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A gust of cold weather spread around his back. He was braced against the wind, feet shuffling, hands tucked around his sides to hide his arms in a coat of flesh. The scraping of his shoes on the sidewalk harmonized with the crowing wind, a symphony lit by the fireworks of his dense and visible berath. He gazed upwards, to the sky (a steely grey, bitter with cold) and listened to the two words that came to his mind. One, cold. Freezingly so to bare-armed him. The other?

Dumb.

Him, that was, out with no coat and waiting for any sort of ride home. Cold biting at his arms and shoulders, Jack Frost devouring strips of flesh. To escape the weather he'd been in store after store, looking sometimes for a coat, sometimes for warmth. Eventually these were the streets he wandered to.

Another gust caught him off-guard, tearing the wide, flat pin off the breast of his shirt. It coasted away on the back of the air comically, he running after it, stumbling to retrieve his name until it finally landed again, face catching the sun. The formal black of 'Mr. Lyle Flynn' glinted almost as if laughing at its owner. Lyle grabbed it quickly, pricking his finger on the sharpened pin. Wincing, he stuck the finger in his mouth, did up the pin on his shirt, and noticed then that the top part of his eyes were screaming at him.

He didn't understand how paint could glow so much - or so it seemed to do, bright and odd. The paint swirled and jutted its way into the English language, reading some interesting or unusual name. Lyle assumed. He didn't have the willpower to figure it out; the urge to read had died with his hopes for college. He looked down from the writing. A young dog was staring cross-eyed at Lyle, nose close enough to the window to fog it with its breath. Other animals were curled into each other or pawing at their cages, or nibbling playful at one another. Lyle's brain worked: if animals, then warm.

He knocked on the door before opening it. The change in temperature shocked him a moment, wind still rustling through the back of his straw-colored head. He pulled the door shut, realizing the cold was seeping in before him, and muttered an apology.

All the animals seemed a little less energetic from this angle. Did they always? He pulled his hurt finger from his mouth and offered it to the puppy who had just earlier been staring at him and let it bite childishly at the thin fingertip. Grey eyes swept the shop: dogs, cats, birds, lizards, all of those things that were nothing out of the ordinary. The most interesting animal, he decided without much thought, was the shopkeeper, uh, itself. Something was very purple about that being. Lyle blinked once at the person and gave him a very customer-like wave with his free hand, the other being chewed.

"Can I have this back?" he asked the puppy.



"Er," said Lyle in agreement. The puppy worked its jaws to push an extra sharp side of its teeth into Lyle's already bleeding finger. He yelped - the man, not the dog - and stumbled back, managing to remove his finger from the puppy's grasp. "Er!" he repeated. "I noticed."

He shook out his hand, blinking a few times at the dog [an animal that gave him a c**k of the head on cue]. Wiping his finger on the hem of his shirt, he glanced outside again, where the wind was still cold enough to be almost visible. It was either this, where his welcome was a flesh-hungry puppy trying to gnaw his finger off at the knuckle, or an overdose of hypothermia. He weighed the choices mentally, picking out the pros and cons.

He stepped further into the shop. The animals seemed rather harmless from this angle, but after his recent encounter he could see a biter in everything: the rats, the rabbits, the kittens, the frogs. The fish. He seriously doubted that last one.

He bent by the side of a cage and stared at the animals inside. Rodents. They were moving less than he expected, and he coughed at them, hoping maybe the sound would convince them to move about. Lyle frowned at them, disappointed; they seemed so ... well, he didn't know. Recently his unintelligent side had been showing through. The word he was looking for was lost to him.

...



A coat this time, but the cold still bit through the leathery fabric to his unimaginably fragile skin; human as he was, easily injured by the temperature. He was walking - anyone he'd known for a car or anything, they were all being joyous and merry at work or home, Christmas parties and wrapping presents all around. Lyle hadn't the slightest need, so he told himself [as if he could keep a desk job for any amount of days]. He was looking, this time.

And he found. That shop, the feeble looking one from his angle. He could see the sign against everything else. The colors cut through the air as thick with cold as it was. He understood why he was there as much as he understood why it was there; a deep mental attraction, maybe. Interest. Hunger.

