MF1.0 - 03 - Birds in the Night

Magnolia looked over the edge of the building to the nightclub below – a lot of trouble dancers congregated there. The bouncer scratched at the red pebbly skin on his head and pocketed a few of the bills in his hand. She couldn’t identify what kind of dancer the bouncer was – and didn’t intend on announcing her presence by asking.

Dancers.

More accurately, demons.

Agency lingo had long since burnt itself into the forefront of her brain. No one referred to demons as demons in the new circles, they were “dancers.” She wasn’t sure who had come up with the term, but she did understand the reasoning – saying “dancer” in public caused almost zero alarm, whereas “demon” would raise suspicion.

‘My child.’ She looked up and let her eyes focus on the darkness. Her mother stepped from a patch of shadow and into the small circle of light.

‘I’m on patrol,’ she said and looked back over the edge of the building.

Her mother jumped and perched herself on the building’s edge, sharp claws dug into the concrete. ‘There’s no one of interest down there.’

‘Mother, you don’t even know what I’m looking for.’

‘You’re looking for a way to avoid your death.’ She looked back at her mother and watched as the older magpie’s beak faded away and left a human mouth on her feathered face. ‘You’re going to die soon.’

She patted her heart. ‘I lived.’

Her mother shrugged, the sick and pale light refracted an oil slick rainbow on her feathers. ‘You are going to die soon.’

‘Soon for you is not soon for me, mother.’

The spirit simply stared. ‘I wonder if you would have sought out a pie if I’d made you like your brothers.’

She gave another shrug right shoulder and played with her striped arm warmers. She scoffed after a moment. ‘That’s blackbirds mother, and in any case you’ll never know, you made me human instead.’

‘Don’t lower yourself to their level, you aren’t one of them.’

‘I’m closer to them than you,’ she spat. Her watch beeped and she shook her head. ‘I’m done here. Either leave me alone, or deign to speak to me more than every five years.’ She turned and walked away, slid down the building’s ladder and gunned her slick black bike down the alley.

<p style="color:rgb(189,190,190);font-family:Verdana,CenturyGothic,Tahoma,sans-serif;line-height:normal;">The small keycard opened the door to the Agency’s garage. She managed to avoid the other recruits on the way to his room. This pleased her. She didn’t like them. They were little more than organ donors in training – it was a harsh opinion, but one she held strong. Most lasted a year at most – she’d managed to survive two so far.

<p style="color:rgb(189,190,190);font-family:Verdana,CenturyGothic,Tahoma,sans-serif;line-height:normal;">She took a piece of paper out of the drawer, signed it and hid it again. It was her will – what little there was of value to leave. In this line of work, mortal lives were severely truncated. She’d come too close not to be prepared.

<p style="color:rgb(189,190,190);font-family:Verdana,CenturyGothic,Tahoma,sans-serif;line-height:normal;">She paused to adjust her white hair and the black feathers in it. She refastened one of the feathers back in with a thin cotton thread. The way she decorated her hair led many of her fellow recruits to believe that they were in fact simply a part of her hair. She liked it that way, it kept them at a respectful distance so she didn’t have to deal with their usually inane questions.

<p style="color:rgb(189,190,190);font-family:Verdana,CenturyGothic,Tahoma,sans-serif;line-height:normal;">The feathers didn’t grow through her hair like she made it appear, but nonetheless they were hers.

<p style="color:rgb(189,190,190);font-family:Verdana,CenturyGothic,Tahoma,sans-serif;line-height:normal;">The soft bed beckoned her, and she gladly went to it.