Poor family? Yes.

Wanting to help son? Also yes.

Way too zealous, wanting to help son? Definitely.

That was him.

Way too eager to help his parents with money. They didn't even know at first. Dante, – age ten at that time – lied every single time he had slipped some money in his father’s weak, scarred hands. Started working, he'd always tell and his father always settled with the answer. Maybe he knew the truth, just did not want to acknowledge his son is a petty pickpocket.

After all, he always knew everything. Like… Some surveillance camera.

This thought still manages to make Dante cover up a laugh.

 Honest people. Mom and dad. Maybe even too honest. They never wanted to accept any money, always lied about how things fair to them all, even if the truth was always obvious.

How did they ever get here? Were they always here? Dante never asked. It was easier.

Never asked and never told.

 Just as his own little secret. Never asked, never told.

Not even sure if he would ever tell anyone anything about it.

[birdmusings]

The Commonwealth.

Empty, post-apocalyptic, cruel and unforgiving.

Everyone is an addict here.

Raiders are addicted to violence, people who manage to claim a hint of power are addicted to the acquired power, different residents are addicted to different, personal things. Everyone is addicted to chems. The more reasonable are addicted to only one thing – survival.

 This man isn't addicted to violence. Power never managed to interest him. It has been ages since he held anything close, had anything personal. He isn't everyone.

Survival? It has only one reason and it is for the Railroad and their interests.

No.

This man is too different from everyone. However, he is an addict as well.

This man is addicted to lies.

So much even, if asked, he simply cannot tell when was the first time he ever lied nor the last time. It's constant. Like breathing.

A form of survival, if one will.

 Ever since finding a purpose of life, this man had known no better, not only because of his role in this very purpose.

It comes naturally, he always says.

 Such a trait is supposed to be a curse, preventing any personal relationships to form, deprives the simplest trait – trust.

Deacon never would call it a curse. He would call it a gift, something only few manage to acquire in these dire lands.

If he could, he would lie to his own mother, to the world, even. Without batting an eyelash.

 Addicts never realise how destructive their addictions are.

Deacon never realises how destructive his liar habitat is.

 Welcome to the Commonwealth where everyone is an addict, kiddo.

[birdmusings]

That dome of his knocks against the ground.

Dark orbs flickered up to the night sky as a groan is escaped from his dry lips.

 It hurts but just a bit. The male always endured worse; this is just a small bump. A tiny problem.

Nothing he could not sweep under the rug, just as he always does.

 Still… How could he slip down this much?

 The young adult finally proceeds to shift his weight in order to move but a sudden pain bats in his side, making him move a single hand over, placing it over the painful spot.

That is one for the pains, zero for him.

Carefully, those slim fingers press the spot. Once. Twice.

Each attempt resulting in an almost yell.

Probably broken ribs.

 “Shit…”

 The boy struggles again, now attempting to turn on his other side. His movement is slow, his sight is blurry, his senses are cut off – he can feel the last one by now.

 Alright.

One, two, three…

 … And there he finally rolls on his other side, taking a deep breath from all the struggling.

Usually such actions never mean any difficulty to his slim physique but this exact time is different.

 One attempt to clear his throat, ending up in spitting blood on the concrete beneath his form. Twice.

Still, it lures a laughter out of him; short lived it is but only because even this hurts too.

 “…That’s it?!”

 The volume of his voice raises just as his head does, now staring at the door in front of him instead of the foggy night sky.

No answer. Of course not.

For a brief moment, his eyelids drop before inhaling a harmless breath; not too deep, that would possibly hurt.

 That blurry mind of his forces his body to move, to sit first before trying to get on both of his feet.

“…Good job, Kyle. You’ve freakin’ done it again.”

This, and several other, inappropriate words were crumbled under his breath as his form was still struggling.

 Left hand on his side, the right is trying to find a spot to hold on the building's wall next to him.

It is a bar. Became a frequently visited place of his in the recent weeks – months? This is where he could take his anger out, the anger what even he had no idea where does come from. As if he would be sick. But… He cannot be sick, can he?

This was also the place what he never leaves without bruises or cuts. Broken noses, even.

Speaking of which… Jordan cannot even feel his nose.

‘Did it break?’ – he wondered upon finally getting himself to stand, even if not exactly straight.

 What a human mess. Maia would not be proud nor happy.

Maia…

God, when will he be able to forget the greatest girl he had ever met…?

Probably never. Trying was always an option, however.

These nights were a form of trying as well.

 Reaching a shaking hand to rub his eyes, a last breath was expelled in the cold air before Jordan took the first step in order to get home, his blurry mind filled with blurry thoughts.

[birdmusings]

First of all, I haven't got a single idea if people usually write this when they’re about to die or just whenever they feel like writing their mind out.