Bah, whatever, he was there nonetheless. He stepped up to the door almost confidently. Closed.

Closed? It didn't seem like that type of shop. Well, all the better, so he figured; returning from a job he couldn't have he didn't want to dirty his clean jacket and shirt [particularly the latter, which was a nice white]. He told himself, anyways, and turned down the street and went on against the wind. He stopped dead when a stray icicle snapped off the overhang of a building and drove itself in the direction of his face.

He clutched at the injury with both hands. Blood, that was bad; the icicle had turned to a point where it was more optimal to give him a nice bruise and slash on his cheekbone. Lyle winced, turning to the apartment he passed - maybe they would have a first aid.

And it wasn't an apartment inside.

He stared at everything and everyone. Stared, blinked, and bled.



He blinked again, watching the shape of a rather distinguished gentleman come into view with his polar opposite hovering nearby. Lyle very nearly rubbed his eyes, almost staining his brow with his own blood, but caught himself before it was too late and decided on just blinking once more. It was then that he realized they weren't completely out of place; the entire area was filled with men, women, and -- birds? -- all wearing a sort of costume or mask. These two were no exception.

"It's real, thank you," he answered, not fully registering the question asked of him. He took his fingers from the side of his face - the tips were wet and colored. It wasn't bleeding terribly, no, but enough to call attention to itself and enough to very much hurt. The pain amplified when he realized the blood on his fingers, as cuts always do when first looked at.

"I don't suppose there were Band-Aids in the 1800s?" He prided himself on recognizing the costume, or what he thought was the costume anyways. "Or tissues, maybe."

It was trickling down his face, now, and it was warm but uncomfortable. And it still hurt. And he thought there might have been ice wedged into his skin.





Lyle accepted the napkin with a grateful nod and pressed it to the side of his bleeding cheek. It stung just as much as before, now with paper grating against the wound, but if he had learned anything among the ramblings of the avid Boy Scouts who shared his year in elementary school, it was something about keeping pressure on injuries. He held the napkin to his face while replying, "Compan...? I'm just the guy with the blood and guts."

It was about then that he noticed a large concentration of the population of this room had wings.

"Uh," he said. "Oh." He said, "Uhm." He glanced back, following the Gentleman's gaze, and noticed a squirrel. Peculiar, he thought, I've never had squirrel before.

It was about then he figured he didn't really belong. A tad speechless and a bit in awe: him in few words. "So ... why the wings? Is it supposed to be decorative," he said, repeating Savius' earlier words, "or something?"

It was also about then that he seemed to be getting noticed. Something wavering pierced his ears, mentioning bleeding, and Lyle knew without a doubt that such something bleeding was none other than himself. He shifted his weight between his feet nervously, glancing back at that squirrel.



Someone closed the half of a circle of people beginning to surround him - quite female, and with that eerie calming smile of someone you'd see looking down at you when you were returning from a drugged unconsciousness on a hospital bed. Someone you'd hope to see, anyways. She was offering a hand to him, and he realized it was because of the worrying blood seeping through the thin cover of the napkin; was it really so noticeable? Lyle took the napkin from his face and glanced at it. The stuff had oozed through it like ink, exaggerating the real injury. He returned the smile and shook his head at the offer.

"I'm Lyle, and trust me, I'm fine." His smile turned to that of one who wasn't asking for help - of someone sure they could handle this on their own. With that, he folded the napkin over and pushed it back onto his wide face. He glanced about again, taking in everything from the wings to the masks to the marble flooring. He'd stumbled into a party, that was what - a party for the most confusing of sorts. It was welcoming and foreboding, frightening and fun. And Lyle realized he was standing there uninvited with a napkin set out by a selection of food that seemed to still have tire marks on them. Inviting.

"So," he said, "where the hell am I?"





Lyle nodded to this Amber character as she insisted upon reassuring his health, a sense of 'trust me, really, I'm fine, sweetheart' coming across his brow in the lightest way. "I'm quite sure, thanks." And she took her hand back, which was good; he had either his awkward and underused left hand or his primary hand, the right, which was preoccupied by having its fingers tainted in his own blood. Pleasant. Definitely a good thing she'd withdrawn that hand - it would be really quite disgusting for both of them.

