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(Cecil, 25%)

Cecil looked around, and went out of his duplex slowly. He tried to hide the new limbs he grew last night underneath his cotton sweater. It ended up making him look as weird and lopsided at the Hunchback of Notre Dame, or something like that. There was also the fact that he probably can't wear shoes anymore. Having little bird's feet was NOT fun at the least.

There was also that beak.

Yeah, it's been ackward.

He decided to go for a walk around the island. His back hurt like hell, and the aches were enough to have him limping on a stray stick he picked up. Maybe he needed some food. These growing pains had to be fueled by something, right? Yeah... Cecil crept through the cafetiria doors at a slow pace.

Oh, someone else was here. Cecil made a tired wave to her back and plopped down on the seat across from her. He stared blankly at her for a moment, then hit his head against the table gently. The aches, the sensations. all of them were... As only his delerious mind could say, very bad. There was a sketchpad across from his face, and he looked at her again.

He pointed at the pencil she was holding and held out a hand.

Cecil took the pencil and put his head down, exhausted. He flipped the book to a fresh page and wrote down, Thanks without even looking where he was writing. He pictured in his head that it would come out straight, and it was, even though the letters crumpled with one another at the end. Wanting to write clearer lines, he picked his head up to write a bit more.

Rough night, and not being able to scream doesn't make it any better.

Cecil looked at her for a second when he read her words. His eyebrows raised, it wasn't a skeptical "Uh huh..." Eyebrow movement, it was one of those curious "ORLY?" Eyebrow shifts.

Really? He wrote, You always wonder why people scream in pain, it's because it's better than not making a sound at all.

Yeah. He wrote. Now he was having trouble with faces now? Cecil really meant for that one to be inquisaitive. It had to be the beak. Cecil bet that he looked like that owl he's seen all over the internet. If there was anything that was worth sprouting a beak, it was to look like that owl, why, was not his problem, though some of his stranger friends would probably kill to be in his position.

So I guess you can't talk ethier? Cecil wrote, pushing the sketchbook across the table.

Cecil smiled, or tried to, well, you get the point, he did the best he could do. He just liked the fact that he wasn't the only one who wrote instead of spoke.

Lucky. He wrote, I can't talk at all.

He didn't seem sad about it, he let the fact pass over him a long time ago. His eyes seemed a little somber, but he looked at her again, his eyes seemed brighter. Cecil wrote down as an afterthought, Whatcha gonna do, you know?

Cecil Milner the Third, fancy name for a not so fancy person. Was his usual written reply, at least, the people he was friendly with, all the assholes in the world just got a plain "Cecil". He put his head down again, his eyes scanning the cafeteria tiredly, the soreness of his growing wings was kicking in, backlash after pain, probably. It was too early to tolerate this kind of stuff.

So, Cecil tried to start some conversation, How'd you get here?