I also have no idea how exactly write such a thing but guess, I’ll manage.

 Name’s Hodge Starkweather. I kind of consider myself to be one the biggest failures in this world.

My parents raised me to be someone who can keep himself out of, well, everything. I wanted to be a Silent Brother, to be fair and to sound a bit ridiculous. Still, in the end, I ended up as a Shadowhunter; for someone who was born in a (so to speak) less wealthy family, the possibilities seemed endless and I loved to hear them all. I was also fascinated by their history and everyone at my age wanted to be one of them, a Shadowhunter.

When I came up with the idea at my parents, they weren't sure to be happy or angry at me. They didn't like the idea, not only because we couldn't afford my lessons at the Academy but because it interfered with the whole 'stay out’ business.

Nevertheless, they did everything to fund my classes and I actually was pretty glad about it, I was hoping I’ll be able to repay every single effort they have made for this; get a better life, better reputation, considering how important my ancestors were. Or, something like that.

 So, I had the luck to attend the famous Shadowhunter Academy in Idris. Used to be a lone kid, someone who only watched others get along, form cliques, and well, friendships in general. But hey, at least my studies went well! Not the… Trainings and those fighting classes but everything else. See, I was never much of a fighter until a certain point in my life so I never really attempted to be better at these things.

[birdmusings]

“Wolfie, wolfie! Come on out, wherever you are! Pelt or circus, I’ll let you decide!”

Hell of a night.

Peter’s wolf paws are carrying him swiftly, across anything.

The forest is supposed to be calm and nice – as it usually is – but now rifle shots are filing the air, mixed with quick footsteps and panting.

 Only a few hours ago his human form was on its’ way, ready to make a rather important deal with rather important people. Part of the whole underground life what he was living recently.

 Only a few hours ago, a tall man was looking down at him as he studied his features while the gypsy was looking up at him, with a certain smile of his.

The man would make a face /Gypsy scum/ he probably was thinking. His observant eyes scanned Peter up and down, paying attention to every little detail; the mid-long brunette locks, the bright blue orbs, the form of his jawline, the certain, familiar clothes… Peter never could even remember a time he was observed /this/ much. In fact, it sent some weird chill down on his spine.

A grunt and he found his own hand in a handshake – the deal is a deal.

 The young male was quick about leaving the meeting spot.

The sky had turned to evening by that time, the moon was shining bright.

With a deep exhale, those bright blue orbs glanced up at the moon. It was full. About time to get away, far from these idiots.

He was brought here by car, as usually. One less thing to worry about. He can just run home after transforming.

 With big steps, Rumancek made his way towards some darker area, lighting a cigarette.

 By the time the nicotine source was taken between thin lips and a drag was taken, he had reached some kind of woods. Perfect place.

Not like Peter would have any time to debate on whether it is, or not.

[birdmusings]

Berlin, Germany

The next morning

“Dear Mom…”

 No. This does not fit like this. He should greet his father too.

The paper was crunched in his palm, tearing the next, clear one.

 “Dear dad and mom…”

 No, this is not good enough either. Torn again then replaced. Angel is feeling the looks on his cell. Is he causing too much noise now?

He would look up and apologize but speaking would just get him in more trouble.

Ignoring is the only plan for now.

 “Father and mom…”

“Dad and mother…”

“My beloved parents…”

“Parents.”

“Daddy and mommy.”

 He is running out of paper and ink. Last paper, last chance. He does not want to screw the last chance up. It has to be acceptable.

“My respected parents,

 It is me, Warren. I just want to tell you that my world exploring plans are going quite great. Father, forgive me for not staying at your side thus not being there when you are participating in the important business meetings but if you are willing to understand my adventurousness, I am glad already.

I wish the same understatement from you, my beloved mother. Your support does mean a lot to me even though…—”

 No. Just again. He should not write this.

A hand reached up to his eye, rubbing it while the two last words were crossed out, clearing them out of existence.

 “… as such ideas I know, sounded rather reckless especially after my reckless actions.

Father, I would like to take the chance and apologize for leaving your medicine behind. I know, I should have taken it, there is no doubt in such a question…”

 In this very moment the pen was pressed against the paper it could have just break or the paper would get pierced.

Small apologies, small lies… Just the necessary.

 “…Before any of you would worry about me, I am fine and I am getting along without money. I may have gotten in a fight yesterday, true, but it is nothing to worry about. I did not even get a bruise. These German people are tough ones but as I have mentioned, I am fine.

 I am hoping you two are doing just as fine as I do.

 Love,

  Your only son, Warren”

 ‘Love’… Huh. How ironic.

 A noise and the paper was folded in to a small square as he sank it in his pocket. Someone clearly is coming. He only had low hopes about what is going to happen.

High chances for an another fight, even though he had almost lost the previous one.