The nurse and the, uh, other thing with the mask, the wings, and the mobster girlfriend said two very similar things at two very similar times. All Lyle could tell from it was that he was in a party - something about Kin, something about not being invited. Had the Gentleman not left so very quickly Lyle would have asked about 'Kin' and maybe the fact that everyone had wings - but the Gentleman had, and Lyle couldn't. A party made perfect sense to him, though he had no alternatives to make less sense [undereducation was never very beneficial].

Two somethings walked around him and put him back into the state of mind where he realized that s**t, could I be any more in the way? He looked towards the pair to apologize but stumbled over his words; really, he supposed the hoods and such were fine, given the party as it was with birdpeople and dresses on gals and suits on boys and sometime dresses on boys and suit on gals. What had caught his attention, though, was the very familiar viscous substance spread about their gleaming weapons. Ah, he recognized what that stuff was now - it was coming out of his cheek, and now he began to look back at the squirrel dinner and think maybe that roast chipmunk mightn't be too terrible, really.



Lyle found himself in almost the exact state as he had entered: alone, bleeding, and confused beyond all recognition. At least now he had some form of a bandage and someone to fall back on if he felt the blood loss made him faint in any way [or if he died spectacularly, an idea which, although it vaguely frightened him, seemed quite humorous given the situation and the attitude of the majority of people who noticed his injury]. Now suddenly he was a bit colder, and he realized the doors were opened again to let in another guest to this party [likely invited this time], and he decided against lingering in the entranceway, moving forwards onto the true floor of the hall. He wondered how he would explain this late night disappearance to - ah - who was it he was living with now? Some friend-of-a-friend roommate, letting him occupy his extra room for so much a week as long as he did his share of necessary chores. Whoever it was. Lyle considered; ten more dollars would explain his leave for the night.

There went his new acquaintance, he noticed, a stealthy fluttering of wings landing nearby her. And he considered that squirrel again. He aimed himself at the tables of what could be considered refreshments and eyed the stuff warily a moment before catching his common sense again and remembering he didn't need all of his formal education to choose primarily edible things to eat. He swore that squirrel was looking at him, anyways.

[Amber hits the eagle] ...

A new but familiar voice cracked through the party air like a frightened whip and a lower clatter tagged onto the lesser end. Lyle couldn't help but snap his glance to the source - that girl who had offered to help him just earlier, overprotective like a new mother but professionally distant. Collapsed by a bird, something that was standing still defensively, beak jutting. Lyle only stared because of the sound, however, unaffected by what the scene could have been; he was a bystander, an onlooker. It wasn't his place. Had he been a better person, he would have approached and inquired.

He wasn't a better person, though sympathy spread through his brow and cheeks. He turned his stare down, away from her to spare her the burn.





Lyle was in motion to shift about again, part of his brain wading through reasons on why exactly he was hanging around still [he needed a bandage, you know, and besides it was better than staying out in the cold, and he didn't have his rent ready yet] and the other part thinking maybe he could be amiable this time around. A few steps in, however, he was stopped. Painfully. Knives, or something like them, dug into his scalp without warning. Lyle demonstrated what could be interpreted as an interesting dance move in which the person is both stopped cold and in spastic action.

Although unsure if it were because of his movement or not, the thick needles [touching his skull, he could feel them grating on his bones but was that just paranoia?] pulled away and a recognizable sound crowded the air: chaotic flapping. Lyle stopped dead once more, his author unable to find a good synonym for 'stopped' in this context without bringing up a dictionary on paper or internet, his hands having shot up to his hair to see if blood were spreading there, too. It was. Today was not a good day for his health. He was taken from his concern for his safety when a blackish mass touched down next to him. It gave him a sort of indescribable look, and he gave it a sort of indescribable look back.

"That was you, wasn't it?" he asked, voice low in both volume and pitch. Then he caught a hold of himself and yelped something along the lines of "Jesus! There was a bird in my head!"

To hopefully calm his nerves he pulled his hands from his head again to check the bleeding. Not terrible but not fantastically little, either - how familiar since that icicle incident [how long ago was that, he wondered, about twenty minutes or something?]. No use, anyways, holding it back; he let his hands drop to his side and looked at the bird with a mixture of worry and irritation and interest.



The bird looked graceful for some time, reorganizing itself like all avians would, and Lyle could recognize that it was as large as it seemed. His gaze melted slightly to be less apprehensive then, but this passed quickly as it stretched its neck out towards him and tried to nibble at his jacket. Lyle jumped again and pulled away, tugged at his coat, staring again with confusion/disbelief/something that he really couldn't put his finger on at the bird. It cried out and his head bled a little more. "You know," he said at it, "I'm not as edible as you want me to be!"

He didn't move, though, standing there with a slight pout on his face. His mind seemed lagging behind him, though wherever it was, it was most definitely crowded by thoughts of why is there a weird bird attacking me?! But the current Lyle just stood. "If you're that hungry I can fetch you a dead rodent of your choice. There's a lot left. Really. It's depressing how untouched that food is." He coughed. It felt like all he noticed about this party were winged things and roadkill.

Oh, and fear. He was scared to death of this thing, he realized, his senses catching up to him and instilling themselves throughout his nerves. He only hoped that the bird couldn't smell emotions like everyone always says in those tall tales about vultures and such. It had bit his jacket - it could bite him - and he bit his lip.



He should have guessed. Actually, he realized, he had. Already he had turned towards the tables of food, rendering his question almost rhetoric. He did a strange half of a jump when the bird nudged him, almost disgusted that it even touched him. His pace towards the table only quickened.

The choices were many. He noted himself feeling interested in what to choose for the bird and blurred it out best he could, not wanting to end up with the mistake of taking a bird that big home - wherever home was at the moment [a small few-room apartment he shared with a friend of a friend, or something] - let alone have to deal with it hours on end of the day. He hovered over a nice-sized thing that looked kind of like a mixture between two fish. They looked repulsive to Lyle, who preferred to eat his meat cooked and without scales, but he figured that for a vulturely thing such as that they would be a perfect snack. He moved back to the bird and crouched in front of it, holding out the fish[es].

"Think this will do?"

He swore the fish whose eyes were visible winked at him and he dropped it with his eyes even more buggy than that of the fish.



The bird ate without hesitation, as if it hadn't been fed for days on end. Lyle knew better - the vulture didn't seem frail, not to him - but he still stood back a step in case the thing finished and decided to turn on him. In fact, it didn't - instead, when he finished, the bird hopped once towards Lyle, wings fluttering just the slightest, and let out a short screech. Loud, as if Lyle might miss it otherwise. With another small jump Lyle inched back towards the table of food and blindly grabbed a piece of meat that smelled of rubber and offered it to the turkey vulture.

As soon as he saw the raccoon, the vulture happily echoed his cry and pulled it from Lyle's grasp. The raccoon was giving him this one-eyed, pitiful look - it wasn't that he was really hungry, decided the vulture, but he was doing his duty! The little thing was so dead that it was mercy just to rip it apart. To nibble at its intestines. To chew away all its sores and nearly its bones. He ripped a fine strip of meat off the dead thing's tail and sliced and swallowed with his head raised. Of course, although eating a tasteful selection of meat, the smell of Lyle's blood wafted past regularly, tempting. Ah, well, maybe not now; he did have a long time to try it, since he didn't plan on leaving this man for quite some time. When one saw the opportunity for food without effort and a bit of attention, one usually didn't turn the opportunity down unless you were a bit mixed up. The vulture definitely knew where his priorities were.

He ate the raccoon without objection and shoved what he didn't finish under one of the tables for safekeeping. Smiling, sort of, given that he was hindered by his inflexible beak, the turkey vulture gave a birdy belch.

"What?" Lyle asked, brow furrowed at the bird. "What else do you want me to do? You can fly, come on, get it yourself if you don't like what I gave you."

He gave the bird a stare, confused. It stared back. Lyle fidgeted and blinked and the bird spread its wings and crowed once as if it had become triumphant. It was liking this person more and more, actually.